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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Psychology - Briefer Course - -Author: William James - -Release Date: August 4, 2017 [EBook #55262] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PSYCHOLOGY *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif, MWS and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - _BRIEFER COURSE_ - - PSYCHOLOGY - - BY - WILLIAM JAMES - - _Professor of Psychology in Harvard University_ - - London - MACMILLAN AND CO. - 1892 - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1892, - BY - HENRY HOLT & CO. - - ROBERT DRUMMOND, - _Electrotyper and Printer_, - New York. - - - - -PREFACE. - - -In preparing the following abridgment of my larger work, the Principles -of Psychology, my chief aim has been to make it more directly available -for class-room use. 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 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, æsthetics, and the moral sense. Possibly the defect -may be made up in a later edition, if such a thing should ever be -demanded. - -I cannot forbear taking advantage of this preface to make a statement -about the composition of the 'Principles of Psychology.' 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 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 unshapely, 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 composition,' has the -merit of expository elegance, and gives a neatly subdivided table of -contents; but it often purchases 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 profound, and that we really gain a more living -understanding of the mind by keeping our attention as long as possible -upon our entire conscious states as they are concretely 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.[1] - -But whether the critics are right, or I am, on this first point, the -critics are wrong about the relation of the magazine-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 1 - -Psychology defined; psychology as a natural science, its data, 1. The -human mind and its environment, 3. The postulate that all consciousness -has cerebral activity for its condition, 5. - - -CHAPTER II. - -SENSATION IN GENERAL 9 - -Incoming nerve-currents, 9. Terminal organs, 10. 'Specific energies,' -11. Sensations cognize qualities, 13. Knowledge 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 images, 36. Distance, 39. Size, color, 40. After-images, 43. -Intensity of luminous objects, 45. - - -CHAPTER IV. - -HEARING 47 - -The ear, 47. The qualities of sound, 43. Pitch, 44. 'Timbre,' 45. -Analysis of compound air-waves, 56. No fusion of elementary sensations -of sound, 57. Harmony and discord, 58. Discrimination by the ear, 59. - - -CHAPTER V. - -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 muscular 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 semicircular 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 hemispheres 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, 110. 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-thermometry, 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. Concatenated 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 in 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 compounded of 'fused' sensations, 196. The 'soul' as a combining -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 possessions, 212. Who is the Thinker, 215. - - -CHAPTER XIII. - -ATTENTION 217 - -The narrowness of the field of consciousness, 217. Dispersed 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. - - -CHAPTER XIV. - -CONCEPTION 239 - -Different states of mind can mean the same, 239. Conceptions 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 difference, 246. -Differences inferred, 248. The analysis of compound 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. -Voluntary 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 numerousness of paths, -292. Cramming, 295. One's native retentiveness is unchangeable, 296. -Improvement of the memory, 298. Recognition, 299. Forgetting, 300. -Pathological 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 imagination, 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 sensation, 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 great points in reasoning, 'sagacity' -and 'wisdom,' 360. Sagacity, 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 movement 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 materialistic, 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. Instincts are -not always blind or invariable, 395. Two principles of non-uniformity, -398. Enumeration of instincts in man, 406. Description of fear, 407. - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - -WILL 415 - -Voluntary 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 action, 448. Will is a relation between -the mind and its 'ideas,' 449. Volitional effort is effort of -attention, 450. The question of free-will, 455. Ethical importance of -the phenomenon of effort, 458. - - -EPILOGUE. - -PSYCHOLOGY AND PHILOSOPHY 461 - -What the word metaphysics means, 461. Relation of consciousness 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 explanation of states of consciousness as -such_. By states of consciousness 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 consequences, 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 thinkers 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 convenience' sake, -until with later growth they may run into one body of Truth. These -provisional 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 to scrutinize their significance and truth. All the -natural sciences, for example, in spite of the fact that farther -reflection 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 distance, etc., uncritically; -Chemistry uncritically adopts all the data of Physics; and Physiology -adopts those of Chemistry. Psychology as a natural science deals with -things in the same partial and provisional way. In addition to the -'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-- - -1. _Thoughts and feelings_, or whatever other names transitory _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 of mind may be those of other people, or of the thinker -himself 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 together, which will work in with the larger truth and be -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 ulterior 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 -necessary. 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 shelfful 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 cognizance.= 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 remembering, imagining, reasoning, willing, etc., were explained, -almost without reference to the peculiarities of the world with which -these activities deal. But the richer insight of modern days perceives -that our inner faculties are _adapted_ in advance 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 -properties 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 emotions 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 -involuntary fear; poisonous things with distaste; indispensable 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 speculations, which, though -they cannot so far be said to be conclusive, have at least refreshed and -enriched the whole subject, 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 feeling 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 adjustment of inner to outer -relations.' The adjustment is to immediately present objects in lower -animals and in 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. Psychology, 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 the study of the useless is made over to 'Æsthetics.' -Æsthetics 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 breathing, circulation, general muscular -tension, and glandular or other visceral activity, even if they do not -lead to conspicuous 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 consciousness 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 consider 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 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 -determinate 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 therefore assume without scruple at the outset -that the uniform correlation of brain-states with mind-states is a law -of nature. 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 unjustifiable _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 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 postulate 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 corrects it by going too far the other way. At present Psychology -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 practically 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 preservative 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 scheme, and treat successively of three -fundamental conscious 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 prevail 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: - -1) 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-currents, 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, -modifying 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 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 -enormous gaps. There is no reason to suppose that the order of -vibrations in the outer world is anything like as interrupted as the -order of our sensations. Between the quickest audible air-waves (40,000 -vibrations a second at the outside) and the slowest sensible heat-waves -(which number probably billions), Nature must somewhere have realized -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.[2] -The fibres are mere transmitters; the terminal organs are so many -imperfect telephones into which the material world speaks, and each of -which takes up but a portion of what 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 Brain.=--To a certain -extent anatomists have traced definitely 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.[3] It -will be shown on a later page that the consciousness which accompanies -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 -stimulation which its afferent fibres bring to it, in a manner with -which a peculiar quality of feeling seems invariably correlated. This is -what has been called the law of 'specific energies' in the nervous -system. Of course we are without even a conjectural explanation of the -_ground_ of such a law. Psychologists (as Lewes, Wundt, Rosenthal, -Goldscheider, 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 habitually 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-modified -fibre pours into the cortical centre modifies the centre. The -modification of the centre in turn (though no man can guess how or why) -seems to modify the resultant consciousness. But these adaptive -modifications must be excessively 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 operations 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 particular -end-organs which those things impress. We _see_ the sunshine and the -fire, simply 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 -conductor's movements. Such hypotheses as these form a good training for -neophytes in the idealistic philosophy! - -=Sensation distinguished from Perception.=--It is impossible rigorously to -_define_ a sensation; and in the actual life of consciousness -sensations, popularly so called, and perceptions 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 -_immediate_ results upon consciousness of nerve-currents as they enter -the brain, and before they have awakened any suggestions 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-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 impression which a sense-organ transmits -produces a cerebral reaction in which the awakened vestige of the last -impression 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 presence, we name it, class it, -compare it, utter propositions concerning it, and the complication of -the possible consciousness which an incoming current may arouse, goes on -increasing to the end of life. In general, this higher consciousness -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 -attention is entirely dispersed. - -=Sensations are cognitive.= A sensation is thus an abstraction 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 certain extent -that of _pleasure_. - -Such qualities as _stickiness_, _roughness_, etc., are supposed to be -felt through the coöperation of muscular sensations with those of the -skin. The geometrical qualities of things, on the other hand, their -_shapes_, _bignesses_, _distances_, etc. (so far as we discriminate and -identify them), are by most psychologists supposed to be impossible -without the evocation of memories from the past; and the 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 -homogeneous 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 subject 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 a knowledge -which the least instructed seeing baby has. They can never show him -_what_ light is in its '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. - -=Sensations 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 possess. Now the cortical brain-processes to -which sensations 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 profounder 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 conceive a brightness or a -color otherwise than as extended and outside of the body. Sounds also -appear in space. Contacts are against the body's surface; and pains -always 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-sensational 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 amplification 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 consciousness of _something there_, a mere -_this_ as yet (or something 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 'lo!'), the infant -encounters an object in which (though it be given in a pure sensation) -all the 'categories of the understanding' are contained. _It has -externality, objectivity, 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 experience 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 -coöperation of numerous organs and be a consciousness 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, potentially 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 stimulus 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 visibile_, _audibile_, etc. 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 character 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 agreeable than -otherwise in their very lowest degrees. A faintly bitter taste, or -putrid smell, may at least be _interesting_. - -[Illustration: FIG. 1.] - -=Weber's Law.=--I said that the intensity of the sensation increases by -slower steps than those by which its exciting 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 0 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 0 there will be no -sensation; at 1 there will be a sensation represented by the length of -the vertical _S_¹--1, at 2 the sensation will be represented by -_S_²--2, and so on. The line of _S_'s will rise evenly because 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. - -[Illustration: FIG. 2.] - -Fig. 2 represents this actual state of things, 0 being the zero-point of -the stimulus, and conscious sensation, represented by the curved line, -not beginning until the '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 - circulating 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. 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 - immediately 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 - outward amount remains the same. What then do these experiences - teach? Evidently nothing but this, that one and the same stimulus, - according to the 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 alone, 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 poundweight 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 - preëxisting stimulation of the organ is small, but must be so much - the larger, the greater the preëxisting 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 sensations - is, as we saw, impossible; we can only measure the difference 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 - sensation 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 - perceived 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 - addition to the original weight 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 ⅓; 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 various may be - their several delicacies of discrimination, _this_ holds true of - all, that _the increase of the stimulus necessary to produce an - 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, } - - "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."[4] - -=Fechner's Law.=--Another way of expressing Weber's law is to say that to -get equal positive additions to the sensation, one must make equal -_relative_ additions to the stimulus. 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_ increments 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 perceptible addition to a pound. Fechner ignored -this fact. He considered that if _n_ distinct perceptible steps of -increase 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.[5] Sensations once represented by numbers, psychology may -become, according 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 _S_ 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 statistical 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 extraordinary -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 -impossible to tell just what the least discernible increment of the -sensation is without taking the average of a large number of -appreciations. These _accidental errors_ are as likely to increase as to -diminish our sensibility, and are eliminated in such an average, for -those above and those below the line then neutralize each other in the -sum, and the normal 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 average -all have their difficulties and their snares, and controversy 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 judgments. - -=Sensations are not compounds.= The fundamental objection 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 distinguishable quality, of the _sensation itself_ appears to be a -unique fact of consciousness. Each sensation is a complete integer. "A -strong one," as Dr. Münsterberg 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 difference -between strong and weak sonorous, luminous, or thermic 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 sensation -is not _contained_, it is unpsychological to say that the former differs -from the latter by a certain _increment_."[6] 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. - -There is no inconsistency between this statement and the fact that, -starting with a weak sensation and increasing 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 difference_; 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.[7] Meanwhile it -is an undoubted general fact that the psychical 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[8] 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 mystery 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.[9] 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 certain 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 influence 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 when the tuning-fork was heard, etc., etc. The most -familiar 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-contrast.' 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 transparent -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 reddish-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 correcting 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 sensory nerve-currents run in together, the effect of each -on consciousness is different from that which it would be if they ran -in separately. - -'_Successive contrast_' differs from the simultaneous variety, and is -supposed to be due to fatigue. The facts will be noticed under the head -of 'after-images,' in the section 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 various senses in detail. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -SIGHT. - - -=The Eye's Structure= is described in all the books on anatomy. I will -only mention the few points which concern the psychologist.[10] It is a -flattish sphere formed by a tough - -[Illustration: FIG. 3.] - -white membrane (the sclerotic), which encloses a nervous surface and -certain refracting media (lens and 'humors') which cast a picture of the -outer world thereon. It is in fact a little camera obscura, the -essential part of which is the sensitive plate. - -[Illustration: FIG. 4.] - -[Illustration: - - FIG. 5.--Scheme of retinal fibres, after Küss. _Nop._ optic nerve; - _S_, sclerotic; _Ch_, choroid; _R_, retina; _P_, papilla (blind - spot); _F_, fovea. -] - -=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 inside, 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 specific organs for taking up the influence of the -waves of light. Strange to say, these end-organs are not pointed forward -towards the light as it streams through the pupil, but backwards towards -the sclerotic membrane itself, so that the light-waves traverse the -translucent nerve-fibres, and the cellular and granular layers of the -retina, before they touch the rods and cones themselves. (See Fig. 5.) - -=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 beginning 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, holding the book -vertically in front of the face, and moving 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 measurement that -this blind spot lies where the optic nerve enters. - -[Illustration: FIG. 6.] - -=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 passing 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 rotated so as to -cause the two images of any object which catches the attention to fall -on the two foveæ, 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 another name -for such rotation of the eyeballs as will bring the foveæ under the -object's image. - -[Illustration: FIG. 7.] - -=Accommodation.=--The _focussing_ or _sharpening_ of the image is -performed by a special apparatus. In every camera, the farther the -object is from the eye the farther forward, 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 recedes. 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 rendering 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 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 attention, both eyeballs turn so -that its images may fall on the foveæ. 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 naturally 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 accommodation, and to accommodate with parallel axes of vision. -These are accomplishments which the student of psychological optics will -find most useful. - -=Single Vision by the two Retinæ.=--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 conditions can we hear or smell double. The -main conditions of single vision can be simply expressed. - -In the first place, impressions on the two foveæ 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 foveæ of -the two converging eyeballs will necessarily always appear 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 foveæ, 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 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 opposite 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 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.[11] - -[Illustration: FIG. 8.] - -If, instead of two identical spots, we use two different figures, or two -differently colored spots, as objects for the two foveæ 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 retinæ round about the foveæ, a similar -correspondence obtains. Any impression on the 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; and within two -similar quadrants, _al_ and _ar_ for example, there should, if the -correspondence were carried out in detail, 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 circumstances the parallel light-rays -coming from each star must impinge on points within either retina which -_are_ geometrically 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. - -[Illustration: FIG. 9.] - -Here again retinal rivalry occurs if the pictures differ. And it must be -noted that when the experiment is performed 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. - -[Illustration: FIG. 10.] - -=Double Images.=--Now it is an immediate consequence of the law of -identical location of images falling on geometrically similar points -that _images which fall upon geometrically_ DISPARATE _points of the two -retinæ should be seen in_ DISPARATE _directions, and that their objects -should 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 foveæ will receive the images of _O_, which -therefore will look single. If then _SL_ and _SR_ in Fig. 10 be the -parallel rays, each of them will fall upon the nasal half of the retina -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 retinæ, instead of one outer and -one nasal half. The position 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 similar 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 retinæ. 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 innumerable 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 foveæ 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 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. - -[Illustration: FIG. 11.] - -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. 11. Suppose we look at -the dots in the 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): - -[Illustration: FIG. 12.] - -The moment we attend to the tops of these lines, however, our foveæ tend -to abandon the dots and to move upwards, and in doing so, to converge -somewhat, following the lines, which then appear coalescing at the top -as in Fig. 13. - -[Illustration: FIG. 13.] - -[Illustration: FIG. 14.] - -If we think of the bottom, the eyes descend and diverge, and what we see -is Fig. 14. - -Running our eyes up and down the lines makes them converge and diverge -just as they would were they running 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 bottom--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 foveæ 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.[12] - -=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 - distance 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 - tolerably near points. When objects are farther off, their - apparent size, and the modifications their retinal images - experience by aërial 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."[13] - -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 distant, and draws near -as the head erects itself again. - -=The Perception of Size.=--"The dimensions of the retinal image determine -primarily the sensations on which conclusions 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 retinal 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 represented."[14] - -=Sensations of Color.=--The system of colors is a very complex thing. If -one take any color, say green, one can 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 significance. 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 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. - -[Illustration: FIG. 15.] - -=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 the spectral colors added together also make white light, such as -we daily experience in the sunshine. Furthermore, 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.[15] - -[Illustration: FIG. 16 (after Ziehen).] - -From all this it follows that there is no particular congruence between -our system of color-sensations and the physical stimuli which excite -them. Each color-feeling is a 'specific energy' (p. 11) which many -different physical causes may arouse. Helmholtz, Hering, and others have -sought to simplify the tangle of the facts, by physiological hypotheses -which, differing much in detail, agree in principle, since they all -postulate a limited number of elementary retinal processes to which, -when excited singly, 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 spoken of as if they were compounded of the -primary sensations. This is a great mistake. The _sensations as such_ -are not compounded--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 consult 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 sensation 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 much light as if that were the case, and is unable to distinguish -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."[16] 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 conditions, 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 receiving 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. 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, render - dull, or in popular phrase 'kill,' one another. - - "If we fix steadily for thirty seconds a point between two white - squares about 4 mm. (⅙ 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 experiments 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."[17] - -This is one of the facts referred to on p. 27 which have made Hering -reject the psychological explanation of simultaneous contrast. - -=The Intensity of Luminous Objects.=--Black is an optical sensation. We -have no black except in the field of 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 objective 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 and 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 König and -Brodhun, were applied to six different colors and ran from an intensity -arbitrarily called 1 to one which was 100,000 times as great. From -intensity 2000 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 sensation white with the original color-sensation. -It is no mixing of two sensations, but the replacement of one sensation -by another, in consequence of a changed neural process. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -HEARING.[18] - - -[Illustration: - - FIG. 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 Eustachian tube; _V_, vestibule; _B_, a - semicircular canal; _S_, the cochlea; _Vt_, scala vestibuli; _Pt_, - scala tympani; _A_, auditory nerve. -] - -=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 _labyrinth_; 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, 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. - -[Illustration: - - FIG. 18.--_Mcp_, _Mc_, _Ml_, and _Mm_ stand for different parts of - the malleus; _Jc_, _Jb_, _Jl_, _Jpl_, for different parts of the - incus. _S_ is the stapes. -] - -"_The Tympanum_ (_P_, Fig. 17) is an irregular cavity in the temporal -bone, closed externally by the drum membrane. From its inner side the -_Eustachian tube_ (_R_) proceeds and opens into the pharynx. The inner -wall of the tympanum is bony except for two small apertures, the _oval_ -and _round foramens_, _o_ and _r_, which lead into the labyrinth. 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 internal 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; but 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. On making a balloon ascent or going rapidly down a deep -mine, the sudden and great change of aërial pressure outside frequently -causes 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 internal one, the _stapes_ or _stirrup_. They are represented in -Fig. 18.[19] - -=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 membranes -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 reaction 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 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_. - -[Illustration: - - 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_, horizontal semicircular - canal; _ha_, its ampulla; _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 described 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 central part and has on its exterior the oval foramen -(_Fv_) into which the base of the stirrup-bone fits. Behind the -vestibule 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 vestibule, lying in the bony, -consists of two sacs communicating by a narrow aperture. The posterior -is called the _utriculus_, 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 - -[Illustration: FIG. 20.--A section through the cochlea in the line of -its axis.] - -[Illustration: - - FIG. 21.--Section of one coil of the cochlea, magnified. _SV_, - _scala vestibuli_; _R_, membrane of Reissner; _CC_, membranous - cochlea (_scala media_); _lls_, _limbus laminæ spiralis_; _t_, - tectorial membrane; _ST_, _scala tympani_; _lso_, spiral lamina; - _Co_, rods of Corti; _b_, basilar membrane. -] - -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 relations of the membranous to the bony cochlea are more -complicated. A section through this part of the auditory apparatus (Fig. -20) shows that its osseous portion consists of a tube wound two and a -half times round a 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 triangular 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 vestibuli_, _SV_, and a lower, the _scala -tympani_, _ST_. Between these lie the lamina spiralis (_lso_) and the -membranous cochlea (_CC_), the latter being bounded above by the -membrane of Reissner (_R_) and below by the basilar membrane (_b_)."[20] - -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 filled with perilymph, 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 tympani, 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. - -[Illustration: - - 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. -] - -=The Terminal Organs.=--"The membranous cochlea contains certain solid -structures seated on the basilar membrane and forming the _organ of -Corti_. This contains the end-organs of the cochlear nerves. Lining the -sulcus spiralis, a groove in the edge of the bony lamina spiralis, are -cuboidal cells; on the inner margin of the basilar membrane 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 _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. -External 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 membrane. Beyond the outer hair-cells is -ordinary columnar epithelium, which passes gradually into cuboidal cells -lining most of the membranous 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."[21] - -[Illustration: - - FIG. 23.--Sensory epithelium from ampulla or semicircular 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 _f_ seem unconnected with nerves. -] - -The hair-cells would thus seem to be the terminal organs for 'picking -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 ampullæ (see Fig. 23). - -=The Various Qualities of Sound.=--Physically, sounds consist of -vibrations, and these are, generally speaking, _aërial waves_. When the -waves are non-periodic the result is 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 aërial 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 necessary 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 little 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."[22] - -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 explanation partly -historic and partly æsthetic, but too complex for exposition here. - -=The 'timbre'= of a note is due to its _wave-form_. 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 aërial movement at any time will be the -algebraic 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 orchestra, 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 complex; 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 'harmonics' sound simultaneously in fainter form. On -the relative strength of this or that one or more of these Helmholtz has -shown that the instrument's peculiar voice depends. 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 -together 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 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 membranous 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 physical 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 -perilymph 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 '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 -physiological 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 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 -resonances 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 sensation_. 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 contraction is known as _tetanus_. The -experiment proves that there is a physiological cumulation or -overlapping of processes 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 twitching. 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 -before 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 feeling is a new kind of sensation altogether, not a mere -'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 -'compounding' 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 sensations of red and of green get no chance, under such conditions, -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 together we may get -peculiar feelings of pleasure or displeasure 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 -identical 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. - -=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 increment of stimulus must be larger; -above it, no measurements 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 organs. In or -immediately beneath the skin several peculiar forms of nerve end-organs -have also been described; they are known as (1) _Touch-cells_; (2) -_Pacinian corpuscles_; (3) _Tactile corpuscles_; (4) _End-bulbs_."[23] - -[Illustration: - - FIG. 24.--End-bulbs from the conjunctiva of the human eye, - magnified. -] - -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 magnify 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 hardness, roughness or smoothness, of the body -producing it; 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 tactile, and such a -combination of the two sensations is frequent; 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 sensation, -and this primary position it still largely holds in our mental -life."[24] - -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 characterized 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. pressing on an area of 9 sq. millim. can be -felt. - -"In order that the sense of touch may be excited neighboring 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 skin regions and is measured by observing -the least distance 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 1.1 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 11.0 mm. (.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 sensation than when it is more -powerful; it is also very readily and rapidly improvable by practice." -It seems to be naturally delicate in proportion as the skin which -possesses it covers a more movable part of the body. - -[Illustration: FIG. 25.] - -"It might be thought that this localizing power depended directly on -nerve-distribution; that each 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 distributed 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 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 -compass-points remained the same distance apart, or were even -approximated, one were placed in _c_ and the other on a contiguous area, -two fibres would be stimulated and we ought to get two sensations; but -such is not the case; on the same skin-region the points must be always -the same distance 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, _a_ 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-distribution 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 temperature differences in external objects. -Its organ is the whole skin, the mucous membrane of mouth and fauces, -pharynx 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 minute exploration of determinate tracts of skin and -found the heat-and cold-spots thick-set and permanently distinct. -Between them no temperature-sensation is excited by contact with a -pointed cold or hot object. Mechanical and faradic irritation also -excites in these points their specific feelings respectively.] - -[Illustration: - - FIG. 26.--The figure marked C P shows the cold-spots, that marked H - P the heat-spots, and the middle one the hairs on a certain patch - of skin on one of Goldscheider's fingers. -] - -=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 sensation is more marked the -greater the difference, and the more suddenly it is produced; touching a -metallic body, which conducts heat rapidly to or from the skin, causes -a more marked hot or cold sensation than touching a worse conductor, 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 cooling), 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 30° C. (86° F.); at these differences of less -than 0.1° 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-sensations much as tactile, but not so accurately."[25] - - -=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, however, the whole muscle grows painful; and violent -contraction such as that caused by the faradic current, or known as -cramp, produces a severe and peculiar pain felt in the whole mass of -muscle affected. Sachs also thought that he had demonstrated, both -experimentally and anatomically, the existence of special sensory -nerve-fibres, distinct 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 generally. 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 -awakening 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 accurately 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 ⅓ 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 experiments, 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. - -[Illustration: FIG. 27 (after Wundt).] - -=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 sensations of every order, which in moderate -degrees are rather pleasant than otherwise, become painful when their -intensity 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 horizontal line -represents the threshold both of sensational and of agreeable -sensibility. Below the line is the disagreeble. 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 dotted line rapidly sinks, and -soon tumbles below the horizontal 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 '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 condition termed _analgesia_, a touch -is felt, but the most violent 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 columns intact. If, on the contrary, the latter were -divided and the gray substance left, there was increased sensitiveness -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 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 -reaching 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 -incoördinate 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 explanation."[26] - -Pain also gives rise to ill-coördinated 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. - - - - -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 surfaces; 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 quem_ 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 afterwards 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 difference 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 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 perception of the -motion here is certainly not derived from a preëxisting 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 portions 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 -perceived 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 member 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 forefinger 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 distinguished as -belonging exclusively to one of its parts. When our perception is fully -developed we go beyond the mere relative motion of thing and ground, and -can ascribe absolute 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 primitively 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 ourselves 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 eyeballs 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 -persists 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,[27] who takes up the matter zoölogically, 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 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 creatures 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 -noiselessly 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 immediately 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 -surface under object is (for purposes of stimulation) equivalent to -movement of object over surface_. In exploring the shapes and sizes of -things by either eye or skin the movements 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 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 -extension. 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 impressions 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 anæsthetic -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, -Goldscheider says, can hardly be detected by the eye. Anæsthesia of the -skin produced by induction-currents had no disturbing effect on the -perception, nor did the various degrees of pressure of the moving force -upon the skin affect it. It became, in fact, all the more distinct in -proportion as the concomitant pressure-feelings were eliminated by -artificial anæsthesia. When the joints themselves, however, were made -artificially anæsthetic, 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 impressions by -which the movements of our members are immediately perceived_. - -=2) Sensations of Movement through Space.=--These may be divided, into -feelings of rotation and feelings of translation. 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 -conclusively 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 _dizziness_ or -_vertigo_, and rapidly engenders the farther feeling of nausea. -Irritative disease of the inner ear causes intense vertigo (Ménière'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 compensatory movements of head and eye which actual rotations -impressed on the creatures produce. Deaf and dumb persons (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 -increases its pressure on the nerve-termini in the appropriate ampulla, -which pressure starts a current towards the central organ for feeling -vertigo. This organ seems to be the cerebellum, and the teleology of -the whole business would appear to be the maintenance of the upright -position. 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 succession 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 referred 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 rotation causes compensatory -rollings of the eyeballs in the opposite direction, to which some of the -subjective phenomena 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 ampullæ. The sensation 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 forwards 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, considers -that it cannot possibly be in the head, and assigns it rather to the -entire body, so far as its parts (blood-vessels, 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, -however, yet be considered definitively established, so the matter may -rest with this mention. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -THE STRUCTURE OF THE BRAIN.[28] - - -[Illustration: - -FIG. 28. FIG. 29. FIG. 30. - -(All after Huguenin.)] - -=Embryological Sketch.=--The brain is a sort of _pons asinorum_ in anatomy -until one gets a certain general conception 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-spinal axis is -formed by a hollow tube containing fluid and terminated in front by an -enlargement separated by transverse constrictions into three 'cerebral -vesicles,' so called (see Fig. 28). The walls of these vesicles thicken -in most places, change in others into a thin vascular tissue, and in -others again send out processes which produce an appearance 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. - -[Illustration: - - FIG. 31.--The 'nates' are the anterior corpora quadrigemina, the - spot above _aq_ is a section of the sylvian aqueduct, and the - tegmentum and two 'feet' together make the Crura. These are marked - _C.C._, and a cross (+) marks the aqueduct, in Fig. 32. -] - -[Illustration: FIG. 32 (after Huxley).] - -The anterior and posterior vesicles undergo much more considerable -change. The walls of the posterior vesicle thicken enormously in their -foremost portion and form the _cerebellum_ on top (_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 forward 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). - -[Illustration: 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 enormously 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 downwards 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 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 hemisphere outwards, backwards, and then -downwards from its starting point, has got rolled in and tucked away -beneath the apparent surface.[29] - -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 hemispheres and form a direct -connection between the convolutions 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, -consisting 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 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 _infundibulum_, into the upper part of which the cavity - of the third ventricle 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 are divided, and the portion of dura mater (tentorium) - which projects between the hemispheres and the cerebellum is cut - through at its edges, the brain comes readily out. - -[Illustration: - - FIG. 31.--The human brain from below, with its nerves numbered, - after Henle I, olfactory; II, optic; III, oculo-motorius; IV, - trochlearis; V, trifacial; VI, abducens oculi; VII, facial; VIII, - auditory; IX, glosso-pharyngeal; X, pneumogastric; XI, spinal - accessory; XII, hypoglossal; _nc_I, first cervical, etc. -] - - It is best examined fresh. If numbers of brains have to be prepared - 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, and to leave them for a fortnight or less. This softens the - pia mater, which can then be removed in large shreds, after which - it is enough to place them in quite weak alcohol to preserve them - indefinitely, 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 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 transparent 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 - _commissure_ 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 description 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 - ventricle_ 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 _posterior 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 separated from the - broad restiform bodies by a slight groove. But this disappears - anteriorly, and the 'slender' and 'ropelike' strands soon become - outwardly indistinguishable. - - 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 - 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. - -[Illustration: - - FIG. 35.--Fourth ventricle, etc. (Henle). _III_, third ventricle; - _IV_, fourth ventricle; _P_, anterior, middle, and posterior - peduncles of cerebellum cut through; _Cr_, restiform body; _Fg_, - funiculus gracilis; _Cq_, corpora quadrigemina. -] - - Now cut through the peduncles of the cerebellum, close to their - entrance into that organ. They give one surface of section on each - 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 vitæ_ 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 - premammalian 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_. - -[Illustration: - - FIG. 36.--Horizontal section of human brain just above the - thalami.--_Ccl_, corpus callosum in section; _Cs_, corpus striatum; - _Sl_, septum lucidum; _Cf_, columns of the fornix; _Tho_, optic - thalami; _Cn_, pineal gland. (After Henle.) -] - - 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 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 - 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 backwards and downwards round the - thalamus; and the corpus fimbriatum 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, - distinct 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 - longitudinal 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 - -[Illustration: - - FIG. 37.--Median section of human brain below the hemispheres. - _Th_, thalamus; _Cg_, corpora quadrigemina; _V^{III}_, third - ventricle; _Com_, middle commissure; _F_, columns of fornix; _Inf_, - infundibulum; _Op.n_, optic nerve; _Pit_, pituitary body; _Av_, - arbor vitæ. (After Obersteiner). -] - - 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_). - -[Illustration: - - 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 assimilated 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 chopping 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 -difference 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 coöperation with every other. The afferent nerves, when -excited by some physical irritant, be this as gross in its mode of -operation as a chopping 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 stimulus be a sign -of some distant circumstance of practical importance, the animal's acts -are addressed to this circumstance 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 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 disturbance of the heart. Such involuntary -responses we know as '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 consciousness of the purpose to be -attained and a distinct mandate of the will. It is a 'voluntary act.' -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 vivisectional 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 anterior 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 oblongata, 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 peculiarly 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 forepaws, 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 calculated 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. - -[Illustration: - - FIG. 39.--_C_, _H_, cerebral hemispheres; _O Th_, optic thalami; _O - L_, optic lobes; _Cb_, cerebellum; _M O_, medulla oblongata; _S C_, - spinal cord. -] - -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 separate segments are independent mechanisms, for -appropriate activities of the head and of the arms and legs -respectively. 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 definite stimuli, of certain special acts. Thus with the -medulla the animal swallows; with the medulla and cerebellum together he -jumps, swims, and turns over from his back; with his optic lobes he -croaks when pinched; etc. _A frog which has lost his cerebral -hemispheres alone is by an unpractised 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 anything 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 will suffer a fly to crawl over his nose -unsnapped at. Fear, too, seems to have deserted him. In a word, he is an -extremely 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 applying the right sensory -stimulus to him we are almost as certain of getting a fixed response as -an organist is of hearing a certain tone when he pulls out a certain -stop. - -_But now if to the lower centres we add the cerebral hemispheres_, 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 foretell 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 full medulla oblongata and cerebellum -uses when he turns from his back to his belly. Their contractions are, -however, _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. Similarly they exist in the thalami for jumping over -seen obstacles and for balancing the moved body; in the optic lobes for -creeping backwards, or what not. But in the hemispheres, since the -presence of these organs _brings no new elementary form of movement_ -with it, but only _determines differently the occasions_ on which the -movements shall occur, making the usual stimuli less fatal and -machine-like, we need suppose no such machinery _directly_ coördinative -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 different heights_; -and at each it enters into a different combination with other muscles to -coöperate in some special form of concerted movement. At each height the -movement is discharged by some particular form of sensorial stimulus, -whilst the stimuli which discharge the hemispheres 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 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 inanimate 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 impression -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 sensational stimuli alone; the hemispheres act -from considerations_, 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 that? If I step aside on seeing a -rattlesnake, from considering 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 experiences. They are _reproductions_ of what I have felt or -witnessed. 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 _S ...C ...M_ of Fig. -40. The hemisphere, _H_, adds the long circuit or loop-line through -which the current may pass when for any reason the direct line is not -used. - -[Illustration: FIG. 40.] - -Thus, a tired wayfarer on a hot day throws himself on the damp earth -beneath a maple-tree. The sensations of delicious rest and coolness -pouring themselves through the direct line would naturally discharge -into the muscles of complete extension: he would abandon himself to the -dangerous repose. But the loop-line being open, part of the current is -drafted along it, and awakens rheumatic or catarrhal reminiscences, -which prevail over the instigations 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 reminiscences 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, postpone, 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 functions in the exercise of which prudence is a virtue -from the lower centres and hands them over to the cerebrum. Wherever 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 prehension of food as an -example and suppose it to be a reflex performance of the lower centres. -The animal will be condemned fatally and irresistibly to snap at it -whenever presented, 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 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. Appetite 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 subordinate 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 cooings 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 recollect 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 -plumage, 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 instinct 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 consequence 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 character 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 æsthetic and -moral fitness which the circumstances awaken in the cerebrum; and that -upon the inhibitory or permissive influence of these alone action -directly depends. - -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 -humanity 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 interpreted 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 conception of -_all_ action as conforming to this type is the fundamental conception of -modern nerve-physiology. This conception, now, has led to two quite -opposite theories about the relation to consciousness of the nervous -functions. Some authors, finding that the higher voluntary functions -seem to require the guidance of feeling, conclude that over the lowest -reflexes some such feeling also presides, though it may be a feeling -connected with the spinal cord, of which the higher conscious self -connected with the hemispheres remains unconscious. Others, finding -that reflex and semi-automatic acts may, notwithstanding their -appropriateness, take place with an unconsciousness apparently 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 mechanism 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 conversation, are of course events of a physiological order, and -as such their causal antecedents may be exclusively mechanical. If we -knew thoroughly the nervous system of Shakespeare, 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 shortness' 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 anything 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 prevent 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 correspond -to, but not react upon, a point in the other. So 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 _selection_; -but to select, it must be efficacious. States of consciousness which -feel right are held fast to; those which feel wrong are checked. If the -'holding' and the 'checking' of the conscious states severally mean also -the efficacious 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 -consciousness 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 preëstablished harmony, but -to the mere action of natural selection, which would certainly kill off -in the long-run any breed of creatures to whom the fundamentally noxious -experience seemed enjoyable. An animal that should take pleasure in a -feeling of suffocation would, if that pleasure were efficacious enough -to make him keep his head under water, enjoy a longevity of four or five -minutes. But if conscious 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 'scientific' -champions of the automaton-theory) why the most noxious acts, such as -burning, might not with perfect impunity 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 Æsthetics_; and his reasoning is based exclusively on -that causal efficacy of pleasures and pains which the partisans of pure -automatism so strenuously 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 -condition of existence, and can be remotely traced in every instance 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 memory, 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 -vivisections 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 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 'organs,' each -of which stood for the man in a certain partial 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 -worshipping, 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, sensory and motor. "All -nervous centres," says Dr. Hughlings 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 similarly when he calls the cortex -of the hemispheres the surface 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 tendencies, 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. - -[Illustration: FIG. 41.--Left hemisphere of monkey's brain. Outer -surface.] - -=The Motor Region.=--The one thing which is _perfectly_ well established -is this, that the 'central' convolutions, 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 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 description. - -[Illustration: 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 currents may be. - -[Illustration: - - FIG. 43.--Schematic transverse section of the human brain, through - the rolandic 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. -] - -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 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, - -[Illustration: FIG. 44.--Schematic profile of left hemisphere, with the -parts shaded whose destruction causes motor ('Broca') and sensory -('Wernicke') aphasia.] - -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 -condition as this, and an examination of his brain is permitted, it is -found that the lowest frontal gyrus (see Fig. 44) is the seat of injury. -Broca first noticed this fact in 1861, 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 outwardly 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. -41, 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 bilaterally, 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 _left_ halves of _both_ retinæ go to the _left_ 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 retinæ grow blind as to their right -halves, and the patient loses the leftward half of his field of view. -The diagram on p. 111 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 retinæ 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 - -[Illustration: - - FIG. 45.--Scheme of the mechanism of vision, after Seguin. The - _cuneus_ convolution (_Cu_) 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 _O.S._ 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 _Cu_. -] - -mental images of visible things remain. In _double_ hemiopia there is -every reason to believe that not only the sensation of light must go, -but that all memories and images 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 retinæ 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. - -[Illustration: FIG. 46.--Fibres associating the cortical centres -together. (Schematic, after Starr.)] - -=Mental Blindness.=--A most interesting effect of cortical disorder is -_mental blindness_. This consists not so much 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 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 complete, neither sight, touch, nor sound -avails to steer the patient, and a sort of dementia which has been -called _asymbolia_ 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 Charcot. What Broca's discovery was we have -seen. Wernicke 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 which the patient could -read, talk, and write, but 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 possibility 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 -idiosyncrasy. 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 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 disorderly, -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 succession are possible in the associations of a talking man's -ideas. The more usual order is, as aforesaid, from the tactile, visual, -or other properties of the things thought-about to the sound of their -names, and then to the latter's utterance. 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 concentrate -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 history of our knowledge of aphasia how the -sagacity and patience of many banded workers are in time certain to -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 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). - -[Illustration: FIG. 47.] - -=Centres for Smell, Taste, and Touch.=--The other sensory 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 -backwards and midwards thereof. The incoming tactile currents must enter -the cells of this region by one set of fibres, and the discharges leave -them by another, but of these - -[Illustration: FIG. 48.--_A_ is the auditory centre, _V_ the visual, _W_ -the writing, and _E_ that for speech.] - -=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 arrangements for representing impressions and -movements, and other arrangements for coupling the activity of these -arrangements together._ Currents pouring in from the sense-organs first -excite some arrangements, 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 -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 afferent, 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 accompanying 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 occupies 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 formulational together. 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 whatever. -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 concomitant cerebral -conditions. Without introspective analysis of 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 importance and which coöperate in -the production of all our mental states. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -SOME GENERAL CONDITIONS OF NEURAL ACTIVITY. - - -=The Nervous Discharge.=--The word discharge is constantly 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 matter 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 disintegration of pent-up molecules and the result is a -stronger effect still. Matteuci found that the work done by a muscle'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 investigation 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 cœlo fulmen_,' foreshadowing the reign of a newer and -colder race of gods. I may say, however, 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 -expectant state. Just what happens during the actual time occupied by -the reaction (in other words, just what is added to the preëxistent -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 investigations. A signal -of some sort is communicated to the subject, and at the same instant -records itself on a time-registering 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 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 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 1000ths of a second, is -then read off from the dial-plates. - -[Illustration: FIG. 49.] - -=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 muscular -response, it is shorter. Lange, who first noticed this fact when working -in Wundt's laboratory, found his own 'muscular' reaction-time to average -0´´.123, whilst his 'sensorial' reaction-time averaged as much as -0´´.230. 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 circumstances the reaction is essentially a reflex act. The -preliminary _making-ready_ of the muscles for the movement 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 formation 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 exclusively 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, -association-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. Meanwhile 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 individual 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 difference. 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 -experimental measurement. Wundt calls it _Unterscheidungszeit_. 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 discrimination. 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 _einfache 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 similarly - - 0.100 and 0.110; - -that for distinguishing a certain color from ten other colors, - - 0.105 and 0.117; - -that for distinguishing the letter A in ordinary print from the letter -Z, - - 0.142 and 0.137; - -that for distinguishing a given letter from all the rest of the alphabet -(not reacting until that letter appeared), - - 0.119 and 0.116; - -that for distinguishing a word from any of twenty-five other words, from - - 0.118 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 composed, 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. Gallon, using a very simple apparatus, found that the sight of -an unforeseen word would awaken an associated 'idea' in about ⅚ 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, and 1.154 -seconds respectively. From this the simple reaction-time and the time of -merely identifying the word's sound (the 'apperception-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 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. Cattell made -some interesting observations upon the association-time between the look -of letters and their names. "I pasted letters," he says, "on a 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 limited 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 confirm 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 ½ 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 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 1; or, otherwise stated, in a given time one individual -may be able to read four times as much as another. Moreover, it appeared -that there was no relationship between slowness of reading and power of -assimilation; on the contrary, when all the efforts are directed to -assimilating as 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 compassed 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 perception -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 by itself to excite a nerve-centre -to effective discharge may, by acting with one or more other stimuli -(equally ineffectual by themselves alone) bring the discharge about_. -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 generally 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 stimulate -a beast to pursuit, but if the sight of movement be added to that of -form, pursuit occurs. "Brücke 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. Thomson sprinkled a little gravel on the carpet, ... the -chickens 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 defiance. Street hawkers -well know the efficacy of summation, for they arrange themselves in a -line on the sidewalk, and 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. - -[Illustration: FIG. 50.--Sphygmographic pulse-tracing. _A_, during -intellectual repose; _B_, during intellectual activity. (Mosso.)] - -=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 irritation is applied, though the motor zone is the -most sensitive 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 furthermore that the arterial -tension (as shown by the sphygmograph) was increased in these members -(see Fig. 50). So 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 excessively 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 emotional 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 -immediate afflux of blood to the brain during mental activity is due to -Mosso's observations on three persons whose brain had been laid bare by -lesion of the skull. By means of apparatus described in his book, this -physiologist 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 -number of reproductions of tracings which show the instantaneity 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 accompanied 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 plunging 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 alteration 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 experiments that sensorial activity heats -the brain-tissue, but he did not try to localize the increment of heat -beyond finding 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, kein Gedanke_,' was a noted -war-cry of the 'materialists' during the excitement on that subject -which filled Germany in the '60s. 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 phosphorus. In America -the phosphorus-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 PO_{5} in the urine, and this -procedure has been adopted by a variety of observers, some of 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 phosphorus in mental activity. Like iron, -arsenic, and other remedies it is a stimulant or tonic, of whose -intimate workings 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 whatever 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 deserve 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 properties 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 individual, 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 tensions can, from one hour to another, turn that structure -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 extraordinary 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 psychology. That it is at bottom a -physical principle, is admitted by all good recent writers on the -subject. They call attention to analogues of acquired habits exhibited -by dead matter. Thus, M. Léon 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 -force was required to overcome certain roughness in the mechanism. The -overcoming of their resistance is a phenomenon 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 -resistentiæ_, 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 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 presently 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 -impression 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 modification 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 corroborate 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 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:[30] - -"If an act became no easier after being done several times, if the -careful direction of consciousness were necessary 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 dressing 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 exertions. 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 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 themselves; 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 instantaneous '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 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 bedroom 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 movements when performed at a later hour. We all have a 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 muscular 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 voluntary act has to be guided by idea, -perception, and volition, 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: - -[Illustration: FIG. 51.] - -Let _A, B, C, D, E, F, G_ represent an habitual chain of muscular -contractions, and let _a, b, c, d, e, f_ stand for the several -sensations which these contractions excite in us when they are -successively performed. Such sensations 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 sensations 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 deliberation 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 -intellectual perception at the end is indicated in the diagram by the -sensible effect of the movement _G_ being represented at _G´_, in the -ideational centres above the merely sensational line. The sensational -impressions, _a, b, c, d, e, f_, 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, it is doubtful whether we could preserve -equilibrium if no sensation of our body's attitude were there, and -doubtful 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 production 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 combination 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. - -"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 instantly 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 evolutions at the sound of the -bugle-call. Most domestic beasts seem machines almost pure and simple, -undoubtingly, unhesitatingly doing from minute to minute the duties they -have been taught, and giving no sign that the possibility of an -alternative ever suggests itself to their mind. Men grown old in prison -have asked to be readmitted after being once set free. In a railroad -accident 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 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 vocalization and pronunciation, gesture, -motion, and address. Hardly ever is a language learned after twenty -spoken without a foreign accent; hardly ever can a youth transferred to -the society of his betters unlearn the nasality and other 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 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 breakdown 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 -infallibly right. As Professor Bain says: - -"The peculiarity of the moral habits, contradistinguishing 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 careful 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 'to -make one's self over again.' He who every day makes a fresh resolve is -like one who, 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."[31] - -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 possess, 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 proverbially paved. And this is an obvious consequence 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 tendencies 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 bearing practical fruit it is worse than a -chance lost; it works so as positively to hinder future resolutions and -emotions 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 formulated 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 disguised -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 -excessive indulgence in music, for those who are neither performers -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 _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 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. Asceticism -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 concentrated attention, energetic volition, and self-denial -in unnecessary things. He will stand like a tower when everything 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 bundles of -habits, they would give more heed to their conduct 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 discouragement 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 consciousness itself. Most books -adopt the so-called synthetic method. Starting with 'simple ideas of -sensation,' and regarding these as so many atoms, they proceed to build -up the higher states of mind out of their 'association,' 'integration,' -or 'fusion,' as houses are built by the agglutination of bricks. This -has the didactic advantages which the synthetic method usually has. But -it commits one beforehand 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 'simple ideas' with -which he has no immediate acquaintance 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 'analytic' method, and to begin -with the most concrete facts, those with which he has a daily -acquaintance 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 thereof. 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 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 concrete 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 consciousness. - -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 exclusion 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 medias res_ as regards our nomenclature and use psychological terms -which can only be adequately 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 personal -consciousness_, '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 confront in the next chapter; here -a preliminary word will suffice. - -In this room--this lecture-room, say--there are a multitude 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 consciousnesses, minds, -selves, concrete particular I's 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 personal consciousness than its own. Absolute -insulation, irreducible pluralism, is the law. It seems as if the -elementary 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 similarity 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 -'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 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 recollecting, 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 _sensations_ 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 recognition of the realities whose presence they reveal. The grass -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 yellow, 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 -impression is its _ratio_ to whatever other impressions we may have at -the same time. When everything is dark a somewhat 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 considerations. 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 morning, -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 different 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, following 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 unmodified feeling an -impossibility; for to every brain-modification, however small, we -suppose that there must correspond 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 another 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 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 -distinguishable existences; the pictures so empty; and as for the books, -what _was_ there to find so mysteriously significant in Goethe, or in -John Mill so full of weight? Instead of all this, more zestful than ever -is 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 regarding 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 proposition 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 and 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 nothing 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 sensibly continuous.= I -can only define 'continuous' as that which is without breach, crack, or -division. The only breaches that can well be conceived to occur within -the 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 continuous, means two things: - -_a._ That even where there is a time-gap the consciousness after it -feels as if it belonged together with the consciousness 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 Peter's 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 _remembers_ his own states, whilst he only _conceives_ -Paul's. Remembrance 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 themselves be will have to -be matter for future consideration. But whatever past states appear with -those qualities must be admitted to receive the greeting of the present -mental state, to be owned by it, and accepted as belonging together with -it in a common self. This community 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 certain chosen -portions of the past. - -Consciousness, then, does not appear to itself chopped up in bits. Such -words as 'chain' or 'train' do not describe 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 successive 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 difficult to find in the actual concrete -consciousness of man a feeling so limited to the present as not to have -an inkling of anything that went before. - -='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 changing; 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 'substantive parts,' and 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 transitive 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 section, and he will see how difficult -the introspective observation 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 arrest 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 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 _produce_ 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 treatment 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 -_Sensationalism_. 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 relations, 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 upshot 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 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 -unutterably 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 naturâ, _so surely, and more -surely, do feelings exist to which these relations are known_. There is -not a conjunction or a preposition, and hardly an adverbial 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 numberless, and no existing language is capable of doing justice to -all their shades. - -We ought to say a feeling of _and_, a feeling of _if_, a feeling 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 existence 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 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 lingering relatively -long, whilst others simply come and pass. But if consciousness -corresponds to the fact of rearrangement itself, why, if the -rearrangement stop not, should the consciousness ever cease? And if a -lingering rearrangement brings with it one kind of consciousness, why -should not a swift rearrangement bring another kind of consciousness 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 cognitive 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 -conscious affection, a sense of the direction from which an impression -is about to come, although no positive impression 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 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 -described as gaps. When I vainly try to recall the name of Spalding, my -consciousness is far removed from what it is when I 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 a feeling of want is _toto cœlo_ 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 -growing more distinct. Every one must know the tantalizing effect of the -blank rhythm of some forgotten verse, restlessly 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, distinct from all -other intentions, an absolutely distinct state of consciousness, -therefore; and yet how much of it consists 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 replace 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 -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 expect 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 understanding 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 knowledge 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 traditional -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 overlook. 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 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 'psychic overtone' 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 excitement 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: - -[Illustration: FIG. 52.] - -Let the horizontal in Fig. 52 be the line of time, and 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 for _c_ has already begun, when that for _b_ is culminating. 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 separately 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 -'knowledges-_about_' 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 penumbral 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 revolve. 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 'all right,' may be -considered a thought that furthers the 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 association 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 sentence 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 unusual foreign word be introduced, if -the grammar trip, or if a term from an incongruous vocabulary suddenly -appear, 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 reporter, and -read uncritically by many readers. - -[Illustration: FIG. 53.] - -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 indifference of the mental means where the end is the -same. Let _A_ be some experience from which a number of thinkers start. -Let _Z_ be the practical conclusion rationally inferrible from it. One -gets to this conclusion by one line, another by another; one follows a -course of English, another of German, verbal imagery. With one, visual -images predominate; 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 substantially 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 deliberative 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 different accent which we place on -different strokes. The simplest of these rhythms is the double one, -tick-tóck, tick-tóck, tick-tóck. 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 laying 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 goes on. - -To begin at the bottom, what are our very senses themselves, 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 undistinguishable, -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. - -If 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 its notice and suppresses all the rest. We -notice only those sensations which are signs to us of _things_ which -happen practically or æsthetically 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 separate 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, modified 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 æsthetic reasons of -my own. In like manner, the real form of the circle is deemed to be the -sensation it gives when the line of vision is perpendicular 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-arrangements, 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 -beside; whilst the fourth will perhaps have been so 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 emergency be theoretical, 'means' if it be practical--transfixed -upon it. - -If now we pass to the æsthetic 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 harmonize 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 unflinchingly 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 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 character only one reaction is -possible under given circumstances, 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 subordination and -dislike. There is, however, one entirely extraordinary 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. Even -the trodden worm, as Lotze somewhere says, contrasts his own suffering -self with the whole remaining universe, 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 psychology 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 _I_ 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_. I call -these 'discriminated aspects,' and not separate things, because the -identity of _I_ 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, whatever 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 I, the 'pure ego' of certain authors. - - -A) THE SELF AS KNOWN. - -=The Empirical Self or Me.=--Between what a man calls _me_ and what 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 themselves, are they simply -ours, or are they _us_? Certainly 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 possible sense_, however, _a man's Me is the sum total of all -that he_ CAN _call his_, not only his body and his psychic powers, but -his clothes and his house, his wife and children, 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; if they dwindle 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-appreciation_; - -_c._ The act 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 the human person is -composed of three parts--soul, body and clothes--is more than a joke. We -so appropriate our clothes and identify ourselves 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 hesitate 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 arrangements 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 property; and the -collections thus made become, with different degrees of intimacy, parts -of our empirical selves. The parts 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 construction of -their hands or brains--say an entomological collection or an extensive -work in manuscript--were suddenly 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 -nothingness, which is a psychological phenomenon by itself. We are all -at once assimilated to the tramps and poor devils whom we so despise, -and at the same time removed farther 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 gregarious 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 punishment 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 we were non-existing things, a kind of rage and -impotent despair would ere long well up in us, from which the cruellest -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 -practically 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 employ, 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 -condemns 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 apologize 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 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 our 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 dispositions taken concretely. This collection can -at any moment 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 thinkers_, all the other ingredients of -our Me seem relatively external possessions. Even within the spiritual -_Me_ some ingredients seem more external than others. Our capacities 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 sanctuary -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. - -_b._ _The feelings and emotions of self_ come after the constituents. - -=Self-appreciation.=--This is of two sorts, _self-complacency_ and -_self-dissatisfaction_. '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, -mortification, 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 sensible pleasures or pains to which our prosperous or debased -personal predicament is likely to lead, the sum of the represented -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 -expectation 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 discontent. 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 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 still 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 abasement 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 expression. In self-satisfaction the extensor muscles are -innervated, 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 -swaggering gait is in tragic contrast with their lack of any valuable -personal quality. It is in these same castles of despair that we find -the strongest examples of the opposite physiognomy, in good people who -think they have committed '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 no -adequate exciting cause. And in fact we ourselves know how the barometer -of our self-esteem and confidence rises and falls from one day to -another through causes that seem to be visceral and organic rather than -rational, and which certainly answer to no corresponding variations in -the esteem in which we are held by our friends. - -_c._ _Self-seeking and self-preservation_ 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-seeking_. - -=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, however, these latter -instincts, with amativeness, parental fondness, curiosity and emulation, -seek not only the development 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 -recognition 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 and envious salutions almost anything will do for -some of us; and there is a whole race of beings to-day whose passion 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 pathological 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 metaphoric social way. '_Ça me connaît_,' 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 commonly 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 of the 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 search of -the redeemed inward nature, the spotlessness from sin, whether here or -hereafter, that can count as spiritual self-seeking pure and undefiled. - -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 conceivably 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 triumphs, 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 oarsman in the world. That he is able to -beat the whole population of the globe minus one is nothing; he has -'pitted' himself to beat that one; and as long as he doesn't do that -nothing else counts. He is to his own regard as if he were not, indeed -he _is_ not. Yonder puny fellow, however, 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, - - Self-esteem = Success/Pretensions. - -Such a fraction may be increased as well by diminishing the denominator -as by increasing the numerator. To give up pretensions is as blessed a -relief as to get them 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 lightness 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 experto_ (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. - -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 pleadings 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 of 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. Afterwards 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 unsympathetic characters. It proceeds altogether -by exclusion. If I am a Stoic, the goods I cannot appropriate cease to -be _my_ 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 -outline 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 person -of mine, and treat me like a dog, _I_ shall not negate _them_ so long as -I have a soul in my body. They are realities 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 Hohenzollerns -themselves. Thus either by negating or by embracing, the Ego may seek to -establish itself in reality. He who, with Marcus Aurelius, can truly -say, "O Universe, I wish all that thou wishest," has a self from which -every trace of negativeness and obstructiveness has been removed--no -wind can blow except to fill its sails. - -=The Hierarchy of the Mes.=--A tolerably unanimous opinion ranges the -different selves of which a man may be '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-corporeal material selves and the various social selves -between_. Our merely natural self-seeking would lead us to aggrandize -all these selves; we give up deliberately only those among them which we -find we cannot keep. Our unselfishness 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, -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 subordination. 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 -accelerate 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 according 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 individual. 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 human ties, 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 remote 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,' -homœopath, or what not, I am 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 permanent 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 praying. 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 manner 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 highest; and most men, either -continually or occasionally, carry a reference to it in their breast. -The humblest outcast 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 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 spectator. 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 willingness, and set more store by them thus -than if in His unfathomable scheme He had not damned them at all. - -=Teleological Uses of Self-interest.=--On zoölogical principles it is easy -to see why we have been endowed with impulses of self-seeking and with -emotions of self-satisfaction 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 existence; for, by an inscrutable -necessity, each human mind's appearance on this earth is conditioned -upon the integrity of the body with which it belongs, upon the -treatment which that body gets from others, and upon the spiritual -dispositions 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 dispositions_, 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. This 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 zoölogical 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. 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 -fascinated, and as primitively so, by the care of my neighbor's body as -by the care of my own. I _am_ thus fascinated 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 -individual or to his tribe. Many such interests, however, remain -unweeded out--the interest in the opposite sex, for example, 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 coördinate. 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 summary of what has been -said thus far. The empirical life of Self is divided, as below, into - - | MATERIAL. | SOCIAL. | SPIRITUAL. ------------+-------------------+-----------------------+--------------------- - |Bodily Appetites |Desire to Please, |Intellectual, Moral - | and Instincts. | be Noticed, Admired, | and Religious -SELF- |Love of Adornment, | etc. | Aspirations, -SEEKING. | Foppery, |Sociability, Emulation,| Conscientiousness. - | Acquisitiveness, | Envy, | - | Constructiveness.| Love, Pursuit | - |Love of Home, etc. | of Honor, Ambition, | - | | etc. | ------------+-------------------+-----------------------+--------------------- - |Personal Vanity, |Social and Family |Sense of Moral or -SELF- | Modesty, etc. | Pride, Vainglory, | Mental Superiority, -ESTIMATION.|Pride of Wealth, | Snobbery, | Purity, etc. - | Fear of Poverty. | Humility, |Sense of Inferiority - | | Shame, etc. | or of Guilt. ------------+-------------------+-----------------------+--------------------- - - -B) THE SELF AS KNOWER. - -The I, or 'pure ego,' is a very much more difficult subject 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 the _Thinker_; and the question immediately comes -up, _what_ is the thinker? Is it the passing state of consciousness -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 'I,' 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 '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 Fechner'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 support. Suppose, for example, -he thinks that "the pack of cards is on the table." If he begins to -reflect, he is as 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 assemblage or pack of ideas, -each answering to some element of what it knows?" - -Plausible as such considerations may seem, it is astonishing 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 relation 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 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 external to the sum itself. When H_{2} -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 combined _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 'forces' do not combine _themselves_ -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 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 _belonging 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 identity with the new feeling, nor it with -them; and one could never deduce the one from the others, or (in any -intelligible 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 associationists say the mind is -constituted by a multiplicity of distinct '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_ + idea of _b_ is _not_ identical 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 can never by any logic be made to figure as one -idea. If one idea (of _a_ + _b_, for example) come as a matter 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 thing, therefore, if we are to assume the existence of a -stream of consciousness at all, would be to suppose that things that are -known together are known in 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 something, they say, is no mere passing thought, -but a simple and permanent spiritual being on which many ideas combine -their effects. It makes no difference in this connection 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 admitting 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 knowing 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 conception, and has to figure in -psychology as a datum that is ultimate. - -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 completely 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 judgment -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 sameness 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 relations 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 _continuous_: -the alterations were gradual and never affected the whole of me at once. -So far, then, my personal identity is just like the sameness predicated -of any other aggregate thing. It is a conclusion grounded either on the -resemblance 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 continuity: it gives to the self the unity of mere connectedness, 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 concrete person. Suppose, however, that we take it -narrowly, as the _Thinker_, as '_that to which_' all the concrete -determinations 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 spiritual 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 -consciousnesses have no _substantial_ identity, for when one is here the -other is irrevocably dead and gone. But they have a _functional_ -identity, for both 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, numerically 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 psychology 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 substantial 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 fulfils this condition will be thought with -such warmth and intimacy. But which distant 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 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 whatever 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-appearing 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 predecessor, and finding it 'warm,' in the way -we have described, 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 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 possessor 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 _representative_ 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 succession an 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 possession 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 _I_ 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. - -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 incident 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 false memory is the accounts -we give to others of our experiences. 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 memory follows the story. - -_b._ When we pass beyond alterations of memory to abnormal _alterations -in the present self_ we have graver disturbances. 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: - - α. Insane delusions; - β. Alternating selves; - γ. Mediumships or possessions. - -α. 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 irreconcilable 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 conceive. 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 dæmons who speak with them -and are replied to. Another feels that someone '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, brain, 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 insanity 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 suddenly 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 pronounced. Objects grew small and -receded to infinite distances--men and things together. I was myself -immeasurably far away. I looked about me with terror and astonishment; -_the world was escaping from me_.... I 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 resistance; -but this resistance seemed illusory--not that the 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 newcomer. 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 functions."[32] - -In cases like this, it is as certain that the _I_ 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 egoistic appropriation, -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. - - * * * * * - -β. 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 produce 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 Félida -X., reported by Dr. Azam of Bordeaux. At the age of fourteen this woman -began to pass into a 'secondary' state characterized by a change in her -general disposition and character, as if certain 'inhibitions,' -previously existing, were suddenly removed. 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 became 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: -"Léonie B., whose life sounds more like an improbable 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. -To-day, when in her normal state, this poor peasant woman is a serious -and rather sad person, calm and slow, very mild with every one, 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 -metamorphosis 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, restless, 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 -Léonie and takes that of Léontine (Léonie 2) to which her first -magnetizers had accustomed her. 'That good woman is not myself,' she -says, 'she is too stupid!' To herself, Léontine, or Léonie 2, she -attributes all the sensations and all the 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 -Léonie 1 [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 Léonie has a husband and children; -but Léonie 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 magnetizers 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. Léonie 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 -Léonie 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 Léonie 1. 'A good but rather -stupid woman,' she says, 'and not me.' And she also separates herself -from Léonie 2: 'How can you see anything of me in that crazy creature?' -she says. 'Fortunately I am nothing for her.'" - - * * * * * - -λ. In '_mediumships_' 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 secondary state is well developed, no memory for aught that -happened during it remains after the primary consciousness comes back. -The subject during the secondary consciousness 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 personage. Usually he purports to be the spirit of -a dead person 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 persons who have no other obvious nervous anomaly. The phenomena are -very intricate, and are only just beginning 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, playing on musical instruments, etc., also -belong to the relatively lower phases of possession, in which the normal -self is not excluded from conscious participation in the performance, -though their initiative seems to come from elsewhere. 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 personage ('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 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 inspiration 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 suggestion. The subject assumes the rôle of a -medium simply because opinion expects it of him under the conditions -which are present; and carries it out with a feebleness or a vivacity -proportionate to his histrionic gifts. But the odd thing is that persons -unexposed to spiritualist 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 'control' -may be altogether 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 _soidisant_ 'scientist' usually refuses to explore.[33] - -=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 _I_ which knows them cannot itself be an -aggregate; neither for psychological purposes need it be an unchanging -metaphysical entity like the Soul, or a principle like the -transcendental 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 hypothesis 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 correlative 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 _primâ facie_ on a par with our -own 'psychological' solution, and discussed impartially. I myself -believe that 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. 1) 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 besieged 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 -consciousness,' 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 -processes get 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 consolidated and unified affair, -determinable now by this current and now by that, but determinable only -as a whole. The ideas correlative to the reigning system of processes -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 consolidation 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: getting up, dressing -ourselves, answering the person who has spoken to us, trying to make the -next step in our reasoning. But somehow we cannot _start_; the _pensée -de derrière la tête_ 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 attention. Between this -extreme and the extreme of concentrated 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 =The Span of -Consciousness.=--How many objects can we attend to at once when they are -not embraced in one conceptual system? Prof. Cattell experimented with -combinations 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 distinct." - -A word is a conceptual system in which the letters do not enter -consciousness separately, as they do when apprehended 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 consciousnesses 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 conception which embraces -them together it is much harder to apprehend 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 operations -of the same sort, two multiplications, two recitations, 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 disconnected systems or processes can -go on simultaneously, the answer is, _not easily more than one, unless -the processes are 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 Cæsar 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 - -_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; derived, when it owes its -interest to association with some other immediately interesting thing. -What I call derived attention has been named 'apperceptive' attention. -Furthermore, Attention may be either - -_e_) Passive, reflex, involuntary, effortless; or - -_f_) 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 sensorial 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 interests, 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 impressions and decide whether -they are worthy of notice or not, and the consequence is that extreme -mobility of the attention with which we are all familiar in children, -and which 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 character of the attention which, as a French writer -says, makes the child seem to belong less to himself than to every -object 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 instinctively 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 discriminated 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 offence 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 attention 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 pronounce 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, -instruction 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 than 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 associated with something which makes them dear. The -brain-currents may then form so solidly unified a system, 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 determined 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, making him wonder how he could -have ever ceased to feel it."[34] - -=Voluntary Attention.=--Dr. Carpenter speaks of launching himself by a -determined _effort_. This _effort_ characterizes 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 exciting 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 -few 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 passively for -a time. Dr. Carpenter, a moment back, described the stream of thought, -once entered, as 'bearing him along.' 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 incessently renewed effort that the most -resolute Will ere long gives out and lets its thoughts follow the more -stimulating 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 passion 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 -heydey of the pride of life. Nature rises at such suggestions, and -excludes 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 noonday lesson in formal -logic which he detests. Anything but _that_! - -[Illustration: FIG. 54.] - -Once more, the object must change. When it is one of sight, it will -actually become invisible; when of hearing, inaudible,--if we attend to -it too unmovingly. Helmholtz, who has put his sensorial attention to the -severest tests, by using his eyes on objects which in common life are -expressly 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 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. 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 attainable. 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. _If 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 impressions are attracting us away." - -These words of Helmholtz are of fundamental importance. And if true of -sensorial attention, how much more true are they of the intellectual -variety! The _conditio sine quâ 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 monotonously 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 possibilities 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 attentive, 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 which it is -successively 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 attention 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 preëxisting in his mind. - -=The Physiological Conditions of Attention.=--These seem to be the -following: - -1) _The appropriate cortical centre must be excited ideationally 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 cortical centre -must ensue._ - -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 verifiable; 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 interfere with the result--we close the eyes in -tasting, suspend the respiration 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 _immediately_ 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 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 backwards." - -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 'catching our -eye'--that is, fatally provoking such movements of rotation and -accommodation as will focus its image 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 before 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 perceived 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 nevertheless, 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 impression -only from such parts of the picture as lie in this region. In this -respect, then, our attention is quite independent of the position and -accommodation of the eyes, 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."[35] - -=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' -or 'disperse' the latter upon a thing for which we remain unwilling to -'adjust'? This leads us to that second feature in the 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 portrayed._ 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 attention 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 attention 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. - -In reaction-time experiments, keeping our mind intent upon the motion -about to be made shortens the time. This shortening we ascribed in Chap. -VIII to the fact that the signal when it comes finds the motor-centre -already charged almost to the explosion-point in advance. Expectant -attention to a reaction thus goes with sub-excitement 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 preliminary 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 overtone, for -example _g´_ of the sound _c_, against your ear, and then make the note -_c_ sound, you will hear _g´_ much strengthened by the resonator.... -This strengthening by the resonator 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 attention, 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 fugitive 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 completes it; and so at last we -attain to a clearer perception. The primary motive to this inward -activity proceeds usually from the outer impression itself. We hear a -sound in which, from certain associations, we suspect a certain -overtone; 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 impression awakens the memory-image, -which again more or less completely melts with the impression itself.... -Different qualities of impression require disparate adaptations. 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 symbolic 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 imagined, 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 illumination 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 connection 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 duplicate of it which our imagination now bears. In the -meaningless French words '_pas de lieu Rhône 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 fugitive his pursuers. -Every bonnet in the street is momentarily 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. - -[Illustration: FIG. 55.] - -[Illustration: FIG. 56.] - -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 aspects to single out, -and what effects to admire, before our æsthetic nature can 'dilate' to -its full extent and never '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; thereafter, 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 care 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 -nothing 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 preperceptions. 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 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 voluntarily adopting a similar course. - -=Attention and Free Will.=--I have spoken as if our attention were wholly -determined by neural conditions. I believe that the array of _things_ we -can attend to is so determined. 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 indeterminate -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 considerations 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 -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 '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 discourse 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 rationis_, like difference or -nonentity. But whatever we do conceive, our conception is of that and -nothing else--nothing 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. Confusion 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 -conception 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' does not change into my -_conception_ 'black.' On the contrary, 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 '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 Problematic Objects.=--The -sense of our meaning is an entirely peculiar element of the thought. It -is one of those evanescent and 'transitive' facts of mind which -introspection cannot turn round upon, and isolate and hold up for -examination, as an entomologist passes round an insect on a pin. 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 perfectly aware that I mean by man to exclude Napoleon -Bonaparte or Smith. But when I say: "What a wonderful thing Man is!" I -am equally well aware that I mean no such exclusion. This added -consciousness is an absolutely positive sort of feeling, transforming -what would otherwise be mere noise or vision into something -_understood_; 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 problematic is defined by its -relations only. We think of a thing _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 cannot _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 _quæsitum_ 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. -'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 different -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 -universals, 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 -character 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 understand, seeing that the more adorable -knowledge ought to be that of the more adorable things, and that the -_things_ 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, probably 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 necessary to add this, after what was -said on p. 156. Thus, my arm-chair is one of the things of which I have -a conception; 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 consequence. 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 nevertheless 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 synthetic and in -analytic terms. Our original sensible totals are, on the one hand, -subdivided by discriminative attention, 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 '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 products 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 spontaneously lapse into the -undiscriminating state, even with regard to objects which we have -already learned to distinguish. Such anæsthetics 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 simultaneously -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 words, and physiologically speaking, they must awaken -neural processes which are _distinct_. But this, as we have just seen, -though an indispensable 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 less, discrimination may require considerable effort of -attention to be performed at all. - -Secondly, _the sensations excited by the differing objects must not fall -simultaneously, but must fall 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 comparing -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 sensation 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 relation, 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 memory_, 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 sensations 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 discrimination. - -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 on 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 neighboring 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 difficulty perceived. But in addition to being felt at the -brief instant of transition, the difference also feels as if -incorporated 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 _n_, 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-from-m_.' The first and third states of mind are -substantive, the second transitive. As our brains and minds are actually -made, it is impossible 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 mechanism which we as yet -fail to understand, the shock of difference is felt between them, and -the second object is not _n_ pure, but _n-as-different-from-m_. The pure -idea of _n_ is _never in the mind at all_ when _m_ has gone before. - -=Differences inferred.=--With such direct perceptions of difference as -this, we must not confound those entirely unlike 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-occurring 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 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 feelings are multiple, and therefore we frame theories -about the composition of the feelings themselves, by 'fusion,' -'integration,' 'synthesis,' or what not. But by direct introspection 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, _abcd_, we get a peculiar integral impression, 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. - -_If 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, distinct or vague, in our mind, disconnected -with _bcd, 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 separate 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-impression._ 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 -assafœdita in 'Worcestershire sauce' is not obvious to anyone who has -not tasted assafœtida _per se_. In a 'cold' color an artist would -never be able to analyze out the pervasive 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, provided= =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 phenomenon _abcd_ is that its _strength_ relatively to _bcd_ -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 -approximately--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 from either, and to grow into an object of abstract -contemplation 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 coexist. 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 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 distinguishing, makes one's wits amazingly -sharp to detect differences. And long training and practice in -distinguishing 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 circumstances, 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-playing, 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 even -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 nothing more about the matter here. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - -ASSOCIATION. - - -=The Order of our Ideas.=--After discrimination, association! It is -obvious that all advance in knowledge must consist of both operations; -for in the course of our education, 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 alternating 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 indispensable for any orderly advance. - -The manner in which trains of imagery and consideration 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 furthermore challenged the race of -philosophers to banish something 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, _principles of connection_ -whereby their peculiar succession or coexistence may be explained. - -But immediately an ambiguity arises: which sort of connection is meant? -connection _thought-of_, 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 connection may be -thought of--of coexistence, succession, resemblance, 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 understanding. According as we followed one category or another -we should sweep, from any object with our thought, in this way or in -that, to others. Were _this_ the sort of connection sought between one -moment of our thinking and another, our chapter might end here. For the -only summary 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 -straining 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 attention 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 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 furniture 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 mechanical conditions on -which thought depends, and which_, to say the least, _determine the -order in which, the objects for her comparisons and selections are -presented_. It is a suggestive 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 sufficient 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 confusion 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, -determine 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 -product of association by contiguity or of association by similarity, 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 quantitative variation in the elementary -brain-processes momentarily 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 coöperate 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 conjunction 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 _tension_ in -nerve-tissue, and on the fact of summation of excitements, 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 complicated 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 -follows _the ages_ has its brain-process awakened not simply by 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_, indifferently 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 '_I, -the heir of all the ages_,' simultaneously 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 take. '_In_' and not '_one_' or any other word will -be the next to awaken, for its brain-process has previously 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 disjoined -in experience from the poem of 'Locksley Hall'--if the reciter, for -instance, were tremulously 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 interrupted 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 alphabetical order in a lecture-room. He -finally learns to call them by name, as they sit in their accustomed -places. On meeting one in the street, however, early in the year, the -face hardly ever recalls the name, but it may recall the place of 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. Holding 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 before the word 'vertical' could be reawakened. - -=Total Recall.=--The ideal working of the law of compound association, as -Prof. Bain calls it, were it unmodified 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 -instance, be the elementary nerve-tracts excited by the last act of the -dinner-party, call this act _A_, and _l_, _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 _l_ through the paths by which their -original discharge took place. Similarly they will discharge into _m_, -_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 summation of -discharges into each of the components of _B_, and the consequent -strength of the combination of influences by which _B_ in its totality -is awakened. - -[Illustration: FIG. 57.] - -Hamilton first used the word 'redintegration' to designate all -association. Such processes as we have just described might in an -emphatic sense be termed redintegrations, 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 -redintegration 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 elementary brain-tracts to -discharge independently into an aberrant quarter of the brain. Such was -the tendency of the 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. - -Let us call this process _impartial redintegration_, or, still better, -_total recall_. Whether it ever occurs in an absolutely 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 instances. - -Perhaps as successful a rendering as any of this mental type is the -character of Miss Bates in Miss Austen's 'Emma.' Hear how she -redintegrates: - -"'But where could _you_ hear it?' cried Miss Bates. '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 follow the law of total -recall. _In no revival of a past experience 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 -suggestions 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 associates 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 partiality 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 concomitants in arousing -action elsewhere_. - -"Two processes," says Mr. Hodgson, "are constantly going on in -redintegration. The one a process of corrosion, melting, decay; the -other a process of renewing, arising, becoming.... No object of -representation remains 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 tendency 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 æsthetic nature, are kept for ever -rotating among the literal sequences of their local and personal -history. - -Most of us, however, are better organized than this, and our musings -pursue an erratic course, swerving continually 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 diameter 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 beautiful tone, it had become -discordant and aroused disappointment. 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 contiguity 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 ordinary, or mixed, association_, or, if we like better, -_partial 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 features 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 combinations 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 ornithologist, will think of a bird; if a -physiologist or a medical specialist in throat-diseases, he will think -of deglutition. If I say _date_, he will, if a fruit-merchant or an -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 concerning him. If Shakespeare's plays are -mentioned, and we were last night reading 'Richard II.,' vestiges of -that play rather than of 'Hamlet' or 'Othello' float through our mind. -Excitement of peculiar tracts, or peculiar modes of general excitement -in 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 repose. Hence, _recency_ in -experience is a prime factor in determining revival in thought.[36] - -_Vividness_ in an original experience may also have the same effect as -habit or recency in bringing about likelihood of revival. If we have -once witnessed an execution, any subsequent conversation or reading -about capital punishment will almost certainly suggest images of that -particular 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 melancholy. 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, poverty, perishing, and dread -afflict unremittingly the imaginations of melancholiacs. And those of -sanguine temperament, 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 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 -consciousness 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 another 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 perfect 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 interesting? 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 the interesting portion of the -disappearing thought to be of considerable extent, and to be -sufficiently complex to constitute 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 moreover 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 fashion 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 similarity_.' - -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,' attributes, 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 requires 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 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 respect 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 property, 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 railroads, 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 integument, 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 -persisting, 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. - -[Illustration: FIG. 58.] - -The gradual passage from total to focalized, through what we have called -ordinary partial, recall may be symbolized by diagrams. Fig. 58 is -total, Fig. 59 is partial, and Fig. 60 focalized, recall. _A_ in each is -the passing, _B_ the coming, thought. In 'total recall,' all parts of -_A_ are equally operative in calling up _B_. In 'partial recall,' most -parts of _A_ are inert. The part _M_ alone breaks out and awakens _B_. -In similar association or 'focalized recall,' the part _M_ is much -smaller than in the previous case, 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 -making these, _pro tanto_, resemble each other.[37] - -[Illustration: FIG. 59.] - -[Illustration: 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. 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 assumed 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 purpose or conscious interest; and the course -of our ideas is then called _voluntary_. - -Physiologically considered, we must suppose that a purpose 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. 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 _b_'s -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 theoretic as well as in the practical life there -are interests of a more acute sort, taking the form of definite images -of some achievement which we desire to effect. The train of ideas -arising under the influence 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 something 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 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 racking 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 irradiate _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 following, 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 experience. 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 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 _à propos_ of a certain -anecdote, and then that it had something to do with a French quotation. -Now all these added associates _arise independently of the will_, by the -spontaneous processes we know so well. _All that the will does is to -emphasize and linger over those which seem pertinent, and ignore 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 itching, so to speak, -bursts into the fulness of vivid feeling, the mind finds an -inexpressible relief. - -[Illustration: FIG. 61.] - -The whole process can be rudely symbolized in a diagram. 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 -_l_, _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 _l_, _m_, and _n_, -and as _all_ these processes are somehow connected with _Z_, their -combined irradiations upon _Z_, represented by the centripetal 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 symbolized by _l_, -_m_, _n_. These latter at last accumulate sufficiently to discharge all -together 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 -original sub-excitement in _Z_, coöperating 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, at last, -our _quæsitum_, is due to our recognition that its relations 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 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 associate 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 -investigator 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 associated 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 Experimental 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 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 elements 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 carrying 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, coördinate -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 anything, 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 is operative in calling up the thought which comes_. But the -_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 differing conditions are, it seems impossible to guess. -Whatever 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. Probably 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 anything _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 probabilities. Granting such -instability as the brain-tissue requires, 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 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 _effects 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 anywhere, make its stand in dealing with association. -Everything else is pretty certainly due to cerebral laws. My own opinion -on the question of active attention and spiritual 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 determining 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 où je parle est déjà loin de moi," - -and it is only as entering into the living and moving organization 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 -philosophic 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 immediate 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 composition 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 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 symbolic. To realize even an hour, we must count 'now! now! -now! now!' indefinitely. Each 'now' is the feeling 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 followed 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. - -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 extension, 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 sufficient 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 '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 the fact that our successive acts of -_recognition_ or _apperception_ of _what_ it is are discrete. The -sensation is as continuous as any sensation can be. All continuous -sensations are _named_ in beats. We notice that a certain finite 'more' -of them is passing or already past. To adopt Hodgson's image, the -sensation is the measuring-tape, the perception the dividing-engine -which stamps its length. As we listen to a steady sound, we _take it in_ -in discrete pulses of recognition, 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_ therein, 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-_intuition_ -in these cases at all. It is but dates and events representing time, -their abundance symbolizing its length. I am sure that this is so, even -where the times compared are no 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 more memories than a day. The -length in retrospect depends 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 multitude 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. _Tædium_, _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 fails to come, -we get an empty time instead of it; and such experiences, 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 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 _stimulation_ is the indispensable requisite -for pleasure in an experience, 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 reflecting 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 succession_, lies as broad a chasm as between the -object and subject 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 distinct _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 consciousness is -tied. _This feature of the brain-process, whatever 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 -dawning into its forward end as fast as they fade out of its rearward -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 waterfall, 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 reproduction 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 specious -present as a thing immediately past. A creature 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 knowledge 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 so _in sæcula sæculorum_. But does the present -clock-stroke become aware of the past ones, or the present stream -recollect the past stream, because they repeat 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 own skin. Yesterday's feeling is dead and buried; and -the presence of to-day's is no reason why it should resuscitate 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 chapter 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 characterize its date, to think it, in short, -with a lot of contiguous 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' 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 defined by its name or -phenomenal contents, an event imagined as located therein, and owned as -part of my experience,--such are the elements of every object of -memory. - -=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 translating his word -'idea' into 'thing thought of,' or 'object.' - -"There is," he says, "a state of mind familiar to all men, in which we -are said to remember. In this state it is certain 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 matters which we desire -not to forget. What is the contrivance to which we have recourse for -preserving the memory--that is, for making sure that it will be called -into existence when it is our wish that it should? All men invariably -employ the same expedient. They endeavor to form an association between -the idea of the thing to be remembered 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 commission 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 _neighborhood_ of that which we 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 _liability_ to recall, and it means -nothing more than such liability. The only proof of there being -retention is that recall actually takes place. The retention of an -experience is, in short, but another name for the _possibility_ of -thinking 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 associates, the sense that the self was there, the -belief that it all really happened, etc., as previously described. When -the recollection is of the 'ready' sort, the resuscitation takes place -the instant the cue arises; when it is slow, resuscitation 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 -experience 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._ - -[Illustration: FIG. 62.] - -=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 intimacy, etc., etc., as already set forth), -and _m_ some present thought or fact which may appropriately 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_ 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 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 excitement of the paths in -question; the mental side is the conscious representation of the past -occurrence, and the belief that we experienced it before. - -The only hypothesis, in short, to which the facts of inward 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 -definite, 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, wondering 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 suddenly 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 remembered fact being _n_, -then, the path N--O 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_. - -The persistence or permanence of the paths is a physiological 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 -retentiveness. 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 disconnected 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 unusual 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 -physiological 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 -last many, many years. In extreme old age it is upset in the reverse -direction, and forgetting prevails over acquisition, or rather there is -no acquisition. Brain-paths are so transient that in the course of a few -minutes of conversation 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 memory' 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 relations 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 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 outsiders, 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 erudition 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 encyclopædic as his erudition may coexist 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 memory 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 associations with other things in the mind. Their -brain-processes 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 external 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 themselves 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 -_retentiveness_. 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 profitable 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, 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 '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 -preëxisting 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 distinguish 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 -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 therewithal. - -=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 remembered. 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, under 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 multitudinous as to be entirely unrememberable in a natural -way. 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.[38] -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 -consciousness is obvious from what happens when we seek to remember a -name. It tingles, it trembles on the verge, but does not come. Just such -a tingling and trembling of unrecovered 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 completeness has been experienced -before--we were saying just this thing, in just this place, to just -these people, etc. This 'sense of preëxistence' 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 indistinct 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 general 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, forgetting is as -important a function as remembering. 'Total recall' (see p. 261) we saw -to be comparatively rare in association. 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 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 '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 anæsthetic 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 -anæsthetic 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 anæsthesia returned they found it impossible to -recollect the objects or the acts. 'They had had nothing 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 organism, -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 imagination 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 recollection. 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 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." 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. Galton in 1880 began a statistical inquiry which may be said to have -made an era in descriptive psychology. 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 -insignificant persons. - -The reader will find details in Mr. Galton'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) -corroboration 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; it is dim if I -try to think of it when my eyes 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: - - _Étant fait_.... - _Tous_.... - _A des_.... - _Que fit_.... - _Céres_.... - _Avec_.... - _Un fleur_.... - _Comme_.... - - (La Fontaine 8. iv.)" - -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 remember 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 -breakfast-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 -'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 practical 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 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_ revivable, 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 visualizing -power, as Mr. Galton found to be the case with members 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 Legouvé 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 êtes le théâtre même_, your actors walk, gesticulate before -your eyes; I am a _listener_, you a _spectator_.'--'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 the pure visualizer, -perform astounding feats of memory--Mozart, for example, noting from -memory the _Miserere_ of the Sistine Chapel after two hearings; the deaf -Beethoven, composing and inwardly repeating his enormous symphonies. On -the other hand, the man of auditory 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 Stricker 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 -accompanied invariably by distinct muscular feelings in those parts of -his body which would naturally be used in effecting 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 suppresses this sympathetic feeling in his own legs and concentrates -all his attention on the imagined soldier, the latter becomes, as it -were, paralyzed. In general his imagined 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 phenomena 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 Stricker: 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 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 experiment 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 imagination is weak, the articulatory -image does indeed seem to constitute the whole material for verbal -thought. Professor Stricker 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 people. 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 sensation--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 Bridgman must be -confined entirely to tactile and motor material. _All blind persons must -belong to the 'tactile' and '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 individuals differ in the use of their -imagination. In some the habitual '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 "indifferents" 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 -accomplished 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 answered, '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 face 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 childhood'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 passage. He can recall -only the first few verses of the Iliad, 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 inconvenience 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 imagination 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 sensation 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, without -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 -from the periphery and not by currents from the neighboring cortical -parts. We can see, in short, why _the sensational process_ OUGHT TO _be -discontinuous with all normal ideational processes, however intense_. -For, as Dr. Münsterberg 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 hearing, 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. Féré, -Professor Scott of Ann Arbor, and Mr. T. C. Smith, one of my 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 sensation 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 hemispheres 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 -consciousness 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 of distinction -between the barer and the richer consciousness, because the moment 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 -association. In the directer consciousness fewer, in the remoter more, -associative 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 thing. In a general 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 manifestations. -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-picture 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 of what I mentally _perceive_ (more or less) in its totality and -undistorted shape. The back of the table, its square corners, its size, -its heaviness, 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 presently 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 involves a '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 -ideational currents, but in no wise 'containing' psychically the -identical 'sensations' and images which these currents would severally -have aroused if the others were not simultaneously 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 Rhône que nous_: one -may read this over and over again without recognizing 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 sensation. -Then, usually, their interpretation suddenly occurs. But at that moment -one may often surprise a change in the very _feel_ 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 -inflections 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 isolated 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 his -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 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 landscape with our head -upside-down. Perception is to a certain extent baffled by this -manœuvre; gradations of distance 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 become aware of -any lack of purely sensible harmony or balance 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 disturbed by the unaccustomed point of view) -we get it as a naked sensation and not as part of a familiar object -perceived. - -Once more, then, we find ourselves driven to admit that when qualities -of an object impress our sense and we thereupon perceive the object, the -pure sensation as such of those qualities does not still exist inside of -the perception and form a constituent thereof. 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. - -=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 certain 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 associated with more than one reality_, so -that either of two discrepant sets of residual properties may arise, the -perception 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 and 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-processes 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 mistakes as to read 'supper-time' instead of 'sovereign,' -'overthrow' instead of 'opposite,' or indeed utter entirely imaginary -phrases, composed of several definite words, instead 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 he becomes quite inarticulate. These facts show how -subtle is the associative link; how delicate yet how strong that -connection among brain-paths which makes any number of them, once -excited together, thereafter tend to vibrate as a systematic whole. A -small group of elements, '_this_,' common to two systems, _A_ and _B_, -may touch off _A_ or _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 advantage will upset the equilibrium in favor -of the entire system _B_. The currents will sweep first through that -point and thence into all the paths of _B_, each increment of advance -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 -perception of definite things if only they resemble those which the -things are wont to arouse._ - -[Illustration: FIG. 63.] - -=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, '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. - -Note that in every illusion what is false is what is inferred, not what -is immediately given. The 'this,' if it were felt by itself alone, would -be all right; it only becomes 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._[39] - -So much premised, let us look a little closer at these illusions. They -are due to two main causes. _The wrong object is perceived either -because_ - -1) _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. - -[Illustration: FIG. 64.] - -=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 the clearest analysis of this illusion. He observes that if the -object be brought into 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 contacts as double because we refer them to two -distinct parts of space." The touched sides of the two fingers are -normally 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 objects 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 fashion 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 pasteboard mask, look convex, instead -of concave as they are. - -=Curious illusions of movement= in objects occur whenever the eyeballs -move without our intending it. We have learned in an earlier chapter -(p. 72) that the original visual feeling of movement is produced by any -image passing 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 -objects appear to continue whirling in the same direction in which, a -moment previous, our body actually whirled. The reason is that our -_eyes_ are animated, under these conditions, 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 alongside 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 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 Helmholtz. 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 -extraordinarily 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 backwards 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 accommodation, 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 immediately supplies by inference the other qualities of a woodcock, -and is afterwards disgusted to find that he has shot a thrush. I have -done so myself, and could hardly believe that the thrush was the bird I -fired at, so complete was my mental supplement to my visual -perception."[40] - -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 sensation to mean that object's presence. The boy -playing 'I spy,' the criminal skulking from his pursuers, the -superstitious 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 make 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 I 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 possibly 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 -perceive 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 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 instruction 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."[41] - -_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 séances' 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 'séances' 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 certain subjects this happens -more or less completely after waking from the trance. It would seem that -under favorable conditions a somewhat similar susceptibility to -suggestion 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. Everyone 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 suddenly 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 -hall, but it had already ceased once more. On returning a second time to -the room, I discovered that it was nothing 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 impressions 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 'thing' which we perceive always resembles, 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 incessant 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 sensations are -originally and natively of no particular form at all. - -Of accidental and occasional illusions of sight many amusing examples -might be given. Two will suffice. One 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-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 psychology 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, because it has carried very different meanings in the -history of philosophy, and 'psychic reaction,' 'interpretation,' -'conception,' 'assimilation,' 'elaboration,' or simply 'thought,' are -perfect synonyms for its Herbartian meaning, 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 variations and degrees are literally innumerable. 'Apperception' -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 'assimilation' 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 produced. But as Steinthal 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 transforms 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 apperceiving 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 maintain that, although either factor is both active -and passive, the _a priori_ factor is almost always the more active of -the two."[42] - -=Genius and Old-fogyism.=--This account of Steinthal's brings out very -clearly the _difference between our psychological 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 tendency to keep unchanged, and the -tendency to renovate, its ideas. Our education is a ceaseless compromise -between 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 called the -first whole eggs he saw '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 conceptions 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 violate -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 vanished 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.[43] The Fuegians, in 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 _pen_-drawing of equal perfection, our -personal sympathy with the difficulty of the task makes us immediately -wonder at the skill. The old lady admiring the Academician's picture -says 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-impressions, and that our hemispheres, -in particular, are given us that records of our past private experience -may coöperate in the reaction. Of course such a general statement is -vague. 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 the current entering -from the outer world. What corresponds to this mentally is a certain -special pulse of thought, the thought, namely, of that most probable -object. Farther than this in the analysis we can hardly go. - -=Hallucinations.=--Between normal perception and illusion we have seen -that there is no break, the _process_ being identically the same in -both. The last illusions we considered 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 perceptive process, in which the secondary cerebral -reaction is out of all normal proportion to the peripheral stimulus -which occasions the activity. Hallucinations usually appear 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 complete, it is much -more than a mental image. _An hallucination, 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 designated 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 activity in -producing them is lacking. Dr. Kandinsky had a patient who, after taking -opium or haschisch, had abundant pseudo-hallucinations and -hallucinations. As he also had strong visualizing power and was an -educated physician, the three sorts of phenomena could be easily -compared. 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-hallucinations. They are described as '_inner_' voices, although -their character is entirely unlike the inner speech of the subject 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 latter 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 distress 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 relationship. 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 then have expressed it. The -surprise cooled me, and the discussion was dropped. - -"Some minutes after, having occasion to speak to my brother, I turned -towards him, but he was gone. I inquired when he left the room, and 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 photograph 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 eyeball; 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 repère_ 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 -repère_ is used in an enormous number, not only of hypnotic -hallucinations, but of hallucinations of the insane. These latter are -often _unilateral_; that is, the patient hears the voices always on one -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 hallucination and illusion to one -physiological type_, the type, namely, to which normal perception -belongs. In every case, according 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. 310), and to give to the object -perceived the character of _externality_. What the _nature_ of the -object shall be will depend wholly on the particular system of paths in -which the process 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 disappear when the eyes are -closed. For Binet, an abnormally 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 the only -sort that M. Binet's theory allows. _It seems probable on the whole, -therefore, that centrally initiated hallucinations 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 continued by other members of the Society for -Psychical Research; 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 -comparative study can give really instructive results.[44] - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - -THE PERCEPTION OF SPACE. - - -As adult thinkers we have a definite and apparently instantaneous -knowledge of the sizes, shapes, and distances 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, headache, are -examples of this, and certainly not less spatial is the consciousness we -have of our general bodily condition 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 appeared very -large." Loud sounds have a certain enormousness 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 organ that yields it._ The ear and eye are -comparatively minute organs, yet they give us feelings 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. - -[Illustration: FIG. 65 (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, _discernible 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 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. Potentially, 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 -actually the further spaces are unfelt, and the subdivisions are -undiscriminated, by the babe; the chief part of whose education 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 _construction 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 _must have -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 conceived 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 XIV. 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 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 definite 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 clears is held to be the same with the place at which the -others appear._ This is the first and great '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 -figures, 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 associated 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 -sensation 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 having a fringe of _other things possible to be -seen_ spreading in all directions round about it. Meanwhile the -movements concomitantly with which the various fields alternate 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 of -their mere extents, of which extents the various movements remain as the -only constant introducers and associates. More and more, therefore, do -we think of movement 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 movement_, we may, if we are -psychologists, readily but erroneously assign to the 'muscular sense' -the chief rôle in perceiving extensiveness at all. - -4) =The Serial Order of Locations.=--The muscular sense _has_ much to do -with defining 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 successively 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 eyeball 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 impressions 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 of arrangement -to the successive objects between which they intervene. Similarly with -sounds and smells. With our heads in a certain position, 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 semicircular-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 possibly there. I say 'collateral' things, for I -prefer not to complicate the account just yet with any special -consideration of the 'third dimension,' distance, or depth, as it has -been called. - -3) =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 sensory surface -with that felt by another is superposition--superposition of one surface -upon another, and superposition 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. - -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 sensations 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, although 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 having its size determined by -them. - -But even though exploration of one surface by another were impossible, -_we could always measure our various surfaces 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 the eye, the sensation excited by its image -even on the same retinal region becomes so fluctuating that we end by -ascribing no absolute import whatever to the retinal space-feeling which -at any moment we may receive. So complete does this overlooking 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 -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--illustrate this most strikingly. The hardest part -of the training 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 he 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 determined by æsthetic 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 suggesting 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 'distortions.' 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 -foreshortened; 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 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 derivative of almost any -other in 'primary' vision; and we must learn, when we get one of the -former appearances, to translate 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 by abandoning the former for the -latter that we do when we abandon mental images, with all their -fluctuating characters, for the definite and 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 -suggestive 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 _associated 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 considered not to be an -optical object at all, but an object of _touch_, of which we have -optical signs of various sorts, such as the image's apparent magnitude, -its 'faintness' or 'confusion,' and the 'strain' of accommodation and -convergence. 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 feeling uniformly correspond. It is awakened -by all the optical signs which Berkeley mentioned, and by more besides, -such as Wheatstone's binocular disparity, and by the parallax which -follows on slightly moving the head. When awakened, however, it seems -optical, and not heterogeneous 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 experiences 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 physiological cause of his perception of depth in -various degrees, they would establish a scale of equivalency between the -first two and the third. - -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 -peripheral parts of the retina would be equated with the central 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 complicated 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 Part played by the Intellect in Space-perception.=--But although -Berkeley was wrong in his assertion that out 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 cataracts relieved by surgical -aid, whose world until the operation has been a world of tangibles -exclusively, are ludicrously 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.[45] 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 -disappear 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 sensations 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 sensations 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 sensations, the -same sensation being so ambiguous as regards 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 of -a 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-sensational faculty of the mind. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - -REASONING. - - -=What Reasoning is.=--We talk of man being the rational animal; and the -traditional intellectualist philosophy 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 suggested 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 'similarity,' 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 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 disgust at the narrowness of modern interpreters. But, in the main, -we think less of qualities than of concrete things, real or possible, -just as we may experience them. - -Our thought here may be rational, but it is not _reasoned_, is not -reasoning in the strict sense of the term. In reasoning, 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 analyzed 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 simpler kind of rational thinking -which consists in the concrete objects of past experience merely -suggesting each other, and reasoning distinctively so called, is this: -that whilst the empirical thinking is only reproductive, reasoning is -productive. An empirical, or 'rule-of-thumb,' thinker can deduce nothing -from data with whose behavior 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 'education' which we share in common with the beasts, leaves us -without resource. - -=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 concomitant 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 consequences for wholes_. And the art of the reasoner -will consist 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 - ---we see that the second or minor premise, the 'subsumption' 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 proposition_. 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 mercury-compound, for example), we neglect -all the other attributes 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 location. 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 -immediately, 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 commissary -picks out as important for his purposes is his property 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 feelings; 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 side 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 property 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 -destinations. It is really _all_ that it is: a combustible, a writing -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 excuse is necessity--the necessity which -my finite and practical 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 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 another 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 different 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 articulate), 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 particular, -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 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 vulgarest 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.[46] - -Locke undermined the fallacy. But none of his successors, so far 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 weapons 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 appellations 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 them than any others; they are only more -frequently serviceable ways to us. - -=Reasoning is always for a subjective interest.= To revert now to our -symbolic representation of the reasoning 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 essence 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 importance, 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 conceived 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 character which leads to the one sort of conclusion which it is -the reasoner's temporary interest to attain. - -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 phenomenon 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! How 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 -pendulum-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 pneumatics could have abstracted the -_cause_ of the disease, and thence inferred the remedy immediately. By -many measurements 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. To see this he must invent additional lines; and the -geometer 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 perceiving 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 consequence more -obviously than it was suggested by the total datum as it originally -came._ Take these points again, successively. - -1) 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 reasoned, but purely empirical; but if I can say that -into the color there enters a certain dye which I know to be chemically -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 uneducated 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 without 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 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 bending 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 -example would hardly be so at all. But each and all agree in this, that -they bear a _more evident relation_ to the conclusion 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, therefore, 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 comparatively 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 characters and their consequences are so inexhaustibly numerous -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 consequences. Thus the character of scraping -the sill has very few suggestions, prominent among which is the -suggestion 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 properties it assumes are -of a mathematical sort, such as molecular 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 difficulty: _How are characters extracted, and why does it -require the advent of a genius in many cases before the fitting -character is brought to light?_ Why cannot anybody reason 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 _ab 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, unless, 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 uninstructed, but the machinist, the antiquary, -and the bookworm 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 showing 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 awakened in him by experience that his consciousness -leaves no single point of the complex situation accented and standing -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 dissociate 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 æsthetic 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 window, 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 practical uses, and the savage is -delighted with the beads, the bits of looking-glass, brought by an -exploring vessel, and gives no heed to the features of the vessel -itself, which is too much beyond his sphere. These æsthetic and -practical interests, then, are the weightiest factors in making -particular ingredients stand out in high relief. What they lay their -accent on, that we notice; but what they are in themselves 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 æsthetic, will dissociate few characters, 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 æsthetic feelings, to which every sense -contributes, would, by dint of these alone, be sure to dissociate vastly -more characters than any other animal; and accordingly we find that the -lowest savages reason incomparably better than the highest brutes. The -diverse interests lead, too, to a diversification of experiences, whose -accumulation becomes a condition for the play of that _law of -dissociation by 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 similarity_ 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 in consciousness shakes out, as it were, the points -of difference 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 the scientific man do who searches -for the reason or law embedded in a phenomenon? He deliberately -accumulates 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 spontaneously 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 most -powerful practical and æsthetic interests, our chief help towards -noticing those special characters of phenomena 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 deliberate 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 deliberation, spontaneously -collecting analogous instances, uniting 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. - -[Illustration: FIG. 66.] - -Figure 66 shows this. If _m_, in the present representation _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 varying concomitants, will 'roll out' and -attract our separate notice. - -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 association 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 intelligence of a brute. Compared with -men, it is probable that brutes neither attend to abstract characters, -nor have associations 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 contiguity. So far, however, as any -brute might think by abstract characters instead of by the association -of concretes, 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 emphasized is one thing; a -sharply conceived attribute marked off from everything else by a name is -another. But between no analysis of a concrete, and complete analysis; -no abstraction of an embedded character, and complete abstraction, 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 proposed the name _recept_, and Prof. Lloyd Morgan the name -_construct_, for the idea of a vaguely abstracted and generalized -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 alighting 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 concepts. 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."[47] - -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 'alive--get away--must kill,' ... etc., passed in rapid -succession through this dog's mind, whatever the 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 themselves 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 -reigns. Thoughts would not be found to call up their similars, 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. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - -CONSCIOUSNESS AND MOVEMENT. - - -=All consciousness is motor.= The reader will not have forgotten, in the -jungle of 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, happens 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 phenomenon of general discharge, and expressed it -thus: "According as an impression is accompanied with Feeling, the -aroused currents diffuse themselves over the brain, 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 inhibitory 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 -proponderate 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 information; 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 sensorial 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 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 changing it -everywhere at once. - -Herr Schneider has tried to show, by an ingenious zoölogical review, -that all the _special_ movements which highly evolved animals make are -differentiated from the two originally simple movements of contraction -and expansion 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 developed, 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 add 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 cerebromental change. They may be enumerated -as-- - - 1) 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, characteristically, 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 'emotional' condition from that of -the 'instinctive' reaction 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 decide. As inner mental conditions, -emotions are quite indescribable. Description, moreover, would be -superfluous, for the reader knows already how they feel. Their relations -to the objects which prompt them and to the reactions 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 -imagination 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 the rest of the chapter I shall use the word -_object_ of emotion 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 æsthetic feelings, and their bodily reaction is -usually much less strong. The mere description of the objects, -circumstances, and varieties 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, revenge, abhorrence, etc., etc. Dictionaries of synonyms -have discriminated them, as well as text-books of psychology--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 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; 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 manifestations 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 produce 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 articulate idea of danger can arise. -If our friend goes near to the edge of a precipice, 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 deceive him, he -stirred it round and saw it drip from the stick with no feeling save -that of childish curiosity. Suddenly 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 pathological 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 -pathological 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' 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 person, 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 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 passion for the sake of any such -curious analysis as this; but he can observe more tranquil states, and -that may be assumed 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 swallow, a clearing of the throat, or a -slight cough; and so on for as many more instances as might be named. -The various permutations of which these organic changes are susceptible -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 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: -_If 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 nothing left behind_, no 'mind-stuff' out of which the emotion can -be constituted, and that a cold and neutral state of intellectual -perception is all that remains. It is true that, although most people, -when asked, say that their introspection verifies this statement, some -persist in saying theirs does not. Many cannot be made to understand the -question. When you beg them to imagine away every feeling of laughter -and of tendency to laugh from their consciousness 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 elements 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 present, 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 dilatation of -the nostrils, no clenching 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 dispassionate judicial sentence, confined entirely to -the intellectual 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 intellectual 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 corporeally anæsthetic, I -should be excluded from the life of the affections, harsh and tender -alike, and drag out an existence of merely cognitive or intellectual -form. Such an existence, although it seems to have been the ideal of -ancient 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 hook 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. 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 superficial 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 facilitate 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 see why there is no limit to the number of -possible different emotions which may exist, and why the emotions of -different 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 reflex action. Any sort of -reflex effect is possible, and reflexes 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 necessary 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. Everyone 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 everything 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 conquer undesirable -emotional tendencies in ourselves, we must assiduously, and in the first -instance cold-bloodedly, go through the _outward movements_ of those -contrary dispositions 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 cheerfulness and kindliness in their -stead. Smooth the brow, brighten the eye, contract the dorsal rather -than the ventral 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 perfectly 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 expression of an emotion often makes it -worse. The funniness 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, however, gives relief. - -This objection is more specious than real. _During_ the expression the -emotion is always felt. _After_ it, the centres having normally -discharged themselves, we feel it no more. But where the facial part of -the discharge is suppressed 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 æsthetic emotions the bodily reverberation -and the feeling may both be faint. A connoisseur is apt to judge a work -of art dryly and intellectually, 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 be or be not aroused by it, the -perception of a work of art (music, decoration, etc.) is always in the -first instance at any rate an affair of incoming currents. 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 'coarse' or vivid form. - -That there may be subtle pleasure too, I do not deny. In other words, -there may be purely cerebral emotion, independent 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 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 magnanimity, 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, generous, 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, I 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 symptoms, 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 frightened 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 doubtful 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 faintness. This paleness of the surface, however, is probably -in large part, or is exclusively, due to the vaso-motor centre being -affected in such a manner as to cause the contraction 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 perspiration -immediately exudes from it. This exudation is all the more remarkable, -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. 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 indistinct or may altogether fail. -'_Obstupui steteruntque comæ, et vox faucibus hæsit._'... As fear -increases into an agony of terror, we behold, as under all violent -emotions, 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 -eyeballs are fixed on the object of terror; or they may roll restlessly -from side to side, _huc illuc volens oculos totumque pererrat_. 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 alternately clenched and opened, often with a twitching movement. -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 sudden panic."[48] - -=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 _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 -concomitants 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 experienced 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 -propensities to the acts are nothing else than nascent excitations 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 palpitations, in tremblings; and these -are just the manifestations that go along with an actual suffering of -the evil feared. The destructive passion is shown in a general tension -of the muscular system, in gnashing of teeth and protrusion 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 -representations 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." - -The principle of _revival, in weakened form, of 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 survival -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 opening of the mouth in astonishment, come, -according to the same author, from the utility of these movements in -extreme 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" (!). The trembling of fear is -supposed by Mantegazza to be for the sake of warming the blood (!). The -reddening of the face and neck is called by Wundt a compensatory -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-withdrawing 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 followed 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, under -similar circumstances, it would be apt to be continued during maturity, -although never then developed, into a crying fit. Screaming or weeping -begins to be voluntarily 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--experiences 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 movements. 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 language designates by the -metaphors bitter, harsh, sweet, combine themselves, therefore, with the -corresponding mimetic movements of the mouth." Certainly the emotions of -disgust and satisfaction do express themselves in this mimetic way. -Disgust is an incipent 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. -Similarly the nod forward in affirmation is after the analogy of taking -food into the mouth. The connection of the expression of moral or social -disdain or dislike, especially in women, with movements having a -perfectly definite original olfactory function, is too obvious for -comment. Winking 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 explained 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 reactions 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 diarrhœa 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. Trembling, 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 æsthetic 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 faculty of acting -in such a way as to produce certain ends, without 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 general 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 that when that particular -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 -sensation or perception or image which calls them forth. - -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 adaptation 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 definite 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 wonderful 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 delightfully fresh and interesting work, -'Der Thierische Wille,' Herr G. H. Schneider subdivides impulses -(_Triebe_) into sensation-impulses, perception-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 -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 stimulus 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 towards 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 significant 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 following 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 followed, 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, 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 of revering you as a philosopher he will probably laugh at -you for a fool. The connection between the savory sensation and the act -it awakens is for him absolute and _selbstverständlich_, 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 particular things it -tends to do in presence of particular objects. 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 exclusively. What voluptuous thrill may not -shake a fly, when 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.= Nothing 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 'blindness' on her second nest. -Some expectation of consequences 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 that reminded him of that trap. If a boy sees a fat -hopping-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 meantime 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 immediate 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 -altogether 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 associative 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 preëxistence 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 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 -appearance; wherever different individuals and different circumstances -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 _oftenest_ 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; 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 suspicion, curiosity -and timidity, coyness and desire, bashfulness 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_--'experience' 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 antagonism 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, however, -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: - -_a._ The _inhibition of instincts by habits_; and - -_b._ The _transitoriness 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 particular 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 adventurous 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 _instinctive_ -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 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 -families' 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. 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."[49] - -But if a man presents himself for the first time when the instinct of -_fear_ is strong, the phenomena are altogether 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. Whatever 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."[50] - -Their case was precisely analogous to that of the Adirondack 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 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 fade 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 feeding 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 take 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 returned to the mother when ten days old. The hen followed it, and -tried to entice it in every way; still, it continually 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, -indeed, 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 entirely 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. 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 _Canidæ_ may not be as short-lived -as it was in this terrier? - -Leaving lower animals aside, and turning to human instincts, 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 -'things'; 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 adventure, 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 taking 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 individual 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; chastity 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 -successive subject before its ebb has come, so that knowledge may be -got and a habit of skill acquired--a headway of interest, in short, -secured, on which afterward the individual 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 psychology 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 personal 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, -without 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 resolute 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 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 "instinctive acts are in man -few in number, and, apart from those connected with the sexual passion, -difficult to recognize after early youth is past." And he adds, "so much -the more attention should we pay to the instinctive movements of -new-born babies, sucklings, and small children." That instinctive acts -should be easiest _recognized_ in childhood 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. Professor Preyer divides the movements of -infants into _impulsive_, _reflex_, and _instinctive_. By impulsive -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, snoring, -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 objects_, 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 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 experiences 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 growing 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; perversions are too often the fruit of his -unnatural bringing-up. - -=Description of Fear.=--In order to treat at least one instinct 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 interesting study in instinctive dynamics. -We both fear, and wish to kill, anything that may kill us; and the -question which of the two impulses we shall follow is usually decided -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 uncertainty 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 -susceptible. 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 philosophy and religion. The atrocities of life -become '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 especially 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 a 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 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."[51] - -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 -interested 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 toward 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 impossible 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 a half old. The -first time, he seized it promptly, and holding it in spite of its -struggling, at last got its head into his mouth. He then let 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 betweenwhiles, 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 betrayed the slightest -fear until she was (if I recollect rightly) about eight months old. Then -the instinct suddenly seemed to develop, and with such intensity that -familiarity had no mitigating effect. She screamed whenever the dog -entered the room, and for many months remained 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 source 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 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 ancestors 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."[52] - -_High places_ cause fear of a peculiarly sickening sort, though here, -again, individuals differ enormously. The utterly 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 peculiarity 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 anatomically 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. - -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, associated 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 dreadful 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 unwonted 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 mysteriously -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 experiences. The idea of -the supernatural involves that the usual should be set at naught. In the -witch and hobgoblin 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 mysteriousness, 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 -nightmares and forms of delirium, it seems not altogether unwise 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 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 conditions, even infra-human ones. In ordinary -fear, one may either run, or remain semi-paralyzed. The latter condition -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 motionless 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 motionlessly 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 shipwrecked sailor upon the raft where -he is floating frantically 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 instinct? They can give no _reason_ for -their fear to move; but immobility makes them feel safer and more -comfortable. Is not this the mental state of the 'feigning' animal? - -Again, take the strange symptom which has been described of late years -by the rather absurd name of _agoraphobia_. 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-command he sometimes -accomplishes the object by keeping safe under the lee of a vehicle going -across, or joining himself 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 venture 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 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 willing 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_ outward 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 intended -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 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 undergoes 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 prophetic 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 impossible to see how it could be willed before. - -_A supply of ideas of the various movements that are possible, 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 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 resident sensations in the parts that move have been called -_kinæsthetic_ feelings, the memories of them are kinæsthetic ideas. It -is by these kinæsthetic sensations that we are made conscious of -_passive movements_--movements communicated 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 -the other feelings of a limb are lost, we get such results as are given -in the following account by Prof. A. Strümpell of his wonderful -anæsthetic boy, whose only sources of feeling were the right eye and the -left ear:[53] - -"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 -handkerchief 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 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 asserted still his -ability to keep it up.... Passively holding still his fingers did not -affect him. He thought constantly 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 kinæsthetic 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 accompany incoming currents, whilst that, it is -said, accompanies 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 innervation. Many authors deny that this feeling exists, and -the proofs given of its existence are certainly insufficient. - -The various degrees of 'effort' 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 consciousness 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. 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, renders 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 movement, and -then notice what _constituted_ the direction 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 -feelings, 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 consciousness 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 alphabetic 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_, 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 feelings, 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 resolve 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 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 consequences 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 discharge. - -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 'remote' 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._ Although, 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 _interested_ in is what sticks in our consciousness; everything else -we get rid of as quickly as we can. Our resident feelings 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 innervation's _resident_ effects will become as great -an encumbrance as we have already concluded that the feeling of the -innervation 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 kinæsthetic ideas are called up -at all, they are so swamped in the vivid kinæsthetic feelings by which -they are immediately 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 conceived innervates directly the -centre of the first movement of the chain which leads to its -accomplishment, and then the whole chain rattles off _quasi_-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 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 trying 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.--All 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 kinæsthetic 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 '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 -sometimes 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 -conception 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 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 and precede the movement. The cases -without a fiat constitute 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, without 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 -processes 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 curiosities of our mental life. The truth is that it is no -curiosity, but simply the normal process stripped of disguise. 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 properly 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 fatally 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 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 remained 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."[54] - -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 nothing else at all in the mind, or what -is there does not conflict. 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 outside too -cruel, and resolutions 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 -circumstances? 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 the warmth and the cold; we fall into some revery -connected 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 immediately 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 is -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 movements 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 exactly 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." - -The '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 representation of a -movement awakens in some degree the actual movement which is its object; -and awakens it in a maximum 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 movement, 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 remarks. 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 -consciousness 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, -however, are not the norm; they are cases of inhibition by 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 -release. 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 effect of the -process of feeling, irrespective 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 presence of one idea prompts a movement, so the bare presence 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 simply 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 resultant of two -opposing neural forces. With unimaginable 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 direction 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 -they keep each other in equilibrium so long that a superficial 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 -happens 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 considerations, 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 too 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 definitively 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 -object, 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 oscillations of our attention, and of the -'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 unreached; 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 -physical mass as in the mind. If the elasticity give way, however, 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 introspective 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 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 assurance we seem to ourselves almost passive; -the 'reasons' 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 consists in the -turning over of all the possible modes of _conceiving_ the doing or not -doing of the act in point. The moment we hit upon a conception which -lets us 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 bearing 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 the quest 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 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 decide 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 -alternatives, 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 acquiescence in a direction -accidentally determined _from without_, with the conviction that, after -all, we might as well stand by this course as by the other, and that -things are in any event sure to turn out sufficiently right. - -_In the third type_ the determination seems equally accidental, but it -comes from within, and not from without. It often happens, when the -absence of imperative principle 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 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 probably frequent in persons of strong emotional -endowment 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 -suddenly 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 of 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 _fifth and final type_ of decision, the feeling that 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 something 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 decisions, 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 become -reality; it is a desolate and acrid sort of act, an entrance 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 deciding on the triumphant alternative dropped the other one -wholly or nearly out of sight, whereas here both alternatives 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 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 causality, 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 far 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 another, and in the same person from time to time. The neural -inertia may wax or wane, and the habitual inhibitions dwindle or -augment. The intensity of particular thought-processes and stimulations -may also change independently, 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 impossible, 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 emotion--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 comparison 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 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 preliminary 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. _If we compare the outward symptoms of -perversity together, they fall 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 resultant 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 diminution 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." - -=The Explosive Will.= 1.) =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 possibilities 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 impulse 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 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 _dégénérés_ 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 healthy-willed by nature bad habits can -bring about this condition, especially in relation to particular sorts -of impulse. Ask half the common drunkards you know why it is that they -fall so often a prey to temptation, 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 themselves: -and more than this they cannot say. Similarly a 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 innervation produces an -overflow. It is the condition recognized 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_ of 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 -preternaturally 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 obstinately 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 -constantly discharging balls between me and it, I could not 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 dipsomaniacs' 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, however, 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 streaming 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 exclaimed, '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 containing morbid -specimens. On asking him why he had committed this loathsome act, he -replied: '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 consumes two or three hours of time. Most -people have the potentiality of this disease. To few has it not -happened 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 believed 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 described 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 condition of _some_ -objects, in all of us. Great fatigue or exhaustion may make it the -condition of almost all objects; 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 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 'deadbeats,' whose -life is one long contradiction between knowledge 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,--discerning, 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 subjunctive 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 _âme bien -née_, the child of the sunshine, at whose birth the fairies made their -gifts, does not need much of it in 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 resistance. 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 propensities on the one hand and ideals on the other, the -sensualist 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 comparison with this, a -still small voice which must be artificially reinforced to prevail. -Effort is what reinforces it, making things seem as if, while the force -of propensity 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 victorious over a great sensual -resistance? The very greatness 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: _It is action in the -line of the greatest resistance_. - - * * * * * - -The facts may be most briefly symbolized thus, P standing for the -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 continue 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 entertainment." But as present pleasures are tremendous -reinforcers, and present pains tremendous inhibitors of whatever 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 inhibition 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 searching is this influence of pleasures and -pains upon our movements 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 manifestations 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 -discharged 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 _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 -perceptions and imaginations of fact have it, but neither have it -exclusively or peculiarly. It is of the essence of all consciousness (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 themselves bound to interpret them -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 Emotion 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 pains bear no part, as little -do they bear in our last acts, or those artificially 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 -reference 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 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 instances 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 represented _good_. The class 'goods' contains many more generally -influential motives to action than the class 'pleasants.' 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 occasional tempting-power of simple badness -and unpleasantness as such. Every one who has a wound or hurt anywhere, -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. 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 contrary--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 consider 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 movements which ensue are -exclusively physiological phenomena, following according to -physiological laws upon the neural events to which the idea corresponds. -The _willing_ terminates 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 follows. 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 -activity. 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 outside -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. - -=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 action 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 explanations 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 Attention 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 -'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._[55] -Every reader must know by his own experience 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 passion 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 difficulty 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 smothered 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 reasonable ideas over others--_if they can once get -a quiet hearing_; and passion's cue accordingly is always and everywhere -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 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, consents 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 consciousness 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 application of the -volitional effort lies exclusively in the mental world. The whole drama -is a mental drama. The whole difficulty is a mental difficulty, a -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 achievement._ 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 decision, it was -said that it usually came when the right conception 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 sanctified, 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 because he feels so cold; or it is Christmas-day; or it -is a means of stimulating him to make a more powerful resolution 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 before the poor soul's attention. But if he once gets -able to pick out that way of conceiving, from all the other possible -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 exhaustion 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 ingulfing 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 whirling 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, "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 Bicêtre, 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 '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 psychological 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 'independent 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 free_. 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_ volitions 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 overwhelming 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 manifestly impossible to tell 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 measurements, whether of psychic or of neural quantities, and -such deductive reasonings as this method of proof implies, will surely -be forever beyond human reach. No serious psychologist 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 undecided. 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 inhibitory 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 be completely predestinate or not, -the way in which each individual emergency is resolved. Psychology will -be psychology, 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.=--But 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 -extraordinarily intimate and important character which the phenomenon of -effort assumes in our own eyes as individual men. Of course we measure -ourselves by many standards. 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 but 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 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 so!_" 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 practical 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 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 underived 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 'metaphysics.' It would indeed have been -hasty to settle the question absolutely, inside the limits of -psychology. Let psychology frankly admit that _for her scientific -purposes_ determinism 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 readjustment can be made. Now -ethics makes a counterclaim; 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 deterministic 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. 1), must hold their assumptions and -results subject to revision in the light of each others' needs. The -forum where they hold discussion is called metaphysics. Metaphysics -means only an unusually obstinate attempt to think clearly and -consistently. 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 metaphysics 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 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 cognizance 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 -attainment 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 psychology is treated as a -natural science (after the fashion in which it has been treated in this -book), 'states of mind' are taken for granted, as data immediately given -in experience; 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 'corresponds.' This notion appears dark in the extreme, the -moment we seek to translate it into something more intimate 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 '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 -consciousnesses 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 respectively. 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 the 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 gathering together -into one large mass, and now into several smaller ones, than of a Soul -now reacting totally, now breaking 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 representing the well-established fact that the -appearance of the several parts of an object to consciousness at any -moment 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 consciousness _can_ 'combine' will be -rejected as far-fetched, unreal, and 'metaphysical' by the atomistic -philosopher. His 'purpose' is to gain a formula which shall unify things -in a natural and easy manner, and for such a purpose 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 -find the minimal mental fact whose being reposes directly on a -brain-fact; and we must similarly find the minimal 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 assumption of psychic atoms -by _taking the entire thought_ (even of a complex object) _as the -minimum with which it deals on the mental_ side, and the entire brain as -the minimum on the physical side. But the 'entire brain' is not a -physical fact at all! It is nothing but our name for the way in which a -billion of molecules arranged in certain positions may affect our sense. -On the principles of the corpuscular or mechanical philosophy, the only -realities are the separate molecules, or at most the cells. Their -aggregation 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 genuine 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 assumption 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 -relation 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 to carry through this simple dualism, for -idealistic reflections 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 instead of 'object,' -to escape a decision; for 'content' suggests 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 -of _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 present themselves immediately as -referring beyond themselves. 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 conscious 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, considered physically, is a sum of mutually external parts; why is -it not such a sum, when considered as a content of sensation? - -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 _Erkenntnisstheorie_ must say their say -before the natural-science assumption that thoughts 'know' things grows -clear. - -=The changing character of consciousness= presents another 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-perception for example, if the 'present' -as known (the '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 consciousness 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 _is_ not, for the -_actual_ present is only the joint between 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 'states,' in describing -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 '_scious_ness' -might be a better word by which to describe it. But 'sciousness -postulated as an hypothesis' is practically a very different thing from -'states of consciousness apprehended with infallible certainty 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 '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 -assumptions and data must be reconsidered in wider connections 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 opinions; 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 -causally 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 -achievements would pale. But at present psychology is in the condition -of physics before Galileo and the laws of motion, 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 'metaphysical.' Meanwhile the best way in which we -can facilitate 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, 25; - characters, 353; - propositions, 354 - -Abstraction, 251; - see _Distraction_ - -_Accommodation_, of crystalline lens, 32; - of ear, 49 - -Acquaintance, 14 - -Acquisitiveness, 407 - -Action, what holds attention determines, 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 vitæ, 86 - -ARISTOTLE, 318 - -Articular sensibility, 74 - -Association, Chapter XVI; - the order of our ideas, 253; - determined 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, recency, vividness, and emotional congruity - tend to determine the object recalled, 264; - focalized recall or by similarity, 267, 364; - voluntary trains of thought, 271; - problems, 273 - -Atomistic theories of consciousness, 462 - -Attention, Chapter XIII; - its relation to interest, 170; - its physiological ground, 217; - narrowness of field of consciousness, 217; - to how many things possible, 219; - to simultaneous 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 remarks, 236; - attention and free-will, 237; - what holds attention 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 - -BERKLEV, 302, 303, 347 - -BINET, 318, 332 - -Black, 45-6 - -Blind Spot, 31 - -BLIX, 64, 68 - -Blood-supply, cerebral, 130 - -Bodily expression, cause of emotions, 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 consciousness 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 equilibrium, 76; - its anatomy, 79, 84 - -Cerebral laws, of association, 255 - -Cerebral process, see _Neural Process_ - -Cerebrum, see _Brain_, _Hemisphere_ - -Changing character of consciousness, 152, 466 - -CHARCOT, 113, 309 - -Choice, see _Interest_ - -Coalescence of different sensations 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.; - anterior, 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; - defined, 239; - their permanence, 239; - different states of mind can mean the same, 239; - abstract, universal, and problematic, 240; - the thought of 'the same' is not the same thought over again, 243 - -Conceptual order different from perceptual, 243 - -Consciousness, stream of, Chapter XI, 151; - four characters in, 152; - personal, 152; - is in constant change, 152, 466; - same state of mind never occurs twice, 154; - consciousness is continuous, 157; - substantive and transitive states of, 160; - interested in one part of its object more than another, 170; - double consciousness, 206 ff.; - narrowness of field of, 217; - relations of to brain, 462 - -Consciousness and Movement, Chapter XXIII; - all consciousness is motor, 370 - -Concomitants, law of varying, 251 - -Consent, in willing, 452 - -Continuity of object of consciousness, 157 - -_Contrast_, 25, 44-5 - -_Convergence_ of eyeballs, 31, 33 - -Convolutions, motor, 106 - -Corpora fimbriata, 86 - -Corpora quadrigemma, 79, 86, 89 - -Corpus albicans, 84 - -Corpus callosum, 81, 84 - -Corpus striatum, 81, 86, 108 - -_Cortex_, 11, note - -Cortex, localization in, 104; - motor region of, 106 - -_Corti's_ organ, 52 - -Cramming, 295 - -Crura of brain, 79, 84, 108 - -Curiosity, 407 - -Currents, in nerves, 10 - -CZERMAK, 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 composition, 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; - conditions which favor, 245; - sensation of difference, 246; - differences inferred, 248; - analysis of compound objects, 249; - to be easily singled out a quality should already be - separately known, 250; - dissociation by varying concomitants, 251; - practice improves discrimination, 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 estimation of short, 281 - -Ear, 47 ff. - -Effort, feeling of, 434; - feels like an original force, 442; - volitional effort is effort of attention, 450; - ethical importance of the phenomena of effort, 458 - -Ego, see _Self_ - -Embryological sketch, Chapter VII, 78 - -Emotion, Chapter XXIV; - compared with instincts, 373; - varieties of, innumerable, 374; - causes of varieties, 375, 381; - results from bodily expression, 375; - this view not materialistic, 380; - the subtler emotions, 384; - fear, 385; - genesis of reactions, 388 - -Emotional congruity, determines association, 264 - -Empirical self, see _Self_ - -Emulation, 406 - -End-organs, 10; - of touch, 60; - of temperature, 64; - of pressure, 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 exaggerated impulsion, 439 - -Expression, bodily, cause of emotions, 375 - -Extensity, primitive to all sensation, 335 - -Exteriority of objects, 15 - -External world, 15 - -Extirpation of higher nerve-centres, 95 ff. - -Eye, its anatomy, 28-30 - - -Familiarity, sense of, see _Recognition_ - -Fear, 385, 406, 407 - -FECHNER, 21, 229 - -Feeling of effort, 434 - -FÉRÉ, 311 - -FERRIER, 132 - -Fissure of Rolando, seat of motor 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; - relates solely to effort of attention, 455; - insoluble on strictly psychologic grounds, 456; - ethical importance of the phenomena of effort, 458 - -Frequency, determines association, 264 - -"Fringes" of mental objects, 163 ff. - -Frogs' 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, 11, 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 pathways through nerve-centres, 136; - effects of, 138; - practical use of, 138; - depends on sensations not attended to, 141; - ethical and pedagogical importance of 142 ff.; - habit the ultimate 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, 121, 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, 222, 326 - -HERBARTIAN SCHOOL, 157 - -HERING, 24, 26 - -HERZEN, 123, 124 - -HIPPOCAMPI, 88 - -HODGSON, 262, 264, 280, 283 - -HOLBROOK, 297 - -HORSLEY, 107, 118 - -HUME, 161, 244 - -Hunger, sensations of, 69 - -HUXLEY, 143 - -Hypnotic conditions, 301 - - -Ideas, the theory of, 154 ff.; - never come twice the same, 154; - they do not permanently exist, 157; - abstract ideas, 240, 251; - universal 240; - order of ideas by association, 253 - -'Identical retinal points,' 35 - -Identity, personal, 201; - mutations 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 vision, 36; - 'after-images,' 43-5; - visual, 302; - auditory, 306; - motor, 307; - tactile, 308 - -Imagination, Chapter XIX; - defined, 302; - differs in individuals, 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; - emotions compared with, 373; - definition of, 391; - every instinct 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 - -KÖNIG, 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, 11, 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, 157 - -Locomotion, instinct of, 406 - -LOMBARD, 131 - -Longituditional 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 - -Materialism and emotion, 380 - -MATTEUCI, 120 - -MAUDSLEY, 138 - -Measurement, of sensations, 22; - of space, 342 - -'Mediumships,' 212 - -Medulla oblongata, 84, 108 - -Memory, Chapter XVIII; - hemispheres 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 cramming 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 conditions, 3-7; - states of, their relation to their objects, 464; - see _Consciousness_ - -Modesty, 407 - -Monistic theories of consciousness, 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 consciousness is motor, 370 - -MUNK, 110 - -MÜNSTERBERG, 23, 311 - -Muscular sensation, 65 ff.; - relations to space, 66, 74; - muscular 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 conditions 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 another, 170; - object must change to hold attention, 226; - objects as signs and as realities, 345; - relation of states of mind to their object, 464 - -Occipitel lobes, seat of visual centre, 110 - -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 - - -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; - compared with sensation, 312; - involves 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; - mutations 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 positions, 341 - -Plasticity, as basis of habit, defined, 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 discrimination, 252 - -Present, the present moment, 280 - -Pressure sense, 60 - -PREYER, 406 - -Probability determines what object shall be perceived, 316, 329 - -Problematic conceptions, 240 - -Problems, solution of, 272 - -Projection of sensations, eccentric, 15 - -Psychology, defined, 1; - a natural science, 2; - what data it assumes, 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 æsthetic and practical interests, 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 interest, 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; - reaction-time measures one, 123; - concatenated habits are constituted 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, 11 - -ROUSSEAU, 148 - -Rotation, sense of, 75 - - -Sagacity, 362 - -Sameness, 201, 202 - -SCHAEFER, 107, 110, 118 - -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 function 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; - rivalry 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 function in successive passing thoughts, 203; - mutations of the self, 205; - insane delusions, 207; - alternating personalities, 210; - medium-ships, 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 relation to sensations of rotation, 75 - -Sensations, in General, Chapter II, p. 9; - distinguished from perceptions, 12; - from images, 14; - _first_ things in consciousness, 12; - make us acquainted with qualities, 14; - their exteriority, 15; - intensity of sensations, 16; - their measurement, 21; - they are not compounds, 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. - -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 dimensions primitive to all sensation, 335; - 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, 342; - objects which are signs, and objects which are realities, 345; - the third dimension, 346; - Berkeley's theory of distance, 346; - part played by intellect 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 consciousness, 462 - -Spontaneous trains of thought, 257; - examples, 257 ff., 271 - -STARR, 107, 113, 115 - -STEINTHAL, 327 - -Stream of Consciousness, Chapter 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 consciousness, 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 sensations 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; - compared with perception of space, 282; - discrete flow of time, 282; - long intervals conceived symbolically, 283; - we measure duration by events that succeed in it, 283; - variations in our estimations of its length, 283; - cerebral processes of, 286 - -Touch, 60 ff.; - centre of, in cortex, 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 - - -Valve 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, 110, 115 - -Visual imagination, 302 - -Visualizing power, 302 - -Vividness, determines association, 264 - -Volition, see _Will_ - -VOLKMANN, 285 - -Voluminousness, primitive, of sensations, 335 - -Voluntary acts, defined, 92; - voluntary attention, 224; - voluntary trains of thought, 271 - - -Weber's law, 17, 24, 46, 59 - -Weber's law--weight, 66; - pain, 67 - -Weight, sensibility to, 66 ff. - -WERNICKE, 109, 113, 115 - -WESLEY, 223 - -WHEATSTONE, 347 - -WIGAN, 300 - -Will, Chapter XXVI; - voluntary 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 types of decision, 429; - feeling of effort, 434; - healthiness of will, 435; - defects of, 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 action, 448; - will is a relation between 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 - - -FOOTNOTES: - - [1] 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 intrinsically 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 immediately 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. - - [2] 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. - - [3] Thus the optic nerve-fibres are traced to the occipital lobes, - the olfactory tracts go to the lower part of the temporal lobe - (hippocampal 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 will be explained - later. The _cortex_ is the gray surface of the convolutions. - - [4] Vorlesungen über Menschen u. Thierseele, Lecture VII. - - [5] In other words, _S_ standing for the sensation in general, and _d_ - for its noticeable increment, we have the equation _d__S_ = const. The - increment of stimulus which produces _d__S_ (call it _d__R_) meanwhile - varies. Fechner calls it the 'differential threshold'; and as its - _relative_ value to _R_ is always the same, we have the equation - _d__R_/_R_ = const. - - [6] Beiträge zur exp. Psychol., Heft 3, p. 4. - - [7] I borrow it from Ziehen: Leitfaden d. Physiologischen Psychologie, - 1891, p. 36, who quotes Hering's version of it. - - [8] Successive ones also; but I consider simultaneous ones only, for - simplicity's sake. - - [9] The extreme case is where green light and red, _e.g._ light - falling simultaneously on the retina, give a sensation of yellow. - But I abstract from this because it is not certain that the incoming - currents here affect different fibres of the optic nerve. - - [10] 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 aperature, cut through - sclerotic, choroid, and retina (avoid wounding the membrane 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 - containing 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 pulling - 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 sclerotic, which remains in the forceps. - Examine 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 cling 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 - 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 hardened - in alcohol. - - [11] This vertical partition is introduced into stereoscopes, which - otherwise would give us three pictures instead of one. - - [12] 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. - - [13] Martin: The Human Body, p. 530. - - [14] Ibid. - - [15] The ordinary mixing of _pigments_ is not an addition, but rather, - as Helmholtz 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 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. - - [16] Martin: _op. cit._ - - [17] Martin, pp. 525-8. - - [18] 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 édition," etc. - - [19] This description is abridged from Martin's 'Human Body'. - - [20] Martin: _op. cit._ - - [21] Martin: _op. cit._ - - [22] Martin: _op. cit._ - - [23] Martin: _op. cit._ - - [24] Martin: _op. cit._ - - [25] Martin: _op. cit._, with omissions. - - [26] Martin: _op. cit._ - - [27] Vierteljahrsch. für wiss. Philos., II. 377. - - [28] 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 Vaugirard, - Paris. It is a wonderful work of art, and costs 300 francs. M. Jules - Talrich of No. 97 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. - - [29] 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. - - [30] The Physiology of Mind, p. 155. - - [31] J. Bahnsen: 'Beiträge zu Charakterologie' (1867), vol. I. p. 209. - - [32] De l'Intelligence, 3me édition (1878), vol. II. - p. 461, note. - - [33] Some of the evidence for this medium's supernormal powers is - given in The Proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research, - vol. VI. p. 436, and in the last Part of vol. - VII. (1892). - - [34] Mental Physiol., § 124. The oft-cited case of soldiers in battle - not perceiving that they are wounded is of an analogous sort. - - [35] Physiol. Optik, p. 741. - - [36] I refer to a recency of a few hours. Mr. Galton found that - experiences 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. - - [37] Miss M. W. Calkins (Philosophical Review, I. 389, 1892) 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 - yesterday's breakfast-table, with the same setting and in the same - surroundings, the association is practically total," and yet the - case is one of similarity. For Miss Calkins, accordingly, the more - important distinction is that between what she calls _desistent_ and - _persistent_ 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 useful - 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, suggests the process by which - the successive ideas become external to each other or preserve no - inner tie. - - [38] A common figure-alphabet is this: - - 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 - t n m r l sh g f b s - d j k v p c - ch c z - g qu - - - [39] 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. - - [40] Romanes, Mental Evolution in Animals, p. 324. - - [41] M. Lazarus: Das Leben d. Seele (1857), II. p. 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 - understood even when spoken in low tones and far off. An unfamiliar - language is unintelligible under these conditions. The 'ideas' for - interpreting 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. - - [42] Einleitung in die Psychologie u. Sprachwissenschaft (1881), p. - 171. - - [43] The great maxim in pedagogy is to knit every new piece of - knowledge on to a preëxisting 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 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.) - - [44] The writer of the present work is Agent of the Census - for America, and will thankfully receive accounts of cases of - hallucination of vision, hearing, etc., of which the reader may have - knowledge. - - [45] Cf. Raehlmann in Zeitschrift für Psychol. und Physiol. der - Sinnesorgane, II. 79. - - [46] 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 inclusion 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. - - [47] Mental Evolution in Man, p. 74. - - [48] Origin of the Emotions (N. Y. ed.), p. 292. - - [49] Spalding, Macmillan's Magazine, Feb. 1873, p. 287. - - [50] _Ibid._, p. 289. - - [51] Psychologie de l'Enfant, p. 72. - - [52] Der Menschliche Wille, p. 224. - - [53] Deutsches Archiv f. Klin. Medicin, xxii. 321. - - [54] Medicinische Psychologie, p. 293. - - [55] This _volitional_ effort pure and simple must be carefully - distinguished from the _muscular_ effort with which it is usually - confounded. The latter consists of all those peripheral feelings to - which a muscular 'exertion' may give rise. These feelings, whenever - they are massive and the body is not 'fresh,' are rather disagreeable, - especially 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 morning. Again, a soldier standing still to be fired at expects - disagreeable sensations from his muscular passivity. The action of his - will, in sustaining the expectation, is identical with that required - for a painful muscular effort. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Psychology - Briefer Course - -Author: William James - -Release Date: August 4, 2017 [EBook #55262] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PSYCHOLOGY *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif, MWS and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<p class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="Image unavailable: book-cover" /> -</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="" -style="border: 2px black solid;margin:auto auto 3em auto;max-width:20em; -padding:1%;"> -<tr><td> - -<p class="c"><a href="#CONTENTS">Contents.</a> -<br /><span class="nonvis">(In certain versions of this etext [in certain browsers] -clicking on the image will bring up a larger version.)</span></p> - -<p class="c">(etext transcriber's note)</p></td></tr> -</table> - -<p class="c"><i>BRIEFER COURSE</i></p> - -<hr /> - -<h1>PSYCHOLOGY</h1> - -<p class="c">BY -WILLIAM JAMES<br /> -<i>Professor of Psychology in Harvard University</i><br /><br /><br /> -<span class="eng">London</span><br /> -MACMILLAN AND CO.<br /> -1892<br /><br /><span class="smcap">Copyright</span>, 1892,<br /> -BY<br /> -HENRY HOLT & CO.<br /><br /><small><span class="smcap">Robert Drummond</span>,<br /> -<i>Electrotyper and Printer</i>,<br /> -New York.</small> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_iii" id="page_iii"></a>{iii}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="PREFACE" id="PREFACE"></a>PREFACE.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">In</span> preparing the following abridgment of my larger work, the Principles -of Psychology, my chief aim has been to make it more directly available -for class-room use. 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 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, æsthetics, and the moral sense. Possibly the defect -may be made up in a later edition, if such a thing should ever be -demanded.</p> - -<p>I cannot forbear taking advantage of this preface to make a statement -about the composition of the 'Principles of Psychology.' 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_iv" id="page_iv"></a>{iv}</span> 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 unshapely, 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 composition,' has the -merit of expository elegance, and gives a neatly subdivided table of -contents; but it often purchases 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 profound, and that we really gain a more living -understanding of the mind by keeping our attention as long as possible -upon our entire conscious states as they are concretely given to us, -than by the <i>post-mortem</i> study of their comminuted 'elements.' This -last is the study of artificial abstractions, not of natural things.<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_v" id="page_v"></a>{v}</span></p> - -<p>But whether the critics are right, or I am, on this first point, the -critics are wrong about the relation of the magazine-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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_vii" id="page_vii"></a>{vii}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS.</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="2" summary="" -style="margin:auto auto;max-width:80%;"> - -<tr><th colspan="2"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> - -<tr><td><span class="smcap">Introductory</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_001">1</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" colspan="2" class="indd">Psychology defined; psychology as a natural science, its -data, <a href="#page_001">1.</a> The human mind and its environment, <a href="#page_003">3.</a> The postulate -that all consciousness has cerebral activity for its condition, -<a href="#page_005">5.</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">Sensation in General</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_009">9</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" colspan="2" class="indd">Incoming nerve-currents, <a href="#page_009">9.</a> Terminal organs, <a href="#page_010">10.</a> 'Specific -energies,' <a href="#page_011">11.</a> Sensations cognize qualities, <a href="#page_013">13.</a> Knowledge -of acquaintance and knowledge-about, <a href="#page_014">14.</a> Objects of -sensation appear in space, <a href="#page_015">15.</a> The intensity of sensations, <a href="#page_016">16.</a> -Weber's law, <a href="#page_017">17.</a> Fechner's law, <a href="#page_021">21.</a> Sensations are not -psychic compounds, <a href="#page_023">23.</a> The 'law of relativity,' <a href="#page_024">24.</a> Effects -of contrast, <a href="#page_026">26.</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">Sight</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_028">28</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" colspan="2" class="indd">The eye, <a href="#page_028">28.</a> Accommodation, <a href="#page_032">32.</a> Convergence, binocular -vision, <a href="#page_033">33.</a> Double images, <a href="#page_036">36.</a> Distance, <a href="#page_039">39.</a> Size, color, -<a href="#page_040">40.</a> After-images, <a href="#page_043">43.</a> Intensity of luminous objects, <a href="#page_045">45.</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">Hearing</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_047">47</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" colspan="2" class="indd">The ear, <a href="#page_047">47.</a> The qualities of sound, <a href="#page_043">43.</a> Pitch, <a href="#page_044">44.</a> 'Timbre,' -<a href="#page_045">45.</a> Analysis of compound air-waves, <a href="#page_056">56.</a> No fusion of -elementary sensations of sound, <a href="#page_057">57.</a> Harmony and discord, <a href="#page_058">58.</a> -Discrimination by the ear, <a href="#page_059">59.</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">Touch, the Temperature Sense, the Muscular Sense, -and Pain</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_060">60</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" colspan="2" class="indd">End-organs in the skin, <a href="#page_060">60.</a> Touch, sense of pressure, <a href="#page_060">60.</a> -Localization, <a href="#page_061">61.</a> Sensibility to temperature, <a href="#page_063">63.</a> The muscular -sense, <a href="#page_065">65.</a> Pain, <a href="#page_067">67.</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">Sensations of Motion</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_070">70</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" colspan="2" class="indd">The feeling of motion over surfaces, <a href="#page_070">70.</a> Feelings in joints, -<a href="#page_074">74.</a> The sense of translation, the sensibility of the semicircular -canals, <a href="#page_075">75.</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">The Structure of the Brain</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_078">78</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" colspan="2" class="indd">Embryological sketch, <a href="#page_078">78.</a> Practical dissection of the sheep's -brain, <a href="#page_081">81.</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">The Functions of the Brain</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_091">91</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" colspan="2" class="indd">General idea of nervous function, <a href="#page_091">91.</a> The frog's nerve-centres, -<a href="#page_092">92.</a> The pigeon's nerve-centres, <a href="#page_096">96.</a> What the hemispheres -do, <a href="#page_097">97.</a> The automaton-theory, <a href="#page_101">101.</a> The localization -of functions, <a href="#page_104">104.</a> Brain and mind have analogous 'elements,' -sensory and motor, <a href="#page_105">105.</a> The motor zone, <a href="#page_106">106.</a> Aphasia, <a href="#page_108">108.</a> -The visual region, <a href="#page_110">110.</a> Mental blindness, <a href="#page_112">112.</a> The auditory -region, mental deafness, <a href="#page_113">113.</a> Other centres, <a href="#page_116">116.</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">Some General Conditions of Neural Activity</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_120">120</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" colspan="2" class="indd">The nervous discharge, <a href="#page_120">120.</a> Reaction-time, <a href="#page_121">121.</a> Simple -reactions, <a href="#page_122">122.</a> Complicated reactions, <a href="#page_124">124.</a> The summation -of stimuli, <a href="#page_128">128.</a> Cerebral blood-supply, <a href="#page_130">130.</a> Brain-thermometry, -<a href="#page_131">131.</a> Phosphorus and thought, <a href="#page_132">132.</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">Habit</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_134">134</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" colspan="2" class="indd">Its importance, and its physical basis, <a href="#page_134">134.</a> Due to pathways -formed in the centres, <a href="#page_136">136.</a> Its practical uses, <a href="#page_138">138.</a> Concatenated -acts, <a href="#page_140">140.</a> Necessity for guiding sensations in secondarily -automatic performances, <a href="#page_141">141.</a> Pedagogical maxims concerning -the formation of habits, <a href="#page_142">142.</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">The Stream of Consciousness</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_151">151</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" colspan="2" class="indd">Analytic order of our study, <a href="#page_151">151.</a> Every state of mind forms -part of a personal consciousness, <a href="#page_152">152.</a> The same state of mind -is never had twice, <a href="#page_154">154.</a> Permanently recurring ideas are a -fiction, <a href="#page_156">156.</a> Every personal consciousness is continuous, <a href="#page_157">157.</a> -Substantive and transitive states, <a href="#page_160">160.</a> Every object appears -with a 'fringe' of relations, <a href="#page_163">163.</a> The 'topic' of the thought, -<a href="#page_167">167.</a> Thought may be rational in any sort of imagery, <a href="#page_168">168.</a> -Consciousness is always especially interested in some one part -of its object, <a href="#page_170">170.</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">The Self</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_176">176</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" colspan="2" class="indd">The Me and the I, <a href="#page_176">176.</a> The material Me, <a href="#page_177">177.</a> The social -Me, <a href="#page_179">179.</a> The spiritual Me, <a href="#page_181">181.</a> Self-appreciation, <a href="#page_182">182.</a> Self-seeking, -bodily, social, and spiritual, <a href="#page_184">184.</a> Rivalry of the Mes, -<a href="#page_186">186.</a> Their hierarchy, <a href="#page_190">190.</a> Teleology of self-interest, <a href="#page_193">193.</a> -The I, or 'pure ego,' <a href="#page_195">195.</a> Thoughts are not compounded of -'fused' sensations, <a href="#page_196">196.</a> The 'soul' as a combining medium, -<a href="#page_200">200.</a> The sense of personal identity, <a href="#page_201">201.</a> Explained by identity -of function in successive passing thoughts, <a href="#page_203">203.</a> Mutations -of the self, <a href="#page_205">205.</a> Insane delusions, <a href="#page_207">207.</a> Alternating personalities, -<a href="#page_210">210.</a> Mediumships or possessions, <a href="#page_212">212.</a> Who is the -Thinker, <a href="#page_215">215.</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">Attention</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_217">217</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" colspan="2" class="indd">The narrowness of the field of consciousness, <a href="#page_217">217.</a> Dispersed -attention, <a href="#page_218">218.</a> To how much can we attend at once? -<a href="#page_219">219.</a> The varieties of attention, <a href="#page_220">220.</a> Voluntary attention, its -momentary character, <a href="#page_224">224.</a> To keep our attention, an object -must change, <a href="#page_226">226.</a> Genius and attention, <a href="#page_227">227.</a> Attention's -physiological conditions, <a href="#page_228">228.</a> The sense-organ must be -adapted, <a href="#page_229">229.</a> The idea of the object must be aroused, <a href="#page_232">232.</a> -Pedagogic remarks, <a href="#page_236">236.</a> Attention and free-will, <a href="#page_237">237.</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">Conception</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_239">239</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" colspan="2" class="indd">Different states of mind can mean the same, <a href="#page_239">239.</a> Conceptions -of abstract, of universal, and of problematic objects, <a href="#page_240">240.</a> -The thought of 'the same' is not the same thought over -again, <a href="#page_243">243.</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2"><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">Discrimination</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_244">244</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" colspan="2" class="indd">Discrimination and association; definition of discrimination, -<a href="#page_244">244.</a> Conditions which favor it, <a href="#page_245">245.</a> The sensation of difference, -<a href="#page_246">246.</a> Differences inferred, <a href="#page_248">248.</a> The analysis of compound -objects, <a href="#page_248">248.</a> To be easily singled out, a quality should -already be separately known, <a href="#page_250">250.</a> Dissociation by varying -concomitants, <a href="#page_251">251.</a> Practice improves discrimination, <a href="#page_252">252.</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">Association</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_253">253</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" colspan="2" class="indd">The order of our ideas, <a href="#page_253">253.</a> It is determined by cerebral -laws, <a href="#page_255">255.</a> The ultimate cause of association is habit, <a href="#page_256">256.</a> -The elementary law in association, <a href="#page_257">257.</a> Indeterminateness of -its results, <a href="#page_258">258.</a> Total recall, <a href="#page_259">259.</a> Partial recall, and the law -of interest, <a href="#page_261">261.</a> Frequency, recency, vividness, and emotional -congruity tend to determine the object recalled, <a href="#page_264">264.</a> Focalized -recall, or 'association by similarity,' <a href="#page_267">267.</a> Voluntary trains of -thought, <a href="#page_271">271.</a> The solution of problems, <a href="#page_273">273.</a> Similarity no -elementary law; summary and conclusion, <a href="#page_277">277.</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">The Sense of Time</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_280">280</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" colspan="2" class="indd">The sensible present has duration, <a href="#page_280">280.</a> We have no sense -for absolutely empty time, <a href="#page_281">281.</a> We measure duration by the -events which succeed in it, <a href="#page_283">283.</a> The feeling of past time is a -present feeling, <a href="#page_285">285.</a> Due to a constant cerebral condition, <a href="#page_286">286.</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">Memory</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_287">287</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" colspan="2" class="indd">What it is, <a href="#page_287">287.</a> It involves both retention and recall, <a href="#page_289">289.</a> -Both elements explained by paths formed by habit in the brain, -<a href="#page_290">290.</a> Two conditions of a good memory, persistence and numerousness -of paths, <a href="#page_292">292.</a> Cramming, <a href="#page_295">295.</a> One's native retentiveness -is unchangeable, <a href="#page_296">296.</a> Improvement of the memory, -<a href="#page_298">298.</a> Recognition, <a href="#page_299">299.</a> Forgetting, <a href="#page_300">300.</a> Pathological -conditions, <a href="#page_301">301.</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">CHAPTER XIX.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">Imagination</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_302">302</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" colspan="2" class="indd">What it is, <a href="#page_302">302.</a> Imaginations differ from man to man; Galton's -statistics of visual imagery, <a href="#page_303">303.</a> Images of sounds, <a href="#page_306">306.</a> -Images of movement, <a href="#page_307">307.</a> Images of touch, <a href="#page_308">308.</a> Loss of -images in aphasia, <a href="#page_309">309.</a> The neural process in imagination, -<a href="#page_310">310.</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2"><a href="#CHAPTER_XX">CHAPTER XX.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">Perception</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_312">312</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" colspan="2" class="indd">Perception and sensation compared, <a href="#page_312">312.</a> The perceptive -state of mind is not a compound, <a href="#page_313">313.</a> Perception is of definite -things, <a href="#page_316">316.</a> Illusions, <a href="#page_317">317.</a> First type: inference of the more -usual object, <a href="#page_318">318.</a> Second type: inference of the object of -which our mind is full, <a href="#page_321">321.</a> 'Apperception,' <a href="#page_326">326.</a> Genius -and old-fogyism, <a href="#page_327">327.</a> The physiological process in perception, -<a href="#page_329">329.</a> Hallucinations, <a href="#page_330">330.</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">CHAPTER XXI.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">The Perception of Space</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_335">335</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" colspan="2" class="indd">The attribute of extensity belongs to all objects of sensation, -<a href="#page_335">335.</a> The construction of real space, <a href="#page_337">337.</a> 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, -<a href="#page_342">342.</a> Objects which are signs, and objects which -are realities, <a href="#page_345">345.</a> The 'third dimension,' Berkeley's theory of -distance, <a href="#page_346">346.</a> The part played by the intellect in space-perception, -<a href="#page_349">349.</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">CHAPTER XXII.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">Reasoning</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_351">351</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" colspan="2" class="indd">What it is, <a href="#page_351">351.</a> It involves the use of abstract characters, -<a href="#page_353">353.</a> What is meant by an 'essential' character, <a href="#page_354">354.</a> The -'essence' varies with the subjective interest, <a href="#page_358">358.</a> The two -great points in reasoning, 'sagacity' and 'wisdom,' <a href="#page_360">360.</a> Sagacity, -<a href="#page_362">362.</a> The help given by association by similarity, <a href="#page_364">364.</a> -The reasoning powers of brutes, <a href="#page_367">367.</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">CHAPTER XXIII.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">Consciousness and Movement</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_370">370</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" colspan="2" class="indd">All consciousness is motor, <a href="#page_370">370.</a> Three classes of movement -to which it leads, <a href="#page_372">372.</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">CHAPTER XXIV.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">Emotion</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_373">373</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" colspan="2" class="indd">Emotions compared with instincts, <a href="#page_373">373.</a> The varieties of -emotion are innumerable, <a href="#page_374">374.</a> The cause of their varieties, -<a href="#page_375">375.</a> The feeling, in the coarser emotions, results from the -bodily expression, <a href="#page_375">375.</a> This view must not be called materialistic, -<a href="#page_380">380.</a> This view explains the great variability of emotion, -<a href="#page_381">381.</a> A corollary verified, <a href="#page_382">382.</a> An objection replied to, <a href="#page_383">383.</a> -The subtler emotions, <a href="#page_384">384.</a> Description of fear, <a href="#page_385">385.</a> Genesis -of the emotional reactions, <a href="#page_386">386.</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">CHAPTER XXV.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">Instinct</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_391">391</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" colspan="2" class="indd">Its definition, <a href="#page_391">391.</a> Every instinct is an impulse, <a href="#page_392">392.</a> Instincts -are not always blind or invariable, <a href="#page_395">395.</a> Two principles -of non-uniformity, <a href="#page_398">398.</a> Enumeration of instincts in man, <a href="#page_406">406.</a> -Description of fear, <a href="#page_407">407.</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">CHAPTER XXVI.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">Will</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_415">415</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" colspan="2" class="indd">Voluntary acts, <a href="#page_415">415.</a> They are secondary performances, <a href="#page_415">415.</a> -No third kind of idea is called for, <a href="#page_418">418.</a> The motor-cue, <a href="#page_420">420.</a> -Ideo-motor action, <a href="#page_432">432.</a> Action after deliberation, <a href="#page_428">428.</a> Five -chief types of decision, <a href="#page_429">429.</a> The feeling of effort, <a href="#page_434">434.</a> -Healthiness of will, <a href="#page_435">435.</a> Unhealthiness of will, <a href="#page_436">436.</a> The -explosive will: (1) from defective inhibition, 437; (2) from -exaggerated impulsion, <a href="#page_439">439.</a> The obstructed will, <a href="#page_441">441.</a> Effort -feels like an original force, <a href="#page_442">442.</a> Pleasure and pain as -springs of action, <a href="#page_444">444.</a> What holds attention determines action, -<a href="#page_448">448.</a> Will is a relation between the mind and its -'ideas,' <a href="#page_449">449.</a> Volitional effort is effort of attention, <a href="#page_450">450.</a> The -question of free-will, <a href="#page_455">455.</a> Ethical importance of the phenomenon -of effort, <a href="#page_458">458.</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="2"><a href="#EPILOGUE">EPILOGUE.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><span class="smcap">Psychology and Philosophy</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_461">461</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" colspan="2" class="indd">What the word metaphysics means, <a href="#page_461">461.</a> Relation of consciousness -to the brain, <a href="#page_462">462.</a> The relation of states of mind to -their 'objects,' <a href="#page_464">464.</a> The changing character of consciousness, -<a href="#page_466">466.</a> States of consciousness themselves are not verifiable -facts, <a href="#page_467">467.</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_001" id="page_001"></a>{1}</span></p> - -<h1>PSYCHOLOGY.</h1> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.<br /><br /> -<small>INTRODUCTORY.</small></h2> - -<p><b>The definition of Psychology</b> may be best given in the words of Professor -Ladd, as the <i>description and explanation of states of consciousness as -such</i>. By states of consciousness 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 consequences, so far as these can be -ascertained.</p> - -<p><b>Psychology is to be treated as a natural science</b> in this book. This -requires a word of commentary. Most thinkers 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 convenience' sake, -until with later growth they may run into one body of Truth. These -provisional 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_002" id="page_002"></a>{2}</span> to scrutinize their significance and truth. All the -natural sciences, for example, in spite of the fact that farther -reflection 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 distance, etc., uncritically; -Chemistry uncritically adopts all the data of Physics; and Physiology -adopts those of Chemistry. Psychology as a natural science deals with -things in the same partial and provisional way. In addition to the -'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—</p> - -<p>1. <i>Thoughts and feelings</i>, or whatever other names transitory <i>states -of consciousness</i> may be known by.</p> - -<p>2. <i>Knowledge</i>, 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 of mind may be those of other people, or of the thinker -himself at some other time.</p> - -<p>How one thing <i>can</i> 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 <i>full</i> 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 together, which will work in with the larger truth and be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_003" id="page_003"></a>{3}</span> -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 ulterior 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 -necessary. 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 shelfful could not be written at all.</p> - -<p>Let it also be added that <b>the human mind is all that can be touched upon</b> -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.</p> - -<p><b>Mental facts cannot be properly studied apart from the physical -environment of which they take cognizance.</b> 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 remembering, imagining, reasoning, willing, etc., were explained, -almost without reference to the peculiarities of the world with which -these activities deal. But the richer insight of modern days perceives -that our inner faculties are <i>adapted</i> in advance 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 -properties 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 emotions<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_004" id="page_004"></a>{4}</span> 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 -involuntary fear; poisonous things with distaste; indispensable 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 speculations, which, though -they cannot so far be said to be conclusive, have at least refreshed and -enriched the whole subject, and brought all sorts of new questions to -the light.</p> - -<p>The chief result of all this more modern view is the gradually growing -conviction that <b>mental life is primarily teleological</b>; that is to say, -that our various ways of feeling and thinking have grown to be what they -are because of their utility in shaping our <i>reactions</i> 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 adjustment of inner to outer -relations.' The adjustment is to immediately present objects in lower -animals and in 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.</p> - -<p>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. Psychology, 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_005" id="page_005"></a>{5}</span> the study of the useless is made over to 'Æsthetics.' -Æsthetics and Psychiatry will receive no special notice in this book.</p> - -<p><b>All mental states</b> (no matter what their character as regards utility may -be) <b>are followed by bodily activity of some sort.</b> They lead to -inconspicuous changes in breathing, circulation, general muscular -tension, and glandular or other visceral activity, even if they do not -lead to conspicuous 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, <i>all</i> states of mind, even -mere thoughts and feelings, are <i>motor</i> 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.</p> - -<p>It was said above that the 'conditions' of states of consciousness must -be studied. <b>The immediate condition of a state of consciousness is an -activity of some sort in the cerebral hemispheres.</b> 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 consider 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_006" id="page_006"></a>{6}</span> 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 -determinate sorts, to which we shall revert again under the title of -<i>aphasias</i>. 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.</p> - -<p><b>This conception is the 'working hypothesis' which underlies all the -'physiological psychology' of recent years</b>, 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 therefore assume without scruple at the outset -that the uniform correlation of brain-states with mind-states is a law -of nature. 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 unjustifiable <i>a priori</i> materialism. -In one sense it doubtless is materialism: it puts the Higher at the -mercy of the Lower. But although we affirm that the <i>coming to pass</i> 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 <i>nature</i> 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_007" id="page_007"></a>{7}</span> 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 postulate 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 corrects it by going too far the other way. At present Psychology -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 practically necessary and indispensable their study -from such a provisional point of view may be.</p> - -<p><b>The Divisions of Psychology.</b>—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 preservative 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—</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td>1) The fibres which carry currents in;</td></tr> -<tr><td>2) The organs of central redirection of them; and</td></tr> -<tr><td>3) The fibres which carry them out.</td></tr> -</table> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_008" id="page_008"></a>{8}</span> scheme, and treat successively of three -fundamental conscious 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 prevail over whatever objections may be urged.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_009" id="page_009"></a>{9}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.<br /><br /> -<small>SENSATION IN GENERAL.</small></h2> - -<p><b>Incoming nerve-currents are the only agents which normally affect the -brain.</b> 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 <i>happen</i> to the brain are:</p> - -<p>1) The dullest and feeblest mechanical jars;</p> - -<p>2) Changes in the quantity and quality of the blood-supply; and</p> - -<p>3) Currents running in through the so-called afferent or centripetal -nerves.</p> - -<p>The mechanical jars are usually ineffective; the effects of the -blood-changes are usually transient; the nerve-currents, 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, -modifying its action throughout all future time.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_010" id="page_010"></a>{10}</span></p> - -<p><b>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.</b> Usually it is insensible to other forces: thus the -optic nerves 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 -enormous gaps. There is no reason to suppose that the order of -vibrations in the outer world is anything like as interrupted as the -order of our sensations. Between the quickest audible air-waves (40,000 -vibrations a second at the outside) and the slowest sensible heat-waves -(which number probably billions), Nature must somewhere have realized -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 <i>started</i> by one order of outer vibrations -in the retina, and in the ear, for example, by another. This is due to -the different <i>terminal organs</i> 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.<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> -The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_011" id="page_011"></a>{11}</span> fibres are mere transmitters; the terminal organs are so many -imperfect telephones into which the material world speaks, and each of -which takes up but a portion of what it says; the brain-cells at the -fibres' central end are as many others at which the mind listens to the -far-off call.</p> - -<p><b>The 'Specific Energies' of the Various Parts of the Brain.</b>—To a certain -extent anatomists have traced definitely 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.<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> It -will be shown on a later page that the consciousness which accompanies -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 -stimulation which its afferent fibres bring to it, in a manner with -which a peculiar quality of feeling seems invariably correlated. This is -what has been called the law of 'specific energies' in the nervous -system. Of course we are without even a conjectural explanation of the -<i>ground</i> of such a law. Psychologists (as Lewes, Wundt, Rosenthal, -Goldscheider, etc.) have debated a good deal as to whether the specific -quality of the feeling depends solely on the <i>place</i> stimulated in the -cortex, or on the <i>sort of current</i> which the nerve pours in. Doubtless -the sort of outer force habitually 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-modified -fibre pours into the cortical centre modifies the centre. The -modification of the centre in turn (though no man<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_012" id="page_012"></a>{12}</span> can guess how or why) -seems to modify the resultant consciousness. But these adaptive -modifications must be excessively slow; and as matters actually stand in -any adult individual, it is safe to say that, more than anything else, -the <i>place</i> 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 operations 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 particular -end-organs which those things impress. We <i>see</i> the sunshine and the -fire, simply 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 -conductor's movements. Such hypotheses as these form a good training for -neophytes in the idealistic philosophy!</p> - -<p><b>Sensation distinguished from Perception.</b>—It is impossible rigorously to -<i>define</i> a sensation; and in the actual life of consciousness -sensations, popularly so called, and perceptions merge into each other -by insensible degrees. All we can say is that <i>what we mean by -sensations are</i> <small>FIRST</small> <i>things in the way of consciousness</i>. They are the -<i>immediate</i> results upon consciousness of nerve-currents as they enter -the brain, and before they have awakened any suggestions or associations -with past experience. But it is obvious that <i>such immediate sensations -can only be realized in the earliest days of life</i>. 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-existent<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_013" id="page_013"></a>{13}</span>. 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 impression which a sense-organ transmits -produces a cerebral reaction in which the awakened vestige of the last -impression plays its part. Another sort of feeling and a higher grade of -cognition are the consequence. 'Ideas' <i>about</i> the object mingle with -the awareness of its mere sensible presence, we name it, class it, -compare it, utter propositions concerning it, and the complication of -the possible consciousness which an incoming current may arouse, goes on -increasing to the end of life. In general, this higher consciousness -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 -attention is entirely dispersed.</p> - -<p><b>Sensations are cognitive.</b> A sensation is thus an abstraction seldom -realized by itself; and the object which a sensation knows is an -abstract object which cannot exist alone. <i>'Sensible qualities' are the -objects of sensation.</i> The sensations of the eye are aware of the -<i>colors</i> of things, those of the ear are acquainted with their <i>sounds</i>; -those of the skin feel their tangible <i>heaviness</i>, <i>sharpness</i>, <i>warmth</i> -or <i>coldness</i>, etc., etc. From all the organs of the body currents may -come which reveal to us the quality of <i>pain</i>, and to a certain extent -that of <i>pleasure</i>.</p> - -<p>Such qualities as <i>stickiness</i>, <i>roughness</i>, etc., are supposed to be -felt through the coöperation of muscular sensations with those of the -skin. The geometrical qualities of things, on the other hand, their -<i>shapes</i>, <i>bignesses</i>, <i>distances</i>, etc. (so far as we discriminate and -identify them), are by most psychologists supposed to be impossible -without the evocation of memories from the past; and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_014" id="page_014"></a>{14}</span> cognition of -these attributes is thus considered to exceed the power of sensation -pure and simple.</p> - -<p><b>'Knowledge of Acquaintance' and 'Knowledge about.'</b>—Sensation, thus -considered, differs from perception only in the extreme simplicity of -its object or content. Its object, being a simple quality, is sensibly -<i>homogeneous</i>; and its function is that of mere <i>acquaintance</i> with this -homogeneous seeming fact. Perception's function, on the other hand, is -that of knowing something <i>about</i> the fact. But we must know <i>what</i> fact -we mean, all the while, and the various <i>whats</i> are what sensations -give. Our earliest thoughts are almost exclusively sensational. They -give us a set of <i>whats</i>, or <i>thats</i>, or <i>its</i>; of subjects of discourse -in other words, with their relations not yet brought out. The first time -we see <i>light</i>, in Condillac's phrase we <i>are</i> 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 subject would lack no essential feature so long as our memory -remained. In training-institutions for the blind they teach the pupils -as much <i>about</i> 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 a knowledge -which the least instructed seeing baby has. They can never show him -<i>what</i> light is in its '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.</p> - -<p><b>Sensations distinguished from Images.</b>—Both sensation and perception, -for all their difference, are yet alike in that their objects appear -<i>vivid</i>, <i>lively</i>, and <i>present</i>. Objects merely <i>thought of</i>, -<i>recollected</i>, or <i>imagined</i>, on the contrary, are relatively faint and -devoid of this pungency, or tang, this quality of <i>real presence</i> which -the objects of sensation<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_015" id="page_015"></a>{15}</span> possess. Now the cortical brain-processes to -which sensations 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 profounder degree of -disintegration, perhaps—the quality of vividness, presence, or reality -in the object of the resultant consciousness seems correlated.</p> - -<p><b>The Exteriority of Objects of Sensation.</b>—Every thing or quality felt is -felt in outer space. It is impossible to conceive a brightness or a -color otherwise than as extended and outside of the body. Sounds also -appear in space. Contacts are against the body's surface; and pains -always occupy some organ. An opinion which has had much currency in -psychology is that sensible qualities are first apprehended as <i>in the -mind itself</i>, and then 'projected' from it, or 'extradited,' by a -secondary intellectual or super-sensational 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 <i>is</i> for him the -outer universe. And the universe which he comes to know in later life is -nothing but an amplification 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 consciousness of <i>something there</i>, a mere -<i>this</i> as yet (or something for which even the term <i>this</i> would perhaps -be too discriminative, and the intellectual acknowledgment of which -would be better expressed by the bare interjection 'lo!'), the infant -encounters an object in which (though it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_016" id="page_016"></a>{16}</span> be given in a pure sensation) -all the 'categories of the understanding' are contained. <i>It has -externality, objectivity, unity, substantiality, causality, in the full -sense in which any later object or system of objects has these things.</i> -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.</p> - -<p>The physiological condition of this first sensible experience 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 -coöperation of numerous organs and be a consciousness 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, potentially 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.</p> - -<p><b>The Intensity of Sensations.</b>—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 stimulus is required to produce any sensation of its -presence at all. This is called by Fechner the law of the -<i>threshold</i>—something must be stepped over before the object can gain -entrance to the mind. An impression just above the threshold is called -the <i>minimum visibile</i>, <i>audibile</i>, etc.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_017" id="page_017"></a>{17}</span> From this point onwards, as -the impressing force increases, the sensation increases also, though at -a slower rate, until at last an <i>acme</i> of the sensation is reached which -no increase in the stimulus can make sensibly more great. Usually, -before the acme, <i>pain</i> begins to mix with the specific character 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 agreeable than -otherwise in their very lowest degrees. A faintly bitter taste, or -putrid smell, may at least be <i>interesting</i>.</p> - -<p><a name="ill_1" id="ill_1"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_017_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_017_sml.png" width="433" height="187" alt="Image unavailable: Fig. 1." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Fig.</span> 1.</span> -</div> - -<p><b>Weber's Law.</b>—I said that the intensity of the sensation increases by -slower steps than those by which its exciting 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 0 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 0 there will be no -sensation; at 1 there will be a sensation represented by the length of -the vertical <i>S</i>¹—1, at 2 the sensation will be represented by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_018" id="page_018"></a>{18}</span> -<i>S</i>²—2, and so on. The line of <i>S</i>'s will rise evenly because 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.</p> - -<p><a name="ill_2" id="ill_2"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_018_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_018_sml.png" width="492" height="192" alt="Image unavailable: Fig. 2." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Fig.</span> 2.</span> -</div> - -<p><a href="#ill_2">Fig. 2</a> represents this actual state of things, 0 being the zero-point of -the stimulus, and conscious sensation, represented by the curved line, -not beginning until the '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 -<i>Weber's law</i>, 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.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>"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 -circulating 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. The stars<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_019" id="page_019"></a>{19}</span> 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 -immediately felt; whilst if it be added to a hundredweight, we are -not aware of the difference at all....</p> - -<p>"The sound of the clock, the light of the stars, the pressure of -the pound, these are all <i>stimuli</i> to our senses, and stimuli whose -outward amount remains the same. What then do these experiences -teach? Evidently nothing but this, that one and the same stimulus, -according to the 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 alone, 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 poundweight 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.</p> - -<p>"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 -preëxisting stimulation of the organ is small, but must be so much -the larger, the greater the preëxisting 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.</p> - -<p>"How to execute these measurements, however, is something which -daily experience suggests. To measure the strength of sensations -is, as we saw, impossible; we can only measure the difference of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_020" id="page_020"></a>{20}</span> -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 -<i>see how much we can increase the stimulus without making the -sensation seem to change</i>. 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 -<i>more</i>. 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 -perceived 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...."</p></div> - -<p>Observations according to this method are particularly easy to make in -the spheres of light, sound, and pressure. Beginning with the latter -case,</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>"We find a surprisingly simple result. <i>The barely sensible -addition to the original weight must stand exactly in the same -proportion to it</i>, be the <i>same fraction</i> 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 ⅓; that is, no matter what pressure there may -already be made upon the skin, an increase or a diminution of the -pressure will be <i>felt</i>, as soon as the added or subtracted weight -amounts to one third of the weight originally there."</p></div> - -<p>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:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>"So we have found that all the senses whose stimuli we are enabled -to measure accurately, obey a uniform law. However various may be -their several delicacies of discrimination, <i>this</i> holds true of -all, that <i>the increase of the stimulus necessary to produce an -increase<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_021" id="page_021"></a>{21}</span> of the sensation bears a constant ratio to the total -stimulus</i>. The figures which express this ratio in the several -senses may be shown thus in tabular form:</p></div> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td align="left">Sensation of light</td><td align="left"> <sup>1</sup>/<sub>100</sub></td></tr> -<tr><td align="left">Muscular sensation</td><td align="left"> <sup>1</sup>/<sub>17</sub></td></tr> -<tr><td align="left">Feeling of pressure, </td><td align="left" rowspan="3" class="bl" -valign="middle">—<sup>1</sup>/<sub>3</sub></td></tr> -<tr><td><span class="ditto">"</span><span class="ditto">"</span> warmth,</td></tr> -<tr><td><span class="ditto">"</span> <span class="ditto">"</span> sound,</td></tr> -</table> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>"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."<a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a></p></div> - -<p><b>Fechner's Law.</b>—Another way of expressing Weber's law is to say that to -get equal positive additions to the sensation, one must make equal -<i>relative</i> additions to the stimulus. 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 <i>unit</i> of sensation, and all these -units were treated by him as equal, in spite of the fact that <i>equally -perceptible</i> increments need by no means appear <i>equally big</i> 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 perceptible addition to a pound. Fechner ignored -this fact. He considered that if <i>n</i> distinct perceptible steps of -increase might be passed through in gradually increasing a stimulus from -the threshold-value till the intensity <i>s</i> was felt, then the sensation -of <i>s</i> was composed of <i>n</i> units, which were of the same value all along -the line.<a name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> Sensations once<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_022" id="page_022"></a>{22}</span> represented by numbers, psychology may -become, according to Fechner, an 'exact' science, susceptible of -mathematical treatment. His general formula for getting at the number of -units in any sensation is <i>S</i> = <i>C</i> log <i>R</i>, where <i>S</i> stands for the -sensation, <i>R</i> for the stimulus numerically estimated, and <i>C</i> 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 -<a href="#ill_2">Fig. 2</a>, if it were a correctly drawn logarithmic curve, with the -thresholds rightly plotted out from experiments.</p> - -<p>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 statistical methods. Weber's law, as will appear -when we take the senses, <i>seriatim</i>, is only approximately verified. The -discussion of statistical methods is necessitated by the extraordinary -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 -impossible to tell just what the least discernible increment of the -sensation is without taking the average of a large number of -appreciations. These <i>accidental errors</i> are as likely to increase as to -diminish our sensibility, and are eliminated in such an average, for -those above and those below<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_023" id="page_023"></a>{23}</span> the line then neutralize each other in the -sum, and the normal 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 average -all have their difficulties and their snares, and controversy 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 judgments.</p> - -<p><b>Sensations are not compounds.</b> The fundamental objection to Fechner's -whole attempt seems to be this, that although the outer <i>causes</i> of our -sensations may have many parts, every distinguishable degree, as well as -every distinguishable quality, of the <i>sensation itself</i> appears to be a -unique fact of consciousness. Each sensation is a complete integer. "A -strong one," as Dr. Münsterberg 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 difference -between strong and weak sonorous, luminous, or thermic 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 sensation -is not <i>contained</i>, it is unpsychological to say that the former differs -from the latter by a certain <i>increment</i>."<a name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> 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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_024" id="page_024"></a>{24}</span></p> - -<p>There is no inconsistency between this statement and the fact that, -starting with a weak sensation and increasing it, we feel 'more,' -'more,' 'more,' as the increase goes on. It is not more of the same -<i>stuff</i> added, so to speak; but it is more and more <i>difference</i>, more -and more <i>distance</i>, 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 <i>differences themselves -differ</i>—there are <i>various directions of difference</i>; 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.</p> - -<p><b>The so-called 'Law of Relativity.'</b>—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! <i>Ad plura intentus minus est ad singula -sensus</i>, 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.</p> - -<p>This particular idea may be taken for what it is worth.<a name="FNanchor_7_7" id="FNanchor_7_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a> Meanwhile it -is an undoubted general fact that the psychical<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_025" id="page_025"></a>{25}</span> effect of incoming -currents does depend on what other currents may be simultaneously -pouring in. Not only the <i>perceptibility</i> of the object which the -current brings before the mind, but the <i>quality</i> of it, is changed by -the other currents. "Simultaneous<a name="FNanchor_8_8" id="FNanchor_8_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a> 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 mystery 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.</p> - -<p>Examples of the modification in question are easy to find.<a name="FNanchor_9_9" id="FNanchor_9_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a> 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 certain heat. More skin immersed makes the heat much -more intense, although of course the water's heat is the same. Similarly -there is a <i>chromatic minimum</i> 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 influence 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_026" id="page_026"></a>{26}</span> when the tuning-fork was heard, etc., etc. The most -familiar examples of this sort of thing seem to be the increase of -<i>pain</i> by noise or light, and the increase of <i>nausea</i> by all -concomitant sensations.</p> - -<p><b>Effects of Contrast.</b>—The best-known examples of the way in which one -nerve-current modifies another are the phenomena of what is known as -'simultaneous color-contrast.' 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 transparent -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 <i>complementary</i> 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 <i>thing</i>, in the blue -light of a clear sky, in the reddish-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 <i>adds</i> -out of its own knowledge to the appearance, thereby correcting 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 <i>over</i> the gray patch. But a patch to <i>look</i> -gray through such a colored film would have really to <i>be</i> of the -complementary color to the film. Therefore it <i>is</i> of the complementary -color, we think, and proceed to <i>see</i> it of that color.</p> - -<p>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 sensory nerve-currents run in together, the effect of each -on<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_027" id="page_027"></a>{27}</span> consciousness is different from that which it would be if they ran -in separately.</p> - -<p>'<i>Successive contrast</i>' differs from the simultaneous variety, and is -supposed to be due to fatigue. The facts will be noticed under the head -of 'after-images,' in the section 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.</p> - -<p>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 various senses in detail.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_028" id="page_028"></a>{28}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.<br /><br /> -<small>SIGHT.</small></h2> - -<p><b>The Eye's Structure</b> is described in all the books on anatomy. I will -only mention the few points which concern the psychologist.<a name="FNanchor_10_10" id="FNanchor_10_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a> It is a -flattish sphere formed by a tough<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_029" id="page_029"></a>{29}</span></p> - -<p><a name="ill_3" id="ill_3"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_029_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_029_sml.png" width="467" height="525" alt="Image unavailable: Fig. 3." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Fig.</span> 3.</span> -</div> - -<p class="nind">white membrane (the sclerotic), which encloses a nervous surface and -certain refracting media (lens and 'humors') which cast a picture of the -outer world thereon. It is in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_030" id="page_030"></a>{30}</span> fact a little camera obscura, the -essential part of which is the sensitive plate.</p> - -<p><a name="ill_4" id="ill_4"></a></p> - -<div class="figleft" style="width: 152px;"> -<a href="images/i_030a_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_030a_sml.png" width="152" height="663" alt="Image unavailable: Fig. 4." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Fig.</span> 4.</span> -</div> - -<p><a name="ill_5" id="ill_5"></a></p> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 299px;"> -<a href="images/i_030b_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_030b_sml.png" width="299" height="279" alt="Image unavailable: Fig. 5.—Scheme of retinal fibres, after Küss. Nop. optic nerve; -S, sclerotic; Ch, choroid; R, retina; P, papilla (blind -spot); F, fovea. -" /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Fig.</span> 5.—Scheme of retinal fibres, after Küss. Nop. optic nerve; -S, sclerotic; Ch, choroid; R, retina; P, papilla (blind -spot); F, fovea. -</span> -</div> - -<p><b>The retina</b> is what corresponds to this plate. The optic nerve pierces -the sclerotic shell and spreads its fibres radially in every direction -over its inside, forming a thin translucent film (see <a href="#ill_3">Fig. 3</a>, <i>Ret.</i>). -The fibres pass into a complicated apparatus of cells, granules, and -branches (<a href="#ill_4">Fig. 4</a>), and finally end in the so-called rods and cones (<a href="#ill_4">Fig. 4</a>,—9), which are the specific organs for taking up the influence of the -waves of light. Strange to say, these end-organs are not pointed forward -towards the light as it streams through the pupil, but backwards towards -the sclerotic membrane itself, so that the light-waves traverse the -translucent nerve-fibres, and the cellular and granular layers of the -retina, before they touch the rods and cones themselves. (See <a href="#ill_5">Fig. 5.</a>)<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_031" id="page_031"></a>{31}</span></p> - -<p><b>The Blind Spot.</b>—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 beginning 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 <a href="#ill_6">Fig. 6</a>, holding the book -vertically in front of the face, and moving 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 measurement that -this blind spot lies where the optic nerve enters.</p> - -<p><a name="ill_6" id="ill_6"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_031_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_031_sml.png" width="418" height="120" alt="Image unavailable: Fig. 6." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Fig.</span> 6.</span> -</div> - -<p><b>The Fovea.</b>—Outside of the blind spot the sensibility of the retina -varies. It is greatest at the <i>fovea</i>, a little pit lying outwardly from -the entrance of the optic nerve, and round which the radiating -nerve-fibres bend without passing 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.</p> - -<p>In the normal use of our two eyes, the eyeballs are rotated so as to -cause the two images of any object which catches the attention to fall -on the two foveæ, as the spots of acutest vision. This happens -involuntarily, as any one may observe. In fact, it is almost impossible -<i>not</i> to 'turn the eyes,' the moment any peripherally lying object does -catch our attention, the turning of the eyes being only<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_032" id="page_032"></a>{32}</span> another name -for such rotation of the eyeballs as will bring the foveæ under the -object's image.</p> - -<p><a name="ill_7" id="ill_7"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_032_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_032_sml.png" width="460" height="179" alt="Image unavailable: Fig. 7." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Fig.</span> 7.</span> -</div> - -<p><b>Accommodation.</b>—The <i>focussing</i> or <i>sharpening</i> of the image is -performed by a special apparatus. In every camera, the farther the -object is from the eye the farther forward, 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 recedes. 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 rendering 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_033" id="page_033"></a>{33}</span> the more <i>active</i> -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.</p> - -<p><b>Convergence accompanies accommodation.</b> The two eyes act as one organ; -that is, when an object catches the attention, both eyeballs turn so -that its images may fall on the foveæ. 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 naturally 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 accommodation, and to accommodate with parallel axes of vision. -These are accomplishments which the student of psychological optics will -find most useful.</p> - -<p><b>Single Vision by the two Retinæ.</b>—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 <i>can</i> see double under certain -conditions, whereas under no conditions can we hear or smell double. The -main conditions of single vision can be simply expressed.</p> - -<p>In the first place, impressions on the two foveæ 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 foveæ of -the two converging eyeballs will necessarily always appear 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 foveæ, 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_034" id="page_034"></a>{34}</span> 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 opposite both eyes -being seen in the same place. But in addition to the combined spot, each -eye sees also the spot opposite the <i>other</i> 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 <i>three</i> spots, of which the -middle one is seen by both eyes, and is flanked by two 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 <i>other</i> 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.<a name="FNanchor_11_11" id="FNanchor_11_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a></p> - -<p><a name="ill_8" id="ill_8"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_034_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_034_sml.png" width="396" height="143" alt="Image unavailable: Fig. 8." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Fig.</span> 8.</span> -</div> - -<p>If, instead of two identical spots, we use two different figures, or two -differently colored spots, as objects for the two foveæ to look at, they -still are seen in the <i>same place</i>; but since they cannot appear as a -single object, they appear there <i>alternately</i> displacing each other -from the view. This is the phenomenon called <i>retinal rivalry</i>.</p> - -<p>As regards the parts of the retinæ round about the foveæ, a similar -correspondence obtains. Any impression on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_035" id="page_035"></a>{35}</span> 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 <i>similar</i> quadrant of the other; and within two -similar quadrants, <i>al</i> and <i>ar</i> for example, there should, if the -correspondence were carried out in detail, 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 circumstances the parallel light-rays -coming from each star must impinge on points within either retina which -<i>are</i> geometrically 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.</p> - -<p><a name="ill_9" id="ill_9"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_035_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_035_sml.png" width="390" height="126" alt="Image unavailable: Fig. 9." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Fig.</span> 9.</span> -</div> - -<p>Here again retinal rivalry occurs if the pictures differ. And it must be -noted that when the experiment is performed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_036" id="page_036"></a>{36}</span> for the first time the -combined picture is always far from sharp. This is due to the difficulty -mentioned on <a href="#page_033">p. 33</a>, 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.</p> - -<p><a name="ill_10" id="ill_10"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_036_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_036_sml.png" width="359" height="388" alt="Image unavailable: Fig. 10." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Fig.</span> 10.</span> -</div> - -<p><b>Double Images.</b>—Now it is an immediate consequence of the law of -identical location of images falling on geometrically similar points -that <i>images which fall upon geometrically</i> <small>DISPARATE</small> <i>points of the two -retinæ should be seen in</i> <small>DISPARATE</small> <i>directions, and that their objects -should consequently appear in</i> <small>TWO</small> <i>places, or</i> <small>LOOK DOUBLE</small>. Take the -parallel rays from a star falling upon two eyes which converge upon a -near object, <i>O</i>, instead of being parallel as in the previously -instanced case. The two foveæ will receive the images of <i>O</i>, which -therefore will look single. If then <i>SL</i> and <i>SR</i> in Fig. 10 be the -parallel rays, each of them will fall upon the nasal half of the retina<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_037" id="page_037"></a>{37}</span> -which it strikes. But the two nasal halves are disparate, geometrically -<i>symmetrical</i>, not geometrically <i>similar</i>. The star's image on the left -eye will therefore appear as if lying to the left of <i>O</i>; its image on -the right eye will appear to the right of this point. The star will, in -short, be seen double—'homonymously' double.</p> - -<p>Conversely, if the star be looked at directly with parallel axes, any -near object like <i>O</i> will be seen double, because its images will affect -the outer or cheek halves of the two retinæ, instead of one outer and -one nasal half. The position 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.'</p> - -<p>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 similar 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.</p> - -<p>Careful experiments made by many observers according to the so-called -haploscopic method confirm this law, and show that <i>corresponding -points, of single visual direction</i>, exist upon the two retinæ. For the -detail of these one must consult the special treatises.</p> - -<p><b>Vision of Solidity.</b>—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 innumerable double images which objects nearer and -farther than the point looked at must be constantly producing. The -answer to this is that <i>we have trained ourselves to habits of -inattention</i> in regard to double images. So far as things interest us we -turn our foveæ 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_038" id="page_038"></a>{38}</span> 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.</p> - -<p><a name="ill_11" id="ill_11"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_038a_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_038a_sml.png" width="366" height="154" alt="Image unavailable: Fig. 11." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Fig.</span> 11.</span> -</div> - -<p>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 <a href="#ill_11">Fig. 11.</a> Suppose we look at -the dots in the middle of the lines <i>a</i> and <i>b</i> just as we looked at the -spots in <a href="#ill_8">Fig. 8.</a> 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 (<a href="#ill_12">Fig. 12</a>):</p> - -<p><a name="ill_12" id="ill_12"></a></p> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 65px;"> -<a href="images/i_038c_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_038c_sml.png" width="65" height="147" alt="Image unavailable: Fig. 12." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Fig.</span> 12.</span> -</div> - -<p>The moment we attend to the tops of these lines, however, our foveæ tend -to abandon the dots and to move upwards, and in doing so, to converge -somewhat, following the lines, which then appear coalescing at the top -as in <a href="#ill_13">Fig. 13.</a></p> - -<p><a name="ill_13" id="ill_13"></a> <a name="ill_14" id="ill_14"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_038b_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_038b_sml.png" width="218" height="145" alt="Image unavailable: Fig. 13." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Fig</span>. 13. -<span style="margin-left: 6em;"><span class="smcap">Fig</span>. 14.</span></span> -</div> - -<p>If we think of the bottom, the eyes descend and diverge, and what we see -is <a href="#ill_14">Fig. 14.</a></p> - -<p>Running our eyes up and down the lines makes them converge and diverge -just as they would were they running<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_039" id="page_039"></a>{39}</span> 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 bottom—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 <i>would</i> draw the foveæ divergently apart makes us see -those ends farther, the slight disparity in the top ends which <i>would</i> -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.<a name="FNanchor_12_12" id="FNanchor_12_12"></a><a href="#Footnote_12_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a></p> - -<p><b>The Perception of Distance.</b>—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.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>"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 -distance 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 -tolerably near points. When objects are<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_040" id="page_040"></a>{40}</span> farther off, their -apparent size, and the modifications their retinal images -experience by aërial 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."<a name="FNanchor_13_13" id="FNanchor_13_13"></a><a href="#Footnote_13_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a></p></div> - -<p>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 <i>signs</i> 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 distant, and draws near -as the head erects itself again.</p> - -<p><b>The Perception of Size.</b>—"The dimensions of the retinal image determine -primarily the sensations on which conclusions 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 retinal 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 represented."<a name="FNanchor_14_14" id="FNanchor_14_14"></a><a href="#Footnote_14_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a></p> - -<p><b>Sensations of Color.</b>—The system of colors is a very complex thing. If -one take any color, say green, one can pass<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_041" id="page_041"></a>{41}</span> 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 -<a href="#ill_15">Fig. 15.</a> It is a merely classificatory diagram based on degrees of -difference simply felt, and has no physical significance. 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 pure color towards black as well as towards white. The best -way is to put black into the third dimension, beneath the paper, <i>e.g.</i>, -as is shown perspectively in <a href="#ill_16">Fig. 16</a>, 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.</p> - -<p><a name="ill_15" id="ill_15"></a></p> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 197px;"> -<a href="images/i_041_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_041_sml.png" width="197" height="195" alt="Image unavailable: Fig. 15." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Fig.</span> 15.</span> -</div> - -<p><b>Color-mixture.</b>—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 <i>complementaries</i>. Such are spectral red and green-blue, spectral -yellow and indigo-blue. Green and purple, again, are complementaries. -All<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_042" id="page_042"></a>{42}</span> the spectral colors added together also make white light, such as -we daily experience in the sunshine. Furthermore, 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.<a name="FNanchor_15_15" id="FNanchor_15_15"></a><a href="#Footnote_15_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</a></p> - -<p><a name="ill_16" id="ill_16"></a></p> - -<div class="figleft" style="width: 218px;"> -<a href="images/i_042_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_042_sml.png" width="218" height="523" alt="Image unavailable: Fig. 16 (after Ziehen)." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Fig.</span> 16 (after Ziehen).</span> -</div> - -<p>From all this it follows that there is no particular congruence between -our system of color-sensations and the physical stimuli which excite -them. Each color-feeling is a 'specific energy' (<a href="#page_011">p. 11</a>) which many -different physical causes may arouse. Helmholtz, Hering, and others have -sought to simplify the tangle of the facts, by physiological hypotheses -which, differing much in detail, agree in principle, since they all -postulate a limited number of elementary retinal processes to which, -when excited singly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_043" id="page_043"></a>{43}</span> 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 spoken of as if they were compounded of the -primary sensations. This is a great mistake. The <i>sensations as such</i> -are not compounded—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 consult the physiological books.</p> - -<p><b>The Duration of Luminous Sensations.</b>—"This is greater than that of the -stimulus, a fact taken advantage of in making fireworks: an ascending -rocket produces the sensation 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_044" id="page_044"></a>{44}</span> much light as if that were the case, and is unable to distinguish -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."<a name="FNanchor_16_16" id="FNanchor_16_16"></a><a href="#Footnote_16_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</a> 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.</p> - -<p><b>Negative after-images</b> are due to more complex conditions, in which -fatigue of the retina is usually supposed to play the chief part.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>"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 receiving 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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_045" id="page_045"></a>{45}</span> 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, render -dull, or in popular phrase 'kill,' one another.</p> - -<p>"If we fix steadily for thirty seconds a point between two white -squares about 4 mm. (⅙ 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 -<i>corona</i>, 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 <i>contrast</i> to produce the error of judgment; and -from this and other experiments 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."<a name="FNanchor_17_17" id="FNanchor_17_17"></a><a href="#Footnote_17_17" class="fnanchor">[17]</a></p></div> - -<p>This is one of the facts referred to on <a href="#page_027">p. 27</a> which have made Hering -reject the psychological explanation of simultaneous contrast.</p> - -<p><b>The Intensity of Luminous Objects.</b>—Black is an optical sensation. We -have no black except in the field of view;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_046" id="page_046"></a>{46}</span> we do not, for instance, see -black out of our stomach or out of the palm of our hand. <i>Pure</i> black -is, however, only an 'abstract idea,' for the retina itself (even in -complete objective 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 and 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 <a href="#page_018">p. 18</a>, more slowly -than the stimulus. The latest numerical determinations, by König and -Brodhun, were applied to six different colors and ran from an intensity -arbitrarily called 1 to one which was 100,000 times as great. From -intensity 2000 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.</p> - -<p>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 sensation white with the original color-sensation. -It is no mixing of two sensations, but the replacement of one sensation -by another, in consequence of a changed neural process.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_047" id="page_047"></a>{47}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br /><br /> -<small>HEARING.<a name="FNanchor_18_18" id="FNanchor_18_18"></a><a href="#Footnote_18_18" class="fnanchor">[18]</a></small></h2> - -<p><a name="ill_17" id="ill_17"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width:429px;"> -<a href="images/i_047_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_047_sml.png" width="429" height="331" alt="Image unavailable: Fig. 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 Eustachian tube; V, vestibule; B, a -semicircular canal; S, the cochlea; Vt, scala vestibuli; Pt, -scala tympani; A, auditory nerve." /></a> -<br /> -<div class="caption"> - -<div class="blockquotcap"><p><span class="smcap">Fig.</span> 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 Eustachian tube; V, vestibule; B, a -semicircular canal; S, the cochlea; Vt, scala vestibuli; Pt, -scala tympani; A, auditory nerve.</p></div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><b>The Ear.</b>—"The auditory organ in man consists of three portions, known -respectively as the <i>external ear</i>, the <i>middle ear</i> or <i>tympanum</i>, and -the <i>internal ear</i> or <i>labyrinth</i>; 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 <i>concha</i>, <i>M</i>, <a href="#ill_17">Fig. 17</a>,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_048" id="page_048"></a>{48}</span> and a -passage leading in from it, the <i>external auditory meatus</i>, <i>G</i>. This -passage is closed at its inner end by the <i>tympanic</i> or <i>drum membrane</i>, -<i>T</i>. It is lined by skin, through which numerous small glands, secreting -the <i>wax</i> of the ear, open.</p> - -<p><a name="ill_18" id="ill_18"></a></p> - -<div class="figleft" style="width: 241px;"> -<a href="images/i_048_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_048_sml.png" width="241" height="238" alt="Image unavailable: Fig. 18.—Mcp, Mc, Ml, and Mm stand for different parts of -the malleus; Jc, Jb, Jl, Jpl, for different parts of the -incus. S is the stapes. -" /></a> -<br /> -<div class="caption"> - -<div class="blockquotcap"><p><span class="smcap">Fig.</span> 18.—Mcp, Mc, Ml, and Mm stand for different parts of -the malleus; Jc, Jb, Jl, Jpl, for different parts of the -incus. S is the stapes.</p></div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>"<i>The Tympanum</i> (<i>P</i>, <a href="#ill_17">Fig. 17</a>) is an irregular cavity in the temporal -bone, closed externally by the drum membrane. From its inner side the -<i>Eustachian tube</i> (<i>R</i>) proceeds and opens into the pharynx. The inner -wall of the tympanum is bony except for two small apertures, the <i>oval</i> -and <i>round foramens</i>, <i>o</i> and <i>r</i>, which lead into the labyrinth. During -life the round aperture is closed by the lining mucous membrane, and the -oval by the stirrup-bones. The <i>tympanic membrane</i> <i>T</i>, 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 internal 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; but 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. On making a balloon ascent or going rapidly down a deep -mine, the sudden and great change of aërial pressure outside frequently -causes<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_049" id="page_049"></a>{49}</span> painful tension of the drum-membrane, which may be greatly -alleviated by frequent swallowing.</p> - -<p><i>The Auditory Ossicles.</i>—Three small bones lie in the tympanum forming -a chain from the drum-membrane to the oval foramen. The external bone is -the <i>malleus</i> or <i>hammer</i>; the middle one, the <i>incus</i> or <i>anvil</i>; and -the internal one, the <i>stapes</i> or <i>stirrup</i>. They are represented in -<a href="#ill_18">Fig. 18.</a><a name="FNanchor_19_19" id="FNanchor_19_19"></a><a href="#Footnote_19_19" class="fnanchor">[19]</a></p> - -<p><b>Accommodation</b> is provided for in the ear as well as in the eye. One -muscle an inch long, the <i>tensor tympani</i>, 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 <i>stapedius</i>, 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 membranes -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 reaction called 'adaptation' of the organ (see the chapter on -Attention).</p> - -<p><b>The Internal Ear.</b>—"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 <i>bony -labyrinth</i> thus constituted are membranous parts, of the same general -form but smaller, so that between the two<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_050" id="page_050"></a>{50}</span> a space is left; this is -filled with a watery fluid, called the <i>perilymph</i>; and the <i>membranous -internal ear</i> is filled by a similar liquid, the <i>endolymph</i>.</p> - -<p><a name="ill_19" id="ill_19"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width:449px;"> -<a href="images/i_050_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_050_sml.png" width="449" height="190" alt="Image unavailable: 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, horizontal semicircular -canal; ha, its ampulla; vaa, ampulla of anterior vertical -semicircular canal; vpa, ampulla of posterior vertical -semicircular canal; vc, conjoined portion of the two vertical -canals. -" /></a> -<br /> -<div class="caption"> - -<div class="blockquotcap"><p><span class="smcap">Fig.</span> 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, horizontal semicircular -canal; ha, its ampulla; vaa, ampulla of anterior vertical -semicircular canal; vpa, ampulla of posterior vertical -semicircular canal; vc, conjoined portion of the two vertical -canals.</p></div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><b>The Bony Labyrinth.</b>—"The bony labyrinth is described in three portions, -the <i>vestibule</i>, the <i>semicircular canals</i>, and the <i>cochlea</i>; casts of -its interior are represented from different aspects in <a href="#ill_19">Fig. 19.</a> The -vestibule is the central part and has on its exterior the oval foramen -(<i>Fv</i>) into which the base of the stirrup-bone fits. Behind the -vestibule are three bony semicircular canals, communicating with the -back of the vestibule at each end, and dilated near one end to form an -<i>ampulla</i>. The bony cochlea is a tube coiled on itself somewhat like a -snail's shell, and lying in front of the vestibule.</p> - -<p><b>The Membranous Labyrinth.</b>—"The membranous vestibule, lying in the bony, -consists of two sacs communicating by a narrow aperture. The posterior -is called the <i>utriculus</i>, and into it the membranous semicircular -canals open. The anterior, called the <i>sacculus</i>, communicates by a tube -with the membranous cochlea. The membranous semicircular canals much -resemble the bony, and each has<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_051" id="page_051"></a>{51}</span></p> - -<p><a name="ill_20" id="ill_20"></a></p> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 261px;"> -<a href="images/i_051a_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_051a_sml.png" width="261" height="214" alt="Image unavailable: Fig. 20.—A section through the cochlea in the line of -its axis." /></a> -<br /> -<div class="caption"> - -<div class="blockquotcap"><p><span class="smcap">Fig.</span> 20.—A section through the cochlea in the line of -its axis.</p></div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><a name="ill_21" id="ill_21"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width:309px;"> -<a href="images/i_051b_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_051b_sml.png" width="309" height="210" alt="Image unavailable: Fig. 21.—Section of one coil of the cochlea, magnified. SV, -scala vestibuli; R, membrane of Reissner; CC, membranous -cochlea (scala media); lls, limbus laminæ spiralis; t, -tectorial membrane; ST, scala tympani; lso, spiral lamina; -Co, rods of Corti; b, basilar membrane. -" /></a> -<br /> -<div class="caption"> - -<div class="blockquotcap"><p><span class="smcap">Fig.</span> 21.—Section of one coil of the cochlea, magnified. SV, -scala vestibuli; R, membrane of Reissner; CC, membranous -cochlea (scala media); lls, limbus laminæ spiralis; t, -tectorial membrane; ST, scala tympani; lso, spiral lamina; -Co, rods of Corti; b, basilar membrane.</p></div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">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 relations of the membranous to the bony cochlea are more -complicated. A section through this part of the auditory apparatus (<a href="#ill_20">Fig. -20</a>) shows that its osseous portion consists of a tube wound two and a -half times round a central bony axis, the <i>modiolus</i>. From the axis a -shelf, the <i>lamina spiralis</i>, 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 (<i>scala media</i>), -a tube triangular 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 (<a href="#ill_21">Fig. 21</a>) into an -upper portion, the <i>scala vestibuli</i>, <i>SV</i>, and a lower, the <i>scala -tympani</i>, <i>ST</i>. Between these lie the lamina spiralis (<i>lso</i>) and the -membranous<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_052" id="page_052"></a>{52}</span> cochlea (<i>CC</i>), the latter being bounded above by the -membrane of Reissner (<i>R</i>) and below by the basilar membrane (<i>b</i>)."<a name="FNanchor_20_20" id="FNanchor_20_20"></a><a href="#Footnote_20_20" class="fnanchor">[20]</a></p> - -<p>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 filled with perilymph, so that when the stapes is pushed into the -oval foramen, <i>o</i>, in <a href="#ill_17">Fig. 17</a>, 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 tympani, down whose whorls it -runs and pushes out the round foramen <i>r</i>, ruffling probably the -membrane of Reissner and the basilar membrane on its way up and down.</p> - -<p><a name="ill_22" id="ill_22"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width:507px;"> -<a href="images/i_052_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_052_sml.png" width="507" height="183" alt="Image unavailable: 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. -" /></a> -<br /> -<div class="caption"> - -<div class="blockquotcap"><p><span class="smcap">Fig.</span> 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.</p></div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><b>The Terminal Organs.</b>—"The membranous cochlea contains certain solid -structures seated on the basilar membrane and forming the <i>organ of -Corti</i>. This contains the end-organs of the cochlear nerves. Lining the -sulcus spiralis, a groove in the edge of the bony lamina spiralis, are -cuboidal cells; on the inner margin of the basilar membrane 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 <i>inner hair-cells</i>, which -are fixed below by a narrow apex to the basilar membrane; nerve-fibres -enter them. To the inner hair-cells succeed the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_053" id="page_053"></a>{53}</span> <i>rods of Corti</i> (<i>Co</i>, -<a href="#ill_21">Fig. 21</a>), which are represented highly magnified in <a href="#ill_22">Fig. 22.</a> 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 <i>inner</i> and <i>outer rods</i>, the former being nearer -the <i>lamina spiralis</i>. 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 <i>reticular -membrane</i> (<i>r</i>, <a href="#ill_22">Fig. 22</a>), which is stiff and perforated by holes. -External to the outer rods come four rows of <i>outer hair-cells</i>, -connected like the inner row with nerve-fibres; their bristles project -into the holes of the reticular membrane. Beyond the outer hair-cells is -ordinary columnar epithelium, which passes gradually into cuboidal cells -lining most of the membranous cochlea. From the upper lip of the sulcus -spiralis projects the <i>tectorial membrane</i> (<i>t</i>, <a href="#ill_21">Fig. 21</a>) which extends -over the rods of Corti and the hair-cells."<a name="FNanchor_21_21" id="FNanchor_21_21"></a><a href="#Footnote_21_21" class="fnanchor">[21]</a></p> - -<p><a name="ill_23" id="ill_23"></a></p> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 170px;"> -<a href="images/i_053_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_053_sml.png" width="170" height="263" alt="Image unavailable: Fig. 23.—Sensory epithelium from ampulla or semicircular 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 f seem unconnected with nerves. -" /></a> -<br /> -<div class="caption"> - -<div class="blockquotcap"><p><span class="smcap">Fig.</span> 23.—Sensory epithelium from ampulla or semicircular 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 f seem unconnected with nerves.</p></div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>The hair-cells would thus seem to be the terminal organs for 'picking -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 ampullæ (see <a href="#ill_23">Fig. 23</a>).</p> - -<p><b>The Various Qualities of Sound.</b>—Physically, sounds consist of -vibrations, and these are, generally speaking, <i>aërial waves</i>. When the -waves are non-periodic the result is a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_054" id="page_054"></a>{54}</span> <i>noise</i>; when periodic it is -what is nowadays called a <i>tone</i>, or <i>note</i>. The <i>loudness</i> of a sound -depends on the <i>force</i> of the waves. When they recur periodically a -peculiar quality called <i>pitch</i> is the effect of their <i>frequency</i>. In -addition to loudness and pitch tones have each their <i>voice</i> or -<i>timbre</i>, which may differ widely in different instruments giving -equally loud tones of the same pitch. This voice depends on the <i>form</i> -of the aërial wave.</p> - -<p><b>Pitch.</b>—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 -<i>c</i>, for instance, is due to 132 vibrations a second, that of its octave -<i>c´</i> is produced by twice as many, or 264 vibrations; but in neither -case is it necessary 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 little 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."<a name="FNanchor_22_22" id="FNanchor_22_22"></a><a href="#Footnote_22_22" class="fnanchor">[22]</a></p> - -<p>The entire system of pitches forms <i>a continuum of one dimension</i>; 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 <a href="#page_041">p. 41</a>.) 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 explanation<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_055" id="page_055"></a>{55}</span> partly -historic and partly æsthetic, but too complex for exposition here.</p> - -<p><b>The 'timbre'</b> of a note is due to its <i>wave-form</i>. 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 -<i>c</i>. If simultaneously a fork of 264 vibrations be struck, giving the -next higher octave, <i>c´</i>, the aërial movement at any time will be the -algebraic 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 <i>pendular</i>, 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 <i>composition</i>.</p> - -<p>Suppose several musical instruments, as those of an orchestra, 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 complex; 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 'harmonics' sound simultaneously in fainter form. On -the relative strength of this or that one or more of these Helmholtz has -shown that the instrument's peculiar voice depends. 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 -together the new form of vibration has the same <i>period</i> 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_056" id="page_056"></a>{56}</span> 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?</p> - -<p><b>The analysis of compound wave-forms</b> is supposed (after Helmholtz) to be -effected through the different rates of sympathetic resonance of the -different parts of the membranous 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 physical 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 -perilymph 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 'objects' of hearing, in the shape of as many distinct pitches -of sound, may appear before the mind.</p> - -<p>The rods of Corti are supposed to be <i>dampers</i> 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 <i>damping</i> of the -physiological 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_057" id="page_057"></a>{57}</span> 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 -resonances required. We can discriminate many more degrees of pitch than -the 20,000 hair-cells, more or less, will allow for.</p> - -<p><b>The so-called Fusion of Sensations in Hearing.</b>—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 <i>fuse -into a compound sensation</i>. 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 contraction is known as <i>tetanus</i>. The -experiment proves that there is a physiological cumulation or -overlapping of processes 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 twitching. 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 -before 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_058" id="page_058"></a>{58}</span> feeling is a new kind of sensation altogether, not a mere -'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 -'compounding' 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 <i>yellow</i> directly corresponds. -The sensations of red and of green get no chance, under such conditions, -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.</p> - -<p><b>Harmony and Discord.</b>—When several tones sound together we may get -peculiar feelings of pleasure or displeasure 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 <i>c—e—g—c´</i>, 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 -<i>c—d</i> 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 -identical 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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_059" id="page_059"></a>{59}</span></p> - -<p><b>Discriminative Sensibility of the Ear.</b>—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 <sup>3</sup>/<sub>10</sub> of the original stimulus -everywhere between the intensities marked 20 and 5000 of his arbitrary -scale. Below this the fractional increment of stimulus must be larger; -above it, no measurements were made.</p> - -<p>Discrimination of differences of <i>pitch</i> 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 <i>relative</i> 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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_060" id="page_060"></a>{60}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.<br /><br /> -<small>TOUCH, THE TEMPERATURE SENSE, THE MUSCULAR SENSE, AND PAIN.</small></h2> - -<p><b>Nerve-endings in the Skin.</b>—"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 organs. In or -immediately beneath the skin several peculiar forms of nerve end-organs -have also been described; they are known as (1) <i>Touch-cells</i>; (2) -<i>Pacinian corpuscles</i>; (3) <i>Tactile corpuscles</i>; (4) <i>End-bulbs</i>."<a name="FNanchor_23_23" id="FNanchor_23_23"></a><a href="#Footnote_23_23" class="fnanchor">[23]</a></p> - -<p><a name="ill_24" id="ill_24"></a></p> - -<div class="figleft" style="width: 156px;"> -<a href="images/i_060_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_060_sml.png" width="156" height="151" alt="Image unavailable: Fig. 24.—End-bulbs from the conjunctiva of the human eye, -magnified. -" /></a> -<br /> -<div class="caption"> - -<div class="blockquotcap"><p><span class="smcap">Fig.</span> 24.—End-bulbs from the conjunctiva of the human eye, -magnified.</p></div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>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 magnify impressions just as a grain of sand -does in a shoe, or a crumb does in a finger of a glove.</p> - -<p><b>Touch, or the Pressure Sense.</b>—"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 hardness, roughness or smoothness, of the body -producing it;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_061" id="page_061"></a>{61}</span> 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 tactile, and such a -combination of the two sensations is frequent; 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 sensation, -and this primary position it still largely holds in our mental -life."<a name="FNanchor_24_24" id="FNanchor_24_24"></a><a href="#Footnote_24_24" class="fnanchor">[24]</a></p> - -<p>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 characterized as organs of anticipatory touch.</p> - -<p>"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. pressing on an area of 9 sq. millim. can be -felt.</p> - -<p>"In order that the sense of touch may be excited neighboring 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.</p> - -<p><b>The Localizing Power of the Skin.</b>—"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_062" id="page_062"></a>{62}</span> skin regions and is measured by observing -the least distance 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:</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td>Tongue-tip</td><td class="rt">1.1 mm.</td><td class="c">(.04 inch)</td></tr> -<tr><td>Palm side of last phalanx of finger</td><td class="rt">2.2 mm.</td><td class="c">(.08 inch)</td></tr> -<tr><td>Red part of lips</td><td class="rt">4.4 mm.</td><td class="c">(.16 inch)</td></tr> -<tr><td>Tip of nose</td><td class="rt">6.6 mm.</td><td class="c">(.24 inch)</td></tr> -<tr><td>Back of second phalanx of finger</td><td class="rt">11.0 mm.</td><td class="c">(.44 inch)</td></tr> -<tr><td>Heel</td><td class="rt">22.0 mm.</td><td class="c">(.88 inch)</td></tr> -<tr><td>Back of hand</td><td class="rt">30.8 mm.</td><td class="c">(1.23 inches)</td></tr> -<tr><td>Forearm</td><td class="rt">39.6 mm.</td><td class="c">(1.58 inches)</td></tr> -<tr><td>Sternum</td><td class="rt">44.0 mm.</td><td class="c">(1.76 inches)</td></tr> -<tr><td>Back of neck</td><td class="rt">52.8 mm.</td><td class="c">(2.11 inches)</td></tr> -<tr><td>Middle of back</td><td class="rt">66.0 mm.</td><td class="c">(2.64 inches)</td></tr> -</table> - -<p class="nind">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 sensation than when it is more -powerful; it is also very readily and rapidly improvable by practice." -It seems to be naturally delicate in proportion as the skin which -possesses it covers a more movable part of the body.</p> - -<p><a name="ill_25" id="ill_25"></a></p> - -<div class="figleft" style="width: 170px;"> -<a href="images/i_062_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_062_sml.png" width="170" height="251" alt="Image unavailable: Fig. 25." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Fig.</span> 25.</span> -</div> - -<p>"It might be thought that this localizing power depended directly on -nerve-distribution; that each 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 distributed 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_063" id="page_063"></a>{63}</span> 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 <i>c</i> were touched we should -according to the theory get but a single sensation; but if, while the -compass-points remained the same distance apart, or were even -approximated, one were placed in <i>c</i> and the other on a contiguous area, -two fibres would be stimulated and we ought to get two sensations; but -such is not the case; on the same skin-region the points must be always -the same distance apart, no matter how they be shifted, in order to give -rise to two just distinguishable sensations.</p> - -<p>"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 <a href="#ill_25">Fig. 25</a>, <i>a</i> and -<i>b</i> 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-distribution 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.</p> - -<p><b>The Temperature-sense. Its Terminal Organs.</b>—"By this we mean our -faculty of perceiving cold and warmth; and, with the help of these -sensations, of perceiving temperature differences in external objects. -Its organ is the whole skin, the mucous membrane of mouth and fauces, -pharynx<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_064" id="page_064"></a>{64}</span> 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 minute exploration of determinate tracts of skin and -found the heat-and cold-spots thick-set and permanently distinct. -Between them no temperature-sensation is excited by contact with a -pointed cold or hot object. Mechanical and faradic irritation also -excites in these points their specific feelings respectively.]</p> - -<p><a name="ill_26" id="ill_26"></a></p> - -<div class="figleft" style="width: 216px;"> -<a href="images/i_064_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_064_sml.png" width="216" height="77" alt="Image unavailable: Fig. 26.—The figure marked C P shows the cold-spots, that marked H -P the heat-spots, and the middle one the hairs on a certain patch -of skin on one of Goldscheider's fingers. -" /></a> -<br /> -<div class="caption"> - -<div class="blockquotcap"><p><span class="smcap">Fig.</span> 26.—The figure marked C P shows the cold-spots, that marked H -P the heat-spots, and the middle one the hairs on a certain patch -of skin on one of Goldscheider's fingers.</p></div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><b>The feeling of temperature is relative to the state of the skin.</b> "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 -<i>temperature-sensation zero</i>, 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 <i>vice versa</i>: the sensation is more marked the -greater the difference, and the more suddenly it is produced; touching a -metallic body, which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_065" id="page_065"></a>{65}</span> conducts heat rapidly to or from the skin, causes -a more marked hot or cold sensation than touching a worse conductor, as -a piece of wood, of the same temperature.</p> - -<p>"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 cooling), 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.</p> - -<p>"The acuteness of the temperature-sense is greatest at temperatures -within a few degrees of 30° C. (86° F.); at these differences of less -than 0.1° 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-sensations much as tactile, but not so accurately."<a name="FNanchor_25_25" id="FNanchor_25_25"></a><a href="#Footnote_25_25" class="fnanchor">[25]</a></p> - -<p><b>Muscular Sensation.</b>—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, however, the whole muscle grows painful; and violent -contraction such as that caused by the faradic current, or known as -cramp, produces a severe and peculiar pain felt in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_066" id="page_066"></a>{66}</span> the whole mass of -muscle affected. Sachs also thought that he had demonstrated, both -experimentally and anatomically, the existence of special sensory -nerve-fibres, distinct from the motor fibres, in the frog's muscle. The -latter end in the 'terminal plates,' the former in a network.</p> - -<p>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 generally. 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 <i>how</i> our muscles -help us in these experiences, whether by their own sensations, or by -awakening 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 <a href="#CHAPTER_VI">Chapter VI.</a></p> - -<p><b>Sensibility to Weight.</b>—When we wish to estimate accurately 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.</p> - -<p>Weber found that whereas ⅓ 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 <sup>1</sup>/<sub>17</sub>. Merkel's recent and very -careful experiments, 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 <sup>1</sup>/<sub>13</sub> was felt -when there was no movement of the finger, and of about <sup>1</sup>/<sub>19</sub> when there -was movement. Above and below these limits the discriminative power grew -less.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_067" id="page_067"></a>{67}</span></p> - -<p><a name="ill_27" id="ill_27"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_067_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_067_sml.png" width="481" height="275" alt="Image unavailable: Fig. 27 (after Wundt)." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Fig.</span> 27 (after Wundt).</span> -</div> - -<p><b>Pain.</b>—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 sensations of every order, which in moderate -degrees are rather pleasant than otherwise, become painful when their -intensity 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 <a href="#ill_27">Fig. 27.</a> The horizontal line -represents the threshold both of sensational and of agreeable -sensibility. Below the line is the disagreeble. The continuous curve is -that of Weber's law which we learned to know in <a href="#ill_2">Fig. 2</a>, <a href="#page_018">p. 18</a>. With the -minimal sensation the agreeableness is <i>nil</i>, 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_068" id="page_068"></a>{68}</span> dotted line rapidly sinks, and -soon tumbles below the horizontal 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.</p> - -<p>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 '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 <i>conduction</i> to the brain, for -painful and for merely tactile stimulations of the skin, are made -probable by certain facts. In the condition termed <i>analgesia</i>, a touch -is felt, but the most violent 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 columns intact. If, on the contrary, the latter were -divided and the gray substance left, there was increased sensitiveness -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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_069" id="page_069"></a>{69}</span> 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 -reaching 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 -incoördinate 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 explanation."<a name="FNanchor_26_26" id="FNanchor_26_26"></a><a href="#Footnote_26_26" class="fnanchor">[26]</a></p> - -<p>Pain also gives rise to ill-coördinated 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.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p><b>Taste, smell, as well as hunger, thirst, nausea, and other so-called -'common' sensations</b> need not be touched on in this book, as almost -nothing of psychological interest is known concerning them.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_070" id="page_070"></a>{70}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br /><br /> -<small>SENSATIONS OF MOTION.</small></h2> - -<p>I <span class="smcap">treat</span> of these in a separate chapter in order to give them the -emphasis which their importance deserves. They are of two orders:</p> - -<p>1) Sensations of objects moving over our sensory surfaces; and</p> - -<p>2) Sensations of our whole person's translation through space.</p> - -<p><b>1) The Sensation of Motion over Surfaces.</b>—This has generally been -assumed by physiologists to be impossible until the positions of -<i>terminus a quo</i> and <i>terminus ad quem</i> 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 afterwards 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 -<i>infer</i> 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 <i>sensation</i>. Czermak long ago -pointed out the difference between <i>seeing the motion</i> of the -second-hand of a watch, when we look directly at it, and noticing the -fact that it has <i>altered its position</i>, 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_071" id="page_071"></a>{71}</span> 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 perception of the -motion here is certainly not derived from a preëxisting 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 portions 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 <i>movement</i> of the fingers is most vividly -perceived 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.</p> - -<p><i>Vierordt, at almost the same time, called attention to certain -persistent illusions, amongst which are these</i>: If another person gently -trace a line across our wrist or finger, the latter being stationary, it -will feel to us as if the member 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 forefinger 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 distinguished as -belonging exclusively to one of its parts. When<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_072" id="page_072"></a>{72}</span> our perception is fully -developed we go beyond the mere relative motion of thing and ground, and -can ascribe absolute 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 primitively 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 ourselves 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 eyeballs gives the same illusion. We <i>know</i> 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 <i>know</i> the moon is still; but we <i>see</i> it move faster than -the clouds. Even when we slowly move our eyes the primitive sensation -persists 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.</p> - -<p>But the most valuable contribution to the subject is the paper of G. H. -Schneider,<a name="FNanchor_27_27" id="FNanchor_27_27"></a><a href="#Footnote_27_27" class="fnanchor">[27]</a> who takes up the matter zoölogically, 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 <i>noticed at all</i> by his enemy. It is paralleled in -the human race by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_073" id="page_073"></a>{73}</span> 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 creatures 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 -noiselessly come and snuffle about our hand, the excessive reflex -effects of tickling, etc., show how exciting the sensation of motion is -<i>per se</i>. A kitten cannot help pursuing a moving ball. Impressions too -faint to be cognized at all are immediately 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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>movement of -surface under object is (for purposes of stimulation) equivalent to -movement of object over surface</i>. In exploring the shapes and sizes of -things by either eye or skin the movements 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_074" id="page_074"></a>{74}</span> 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 -extension. 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 impressions depends on the mobility -of the surfaces upon which they fall.</p> - -<p>Our <i>articular surfaces are tactile organs</i> which become intensely -painful when inflamed. Besides pressure, <i>the only stimulus they receive -is their motion upon each other</i>. 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 anæsthetic -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, -Goldscheider says, can hardly be detected by the eye. Anæsthesia of the -skin produced by induction-currents had no disturbing effect on the -perception, nor did the various degrees of pressure of the moving force -upon the skin affect it. It became, in fact, all the more distinct in -proportion as the concomitant pressure-feelings were eliminated by -artificial anæsthesia. When the joints themselves, however, were made -artificially anæsthetic, 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 -<i>the joint-surfaces and these alone are the seat of the impressions<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_075" id="page_075"></a>{75}</span> by -which the movements of our members are immediately perceived</i>.</p> - -<p><b>2) Sensations of Movement through Space.</b>—These may be divided, into -feelings of rotation and feelings of translation. 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 -conclusively 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 <i>dizziness</i> or -<i>vertigo</i>, and rapidly engenders the farther feeling of nausea. -Irritative disease of the inner ear causes intense vertigo (Ménière'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 compensatory movements of head and eye which actual rotations -impressed on the creatures produce. Deaf and dumb persons (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.</p> - -<p>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 -increases its pressure on the nerve-termini in the appropriate ampulla, -which pressure starts a current towards the central organ for feeling -vertigo. This organ seems to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_076" id="page_076"></a>{76}</span> the cerebellum, and the teleology of -the whole business would appear to be the maintenance of the upright -position. 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 succession 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 referred 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 rotation causes compensatory -rollings of the eyeballs in the opposite direction, to which some of the -subjective phenomena of <i>optical vertigo</i> 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 ampullæ. The sensation always has a little duration, -however; and the feeling of reversed movement after whirling violently -may last for nearly a minute, slowly fading out.</p> - -<p>The cause of the <i>sense of translation</i> (movement forwards 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, considers -that it cannot possibly be in the head, and assigns it rather to the -entire body, so far as its parts (blood-vessels,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_077" id="page_077"></a>{77}</span> 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, -however, yet be considered definitively established, so the matter may -rest with this mention.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_078" id="page_078"></a>{78}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br /><br /> -<small>THE STRUCTURE OF THE BRAIN.<a name="FNanchor_28_28" id="FNanchor_28_28"></a><a href="#Footnote_28_28" class="fnanchor">[28]</a></small></h2> - -<p><a name="ill_28" id="ill_28"></a> <a name="ill_29" id="ill_29"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_078_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_078_sml.png" width="445" height="207" alt="Image unavailable: Fig. 28. Fig. 29. Fig. 30. - -(All after Huguenin.)" /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption"><span class="smcap">Fig.</span> 28. -<span style="margin-left: 10em;">Fig. 29.</span> -<span style="margin-left: 10em;">Fig. 30.</span><br /> -(All after Huguenin.)</span> -</div> - -<p><b>Embryological Sketch.</b>—The brain is a sort of <i>pons asinorum</i> in anatomy -until one gets a certain general conception 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-spinal axis is -formed by a hollow tube containing fluid and terminated in front by an -enlargement separated by transverse constrictions into three 'cerebral -vesicles,' so called (see <a href="#ill_28">Fig. 28</a>). The walls of these vesicles thicken -in most<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_079" id="page_079"></a>{79}</span> places, change in others into a thin vascular tissue, and in -others again send out processes which produce an appearance of farther -subdivision. The middle vesicle or mid-brain (<i>Mb</i> in the figures) is -the least affected by change. Its upper walls thicken into the optic -lobes, or <i>corpora quadrigemina</i> as they are named in man; its lower -walls become the so-called peduncles or <i>crura</i> of the brain; and its -cavity dwindles into the aqueduct of Silvius. A section through the -adult human mid-brain is shown in <a href="#ill_31">Fig. 31.</a></p> - -<p><a name="ill_31" id="ill_31"></a></p> - -<div class="figleft" style="width: 169px;"> -<a href="images/i_079a_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_079a_sml.png" width="169" height="143" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"> - -<div class="blockquotcap"><p><span class="smcap">Fig. 31.</span>—The 'nates' are the anterior corpora quadrigemina, the -spot above <i>aq</i> is a section of the sylvian aqueduct, and the -tegmentum and two 'feet' together make the Crura. These are marked -<i>C.C.</i>, and a cross (+) marks the aqueduct, in <a href="#ill_32">Fig. 32.</a></p></div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><a name="ill_32" id="ill_32"></a></p> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 182px;"> -<a href="images/i_079b_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_079b_sml.png" width="182" height="375" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Fig. 32</span> (after Huxley).</p></div> -</div> - -<p>The anterior and posterior vesicles undergo much more considerable -change. The walls of the posterior vesicle thicken enormously in their -foremost portion and form the <i>cerebellum</i> on top (<i>Cb</i> in all the -figures) and the <i>pons Varolii</i> below (<i>P.V.</i> in <a href="#ill_33">Fig. 33</a>). In its -hindmost portions the posterior vesicle thickens below into the medulla -oblongata (<i>Mo</i> 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. <a href="#ill_32">32</a> and <a href="#ill_33">33</a>). One can -run the probe forward<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_080" id="page_080"></a>{80}</span> through it, passing first under the cerebellum -and then under a thin sheet of nervous tissue (the <i>valve of Vieussens</i>) -just anterior thereto, as far as the <i>aqueduct of Silvius</i>. 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 <i>third ventricle</i> (3 in Figs. <a href="#ill_32">32</a> -and <a href="#ill_33">33</a>). The 'aqueduct of Sylvius' is in consequence of this connection -often called the <i>iter a tertio ad quartum ventriculum</i>. The walls of -the vesicle form the <i>optic thalami</i> (<i>Th</i> in all the figures).</p> - -<p><a name="ill_33" id="ill_33"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 387px;"> -<a href="images/i_080_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_080_sml.png" width="387" height="162" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Fig. 33</span> (after Huxley).</p></div> -</div> - -<p>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 <i>hemisphere</i> of that side. In man its -walls thicken enormously and form folds, the so-called <i>convolutions</i>, -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 downwards 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 -<i>lateral ventricles</i>, 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_081" id="page_081"></a>{81}</span> 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 hemisphere outwards, backwards, and then -downwards from its starting point, has got rolled in and tucked away -beneath the apparent surface.<a name="FNanchor_29_29" id="FNanchor_29_29"></a><a href="#Footnote_29_29" class="fnanchor">[29]</a></p> - -<p>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 <i>corpus callosum</i>. -These fibres radiate in the walls of both hemispheres and form a direct -connection between the convolutions of the right and of the left side. -Beneath the corpus callosum another system of fibres called the <i>fornix</i> -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 <i>corpus striatum</i> (<i>C.S.</i>, -Figs. <a href="#ill_32">32</a> and <a href="#ill_33">33</a>) is formed in their wall. It is complex in structure, -consisting of two main parts, called <i>nucleus lenticularis</i> and <i>nucleus -candatus</i> 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.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p><b>Dissection of Sheep's Brain.</b>—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 in the human dissecting<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_082" id="page_082"></a>{82}</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>dura mater</i> 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 <i>pia mater</i>, full of blood-vessels whose branches -penetrate the tissues.</p> - -<p>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 <i>olfactory lobes</i> 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 -<i>optic nerves</i> tie the brain down, and must be cut through—close -to the chiasma is easiest. After that comes the <i>pituitary body</i>, -which has to be left behind. It is attached by a neck, the -so-called <i>infundibulum</i>, into the upper part of which the cavity -of the third ventricle 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 <a href="#ill_34">Fig. 34.</a> -When they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_083" id="page_083"></a>{83}</span> are divided, and the portion of dura mater (tentorium) -which projects between the hemispheres and the cerebellum is cut -through at its edges, the brain comes readily out.</p></div> - -<p><a name="ill_34" id="ill_34"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 412px;"> -<a href="images/i_083_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_083_sml.png" width="412" height="475" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"> - -<div class="blockquotcap"><p><span class="smcap">Fig. 34.</span>—The human brain from below, with its nerves numbered, -after Henle I, olfactory; II, optic; III, oculo-motorius; IV, -trochlearis; V, trifacial; VI, abducens oculi; VII, facial; VIII, -auditory; IX, glosso-pharyngeal; X, pneumogastric; XI, spinal -accessory; XII, hypoglossal; <i>nc</i>I, first cervical, etc.</p></div> -</div> -</div> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>It is best examined fresh. If numbers of brains have to be prepared -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, and to leave them for a fortnight or less. This softens the -pia mater, which can then be removed in large shreds, after which -it is enough to place them in quite weak alcohol to preserve them -indefinitely, 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 bring<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_084" id="page_084"></a>{84}</span> 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 transparent vestiges of the <i>arachnoid</i> membrane will be -found.</p> - -<p>The subdivisions may now be examined in due order. For the -convolutions, blood-vessels, and nerves the more special books must -be consulted.</p> - -<p>First, looked at from above, with the deep <i>longitudinal fissure</i> -between them, the hemispheres are seen partly overlapping the -intricately wrinkled <i>cerebellum</i>, which juts out behind, and -covers in turn almost all the medulla oblongata. Drawing the -hemispheres apart, the brilliant white <i>corpus callosum</i> is -revealed, some half an inch below their surface. There is no median -partition in the cerebellum, but a median elevation instead.</p> - -<p>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 -<i>olfactory lobes</i>, much larger than in man; the <i>optic tracts</i> and -<i>commissure</i> or <i>'chiasma'</i>; the <i>infundibulum</i> cut through just -behind them; and behind that the single <i>corpus albicans</i> or -<i>mamillare</i>, whose function is unknown and which is double in man. -Next the <i>crura</i> appear, converging upon the pons as if carrying -fibres back from either side. The <i>pons</i> 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 description may suggest.</p> - -<p>Now turn forward the cerebellum; pull out the vascular <i>choroid -plexuses</i> of the pia, which fill the fourth ventricle; and bring -the upper surface of the <i>medulla oblongata</i> into view. The <i>fourth -ventricle</i> is a triangular depression terminating in a posterior -point called the <i>calamus scriptorius</i>. (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 -<i>restiform body</i> or <i>column</i>, which runs into the cerebellum, -forming its <i>inferior</i> or <i>posterior peduncle</i> on that side. -Including the calamus scriptorius by their divergence, the -posterior columns of the spinal cord continue into the medulla as -the <i>fasciculi graciles</i>. These are at first separated from the -broad restiform bodies by a slight groove. But this disappears -anteriorly, and the 'slender' and 'ropelike' strands soon become -outwardly indistinguishable.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_085" id="page_085"></a>{85}</span></p> - -<p>Turn next to the ventral surface of the medulla, and note the -<i>anterior pyramids</i>, two roundish cords, one on either side of the -slight <i>median groove</i>. The pyramids are crossed and closed over -anteriorly by the <i>pons Varolii</i>, a broad transverse band which -surrounds them like a collar, and runs up into the cerebellum on -either side, forming its <i>middle peduncles</i>. The pons has a slight -median depression and its posterior edge is formed by the -<i>trapezium</i> 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 <i>olivary bodies</i> are small -eminences on the medulla lying just laterally of the pyramids and -below the trapezium.</p></div> - -<p><a name="ill_35" id="ill_35"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 271px;"> -<a href="images/i_085_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_085_sml.png" width="271" height="442" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"> - -<div class="blockquotcap"><p><span class="smcap">Fig. 35.</span>—Fourth ventricle, etc. (Henle). <i>III</i>, third ventricle; -<i>IV</i>, fourth ventricle; <i>P</i>, anterior, middle, and posterior -peduncles of cerebellum cut through; <i>Cr</i>, restiform body; <i>Fg</i>, -funiculus gracilis; <i>Cq</i>, corpora quadrigemina.</p></div> -</div> -</div> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>Now cut through the peduncles of the cerebellum, close to their -entrance into that organ. They give one surface of section on each -side, though they receive contributions from three directions. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_086" id="page_086"></a>{86}</span> -posterior and middle portions we have seen: the <i>anterior -peduncles</i> pass forward to the <i>corpora quadrigemina</i>. The thin -white layer of nerve-tissue between them and continuous with them -is called the <i>valve of Vieussens</i>. 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 <i>arbor vitæ</i> in the books.</p> - -<p>Now bend up the posterior edge of the hemispheres, exposing the -corpora quadrigemina (of which the anterior pair are dubbed the -<i>nates</i> and the posterior the <i>testes</i>), and noticing the <i>pineal -gland</i>, a small median organ situated just in front of them and -probably, like the pituitary body, a vestige of something useful in -premammalian 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 <i>fornix</i>. The anterior stem, so to speak, of -this organ plunges down just in front of the <i>optic thalami</i>, which -now appear with the fornix arching over them, and the median <i>third -ventricle</i> 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 <i>corpora fimbriata</i> are carried -into the lateral ventricles, as will be seen again.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>centrum ovale</i>. 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 <i>nucleus -caudatus</i> of the <i>corpus striatum</i>.</p></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_087" id="page_087"></a>{87}</span></p> - -<p><a name="ill_36" id="ill_36"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 345px;"> -<a href="images/i_087_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_087_sml.png" width="345" height="568" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"> - -<div class="blockquotcap"><p><span class="smcap">Fig. 36.</span>—Horizontal section of human brain just above the -thalami.—<i>Ccl</i>, corpus callosum in section; <i>Cs</i>, corpus striatum; -<i>Sl</i>, septum lucidum; <i>Cf</i>, columns of the fornix; <i>Tho</i>, optic -thalami; <i>Cn</i>, pineal gland. (After Henle.)</p></div> -</div> -</div> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>Cut the corpus callosum transversely through near its posterior -edge and bend the anterior portion of it forwards and sideways. The -rear edge (<i>splenium</i>) left <i>in situ</i> bends round and downwards and -becomes continuous with the <i>fornix</i>. The anterior part is also -continuous with the fornix, but more along the median line, where a -thinnish membrane, the <i>septum lucidum</i>, triangular in shape, -reaching from the one body to the other, practically forms a sort -of partition between the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_088" id="page_088"></a>{88}</span> contiguous portion of the lateral -ventricles on the two sides. Break through the <i>septum</i> if need be -and expose the upper surface of the fornix, broad behind and narrow -in front where its <i>anterior pillars</i> 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 <i>posterior pillars</i> run backwards, downwards, and -then forwards again, forming with their sharp edges the <i>corpora -fimbriata</i>, which bound the cleft by which the ventricle lies open. -The semi-cylindrical welts behind the <i>corpora fimbriata</i> and -parallel thereto in the wall of the ventricle are the <i>hippocampi</i>. -Imagine the fornix and corpus callosum shortened in the -fore-and-aft direction to a transverse cord; imagine the -hemispheres not having grown backwards and downwards round the -thalamus; and the corpus fimbriatum 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.</p> - -<p>The little notches just behind the anterior pillar of the fornix -and between them and the thalami are the so-called <i>foramina of -Monro</i> through which the plexus of vessels, etc., passes from the -median to the lateral ventricles.</p> - -<p>See the thick <i>middle commissure</i> joining the two thalami, just as -the corpus callosum and fornix join the hemispheres. These are all -embryological aftergrowths. Seek also the <i>anterior commissure</i> -crossing just in front of the anterior pillars of the fornix, as -well as the <i>posterior commissure</i> with its lateral prolongations -along the thalami, just below the pineal gland.</p> - -<p>On a median section, note the thinnish <i>anterior wall</i> of the third -ventricle and its prolongation downwards into the <i>infundibulum</i>.</p> - -<p>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 <i>corpora geniculata</i> to which they also go, -distinct in man, are less so in the sheep. The lower ones are -visible between the optic-tract band and the 'testes,' however.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>The brain's principal parts are thus passed in review. A -longitudinal section of the whole organ through the median line -will be found most instructive (<a href="#ill_37">Fig. 37</a>). The student should also -(on a <i>fresh</i> 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 <i>nates</i> and <i>crura</i>, -and through the</p></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_089" id="page_089"></a>{89}</span></p> - -<p><a name="ill_37" id="ill_37"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 327px;"> -<a href="images/i_089_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_089_sml.png" width="327" height="628" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"> - -<div class="blockquotcap"><p><span class="smcap">Fig. 37.</span>—Median section of human brain below the hemispheres. -<i>Th</i>, thalamus; <i>Cg</i>, corpora quadrigemina; <i>V<sup>III</sup></i>, third -ventricle; <i>Com</i>, middle commissure; <i>F</i>, columns of fornix; <i>Inf</i>, -infundibulum; <i>Op.n</i>, optic nerve; <i>Pit</i>, pituitary body; <i>Av</i>, -arbor vitæ. (After Obersteiner).</p></div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_090" id="page_090"></a>{90}</span></p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p class="nind">hemispheres just in front of the corpus albicans. The latter -section shows on each side the <i>nucleus lenticularis</i> of the corpus -striatum, and also the <i>inner capsule</i> (see <a href="#ill_38">Fig. 38</a>, <i>Nl</i>, and -<i>Ic</i>).</p></div> - -<p><a name="ill_38" id="ill_38"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 225px;"> -<a href="images/i_090_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_090_sml.png" width="225" height="255" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"> - -<div class="blockquotcap"><p><span class="smcap">Fig. 38.</span>—Transverse section through right hemisphere (after -Gegenbaur). <i>Cc</i>, corpus callosum; <i>Pf</i>, pillars of fornix; <i>Ic</i>, -internal capsule; <i>V</i>, third ventricle; <i>Nl</i>, nucleus lenticularis.</p></div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>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 assimilated by the mind. But patience and repetition, here -as elsewhere, will bear their perfect fruit.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_091" id="page_091"></a>{91}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.<br /><br /> -<small>THE FUNCTIONS OF THE BRAIN.</small></h2> - -<p><b>General Idea of Nervous Function.</b>—If I begin chopping 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 -difference 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 coöperation with every other. The afferent nerves, when -excited by some physical irritant, be this as gross in its mode of -operation as a chopping 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 stimulus be a sign -of some distant circumstance of practical importance, the animal's acts -are addressed to this circumstance 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_092" id="page_092"></a>{92}</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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 disturbance of the heart. Such involuntary -responses we know as '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 consciousness of the purpose to be -attained and a distinct mandate of the will. It is a 'voluntary act.' -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.</p> - -<p><b>The Frog's Nerve-centres.</b>—Let us now look a little more closely at what -goes on.</p> - -<p>The best way to enter the subject will be to take a lower creature, like -a frog, and study by the vivisectional 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 anterior 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.</p> - -<p>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 oblongata,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_093" id="page_093"></a>{93}</span> 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 peculiarly 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 forepaws, 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 calculated 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.</p> - -<p><a name="ill_39" id="ill_39"></a></p> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 125px;"> -<a href="images/i_093_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_093_sml.png" width="125" height="253" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"> - -<div class="blockquotcap"><p><span class="smcap">Fig. 39.</span>—<i>C</i>, <i>H</i>, cerebral hemispheres; <i>O Th</i>, optic thalami; <i>O -L</i>, optic lobes; <i>Cb</i>, cerebellum; <i>M O</i>, medulla oblongata; <i>S C</i>, -spinal cord.</p></div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>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 <i>centre for defensive movements</i> in this animal. We may -indeed go farther than this, and by cutting the spinal cord in various -places find that its<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_094" id="page_094"></a>{94}</span> separate segments are independent mechanisms, for -appropriate activities of the head and of the arms and legs -respectively. 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.</p> - -<p>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 definite stimuli, of certain special acts. Thus with the -medulla the animal swallows; with the medulla and cerebellum together he -jumps, swims, and turns over from his back; with his optic lobes he -croaks when pinched; etc. <i>A frog which has lost his cerebral -hemispheres alone is by an unpractised observer indistinguishable from a -normal animal.</i></p> - -<p>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 anything 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 will<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_095" id="page_095"></a>{95}</span> suffer a fly to crawl over his nose -unsnapped at. Fear, too, seems to have deserted him. In a word, he is an -extremely complex machine whose actions, so far as they go, tend to -self-preservation; but still a <i>machine</i>, in this sense—that it seems -to contain no incalculable element. By applying the right sensory -stimulus to him we are almost as certain of getting a fixed response as -an organist is of hearing a certain tone when he pulls out a certain -stop.</p> - -<p><i>But now if to the lower centres we add the cerebral hemispheres</i>, 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 <i>spontaneously</i>, 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 foretell it exactly. -Effort to escape is his dominant reaction, but he <i>may</i> do anything -else, even swell up and become perfectly passive in our hands.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>Such are the phenomena commonly observed, and such the impressions which -one naturally receives. Certain general conclusions follow irresistibly. -First of all the following:</p> - -<p><i>The acts of all the centres involve the use of the same muscles.</i> When -a brainless frog's hind-leg wipes the acid,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_096" id="page_096"></a>{96}</span> he calls into play all the -leg-muscles which a frog with his full medulla oblongata and cerebellum -uses when he turns from his back to his belly. Their contractions are, -however, <i>combined</i> 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. Similarly they exist in the thalami for jumping over -seen obstacles and for balancing the moved body; in the optic lobes for -creeping backwards, or what not. But in the hemispheres, since the -presence of these organs <i>brings no new elementary form of movement</i> -with it, but only <i>determines differently the occasions</i> on which the -movements shall occur, making the usual stimuli less fatal and -machine-like, we need suppose no such machinery <i>directly</i> coördinative -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.</p> - -<p><i>The same muscle, then, is repeatedly represented at different heights</i>; -and at each it enters into a different combination with other muscles to -coöperate in some special form of concerted movement. At each height the -movement is discharged by some particular form of sensorial stimulus, -whilst the stimuli which discharge the hemispheres would seem not so -much to be elementary sorts of sensation, as groups of sensations -forming determinate <i>objects</i> or <i>things</i>.</p> - -<p><b>The Pigeon's Lower Centres.</b>—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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_097" id="page_097"></a>{97}</span> operation. There is not a movement natural to -him which 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:</p> - -<p>"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, -<i>impersonal</i>.... 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 inanimate 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 impression -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."</p> - -<p><b>General Notion of Hemispheres.</b>—All these facts lead us, when we try to -formulate them broadly, to some such conception as this: <i>The lower -centres act from present sensational stimuli alone; the hemispheres act -from considerations</i>, 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_098" id="page_098"></a>{98}</span> that? If I step aside on seeing a -rattlesnake, from considering 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 experiences. They are <i>reproductions</i> of what I have felt or -witnessed. They are, in short, <i>remote</i> sensations; and the main -difference between the hemisphereless animal and the whole one may be -concisely expressed by saying that <i>the one obeys absent, the other only -present, objects</i>.</p> - -<p><i>The hemispheres would then seem to be the chief seat of memory.</i> -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, <i>C</i>, below the hemispheres to a direct -circuit from sense-organ to muscle along the line <i>S ...C ...M</i> of <a href="#ill_40">Fig. -40.</a> The hemisphere, <i>H</i>, adds the long circuit or loop-line through -which the current may pass when for any reason the direct line is not -used.</p> - -<p><a name="ill_40" id="ill_40"></a></p> - -<div class="figleft" style="width: 204px;"> -<a href="images/i_098_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_098_sml.png" width="204" height="203" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Fig. 40.</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>Thus, a tired wayfarer on a hot day throws himself on the damp earth -beneath a maple-tree. The sensations of delicious rest and coolness -pouring themselves through the direct line would naturally discharge -into the muscles of complete extension: he would abandon himself to the -dangerous repose. But the loop-line being open, part of the current is -drafted along it, and awakens rheumatic or catarrhal reminiscences, -which prevail over the instigations of sense, and make the man arise and -pursue his way<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_099" id="page_099"></a>{99}</span> 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 reminiscences as these. -Meanwhile I will ask the reader to notice some corollaries of its being -such a reservoir.</p> - -<p>First, no animal without it can deliberate, pause, postpone, 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 functions in the exercise of which prudence is a virtue -from the lower centres and hands them over to the cerebrum. Wherever 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 <i>such</i> 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.</p> - -<p>The advantages of this are obvious. Take the prehension of food as an -example and suppose it to be a reflex performance of the lower centres. -The animal will be condemned fatally and irresistibly to snap at it -whenever presented, 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 hook again, would soon expiate the degradation of their<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a>{100}</span> -intelligence by the extinction of their type, did not their -extraordinary fecundity atone for their imprudence. Appetite 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 subordinate centres alone in place. The brainless pigeon -will starve though left on a corn-heap.</p> - -<p>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 cooings 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 recollect 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 -plumage, 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<a href="#page_094"> page 94</a>) the sexual instinct 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 consequence 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 character of the sexual impulse in these creatures.</p> - -<p>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 æsthetic and -moral fitness which the circumstances awaken in the cerebrum; and that -upon the inhibitory or permissive influence of these alone action -directly depends.</p> - -<p>Within the psychic life due to the cerebrum itself the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a>{101}</span> 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 -humanity 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.</p> - -<p><b>The Automaton-Theory.</b>—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 interpreted 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 conception of -<i>all</i> action as conforming to this type is the fundamental conception of -modern nerve-physiology. This conception, now, has led to two quite -opposite theories about the relation to consciousness of the nervous -functions. Some authors, finding that the higher voluntary functions -seem to require the guidance of feeling, conclude that over the lowest -reflexes some such feeling also presides, though it may be a feeling -connected with the spinal cord, of which the higher conscious self -connected with the hemispheres remains unconscious. Others, finding -that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a>{102}</span> reflex and semi-automatic acts may, notwithstanding their -appropriateness, take place with an unconsciousness apparently 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 mechanism pure and simple.</p> - -<p>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 conversation, are of course events of a physiological order, and -as such their causal antecedents may be exclusively mechanical. If we -knew thoroughly the nervous system of Shakespeare, 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 shortness' 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 anything 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.</p> - -<p>But, on the other hand, nothing in all this could prevent 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 correspond -to, but not react upon, a point in the other. So the melody floats from -the harp-string, but neither checks<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a>{103}</span> nor quickens its vibrations; so the -shadow runs alongside the pedestrian, but in no way influences his -steps.</p> - -<p>As a mere <i>conception</i>, 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 -<i>is there</i>, and has in all probability been evolved, like all other -functions, for a use—it is to the highest degree improbable <i>a priori</i> -that it should have no use. Its use <i>seems</i> to be that of <i>selection</i>; -but to select, it must be efficacious. States of consciousness which -feel right are held fast to; those which feel wrong are checked. If the -'holding' and the 'checking' of the conscious states severally mean also -the efficacious 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 -consciousness 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 preëstablished harmony, but -to the mere action of natural selection, which would certainly kill off -in the long-run any breed of creatures to whom the fundamentally noxious -experience seemed enjoyable. An animal that should take pleasure in a -feeling of suffocation would, if that pleasure were efficacious enough -to make him keep his head under water, enjoy a longevity of four or five -minutes. But if conscious pleasure does not reinforce, and conscious -pain does not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a>{104}</span> inhibit, anything, one does not see (without some such <i>a -priori</i> rational harmony as would be scouted by the 'scientific' -champions of the automaton-theory) why the most noxious acts, such as -burning, might not with perfect impunity 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 <i>distribution</i> of -our feelings is that of Mr. Grant Allen in his suggestive little work, -<i>Physiological Æsthetics</i>; and his reasoning is based exclusively on -that causal efficacy of pleasures and pains which the partisans of pure -automatism so strenuously deny.</p> - -<p>Probability and circumstantial evidence thus run dead against the theory -that our actions are <i>purely</i> mechanical in their causation. From the -point of view of descriptive Psychology (even though we be bound to -assume, as on <a href="#page_006">p. 6</a>, that all our feelings have brain-processes for their -condition of existence, and can be remotely traced in every instance 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.</p> - -<p><b>The Localization of Functions in the Hemispheres.</b>—The hemispheres, we -lately said, must be the organ of memory, 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 -vivisections 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 this or that portion of the muscular system. This book is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a>{105}</span> 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.</p> - -<p><b>Mental and Cerebral Elements.</b>—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.</p> - -<p>The phrenological brain-doctrine divided the brain into 'organs,' each -of which stood for the man in a certain partial 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 -worshipping, 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 <i>elements</i> any more -than 'organs' are brain-elements. Analysis breaks both into more -elementary constituents.</p> - -<p>Brain and mind alike consist of simple elements, sensory and motor. "All -nervous centres," says Dr. Hughlings 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 <i>can</i> be -made." Meynert represents the matter similarly when he calls the cortex -of the hemispheres the surface of projection for every muscle and every -sensitive point of the body. The muscles and the sensitive points are -<i>represented</i> 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 <i>ideas</i> 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 tendencies, by associations between ideas -and movements.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a>{106}</span> 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.</p> - -<p><a name="ill_41" id="ill_41"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 466px;"> -<a href="images/i_106_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_106_sml.png" width="466" height="345" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Fig. 41.</span>—Left hemisphere of monkey's brain. Outer -surface.</p></div> -</div> - -<p><b>The Motor Region.</b>—The one thing which is <i>perfectly</i> well established -is this, that the 'central' convolutions, 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a>{107}</span> 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.</p> - -<p>The accompanying figures (Figs. <a href="#ill_41">41</a> and <a href="#ill_42">42</a>), from Schaefer and Horsley, -show the topographical arrangement of the monkey's motor zone more -clearly than any description.</p> - -<p><a name="ill_42" id="ill_42"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 449px;"> -<a href="images/i_107_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_107_sml.png" width="449" height="326" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Fig. 42.</span>—Left hemisphere of monkey's brain. Mesial -surface.</p></div> -</div> - -<p><a href="#ill_43">Fig. 43</a>, 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 currents may be.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a>{108}</span></p> - -<p><a name="ill_43" id="ill_43"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 410px;"> -<a href="images/i_108_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_108_sml.png" width="410" height="453" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"> - -<div class="blockquotcap"><p><span class="smcap">Fig. 43.</span>—Schematic transverse section of the human brain, through -the rolandic region. <i>S</i>, fissure of Sylvius; <i>N.C.</i>, <i>nucleus -candatus</i>, and <i>N.L.</i>, <i>nucleus lenticularis</i>, of the corpus -striatum; <i>O.T.</i>, thalamus; <i>C</i>, crus; <i>M</i>, medulla oblongata; -<i>VII</i>, the facial nerves passing out from their nucleus in the -region of the <i>pons</i>. The fibres passing between <i>O.T.</i> and <i>N.L.</i> -constitute the so-called internal capsule.</p></div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>One of the most instructive proofs of motor localization in the cortex -is that furnished by the disease now called aphemia, or <i>motor aphasia</i>. -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 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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a>{109}</span></p> - -<p><a name="ill_44" id="ill_44"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 436px;"> -<a href="images/i_109_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_109_sml.png" width="436" height="360" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="hang"><span class="smcap">Fig. 44.</span>—Schematic profile of left hemisphere, with the -parts shaded whose destruction causes motor ('Broca') and sensory -('Wernicke') aphasia.</p></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">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 -condition as this, and an examination of his brain is permitted, it is -found that the lowest frontal gyrus (see <a href="#ill_44">Fig. 44</a>) is the seat of injury. -Broca first noticed this fact in 1861, 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 outwardly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a>{110}</span> 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 <a href="#ill_41">Fig. -41</a>, below the letter M. But the left-brainedness might exist and <i>not</i> -show outwardly. This would happen wherever organs on <i>both</i> 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 <i>can</i> innervate -them bilaterally, 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.</p> - -<p><b>The visual centre</b> is in the <i>occipital lobes</i>. This also is proved by -all the three kinds of possible evidence. It seems that the fibres from -the <i>left</i> halves of <i>both</i> retinæ go to the <i>left</i> 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 retinæ grow blind as to their right -halves, and the patient loses the leftward half of his field of view. -The diagram on <a href="#page_111">p. 111</a> will make this matter clear (see <a href="#ill_45">Fig. 45</a>).</p> - -<p>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 retinæ 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a>{111}</span></p> - -<p><a name="ill_45" id="ill_45"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 416px;"> -<a href="images/i_111_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_111_sml.png" width="416" height="545" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"> - -<div class="blockquotcap"><p><span class="smcap">Fig. 45.</span>—Scheme of the mechanism of vision, after Seguin. The -<i>cuneus</i> convolution (<i>Cu</i>) 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. <i>F.O.</i> are the -intra-hemispheric optical fibres. <i>P.O.C.</i> is the region of the -lower optic centres (corpora geniculata and quadrigemina). <i>T.O.D.</i> -is the right optic tract; <i>C</i>, the chiasma; <i>F.L.D.</i> are the fibres -going to the lateral or temporal half <i>T</i> of the right retina, and -<i>F.C.S.</i> are those going to the central or nasal half of the left -retina. <i>O.D.</i> is the right, and <i>O.S.</i> the left, eyeball. The -rightward half of each is therefore blind; in other words, the -right nasal field, <i>R.N.F.</i>, and the left temporal field, <i>L.T.F.</i>, -have become invisible to the subject with the lesion at <i>Cu</i>.</p></div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">mental images of visible things remain. In <i>double</i> hemiopia there is -every reason to believe that not only the sensation of light must go, -but that all memories and images<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a>{112}</span> 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 retinæ 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.</p> - -<p><a name="ill_46" id="ill_46"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 510px;"> -<a href="images/i_112_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_112_sml.png" width="510" height="330" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Fig. 46.</span>—Fibres associating the cortical centres -together. (Schematic, after Starr.)</p></div> -</div> - -<p><b>Mental Blindness.</b>—A most interesting effect of cortical disorder is -<i>mental blindness</i>. This consists not so much in insensibility to -optical impressions, as in <i>inability to understand them</i>. -Psychologically it is interpretable as <i>loss of associations</i> 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 <i>a priori</i> to expect that the sight of -words would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a>{113}</span> fail to awaken the idea of their sound, or of the movement -for pronouncing them. We ought, in short, to have <i>alexia</i>, or inability -to read: and this is just what we do have as a complication of <i>aphasic</i> -disease in many cases of extensive injury about the fronto-temporal -regions.</p> - -<p>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 complete, neither sight, touch, nor sound -avails to steer the patient, and a sort of dementia which has been -called <i>asymbolia</i> or <i>apraxia</i> 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.</p> - -<p><b>The centre for hearing</b> is situated in man in the upper convolution of -the temporal lobe (see the part marked 'Wernicke' in <a href="#ill_44">Fig. 44</a>). The -phenomena of aphasia show this. We studied motor aphasia a few pages -back; we must now consider <i>sensory aphasia</i>. Our knowledge of aphasia -has had three stages: we may talk of the period of Broca, the period of -Wernicke, and the period of Charcot. What Broca's discovery was we have -seen. Wernicke was the first to discriminate those cases in which the -patient can <i>not even understand</i> 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 <i>word-deafness</i>, and -the disease is <i>auditory aphasia</i>. The latest statistical survey of the -subject is that by Dr. Allen Starr. In the seven cases of <i>pure</i> -word-deafness which he has collected (cases in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a>{114}</span> which the patient could -read, talk, and write, but 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 <i>linguistic use</i> 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 possibility 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 -idiosyncrasy. 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a>{115}</span> awaken the activity of all the rest. When we are -talking whilst we think, the <i>ultimate</i> process is utterance. If the -brain-part for <i>that</i> be injured, speech is impossible or disorderly, -even though all the other brain-parts be intact: and this is just the -condition of things which, on <a href="#page_109">p. 109</a>, we found to be brought about by -lesion of the convolution of Broca. But back of that last act various -orders of succession are possible in the associations of a talking man's -ideas. The more usual order is, as aforesaid, from the tactile, visual, -or other properties of the things thought-about to the sound of their -names, and then to the latter's utterance. But if in a certain -individual's mind the <i>look</i> of an object or the <i>look</i> of its name be -what habitually precedes articulation, then the loss of the <i>hearing</i> -centre will <i>pro tanto</i> not affect that individual's speech or reading. -He will be mentally deaf, i.e. his <i>understanding</i> 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.</p> - -<p>If this order of association be ingrained and habitual in that -individual, injury to his <i>visual</i> 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 concentrate -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 <a href="#ill_47">Fig. 47</a>, <a href="#page_115">p. 116</a>). With this result Dr. Starr's -analysis of purely sensory cases agrees.</p> - -<p>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 history of our knowledge of aphasia how the -sagacity and patience of many banded workers are in time certain to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a>{116}</span> -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 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 <a href="#ill_48">Fig. 48</a>, p. 117).</p> - -<p><a name="ill_47" id="ill_47"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 459px;"> -<a href="images/i_116_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_116_sml.png" width="459" height="350" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Fig. 47.</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p><b>Centres for Smell, Taste, and Touch.</b>—The other sensory 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 -backwards and midwards thereof. The incoming tactile currents must enter -the cells of this region by one set of fibres, and the discharges leave -them by another, but of these<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a>{117}</span></p> - -<p><a name="ill_48" id="ill_48"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 281px;"> -<a href="images/i_117_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_117_sml.png" width="281" height="451" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Fig. 48.</span>—<i>A</i> is the auditory centre, <i>V</i> the visual, <i>W</i> -the writing, and <i>E</i> that for speech.</p></div> -</div> - -<p><b>Conclusion.</b>—We thus see the postulate of Meynert and Jackson, with -which we started on <a href="#page_105">p. 105</a>, to be on the whole most satisfactorily -corroborated by objective research. <i>The highest centres do probably -contain nothing but arrangements for representing impressions and -movements, and other arrangements for coupling the activity of these -arrangements together.</i> Currents pouring in from the sense-organs first -excite some arrangements, 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a>{118}</span> -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 afferent, 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 -<i>round</i> 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; -<i>consciousness accompanying 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 occupies most -intensely the 'motor zone.'</i> 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 formulational together. 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 whatever. -One monkey of Horsley and Schaefer's was as tame, and did certain tricks -as well, after as before the operation.</p> - -<p>It is in short obvious that our knowledge of our mental states -infinitely exceeds our knowledge of their concomitant cerebral -conditions. Without introspective analysis of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a>{119}</span> 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 (<a href="#page_005">p. 5</a>), 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 <i>how</i> it is true lags wofully behind.</p> - -<p>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 importance and which coöperate in -the production of all our mental states.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a>{120}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.<br /><br /> -<small>SOME GENERAL CONDITIONS OF NEURAL ACTIVITY.</small></h2> - -<p><b>The Nervous Discharge.</b>—The word discharge is constantly 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 matter 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 disintegration of pent-up molecules and the result is a -stronger effect still. Matteuci found that the work done by a muscle'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?</p> - -<p><b>Reaction-time.</b>—The measurement of the time required for the discharge -is one of the lines of experimental investigation<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a>{121}</span> 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 -'<i>eripuit cœlo fulmen</i>,' foreshadowing the reign of a newer and -colder race of gods. I may say, however, immediately, that the phrase -'velocity of <i>thought</i>' 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 <i>reactions upon stimuli</i>. 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 -expectant state. Just what happens during the actual time occupied by -the reaction (in other words, just what is added to the preëxistent -tensions to produce the actual discharge) is not made out at present, -either from the neural or from the mental point of view.</p> - -<p>The method is essentially the same in all these investigations. A signal -of some sort is communicated to the subject, and at the same instant -records itself on a time-registering 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a>{122}</span> 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 -<a href="#ill_49">Fig. 49</a>, where the line is broken by the signal at the first 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 1000ths of a second, is -then read off from the dial-plates.</p> - -<p><a name="ill_49" id="ill_49"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 453px;"> -<a href="images/i_122_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_122_sml.png" width="453" height="156" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Fig. 49.</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p><b>Simple Reactions.</b>—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 muscular -response, it is shorter. Lange, who first noticed this fact when working -in Wundt's laboratory, found his own 'muscular' reaction-time to average -0´´.123, whilst his 'sensorial' reaction-time averaged as much as -0´´.230. It is obvious that experiments, to have any <i>comparative</i> -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 circumstances the reaction is essentially a reflex act. The -preliminary <i>making-ready</i> of the muscles for the movement<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a>{123}</span> 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 formation 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 exclusively 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 <i>kind</i> 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.</p> - -<p>These experiments are thus in no sense measurements of the swiftness of -<i>thought</i>. 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, -association-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. Meanwhile the simple -reaction-time remains as the starting point of all these superinduced -complications, and its own variations must be briefly passed in review.</p> - -<p>The reaction-time varies with the <i>individual</i> and his <i>age</i>. 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).</p> - -<p><i>Practice</i> shortens it to a quantity which is for each individual<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a>{124}</span> 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.</p> - -<p><i>Fatigue</i> lengthens it, and <i>concentration of attention</i> shortens it. -The <i>nature of the signal</i> makes it vary. I here bring together the -averages which have been obtained by some observers:</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="2" summary=""> -<tr><td> </td><td>Hirsch.</td><td>Hankel.</td><td>Exner.</td><td>Wundt.</td></tr> -<tr><td>Sound</td><td>0.149</td><td>0.1505</td><td>0.1360</td><td>0.167</td></tr> -<tr><td>Light</td><td>0.200</td><td>0.2246</td><td>0.1506</td><td>0.222</td></tr> -<tr><td>Touch</td><td>0.182</td><td>0.1546</td><td>0.1337</td><td>0.213</td></tr> -</table> -<p>It will be observed that <i>sound</i> is more promptly reacted on than either -<i>sight</i> or <i>touch</i>. <i>Taste</i> and <i>smell</i> are slower than either. The -<i>intensity of the signal</i> makes a difference. The intenser the stimulus -the shorter the time. Herzen compared the reaction from a <i>corn</i> 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. <i>Intoxicants</i> on the -whole lengthen the time, but much depends on the dose.</p> - -<p><b>Complicated Reactions.</b>—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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>minimum</i> times of -certain determinate and very simple intellectual operations. The <i>time -required for discrimination</i> has thus been made a subject of -experimental measurement. Wundt calls it <i>Unterscheidungszeit</i>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a>{125}</span> His -subjects (whose simple reaction-time had previously been determined) -were required to make a movement, always the same, the instant they -discerned <i>which</i> of two or more signals they received. The <i>excess</i> of -time occupied by these reactions <i>over the simple reaction-time</i>, in -which only one signal was used and known in advance, measured, according -to Wundt, the time required for the act of discrimination. 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)</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td align="left">0.050</td> -<td align="left">0.047</td> -<td align="left">0.079</td></tr> -</table> - -<p>When four signals were used, a red and a green light being added to the -others, it became, for the same observers,</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td align="left">0.157</td> -<td align="left">0.073</td> -<td align="left">0.132</td></tr> -</table> - -<p>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 <i>einfache Wahlmethode</i>, 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,</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td align="left">0.030</td><td align="left">and</td><td align="left">0.050;</td></tr> -</table> - -<p class="nind">that for distinguishing one color from another was similarly</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td align="left">0.100</td><td align="left">and</td><td align="left">0.110;</td></tr> -</table> - -<p class="nind">that for distinguishing a certain color from ten other colors,</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td align="left">0.105</td><td align="left">and</td><td align="left">0.117;</td></tr> -</table> - -<p class="nind">that for distinguishing the letter A in ordinary print from the letter -Z,</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td align="left">0.142</td><td align="left">and</td><td align="left">0.137;</td></tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a>{126}</span></p> - -<p class="nind">that for distinguishing a given letter from all the rest of the alphabet -(not reacting until that letter appeared),</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td align="left">0.119</td><td align="left">and</td><td align="left">0.116;</td></tr> -</table> - -<p class="nind">that for distinguishing a word from any of twenty-five other words, from</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td align="left">0.118</td><td align="left">to</td><td align="left">0.158 sec.</td></tr> -</table> - -<p class="nind">—the difference depending on the length of the words and the -familiarity of the language to which they belonged.</p> - -<p>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 composed, but the word as a -whole. The application of this in teaching children to read is evident."</p> - -<p>He also finds a great difference in the time with which various letters -are distinguished, E being particularly bad.</p> - -<p><i>The time required for association</i> of one idea with another has been -measured. Gallon, using a very simple apparatus, found that the sight of -an unforeseen word would awaken an associated 'idea' in about ⅚ 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, and 1.154 -seconds respectively. From this the simple reaction-time and the time of -merely identifying the word's sound (the 'apperception-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 <i>association-time</i>, -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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a>{127}</span> 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. Cattell made -some interesting observations upon the association-time between the look -of letters and their names. "I pasted letters," he says, "on a 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 <i>reading</i> 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 limited 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 confirm 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....</p> - -<p>"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 ½ 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a>{128}</span> 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."</p> - -<p>Dr. Romanes has found "astonishing differences in the <i>maximum</i> 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 1; or, otherwise stated, in a given time one individual -may be able to read four times as much as another. Moreover, it appeared -that there was no relationship between slowness of reading and power of -assimilation; on the contrary, when all the efforts are directed to -assimilating as 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 compassed 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 perception -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."</p> - -<p><i>The degree of concentration of the attention</i> 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.</p> - -<p><b>The Summation of Stimuli.</b>—Throughout the nerve-centres it is a law that -<i>a stimulus which would be inadequate by itself to excite a nerve-centre -to effective discharge may, by acting with one or more other stimuli -(equally ineffectual by themselves alone) bring the discharge about</i>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a>{129}</span> -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.</p> - -<p>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 generally 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 stimulate -a beast to pursuit, but if the sight of movement be added to that of -form, pursuit occurs. "Brücke 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. Thomson sprinkled a little gravel on the carpet, ... the -chickens 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 defiance. Street hawkers -well know the efficacy of summation, for they arrange themselves in a -line on the sidewalk, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a>{130}</span> 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.</p> - -<p><a name="ill_50" id="ill_50"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 470px;"> -<a href="images/i_130_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_130_sml.png" width="470" height="132" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Fig. 50.</span>—Sphygmographic pulse-tracing. <i>A</i>, during -intellectual repose; <i>B</i>, during intellectual activity. (Mosso.)</p></div> -</div> - -<p><b>Cerebral Blood-supply.</b>—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 irritation is applied, though the motor zone is the -most sensitive 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 furthermore that the arterial -tension (as shown by the sphygmograph) was increased in these members -(see <a href="#ill_50">Fig. 50</a>). So 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 excessively 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 emotional 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 -immediate afflux of blood to the brain during mental activity is due to -Mosso's observations on three persons whose brain had been laid bare by -lesion of the skull.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a>{131}</span> By means of apparatus described in his book, this -physiologist 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 -number of reproductions of tracings which show the instantaneity 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 <i>skull</i> on top -of a piece of furniture in the room, and that this had given her a -slight emotion.</p> - -<p><b>Cerebral Thermometry.</b>—<i>Brain-activity seems accompanied by a local -disengagement of heat.</i> 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 plunging 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 alteration 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 experiments that sensorial activity heats -the brain-tissue, but he did not try to localize the increment of heat -beyond finding<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a>{132}</span> 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.</p> - -<p><b>Phosphorus and Thought.</b>—Considering the large amount of popular -nonsense which passes current on this subject I may be pardoned for a -brief mention of it here. <i>'Ohne Phosphor, kein Gedanke</i>,' was a noted -war-cry of the 'materialists' during the excitement on that subject -which filled Germany in the '60s. 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 phosphorus. In America -the phosphorus-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.</p> - -<p>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 PO<sub>5</sub> in the urine, and this -procedure has been adopted by a variety of observers, some of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a>{133}</span> 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 phosphorus in mental activity. Like iron, -arsenic, and other remedies it is a stimulant or tonic, of whose -intimate workings 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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>pours -into the blood</i> (cholesterin, creatin, xanthin, or whatever 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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a>{134}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.<br /><br /> -<small>HABIT.</small></h2> - -<p><b>Its Importance for Psychology.</b>—There remains a condition of general -neural activity so important as to deserve a chapter by itself—I refer -to the aptitude of the nerve-centres, especially of the hemispheres, for -acquiring habits. <i>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.</i> 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 <i>de novo</i> of just -such pathways of discharge.</p> - -<p><b>Habit has a physical basis.</b> The moment one tries to define what habit -is, one is led to the fundamental properties 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 individual, 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 tensions can, from one hour to another, turn that structure<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a>{135}</span> -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. <i>Plasticity</i>, 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 extraordinary degree of plasticity of this sort; so that we may -without hesitation lay down as our first proposition the following: that -<i>the phenomena of habit in living beings are due to the plasticity of -the organic materials of which their bodies are composed</i>.</p> - -<p>The philosophy of habit is thus, in the first instance, a chapter in -physics rather than in physiology or psychology. That it is at bottom a -physical principle, is admitted by all good recent writers on the -subject. They call attention to analogues of acquired habits exhibited -by dead matter. Thus, M. Léon Dumont writes:</p> - -<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a>{136}</span> -force was required to overcome certain roughness in the mechanism. The -overcoming of their resistance is a phenomenon 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."</p> - -<p>Not in the nervous system alone. A scar anywhere is a <i>locus minoris -resistentiæ</i>, 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.</p> - -<p><b>Habits are due to pathways through the nerve-centres.</b> 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 the -forces<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a>{137}</span> to which all the other organs of our body are exposed; for, as -we saw on pp. <a href="#page_009">9-10</a>, 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 <i>can</i> 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 presently see more -fully, are, from the same point of view, nothing but <i>concatenated</i> -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 -impression produced by one muscular contraction serving as a stimulus to -provoke the next, until a final impression inhibits the process and -closes the chain.</p> - -<p>It must be noticed that the growth of structural modification 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 corroborate 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a>{138}</span> 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.</p> - -<p><b>Practical Effects of Habit.</b>—First, habit simplifies our movements, -makes them accurate, and diminishes fatigue.</p> - -<p>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:<a name="FNanchor_30_30" id="FNanchor_30_30"></a><a href="#Footnote_30_30" class="fnanchor">[30]</a></p> - -<p>"If an act became no easier after being done several times, if the -careful direction of consciousness were necessary 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 dressing 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 exertions. 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a>{139}</span> to realize how much he owes -to its automatic agency until disease has impaired its functions."</p> - -<p>Secondly, <i>habit diminishes the conscious attention with which our acts -are performed</i>.</p> - -<p>One may state this abstractly thus: If an act require for its execution -a chain, <i>A, B, C, D, E, F, G</i>, 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 themselves; 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, <i>A, B, C, D, E, F, G</i>, rattles itself off as soon as -<i>A</i> occurs, just as if <i>A</i> 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 instantaneous '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 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 bedroom 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 movements when performed at a later hour. We all have a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a>{140}</span> 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 <i>performed</i>. So of the questions, -Which valve of the shutters opens first? Which way does my door swing? -etc. I cannot <i>tell</i> the answer; yet my <i>hand</i> never makes a mistake. No -one can <i>describe</i> 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.</p> - -<p>These results may be expressed as follows:</p> - -<p>In action grown habitual, what instigates each new muscular contraction -to take place in its appointed order is not a thought or a perception, -but the <i>sensation occasioned by the muscular contraction just -finished</i>. A strictly voluntary act has to be guided by idea, -perception, and volition, 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:</p> - -<p><a name="ill_51" id="ill_51"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 478px;"> -<a href="images/i_140_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_140_sml.png" width="478" height="162" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Fig. 51.</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>Let <i>A, B, C, D, E, F, G</i> represent an habitual chain of muscular -contractions, and let <i>a, b, c, d, e, f</i> stand for the several -sensations which these contractions excite in us when they are -successively performed. Such sensations<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a>{141}</span> 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, <i>A, B, C, D, E, F, -G</i>, is being learned, each of these sensations 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 deliberation has -been gone through.</p> - -<p>In habitual action, on the contrary, the only impulse which the -intellectual centres need send down is that which carries the command to -<i>start</i>. This is represented in the diagram by <i>V</i>; 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 <i>A</i>, than <i>A</i>, through -the sensation <i>a</i> of its own occurrence, awakens <i>B</i> reflexly; <i>B</i> then -excites <i>C</i> through <i>b</i>, and so on till the chain is ended, when the -intellect generally takes cognizance of the final result. The -intellectual perception at the end is indicated in the diagram by the -sensible effect of the movement <i>G</i> being represented at <i>G´</i>, in the -ideational centres above the merely sensational line. The sensational -impressions, <i>a, b, c, d, e, f</i>, are all supposed to have their seat -below the ideational level.</p> - -<p><b>Habits depend on sensations not attended to.</b> We have called <i>a, b, c, d, -e, f</i>, 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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a>{142}</span> it is doubtful whether we could preserve -equilibrium if no sensation of our body's attitude were there, and -doubtful 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 production 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. <i>The -simultaneous combination 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.</i>"</p> - -<p><b>Ethical and Pedagogical Importance of the Principle of Habit.</b>—"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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a>{143}</span></p> - -<p>"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 instantly 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."</p> - -<p>Riderless cavalry-horses, at many a battle, have been seen to come -together and go through their customary evolutions at the sound of the -bugle-call. Most domestic beasts seem machines almost pure and simple, -undoubtingly, unhesitatingly doing from minute to minute the duties they -have been taught, and giving no sign that the possibility of an -alternative ever suggests itself to their mind. Men grown old in prison -have asked to be readmitted after being once set free. In a railroad -accident 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a>{144}</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>personal</i> habits, -properly so called, such as vocalization and pronunciation, gesture, -motion, and address. Hardly ever is a language learned after twenty -spoken without a foreign accent; hardly ever can a youth transferred to -the society of his betters unlearn the nasality and other 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 <i>dress</i> like a gentleman-born. The merchants offer their -wares as eagerly to him as to the veriest 'swell,' but he simply -<i>cannot</i> 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.</p> - -<p>The great thing, then, in all education, is to <i>make our nervous system -our ally instead of our enemy</i>. It is to fund and capitalize our -acquisitions, and live at ease upon the interest of the fund. <i>For this -we must make automatic and habitual, as early as possible, as many -useful actions as we can</i>, 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a>{145}</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>launch ourselves with -as strong and decided an initiative as possible</i>. 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 breakdown is postponed adds to the chances of its not -occurring at all.</p> - -<p>The second maxim is: <i>Never suffer an exception to occur till the new -habit is securely rooted in your life</i>. 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. <i>Continuity</i> -of training is the great means of making the nervous system act -infallibly right. As Professor Bain says:</p> - -<p>"The peculiarity of the moral habits, contradistinguishing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a>{146}</span> 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."</p> - -<p>The need of securing success at the <i>outset</i> 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.</p> - -<p>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, <i>if there be a -real possibility of carrying it out</i>. We must be careful not to give the -will so stiff a task as to insure its defeat at the very outset; but, -<i>provided one can stand it</i>, 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 -<i>never</i> fed.</p> - -<p>"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 'to -make one's self over again.' He who every day makes a fresh resolve is -like one who,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a>{147}</span> arriving at the edge of the ditch he is to leap, forever -stops and returns for a fresh run. Without <i>unbroken</i> advance there is -no such thing as <i>accumulation</i> 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 name="FNanchor_31_31" id="FNanchor_31_31"></a><a href="#Footnote_31_31" class="fnanchor">[31]</a></p> - -<p>A third maxim may be added to the preceding pair: <i>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</i>. It is not in the moment of their forming, but in -the moment of their producing <i>motor effects</i>, that resolves and -aspirations communicate the new 'set' to the brain. As the author last -quoted remarks:</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>No matter how full a reservoir of <i>maxims</i> one may possess, and no -matter how good one's <i>sentiments</i> may be, if one have not taken -advantage of every concrete opportunity to <i>act</i>, one's character may -remain entirely unaffected for the better. With mere good intentions, -hell is proverbially paved. And this is an obvious consequence 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 tendencies 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a>{148}</span> bearing practical fruit it is worse than a -chance lost; it works so as positively to hinder future resolutions and -emotions 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 formulated 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 disguised -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 -excessive indulgence in music, for those who are neither performers -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 <i>some</i> 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.</p> - -<p>These latter cases make us aware that it is not simply<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a>{149}</span> <i>particular -lines</i> of discharge, but also <i>general forms</i> 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: <i>Keep the -faculty of effort alive in you by a little gratuitous exercise every -day</i>. 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. Asceticism -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 <i>does</i> come, his having paid it will -be his salvation from ruin. So with the man who has daily inured himself -to habits of concentrated attention, energetic volition, and self-denial -in unnecessary things. He will stand like a tower when everything rocks -around him, and when his softer fellow-mortals are winnowed like chaff -in the blast.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a>{150}</span> bundles of -habits, they would give more heed to their conduct 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 <i>power of judging</i> 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 discouragement and -faint-heartedness in youths embarking on arduous careers than all other -causes put together.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a>{151}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.<br /><br /> -<small>THE STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS.</small></h2> - -<p><b>The order of our study must be analytic.</b> We are now prepared to begin -the introspective study of the adult consciousness itself. Most books -adopt the so-called synthetic method. Starting with 'simple ideas of -sensation,' and regarding these as so many atoms, they proceed to build -up the higher states of mind out of their 'association,' 'integration,' -or 'fusion,' as houses are built by the agglutination of bricks. This -has the didactic advantages which the synthetic method usually has. But -it commits one beforehand 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 'simple ideas' with -which he has no immediate acquaintance 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 'analytic' method, and to begin -with the most concrete facts, those with which he has a daily -acquaintance 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 thereof. They were put first as a mere matter of convenience, -because incoming currents come first. <i>Psychologically</i> they might -better have come last. Pure sensations were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a>{152}</span> described on <a href="#page_012">page 12</a> 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 <i>elements of composition</i> of the higher states of mind.</p> - -<p><b>The Fundamental Fact.</b>—The first and foremost concrete fact which every -one will affirm to belong to his inner experience is the fact that -<i>consciousness of some sort goes on. 'States of mind' succeed each other -in him.</i> 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 <i>thought -goes on</i>.</p> - -<p><b>Four Characters in Consciousness.</b>—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:</p> - -<p>1) Every 'state' tends to be part of a personal consciousness.</p> - -<p>2) Within each personal consciousness states are always changing.</p> - -<p>3) Each personal consciousness is sensibly continuous.</p> - -<p>4) It is interested in some parts of its object to the exclusion of -others, and welcomes or rejects—<i>chooses</i> from among them, in a -word—all the while.</p> - -<p>In considering these four points successively, we shall have to plunge -<i>in medias res</i> as regards our nomenclature and use psychological terms -which can only be adequately 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.</p> - -<p>When I say <i>every 'state' or 'thought' is part of a personal -consciousness</i>, '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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a>{153}</span> confront in the next chapter; here -a preliminary word will suffice.</p> - -<p>In this room—this lecture-room, say—there are a multitude 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 <i>my</i> other thoughts, and your thought with <i>your</i> other -thoughts. Whether anywhere in the room there be a <i>mere</i> 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 consciousnesses, minds, -selves, concrete particular I's and you's.</p> - -<p>Each of these minds keeps its own thoughts to itself. There is no giving -or bartering between them. No thought even comes into direct <i>sight</i> of -a thought in another personal consciousness than its own. Absolute -insulation, irreducible pluralism, is the law. It seems as if the -elementary psychic fact were not <i>thought</i> or <i>this thought</i> or <i>that -thought</i>, but <i>my thought</i>, every thought being <i>owned</i>. Neither -contemporaneity, nor proximity in space, nor similarity 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 <i>something</i> -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 -'feelings and thoughts exist,' but 'I think' and 'I feel.' No -psychology, at any rate, can question the <i>existence</i> of personal -selves. Thoughts connected as we feel them to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a>{154}</span> be connected are <i>what we -mean</i> by personal selves. The worst a psychology can do is so to -interpret the nature of these selves as to rob them of their <i>worth</i>.</p> - -<p><b>Consciousness is in constant change.</b> 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 <i>no state once -gone can recur and be identical with what it was before</i>. Now we are -seeing, now hearing; now reasoning, now willing; now recollecting, 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 <i>sensations</i> 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 <i>there is no -proof that an incoming current ever gives us just the same bodily -sensation twice</i>.</p> - -<p><i>What is got twice is the same</i> <small>OBJECT</small>. We hear the same <i>note</i> over and -over again; we see the same <i>quality</i> of green, or smell the same -objective perfume, or experience the same <i>species</i> 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 recognition of the realities whose presence they reveal. The grass<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a>{155}</span> -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 yellow, 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 <i>things</i> 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 -impression is its <i>ratio</i> to whatever other impressions we may have at -the same time. When everything is dark a somewhat 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.</p> - -<p>Such a difference as this could never have been <i>sensibly</i> learned; it -had to be inferred from a series of indirect considerations. 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 morning, -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 different<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a>{156}</span> 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.</p> - -<p>To these indirect presumptions that our sensations, following 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 <i>in an unmodified brain</i>. But as this, strictly speaking, is -a physiological impossibility, so is an unmodified feeling an -impossibility; for to every brain-modification, however small, we -suppose that there must correspond a change of equal amount in the -consciousness which the brain subserves.</p> - -<p>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!</p> - -<p>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 <i>must</i> -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 another 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;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a>{157}</span> 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 -distinguishable existences; the pictures so empty; and as for the books, -what <i>was</i> there to find so mysteriously significant in Goethe, or in -John Mill so full of weight? Instead of all this, more zestful than ever -is the work; and fuller and deeper the import of common duties and of -common goods.</p> - -<p>I am sure that this concrete and total manner of regarding 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 proposition 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 and among ourselves. No doubt it is often <i>convenient</i> 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 nothing in nature to answer to our -words. <i>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.</i></p> - -<p><b>Within each personal consciousness, thought is sensibly continuous.</b> I -can only define 'continuous' as that which is without breach, crack, or -division. The only breaches that can well be conceived to occur within -the limits of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a>{158}</span> single mind would either be <i>interruptions</i>, -<i>time</i>-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 continuous, means two things:</p> - -<p><i>a.</i> That even where there is a time-gap the consciousness after it -feels as if it belonged together with the consciousness before it, as -another part of the same self;</p> - -<p><i>b.</i> That the changes from one moment to another in the quality of the -consciousness are never absolutely abrupt.</p> - -<p>The case of the time-gaps, as the simplest, shall be taken first.</p> - -<p><i>a.</i> 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 <i>one</i> 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 Peter's 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 <i>knowledge</i>, 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 <i>remembers</i> his own states, whilst he only <i>conceives</i> -Paul's. Remembrance 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 <i>present</i> 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a>{159}</span> themselves be will have to -be matter for future consideration. But whatever past states appear with -those qualities must be admitted to receive the greeting of the present -mental state, to be owned by it, and accepted as belonging together with -it in a common self. This community 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 certain chosen -portions of the past.</p> - -<p>Consciousness, then, does not appear to itself chopped up in bits. Such -words as 'chain' or 'train' do not describe 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. -<i>In talking of it hereafter, let us call it the stream of thought, of -consciousness, or of subjective life.</i></p> - -<p><i>b.</i> 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 <i>contrasts in the quality</i> of the successive 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 <i>pure</i>, 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 <i>feeling</i> of the thunder is also a feeling of the silence as just -gone; and it would be difficult to find in the actual concrete -consciousness of man a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a>{160}</span> feeling so limited to the present as not to have -an inkling of anything that went before.</p> - -<p><b>'Substantive' and 'Transitive' States of Mind.</b>—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 changing; 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.</p> - -<p><i>Let us call the resting-places the 'substantive parts,' and the places -of flight the 'transitive parts,' of the stream of thought.</i> 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.</p> - -<p>Now it is very difficult, introspectively, to see the transitive 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 <i>be</i> 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 section, and he will see how difficult -the introspective observation 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 arrest 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a>{161}</span> 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 <i>produce</i> 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 treatment 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.</p> - -<p>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 -<i>Sensationalism</i>. 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 <i>named</i> mental -states mirroring such relations, 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 <i>out</i> 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 upshot of this view. The <i>Intellectualists</i>, on -the other hand, unable to give up the reality of relations <i>extra -mentem</i>, but equally unable to point to any distinct substantive -feelings in which they were known, have made the same admission<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a>{162}</span> 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 <i>actus purus</i> of Thought, Intellect, or -Reason, all written with capitals and considered to mean something -unutterably superior to any passing perishing fact of sensibility -whatever.</p> - -<p>But from our point of view both Intellectualists and Sensationalists are -wrong. If there be such things as feelings at all, <i>then so surely as -relations between objects exist</i> in rerum naturâ, <i>so surely, and more -surely, do feelings exist to which these relations are known</i>. There is -not a conjunction or a preposition, and hardly an adverbial 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 numberless, and no existing language is capable of doing justice to -all their shades.</p> - -<p>We ought to say a feeling of <i>and</i>, a feeling of <i>if</i>, a feeling of -<i>but</i>, and a feeling of <i>by</i>, quite as readily as we say a feeling of -<i>blue</i> or a feeling of <i>cold</i>. Yet we do not: so inveterate has our -habit become of recognizing the existence 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a>{163}</span> 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 lingering relatively -long, whilst others simply come and pass. But if consciousness -corresponds to the fact of rearrangement itself, why, if the -rearrangement stop not, should the consciousness ever cease? And if a -lingering rearrangement brings with it one kind of consciousness, why -should not a swift rearrangement bring another kind of consciousness as -peculiar as the rearrangement itself?</p> - -<p><b>The object before the mind always has a 'Fringe.'</b> There are other -unnamed modifications of consciousness just as important as the -transitive states, and just as cognitive as they. Examples will show -what I mean.</p> - -<p>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 -conscious affection, a sense of the direction from which an impression -is about to come, although no positive impression is yet there. -Meanwhile we have no names for the psychoses in question but the names -hark, look, and wait.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a>{164}</span> 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 -described as gaps. When I vainly try to recall the name of Spalding, my -consciousness is far removed from what it is when I vainly try to recall -the name of Bowles. There are innumerable consciousnesses of <i>want</i>, no -one of which taken in itself has a name, but all different from each -other. Such a feeling of want is <i>toto cœlo</i> 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 -growing more distinct. Every one must know the tantalizing effect of the -blank rhythm of some forgotten verse, restlessly dancing in one's mind, -striving to be filled out with words.</p> - -<p>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 <i>intention of saying a thing</i> before -he has said it? It is an entirely definite intention, distinct from all -other intentions, an absolutely distinct state of consciousness, -therefore; and yet how much of it consists 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 replace 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 <i>to-say-so-and-so</i> 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a>{165}</span> -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 expect 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 understanding four ideas of the book he is reading aloud -can nevertheless read it with the most delicately modulated expression -of intelligence.</p> - -<p>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 knowledge 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 traditional -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 overlook. 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a>{166}</span> 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 <i>thing</i> it was before, but making it an -image of that thing newly taken and freshly understood.</p> - -<p><i>Let us call the consciousness of this halo of relations around the -image by the name of 'psychic overtone' or 'fringe.'</i></p> - -<p><b>Cerebral Conditions of the 'Fringe.'</b>—Nothing is easier than to -symbolize these facts in terms of brain-action. Just as the echo of the -<i>whence</i>, the sense of the starting point of our thought, is probably -due to the dying excitement 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:</p> - -<p><a name="ill_52" id="ill_52"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 404px;"> -<a href="images/i_166_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_166_sml.png" width="404" height="179" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Fig. 52.</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>Let the horizontal in Fig. 52 be the line of time, and let the three -curves beginning at <i>a</i>, <i>b</i>, and <i>c</i> 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 <i>a</i> has not yet died out, the -process<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a>{167}</span> for <i>c</i> has already begun, when that for <i>b</i> is culminating. At -the time-instant represented by the vertical line all three processes -are <i>present</i>, in the intensities shown by the curve. Those before <i>c</i>'s -apex <i>were</i> more intense a moment ago; those after it <i>will be</i> more -intense a moment hence. If I recite <i>a</i>, <i>b</i>, <i>c</i>, then, at the moment -of uttering <i>b</i>, neither <i>a</i> nor <i>c</i> is out of my consciousness -altogether, but both, after their respective fashions, 'mix their dim -lights' with the stronger <i>b</i>, because their processes are both awake in -some degree.</p> - -<p>It is just like 'overtones' in music: they are not separately 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.</p> - -<p><b>The 'Topic' of the Thought.</b>—If we then consider the <i>cognitive -function</i> of different states of mind, we may feel assured that the -difference between those that are mere 'acquaintance' and those that are -'knowledges-<i>about</i>' is reducible almost entirely to the absence or -presence of psychic fringes or overtones. Knowledge <i>about</i> 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 penumbral 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.</p> - -<p><b>Thought may be equally rational in any sort of terms.</b> <i>In all our -voluntary thinking there is some</i> <small>TOPIC</small> or <small>SUBJECT</small> about which all the -members of the thought revolve. 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 'all right,' may be -considered a thought that furthers the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a>{168}</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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 association 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.</p> - -<p>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 sentence 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 unusual foreign word be introduced, if -the grammar trip, or if a term from an incongruous vocabulary suddenly -appear,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a>{169}</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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 reporter, and -read uncritically by many readers.</p> - -<p><a name="ill_53" id="ill_53"></a></p> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 231px;"> -<a href="images/i_169_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_169_sml.png" width="231" height="147" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Fig. 53.</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>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 <i>intrinsically</i> 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 indifference of the mental means where the end is the -same. Let <i>A</i> be some experience from which a number of thinkers start. -Let <i>Z</i> be the practical conclusion rationally inferrible from it. One -gets to this conclusion by one line, another<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a>{170}</span> by another; one follows a -course of English, another of German, verbal imagery. With one, visual -images predominate; 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 <i>inter se</i>, finally shoot -into the same conclusion, we say, and rightly say, that all the thinkers -have had substantially 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.</p> - -<p>The last peculiarity to which attention is to be drawn in this first -rough description of thought's stream is that—</p> - -<p><b>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.</b></p> - -<p>The phenomena of selective attention and of deliberative 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 different accent which we place on -different strokes. The simplest of these rhythms is the double one, -tick-tóck, tick-tóck, tick-tóck. Dots dispersed on a surface are -perceived in rows and groups. Lines separate into diverse figures. The -ubiquity of the distinctions, <i>this</i> and <i>that</i>, <i>here</i> and <i>there</i>, -<i>now</i> and <i>then</i>, in our minds is the result of our laying the same -selective emphasis on parts of place and time.</p> - -<p>But we do far more than emphasize things, and unite some, and keep -others apart. We actually <i>ignore</i> most of the things before us. Let me -briefly show how this goes on.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a>{171}</span></p> - -<p>To begin at the bottom, what are our very senses themselves, as we saw -on pp. <a href="#page_010">10-12</a>, 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 undistinguishable, -swarming <i>continuum</i>, 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.</p> - -<p>If 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 its notice and suppresses all the rest. We -notice only those sensations which are signs to us of <i>things</i> which -happen practically or æsthetically 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 -<i>thing</i>, and just as much or as little deserves an individual name, as -my own body does.</p> - -<p>And then, among the sensations we get from each separate thing, what -happens? The mind selects again. It chooses certain of the sensations to -represent the thing most <i>truly</i>, and considers the rest as its -appearances, modified by the conditions of the moment. Thus my table-top -is named <i>square</i>, 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 <i>perspective</i> views, -and the four right angles the <i>true</i> form of the table, and erect the -attribute squareness into the table's essence, for æsthetic reasons of -my own. In like manner, the real form of the circle is deemed to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a>{172}</span> the -sensation it gives when the line of vision is perpendicular to its -centre—all its other sensations are <i>signs</i> 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.</p> - -<p>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-arrangements, 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 -beside; whilst the fourth will perhaps have been so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a>{173}</span> 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.</p> - -<p>If now, leaving the empirical combination of objects, we ask how the -mind proceeds <i>rationally</i> 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 emergency be theoretical, 'means' if it be practical—transfixed -upon it.</p> - -<p>If now we pass to the æsthetic 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 <i>elimination</i>. 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 harmonize with this.</p> - -<p>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 unflinchingly 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a>{174}</span> to be supreme. The ethical energy <i>par excellence</i> has -to go farther and choose which <i>interest</i> 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 <i>become</i> is fixed by -the conduct of this moment. Schopenhauer, who enforces his determinism -by the argument that with a given fixed character only one reaction is -possible under given circumstances, forgets that, in these critical -ethical moments, what consciously <i>seems</i> 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.</p> - -<p>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 subordination and -dislike. There is, however, one entirely extraordinary 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 '<i>me</i>' and '<i>not-me</i>' 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 <i>me</i> or <i>mine</i> may be a -moral riddle, but it is a fundamental psychological fact. No mind can -take the same interest in his neighbor's <i>me</i> as in his own. The -neighbor's me falls together with all the rest of things in one foreign -mass against which his own <i>me</i> stands out in startling relief.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a>{175}</span> Even -the trodden worm, as Lotze somewhere says, contrasts his own suffering -self with the whole remaining universe, 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.</p> - -<p>Descending now to finer work than this first general sketch, let us in -the next chapter try to trace the psychology of this fact of -self-consciousness to which we have thus once more been led.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a>{176}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.<br /><br /> -<small>THE SELF.</small></h2> - -<p><b>The Me and the I.</b>—Whatever I may be thinking of, I am always at the -same time more or less aware of <i>myself</i>, of my <i>personal existence</i>. At -the same time it is <i>I</i> 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 <i>Me</i> and the other the <i>I</i>. I call -these 'discriminated aspects,' and not separate things, because the -identity of <i>I</i> with <i>me</i>, 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, whatever we may come -to think of its validity at our inquiry's end.</p> - -<p>I shall therefore treat successively of A) the self as known, or the -<i>me</i>, the 'empirical ego' as it is sometimes called; and of B) the self -as knower, or the I, the 'pure ego' of certain authors.</p> - -<h3>A) <span class="smcap">The Self as Known.</span></h3> - -<p><b>The Empirical Self or Me.</b>—Between what a man calls <i>me</i> and what he -simply calls <i>mine</i> 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 themselves, are they simply -ours, or are they <i>us</i>? Certainly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a>{177}</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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. <i>In its -widest possible sense</i>, however, <i>a man's Me is the sum total of all -that he</i> <small>CAN</small> <i>call his</i>, not only his body and his psychic powers, but -his clothes and his house, his wife and children, 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; if they dwindle 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—</p> - -<p><i>a.</i> Its constituents;</p> - -<p><i>b.</i> The feelings and emotions they arouse,—<i>self-appreciation</i>;</p> - -<p><i>c.</i> The act to which they prompt,—<i>self-seeking and -self-preservation</i>.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p><i>a.</i> <i>The constituents of the Me</i> may be divided into two classes, those -which make up respectively—</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td align="left">The material me;</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left">The social me; and</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left">The spiritual me.</td></tr> -</table> - -<p><b>The Material Me.</b>—The <i>body</i> 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 the human person is -composed of three parts—soul, body and clothes—is more than a joke. We -so appropriate our clothes and identify ourselves<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a>{178}</span> 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 hesitate 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 arrangements 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.'</p> - -<p>An equally instinctive impulse drives us to collect property; and the -collections thus made become, with different degrees of intimacy, parts -of our empirical selves. The parts 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 construction of -their hands or brains—say an entomological collection or an extensive -work in manuscript—were suddenly 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 -nothingness, which is a psychological phenomenon by itself. We<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a>{179}</span> are all -at once assimilated to the tramps and poor devils whom we so despise, -and at the same time removed farther 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.</p> - -<p><b>The Social Me.</b>—A man's social me is the recognition which he gets from -his mates. We are not only gregarious 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 punishment 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 we were non-existing things, a kind of rage and -impotent despair would ere long well up in us, from which the cruellest -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.</p> - -<p>Properly speaking, <i>a man has as many social selves as there are -individuals who recognize him</i> 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 -practically say that he has as many different social selves as there are -distinct <i>groups</i> 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 employ,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a>{180}</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>is</i> not, so long as this -particular social self fails to get recognition, and when it is -recognized his contentment passes all bounds.</p> - -<p>A man's <i>fame</i>, good or bad, and his <i>honor</i> 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 -condemns 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 apologize 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a>{181}</span> 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 our 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.</p> - -<p><b>The Spiritual Me.</b>—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 dispositions taken concretely. This collection can -at any moment 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 <i>think of ourselves as thinkers</i>, all the other ingredients of -our Me seem relatively external possessions. Even within the spiritual -<i>Me</i> some ingredients seem more external than others. Our capacities 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 <i>active-feeling</i> 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 sanctuary -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 -<i>internality</i> of whatever states possess this quality of seeming to be -active. It is as if they <i>went out to meet</i> all the other elements of -our experience. In thus feeling about them probably all men agree.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a>{182}</span></p> - -<p><i>b.</i> <i>The feelings and emotions of self</i> come after the constituents.</p> - -<p><b>Self-appreciation.</b>—This is of two sorts, <i>self-complacency</i> and -<i>self-dissatisfaction</i>. 'Self-love' more properly belongs under the -division <i>C</i>, of <i>acts</i>, since what men mean by that name is rather a -set of motor tendencies than a kind of feeling properly so called.</p> - -<p>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, -mortification, 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 sensible pleasures or pains to which our prosperous or debased -personal predicament is likely to lead, the sum of the represented -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 -expectation of reward <i>is</i> not the self-satisfaction, and the mere -apprehension of the evil <i>is</i> 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 discontent. 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.</p> - -<p>One may say, however, that the normal <i>provocative</i> 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a>{183}</span> boy am I!'<span class="lftspc">"</span> 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 still 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.</p> - -<p>The emotions themselves of self-satisfaction and abasement 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 expression. In self-satisfaction the extensor muscles are -innervated, 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 -swaggering gait is in tragic contrast with their lack of any valuable -personal quality. It is in these same castles of despair that we find -the strongest examples of the opposite physiognomy, in good people who -think they have committed '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 no -adequate exciting cause. And in fact we ourselves know how the barometer -of our self-esteem and confidence rises and falls from one day to -another through causes that seem to be visceral and organic rather than -rational, and which certainly answer to no corresponding variations in -the esteem in which we are held by our friends.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a>{184}</span></p> - -<p><i>c.</i> <i>Self-seeking and self-preservation</i> come next.</p> - -<p>These words cover a large number of our fundamental instinctive -impulses. We have those of <i>bodily self-seeking</i>, those of <i>social -self-seeking</i>, and those of <i>spiritual self-seeking</i>.</p> - -<p><b>Bodily Self-seeking.</b>—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, however, these latter -instincts, with amativeness, parental fondness, curiosity and emulation, -seek not only the development of the bodily Me, but that of the material -Me in the widest possible sense of the word.</p> - -<p>Our <b>social self-seeking</b>, 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 -recognition 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 <i>them</i> an exquisite -pleasure to be met walking down Pall Mall with a duke on either arm. But -in default of dukes<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a>{185}</span> and envious salutions almost anything will do for -some of us; and there is a whole race of beings to-day whose passion 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 pathological 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!"</p> - -<p>Not only the people but the places and things I know enlarge my Self in -a sort of metaphoric social way. '<i>Ça me connaît</i>,' as the French -workman says of the implement he can use well. So that it comes about -that persons for whose <i>opinion</i> 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.</p> - -<p>Under the head of <b>spiritual self-seeking</b> 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 commonly 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 of the 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 search of -the redeemed inward nature, the spotlessness from sin, whether here or -hereafter, that can count as spiritual self-seeking pure and undefiled.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a>{186}</span></p> - -<p>But this broad external review of the facts of the life of the Me will -be incomplete without some account of the</p> - -<p><b>Rivalry and Conflict of the Different Mes.</b>—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 -<i>bon-vivant</i>, 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 <i>bon-vivant</i> -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 conceivably at the outset of life be alike -<i>possible</i> 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 triumphs, 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 (<a href="#page_173">p. 173</a> 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.</p> - -<p>So we have the paradox of a man shamed to death because he is only the -second pugilist or the second oarsman in the world. That he is able to -beat the whole population of the globe minus one is nothing; he has -'pitted' himself to beat that one; and as long as he doesn't<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a>{187}</span> do that -nothing else counts. He is to his own regard as if he were not, indeed -he <i>is</i> not. Yonder puny fellow, however, 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 <i>back</i> 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,</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="1" summary=""> -<tr><td class="c" valign="middle" rowspan="2">Self-esteem</td> -<td align="left" rowspan="2">=</td><td class="c">Success.</td></tr> -<tr> -<td class="bt">Pretensions.</td></tr> -</table> - -<p class="nind">Such a fraction may be increased as well by diminishing the denominator -as by increasing the numerator. To give up pretensions is as blessed a -relief as to get them 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 lightness about the heart when one's nothingness in a -particular line is once accepted in good faith. <i>All</i> is not bitterness -in the lot of the lover sent away by the final inexorable 'No.' Many -Bostonians, <i>crede experto</i> (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, -<i>those</i> 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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a>{188}</span></p> - -<p>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 -<i>renunciation</i> that life, properly speaking, can be said to begin."</p> - -<p>Neither threats nor pleadings 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 of 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. Afterwards 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."</p> - -<p>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 unsympathetic characters. It proceeds altogether -by exclusion. If I am a Stoic, the goods I cannot appropriate cease to -be <i>my</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a>{189}</span> 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 <i>intrench</i> their Me, they <i>retract</i> 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 -outline of my Me console me for the smallness of its content.</p> - -<p>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. <i>Nil humani a me alienum.</i> Let them despise this little person -of mine, and treat me like a dog, <i>I</i> shall not negate <i>them</i> so long as -I have a soul in my body. They are realities 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 Hohenzollerns -themselves. Thus either by negating or by embracing, the Ego may seek to -establish itself in reality. He who, with Marcus Aurelius, can truly -say, "O Universe, I wish all that thou wishest," has a self from which -every trace of negativeness and obstructiveness has been removed—no -wind can blow except to fill its sails.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a>{190}</span></p> - -<p><b>The Hierarchy of the Mes.</b>—A tolerably unanimous opinion ranges the -different selves of which a man may be 'seized and possessed,' and the -consequent different orders of his self-regard, in an <i>hierarchical -scale, with the bodily me at the bottom, the spiritual me at top, and -the extra-corporeal material selves and the various social selves -between</i>. Our merely natural self-seeking would lead us to aggrandize -all these selves; we give up deliberately only those among them which we -find we cannot keep. Our unselfishness 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.</p> - -<p>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, -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 subordination. 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 <i>think</i> about them in -a very different way from that in which I simply <i>feel</i>. Of course, the -moral generalities which from childhood have been instilled into me -accelerate<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a>{191}</span> enormously the advent of this reflective judgment on myself.</p> - -<p>So it comes to pass that, as aforesaid, men have arranged the various -selves which they may seek in an hierarchical scale according 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 individual. 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 human ties, 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.</p> - -<p><i>In each kind of Me, material, social, and spiritual, men distinguish -between the immediate and actual, and the remote and potential</i>, 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.</p> - -<p>Of all these wider, more potential selves, <i>the potential social Me</i> 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,' -homœopath, or what not, I am<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a>{192}</span> always inwardly strengthened in my -course and steeled against the loss of my actual social self by the -thought of other and better <i>possible</i> 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 <i>worthy</i> of approving recognition by -the highest <i>possible</i> judging companion, if such companion there be. -This self is the true, the intimate, the ultimate, the permanent 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 <i>do</i> -pray, which is simply that we cannot help praying. 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 manner 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 <i>social</i> sort, it yet -can find its only adequate <i>Socius</i> in an ideal world.</p> - -<p>All progress in the social Self is the substitution of higher tribunals -for lower; this ideal tribunal is the highest; and most men, either -continually or occasionally, carry a reference to it in their breast. -The humblest outcast 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a>{193}</span> 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 spectator. 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 <i>religious</i> -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. <i>Complete</i> social unselfishness, in other words, can hardly -exist; <i>complete</i> 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 willingness, and set more store by them thus -than if in His unfathomable scheme He had not damned them at all.</p> - -<p><b>Teleological Uses of Self-interest.</b>—On zoölogical principles it is easy -to see why we have been endowed with impulses of self-seeking and with -emotions of self-satisfaction 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 existence; for, by an inscrutable -necessity, each human mind's appearance on this earth is conditioned -upon the integrity<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a>{194}</span> of the body with which it belongs, upon the -treatment which that body gets from others, and upon the spiritual -dispositions which use it as their tool, and lead it either towards -longevity or to destruction. <i>Its own body, then, first of all, its -friends next, and finally its spiritual dispositions</i>, <small>MUST</small> <i>be the -supremely interesting objects for each human mind</i>. 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. This 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>All these three things form the <i>natural Me</i>. But all these things are -<i>objects</i>, properly so called, to the thought which at any time may be -doing the thinking; and if the zoölogical and evolutionary point of view -is the true one, there is no reason why one object <i>might</i> not arouse -passion and interest as primitively and instinctively as any other. 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 -fascinated, and as primitively so, by the care of my neighbor's body as -by the care of my own. I <i>am</i> thus fascinated<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a>{195}</span> 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 -individual or to his tribe. Many such interests, however, remain -unweeded out—the interest in the opposite sex, for example, 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 coördinate. 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.</p> - -<p><b>Summary.</b>—The following table may serve for a summary of what has been -said thus far. The empirical life of Self is divided, as below, into</p> - -<table border="1" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="" - class="sml85"> - -<tr class="c"><td class="smcap"> </td> - -<td class="smcap">Material.</td> - -<td class="smcap">Social.</td> - -<td class="smcap">Spiritual.</td></tr> - -<tr class="c" valign="middle"><td class="smcap">Self-Seeking.</td> - -<td>Bodily Appetites -and Instincts. -Love of Adornment, -Foppery, -Acquisitiveness, -Constructiveness. -Love of Home, etc.</td> - -<td>Desire to Please, -be Noticed, Admired, -etc. -Sociability, Emulation, -Envy, -Love, Pursuit -of Honor, Ambition, -etc.</td> - -<td>Intellectual, Moral -and Religious -Aspirations, -Conscientiousness.</td></tr> - -<tr class="c" valign="middle"><td class="smcap">Self-Estimation.</td> - -<td>Personal Vanity, -Modesty, etc. -Pride of Wealth, -Fear of Poverty.</td> - -<td>Social and Family -Pride, Vainglory, -Snobbery, -Humility, -Shame, etc.</td> - -<td>Sense of Moral or -Mental Superiority, -Purity, etc. -Sense of Inferiority -or of Guilt.</td></tr> - -</table> - -<h3>B) <span class="smcap">The Self as Knower.</span></h3> - -<p>The I, or 'pure ego,' is a very much more difficult subject of inquiry -than the Me. It is that which at any given moment <i>is</i> conscious, -whereas the Me is only one of the things which it is conscious <i>of</i>. In -other words, it is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a>{196}</span> the <i>Thinker</i>; and the question immediately comes -up, <i>what</i> is the thinker? Is it the passing state of consciousness -itself, or is it something deeper and less mutable? The passing state we -have seen to be the very embodiment of change (see <a href="#page_155">p. 155</a> ff.). Yet each -of us spontaneously considers that by 'I,' 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 '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.</p> - -<p><b>The Unity of the Passing Thought.</b>—Already, in speaking of 'sensations,' -from the point of view of Fechner'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.</p> - -<p>"There can be no difficulty in admitting that association <i>does</i> 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?"</p> - -<p>Similar quotations might be multiplied, and the reader's own first -impressions probably would rally to their support. Suppose, for example, -he thinks that "the pack of cards is on the table." If he begins to -reflect, he is as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a>{197}</span> 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 assemblage or pack of ideas, -each answering to some element of what it knows?"</p> - -<p>Plausible as such considerations may seem, it is astonishing 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 <i>at once</i>. The idea which, on the hypothesis of the -pack of ideas, knows, <i>e.g.</i>, 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 relation 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 <i>plus</i> 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 <i>not</i> 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 <i>like</i> both of them is -there, but that is a distinct state of mind altogether.</p> - -<p><b>Distinct mental states cannot 'fuse.'</b> But not only is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a>{198}</span> 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.</p> - -<p><i>All the 'combinations' which we actually know are</i> <small>EFFECTS</small>, <i>wrought by -the units said to be 'combined,'</i> <small>UPON SOME ENTITY OTHER THAN -THEMSELVES</small>. Without this feature of a medium or vehicle, the notion of -combination has no sense.</p> - -<p>In other words, no possible number of entities (call them as you like, -whether forces, material particles, or mental elements) can sum -<i>themselves</i> together. Each remains, in the sum, what it always was; and -the sum itself exists only <i>for a bystander</i> 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 external to the sum itself. When H<sub>2</sub> -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 combined <i>effects</i>, 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.</p> - -<p>In the parallelogram of forces, the 'forces' do not combine <i>themselves</i> -into the diagonal resultant; a <i>body</i> is needed on which they may -impinge, to exhibit their resultant effect. No more do musical sounds -combine <i>per se</i> into concords or discords. Concord and discord are -names for their combined effects on that external medium, the <i>ear</i>.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a>{199}</span> 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 <i>belonging to the group as such</i> -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 <i>creation</i>, when they came together—we often -have to learn things separately before we know them as a sum—but they -would have no substantial identity with the new feeling, nor it with -them; and one could never deduce the one from the others, or (in any -intelligible sense) say that they <i>evolved</i> it out of themselves.</p> - -<p>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 associationists say the mind is -constituted by a multiplicity of distinct 'ideas' <i>associated</i> into a -unity. There is, they say, an idea of <i>a</i>, and also an idea of <i>b</i>. -<i>Therefore</i>, they say, there is an idea of <i>a</i> + <i>b</i>, or of <i>a</i> and <i>b</i> -together. Which is like saying that the mathematical square of <i>a</i> plus -that of <i>b</i> is equal to the square of <i>a</i> + <i>b</i>, a palpable untruth. -Idea of <i>a</i> + idea of <i>b</i> is <i>not</i> identical with idea of (<i>a</i> + <i>b</i>). -It is one, they are two; in it, what knows <i>a</i> also knows <i>b</i>; in them, -what knows <i>a</i> is expressly posited as not knowing <i>b</i>; etc. In short, -the two separate ideas<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a>{200}</span> can never by any logic be made to figure as one -idea. If one idea (of <i>a</i> + <i>b</i>, for example) come as a matter of fact -after the two separate ideas (of <i>a</i> and of <i>b</i>), 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.</p> - -<p><i>The simplest thing, therefore, if we are to assume the existence of a -stream of consciousness at all, would be to suppose that things that are -known together are known in single pulses of that stream.</i> 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 <a href="#page_161">p. 161</a>), to which the many -things appear.</p> - -<p><b>The Soul as a Combining Medium.</b>—The spiritualists in philosophy have -been prompt to see that things which are known together are known by one -<i>something</i>, but that something, they say, is no mere passing thought, -but a simple and permanent spiritual being on which many ideas combine -their effects. It makes no difference in this connection 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 <i>other</i> grounds for admitting 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 knowing 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. -<i>Explained</i> it is not by either conception, and has to figure in -psychology as a datum that is ultimate.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a>{201}</span></p> - -<p>But there are other alleged grounds for admitting the Soul into -psychology, and the chief of them is</p> - -<p><b>The Sense of Personal Identity.</b>—In the last chapter it was stated (see -<a href="#page_154">p. 154</a>) 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 completely devoid, and the result is a Me of yesterday, -judged to be in some peculiarly subtle sense the <i>same</i> 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 judgment -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. <i>Is the sameness predicated really -there?</i></p> - -<p><b>Sameness in the Self as Known.</b>—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 <i>not</i> 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 <i>am</i> -the same, and we may call these the essential ways. My name and -profession and relations 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 <i>continuous</i>: -the alterations were gradual and never affected the whole of me at once. -So far, then, my personal identity is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a>{202}</span> just like the sameness predicated -of any other aggregate thing. It is a conclusion grounded either on the -resemblance 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 <i>are</i> the same, and no farther. They -are the same in <i>kind</i>. 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 continuity: it gives to the self the unity of mere connectedness, or -unbrokenness, a perfectly definite phenomenal thing—but it gives not a -jot or tittle more.</p> - -<p><b>Sameness in the Self as Knower.</b>—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 concrete person. Suppose, however, that we take it -narrowly, as the <i>Thinker</i>, as '<i>that to which</i>' all the concrete -determinations 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 <i>Me</i> of the past, -and discards the non-me as foreign, is it not a permanent abiding -principle of spiritual activity identical with itself wherever found?</p> - -<p>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. <i>If there were no passing states of consciousness</i>, 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 -consciousnesses have no <i>substantial</i> identity, for when one is here the -other is irrevocably dead and gone. But they have a <i>functional</i> -identity, for both<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a>{203}</span> 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 <i>mine</i>, 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, numerically 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 psychology treated as a natural science has to assume -(see <a href="#page_002">p. 2</a>).</p> - -<p>The logical conclusion seems then to be that <i>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 substantial principle of unity is superfluous.</i></p> - -<p><b>How the I appropriates the Me.</b>—But <i>why</i> 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 (<a href="#page_184">p. 184</a>), 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.</p> - -<p>Any <i>distant</i> object which fulfils this condition will be thought with -such warmth and intimacy. But which distant objects <i>do</i> fulfil the -condition, when represented?</p> - -<p>Obviously those, and only those, which fulfilled it when they were -alive. <i>Them</i> we shall still represent with the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a>{204}</span> 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 whatever 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-appearing 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.</p> - -<p>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 predecessor, and finding it 'warm,' in the way -we have described, greets it, saying: "Thou art <i>mine</i>, 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 <i>its</i> consciousness -and passed them to a third, until the last ball held all that the other -balls had held, and realized it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205"></a>{205}</span> 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 possessor possesses the possessed. It -is impossible to discover any <i>verifiable</i> 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 <i>representative</i> of an entire -past stream with which it is in no wise to be identified.</p> - -<p><b>Mutations and Multiplications of the Self.</b>—The Me, like every other -aggregate, changes as it grows. The passing states of consciousness, -which should preserve in their succession an 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 possession 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.</p> - -<p>Thus the identity found by the <i>I</i> in its <i>Me</i> 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 <i>Me</i>, recognized -by the I, or by outside observers, may be grave or slight. They deserve -some notice here.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206"></a>{206}</span></p> - -<p>The mutations of the Self may be divided into two main classes:</p> - -<p><i>a.</i> Alterations of memory; and</p> - -<p><i>b.</i> Alterations in the present bodily and spiritual selves.</p> - -<p><i>a.</i> Of the alterations of memory little need be said—they are so -familiar. Losses of memory are a normal incident in life, especially in -advancing years, and the person's <i>me</i>, as 'realized,' shrinks <i>pari -passu</i> with the facts that disappear. The memory of dreams and of -experiences in the hypnotic trance rarely survives.</p> - -<p>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 false memory is the accounts -we give to others of our experiences. 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 memory follows the story.</p> - -<p><i>b.</i> When we pass beyond alterations of memory to abnormal <i>alterations -in the present self</i> we have graver disturbances. 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:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207"></a>{207}</span></p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td align="left">α. Insane delusions;</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left">β. Alternating selves;</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left">γ. Mediumships or possessions.</td></tr> -</table> - -<p>α. 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 <i>Me</i> 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>"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 <i>me</i> 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 irreconcilable contradiction."</p> - -<p>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 conceive.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208"></a>{208}</span> 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 dæmons who speak with them -and are replied to. Another feels that someone '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, brain, 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 insanity 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 suddenly become:</p> - -<p>"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 pronounced. Objects grew small and -receded to infinite distances—men and things together. I was myself -immeasurably far away. I looked about me with terror and astonishment; -<i>the world was escaping from me</i>.... I 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 resistance; -but this resistance seemed illusory—not that the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209"></a>{209}</span> 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 <i>flat</i>. 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 newcomer. 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 functions."<a name="FNanchor_32_32" id="FNanchor_32_32"></a><a href="#Footnote_32_32" class="fnanchor">[32]</a></p> - -<p>In cases like this, it is as certain that the <i>I</i> is unaltered as that -the <i>Me</i> 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 egoistic appropriation, -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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210"></a>{210}</span></p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>β. The phenomenon of <i>alternating personality</i> in its simplest phases -seems based on lapses of memory. Any man becomes, as we say, -<i>inconsistent</i> 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 produce 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 Félida -X., reported by Dr. Azam of Bordeaux. At the age of fourteen this woman -began to pass into a 'secondary' state characterized by a change in her -general disposition and character, as if certain 'inhibitions,' -previously existing, were suddenly removed. 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 became<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211"></a>{211}</span> 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.</p> - -<p>M. Pierre Janet describes a still more remarkable case as follows: -"Léonie B., whose life sounds more like an improbable 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. -To-day, when in her normal state, this poor peasant woman is a serious -and rather sad person, calm and slow, very mild with every one, 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 -metamorphosis 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, restless, 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 -Léonie and takes that of Léontine (Léonie 2) to which her first -magnetizers had accustomed her. 'That good woman is not myself,' she -says, 'she is too stupid!' To herself, Léontine, or Léonie 2, she -attributes all the sensations and all the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212"></a>{212}</span> actions, in a word all the -conscious experiences, which she has undergone <i>in somnambulism</i>, and -knits them together to make the history of her already long life. To -Léonie 1 [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 Léonie has a husband and children; -but Léonie 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 magnetizers in early days, as audacious as certain -hypnotizers of recent date, had somnambulized her for her first -<i>accouchements</i>, and that she had lapsed into that state spontaneously -in the later ones. Léonie 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 -Léonie 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 Léonie 1. 'A good but rather -stupid woman,' she says, 'and not me.' And she also separates herself -from Léonie 2: 'How can you see anything of me in that crazy creature?' -she says. 'Fortunately I am nothing for her.'<span class="lftspc">"</span></p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>λ. In '<i>mediumships</i>' or '<i>possessions</i>' 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 secondary state is well developed, no memory for aught that -happened during it remains after the primary consciousness<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213"></a>{213}</span> comes back. -The subject during the secondary consciousness 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 personage. Usually he purports to be the spirit of -a dead person 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 persons who have no other obvious nervous anomaly. The phenomena are -very intricate, and are only just beginning 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, playing on musical instruments, etc., also -belong to the relatively lower phases of possession, in which the normal -self is not excluded from conscious participation in the performance, -though their initiative seems to come from elsewhere. 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 personage ('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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214"></a>{214}</span> 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 <i>Zeitgeist</i>, and get -their inspiration 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 suggestion. The subject assumes the rôle of a -medium simply because opinion expects it of him under the conditions -which are present; and carries it out with a feebleness or a vivacity -proportionate to his histrionic gifts. But the odd thing is that persons -unexposed to spiritualist 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.</p> - -<p>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 'control' -may be altogether different from any <i>possible</i> 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 <i>soidisant</i> 'scientist' usually refuses to explore.<a name="FNanchor_33_33" id="FNanchor_33_33"></a><a href="#Footnote_33_33" class="fnanchor">[33]</a></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215"></a>{215}</span></p> - -<p><b>Review, and Psychological Conclusion.</b>—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 '<i>Me</i>,' and -<i>appropriate to these</i> the rest. This Me is an empirical aggregate of -things objectively known. The <i>I</i> which knows them cannot itself be an -aggregate; neither for psychological purposes need it be an unchanging -metaphysical entity like the Soul, or a principle like the -transcendental Ego, viewed as 'out of time.' It is a <i>thought</i>, at each -moment different from that of the last moment, but <i>appropriative</i> 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 hypothesis save that of the existence of passing thoughts or -states of mind.</p> - -<p>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 <i>direct</i> -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 <i>must be</i> a knower correlative to all this known; but the problem -<i>who that knower is</i> 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 <i>primâ facie</i> on a par with our -own 'psychological' solution, and discussed impartially. I myself -believe that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216"></a>{216}</span> 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 <a href="#page_001">p. 1</a>) 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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217"></a>{217}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.<br /><br /> -<small>ATTENTION.</small></h2> - -<p><b>The Narrowness of Consciousness.</b>—One of the most extraordinary facts of -our life is that, although we are besieged 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 -<i>experience</i>, 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 <i>there</i> 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 <i>die Enge des Bewusstseins</i>, 'the narrowness of -consciousness,' as its ground.</p> - -<p><b>Its Physiological Ground.</b>—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 -processes get 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 consolidated and unified affair, -determinable now by this current and now by that, but determinable only -as a whole. The ideas correlative to the reigning system of processes<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218"></a>{218}</span> -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 -<a href="#page_173">pp. 173 ff.</a> appears to find a physiological ground. At all times, -however, there is a liability to disintegration of the reigning system. -The consolidation is seldom quite complete, the excluded currents are -not wholly abortive, their presence affects the 'fringe' and margin of -our thought.</p> - -<p><b>Dispersed Attention.</b>—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: getting up, dressing -ourselves, answering the person who has spoken to us, trying to make the -next step in our reasoning. But somehow we cannot <i>start</i>; the <i>pensée -de derrière la tête</i> 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.</p> - -<p>This is the extreme of what is called dispersed attention. Between this -extreme and the extreme of concentrated 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219"></a>{219}</span> <b>The Span of -Consciousness.</b>—How many objects can we attend to at once when they are -not embraced in one conceptual system? Prof. Cattell experimented with -combinations 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 distinct."</p> - -<p>A word is a conceptual system in which the letters do not enter -consciousness separately, as they do when apprehended alone. A sentence -flashed at once upon the eye is such a system relatively to its words. A -conceptual system may <i>mean</i> many sensible objects, may be translated -later into them, but as an actual existent mental state, it does not -<i>consist of</i> the consciousnesses of these objects. When I think of the -word <i>man</i> as a whole, for instance, what is in my mind is something -different from what is there when I think of the letters <i>m</i>, <i>a</i>, and -<i>n</i>, as so many disconnected data.</p> - -<p>When data are so disconnected that we have no conception which embraces -them together it is much harder to apprehend 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 operations -of the same sort, two multiplications, two recitations,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220"></a>{220}</span> or the reciting -of one poem and writing of another, render the process more uncertain -and difficult."</p> - -<p>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:</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>If, then, by the original question, how many objects can we attend to at -once, be meant how many entirely disconnected systems or processes can -go on simultaneously, the answer is, <i>not easily more than one, unless -the processes are very habitual; but then two, or even three</i>, without -very much oscillation of the attention. Where, however, the processes -are less automatic, as in the story of Julius Cæsar 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.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><b>The Varieties of Attention.</b>—Attention may be divided into kinds in -various ways. It is either to</p> - -<p><i>a</i>) Objects of sense (sensorial attention); or to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221"></a>{221}</span></p> - -<p><i>b</i>) Ideal or represented objects (intellectual attention). It is either</p> - -<p><i>c</i>) Immediate; or</p> - -<p><i>d</i>) Derived: immediate, when the topic or stimulus is interesting in -itself, without relation to anything else; derived, when it owes its -interest to association with some other immediately interesting thing. -What I call derived attention has been named 'apperceptive' attention. -Furthermore, Attention may be either</p> - -<p><i>e</i>) Passive, reflex, involuntary, effortless; or</p> - -<p><i>f</i>) Active and voluntary.</p> - -<p><i>Voluntary attention is always derived</i>; we never make an <i>effort</i> to -attend to an object except for the sake of some <i>remote</i> interest which -the effort will serve. But both sensorial and intellectual attention may -be either passive or voluntary.</p> - -<p>In <i>involuntary attention</i> of the <i>immediate sensorial</i> sort the -stimulus is either a sense-impression, very intense, voluminous, or -sudden; or it is an <i>instinctive</i> 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.</p> - -<p>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 interests, 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 impressions and decide whether -they are worthy of notice or not, and the consequence is that extreme -mobility of the attention with which we are all familiar in children, -and which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222"></a>{222}</span> 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 character of the attention which, as a French writer -says, makes the child seem to belong less to himself than to every -object 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.</p> - -<p>The passive sensorial attention is <i>derived</i> when the impression, -without being either strong or of an instinctively exciting nature, is -connected by previous experience and education with things that are so. -These things may be called the <i>motives</i> 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 <i>per se</i> is not an interesting sound; -it may well escape being discriminated 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:</p> - -<p>"How a bit of bad grammar wounds the ear of the purist! How a false note -hurts the musician! or an offence 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 attention 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 pronounce<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223"></a>{223}</span> 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, -instruction 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 than 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."</p> - -<p><i>Involuntary intellectual attention</i> is immediate when we follow in -thought a train of images exciting or interesting <i>per se</i>; derived, -when the images are interesting only as means to a remote end, or merely -because they are associated with something which makes them dear. The -brain-currents may then form so solidly unified a system, 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 determined 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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224"></a>{224}</span> making him wonder how he could -have ever ceased to feel it."<a name="FNanchor_34_34" id="FNanchor_34_34"></a><a href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</a></p> - -<p><b>Voluntary Attention.</b>—Dr. Carpenter speaks of launching himself by a -determined <i>effort</i>. This <i>effort</i> characterizes what we called <i>active -or voluntary attention</i>. 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 <i>faintness</i>, -be it of sight, hearing, taste, smell, or touch; we get it whenever we -seek to <i>discriminate</i> a sensation merged in a mass of others that are -similar; we get it whenever we <i>resist the attractions</i> 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 exciting 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.</p> - -<p><i>There is no such thing as voluntary attention sustained for more than a -few seconds at a time.</i> 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, <i>develops</i>; and -if its development is interesting it engages the attention passively for -a time. Dr. Carpenter, a moment back, described the stream of thought, -once entered, as 'bearing him along.'<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225"></a>{225}</span> 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 <i>object</i> -in the psychological sense, but a succession of mutually related objects -forming an identical <i>topic</i> only, upon which the attention is fixed. -<i>No one can possibly attend continuously to an object that does not -change.</i></p> - -<p>Now there are always some objects that for the time being <i>will not -develop</i>. They simply <i>go out</i>; and to keep the mind upon anything -related to them requires such incessently renewed effort that the most -resolute Will ere long gives out and lets its thoughts follow the more -stimulating 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 passion 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 -heydey of the pride of life. Nature rises at such suggestions, and -excludes 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 <i>anyhow</i>, in -short, and all without premeditation,—simply because the only thing he -<i>ought</i> to attend to is the preparation of a noonday<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226"></a>{226}</span> lesson in formal -logic which he detests. Anything but <i>that</i>!</p> - -<p><a name="ill_54" id="ill_54"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 494px;"> -<a href="images/i_226_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_226_sml.png" width="494" height="245" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Fig. 54.</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>Once more, the object must change. When it is one of sight, it will -actually become invisible; when of hearing, inaudible,—if we attend to -it too unmovingly. Helmholtz, who has put his sensorial attention to the -severest tests, by using his eyes on objects which in common life are -expressly 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 parts of both, will come to consciousness, but hardly ever both -combined. Helmholtz now says:</p> - -<p>"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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227"></a>{227}</span> 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 attainable. 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. <i>If we wish to keep it upon one and the same object, we -must seek constantly to find out something new about the latter</i>, -especially if other powerful impressions are attracting us away."</p> - -<p>These words of Helmholtz are of fundamental importance. And if true of -sensorial attention, how much more true are they of the intellectual -variety! The <i>conditio sine quâ non</i> 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 monotonously recurring idea -possess the mind.</p> - -<p><b>Genius and Attention.</b>—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 possibilities 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. <i>But it is their genius making them attentive, not their attention -making geniuses of them.</i> 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228"></a>{228}</span> which it is -successively 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.</p> - -<p>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 attention over and over again -is the very root of judgment, character, and will. No one is <i>compos -sui</i> if he have it not. An education which should improve this faculty -would be <i>the</i> education <i>par excellence</i>. 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 preëxisting in his mind.</p> - -<p><b>The Physiological Conditions of Attention.</b>—These seem to be the -following:</p> - -<p>1) <i>The appropriate cortical centre must be excited ideationally as well -as sensorially, before attention to an object can take place.</i></p> - -<p>2) <i>The sense-organ must then adapt itself to clearest reception of the -object, by the adjustment of its muscular apparatus.</i></p> - -<p>3) <i>In all probability a certain afflux of blood to the cortical centre -must ensue.</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229"></a>{229}</span></p> - -<p>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 verifiable; and the best order will be to take -the latter first.</p> - -<p><b>The Adaptation of the Sense-organ.</b>—This occurs not only in sensorial -but also in intellectual attention to an object.</p> - -<p>That it is present when we attend to <i>sensible</i> 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 interfere with the result—we close the eyes in -tasting, suspend the respiration 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 <i>own activity</i>, -although it comes in to us from our organs after they are accommodated. -Any object, then, if <i>immediately</i> 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.</p> - -<p>But in <i>intellectual</i> 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:</p> - -<p>"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 -<i>direction</i> or differently localized tension (<i>Spannung</i>). 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230"></a>{230}</span> attentively; and -we speak accordingly of <i>straining the attention</i>. 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.</p> - -<p>"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 -<i>recall</i> 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 backwards."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>This accommodation of the sense-organ is not, however, the <i>essential</i> -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 'catching our -eye'—that is, fatally provoking such movements of rotation and -accommodation as will focus its image<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231"></a>{231}</span> on the fovea, or point of -greatest sensibility. Practice, however, enables us, <i>with effort</i>, 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 before 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 perceived 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.</p> - -<p>"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 nevertheless, 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 impression -only from such parts of the picture as lie in this region. In this -respect, then, our attention is quite independent of the position and -accommodation of the eyes,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232"></a>{232}</span> 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."<a name="FNanchor_35_35" id="FNanchor_35_35"></a><a href="#Footnote_35_35" class="fnanchor">[35]</a></p> - -<p><b>The Ideational Excitement of the Centre.</b>—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' -or 'disperse' the latter upon a thing for which we remain unwilling to -'adjust'? This leads us to that second feature in the process, the -'<i>ideational excitement</i>' of which we spoke. <i>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</i> <small>IDEA</small> <i>as is possible of what is -there portrayed.</i> 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 attention is this anticipatory thinking of the thing to which we -attend. Mr. Lewes's name of <i>preperception</i> seems the best possible -designation for this imagining of an experience before it occurs.</p> - -<p>It must as a matter of course be present when the attention is of the -intellectual variety, for the thing attended to then <i>is</i> nothing but an -idea, an inward reproduction or conception. If then we prove ideal -construction of the object to be present in <i>sensorial</i> 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 <i>preparation</i> -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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233"></a>{233}</span></p> - -<p>In reaction-time experiments, keeping our mind intent upon the motion -about to be made shortens the time. This shortening we ascribed in Chap. -VIII to the fact that the signal when it comes finds the motor-centre -already charged almost to the explosion-point in advance. Expectant -attention to a reaction thus goes with sub-excitement of the centre -concerned.</p> - -<p>Where the impression to be caught is very weak, the way not to miss it -is to sharpen our attention for it by preliminary 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 overtone, for -example <i>g´</i> of the sound <i>c</i>, against your ear, and then make the note -<i>c</i> sound, you will hear <i>g´</i> much strengthened by the resonator.... -This strengthening by the resonator 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 <i>g´</i> grows weaker; but the attention, once -directed to it, holds it now more easily fast, and the observer hears -the tone <i>g´</i> now in the natural unaltered sound of the note with his -unaided ear."</p> - -<p>Wundt, commenting on experiences of this sort, says that "The same thing -is to be noticed in weak or fugitive 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 completes it; and so at last we -attain to a clearer perception. The primary motive to this inward -activity proceeds usually from the outer impression itself. We hear a -sound in which, from certain associations, we suspect a certain -overtone; 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234"></a>{234}</span> impression awakens the memory-image, -which again more or less completely melts with the impression itself.... -Different qualities of impression require disparate adaptations. And we -remark that our feeling of the <i>strain</i> of our inward attentiveness -increases with every increase in the strength of the impressions on -whose perception we are intent."</p> - -<p>The natural way of conceiving all this is under the symbolic form of a -brain-cell played upon from two directions. Whilst the object excites it -from without, other brain-cells arouse it from within. <i>The plenary -energy of the brain-cell demands the co-operation of both factors</i>: not -when merely present, but when both present and inwardly imagined, is the -object fully attended to and perceived.</p> - -<p>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 illumination is only instantaneous, the -moment I strive to <i>imagine in a lively way how they ought then to -look</i>. The influence of attention is here pure; for all eye-movements -are shut out."</p> - -<p>Again, writing of retinal rivalry, Helmholtz says:</p> - -<p>"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; <i>we must form as clear a notion as possible of what we expect to -see. Then it will actually appear.</i>"</p> - -<p>In Figs. <a href="#ill_55">55</a> and <a href="#ill_56">56</a>, 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 connection<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235"></a>{235}</span> 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 duplicate of it which our imagination now bears. In the -meaningless French words '<i>pas de lieu Rhône que nous</i>,' 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 fugitive his pursuers. -Every bonnet in the street is momentarily taken by the lover to enshroud -the head of his idol. The image in the mind <i>is</i> the attention; the -preperception is half of the perception of the looked-for thing.</p> - -<p><a name="ill_55" id="ill_55"></a> -<a name="ill_56" id="ill_56"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 498px;"> -<a href="images/i_235_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_235_sml.png" width="498" height="212" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Fig. 55.</span> - -<span style="margin-left:42%;"><span class="smcap">Fig. 56.</span></span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236"></a>{236}</span> aspects to single out, -and what effects to admire, before our æsthetic nature can 'dilate' to -its full extent and never '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; thereafter, however, they see them every time. -In short, <i>the only things which we commonly see are those which we -preperceive</i>, 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.</p> - -<p><b>Educational Corollaries.</b>—First, to <i>strengthen attention in children</i> -who care 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 -nothing 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 preperceptions. The old and familiar is readily attended to by the -mind and helps to hold in turn the new, forming, in Herbartian -phraseology, an '<i>Apperceptionsmasse</i>' 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.</p> - -<p>Second, take that mind-wandering which at a later age may trouble us -<i>whilst reading or listening to a discourse</i>. 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237"></a>{237}</span> 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 voluntarily adopting a similar course.</p> - -<p><b>Attention and Free Will.</b>—I have spoken as if our attention were wholly -determined by neural conditions. I believe that the array of <i>things</i> we -can attend to is so determined. No object can <i>catch</i> our attention -except by the neural machinery. But the <i>amount</i> 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 indeterminate -one, then of course it contributes coequally with the cerebral -conditions to the result. Though it <i>introduce</i> 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 <i>critical</i>; for -in the constant rising and falling of considerations 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 <i>really being decided</i> from one moment to -another, and that it is not the dull rattling off of a chain that was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238"></a>{238}</span> -forged innumerable ages ago. This appearance, which makes life and -history tingle with such a tragic zest, <i>may</i> 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 'Science,' must, like -every other Science, <i>postulate</i> 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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239"></a>{239}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.<br /><br /> -<small>CONCEPTION.</small></h2> - -<p><b>Different states of mind can mean the same.</b> The function by which we -mark off, discriminate, draw a line round, and identify a numerically -distinct subject of discourse is called <i>conception</i>. 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.</p> - -<p>We may conceive realities supposed to be extra-mental, as steam-engine; -fictions, as mermaid; or mere <i>entia rationis</i>, like difference or -nonentity. But whatever we do conceive, our conception is of that and -nothing else—nothing else, that is, <i>instead</i> of that, though it may be -of much else <i>in addition</i> 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. Confusion occurs when we do not know whether a -certain object proposed to us is <i>the same</i> 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.'</p> - -<p>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 -conception itself can in no intelligible sense be said to <i>change into</i> -its successor. The paper, a moment ago white, I may now see to be -scorched black. But my <i>conception</i> 'white'<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240"></a>{240}</span> does not change into my -<i>conception</i> 'black.' On the contrary, 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.</p> - -<p>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 'that' -will suffice. To speak in technical language, a subject may be conceived -by its <i>denotation</i>, with no <i>connotation</i>, 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.</p> - -<p>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, <i>the mind can always -intend, and know when it intends, to think the Same</i>.</p> - -<p><b>Conceptions of Abstract, of Universal, and of Problematic Objects.</b>—The -sense of our meaning is an entirely peculiar element of the thought. It -is one of those evanescent and 'transitive' facts of mind which -introspection cannot turn round upon, and isolate and hold up for -examination, as an entomologist passes round an insect on a pin. In the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241"></a>{241}</span> -(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 <a href="#page_169">p. 169</a>.) 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 <i>sees</i> lines of a -certain special bigness, direction, color, etc., he <i>means</i> not one of -these details. When I use the word <i>man</i> 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 perfectly aware that I mean by man to exclude Napoleon -Bonaparte or Smith. But when I say: "What a wonderful thing Man is!" I -am equally well aware that I mean no such exclusion. This added -consciousness is an absolutely positive sort of feeling, transforming -what would otherwise be mere noise or vision into something -<i>understood</i>; and determining the sequel of my thinking, the later words -and images, in a perfectly definite way.</p> - -<p>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 <i>universals</i> and <i>abstracts</i>, as the logicians call them, for our -objects. We also come to think of objects which are only <i>problematic</i>, -or not yet definitely representable, as well as of objects imagined in -all their details. An object which is problematic is defined by its -relations only. We think of a thing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242"></a>{242}</span> <i>about</i> which certain facts must -obtain. But we do not yet know how the thing will look when -realized—that is, although conceiving it we cannot <i>imagine</i> 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 <i>quæsitum</i> 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. -'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.</p> - -<p>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 different -otherwise, can still be of <i>the same</i>, 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 -universals, mixed together in every way. A singular individual is as -much <i>conceived</i> 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—<i>being</i>, for example, when treated in -the same way. From every point of view, the overwhelming and portentous -character 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 understand, seeing that the more adorable -knowledge ought to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243"></a>{243}</span> that of the more adorable things, and that the -<i>things</i> 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, probably 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.'</p> - -<p><b>Nothing can be conceived as the same without being conceived in a novel -state of mind.</b> It seems hardly necessary to add this, after what was -said on <a href="#page_156">p. 156</a>. Thus, my arm-chair is one of the things of which I have -a conception; 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 <i>as</i> the same is -an additional complication to the thought, whose inward constitution -must alter in consequence. In short, it is logically impossible that the -same thing should be <i>known as the same</i> 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 nevertheless we -somehow always <i>do</i> 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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244"></a>{244}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.<br /><br /> -<small>DISCRIMINATION.</small></h2> - -<p><b>Discrimination versus Association.</b>—On <a href="#page_015">p. 15</a> 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 <i>both</i> by association and -dissociation, and psychology must be writ <i>both</i> in synthetic and in -analytic terms. Our original sensible totals are, on the one hand, -subdivided by discriminative attention, 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 '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 products of -discrimination carried to a high pitch, it seems as if we ought to -discuss the subject of analytic attention and discrimination first.</p> - -<p><b>Discrimination defined.</b>—The noticing of any <i>part</i> whatever of our -object is an act of discrimination. Already on <a href="#page_218">p. 218</a> I have described -the manner in which we often spontaneously<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245"></a>{245}</span> lapse into the -undiscriminating state, even with regard to objects which we have -already learned to distinguish. Such anæsthetics 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 <i>any number of -impressions, from any number of sensory sources, falling simultaneously -on a mind</i> <span class="smcap">WHICH HAS NOT YET EXPERIENCED THEM SEPARATELY</span>, <i>will yield a -single undivided object to that mind</i>. The law is that all things fuse -that <i>can</i> fuse, and that nothing separates except what must. What makes -impressions separate is what we have to study in this chapter.</p> - -<p><b>Conditions which favor Discrimination.</b>—I will treat successively of -differences:</p> - -<p>(1) So far as they are directly <i>felt</i>;</p> - -<p>(2) So far as they are <i>inferred</i>;</p> - -<p>(3) So far as they are <i>singled out in compounds</i>.</p> - -<p><b>Differences directly felt.</b>—The first condition is that <i>the things to -be discriminated must</i> <small>BE</small> <i>different</i>, either in time, place, or -quality. In other words, and physiologically speaking, they must awaken -neural processes which are <i>distinct</i>. But this, as we have just seen, -though an indispensable condition, is not a sufficient condition. To -begin with, the several neural processes must be distinct <i>enough</i>. 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 <i>involuntary</i>. But where the objective -difference is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246"></a>{246}</span> less, discrimination may require considerable effort of -attention to be performed at all.</p> - -<p>Secondly, <i>the sensations excited by the differing objects must not fall -simultaneously, but must fall in immediate</i> <small>SUCCESSION</small> 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 comparing -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 <i>sensation of difference</i>, aroused by -the shock of transition from one perception to another which is unlike -the first. This sensation 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 relation, of which I -treated in a former place (<a href="#page_161">p. 161</a>); and, when once aroused, its object -lingers in the memory along with the substantive terms which precede and -follow, and enables our <i>judgments of comparison</i> to be made.</p> - -<p>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 <i>in memory</i>, 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 sensations<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247"></a>{247}</span> 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 discrimination.</p> - -<p>The difference, thus immediately felt between two terms, is independent -of our ability to say anything <i>about</i> either of the terms by itself. I -can feel two distinct spots to be touched on 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 neighboring tints, whilst remaining -uncertain which is the bluer or the yellower, or <i>how</i> either differs -from its mate.</p> - -<p>I said that in the immediate succession of <i>m</i> upon <i>n</i> the shock of -their difference is <i>felt</i>. It is felt <i>repeatedly</i> when we go back and -forth from <i>m</i> to <i>n</i>; 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 difficulty perceived. But in addition to being felt at the -brief instant of transition, the difference also feels as if -incorporated 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 <i>n</i>, but a very -complex object; and that the sequence is not simply first '<i>m</i>,' then -'<i>difference</i>,' then '<i>n</i>'; but first '<i>m</i>,' then '<i>difference</i>,' then -'<i>n-different-from-m</i>.' The first and third states of mind are -substantive, the second transitive. As our brains and minds are actually -made, it is impossible to get certain <i>m</i>'s and <i>n</i>'s in immediate -sequence and to keep them <i>pure</i>. If kept pure, it would mean that they -remained uncompared. With us, inevitably, by a mechanism which we as yet -fail to understand, the shock of difference is felt between them, and -the second object is not <i>n</i> pure, but <i>n-as-different-from-m</i>. The pure -idea of <i>n</i> is <i>never in the mind at all</i> when <i>m</i> has gone before.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248"></a>{248}</span></p> - -<p><b>Differences inferred.</b>—With such direct perceptions of difference as -this, we must not confound those entirely unlike cases in which we -<i>infer</i> that two things must differ because we know enough <i>about</i> 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 <i>acquaintance</i> 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.</p> - -<p><b>The 'Singling out' of Elements in a Compound.</b>—It is safe to lay it down -as a fundamental principle that <i>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</i>. The components of an -absolutely changeless group of not-elsewhere-occurring 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249"></a>{249}</span> 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 <i>causes</i> of -such groups of feelings are multiple, and therefore we frame theories -about the composition of the feelings themselves, by 'fusion,' -'integration,' 'synthesis,' or what not. But by direct introspection 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.</p> - -<p>In general, then, if an object affects us simultaneously in a number of -ways, <i>abcd</i>, we get a peculiar integral impression, which thereafter -characterizes to our mind the individuality of that object, and becomes -the sign of its presence; and which is only resolved into <i>a</i>, <i>b</i>, <i>c</i>, -and <i>d</i>, respectively, by the aid of farther experiences. These we now -may turn to consider.</p> - -<p><i>If any single quality or constituent, a, of such an object have -previously been known by us isolatedly</i>, or have in any other manner -already become an object of separate acquaintance on our part, so that -we have an image of it,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250"></a>{250}</span> distinct or vague, in our mind, disconnected -with <i>bcd, then that constituent a may be analyzed out from the total -impression</i>. Analysis of a thing means separate attention to each of its -parts. In <a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">Chapter XIII</a> 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 separate imagination is the -condition of analysis. <i>Only such elements as we are acquainted with, -and can imagine separately, can be discriminated within a total -sense-impression.</i> 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.</p> - -<p>All the facts cited in <a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">Chapter XIII</a> 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 -assafœdita in 'Worcestershire sauce' is not obvious to anyone who has -not tasted assafœtida <i>per se</i>. In a 'cold' color an artist would -never be able to analyze out the pervasive presence of <i>blue</i>, 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.</p> - -<p><b>Non-isolable elements may be discriminated, provided</b><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251"></a>{251}</span> <b>their concomitants -change.</b> Very few elements of reality are experienced by us in absolute -isolation. The most that usually happens to a constituent <i>a</i> of a -compound phenomenon <i>abcd</i> is that its <i>strength</i> relatively to <i>bcd</i> -varies from a maximum to a minimum; or that it appears linked with -<i>other</i> qualities, in other compounds, as <i>aefg</i> or <i>ahik</i>. Either of -these vicissitudes in the mode of our experiencing <i>a</i> 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 -approximately—and so to analyze the compound of which it is a part. The -act of singling out is then called <i>abstraction</i>, and the element -disengaged is an <i>abstract</i>.</p> - -<p>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. -<i>What is associated now with one thing and now with another tends to -become dissociated from either, and to grow into an object of abstract -contemplation by the mind.</i> One might call this the <i>law of dissociation -by varying concomitants</i>. 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.</p> - -<p>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 coexist. Let a white ball succeed to it; now, and -not before, will an attribute detach itself, and the <i>color</i>, 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 <i>form</i> 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 <i>red</i> object, then a <i>red round</i> object, and so on."</p> - -<p><i>Why</i> 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252"></a>{252}</span> the table of consciousness, is a -little of a mystery, but one which need not be considered here.</p> - -<p><b>Practice improves Discrimination.</b>—Any personal or practical interest in -the results to be obtained by distinguishing, makes one's wits amazingly -sharp to detect differences. And long training and practice in -distinguishing 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 circumstances, only large -ones would have.</p> - -<p>That 'practice makes perfect' is notorious in the field of motor -accomplishments. But motor accomplishments depend in part on sensory -discrimination. Billiard-playing, 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.</p> - -<p>The fact is so familiar that few, if any, psychologists have even -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 nothing more about the matter here.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253"></a>{253}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI.<br /><br /> -<small>ASSOCIATION.</small></h2> - -<p><b>The Order of our Ideas.</b>—After discrimination, association! It is -obvious that all advance in knowledge must consist of both operations; -for in the course of our education, 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 alternating 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 indispensable for any orderly advance.</p> - -<p>The manner in which trains of imagery and consideration 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 furthermore challenged the race of -philosophers to banish something 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, <i>principles of connection</i> -whereby their peculiar succession or coexistence may be explained.</p> - -<p>But immediately an ambiguity arises: which sort of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254"></a>{254}</span> connection is meant? -connection <i>thought-of</i>, or connection <i>between thoughts</i>? 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 <i>thought of</i> -can never be formulated simply. Every conceivable connection may be -thought of—of coexistence, succession, resemblance, 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 <i>types</i>, like those which some authors call the 'categories' -of the understanding. According as we followed one category or another -we should sweep, from any object with our thought, in this way or in -that, to others. Were <i>this</i> the sort of connection sought between one -moment of our thinking and another, our chapter might end here. For the -only summary 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.</p> - -<p><b>Is it determined by any laws?</b> But as a matter of fact, What determines -the particular path? Why do we at a given time and place proceed to -think of <i>b</i> if we have just thought of <i>a</i>, and at another time and -place why do we think, not of <i>b</i>, but of <i>c</i>? Why do we spend years -straining 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 attention 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?</p> - -<p>The truth must be admitted that thought works under strange conditions. -Pure 'reason' is only one out of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255"></a>{255}</span> 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 furniture than his -clarified beliefs? And yet, the <i>mode of genesis</i> of the worthy and the -worthless in our thinking seems the same.</p> - -<p><b>The laws are cerebral laws.</b> <i>There seem to be mechanical conditions on -which thought depends, and which</i>, to say the least, <i>determine the -order in which, the objects for her comparisons and selections are -presented</i>. It is a suggestive fact that Locke, and many more recent -Continental psychologists, have found themselves obliged to invoke a -mechanical process to account for the <i>aberrations</i> 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 sufficient explanation of the sequence of our -thoughts, and in so doing planted himself squarely upon the properly -<i>causal</i> 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.</p> - -<p><b>Objects are associated, not ideas.</b> We shall avoid confusion<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256"></a>{256}</span> if we -consistently speak as if <i>association</i>, so far as the word stands for an -<i>effect, were between</i> <small>THINGS THOUGHT OF</small>—<i>as if it were</i> <small>THINGS</small>, <i>not -ideas, which are associated in the mind</i>. We shall talk of the -association of <i>objects</i>, not of the association of <i>ideas</i>. And so far -as association stands for a <i>cause</i>, it is between <i>processes in the -brain</i>—it is these which, by being associated in certain ways, -determine what successive objects shall be thought.</p> - -<p><b>The Elementary Principle.</b>—I shall now try to show that there is no -other <i>elementary</i> causal law of association than the law of neural -habit. All the <i>materials</i> 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 -product of association by contiguity or of association by similarity, or -contrast, or whatever other sorts we may have recognized as ultimate. -Its <i>production</i>, however, is, in each one of these cases, to be -explained by a merely quantitative variation in the elementary -brain-processes momentarily at work under the law of habit.</p> - -<p>My thesis, stated thus briefly, will soon become more clear; and at the -same time certain disturbing factors, which coöperate with the law of -neural habit, will come to view.</p> - -<p>Let us then assume as the basis of all our subsequent reasoning this -law: <i>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.</i></p> - -<p>But, as a matter of fact, every elementary process has unavoidably found -itself at different times excited in conjunction<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257"></a>{257}</span> with <i>many</i> other -processes. Which of these others it shall awaken now becomes a problem. -Shall <i>b</i> or <i>c</i> be aroused next by the present <i>a</i>? To answer this, we -must make a further postulate, based on the fact of <i>tension</i> in -nerve-tissue, and on the fact of summation of excitements, each -incomplete or latent in itself, into an open resultant (see <a href="#page_128">p. 128</a>). The -process <i>b</i>, rather than <i>c</i>, will awake, if in addition to the -vibrating tract <i>a</i> some other tract <i>d</i> is in a state of -sub-excitement, and formerly was excited with <i>b</i> alone and not with -<i>a</i>. In short, we may say:</p> - -<p><i>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.</i></p> - -<p>Expressing the fundamental law in this most complicated 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.</p> - -<p><b>Spontaneous Trains of Thought.</b>—Take, to fix our ideas, the two verses -from 'Locksley Hall':</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">"I, the heir of all <i>the ages</i> in the foremost files of time,"<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">and—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">"For I doubt not through <i>the ages</i> one increasing purpose runs."<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">Why is it that when we recite from memory one of these lines, and get as -far as <i>the ages</i>, that portion of the <i>other</i> line which follows and, -so to speak, sprouts out of <i>the ages</i> does not also sprout out of our -memory and confuse the sense of our words? Simply because the word that -follows <i>the ages</i> has its brain-process awakened not simply by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258"></a>{258}</span> the -brain-process of <i>the ages</i> alone, but by it <i>plus</i> the brain-processes -of all the words preceding <i>the ages</i>. The word <i>ages</i> at its moment of -strongest activity would, <i>per se</i>, indifferently discharge into either -'in' or 'one.' So would the previous words (whose tension is momentarily -much less strong than that of <i>ages</i>) 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 '<i>I, -the heir of all the ages</i>,' simultaneously 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 -<i>all alike</i> tend to take. '<i>In</i>' and not '<i>one</i>' or any other word will -be the next to awaken, for its brain-process has previously vibrated in -unison not only with that of <i>ages</i>, 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 <a href="#page_168">p. 168</a> a 'fringe.'</p> - -<p>But if some one of these preceding words—'heir,' for example—had an -intensely strong association with some brain-tracts entirely disjoined -in experience from the poem of 'Locksley Hall'—if the reciter, for -instance, were tremulously 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 interrupted at the word -'heir.' His <i>emotional interest in that word</i> would be such that its -<i>own special associations would prevail</i> 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.</p> - -<p>The writer of these pages has every year to learn the names of a large -number of students who sit in alphabetical order in a lecture-room. He -finally learns to call them by name, as they sit in their accustomed -places. On meeting one in the street, however, early in the year, the -face hardly ever recalls the name, but it may recall the place of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259"></a>{259}</span> 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.</p> - -<p>A father wishes to show to some guests the progress of his rather dull -child in kindergarten-instruction. Holding the knife upright on the -table, he says, "What do you call that, my boy?" "I calls it a <i>knife</i>, -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 <i>vertical</i>." All the -concomitants of the kindergarten experience had to recombine their -effect before the word 'vertical' could be reawakened.</p> - -<p><b>Total Recall.</b>—The ideal working of the law of compound association, as -Prof. Bain calls it, were it unmodified 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 <i>a</i>, <i>b</i>, <i>c</i>, <i>d</i>, <i>e</i>, for -instance, be the elementary nerve-tracts excited by the last act of the -dinner-party, call this act <i>A</i>, and <i>l</i>, <i>m</i>, <i>n</i>, <i>o</i>, <i>p</i> be those of -walking home through the frosty night, which we may call <i>B</i>, then the -thought of <i>A</i> must awaken that of <i>B</i>, because <i>a</i>, <i>b</i>, <i>c</i>, <i>d</i>, <i>e</i> -will each and all discharge into <i>l</i> through the paths by which their -original discharge took place. Similarly they will discharge into <i>m</i>, -<i>n</i>, <i>o</i>, and <i>p</i>; and these latter tracts will also each reinforce the -other's action because, in the experience <i>B</i>, they have already -vibrated in unison. The lines in Fig. 57 symbolize the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260"></a>{260}</span> summation of -discharges into each of the components of <i>B</i>, and the consequent -strength of the combination of influences by which <i>B</i> in its totality -is awakened.</p> - -<p><a name="ill_57" id="ill_57"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 418px;"> -<a href="images/i_260_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_260_sml.png" width="418" height="305" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Fig. 57.</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>Hamilton first used the word 'redintegration' to designate all -association. Such processes as we have just described might in an -emphatic sense be termed redintegrations, for they would necessarily -lead, if unobstructed, to the reinstatement in thought of the <i>entire</i> -content of large trains of past experience. From this complete -redintegration 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 elementary brain-tracts to -discharge independently into an aberrant quarter of the brain. Such was -the tendency of the 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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261"></a>{261}</span></p> - -<p>Let us call this process <i>impartial redintegration</i>, or, still better, -<i>total recall</i>. Whether it ever occurs in an absolutely 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 instances.</p> - -<p>Perhaps as successful a rendering as any of this mental type is the -character of Miss Bates in Miss Austen's 'Emma.' Hear how she -redintegrates:</p> - -<p>"<span class="lftspc">'</span>But where could <i>you</i> hear it?' cried Miss Bates. '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—'<span class="lftspc">"</span></p> - -<p><b>Partial Recall.</b>—This case helps us to understand why it is that the -ordinary spontaneous flow of our ideas does not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262"></a>{262}</span> follow the law of total -recall. <i>In no revival of a past experience 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.</i> Its special -suggestions 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 associates 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 partiality 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 <i>the prepotent items are -those which appeal most to our</i> <small>INTEREST</small>.</p> - -<p>Expressed in brain-terms, the law of interest will be: <i>some one -brain-process is always prepotent above its concomitants in arousing -action elsewhere</i>.</p> - -<p>"Two processes," says Mr. Hodgson, "are constantly going on in -redintegration. The one a process of corrosion, melting, decay; the -other a process of renewing, arising, becoming.... No object of -representation remains 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 tendency 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."</p> - -<p>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 æsthetic nature, are kept for ever -rotating among the literal sequences of their local and personal -history.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263"></a>{263}</span></p> - -<p>Most of us, however, are better organized than this, and our musings -pursue an erratic course, swerving continually 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 diameter 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 beautiful tone, it had become -discordant and aroused disappointment. 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 contiguity and points of -interest inextricably combined. This is the ordinary process of the -association of ideas as it spontaneously goes on in average minds. <i>We -may call it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264"></a>{264}</span> ordinary, or mixed, association</i>, or, if we like better, -<i>partial recall</i>.</p> - -<p><b>Which Associates come up, in Partial Recall?</b>—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 features of the coming thought—can we, I say, determine -<i>which</i> of its own associates shall be evoked? For they are many. As -Hodgson says:</p> - -<p>"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 combinations of these parts may -come back into consciousness; one must, but which will?"</p> - -<p>Mr. Hodgson replies:</p> - -<p>"There can be but one answer: that which has been most <i>habitually</i> -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."</p> - -<p>In restricting the discharge from the interesting item into that channel -which is simply most <i>habitual</i> 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 <i>swallow</i>, -the reader, if by habit an ornithologist, will think of a bird; if a -physiologist or a medical specialist in throat-diseases, he will think -of deglutition. If I say <i>date</i>, he will, if a fruit-merchant or an<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265"></a>{265}</span> -Arabian traveller, think of the produce of the palm; if an habitual -student of history, figures with <small>A.D.</small> or <small>B.C.</small> before them will rise in -his mind. If I say <i>bed</i>, <i>bath</i>, <i>morning</i>, 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 concerning him. If Shakespeare's plays are -mentioned, and we were last night reading 'Richard II.,' vestiges of -that play rather than of 'Hamlet' or 'Othello' float through our mind. -Excitement of peculiar tracts, or peculiar modes of general excitement -in 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 repose. Hence, <i>recency</i> in -experience is a prime factor in determining revival in thought.<a name="FNanchor_36_36" id="FNanchor_36_36"></a><a href="#Footnote_36_36" class="fnanchor">[36]</a></p> - -<p><i>Vividness</i> in an original experience may also have the same effect as -habit or recency in bringing about likelihood<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266"></a>{266}</span> of revival. If we have -once witnessed an execution, any subsequent conversation or reading -about capital punishment will almost certainly suggest images of that -particular 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 -<i>tooth</i> 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.</p> - -<p>A fourth factor in tracing the course of reproduction is <i>congruity in -emotional tone</i> between the reproduced idea and our mood. The same -objects do not recall the same associates when we are cheerful as when -we are melancholy. 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, poverty, perishing, and dread -afflict unremittingly the imaginations of melancholiacs. And those of -sanguine temperament, 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267"></a>{267}</span> 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 -consciousness of the cruelty and carnage of which heroes like Athos, -Porthos, and Aramis make themselves guilty.</p> - -<p><i>Habit, recency, vividness, and emotional congruity</i> are, then, all -reasons why one representation rather than another should be awakened by -the interesting portion of a departing thought. We may say with truth -that <i>in the majority of cases the coming representation will have been -either habitual, recent, or vivid, and will be congruous</i>. 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 perfect 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 <a href="#page_263">page 263</a>. 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 interesting? 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, <i>which</i> 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.</p> - -<p><b>Focalized Recall, or Association by Similarity.</b>—In partial or mixed -association we have all along supposed the interesting<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268"></a>{268}</span> portion of the -disappearing thought to be of considerable extent, and to be -sufficiently complex to constitute 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 moreover 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. <i>This small surviving portion will then surround itself with its -own associates</i> after the fashion we have already seen, and the relation -between the new thought's object and the object of the faded thought -will be a <i>relation of similarity</i>. The pair of thoughts will form an -instance of what is called '<i>association by similarity</i>.'</p> - -<p>The similars which are here associated, or of which the first is -followed by the second in the mind, are seen to be <i>compounds</i>. -Experience proves that this is always the case. <i>There is no tendency on -the part of</i> <small>SIMPLE</small> <i>'ideas,' attributes, or qualities to remind us of -their like</i>. 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 requires a review of several -blue tints.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269"></a>{269}</span> 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 <i>in what respect it -obtains</i>. Moon and gas-jet are similar in respect of luminosity, and -nothing else; moon and foot-ball in respect 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. <i>Similarity, in -compounds, is partial identity.</i> When the <i>same</i> attribute appears in -two phenomena, though it be their only common property, 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 railroads, 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 integument, 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 -persisting, 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.</p> - -<p><a name="ill_58" id="ill_58"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 326px;"> -<a href="images/i_269_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_269_sml.png" width="326" height="154" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Fig. 58.</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>The gradual passage from total to focalized, through what we have called -ordinary partial, recall may be symbolized by diagrams. Fig. 58 is -total, Fig. 59 is partial, and Fig. 60 focalized, recall. <i>A</i> in each is -the passing,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270"></a>{270}</span> <i>B</i> the coming, thought. In 'total recall,' all parts of -<i>A</i> are equally operative in calling up <i>B</i>. In 'partial recall,' most -parts of <i>A</i> are inert. The part <i>M</i> alone breaks out and awakens <i>B</i>. -In similar association or 'focalized recall,' the part <i>M</i> is much -smaller than in the previous case, 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 -making these, <i>pro tanto</i>, resemble each other.<a name="FNanchor_37_37" id="FNanchor_37_37"></a><a href="#Footnote_37_37" class="fnanchor">[37]</a></p> - -<p><a name="ill_59" id="ill_59"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 348px;"> -<a href="images/i_270a_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_270a_sml.png" width="348" height="158" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Fig. 59.</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p><a name="ill_60" id="ill_60"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 279px;"> -<a href="images/i_270b_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_270b_sml.png" width="279" height="149" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Fig. 60.</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271"></a>{271}</span> 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.</p> - -<p><b>Voluntary Trains of Thought.</b>—Hitherto we have assumed 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 purpose or conscious interest; and the course -of our ideas is then called <i>voluntary</i>.</p> - -<p>Physiologically considered, we must suppose that a purpose 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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272"></a>{272}</span> 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 -<i>general interest</i> which for the time has seized upon the mind. If we -call <i>Z</i> the brain-tract of general interest, then, if the object <i>abc</i> -turns up, and <i>b</i> has more associations with <i>Z</i> than have either <i>a</i> or -<i>c</i>, <i>b</i> will become the object's interesting, pivotal portion, and will -call up its own associates exclusively. For the energy of <i>b</i>'s -brain-tract will be augmented by <i>Z</i>'s activity,—an activity which, -from lack of previous connection between <i>Z</i> and <i>a</i> and <i>Z</i> and <i>c</i>, -does not influence <i>a</i> or <i>c</i>. If, for instance, I think of Paris whilst -I am <i>hungry</i>, I shall not improbably find that its <i>restaurants</i> have -become the pivot of my thought, etc., etc.</p> - -<p><b>Problems.</b>—But in the theoretic as well as in the practical life there -are interests of a more acute sort, taking the form of definite images -of some achievement which we desire to effect. The train of ideas -arising under the influence of such an interest constitutes usually the -thought of the <i>means</i> 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 <i>problem</i>; 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. <a href="#page_241">241-2</a>).</p> - -<p>The same thing occurs whenever we seek to recall something 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 <i>absence of -an item</i> is a determinant of our representations quite as positive as -its presence can ever be. The gap becomes no<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273"></a>{273}</span> mere void, but what is -called an <i>aching</i> 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 racking 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 irradiate <i>at all</i> 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 following, but fail (see <a href="#page_165">p. 165</a>). 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 experience. If we first study <i>the -mode of recalling a thing forgotten</i>, we can take up with better -understanding the voluntary quest of the unknown.</p> - -<p><b>Their Solution.</b>—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 <i>these</i> 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274"></a>{274}</span> 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 <i>à propos</i> of a certain -anecdote, and then that it had something to do with a French quotation. -Now all these added associates <i>arise independently of the will</i>, by the -spontaneous processes we know so well. <i>All that the will does is to -emphasize and linger over those which seem pertinent, and ignore the -rest.</i> 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 itching, so to speak, -bursts into the fulness of vivid feeling, the mind finds an -inexpressible relief.</p> - -<p><a name="ill_61" id="ill_61"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 211px;"> -<a href="images/i_274_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_274_sml.png" width="211" height="229" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Fig. 61.</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p>The whole process can be rudely symbolized in a diagram. Call the -forgotten thing <i>Z</i>, the first facts with which we felt it was related -<i>a</i>, <i>b</i>, and <i>c</i>, and the details finally operative in calling it up -<i>l</i>, <i>m</i>, and <i>n</i>. Each circle will then stand for the brain-process -principally concerned in the thought of the fact lettered within it. The -activity in <i>Z</i> will at first be a mere tension; but as the activities -in <i>a</i>, <i>b</i>, and <i>c</i> little by little irradiate into <i>l</i>, <i>m</i>, and <i>n</i>, -and as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275"></a>{275}</span> <i>all</i> these processes are somehow connected with <i>Z</i>, their -combined irradiations upon <i>Z</i>, represented by the centripetal arrows, -succeed in rousing <i>Z</i> also to full activity.</p> - -<p><i>Turn now to the case of finding the unknown means to a distinctly -conceived end.</i> The end here stands in the place of <i>a</i>, <i>b</i>, <i>c</i>, 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 symbolized by <i>l</i>, -<i>m</i>, <i>n</i>. These latter at last accumulate sufficiently to discharge all -together into <i>Z</i>, 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 -original sub-excitement in <i>Z</i>, coöperating from the very first. In the -solving of a problem, all that we are aware of in advance seems to be -its <i>relations</i>. 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 <i>about</i> it, whilst as yet we have no <i>acquaintance</i> with -it. Our perception that one of the objects which turn up is, at last, -our <i>quæsitum</i>, is due to our recognition that its relations 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276"></a>{276}</span> 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 associate 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 -investigator 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 <i>places</i> in which we may have had it. We may run -through the <i>persons</i> whom we remember to have conversed with, or we may -call up successively all the <i>books</i> 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 associated 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 Experimental 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 <i>do</i> shoot the -right way much oftener than in others, and that we cannot tell -why,—these are ultimate facts to which we must never<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277"></a>{277}</span> 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?</p> - -<p><b>Similarity no Elementary Law.</b>—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 <i>object called up may bear any -logical relation whatever to the one which suggested it</i>. The law -requires only that one condition should be fulfilled. The fading object -must be due to a brain-process some of whose elements 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 -<i>itself</i> between the objects has no causal agency in carrying 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, coördinate -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 <i>agent of production</i> of anything, 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.</p> - -<p><b>Conclusion.</b>—To sum up, then, we see that <i>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 is operative in calling up the thought which comes</i>. But the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278"></a>{278}</span> -<i>modus operandi</i> 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 <i>runs</i> 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 differing conditions are, it seems impossible to guess. -Whatever 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 -<i>elementary</i> 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. Probably 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 anything <i>causal</i>. This is, to my mind, the conclusive reason -for saying that the order of <i>presentation of the mind's materials</i> is -due to cerebral physiology alone.</p> - -<p>The law of accidental prepotency of certain processes over others falls -also within the sphere of cerebral probabilities. Granting such -instability as the brain-tissue requires, 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279"></a>{279}</span> 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.</p> - -<p>The <i>effects of interested attention and volition</i> 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. <i>This</i> is the point at which an anti-mechanical psychology -must, if anywhere, make its stand in dealing with association. -Everything else is pretty certainly due to cerebral laws. My own opinion -on the question of active attention and spiritual spontaneity is -expressed elsewhere (see <a href="#page_237">p. 237</a>). But even though there be a mental -spontaneity, it can certainly not create ideas or summon them <i>ex -abrupto</i>. Its power is limited to <i>selecting</i> 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 <i>next</i> associations by making them hinge upon the -emphasized term; and determining in this wise the course of the man's -thinking, it also determines his acts.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280"></a>{280}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII.<br /><br /> -<small>THE SENSE OF TIME.</small></h2> - -<p><b>The sensible present has duration.</b> Let any one try, I will not say to -arrest, but to notice or attend to, the <i>present</i> 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,</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">"Le moment où je parle est déjà loin de moi,"<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">and it is only as entering into the living and moving organization 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 -philosophic meditation. Reflection leads us to the conclusion that it -<i>must</i> exist, but that it <i>does</i> exist can never be a fact of our -immediate experience. The only fact of our immediate 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 composition of -our perception of time is a <i>duration</i>, with a bow and a stern, as it -were—a rearward-and a forward-looking end. It is only as parts of this -<i>duration-block</i> that the relation of <i>succession</i> 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281"></a>{281}</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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 symbolic. To realize even an hour, we must count 'now! now! -now! now!' indefinitely. Each 'now' is the feeling of a separate <i>bit</i> -of time, and the exact sum of the bits never makes a clear impression on -our mind. The <i>longest bit of duration</i> 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. <i>The shortest interval</i> which we can feel as time at -all would seem to be <sup>1</sup>/<sub>500</sub> of a second. That is, Exner recognized two -electric sparks to be successive when the second followed the first at -that interval.</p> - -<p><b>We have no sense for empty time.</b> 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 -<i>filling</i> of the time, and to our <i>memory</i> of a content which it had a -moment previous, and which we feel to agree or disagree with its content -now.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282"></a>{282}</span></p> - -<p>It takes but a small exertion of introspection to show that the latter -alternative is the true one, and that <i>we can no more perceive a -duration than we can perceive an extension, devoid of all sensible -content</i>. 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 -<i>changing process</i> 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 <i>change</i> 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 sufficient for the -awareness of change to be aroused. The change must be of some concrete -sort.</p> - -<p><b>Appreciation of Longer Durations.</b>—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 '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 <i>discrete flow</i>. The discreteness -is, however, merely due to the fact that our successive acts of -<i>recognition</i> or <i>apperception</i> of <i>what</i> it is are discrete. The -sensation is as continuous as any sensation can be. All continuous -sensations are <i>named</i> in beats. We notice that a certain finite 'more' -of them is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283"></a>{283}</span> passing or already past. To adopt Hodgson's image, the -sensation is the measuring-tape, the perception the dividing-engine -which stamps its length. As we listen to a steady sound, we <i>take it in</i> -in discrete pulses of recognition, calling it successively 'the same! -the same! the same!' The case stands no otherwise with time.</p> - -<p>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 -<i>name</i>, or by running over a few salient <i>dates</i> therein, with no -pretence of imagining the full durations that lie between them. No one -has anything like a <i>perception</i> 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 -<i>multitudinous</i> 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-<i>intuition</i> -in these cases at all. It is but dates and events representing time, -their abundance symbolizing its length. I am sure that this is so, even -where the times compared are no 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.</p> - -<p>From this we pass naturally to speak of certain familiar variations in -our estimation of lengths of time. <i>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.</i> 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284"></a>{284}</span> more memories than a day. The -length in retrospect depends 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.</p> - -<p><i>The same space of time seems shorter as we grow older</i>—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 <i>feel</i> 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 -<i>sorts</i> 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 multitude of distinct objects remains in the memory.</p> - -<p>So much for the apparent shortening of tracts of time in <i>retrospect</i>. -They shorten <i>in passing</i> 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. <i>Tædium</i>, <i>ennui</i>, <i>Langweile</i>, <i>boredom</i>, 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 fails to come, -we get an empty time instead of it; and such experiences, 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285"></a>{285}</span> overcome many such periods in its course. All -because you attend so closely to the mere feeling of the time <i>per se</i>, -and because your attention to that is susceptible of such fine-grained -successive subdivision. The <i>odiousness</i> of the whole experience comes -from its insipidity; for <i>stimulation</i> is the indispensable requisite -for pleasure in an experience, and the feeling of bare time is the least -stimulating experience we can have. The sensation of tedium is a -<i>protest</i>, says Volkmann, against the entire present.</p> - -<p><b>The feeling of past time is a present feeling.</b> In reflecting on the -<i>modus operandi</i> 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 <i>being</i> successive, and -<i>knowing their own succession</i>, lies as broad a chasm as between the -object and subject of any case of cognition in the world. <i>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</i>, which this talk about the feelings knowing their -time-relations as a matter of course leaves all untouched.</p> - -<p>If we represent the actual time-stream of our thinking by an horizontal -line, the thought <i>of</i> 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.</p> - -<p>There is thus a sort of <i>perspective projection</i> of past objects upon -present consciousness, similar to that of wide landscapes upon a -camera-screen.</p> - -<p>And since we saw a while ago that our maximum distinct<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286"></a>{286}</span> <i>perception</i> 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 <i>this amount of duration is pictured fairly steadily -in each passing instant of consciousness</i> by virtue of some fairly -constant feature in the brain-process to which the consciousness is -tied. <i>This feature of the brain-process, whatever it be, must be the -cause of our perceiving the fact of time at all.</i> The duration thus -steadily perceived is hardly more than the 'specious present,' as it was -called a few pages back. Its <i>content</i> is in a constant flux, events -dawning into its forward end as fast as they fade out of its rearward -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 waterfall, 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 reproduction of an event, <i>after</i> 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 specious -present as a thing immediately past. A creature might be entirely devoid -of <i>reproductive</i> 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 <i>dated</i> things.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287"></a>{287}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.<br /><br /> -<small>MEMORY.</small></h2> - -<p><b>Analysis of the Phenomenon of Memory.</b>—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 <i>it is -the knowledge of an event, or fact</i>, of which meantime we have not been -thinking, <i>with the additional consciousness that we have thought or -experienced it before</i>.</p> - -<p>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 <i>memory</i>, 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 so <i>in sæcula sæculorum</i>. But does the present -clock-stroke become aware of the past ones, or the present stream -recollect the past stream, because they repeat 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 <i>on that account</i> 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288"></a>{288}</span> own skin. Yesterday's feeling is dead and buried; and -the presence of to-day's is no reason why it should resuscitate along -with to-day's. A farther condition is required before the present image -can be held to stand for a <i>past original</i>.</p> - -<p>That condition is that the fact imaged be <i>expressly referred to the -past</i>, thought as <i>in the past</i>. 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 chapter 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 <i>with</i> the -names and events which characterize its date, to think it, in short, -with a lot of contiguous associates.</p> - -<p>But even this would not be memory. Memory requires more than mere dating -of a fact in the past. It must be dated in <i>my</i> past. In other words, I -must think that I directly experienced its occurrence. It must have that -'warmth and intimacy' which were so often spoken of in the chapter on -the Self, as characterizing all experiences 'appropriated' by the -thinker as his own.</p> - -<p>A general feeling of the past direction in time, then, a particular date -conceived as lying along that direction, and defined by its name or -phenomenal contents, an event imagined as located therein, and owned as -part of my experience,—such are the elements of every object of -memory.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289"></a>{289}</span></p> - -<p><b>Retention and Recall.</b>—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?</p> - -<p>Its complete exercise presupposes two things:</p> - -<p>1) The <i>retention</i> of the remembered fact; and</p> - -<p>2) Its <i>reminiscence</i>, <i>recollection</i>, <i>reproduction</i>, or <i>recall</i>.</p> - -<p>Now <i>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.'</i></p> - -<p><b>Association explains Recall.</b>—Associationists have long explained -<i>recollection</i> by association. James Mill gives an account of it which I -am unable to improve upon, unless it might be by translating his word -'idea' into 'thing thought of,' or 'object.'</p> - -<p>"There is," he says, "a state of mind familiar to all men, in which we -are said to remember. In this state it is certain 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 matters which we desire -not to forget. What is the contrivance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290"></a>{290}</span> to which we have recourse for -preserving the memory—that is, for making sure that it will be called -into existence when it is our wish that it should? All men invariably -employ the same expedient. They endeavor to form an association between -the idea of the thing to be remembered 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 commission 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."</p> - -<p>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 <i>neighborhood</i> of that which we 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 -<i>associates</i>. 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.</p> - -<p><b>It also explains retention.</b> And this same law of habit is the machinery -of retention also. Retention means <i>liability</i> to recall, and it means -nothing more than such liability. The only proof of there being -retention is that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291"></a>{291}</span> recall actually takes place. The retention of an -experience is, in short, but another name for the <i>possibility</i> of -thinking it again, or the <i>tendency</i> to think it again, with its past -surroundings. Whatever accidental cue may turn this tendency into an -actuality, the permanent <i>ground</i> of the tendency itself lies in the -organized neural paths by which the cue calls up the memorable -experience, the past associates, the sense that the self was there, the -belief that it all really happened, etc., as previously described. When -the recollection is of the 'ready' sort, the resuscitation takes place -the instant the cue arises; when it is slow, resuscitation 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 <i>associate</i> the -experience with the occasion and cue of the recall. <i>When slumbering, -these paths are the condition of retention; when active, they are the -condition of recall.</i></p> - -<p><a name="ill_62" id="ill_62"></a></p> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 182px;"> -<a href="images/i_291_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_291_sml.png" width="182" height="171" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Fig. 62.</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p><b>Brain-scheme.</b>—A simple scheme will now make the whole cause of memory -plain. Let <i>n</i> be a past event, <i>o</i> its 'setting' (concomitants, date, -self present, warmth and intimacy, etc., etc., as already set forth), -and <i>m</i> some present thought or fact which may appropriately become the -occasion of its recall. Let the nerve-centres, active in the thought of -<i>m</i>, <i>n</i>, and <i>o</i>, be represented by <i>M</i>, <i>N</i>, and <i>O</i>, respectively; -then the <i>existence</i> of the <i>paths</i> symbolized by the lines between <i>M</i> -and <i>N</i> and <i>N</i> and <i>O</i> will be the fact indicated by the phrase -'retention of the event <i>n</i> in the memory,' and the <i>excitement</i> of the -brain along these paths will be the condition of the event <i>n</i>'s actual -recall. The <i>retention</i> of <i>n</i>, 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292"></a>{292}</span> 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 <i>psycho-physical</i> phenomenon, with both a bodily -and a mental side. The bodily side is the excitement of the paths in -question; the mental side is the conscious representation of the past -occurrence, and the belief that we experienced it before.</p> - -<p>The only hypothesis, in short, to which the facts of inward experience -give countenance is that <i>the brain-tracts excited by the event proper, -and those excited in its recall, are in part</i> <small>DIFFERENT</small> <i>from each -other</i>. 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 -definite, 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, wondering 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 suddenly 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.</p> - -<p><b>The Conditions of Goodness in Memory.</b>—The remembered fact being <i>n</i>, -then, the path N—O is what arouses for <i>n</i> its setting when it <i>is</i> -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. -<i>Memory being thus altogether conditioned on brain-paths, its excellence -in a given individual will depend partly on the</i> <small>NUMBER</small> <i>and partly on -the</i> <small>PERSISTENCE</small> <i>of these paths</i>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293"></a>{293}</span></p> - -<p>The persistence or permanence of the paths is a physiological 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 -retentiveness. 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 disconnected 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 -<i>desultory</i> 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 unusual 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 -physiological retentiveness. In the practical as in the theoretic life, -the man whose acquisitions <i>stick</i> 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 <i>quality</i> 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294"></a>{294}</span> -last many, many years. In extreme old age it is upset in the reverse -direction, and forgetting prevails over acquisition, or rather there is -no acquisition. Brain-paths are so transient that in the course of a few -minutes of conversation 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.</p> - -<p>So much for the permanence of the paths. Now for their number.</p> - -<p>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 -<i>n</i> in the mind, the prompter and surer, on the whole, the memory of <i>n</i> -will be, the more frequently one will be reminded of it, the more -avenues of approach to it one will possess. In mental terms, <i>the more -other facts a fact is associated with in the mind, the better possession -of it our memory retains</i>. 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 memory' 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 <i>thinking about</i> the fact as much as possible? Briefly, then, of -two men with the same outward experiences and the same amount of mere -native tenacity, <i>the one who</i> <small>THINKS</small> <i>over his experiences most, and -weaves them into systematic relations with each other, will be the one -with the best memory</i>. 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295"></a>{295}</span> 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 outsiders, 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 erudition 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 encyclopædic as his erudition may coexist with the latter, and -hide, as it were, in the interstices of its web. Those who have had much -to do with scholars and <i>savants</i> will readily think of examples of the -class of mind I mean.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><b>The reason why cramming is such a bad mode of study</b> is now made clear. I -mean by cramming that way of preparing for examinations by committing -'points' to memory 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 associations with other things in the mind. Their -brain-processes<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296"></a>{296}</span> 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 external 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 <i>intellectual</i> 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 themselves should understand the -reason why.</p> - -<p><b>One's native retentiveness is unchangeable.</b> It will now appear clear -that <i>all improvement of the memory lies in the line of</i> <small>ELABORATING THE -ASSOCIATES</small> of each of the several things to be remembered. <i>No amount of -culture would seem capable of modifying a man's</i> <small>GENERAL</small> -<i>retentiveness</i>. 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 profitable to the general retentiveness. But more -than this we cannot say; and this, it is obvious, is far less than most -people believe.</p> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297"></a>{297}</span> 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 '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 -<i>studying</i> 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 -preëxisting 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 <i>thinking</i>. 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 <i>mode of -study of the particular piece</i> (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.</p> - -<p>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 distinguish between the general physiological -retentiveness and the retention of particular things, and talks as if -both must be benefited by the same means.</p> - -<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298"></a>{298}</span> -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."</p> - -<p>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 therewithal.</p> - -<p><b>Improving the Memory.</b>—All improvement of memory consists, then, in the -improvement of one's <i>habitual methods of recording facts</i>. Methods have -been divided into the mechanical, the ingenious, and the judicious.</p> - -<p>The <i>mechanical methods</i> consist in the intensification, prolongation, -and <i>repetition</i> of the impression to be remembered. 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.</p> - -<p><i>Judicious methods</i> 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.</p> - -<p>Of <i>ingenious methods</i> many have been invented, under 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 multitudinous as to be entirely unrememberable in a natural -way.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299"></a>{299}</span> 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.<a name="FNanchor_38_38" id="FNanchor_38_38"></a><a href="#Footnote_38_38" class="fnanchor">[38]</a> -The recent system of Loisette is a method, much less mechanical, of -weaving the thing into associations which may aid its recall.</p> - -<p><b>Recognition.</b>—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 <i>recognize</i> -but do not <i>remember</i> 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 -consciousness is obvious from what happens when we seek to remember a -name. It tingles, it trembles on the verge, but does not come. Just such -a tingling and trembling of unrecovered<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300"></a>{300}</span> associates is the penumbra of -recognition that may surround any experience and make it seem familiar, -though we know not why.</p> - -<p>There is a curious experience which everyone seems to have had—the -feeling that the present moment in its completeness has been experienced -before—we were saying just this thing, in just this place, to just -these people, etc. This 'sense of preëxistence' 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 indistinct 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 general 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.</p> - -<p><b>Forgetting.</b>—In the practical use of our intellect, forgetting is as -important a function as remembering. 'Total recall' (see <a href="#page_261">p. 261</a>) we saw -to be comparatively rare in association. 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301"></a>{301}</span> 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."</p> - -<p><b>Pathological Conditions.</b>—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 '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 anæsthetic 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 -anæsthetic 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 anæsthesia returned they found it impossible to -recollect the objects or the acts. 'They had had nothing 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.</p> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302"></a>{302}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX.<br /><br /> -<small>IMAGINATION.</small></h2> - -<p><b>What it is.</b>—<i>Sensations, once experienced, modify the nervous organism, -so that copies of them arise again in the mind after the original -outward stimulus is gone.</i> No mental copy, however, can arise in the -mind, of any kind of sensation which has never been directly excited -from without.</p> - -<p>The blind may dream of sights, the deaf of sounds, for years after they -have lost their vision or hearing; but the man <i>born</i> deaf can never be -made to imagine what sound is like, nor can the man <i>born</i> 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 imagination is called 'reproductive' when the copies are literal; -'productive' when elements from different originals are recombined so as -to make new wholes.</p> - -<p>When represented with surroundings concrete enough to constitute a -<i>date</i>, these pictures, when they revive, form <i>recollections</i>. We have -just studied the machinery of recollection. When the mental pictures are -of data freely combined, and reproducing no past combination exactly, we -have acts of imagination properly so called.</p> - -<p><b>Men differ in visual imagination.</b> 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303"></a>{303}</span> spoken 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." 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 <i>he</i> -has such an idea or no."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>Mr. Galton in 1880 began a statistical inquiry which may be said to have -made an era in descriptive psychology. 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 -insignificant persons.</p> - -<p>The reader will find details in Mr. Galton's 'Inquiries into Human -Faculty,' p<a href="#page_083">p. 83</a>-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) -corroboration 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:</p> - -<p>"This morning's breakfast-table is both dim and bright;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304"></a>{304}</span> it is dim if I -try to think of it when my eyes 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:</p> - -<p>"I can look down the mentally seen page and see the words that -<i>commence</i> 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:</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td align="left"><i>Étant fait</i>....</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"><i>Tous</i>....</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"><i>A des</i>....</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"><i>Que fit</i>....</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"><i>Céres</i>....</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Avec</i>....</span></td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"><i>Un fleur</i>....</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Comme</i>....</span></td></tr> -<tr><td align="left">(La Fontaine 8. iv.)"</td></tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305"></a>{305}</span></p> - -<p>The poor visualizer says:</p> - -<p>"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 remember 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 -breakfast-table, there is nothing definite about it. Everything is -vague. I cannot say <i>what</i> 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."</p> - -<p>A person whose visual imagination is strong finds it hard to understand -how those who are without the faculty can think at all. <i>Some people -undoubtedly have no visual images at all worthy of the name</i>, and -instead of <i>seeing</i> their breakfast-table, they tell you that they -<i>remember</i> it or <i>know</i> what was on it. The 'mind-stuff' of which this -'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 practical 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306"></a>{306}</span> 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 <i>rapidly</i> revivable, 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 visualizing -power, as Mr. Galton found to be the case with members of the Royal -Society.</p> - -<p><b>Images of Sounds.</b>—These also differ in individuals. Those who think by -preference in auditory images are called audiles by Mr. Galton. <i>This -type</i>, says M. Binet, "<i>appears to be rarer than the visual</i>. 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 Legouvé to Scribe, 'I <i>hear</i>; but you <i>see</i>. In each phrase -which I write, the voice of the personage who speaks strikes my ear. -<i>Vous, qui êtes le théâtre même</i>, your actors walk, gesticulate before -your eyes; I am a <i>listener</i>, you a <i>spectator</i>.'—'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 <i>pure audile</i>, seeking to develop -only a single one of his faculties, may, like the pure visualizer, -perform astounding feats of memory—Mozart, for example, noting from -memory the <i>Miserere</i> of the Sistine Chapel after two hearings; the deaf -Beethoven, composing and inwardly repeating his enormous symphonies. On -the other hand, the man of auditory<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307"></a>{307}</span> type, like the visual, is exposed -to serious dangers; for if he lose his auditory images, he is without -resource and breaks down completely."</p> - -<p><b>Images of Muscular Sensations.</b>—Professor Stricker 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 -accompanied invariably by distinct muscular feelings in those parts of -his body which would naturally be used in effecting 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 suppresses this sympathetic feeling in his own legs and concentrates -all his attention on the imagined soldier, the latter becomes, as it -were, paralyzed. In general his imagined 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 phenomena in words as fast as -I observe them."</p> - -<p>Most persons, on being asked <i>in what sort of terms they imagine words</i>, -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 Stricker: 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308"></a>{308}</span> 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 experiment proves how dependent our verbal -imagination is on actual feelings in lips, tongue, throat, larynx, etc. -Prof. Bain says that "a <i>suppressed articulation is in fact the material -of our recollection</i>, the intellectual manifestation, the <i>idea</i> of -speech." In persons whose auditory imagination is weak, the articulatory -image does indeed seem to constitute the whole material for verbal -thought. Professor Stricker says that in his own case no auditory image -enters into the words of which he thinks.</p> - -<p><b>Images of Touch.</b>—These are very strong in some people. 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 sensation—perhaps not altogether imaginary, since -goose-flesh, paling or reddening, and other evidences of actual muscular -contraction in the spot, may result.</p> - -<p>"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."</p> - -<p>The imagination of a blind deaf-mute like Laura Bridgman must be -confined entirely to tactile and motor material. <i>All blind persons must -belong to the 'tactile' and 'motile' types</i> 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."</p> - -<p><b>Pathological Differences.</b>—The study of Aphasia (see <a href="#page_114">p. 114</a>) has of late -years shown how unexpectedly individuals<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309"></a>{309}</span> differ in the use of their -imagination. In some the habitual '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 "indifferents" 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 -accomplished 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 answered, 'I know -that it is there, but it is impossible to imagine it, and I can tell you -nothing about it.'<span class="lftspc">"</span></p> - -<p>He can no more remember his wife and children's face 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 childhood'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 passage. He can recall -only the first few verses of the Iliad,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310"></a>{310}</span> and must <i>grope</i> 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. <i>The words and expressions -which he recalls seem now to echo in his ear, an altogether novel -sensation for him.</i> If he wishes to learn by heart anything, a series of -phrases for example, he must <i>read them several times aloud</i>, 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.</p> - -<p>Such a man would have suffered relatively little inconvenience if his -images for hearing had been those suddenly destroyed.</p> - -<p><b>The Neural Process in Imagination.</b>—Most medical writers assume that the -cerebral activity on which imagination depends occupies a different -<i>seat</i> from that subserving sensation. It is, however, a simpler -interpretation of the facts to suppose that <i>the same nerve-tracts are -concerned in the two processes</i>. Our mental images are aroused always by -way of association; some previous idea or sensation 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, without -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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_311" id="page_311"></a>{311}</span> -from the periphery and not by currents from the neighboring cortical -parts. We can see, in short, why <i>the sensational process</i> <small>OUGHT TO</small> <i>be -discontinuous with all normal ideational processes, however intense</i>. -For, as Dr. Münsterberg 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."</p> - -<p>Sometimes, by exception, the deeper sort of explosion may take place -from intra-cortical excitement alone. In the sense of hearing, sensation -and imagination <i>are</i> 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. -<i>Hallucinations</i>, whether of sight or hearing, 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. Féré, -Professor Scott of Ann Arbor, and Mr. T. C. Smith, one of my 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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_312" id="page_312"></a>{312}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX.<br /><br /> -<small>PERCEPTION.</small></h2> - -<p><b>Perception and Sensation compared.</b>—A pure sensation 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 hemispheres 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 <i>thing</i> to which the sensible quality belongs. <i>The -consciousness of particular material things present to sense</i> is -nowadays called <i>perception</i>. 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 of distinction -between the barer and the richer consciousness, because the moment we -get beyond the first crude sensation all our consciousness is of what is -<i>suggested</i>, and the various suggestions shade gradually into each -other, being one and all products of the same psychological machinery of -association. In the directer consciousness fewer, in the remoter more, -associative processes are brought into play.</p> - -<p><i>Sensational and reproductive brain-processes combined, then, are what -give us the content of our perceptions.</i> 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 thing. In a general<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_313" id="page_313"></a>{313}</span> 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 manifestations. -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-picture 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 of what I mentally <i>perceive</i> (more or less) in its totality and -undistorted shape. The back of the table, its square corners, its size, -its heaviness, 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.</p> - -<p>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 presently felt attributes in the unity of a <i>thing</i> 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. <i>Every -perception is an acquired perception.</i></p> - -<p><b>The Perceptive State of Mind is not a Compound.</b>—There is no reason, -however, for supposing that this involves a '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 -ideational currents, but in no wise 'containing' psychically the -identical 'sensations' and images which these currents would severally<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_314" id="page_314"></a>{314}</span> -have aroused if the others were not simultaneously 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, <i>Pas de lieu Rhône que nous</i>: one -may read this over and over again without recognizing the sounds to be -identical with those of the words <i>paddle your own canoe</i>. 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 sensation. -Then, usually, their interpretation suddenly occurs. But at that moment -one may often surprise a change in the very <i>feel</i> 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 <i>gazouillement des oiseaux</i>—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 -inflections of voice and explosives and gutturals of German speech in a -way in which no German can be conscious of them.</p> - -<p>This is probably the reason why, if we look at an isolated 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 his -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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_315" id="page_315"></a>{315}</span> 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.</p> - -<p>Another well-known change is when we look at a landscape with our head -upside-down. Perception is to a certain extent baffled by this -manœuvre; gradations of distance 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 become aware of -any lack of purely sensible harmony or balance 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 disturbed by the unaccustomed point of view) -we get it as a naked sensation and not as part of a familiar object -perceived.</p> - -<p>Once more, then, we find ourselves driven to admit that when qualities -of an object impress our sense and we thereupon perceive the object, the -pure sensation as such of those qualities does not still exist inside of -the perception and form a constituent thereof. 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 <i>resemble</i> each other, but in no respect are they identical -states of mind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_316" id="page_316"></a>{316}</span></p> - -<p><b>Perception is of Definite and Probable Things.</b>—The chief cerebral -conditions of perception are old paths of association radiating from the -sense-impression. If a certain 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 <i>where the impression is associated with more than one reality</i>, so -that either of two discrepant sets of residual properties may arise, the -perception is doubtful and vacillating, and <i>the most that can then be -said of it is that it will be of a</i> <small>PROBABLE</small> <i>thing</i>, of the thing which -would most usually have given us that sensation.</p> - -<p>In these ambiguous cases it is interesting to note that perception is -rarely abortive; <i>some</i> perception takes place. The two discrepant sets -of associates do not neutralize each other or mix and 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, <i>all brain-processes are -such as give rise to what we may call</i> <small>FIGURED</small> <i>consciousness</i>. 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 mistakes as to read 'supper-time' instead of 'sovereign,' -'overthrow' instead of 'opposite,' or indeed utter entirely imaginary -phrases, composed of several definite words, instead 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 he becomes quite inarticulate. These facts show how -subtle is the associative link; how delicate<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_317" id="page_317"></a>{317}</span> yet how strong that -connection among brain-paths which makes any number of them, once -excited together, thereafter tend to vibrate as a systematic whole. A -small group of elements, '<i>this</i>,' common to two systems, <i>A</i> and <i>B</i>, -may touch off <i>A</i> or <i>B</i> according as accident decides the next step -(see <a href="#ill_63">Fig. 63</a>). If it happen that a single point leading from '<i>this</i>' to -<i>B</i> is momentarily a little more pervious than any leading from '<i>this</i>' -to <i>A</i>, then that little advantage will upset the equilibrium in favor -of the entire system <i>B</i>. The currents will sweep first through that -point and thence into all the paths of <i>B</i>, each increment of advance -making <i>A</i> more and more impossible. The thoughts correlated with <i>A</i> -and <i>B</i>, 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. <i>Thus the faintest sensations will give rise to the -perception of definite things if only they resemble those which the -things are wont to arouse.</i></p> - -<p><a name="ill_63" id="ill_63"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 394px;"> -<a href="images/i_317_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_317_sml.png" width="394" height="124" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Fig. 63.</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p><b>Illusions.</b>—Let us now, for brevity's sake, treat <i>A</i> and <i>B</i> in Fig. 63 -as if they stood for objects instead of brain-processes. And let us -furthermore suppose that <i>A</i> and <i>B</i> are, both of them, objects which -might probably excite the sensation which I have called '<i>this</i>,' but -that on the present occasion <i>A</i> and not <i>B</i> is the one which actually -does so. If, then, on this occasion '<i>this</i>' suggests <i>A</i> and not <i>B</i>, -the result is a <i>correct perception</i>. But if, on the contrary, 'this' -suggests <i>B</i> and not <i>A</i>, the result is a <i>false perception</i>, or, as it -is technically called, an <i>illusion</i>. But the <i>process</i> is the same, -whether the perception be true or false.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_318" id="page_318"></a>{318}</span></p> - -<p>Note that in every illusion what is false is what is inferred, not what -is immediately given. The 'this,' if it were felt by itself alone, would -be all right; it only becomes 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. <i>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.</i><a name="FNanchor_39_39" id="FNanchor_39_39"></a><a href="#Footnote_39_39" class="fnanchor">[39]</a></p> - -<p>So much premised, let us look a little closer at these illusions. They -are due to two main causes. <i>The wrong object is perceived either -because</i></p> - -<p>1) <i>Although not on this occasion the real cause, it is yet the -habitual, inveterate, or most probable cause of 'this'</i>; or because</p> - -<p>2) <i>The mind is temporarily full of the thought of that object, and -therefore 'this' is peculiarly prone to suggest it at this moment.</i></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><a name="ill_64" id="ill_64"></a></p> - -<div class="figleft" style="width: 217px;"> -<a href="images/i_318_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_318_sml.png" width="217" height="127" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Fig. 64.</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p><b>Illusions of the First Type.</b>—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 the clearest analysis of this illusion. He observes that if the -object be brought into<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_319" id="page_319"></a>{319}</span> 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 contacts as double because we refer them to two -distinct parts of space." The touched sides of the two fingers are -normally 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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>stereoscope</i> 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 <i>pseudoscope</i>, allows us -to look at solid objects and see with each eye the other eye's picture. -We then perceive the solid object hollow, <i>if it be an object which -might probably be hollow</i>, but not otherwise. Thus the perceptive -process is true to its law, which is <i>always to react on the sensation -in a determinate and figured fashion if possible, and in as probable a -fashion as the case admits</i>. 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 pasteboard mask, look convex, instead -of concave as they are.</p> - -<p><b>Curious illusions of movement</b> in objects occur whenever the eyeballs -move without our intending it. We<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_320" id="page_320"></a>{320}</span> have learned in an earlier chapter -(p. 72) that the original visual feeling of movement is produced by any -image passing 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 <i>objects</i> to move whenever we get the retinal -movement-feeling, but think our <i>eyes</i> are still. This gives rise to an -illusion when, after whirling on our heel, we stand still; for then -objects appear to continue whirling in the same direction in which, a -moment previous, our body actually whirled. The reason is that our -<i>eyes</i> are animated, under these conditions, by an involuntary -<i>nystagmus</i> 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.</p> - -<p>There is an illusion of movement of the opposite sort, with which every -one is familiar at <i>railway stations</i>. 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 <i>all</i> 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 alongside of ours in a station, and fills the -entire window, and, after standing still awhile, begins to glide away, -we judge that it is <i>our</i> 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_321" id="page_321"></a>{321}</span> 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.</p> - -<p><i>Another illusion due to movement</i> is explained by Helmholtz. 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 -extraordinarily 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 backwards 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.</p> - -<p>The feelings of our eyes' convergence, of their accommodation, 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.</p> - -<p><b>Illusions of the Second Type.</b>—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:</p> - -<p>"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 immediately supplies by inference the other qualities of a woodcock, -and is afterwards disgusted to find that he has shot a thrush. I have -done so myself, and could hardly believe<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_322" id="page_322"></a>{322}</span> that the thrush was the bird I -fired at, so complete was my mental supplement to my visual -perception."<a name="FNanchor_40_40" id="FNanchor_40_40"></a><a href="#Footnote_40_40" class="fnanchor">[40]</a></p> - -<p>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 sensation to mean that object's presence. The boy -playing 'I spy,' the criminal skulking from his pursuers, the -superstitious 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 make 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.</p> - -<p><i>The Proof-reader's Illusion.</i>—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 I could hardly believe my eyes had deceived me. All reading -is more or less performed in this way.</p> - -<p>"Practised novel-or newspaper-readers could not possibly 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 -perceive 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_323" id="page_323"></a>{323}</span> 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 instruction 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."<a name="FNanchor_41_41" id="FNanchor_41_41"></a><a href="#Footnote_41_41" class="fnanchor">[41]</a></p> - -<p><i>Testimony to personal identity is proverbially fallacious</i> 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 séances' 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 'séances' 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 certain subjects this happens -more or less completely after waking from the trance. It would seem that -under favorable conditions a somewhat similar susceptibility to -suggestion<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_324" id="page_324"></a>{324}</span> may exist in certain persons who are not otherwise entranced -at all.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>In the sense of hearing, similar mistakes abound. Everyone 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 suddenly 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 <i>avant-courier</i> of an awful -gale. It came from all space. Quite startled, I again went into the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_325" id="page_325"></a>{325}</span> -hall, but it had already ceased once more. On returning a second time to -the room, I discovered that it was nothing 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.</p> - -<p>The sense of sight is pregnant with illusions of both the types -considered. No sense gives such fluctuating impressions 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 <i>thing</i>, and the consequent perception of the latter, -so immediate. The 'thing' which we perceive always resembles, 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 incessant 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 sensations are -originally and natively of no particular form at all.</p> - -<p>Of accidental and occasional illusions of sight many amusing examples -might be given. Two will suffice. One 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-looking<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_326" id="page_326"></a>{326}</span> 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.</p> - -<p>'<b>Apperception.</b>'—In Germany since Herbart's time psychology has always -had a great deal to say about a process called <i>Apperception</i>. 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, because it has carried very different meanings in the -history of philosophy, and 'psychic reaction,' 'interpretation,' -'conception,' 'assimilation,' 'elaboration,' or simply 'thought,' are -perfect synonyms for its Herbartian meaning, 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 variations and degrees are literally innumerable. 'Apperception' -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 'assimilation' the most -fruitful one yet used.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_327" id="page_327"></a>{327}</span> produced. But as Steinthal remarks, the apperceiving -mass is itself often modified by the sensation. To quote him: "Although -the <i>a priori</i> moment commonly shows itself to be the more powerful, -apperception-processes can perfectly well occur in which the new -observation transforms 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 apperceiving 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 maintain that, although either factor is both active -and passive, the <i>a priori</i> factor is almost always the more active of -the two."<a name="FNanchor_42_42" id="FNanchor_42_42"></a><a href="#Footnote_42_42" class="fnanchor">[42]</a></p> - -<p><b>Genius and Old-fogyism.</b>—This account of Steinthal's brings out very -clearly the <i>difference between our psychological conceptions and what -are called concepts in logic</i>. 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 tendency to keep unchanged, and the -tendency to renovate, its ideas. Our education is a ceaseless compromise -between the conservative and the progressive factors. Every new -experience must be disposed of under <i>some</i> 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_328" id="page_328"></a>{328}</span> called the -first whole eggs he saw '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 conceptions 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 violate -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 vanished from -our thought. Genius, in truth, means little more than the faculty of -perceiving in an unhabitual way.</p> - -<p>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.<a name="FNanchor_43_43" id="FNanchor_43_43"></a><a href="#Footnote_43_43" class="fnanchor">[43]</a> The Fuegians, in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_329" id="page_329"></a>{329}</span> 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 <i>pen</i>-drawing of equal perfection, our -personal sympathy with the difficulty of the task makes us immediately -wonder at the skill. The old lady admiring the Academician's picture -says to him: "And is it really all done <i>by hand</i>?"</p> - -<p><b>The Physiological Process in Perception.</b>—Enough has now been said to -prove the general law of perception, which is this: that <i>whilst part of -what we perceive comes through our senses from the object before us, -another part</i> (and it may be the larger part) <i>always comes out of our -own mind</i>.</p> - -<p>At bottom this is but a case of the general fact that our nerve-centres -are organs for reacting on sense-impressions, and that our hemispheres, -in particular, are given us that records of our past private experience -may coöperate in the reaction. Of course such a general statement is -vague. If we try to put an exact meaning into it, what we find most -natural to believe is that the <i>brain reacts</i> by paths which the -previous experiences have worn, <i>and which make us perceive the probable -thing</i>, 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_330" id="page_330"></a>{330}</span> the current entering -from the outer world. What corresponds to this mentally is a certain -special pulse of thought, the thought, namely, of that most probable -object. Farther than this in the analysis we can hardly go.</p> - -<p><b>Hallucinations.</b>—Between normal perception and illusion we have seen -that there is no break, the <i>process</i> being identically the same in -both. The last illusions we considered 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, <i>in hallucination there is no objective stimulus at all</i>. We -shall presently see that this supposed absence of objective stimulus in -hallucination is a mistake, and that hallucinations are often only -<i>extremes</i> of the perceptive process, in which the secondary cerebral -reaction is out of all normal proportion to the peripheral stimulus -which occasions the activity. Hallucinations usually appear abruptly and -have the character of being forced upon the subject. But they possess -various degrees of apparent <i>objectivity</i>. One mistake <i>in limine</i> must -be guarded against. They are often talked of as <i>images</i> projected -outwards by mistake. But where an hallucination is complete, it is much -more than a mental image. <i>An hallucination, subjectively considered, is -a sensation, as good and true a sensation as if there were a real object -there.</i> The object happens not to be there, that is all.</p> - -<p>The milder degrees of hallucination have been designated as -<i>pseudo-hallucinations</i>. 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 activity in -producing them is lacking. Dr. Kandinsky had a patient who, after taking -opium or haschisch, had abundant pseudo-hallucinations and -hallucinations. As he also<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_331" id="page_331"></a>{331}</span> had strong visualizing power and was an -educated physician, the three sorts of phenomena could be easily -compared. Although projected outwards (usually not farther than the -limit of distinctest vision, a foot or so), the pseudo-hallucinations -<i>lacked the character of objective reality</i> 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-hallucinations. They are described as '<i>inner</i>' voices, although -their character is entirely unlike the inner speech of the subject 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 latter 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:</p> - -<p>"When a girl of eighteen, I was one evening engaged in a very painful -discussion with an elderly person. My distress 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 relationship. 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_332" id="page_332"></a>{332}</span> then have expressed it. The -surprise cooled me, and the discussion was dropped.</p> - -<p>"Some minutes after, having occasion to speak to my brother, I turned -towards him, but he was gone. I inquired when he left the room, and 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."</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><b>Hallucination and Illusion.</b>—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 photograph 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 eyeball; 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 <i>point -de repère</i> 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 <i>point de -repère</i> is used in an enormous number, not only of hypnotic -hallucinations, but of hallucinations of the insane. These latter are -often <i>unilateral</i>; that is, the patient hears the voices always on one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_333" id="page_333"></a>{333}</span> -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. <i>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 hallucination and illusion to one -physiological type</i>, the type, namely, to which normal perception -belongs. In every case, according 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. <a href="#page_310">p. 310</a>), and to give to the object -perceived the character of <i>externality</i>. What the <i>nature</i> of the -object shall be will depend wholly on the particular system of paths in -which the process 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 <i>reacted on</i> the impression in the -resulting way.</p> - -<p>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 disappear when the eyes are -closed. For Binet, an abnormally or exclusively active part of the -cortex gives the <i>nature</i> of what shall appear, whilst a peripheral -sense-organ alone can give the <i>intensity</i> 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 <i>might</i> 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_334" id="page_334"></a>{334}</span> the only -sort that M. Binet's theory allows. <i>It seems probable on the whole, -therefore, that centrally initiated hallucinations can exist.</i> 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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>veridical</i>, 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 continued by other members of the Society for -Psychical Research; 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 -comparative study can give really instructive results.<a name="FNanchor_44_44" id="FNanchor_44_44"></a><a href="#Footnote_44_44" class="fnanchor">[44]</a></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_335" id="page_335"></a>{335}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI.<br /><br /> -<small>THE PERCEPTION OF SPACE.</small></h2> - -<p>As adult thinkers we have a definite and apparently instantaneous -knowledge of the sizes, shapes, and distances 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.</p> - -<p><b>The quality of voluminousness</b> 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.</p> - -<p>Repletion and emptiness, suffocation, palpitation, headache, are -examples of this, and certainly not less spatial is the consciousness we -have of our general bodily condition<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_336" id="page_336"></a>{336}</span> 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 <i>vastness, moreover, is as -great in one direction as in another</i>. 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.</p> - -<p><i>Sensations of different orders are roughly comparable with each other -as to their volumes.</i> 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 appeared very -large." Loud sounds have a certain enormousness of feeling. 'Glowing' -bodies as Hering says, give us a perception "which seems <i>roomy</i> -(<i>raumhaft</i>) 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.</p> - -<p><i>The voluminousness of the feeling seems to bear very little relation to -the size of the organ that yields it.</i> The ear and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_337" id="page_337"></a>{337}</span> eye are -comparatively minute organs, yet they give us feelings 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.</p> - -<p><a name="ill_65" id="ill_65"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 278px;"> -<a href="images/i_337_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_337_sml.png" width="278" height="162" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Fig. 65</span> (after Weber).</p> - -<p>The dotted lines give the real course of the points, the continuous -lines the course as felt.</p></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">Now my first thesis is that this extensity</span>, <i>discernible in each and -every sensation, though more developed in some than in others</i>, <small>IS THE -ORIGINAL SENSATION OF SPACE</small>, out of which all the exact knowledge about -space that we afterwards come to have is woven by processes of -discrimination, association, and selection.</p> - -<p><b>The Construction of Real Space.</b>—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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_338" id="page_338"></a>{338}</span> 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. Potentially, 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 -actually the further spaces are unfelt, and the subdivisions are -undiscriminated, by the babe; the chief part of whose education 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 <i>construction of real space</i>, as a newly apprehended object, -out of the original chaotic experiences of vastness. It consists of -several subordinate processes:</p> - -<p>First, the total object of vision or of feeling at any time <i>must have -smaller objects definitely discriminated within it</i>;</p> - -<p>Secondly, <i>objects seen or tasted must be identified with objects felt, -heard</i>, etc., and <i>vice versa</i>, so that <i>the same 'thing'</i> may come to -be recognized, although apprehended in such widely differing ways;</p> - -<p>Third, the total extent felt at any time must be conceived as -<i>definitely located in the midst of the surrounding extents of which the -world consists</i>;</p> - -<p>Fourth, these objects <i>must appear arranged in definite order</i> in the -so-called three dimensions; and</p> - -<p>Fifth, their relative sizes must be perceived—in other words, <i>they -must be measured</i>.</p> - -<p>Let us take these processes in regular order.</p> - -<p>1) <b>Subdivision or Discrimination.</b>—Concerning this there is not much to -be added to what was set forth in <a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">Chapter XIV</a>. 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_339" id="page_339"></a>{339}</span> 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 definite directions or distances—and it too must be -regarded as an ultimate fact of our sensibility.</p> - -<p>2) <b>Coalescence of Different Sensations into the Same 'Thing.'</b>—When two -senses are impressed simultaneously we tend to identify their objects as -<i>one thing</i>. 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. <i>Whatever sensible data can be attended to together we -locate together. Their several extents seem one extent. The place at -which each clears is held to be the same with the place at which the -others appear.</i> This is the first and great 'act' by which our world -gets spatially arranged.</p> - -<p>In this <i>coalescence in a 'thing,'</i> one of the coalescing sensations is -held to <i>be</i> the thing, the other sensations are taken for its more or -less accidental <i>properties</i>, 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 -figures,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_340" id="page_340"></a>{340}</span> 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 <i>source</i> 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. <i>In all this, -it will be observed, the sense-data whose spaces coalesce into one are -yielded by different sense-organs.</i> 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 <small>IN</small> <i>each other</i> all sensations which are associated in -simultaneous experience and do not interfere with each other's -perception.</p> - -<p>3) <b>The Sense of the Surrounding World.</b>—<i>Different impressions on the -same sense-organ</i> do interfere with each other's perception and cannot -well be attended to at once. Hence <i>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 -sensation brings</i>. 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 having a fringe of <i>other things possible to be -seen</i> spreading in all directions round about it. Meanwhile the -movements concomitantly with which the various fields alternate 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_341" id="page_341"></a>{341}</span> of -their mere extents, of which extents the various movements remain as the -only constant introducers and associates. More and more, therefore, do -we think of movement 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 <i>room for movement</i>, we may, if we are -psychologists, readily but erroneously assign to the 'muscular sense' -the chief rôle in perceiving extensiveness at all.</p> - -<p>4) <b>The Serial Order of Locations.</b>—The muscular sense <i>has</i> much to do -with defining the <i>order of position</i> 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 successively 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 <i>separates</i> the points, which become <i>located by its length</i> 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 eyeball and a continuation of the line will result, the second point -now appearing <i>between</i> 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 <i>suggest</i> 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.</p> - -<p>It is the same with our skin and joints. By moving our hand over objects -we trace lines of direction, and new impressions 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 of arrangement -to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_342" id="page_342"></a>{342}</span> successive objects between which they intervene. Similarly with -sounds and smells. With our heads in a certain position, 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 semicircular-canal -feeling, partly by the articular cartilages of the neck, and partly by -the impressions produced upon the eye.</p> - -<p>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 possibly there. I say 'collateral' things, for I -prefer not to complicate the account just yet with any special -consideration of the 'third dimension,' distance, or depth, as it has -been called.</p> - -<p>3) <b>The Measurement of Things in Terms of Each Other.</b>—Here the first -thing that seems evident is that we have no <i>immediate</i> 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.</p> - -<p><i>The great agent in comparing the extent felt by one sensory surface -with that felt by another is superposition—superposition of one surface -upon another, and superposition of one outer thing upon many surfaces.</i></p> - -<p>Two surfaces of skin superposed on each other are felt simultaneously, -and by the law laid down on <a href="#page_339">p. 339</a> are judged to occupy an identical -place. Similarly of our hand, when seen and felt at the same time by its -resident sensibility.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_343" id="page_343"></a>{343}</span></p> - -<p>In these identifications and reductions of the many to the one it must -be noticed that <i>when the resident sensations of largeness of two -opposed surfaces conflict, one of the sensations is chosen as the true -standard and the other treated as illusory. Thus an empty tooth-socket -is believed to be</i> really smaller than the finger-tip which it will not -admit, although it may <i>feel</i> 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 having its size determined by -them.</p> - -<p>But even though exploration of one surface by another were impossible, -<i>we could always measure our various surfaces against each other by -applying the same extended object first to one and then to another</i>. We -might of course at first suppose that the object itself waxed and waned -as it glided from one place to another (cf. above, <a href="#ill_65">Fig. 65</a>); 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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>same object</i>, 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 the eye, the sensation excited by its image -even on the same retinal region becomes so fluctuating that we end by -ascribing no absolute import whatever to the retinal space-feeling which -at any moment we may receive. So complete does this overlooking 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_344" id="page_344"></a>{344}</span> -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—illustrate this most strikingly. The hardest part -of the training 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 he 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.</p> - -<p>With the rest of us this innocence is lost. <i>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.</i> This -real magnitude is determined by æsthetic 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 suggesting this one, their more important <i>meaning</i>. As I -look along the dining-table I overlook the fact that the farther plates -and glasses <i>feel</i> so much smaller than my own, for I <i>know</i> 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.</p> - -<p><i>It is the same with shape as with size.</i> Almost all the visible shapes -of things are what we call perspective 'distortions.' 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 -foreshortened; 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_345" id="page_345"></a>{345}</span> that is when our eyes and the object both are in -what may be called <i>the normal position</i>. 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.</p> - -<p><b>Most sensations are signs to us of other sensations whose space-value is -held to be more real.</b> <i>The thing as it would appear to the eye if it -were in the normal position is what we think of</i> 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 <i>is</i>; 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.</p> - -<p>Almost any form in oblique vision may be thus a derivative of almost any -other in 'primary' vision; and we must learn, when we get one of the -former appearances, to translate 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 by abandoning the former for the -latter that we do when we abandon mental images, with all their -fluctuating characters, for the definite and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_346" id="page_346"></a>{346}</span> unchangeable <i>names</i> 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.</p> - -<p>If an optical sensation can thus be a mere sign to recall another -sensation of the same sense, judged more real, <i>a fortiori</i> can -sensations of one sense be signs of realities which are objects of -another. Smells and tastes make us believe the <i>visible</i> cologne-bottle, -strawberry, or cheese to be there. Sights suggest objects of touch, -touches suggest objects of sight, etc. In all this substitution and -suggestive recall the only law that holds good is that in general the -most <i>interesting</i> 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 <a href="#page_170">p. 170</a> ff.</p> - -<p><b>The Third Dimension or Distance.</b>—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 -<i>natural</i> signs, but properties of the object merely <i>associated by -experience</i> 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 <i>all</i> -distances. Distance from the eye, Berkeley considered not to be an -optical object at all, but an object of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_347" id="page_347"></a>{347}</span> <i>touch</i>, of which we have -optical signs of various sorts, such as the image's apparent magnitude, -its 'faintness' or 'confusion,' and the 'strain' of accommodation and -convergence. 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.</p> - -<p>This opinion seems to me unjustifiable. I cannot get over the fact that -all our sensations are of <i>volume</i>, and that the primitive field of view -(however imperfectly distance may be discriminated or measured in it) -cannot be of something <i>flat</i>, as these authors unanimously maintain. -Nor can I get over the fact that distance, when I see it, is a genuinely -<i>optical feeling</i>, 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 feeling uniformly correspond. It is awakened -by all the optical signs which Berkeley mentioned, and by more besides, -such as Wheatstone's binocular disparity, and by the parallax which -follows on slightly moving the head. When awakened, however, it seems -optical, and not heterogeneous with the other two dimensions of the -visual field.</p> - -<p>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 experiences 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 <i>same moving things</i>, 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 physiological cause of his perception of depth in -various degrees, they would establish a scale of equivalency between the -first two and the third.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_348" id="page_348"></a>{348}</span></p> - -<p>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 -peripheral parts of the retina would be equated with the central 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 complicated 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 <i>sensation of depth</i> 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. <i>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.</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_349" id="page_349"></a>{349}</span></p> - -<p><b>The Part played by the Intellect in Space-perception.</b>—But although -Berkeley was wrong in his assertion that out 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 cataracts relieved by surgical -aid, whose world until the operation has been a world of tangibles -exclusively, are ludicrously unable at first to name any of the objects -which newly fall upon their eye. "It might very well be <i>a horse</i>," 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.<a name="FNanchor_45_45" id="FNanchor_45_45"></a><a href="#Footnote_45_45" class="fnanchor">[45]</a> 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 -disappear 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 sensations are not <i>spatial</i>, but only -that it needs a subtler sense for analogy than most people have, to -discern the <i>same</i> spatial aspects and relations in them which -previously-known tactile and motor experiences have yielded.</p> - -<p><b>Conclusion.</b>—To sum up, the whole history of space-perception is -explicable if we admit on the one hand sensations 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_350" id="page_350"></a>{350}</span> sensations, the -same sensation being so ambiguous as regards 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 of -a 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-sensational faculty of the mind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_351" id="page_351"></a>{351}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII.<br /><br /> -<small>REASONING.</small></h2> - -<p><b>What Reasoning is.</b>—We talk of man being the rational animal; and the -traditional intellectualist philosophy 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.</p> - -<p>Much of our thinking consists of trains of images suggested 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 'similarity,' 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_352" id="page_352"></a>{352}</span> 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 disgust at the narrowness of modern interpreters. But, in the main, -we think less of qualities than of concrete things, real or possible, -just as we may experience them.</p> - -<p>Our thought here may be rational, but it is not <i>reasoned</i>, is not -reasoning in the strict sense of the term. In reasoning, although our -results may be thought of as concrete things, they are <i>not suggested -immediately by other concrete things</i>, 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 <i>abstract general -characters</i> articulately denoted and expressly analyzed 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 simpler kind of rational thinking -which consists in the concrete objects of past experience merely -suggesting each other, and reasoning distinctively so called, is this: -that whilst the empirical thinking is only reproductive, reasoning is -productive. An empirical, or 'rule-of-thumb,' thinker can deduce nothing -from data with whose behavior 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 'education' which we share in common with the beasts, leaves us -without resource.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_353" id="page_353"></a>{353}</span></p> - -<p><b>Exact Definition of it.</b>—<i>Let us make this ability to deal with novel -data the technical differentia of reasoning.</i> This will sufficiently -mark it out from common associative thinking, and will immediately -enable us to say just what peculiarity it contains.</p> - -<p><i>It contains analysis and abstraction.</i> Whereas the merely empirical -thinker stares at a fact in its entirety, and remains helpless, or gets -'stuck,' if it suggests no concomitant 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.</p> - -<p>Call the fact or concrete datum S;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">the essential attribute M;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 4em;">the attribute's property P.</span><br /> -</p> - -<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. <i>For his original -concrete S the reasoner substitutes its abstract property M.</i> 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 <i>parts</i> of the entire S, <i>reasoning -may then be very well defined as the substitution of parts and their -implications or consequences for wholes</i>. And the art of the reasoner -will consist of two stages:</p> - -<p>First, <i>sagacity</i>, or the ability to discover what part, M, lies -embedded in the whole S which is before him;</p> - -<p>Second, <i>learning</i>, or the ability to recall promptly M's consequences, -concomitants, or implications.</p> - -<p>If we glance at the ordinary syllogism—</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td rowspan="3" valign="bottom">⁂ </td><td align="left">M is P;</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left">S is M;</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left">S is P</td></tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_354" id="page_354"></a>{354}</span></p> - -<p class="nind">—we see that the second or minor premise, the 'subsumption' 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.</p> - -<p>The perception that S is M is a <i>mode of conceiving S</i>. The statement -that M is P is an <i>abstract or general proposition</i>. A word about both -is necessary.</p> - -<p><b>What is meant by a Mode of Conceiving.</b>—When we conceive of S merely as -M (of vermilion merely as a mercury-compound, for example), we neglect -all the other attributes 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 location. 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, <i>ad infinitum</i>. -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 -immediately, that one thing is related to everything else; and to know -<i>all</i> 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 commissary<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_355" id="page_355"></a>{355}</span> -picks out as important for his purposes is his property 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 feelings; 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 side of the entire man which has a -bearing on <i>his</i> concerns, and not till this side is distinctly and -separately conceived can the proper practical conclusions <i>for that -reasoner</i> be drawn; and when they are drawn the man's other attributes -may be ignored.</p> - -<p>All ways of conceiving a concrete fact, if they are true ways at all, -are equally true ways. <i>There is no property</i> <small>ABSOLUTELY</small> <i>essential to -any one thing</i>. The same property 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 -destinations. It is really <i>all</i> that it is: a combustible, a writing -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., <i>ad -infinitum</i>. 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 excuse is necessity—the necessity which -my finite and practical 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_356" id="page_356"></a>{356}</span> 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 another 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 different 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.</p> - -<p>Men are so ingrainedly partial that, for common-sense and scholasticism -(which is only common-sense grown articulate), the notion that there is -no one quality genuinely, absolutely, and exclusively essential to -anything is almost unthinkable. "A thing's essence makes it <i>what</i> it -is. Without an exclusive essence it would be nothing in particular, -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 <i>paper</i> 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 <i>naming</i> the thing; or else on an -aspect which suits the manufacturer's purpose, that of <i>producing an -article for which there is a vulgar demand</i>. Meanwhile the reality -overflows these purposes at every pore. Our usual purpose with it, our -commonest title for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_357" id="page_357"></a>{357}</span> it, and the properties which this title suggests, -have in reality nothing sacramental. They characterize <i>us</i> more than -they characterize the thing. But we are so stuck in our prejudices, so -petrified intellectually, that to our vulgarest 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.<a name="FNanchor_46_46" id="FNanchor_46_46"></a><a href="#Footnote_46_46" class="fnanchor">[46]</a></p> - -<p>Locke undermined the fallacy. But none of his successors, so far as I -know, have radically escaped it, or seen that <i>the only meaning of -essence is teleological, and that classification and conception are -purely teleological weapons of the mind</i>. The essence of a thing is that -one of its properties which is so <i>important for my interests</i> 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 appellations 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_358" id="page_358"></a>{358}</span> them than any others; they are only more -frequently serviceable ways to us.</p> - -<p><b>Reasoning is always for a subjective interest.</b> To revert now to our -symbolic representation of the reasoning process:</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr class="c"><td>M is P</td></tr> -<tr class="c"><td>S is M</td></tr> -<tr class="c"><td class="bt">S is P</td></tr> -</table> - -<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 essence of the case.</p> - -<p>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 importance, 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 <i>seeking</i> 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 conceived of S as a sort of N exclusively.</p> - -<p>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 <i>rightly</i> too; and -conceiving it rightly means conceiving it by that one particular -abstract character which leads to the one sort of conclusion which it is -the reasoner's temporary interest to attain.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_359" id="page_359"></a>{359}</span></p> - -<p>The <i>results</i> 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 phenomenon 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! How it is -obvious that a child or an idiot might without this reasoning learn the -<i>rule</i> 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 -pendulum-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 pneumatics could have abstracted the -<i>cause</i> of the disease, and thence inferred the remedy immediately. By -many measurements 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 (<i>pro hac vice</i>) of a triangle -to be the half of a parallelogram whose area is the height into the -entire base.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_360" id="page_360"></a>{360}</span> To see this he must invent additional lines; and the -geometer must often draw such to get at the essential property he may -require in a figure. The essence consists in some <i>relation of the -figure to the new lines</i>, 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 perceiving of the relation.</p> - -<p><b>Thus, there are two great points in reasoning.</b> <i>First, an extracted -character is taken as equivalent to the entire datum from which it -comes; and</i>,</p> - -<p><i>Second, the character thus taken suggests a certain consequence more -obviously than it was suggested by the total datum as it originally -came.</i> Take these points again, successively.</p> - -<p>1) 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 reasoned, but purely empirical; but if I can say that -into the color there enters a certain dye which I know to be chemically -unstable, and that <i>therefore</i> 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 uneducated 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 without full previous acquaintance with -the entire phenomenon. It is not a result of reasoning.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_361" id="page_361"></a>{361}</span> 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 bending 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 -example would hardly be so at all. But each and all agree in this, that -they bear a <i>more evident relation</i> to the conclusion than did the facts -in their immediate totality.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>First, the extracted characters are more general than the concretes, and -the connections they may have are, therefore, 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 comparatively unfamiliar lens the very familiar -notion of a particular change in direction of a line, of which notion -every day brings us countless examples.</p> - -<p>The other reason why the relations of the extracted characters are so -evident is that their properties are so <i>few</i>, compared with the -properties of the whole, from which we derived them. In every concrete -fact the characters and their consequences are so inexhaustibly numerous -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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_362" id="page_362"></a>{362}</span> consequences. Thus the character of scraping -the sill has very few suggestions, prominent among which is the -suggestion 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 properties it assumes are -of a mathematical sort, such as molecular 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.</p> - -<p><b>Sagacity.</b>—To reason, then, we must be able to extract characters,—not -<i>any</i> 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 difficulty: <i>How are characters extracted, and why does it -require the advent of a genius in many cases before the fitting -character is brought to light?</i> Why cannot anybody reason 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.</p> - -<p>All our knowledge at first is vague. When we say that a thing is vague, -we mean that it has no subdivisions <i>ab intra</i>, nor precise limitations -<i>ab extra</i>; but still all the forms of thought may apply to it. It may -have unity, reality, externality, extent, and what not—<i>thinghood</i>, 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, unless, 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 uninstructed,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_363" id="page_363"></a>{363}</span> but the machinist, the antiquary, -and the bookworm 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 showing 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 awakened in him by experience that his consciousness -leaves no single point of the complex situation accented and standing -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.</p> - -<p>How this power of analysis was brought about we saw in our chapters on -Discrimination and Attention. We dissociate 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 æsthetic 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 window, 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 practical uses, and the savage is -delighted with the beads, the bits of looking-glass, brought by an -exploring vessel, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_364" id="page_364"></a>{364}</span> gives no heed to the features of the vessel -itself, which is too much beyond his sphere. These æsthetic and -practical interests, then, are the weightiest factors in making -particular ingredients stand out in high relief. What they lay their -accent on, that we notice; but what they are in themselves we cannot -say. We must content ourselves here with simply accepting them as -irreducible ultimate factors in determining the way our knowledge grows.</p> - -<p>Now, a creature which has few instinctive impulses, or interests -practical or æsthetic, will dissociate few characters, 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 æsthetic feelings, to which every sense -contributes, would, by dint of these alone, be sure to dissociate vastly -more characters than any other animal; and accordingly we find that the -lowest savages reason incomparably better than the highest brutes. The -diverse interests lead, too, to a diversification of experiences, whose -accumulation becomes a condition for the play of that <i>law of -dissociation by varying concomitants</i> of which I treated on <a href="#page_251">p. 251</a>.</p> - -<p><b>The Help given by Association by Similarity.</b>—It is probable, also, that -man's <i>superior association by similarity</i> 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.</p> - -<p>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 in consciousness shakes out, as it were, the points -of difference 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_365" id="page_365"></a>{365}</span> the scientific man do who searches -for the reason or law embedded in a phenomenon? He deliberately -accumulates 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 -<i>at once</i>. 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.</p> - -<p>Now it is obvious that any mind in which association by similarity is -highly developed is a mind which will spontaneously form lists of -instances like this. Take a present fact <i>A</i>, with a character <i>m</i> in -it. The mind may fail at first to notice this character <i>m</i> at all. But -if <i>A</i> calls up <i>C</i>, <i>D</i>, <i>E</i>, and <i>F</i>,—these being phenomena which -resemble <i>A</i> in possessing <i>m</i>, but which may not have entered for -months into the experience of the animal who now experiences <i>A</i>, 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 <i>m</i> in an abstract way. Certainly this is obvious; and no -conclusion is left to us but to assert that, after the few<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_366" id="page_366"></a>{366}</span> most -powerful practical and æsthetic interests, our chief help towards -noticing those special characters of phenomena which, when once -possessed and named, are used as reasons, class names, essences, or -middle terms, <i>is this association by similarity</i>. Without it, indeed, -the deliberate 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 deliberation, spontaneously -collecting analogous instances, uniting 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.</p> - -<p><a name="ill_66" id="ill_66"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 304px;"> -<a href="images/i_366_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_366_sml.png" width="304" height="306" alt="[Image unavailable.]" /></a> -<div class="caption"><p class="c"><span class="smcap">Fig. 66.</span></p></div> -</div> - -<p><a href="#ill_66">Figure 66</a> shows this. If <i>m</i>, in the present representation <i>A</i>, calls -up <i>B</i>, <i>C</i>, <i>D</i>, and <i>E</i>, which are similar to <i>A</i> in possessing it, -and calls them up in rapid succession, then <i>m</i>, being associated almost -simultaneously with such varying concomitants, will 'roll out' and -attract our separate notice.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_367" id="page_367"></a>{367}</span></p> - -<p>If so much is clear to the reader, he will be willing to admit that the -mind <i>in which this mode of association most prevails</i> 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.</p> - -<p>Geniuses are, by common consent, considered to differ from ordinary -minds by an unusual development of association 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.</p> - -<p><b>The Reasoning Powers of Brutes.</b>—As the genius is to the vulgarian, so -the vulgar human mind is to the intelligence of a brute. Compared with -men, it is probable that brutes neither attend to abstract characters, -nor have associations 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 contiguity. So far, however, as any -brute might think by abstract characters instead of by the association -of concretes, 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 <i>obey</i> abstract characters, whether -they mentally single them out as such or not. They act upon things -according to their <i>class</i>. 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 emphasized is one thing; a -sharply conceived attribute marked off from everything else by a name is -another. But between no analysis of a concrete, and complete analysis; -no abstraction of an embedded character, and complete abstraction, 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 proposed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_368" id="page_368"></a>{368}</span> the name <i>recept</i>, and Prof. Lloyd Morgan the name -<i>construct</i>, for the idea of a vaguely abstracted and generalized -object-class. A definite abstraction is called an <i>isolate</i> by the -latter author. Neither <i>construct</i> nor <i>recept</i> 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 <i>influent</i> sound better than -<i>recept</i> in the following passage from Romanes?</p> - -<p>"Water-fowl adopt a somewhat different mode of alighting 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 concepts. 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 name="FNanchor_47_47" id="FNanchor_47_47"></a><a href="#Footnote_47_47" class="fnanchor">[47]</a></p> - -<p>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 'alive—get away—must kill,' ... etc., passed in rapid -succession through this dog's mind, whatever the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_369" id="page_369"></a>{369}</span> 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 themselves 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 -reigns. Thoughts would not be found to call up their similars, 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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_370" id="page_370"></a>{370}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.<br /><br /> -<small>CONSCIOUSNESS AND MOVEMENT.</small></h2> - -<p><b>All consciousness is motor.</b> The reader will not have forgotten, in the -jungle of 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.</p> - -<p>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, <i>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</i>. What -happens patently when an explosion or a flash of lightning startles us, -or when we are tickled, happens 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 phenomenon of general discharge, and expressed it -thus: "According as an impression is accompanied with Feeling, the -aroused currents diffuse themselves over the brain,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_371" id="page_371"></a>{371}</span> leading to a -general agitation of the moving organs, as well as affecting the -viscera."</p> - -<p>There are probably no exceptions to the diffusion of every impression -through the <i>nerve-centres</i>. The <i>effect</i> 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 inhibitory 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.</p> - -<p>In general, however, the stimulating effects of a sense-impression -proponderate 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 <i>all</i> the effects of any -one incoming sensation has not yet been performed by physiologists. -Recent years have, however, begun to enlarge our information; 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 sensorial stimuli. -In short, a <i>process set up anywhere in the centres reverberates -everywhere, and in some way or other affects the organism throughout, -making its activities<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_372" id="page_372"></a>{372}</span> either greater or less</i>. 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 changing it -everywhere at once.</p> - -<p>Herr Schneider has tried to show, by an ingenious zoölogical review, -that all the <i>special</i> movements which highly evolved animals make are -differentiated from the two originally simple movements of contraction -and expansion 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 developed, 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 add to -the mechanical <i>a priori</i> reason why there <i>ought</i> to be the diffusive -wave which <i>a posteriori</i> instances show to exist.</p> - -<p>I shall now proceed to a detailed study of the more important classes of -movement consequent upon cerebromental change. They may be enumerated -as—</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td align="left">1) Expressions of Emotion;</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left">2) Instinctive or Impulsive Performances; and</td></tr> -<tr><td align="left">3) Voluntary Deeds;</td></tr> -</table> -<p class="nind">and each shall have a chapter to itself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_373" id="page_373"></a>{373}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.<br /><br /> -<small>EMOTION.</small></h2> - -<p><b>Emotions compared with Instincts.</b>—An emotion is a tendency to feel, and -an instinct is a tendency to act, characteristically, 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 'emotional' condition from that of -the 'instinctive' reaction which one and the same object may provoke. -Shall <i>fear</i> be described in the chapter on Instincts or in that on -Emotions? Where shall one describe <i>curiosity</i>, <i>emulation</i>, and the -like? The answer is quite arbitrary from the scientific point of view, -and practical convenience may decide. As inner mental conditions, -emotions are quite indescribable. Description, moreover, would be -superfluous, for the reader knows already how they feel. Their relations -to the objects which prompt them and to the reactions which they provoke -are all that one can put down in a book.</p> - -<p>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 -imagination 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_374" id="page_374"></a>{374}</span> the rest of the chapter I shall use the word -<i>object</i> of emotion indifferently to mean one which is physically -present or one which is merely thought of.</p> - -<p><b>The varieties of emotion are innumerable.</b> <i>Anger</i>, <i>fear</i>, <i>love</i>, -<i>hate</i>, <i>joy</i>, <i>grief</i>, <i>shame</i>, <i>pride</i>, and their varieties, may be -called the <i>coarser</i> emotions, being coupled as they are with relatively -strong bodily reverberations. The <i>subtler</i> emotions are the moral, -intellectual, and æsthetic feelings, and their bodily reaction is -usually much less strong. The mere description of the objects, -circumstances, and varieties 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, revenge, abhorrence, etc., etc. Dictionaries of synonyms -have discriminated them, as well as text-books of psychology—in fact, -many German psychological text-books <i>are</i> 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_375" id="page_375"></a>{375}</span> 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 <i>in infinitum</i> 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.</p> - -<p><b>The Cause of their Varieties.</b>—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 <i>can</i> 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 <i>coarser</i> emotions.</p> - -<p><b>The feeling, in the coarser emotions, results from the bodily -expression.</b> 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 <i>the bodily -changes follow directly the perception of the exciting fact, and that -our feeling of the same changes as they occur</i> <small>IS</small> <i>the emotion</i>. -Common-sense says, we lose our fortune, are sorry and weep; we meet a -bear, are frightened and run;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_376" id="page_376"></a>{376}</span> 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 manifestations 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 <i>feel</i> afraid or angry.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>To begin with, <i>particular perceptions certainly do produce wide-spread -bodily effects by a sort of immediate physical influence, antecedent to -the arousal of an emotion or emotional idea</i>. 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 articulate idea of danger can arise. -If our friend goes near to the edge of a precipice, we get the -well-known feeling of 'all-overishness,' and we shrink back, although we -positively <i>know</i> 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_377" id="page_377"></a>{377}</span> deceive him, he -stirred it round and saw it drip from the stick with no feeling save -that of childish curiosity. Suddenly 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.</p> - -<p>The best proof that the immediate cause of emotion is a physical effect -on the nerves is furnished by <i>those pathological cases in which the -emotion is objectless</i>. 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 -pathological 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' 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 person, his feeling of their combination <i>is</i> 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_378" id="page_378"></a>{378}</span> 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, <i>ipso facto</i>, seems to depart.</p> - -<p>The emotion here is nothing but the feeling of a bodily state, and it -has a purely bodily cause.</p> - -<p>The next thing to be noticed is this, that <i>every one of the bodily -changes, whatsoever it be, is</i> <small>FELT</small>, <i>acutely or obscurely, the moment -it occurs</i>. 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 passion for the sake of any such -curious analysis as this; but he can observe more tranquil states, and -that may be assumed 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 swallow, a clearing of the throat, or a -slight cough; and so on for as many more instances as might be named. -The various permutations of which these organic changes are susceptible -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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_379" id="page_379"></a>{379}</span> 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.'</p> - -<p>I now proceed to urge the vital point of my whole theory, which is this: -<i>If 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 nothing left behind</i>, no 'mind-stuff' out of which the emotion can -be constituted, and that a cold and neutral state of intellectual -perception is all that remains. It is true that, although most people, -when asked, say that their introspection verifies this statement, some -persist in saying theirs does not. Many cannot be made to understand the -question. When you beg them to imagine away every feeling of laughter -and of tendency to laugh from their consciousness 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 <i>must</i> -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 elements 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 present, 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 dilatation of -the nostrils, no clenching<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_380" id="page_380"></a>{380}</span> 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 dispassionate judicial sentence, confined entirely to -the intellectual 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 intellectual lives; but I -say that for <i>us</i> 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 corporeally anæsthetic, I -should be excluded from the life of the affections, harsh and tender -alike, and drag out an existence of merely cognitive or intellectual -form. Such an existence, although it seems to have been the ideal of -ancient sages, is too apathetic to be keenly sought after by those born -after the revival of the worship of sensibility, a few generations ago.</p> - -<p><b>Let not this view be called materialistic.</b> 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 hook 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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_381" id="page_381"></a>{381}</span> They are -<i>sensational</i> 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 <i>inwardly</i> 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.</p> - -<p><b>This view explains the great variability of emotion.</b> 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 <i>causal</i>: "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 superficial 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 facilitate 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, <i>we immediately<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_382" id="page_382"></a>{382}</span> see why there is no limit to the number of -possible different emotions which may exist, and why the emotions of -different individuals may vary indefinitely</i>, both as to their -constitution and as to the objects which call them forth. For there is -nothing sacramental or eternally fixed in reflex action. Any sort of -reflex effect is possible, and reflexes actually vary indefinitely, as -we know.</p> - -<p>In short, <i>any classification of the emotions is seen to be as true and -as 'natural' as any other</i>, 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.</p> - -<p><b>A Corollary verified.</b>—If our theory be true, a necessary 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. Everyone 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 everything<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_383" id="page_383"></a>{383}</span> 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 conquer undesirable -emotional tendencies in ourselves, we must assiduously, and in the first -instance cold-bloodedly, go through the <i>outward movements</i> of those -contrary dispositions 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 cheerfulness and kindliness in their -stead. Smooth the brow, brighten the eye, contract the dorsal rather -than the ventral 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!</p> - -<p>Against this it is to be said that many actors who perfectly 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 <i>visceral and organic</i> 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.</p> - -<p><b>An Objection replied to.</b>—It may be objected to the general theory which -I maintain that stopping the expression of an emotion often makes it -worse. The funniness 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, however, gives relief.</p> - -<p>This objection is more specious than real. <i>During</i> the expression the -emotion is always felt. <i>After</i> it, the centres having normally -discharged themselves, we feel it no<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_384" id="page_384"></a>{384}</span> more. But where the facial part of -the discharge is suppressed 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 <i>another emotion altogether</i>, 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.</p> - -<p><b>The Subtler Emotions.</b>—In the æsthetic emotions the bodily reverberation -and the feeling may both be faint. A connoisseur is apt to judge a work -of art dryly and intellectually, 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 <i>incoming currents</i> be the basis of emotion. But, -whether secondary organic reverberations be or be not aroused by it, the -perception of a work of art (music, decoration, etc.) is always in the -first instance at any rate an affair of incoming currents. 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 'coarse' or vivid form.</p> - -<p>That there may be subtle pleasure too, I do not deny. In other words, -there may be purely cerebral emotion, independent 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 <i>rapture</i>, however intellectual its -ground, we find these<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_385" id="page_385"></a>{385}</span> 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 magnanimity, 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, generous, and the like. Such a judicial -state of mind as this is to be classed among cognitive rather than among -emotional acts.</p> - -<p><b>Description of Fear.</b>—For the reasons given on <a href="#page_374">p. 374</a>, I 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 symptoms, I will quote Darwin's account of them in fear.</p> - -<p>"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 frightened 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 doubtful 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 faintness. This paleness of the surface, however, is probably -in large part, or is exclusively, due to the vaso-motor centre being -affected in such a manner as to cause the contraction 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 perspiration -immediately exudes from it. This exudation is all the more remarkable, -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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_386" id="page_386"></a>{386}</span> 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 indistinct or may altogether fail. -'<i>Obstupui steteruntque comæ, et vox faucibus hæsit.</i>'... As fear -increases into an agony of terror, we behold, as under all violent -emotions, 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 -eyeballs are fixed on the object of terror; or they may roll restlessly -from side to side, <i>huc illuc volens oculos totumque pererrat</i>. 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 alternately clenched and opened, often with a twitching movement. -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 sudden panic."<a name="FNanchor_48_48" id="FNanchor_48_48"></a><a href="#Footnote_48_48" class="fnanchor">[48]</a></p> - -<p><b>Genesis of the Emotional Reactions.</b>—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.</p> - -<p>Some movements of expression can be accounted for as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_387" id="page_387"></a>{387}</span> <i>weakened -repetitions of movements which formerly</i> (when they were stronger) <i>were -of utility to the subject</i>. Others are similarly weakened repetitions of -movements which under other conditions were <i>physiologically necessary -concomitants of the useful movements</i>. 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.</p> - -<p>"To have in a slight degree," he says, "such psychical states as -accompany the reception of wounds, and are experienced 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 -propensities to the acts are nothing else than nascent excitations 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 palpitations, in tremblings; and these -are just the manifestations that go along with an actual suffering of -the evil feared. The destructive passion is shown in a general tension -of the muscular system, in gnashing of teeth and protrusion 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 -representations 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."<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_388" id="page_388"></a>{388}</span></p> - -<p>The principle of <i>revival, in weakened form, of reactions useful in more -violent dealings with the object inspiring the emotion</i>, 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 survival -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 opening of the mouth in astonishment, come, -according to the same author, from the utility of these movements in -extreme 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" (!). The trembling of fear is -supposed by Mantegazza to be for the sake of warming the blood (!). The -reddening of the face and neck is called by Wundt a compensatory -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-withdrawing 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.</p> - -<p>"As the habit of contracting the brows has been followed 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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_389" id="page_389"></a>{389}</span> under -similar circumstances, it would be apt to be continued during maturity, -although never then developed, into a crying fit. Screaming or weeping -begins to be voluntarily restrained at an early period of life, whereas -frowning is hardly ever restrained at any age."</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>Another principle, to which Darwin perhaps hardly does sufficient -justice, may be called the principle of <i>reacting similarly to -analogous-feeling stimuli</i>. There is a whole vocabulary of descriptive -adjectives common to impressions belonging to different sensible -spheres—experiences of all classes are <i>sweet</i>, impressions of all -classes <i>rich</i> or <i>solid</i>, sensations of all classes <i>sharp</i>. Wundt and -Piderit accordingly explain many of our most expressive reactions upon -moral causes as symbolic gustatory movements. 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 language designates by the -metaphors bitter, harsh, sweet, combine themselves, therefore, with the -corresponding mimetic movements of the mouth." Certainly the emotions of -disgust and satisfaction do express themselves in this mimetic way. -Disgust is an incipent 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. -Similarly the nod forward in affirmation is after the analogy of taking -food into the mouth. The connection of the expression of moral or social -disdain or dislike, especially in women, with movements having a -perfectly definite original olfactory function, is too obvious for -comment. Winking<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_390" id="page_390"></a>{390}</span> 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.</p> - -<p>But if certain of our emotional reactions can be explained 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 reactions 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 diarrhœa 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. Trembling, which is found -in many excitements besides that of terror, is, <i>pace</i> 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 -<i>incidental</i> 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 æsthetic 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 <i>quasi</i>-accidental way.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_391" id="page_391"></a>{391}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV" id="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV.<br /><br /> -<small>INSTINCT.</small></h2> - -<p><b>Its Definition.</b>—<i>Instinct is usually defined as the faculty of acting -in such a way as to produce certain ends, without foresight of the ends, -and without previous education in the performance.</i> 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.</p> - -<p>The actions we call instinctive all conform to the general 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 that when that particular -running thing called a mouse appears in his field of vision he <i>must</i> -pursue; that when that particular barking and obstreperous thing called -a dog appears there he <i>must</i> retire, if at a distance, and scratch if -close by; that he <i>must</i> 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 -sensation or perception or image which calls them forth.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_392" id="page_392"></a>{392}</span></p> - -<p>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. <i>Can</i> 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 adaptation thus shown in the way of <i>structure</i> knows no bounds. Even -so are there no bounds to the minuteness of adaptation in the way of -<i>conduct</i> which the several inhabitants display.</p> - -<p>The older writings on instinct are ineffectual wastes of words, because -their authors never came down to this definite 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 wonderful than all the other facts of life.</p> - -<p><b>Every instinct is an impulse.</b> 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 delightfully fresh and interesting work, -'Der Thierische Wille,' Herr G. H. Schneider subdivides impulses -(<i>Triebe</i>) into sensation-impulses, perception-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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_393" id="page_393"></a>{393}</span> -successively the awakening of impulses of all three classes. Thus a -hungry lion starts to <i>seek</i> prey by the awakening in him of imagination -coupled with desire; he begins to <i>stalk</i> it when, on eye, ear, or -nostril, he gets an impression of its presence at a certain distance; he -<i>springs</i> upon it, either when the booty takes alarm and flees, or when -the distance is sufficiently reduced; he proceeds to <i>tear</i> and <i>devour</i> -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 stimulus appropriate to the other.</p> - -<p><i>Now, why do the various animals do what seem to us such strange -things</i>, 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 <i>ad -hominem</i>. 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 towards 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 significant than anything else in the -world? Nothing more can be said than that these are human ways, and that -every creature <i>likes</i> its own ways, and takes to the following 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 followed, 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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_394" id="page_394"></a>{394}</span> ever thinks of -utility. He eats because the food tastes good and makes him want more. -If you ask him <i>why</i> he should want to eat more of what tastes like -that, instead of revering you as a philosopher he will probably laugh at -you for a fool. The connection between the savory sensation and the act -it awakens is for him absolute and <i>selbstverständlich</i>, an '<i>a priori</i> -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 <i>why</i> 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, "<i>Of course</i> we smile, <i>of -course</i> our heart palpitates at the sight of the crowd, <i>of course</i> we -love the maiden, that beautiful soul clad in that perfect form, so -palpably and flagrantly made from all eternity to be loved!"</p> - -<p>And so, probably, does each animal feel about the particular things it -tends to do in presence of particular objects. They, too, are <i>a priori</i> -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.</p> - -<p>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 exclusively. What voluptuous thrill may not -shake a fly, when<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_395" id="page_395"></a>{395}</span> 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?</p> - -<p><b>Instincts are not always blind or invariable.</b> Nothing 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 <i>impulses</i> 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 <i>foresight</i> of those results. In this condition an -impulse acted out may be said to be acted out, in part at least, <i>for -the sake</i> of its results. It is obvious that <i>every instinctive act, in -an animal with memory, must cease to be 'blind' after being once -repeated</i>, 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 'blindness' on her second nest. -Some expectation of consequences 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_396" id="page_396"></a>{396}</span> that reminded him of that trap. If a boy sees a fat -hopping-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.</p> - -<p>It is plain, then, that, <i>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</i>, 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 <i>directly</i> provoke -him to that reaction. But O has meantime become for him a <i>sign</i> 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 immediate 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 -altogether 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 associative machinery it has come into conflict with -another instinct about P.</p> - -<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 preëxistence 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_397" id="page_397"></a>{397}</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>sort</i> of a thing is there, the agent waits to see -which <i>one</i> of its kind it is and what the <i>circumstances</i> are of its -appearance; wherever different individuals and different circumstances -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 -<i>always</i> in the manner which would be <i>oftenest</i> right. There are more -worms unattached to hooks than impaled upon them; therefore, on the -whole, says Nature to her fishy children, bite at <i>every</i> 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;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_398" id="page_398"></a>{398}</span> since any entirely unknown -object may be fraught with weal or woe. <i>Nature implants contrary -impulses to act on many classes of things</i>, and leaves it to slight -alterations in the conditions of the individual case to decide which -impulse shall carry the day. Thus, greediness and suspicion, curiosity -and timidity, coyness and desire, bashfulness 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. <i>Each one of them then -is an instinct</i>, as instincts are commonly defined. <i>But they contradict -each other</i>—'experience' in each particular opportunity of application -usually deciding the issue. <i>The animal that exhibits them loses the -'instinctive' demeanor</i> and appears to lead a life of hesitation and -choice, an intellectual life; <i>not, however, because he has no -instincts—rather because he has so many that they block each other's -path</i>.</p> - -<p>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. <i>On the contrary, man possesses all -the impulses that they have, and a great many more besides.</i> In other -words, there is no material antagonism between instinct and reason. -Reason, <i>per se</i>, can inhibit no impulses; the only thing that can -neutralize an impulse is an impulse the other way. Reason may, however, -make an <i>inference which will excite the imagination so as to let loose</i> -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 <i>merely</i> instinctive animal must be.</p> - -<p><b>Two Principles of Non-uniformity.</b>—Instincts may be masked in the mature -animal's life by two other causes. These are:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_399" id="page_399"></a>{399}</span></p> - -<p><i>a.</i> The <i>inhibition of instincts by habits</i>; and</p> - -<p><i>b.</i> The <i>transitoriness of instincts</i>.</p> - -<p><i>a.</i> The law of <b>inhibition of instincts by habits</b> is this: <i>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.</i></p> - -<p>The selection of a particular hole to live in, of a particular 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 <i>other</i> -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 adventurous 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 <i>instinctive</i> -propensity toward certain objects existed at all. It existed, but it -existed <i>miscellaneously</i>, 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_400" id="page_400"></a>{400}</span> but the habitual object, although other objects might -just as well have been chosen had they been the first-comers.</p> - -<p>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 -families' 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.</p> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_401" id="page_401"></a>{401}</span> 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."<a name="FNanchor_49_49" id="FNanchor_49_49"></a><a href="#Footnote_49_49" class="fnanchor">[49]</a></p> - -<p>But if a man presents himself for the first time when the instinct of -<i>fear</i> is strong, the phenomena are altogether reversed. Mr. Spalding -kept three chickens hooded until they were nearly four days old, and -thus describes their behavior:</p> - -<p>"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. Whatever 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."<a name="FNanchor_50_50" id="FNanchor_50_50"></a><a href="#Footnote_50_50" class="fnanchor">[50]</a></p> - -<p>Their case was precisely analogous to that of the Adirondack 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_402" id="page_402"></a>{402}</span> 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.</p> - -<p><i>b.</i> This leads us to the <b>law of transitoriness</b>, which is this: <i>Many -instincts ripen at a certain age and then fade away</i>. 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 <i>habit</i> 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.</p> - -<p>No doubt such a law is restricted. Some instincts are far less transient -than others—those connected with feeding 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.</p> - -<p>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 take 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:</p> - -<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_403" id="page_403"></a>{403}</span> returned to the mother when ten days old. The hen followed it, and -tried to entice it in every way; still, it continually 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, -indeed, cruelly maltreated. It was also placed under the mother at -night, but it again left her in the morning."</p> - -<p>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 entirely extinct.</p> - -<p>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.'</p> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_404" id="page_404"></a>{404}</span> 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 <i>Canidæ</i> may not be as short-lived -as it was in this terrier?</p> - -<p>Leaving lower animals aside, and turning to human instincts, 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 -'things'; 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 adventure, 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 taking 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 individual 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; chastity 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 -successive subject before its ebb has come, so that knowledge<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_405" id="page_405"></a>{405}</span> may be -got and a habit of skill acquired—a headway of interest, in short, -secured, on which afterward the individual 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 psychology 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 personal 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, -without 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 <i>cannot</i> 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 resolute 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.</p> - -<p>Whatever individual exceptions to this might be cited are of the sort -that 'prove the rule.'</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_406" id="page_406"></a>{406}</span> 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.</p> - -<p><b>Enumeration of Instincts in Man.</b>—Professor Preyer, in his careful -little work, 'Die Seele des Kindes,' says "instinctive acts are in man -few in number, and, apart from those connected with the sexual passion, -difficult to recognize after early youth is past." And he adds, "so much -the more attention should we pay to the instinctive movements of -new-born babies, sucklings, and small children." That instinctive acts -should be easiest <i>recognized</i> in childhood 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. Professor Preyer divides the movements of -infants into <i>impulsive</i>, <i>reflex</i>, and <i>instinctive</i>. By impulsive -movements he means <i>random</i> 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, <i>sneezing, snuffling, snoring, -coughing, sighing, sobbing, gagging, vomiting, hiccuping, starting, -moving the limbs when touched, and sucking</i>. To these may now be added -<i>hanging by the hands</i> (see <i>Nineteenth Century</i>, Nov. 1891). Later on -come <i>biting</i>, <i>clasping objects</i>, and <i>carrying them to the mouth</i>, -<i>sitting up</i>, <i>standing</i>, <i>creeping</i>, and <i>walking</i>. 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 <i>learning</i> 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 <i>imitation</i>, those to significant -<i>vocalization</i> are born. <i>Emulation</i> rapidly ensues, with <i>pugnacity</i> in -its train. <i>Fear</i> of definite<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_407" id="page_407"></a>{407}</span> objects comes in early, <i>sympathy</i> much -later, though on the instinct (or emotion?—see <a href="#page_373">p. 373</a>) of sympathy so -much in human life depends. <i>Shyness</i> and <i>sociability</i>, <i>play</i>, -<i>curiosity</i>, <i>acquisitiveness</i>, all begin very early in life. The -<i>hunting instinct</i>, <i>modesty</i>, <i>love</i>, the <i>parental instinct</i>, etc., -come later. By the age of 15 or 16 the whole array of human instincts is -complete. It will be observed that <i>no other mammal, not even the -monkey, shows so large a list</i>. 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 experiences 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 growing 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; perversions are too often the fruit of his -unnatural bringing-up.</p> - -<p><b>Description of Fear.</b>—In order to treat at least one instinct at greater -length, I will take the instance of <i>fear</i>.</p> - -<p>Fear is a reaction aroused by the same objects that arouse ferocity. The -antagonism of the two is an interesting study in instinctive dynamics. -We both fear, and wish to kill, anything that may kill us; and the -question<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_408" id="page_408"></a>{408}</span> which of the two impulses we shall follow is usually decided -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 uncertainty 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 -susceptible. 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 philosophy and religion. The atrocities of life -become 'like a tale of little meaning though the words are strong'; we -doubt if anything like <i>us</i> 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.</p> - -<p>Be this as it may, fear is a genuine instinct, and one of the earliest -shown by the human child. <i>Noises</i> seem especially 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:</p> - -<p>"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 a 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_409" id="page_409"></a>{409}</span> 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."<a name="FNanchor_51_51" id="FNanchor_51_51"></a><a href="#Footnote_51_51" class="fnanchor">[51]</a></p> - -<p>The effect of noise in heightening any terror we may feel in adult years -is very marked. The <i>howling</i> of the storm, whether on sea or land, is a -principal cause of our anxiety when exposed to it. The writer has been -interested 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.</p> - -<p><i>Strange men</i>, and <i>strange animals</i>, either large or small, excite -fear, but especially men or animals advancing toward 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 impossible 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 a half old. The -first time, he seized it promptly, and holding it in spite of its -struggling, at last got its head into his mouth. He then let<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_410" id="page_410"></a>{410}</span> 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 betweenwhiles, 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 betrayed the slightest -fear until she was (if I recollect rightly) about eight months old. Then -the instinct suddenly seemed to develop, and with such intensity that -familiarity had no mitigating effect. She screamed whenever the dog -entered the room, and for many months remained 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 <i>fur</i>: Richet reports a -similar observation.</p> - -<p>Preyer tells of a young child screaming with fear on being carried near -to the <i>sea</i>. The great source 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.</p> - -<p><i>Black things</i>, and especially <i>dark places</i>, 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:</p> - -<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_411" id="page_411"></a>{411}</span> 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.</p> - -<p>"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 ancestors 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."<a name="FNanchor_52_52" id="FNanchor_52_52"></a><a href="#Footnote_52_52" class="fnanchor">[52]</a></p> - -<p><i>High places</i> cause fear of a peculiarly sickening sort, though here, -again, individuals differ enormously. The utterly 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 peculiarity 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 anatomically 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 -<i>fear-paroxysm</i> is surely altogether harmful to him who is its prey.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_412" id="page_412"></a>{412}</span></p> - -<p>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 <i>ideas</i> of supernatural -agency, associated 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 dreadful 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 <i>intellectual</i>, is very important. It produces a -strange emotional 'curdle' in our blood to see a process with which we -are familiar deliberately taking an unwonted 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 mysteriously -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 experiences. The idea of -the supernatural involves that the usual should be set at naught. In the -witch and hobgoblin 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 mysteriousness, 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 -nightmares and forms of delirium, it seems not altogether unwise 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_413" id="page_413"></a>{413}</span> 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.</p> - -<p>There are certain other pathological fears, and certain peculiarities in -the expression of ordinary fear, which might receive an explanatory -light from ancestral conditions, even infra-human ones. In ordinary -fear, one may either run, or remain semi-paralyzed. The latter condition -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 motionless 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 motionlessly 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 shipwrecked sailor upon the raft where -he is floating frantically 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 instinct? They can give no <i>reason</i> for -their fear to move; but immobility makes them feel safer and more -comfortable. Is not this the mental state of the 'feigning' animal?</p> - -<p>Again, take the strange symptom which has been described<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_414" id="page_414"></a>{414}</span> of late years -by the rather absurd name of <i>agoraphobia</i>. 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-command he sometimes -accomplishes the object by keeping safe under the lee of a vehicle going -across, or joining himself 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 venture 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?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_415" id="page_415"></a>{415}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.<br /><br /> -<small>WILL.</small></h2> - -<p><b>Voluntary Acts.</b>—Desire, wish, will, are states of mind 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 <i>wish</i>; but if we believe that the end is in our -power, we <i>will</i> 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.</p> - -<p>The only ends which follow <i>immediately</i> upon our willing seem to be -movements of our own bodies. Whatever <i>feelings</i> and <i>havings</i> 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 <i>direct</i> outward effects -of our will are bodily movements. The mechanism of production of these -voluntary movements is what befalls us to study now.</p> - -<p><b>They are secondary performances.</b> 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 intended -beforehand, are of course done with full prevision of what they are to -be. It follows from this that <i>voluntary movements must be secondary, -not primary, functions of our organism</i>. This is the first point to -understand in the psychology of Volition. Reflex, instinctive, and -emotional<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_416" id="page_416"></a>{416}</span> 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 undergoes 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 prophetic 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 impossible to see how it could be willed before.</p> - -<p><i>A supply of ideas of the various movements that are possible, left in -the memory by experiences of their involuntary performance, is thus the -first prerequisite of the voluntary life.</i></p> - -<p><b>Two Kinds of Ideas of Movement.</b>—Now these ideas may be either -<i>resident</i> or <i>remote</i>. That is, they may be of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_417" id="page_417"></a>{417}</span> 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 resident sensations in the parts that move have been called -<i>kinæsthetic</i> feelings, the memories of them are kinæsthetic ideas. It -is by these kinæsthetic sensations that we are made conscious of -<i>passive movements</i>—movements communicated 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 -the other feelings of a limb are lost, we get such results as are given -in the following account by Prof. A. Strümpell of his wonderful -anæsthetic boy, whose only sources of feeling were the right eye and the -left ear:<a name="FNanchor_53_53" id="FNanchor_53_53"></a><a href="#Footnote_53_53" class="fnanchor">[53]</a></p> - -<p>"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 -handkerchief 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_418" id="page_418"></a>{418}</span> 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 asserted still his -ability to keep it up.... Passively holding still his fingers did not -affect him. He thought constantly that he opened and shut his hand, -whereas it was really fixed."</p> - -<p><i>No third kind of idea is called for.</i> We need, then, when we perform a -movement, either a kinæsthetic 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 <i>idea of the amount of innervation</i> required for the -muscular contraction. The discharge from the motor centre into the motor -nerve is supposed to give a sensation <i>sui generis</i>, opposed to all our -other sensations. These accompany incoming currents, whilst that, it is -said, accompanies 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 innervation. Many authors deny that this feeling exists, and -the proofs given of its existence are certainly insufficient.</p> - -<p>The various degrees of 'effort' 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 consciousness 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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_419" id="page_419"></a>{419}</span> 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, renders 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.</p> - -<p>Let the reader try to direct his will towards a particular movement, and -then notice what <i>constituted</i> the direction 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 -feelings, 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 consciousness in an absolute and total vacuum. If -I will to write <i>Peter</i> rather than <i>Paul</i>, it is the thought of certain -digital sensations, of certain alphabetic 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 <i>Paul</i> rather than <i>Peter</i>, 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 feelings, 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.</p> - -<p>There is indeed the <i>fiat</i>, the element of consent, or resolve 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 <i>fiat</i> -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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_420" id="page_420"></a>{420}</span> one will -pretend that its quality varies according as the right arm, for example, -or the left is used.</p> - -<p><i>An anticipatory image, then, of the sensorial consequences 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.</i> There is no -coercive evidence of any feeling attached to the efferent discharge.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p><i>The Motor-cue.</i>—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 'remote' ones equally suffice?</p> - -<p><i>There can be no doubt whatever that the cue may be an image either of -the resident or of the remote kind.</i> Although, 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 <i>interested</i> in is what sticks in our consciousness; everything else -we get rid of as quickly as we can. Our resident feelings 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 innervation's <i>resident</i> effects will become as great -an encumbrance as we have already concluded that the feeling of the -innervation<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_421" id="page_421"></a>{421}</span> itself is. The mind does not need it; the end alone is -enough.</p> - -<p>The idea of the end, then, tends more and more to make itself -all-sufficient. Or, at any rate, if the kinæsthetic ideas are called up -at all, they are so swamped in the vivid kinæsthetic feelings by which -they are immediately 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 <i>ear</i>, -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 conceived innervates directly the -centre of the first movement of the chain which leads to its -accomplishment, and then the whole chain rattles off <i>quasi</i>-reflexly, -as was described on <a href="#page_115">p 115-6</a></p> - -<p>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 <i>eye</i> on the place aimed at, and your hand will fetch it; -think of your hand, and you will very likely<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_422" id="page_422"></a>{422}</span> 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 trying to -touch it. In the latter case he <i>placed</i> 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.—All these are plain results of introspection and -observation. By what neural machinery they are made possible we do not -know.</p> - -<p>In <a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">Chapter XIX</a> we saw how enormously individuals differ in respect to -their mental imagery. In the type of imagination called <i>tactile</i> by the -French authors, it is probable that the kinæsthetic 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.</p> - -<p>I trust that I have now made clear what that '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 -sometimes very remote indeed. Such anticipations, to say the least, -determine <i>what</i> our movements shall be. I have spoken all along as if -they also might determine <i>that</i> 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 -conception 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.</p> - -<p><b>Ideo-motor Action.</b>—The question is this: <i>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_423" id="page_423"></a>{423}</span> other synonymous phenomenon of -consciousness, before the movement can follow?</i></p> - -<p>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 and precede the movement. The cases -without a fiat constitute 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 <i>ideo-motor -action</i>, as it has been termed, or the sequence of movement upon the -mere thought of it, without a special fiat, as the type of the process -of volition.</p> - -<p>Wherever a movement <i>unhesitatingly and immediately</i> 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 -processes 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 curiosities of our mental life. The truth is that it is no -curiosity, but simply the normal process stripped of disguise. 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 properly 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 fatally 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_424" id="page_424"></a>{424}</span> 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:</p> - -<p>"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 remained 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."<a name="FNanchor_54_54" id="FNanchor_54_54"></a><a href="#Footnote_54_54" class="fnanchor">[54]</a></p> - -<p>In all this the determining condition of the unhesitating and resistless -sequence of the act seems to be <i>the absence of any conflicting notion -in the mind</i>. Either there is nothing else at all in the mind, or what -is there does not conflict. 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 <i>must</i> get up, this is ignominious," -etc.; but still the warm couch feels too delicious, the cold outside too -cruel, and resolutions 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 <i>ever</i> get up under such -circumstances? 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 <i>have</i> got up. A fortunate lapse of consciousness occurs; -we forget both<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_425" id="page_425"></a>{425}</span> the warmth and the cold; we fall into some revery -connected 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 immediately 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 <i>wish</i> and not of <i>will</i>. The moment these -inhibitory ideas ceased, the original idea exerted its effects.</p> - -<p>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 <i>do not</i> 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 is -inhibited from <i>completely</i> taking place by contrary ideas, it will -<i>incipiently</i> take place. To quote Lotze once more:</p> - -<p>"The spectator accompanies the throwing of a billiard-ball, or the -thrust of the swordsman, with slight movements 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 exactly 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."<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_426" id="page_426"></a>{426}</span></p> - -<p>The '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.</p> - -<p>We may then lay it down for certain that <i>every representation of a -movement awakens in some degree the actual movement which is its object; -and awakens it in a maximum degree whenever it is not kept from so doing -by an antagonistic representation present simultaneously to the mind</i>.</p> - -<p>The express fiat, or act of mental consent to the movement, 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 remarks. 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 <i>in its very -nature impulsive</i>. We do not first have a sensation or thought, and then -have to <i>add</i> 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 -consciousness 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, -however, are not the norm; they are cases of inhibition by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_427" id="page_427"></a>{427}</span> antagonistic -thoughts. When the blocking is released we feel as if an inward spring -were let loose, and this is the additional impulse or <i>fiat</i> upon which -the act effectively succeeds. We shall study anon the blocking and its -release. 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. <i>Movement is the natural immediate effect of the -process of feeling, irrespective 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.</i> 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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>may</i> require it. But in all simple and ordinary cases, just as the -bare presence of one idea prompts a movement, so the bare presence 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 <i>its not really moving</i> is also a part of what -you have in mind. Drop <i>this</i> idea, think purely and simply of the -movement, and nothing else, and, presto! it takes place with no effort -at all.</p> - -<p>A waking man's behavior is thus at all times the resultant of two -opposing neural forces. With unimaginable 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 direction or their -speed. The upshot of it all is, that whilst the currents must always end -by being drained off through <i>some</i> motor nerves, they are drained off -sometimes through one set and sometimes through another; and sometimes<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_428" id="page_428"></a>{428}</span> -they keep each other in equilibrium so long that a superficial 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.</p> - -<p><b>Action after Deliberation.</b>—We are now in a position to describe <i>what -happens in deliberate action</i>, 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 considerations, 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 <i>indecision</i>. Fortunately it is too 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 <i>deliberate</i>; and -when finally the original suggestion either prevails and makes the -movement take place, or gets definitively quenched by its antagonists, -we are said to <i>decide</i>, or to <i>utter our voluntary fiat</i>, in favor of -one or the other course. The reinforcing and inhibiting objects -meanwhile are termed the <i>reasons</i> or <i>motives</i> by which the decision is -brought about.</p> - -<p>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 -object, 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_429" id="page_429"></a>{429}</span> oscillations of our attention, and of the -'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 (<a href="#page_163">p. 163</a>); -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 unreached; 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 -physical mass as in the mind. If the elasticity give way, however, if -the dam ever do break, and the currents burst the crust, vacillation is -over and decision is irrevocably there.</p> - -<p>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 introspective account of symptoms and phenomena, -and that all questions of causal agency, whether neural or spiritual, -are relegated to a later page.</p> - -<p><b>Five Chief Types of Decision.</b>—Turning now to the form of the decision -itself, we may distinguish five chief types. <i>The first may be called -the reasonable type.</i> It is that of those cases in which the arguments -for and against a given<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_430" id="page_430"></a>{430}</span> 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 <i>now</i>. In this easy -transition from doubt to assurance we seem to ourselves almost passive; -the 'reasons' 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 <i>free</i>, 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 <i>class</i> 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 consists in the -turning over of all the possible modes of <i>conceiving</i> the doing or not -doing of the act in point. The moment we hit upon a conception which -lets us 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 bearing 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. <i>In action as in reasoning, then, -the great thing is the quest of the right conception.</i> 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_431" id="page_431"></a>{431}</span> who succeeds in finding the -name which suits the needs of the particular occasion best (<a href="#page_357">p. 357</a> 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.</p> - -<p>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 decide 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 -alternatives, to which then we feel ourselves committed, although an -opposite accident at the same time might have produced the opposite -result.</p> - -<p>In the <i>second type</i> our feeling is to a great extent that of letting -ourselves drift with a certain indifferent acquiescence in a direction -accidentally determined <i>from without</i>, with the conviction that, after -all, we might as well stand by this course as by the other, and that -things are in any event sure to turn out sufficiently right.</p> - -<p><i>In the third type</i> the determination seems equally accidental, but it -comes from within, and not from without. It often happens, when the -absence of imperative principle 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_432" id="page_432"></a>{432}</span> 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 probably frequent in persons of strong emotional -endowment 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.</p> - -<p>There is a <i>fourth form</i> of decision, which often ends deliberation as -suddenly as the third form does. It comes when, in consequence of some -outer experience or some inexplicable inward change, <i>we suddenly pass -from the easy and careless to the sober and strenuous mood</i>, 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 of 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.</p> - -<p>In the <i>fifth and final type</i> of decision, the feeling that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_433" id="page_433"></a>{433}</span> 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 something 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 <i>feeling of effort</i>, absent from the -former decisions, 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 become -reality; it is a desolate and acrid sort of act, an entrance 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 deciding on the triumphant alternative dropped the other one -wholly or nearly out of sight, whereas here both alternatives 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 <i>inward effort</i> 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_434" id="page_434"></a>{434}</span> 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 -<i>during deliberation</i> we so often have a feeling of how great an effort -it would take to make a decision <i>now</i>. Later, after the decision has -made itself with ease, we recollect this and erroneously suppose the -effort also to have been made then.</p> - -<p>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 causality, 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.</p> - -<p><b>The Feeling of Effort.</b>—When I said, awhile back, that <i>consciousness</i> -(or the neural process which goes with it) <i>is in its very nature -impulsive</i>, I should have added the proviso that <i>it must be -sufficiently intense</i>. 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 <i>dolce far niente</i> -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 another, and in the same person from time to time. The neural -inertia may wax or wane, and the habitual inhibitions dwindle or -augment. The intensity of particular<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_435" id="page_435"></a>{435}</span> thought-processes and stimulations -may also change independently, 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 impossible, or are effected (if at all) by the expenditure -of effort. A little more description will make it plainer what these -cases are.</p> - -<p><b>Healthiness of Will.</b>—<i>There is a certain normal ratio in the impulsive -power of different mental objects, which characterizes what may be -called ordinary healthiness of will</i>, 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 emotion—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 comparison 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, <i>with effort</i>; <i>and the normal</i>, as -distinguished from the pathological, <i>sphere of effort is thus found -wherever non-instinctive motives to behavior must be reinforced so as to -rule the day</i>.</p> - -<p>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 <i>their</i> characteristic impulses, and action must -finally<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_436" id="page_436"></a>{436}</span> 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 preliminary survey of the field and a -vision of which course is best before the fiat comes. And where the will -is healthy, <i>the vision must be right</i> (i.e., the motives must be on the -whole in a normal or not too unusual ratio to each other), <i>and the -action must obey the vision's lead</i>.</p> - -<p><b>Unhealthiness of will</b> 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—<i>we then have a precipitate will</i>. 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 <i>a will which is perverse</i>. 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. <i>If we compare the outward symptoms of -perversity together, they fall into two groups</i>, in one of which normal -actions are impossible, and in the other abnormal ones are -irrepressible. Briefly, <i>we may call them respectively the obstructed -and the explosive will</i>.</p> - -<p>It must be kept in mind, however, that since the resultant action is -always due to the <i>ratio</i> between the obstructive and the explosive -forces which are present, we never can tell by the mere outward symptoms -to what <i>elementary</i> cause the perversion of a man's will may be due, -whether to an increase of one component or a diminution 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."<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_437" id="page_437"></a>{437}</span></p> - -<p><b>The Explosive Will.</b> 1.) <b>From Defective Inhibition.</b>—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 possibilities 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 impulse 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_438" id="page_438"></a>{438}</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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 <i>dégénérés</i> 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 healthy-willed by nature bad habits can -bring about this condition, especially in relation to particular sorts -of impulse. Ask half the common drunkards you know why it is that they -fall so often a prey to temptation, 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 themselves: -and more than this they cannot say. Similarly a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_439" id="page_439"></a>{439}</span> 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 innervation produces an -overflow. It is the condition recognized 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 <i>par -excellence</i> of 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 <i>instant</i> follow the stirring -of temptation and plunge in it up to the neck.</p> - -<p>2.) <b>From Exaggerated Impulsion.</b>—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 <i>the strength of the impulsive idea is -preternaturally exalted</i>, 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 obstinately struggling against which the unfortunate victim's soul -often sweats with agony ere at last it gets swept away.</p> - -<p>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 -constantly discharging balls between me and it, I could not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_440" id="page_440"></a>{440}</span> 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 dipsomaniacs' mouths. -Dr. Mussey of Cincinnati relates this case:</p> - -<p>"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, however, 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 streaming 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 exclaimed, '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 containing morbid -specimens. On asking him why he had committed this loathsome act, he -replied: 'Sir, it is as impossible for me to control this diseased -appetite as it is for me to control the pulsations of my heart.'<span class="lftspc">"</span></p> - -<p>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 -<i>knows</i> 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 <i>intellectually</i>, 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 consumes two or three hours of time. Most -people have the potentiality of this disease. To few has it not -happened<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_441" id="page_441"></a>{441}</span> 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 believed in the reality of its omission than because only so -could we banish the worrying doubt and get to sleep.</p> - -<p><b>The Obstructed Will.</b>—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 described on <a href="#page_218">p. 218</a>, 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 condition of <i>some</i> -objects, in all of us. Great fatigue or exhaustion may make it the -condition of almost all objects; and an apathy resembling that then -brought about is recognized in asylums under the name of <i>abulia</i> 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.</p> - -<p>"<i>Video meliora proboque, deteriora sequor</i>" 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_442" id="page_442"></a>{442}</span> 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 'deadbeats,' whose -life is one long contradiction between knowledge 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,—discerning, 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 subjunctive 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.</p> - -<p><b>Effort feels like an original force.</b> 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 <i>âme bien -née</i>, the child of the sunshine, at whose birth the fairies made their -gifts, does not need much of it in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_443" id="page_443"></a>{443}</span> 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 <i>a priori</i> 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 <i>feel</i>, 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 resistance. He speaks of conquering and overcoming his -impulses and temptations.</p> - -<p>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 propensities on the one hand and ideals on the other, the -sensualist 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 <i>per se</i> 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 comparison with this, a -still small voice which must be artificially reinforced to prevail. -Effort is what reinforces it, making things seem as if, while the force -of propensity<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_444" id="page_444"></a>{444}</span> 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 victorious over a great sensual -resistance? The very greatness of the resistance itself. If the sensual -propensity is small, the effort is small. The latter is <i>made great</i> 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: <i>It is action in the -line of the greatest resistance</i>.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>The facts may be most briefly symbolized thus, P standing for the -propensity, I for the ideal impulse, and E for the effort:</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr class="c"><td align="left">I <i>per se</i></td> -<td> <</td> -<td> P.</td></tr> -<tr class="c"><td align="left">I + E</td> -<td> ></td> -<td> P.</td></tr> -</table> - -<p class="nind">In other words, if E adds itself to I, P immediately offers the least -resistance, and motion occurs in spite of it.</p> - -<p>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 <i>if</i> 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 continue our descriptive -detail.</p> - -<p><b>Pleasure and Pain as Springs of Action.</b>—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—<i>nessun maggior dolore</i>—as Dante says—and not that the -thought of pain need be a pain, for, as Homer says, "griefs are often -afterwards an entertainment." But as present pleasures are tremendous -reinforcers, and present pains tremendous inhibitors of whatever<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_445" id="page_445"></a>{445}</span> 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.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>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 inhibition 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 searching is this influence of pleasures and -pains upon our movements 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.</p> - -<p>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 manifestations 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 -discharged fatally by the <i>vis a tergo</i> 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_446" id="page_446"></a>{446}</span> <i>impulsive -quality</i> 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 -perceptions and imaginations of fact have it, but neither have it -exclusively or peculiarly. It is of the essence of all consciousness (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 themselves bound to interpret them -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 Emotion 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.</p> - -<p>If in these our <i>first</i> acts pleasures and pains bear no part, as little -do they bear in our last acts, or those artificially 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 -reference 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 <i>am</i> 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 <i>am</i> 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_447" id="page_447"></a>{447}</span> 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 <i>reason</i> at all.</p> - -<p>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 <i>sui compos</i> who does not every week of his life -fall into some such blundering act as this. Such instances of <i>voluntas -invita</i> 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 represented <i>good</i>. The class 'goods' contains many more generally -influential motives to action than the class 'pleasants.' But almost as -little as under the form of pleasures do our acts invariably appear to -us under the form of <i>goods</i>. 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 occasional tempting-power of simple badness -and unpleasantness as such. Every one who has a wound or hurt anywhere, -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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_448" id="page_448"></a>{448}</span> 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.</p> - -<p><b>What holds attention determines action.</b> 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 <i>interest</i>. '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 <i>all</i> ideas have relations with some -such paths,—but rather in a preliminary phenomenon, the <i>urgency, -namely, with which it is able to compel attention and dominate in -consciousness</i>. 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 <i>voluntas invita</i>,—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 <i>fiat</i>, 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 contrary<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_449" id="page_449"></a>{449}</span>—it is their bare presence to the -mind which gives the veto, and makes acts, otherwise seductive, -impossible to perform. If we could only <i>forget</i> our scruples, our -doubts, our fears, what exultant energy we should for a while display!</p> - -<p><b>Will is a relation between the mind and its 'ideas.'</b> In closing in, -therefore, after all these preliminaries, upon the more <i>intimate</i> -nature of the volitional process, we find ourselves driven more and more -exclusively to consider the conditions which make ideas prevail in the -mind. With the prevalence, once there as a fact, of the motive idea, the -<i>psychology</i> of volition properly stops. The movements which ensue are -exclusively physiological phenomena, following according to -physiological laws upon the neural events to which the idea corresponds. -The <i>willing</i> terminates 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 follows. 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 -activity. 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 outside -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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_450" id="page_450"></a>{450}</span></p> - -<p><b>Volitional effort is effort of attention.</b> We thus find that <i>we reach -the heart of our inquiry into volition when we ask by what process it is -that the thought of any given action comes to prevail stably in the -mind</i>. 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 explanations 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 Attention 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. -<i>The essential achievement of the will, in short, when it is most -'voluntary,' is to attend to a difficult object and hold it fast before -the mind.</i> The so-doing <i>is</i> the <i>fiat</i>; and it is a mere physiological -incident that when the object is thus attended to, immediate motor -consequences should ensue.</p> - -<p><i>Effort of attention is thus the essential phenomenon of will.</i><a name="FNanchor_55_55" id="FNanchor_55_55"></a><a href="#Footnote_55_55" class="fnanchor">[55]</a> -Every reader must know by his own experience<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_451" id="page_451"></a>{451}</span> 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 passion 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 difficulty 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 smothered 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 reasonable ideas over others—<i>if they can once get -a quiet hearing</i>; and passion's cue accordingly is always and everywhere -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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_452" id="page_452"></a>{452}</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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, consents 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 consciousness 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 <i>grows</i>, 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.</p> - -<p>In all this one sees how the immediate point of application of the -volitional effort lies exclusively in the mental world. The whole drama -is a mental drama. The whole difficulty is a mental difficulty, a -difficulty with an ideal object of our thought. It is, in one word, an -<i>idea</i> to which our will applies itself, an idea which if we let it go -would slip away, but which we will not let go. <i>Consent to the idea's -undivided presence, this is effort's sole achievement.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_453" id="page_453"></a>{453}</span></i> 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 <i>fills</i> the mind. Such filling of the mind by an idea, with its -congruous associates, <i>is</i> 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!</p> - -<p>On <a href="#page_430">page 430</a>, in describing the 'reasonable type' of decision, it was -said that it usually came when the right conception 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 sanctified, 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 because he feels so cold; or it is Christmas-day; or it -is a means of stimulating him to make a more powerful resolution in -favor of abstinence than any he has hitherto made; or it is just this -once, and once doesn't count, etc., etc., <i>ad libitum</i>—it is, in fact, -anything you like except <i>being a drunkard</i>. <i>That</i> is the conception -that will not stay before the poor soul's attention. But if he once gets -able to pick out that way of conceiving, from all the other possible<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_454" id="page_454"></a>{454}</span> -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 <i>name</i> unwaveringly present to his mind -proves to be his saving moral act.</p> - -<p>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 exhaustion 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 ingulfing 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 whirling chase of -his ideas so far as to think of <i>nothing at all</i> (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. <i>To sustain a representation, to think</i>, 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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_455" id="page_455"></a>{455}</span> "Let these alone be my reality!" But with -sufficient effort, as Dr. Wigan says, "Such a man can for a time <i>wind -himself up</i>, 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 Bicêtre, 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 'held himself tight' during the -examination in order to attain his object; this once accomplished he -'let himself down' again, and, if even <i>conscious</i> 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 <i>let themselves go</i>, and cannot gather -themselves up again without preparation."</p> - -<p>To sum it all up in a word, <i>the terminus of the psychological process -in volition, the point to which the will is directly applied, is always -an idea</i>. 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. <i>The only resistance which -our will can possibly experience is the resistance which such an idea -offers to being attended to at all.</i> To attend to it is the volitional -act, and the only inward volitional act which we ever perform.</p> - -<p><b>The Question of 'Free-will.'</b>—As was remarked on <a href="#page_443">p. 443</a>, in the -experience of effort we feel as if we might make more or less than we -actually at any moment are making.</p> - -<p>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 'independent<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_456" id="page_456"></a>{456}</span> 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, <i>our wills are free</i>. 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. <i>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.</i> Are -the duration and intensity of this effort fixed functions of the object, -or are they not? Now, as I just said, it <i>seems</i> 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 <i>effortless</i> volitions 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 overwhelming 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?</p> - -<p><i>The fact is that the question of free-will is insoluble on strictly -psychologic grounds.</i> After a certain amount of effort of attention has -been given to an idea, it is manifestly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_457" id="page_457"></a>{457}</span> impossible to tell whether -either more or less of it <i>might</i> 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 <i>possibly</i> comport with them was the precise amount that actually -came. Such measurements, whether of psychic or of neural quantities, and -such deductive reasonings as this method of proof implies, will surely -be forever beyond human reach. No serious psychologist 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 undecided. But a -psychologist cannot be expected to be thus impartial, having a great -motive in favor of determinism. He wants to build a <i>Science</i>; 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 <i>general laws</i> of volition exclusively; -with the impulsive and inhibitory 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.</p> - -<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_458" id="page_458"></a>{458}</span> be completely predestinate or not, -the way in which each individual emergency is resolved. Psychology will -be psychology, and Science science, as much as ever (as much and no -more) in this world, whether free-will be true in it or not.</p> - -<p>We can thus ignore the free-will question in psychology. As we said on -<a href="#page_452">p. 452</a>, 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 <i>genuine possibles</i>, it would thus make one -effective. And although such quickening of one idea might be morally and -historically momentous, yet, if considered <i>dynamically</i>, it would be an -operation amongst those physiological infinitesimals which an actual -science must forever neglect.</p> - -<p><b>Ethical Importance of the Phenomenon of Effort.</b>—But 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 -extraordinarily intimate and important character which the phenomenon of -effort assumes in our own eyes as individual men. Of course we measure -ourselves by many standards. 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 <i>are</i>, and those were but externals which we -<i>carry</i>. 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_459" id="page_459"></a>{459}</span> 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, "<i>Yes, I will even have it so!</i>" 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 <i>stand</i> 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 practical 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_460" id="page_460"></a>{460}</span> 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.</p> - -<p>Thus not only our morality but our religion, so far as the latter is -deliberate, depend on the effort which we can make. "<i>Will you or won't -you have it so?</i>" 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 <i>consents or non-consents</i> 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 underived and original contribution -which we make to the world!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_461" id="page_461"></a>{461}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="EPILOGUE" id="EPILOGUE"></a>EPILOGUE.<br /><br /> -<small>PSYCHOLOGY AND PHILOSOPHY.</small></h2> - -<p><b>What the Word Metaphysics means.</b>—In the last chapter we handed the -question of free-will over to 'metaphysics.' It would indeed have been -hasty to settle the question absolutely, inside the limits of -psychology. Let psychology frankly admit that <i>for her scientific -purposes</i> determinism may be <i>claimed</i>, 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 readjustment can be made. Now -ethics makes a counterclaim; 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 deterministic 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. <a href="#page_001">p. 1</a>), must hold their assumptions and -results subject to revision in the light of each others' needs. The -forum where they hold discussion is called metaphysics. Metaphysics -means only an unusually obstinate attempt to think clearly and -consistently. 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 metaphysics 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_462" id="page_462"></a>{462}</span> 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 cognizance 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 -attainment 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</p> - -<p><b>Relation of Consciousness to the Brain.</b>—When psychology is treated as a -natural science (after the fashion in which it has been treated in this -book), 'states of mind' are taken for granted, as data immediately given -in experience; and the working hypothesis (see <a href="#page_006">p. 6</a>) 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 'corresponds.' This notion appears dark in the extreme, the -moment we seek to translate it into something more intimate 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 '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 -consciousnesses fused into one, just as the 'brain' itself is the -appearance of all the cells together, when looked at from one point of -view.</p> - -<p>We may call these three metaphysical attempts the <i>monistic</i>, the -<i>spiritualistic</i>, and the <i>atomistic</i> theories respectively.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_463" id="page_463"></a>{463}</span> Each has -its difficulties, of which it seems to me that those of the -spiritualistic theory are <i>logically</i> much the least grave. But the -spiritualistic theory is quite out of touch with the facts of multiple -consciousness, alternate personality, etc. (pp. <a href="#page_207">207-214</a>). These lend -themselves more naturally to the atomistic formulation, for it seems -easier to think of a lot of minor consciousnesses now gathering together -into one large mass, and now into several smaller ones, than of a Soul -now reacting totally, now breaking 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 <i>see</i> it and the latter <i>hear</i> it, -and then 'combine their information'? In view of the extreme naturalness -of such a way of representing the well-established fact that the -appearance of the several parts of an object to consciousness at any -moment does depend on as many several parts of the brain being then -active, all such objections as were urged, on pp. <a href="#page_023">23</a>, <a href="#page_057">57</a>, and elsewhere, -to the notion that 'parts' of consciousness <i>can</i> 'combine' will be -rejected as far-fetched, unreal, and 'metaphysical' by the atomistic -philosopher. His 'purpose' is to gain a formula which shall unify things -in a natural and easy manner, and for such a purpose the atomistic -theory seems expressly made to his hand.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"> -"L'ombre en ce lieu s'amasse, et la nuit est la toute."<br /> -</div></div> - -<p>Before we can know just what sort of goings-on occur when thought -corresponds to a change in the brain, we must know the <i>subjects</i> 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_464" id="page_464"></a>{464}</span> -find the minimal mental fact whose being reposes directly on a -brain-fact; and we must similarly find the minimal 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.</p> - -<p>Our own formula has escaped the metempiric assumption of psychic atoms -by <i>taking the entire thought</i> (even of a complex object) <i>as the -minimum with which it deals on the mental</i> side, and the entire brain as -the minimum on the physical side. But the 'entire brain' is not a -physical fact at all! It is nothing but our name for the way in which a -billion of molecules arranged in certain positions may affect our sense. -On the principles of the corpuscular or mechanical philosophy, the only -realities are the separate molecules, or at most the cells. Their -aggregation 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 genuine 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 <i>vice -versa</i>; and our perplexity is extreme.</p> - -<p><b>The Relation of States of Mind to their 'Objects.'</b>—The perplexity is -not diminished when we reflect upon our assumption that states of -consciousness can <i>know</i> (pp. <a href="#page_002">2-13</a>). From the common-sense point of view -(which is that of all the natural sciences) knowledge is an ultimate -relation 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_465" id="page_465"></a>{465}</span> to carry through this simple dualism, for -idealistic reflections will intrude. Take the states of mind called pure -sensations (so far as such may exist), that for example of <i>blue</i>, 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 instead of 'object,' -to escape a decision; for 'content' suggests 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 <i>blue</i>, as it is -immediately given, can only be called by some such neutral name as that -of <i>phenomenon</i>. It does not <i>come</i> to us <i>immediately</i> as a relation -between two realities, one mental and one physical. It is only when, -still thinking of it as the <i>same</i> blue (cf. <a href="#page_239">p. 239</a>), 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.</p> - -<p>Our non-sensational, or conceptual, states of mind, on the other hand, -seem to obey a different law. They present themselves immediately as -referring beyond themselves. Although they also possess an immediately -given 'content,' they have a 'fringe' beyond it (<a href="#page_168">p. 168</a>), and claim to -'represent' something else than it. The 'blue' we have just spoken of, -for instance, was, substantively considered, a <i>word</i>; but it was a word -with a <i>meaning</i>. The quality blue was the <i>object</i> of the thought, the -word was its <i>content</i>. The mental state, in short, was not -self-sufficient as sensations are, but expressly pointed at something -more in which it meant to terminate.</p> - -<p>But the moment when, as in sensations, object and conscious<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_466" id="page_466"></a>{466}</span> 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, considered physically, is a sum of mutually external parts; why is -it not such a sum, when considered as a content of sensation?</p> - -<p>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 <i>Erkenntnisstheorie</i> must say their say -before the natural-science assumption that thoughts 'know' things grows -clear.</p> - -<p><b>The changing character of consciousness</b> presents another 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 <i>effective</i> 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 <i>one</i> state? In time-perception for example, if the 'present' -as known (the 'specious present,' as we called it) may be a dozen -seconds long (<a href="#page_281">p. 281</a>), how long need the present as knower be? That is, -what is the minimum duration of the consciousness 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 (<a href="#page_285">p. 285</a>) we represented the -past to be 'projected' at any given instant of memory, is only an ideal -construction. Yet anything broader than that vertical <i>is</i> not, for the -<i>actual</i> present is only the joint between<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_467" id="page_467"></a>{467}</span> 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 'states,' in describing -what the vehicles of our knowledge seem to be?</p> - -<p><b>States of consciousness themselves are not verifiable facts.</b> 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 -<i>postulate</i> than a sensibly given fact, the postulate, namely, of a -<i>knower</i> as correlative to all this known; and as if '<i>scious</i>ness' -might be a better word by which to describe it. But 'sciousness -postulated as an hypothesis' is practically a very different thing from -'states of consciousness apprehended with infallible certainty by an -inner sense.' For one thing, it throws the question of <i>who the knower -really is</i> wide open again, and makes the answer which we gave to it at -the end of <a href="#CHAPTER_XII">Chapter XII</a> a mere provisional statement from a popular and -prejudiced point of view.</p> - -<p><b>Conclusion.</b>—When, then, we talk of '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<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_468" id="page_468"></a>{468}</span> -assumptions and data must be reconsidered in wider connections 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 opinions; a little -classification and generalization on the mere descriptive level; a -strong prejudice that we <i>have</i> 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 -causally be deduced. We don't even know the terms between which the -elementary laws would obtain if we had them (<a href="#page_464">p. 464</a>). 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 <i>the</i> scientific achievement, before which all past -achievements would pale. But at present psychology is in the condition -of physics before Galileo and the laws of motion, 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 'metaphysical.' Meanwhile the best way in which we -can facilitate 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.</p> - -<p class="c">THE END.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_469" id="page_469"></a>{469}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="INDEX" id="INDEX"></a>INDEX.</h2> - -<p class="c"><a href="#A">A</a>, -<a href="#B">B</a>, -<a href="#C">C</a>, -<a href="#D">D</a>, -<a href="#E">E</a>, -<a href="#F">F</a>, -<a href="#G">G</a>, -<a href="#H">H</a>, -<a href="#I-i">I</a>, -<a href="#J">J</a>, -<a href="#K">K</a>, -<a href="#L">L</a>, -<a href="#M">M</a>, -<a href="#N">N</a>, -<a href="#O">O</a>, -<a href="#P">P</a>, -<a href="#Q">Q</a>, -<a href="#R">R</a>, -<a href="#S">S</a>, -<a href="#T">T</a>, -<a href="#U">U</a>, -<a href="#V-i">V</a>, -<a href="#W">W</a>.</p> - -<p class="nind"> -<a name="A" id="A"></a>Abstract ideas, <a href="#page_240">240</a>, <a href="#page_025">25</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">characters, <a href="#page_353">353</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">propositions, <a href="#page_354">354</a></span><br /> - -Abstraction, <a href="#page_251">251</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">see <i>Distraction</i></span><br /> - -<i>Accommodation</i>, of crystalline lens, <a href="#page_032">32</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of ear, <a href="#page_049">49</a></span><br /> - -Acquaintance, <a href="#page_014">14</a><br /> - -Acquisitiveness, <a href="#page_407">407</a><br /> - -Action, what holds attention determines, <a href="#page_448">448</a><br /> - -After-images, <a href="#page_043">43-5</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Agassiz</span>, <a href="#page_132">132</a><br /> - -Alexia, <a href="#page_113">113</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Allen, Grant</span>, <a href="#page_104">104</a><br /> - -Alternating personality, <a href="#page_205">205</a> ff.<br /> - -<span class="smcap">Amidon</span>, <a href="#page_132">132</a><br /> - -Analysis, <a href="#page_056">56</a>, <a href="#page_248">248</a>, <a href="#page_251">251</a>, <a href="#page_362">362</a><br /> - -Anger, <a href="#page_374">374</a><br /> - -Aphasia, <a href="#page_108">108</a>, <a href="#page_113">113</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">loss of images in, <a href="#page_309">309</a></span><br /> - -Apperception, <a href="#page_326">326</a><br /> - -Aqueduct of Silvius, <a href="#page_080">80</a><br /> - -Arachnoid membrane, <a href="#page_084">84</a><br /> - -Arbor vitæ, <a href="#page_086">86</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Aristotle</span>, <a href="#page_318">318</a><br /> - -Articular sensibility, <a href="#page_074">74</a><br /> - -Association, <a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">Chapter XVI</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the order of our ideas, <a href="#page_253">253</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">determined by cerebral laws, <a href="#page_255">255</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">is not of ideas, but of things thought of, <a href="#page_255">255</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the elementary principle of, <a href="#page_256">256</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the ultimate cause of is habit, <a href="#page_256">256</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">indeterminateness of its results, <a href="#page_258">258</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">total recall, <a href="#page_259">259</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">partial recall and the law of interest, <a href="#page_261">261</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">frequency, recency, vividness, and emotional congruity tend to determine the object recalled,</span> -<a href="#page_264">264</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">focalized recall or by similarity, <a href="#page_267">267</a>, <a href="#page_364">364</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">voluntary trains of thought, <a href="#page_271">271</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">problems, <a href="#page_273">273</a></span><br /> - -Atomistic theories of consciousness, <a href="#page_462">462</a><br /> - -Attention, <a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">Chapter XIII</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">its relation to interest, <a href="#page_170">170</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">its physiological ground, <a href="#page_217">217</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">narrowness of field of consciousness, <a href="#page_217">217</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">to how many things possible, <a href="#page_219">219</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">to simultaneous sight and sound, <a href="#page_220">220</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">its varieties, <a href="#page_220">220</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">voluntary, <a href="#page_224">224</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">involuntary, <a href="#page_220">220</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">change necessary to, <a href="#page_226">226</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">its relation to genius, <a href="#page_227">227</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">physiological conditions of, <a href="#page_228">228</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the sense-organ must be adapted, <a href="#page_229">229</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the idea of the object must be aroused, <a href="#page_232">232</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">pedagogic remarks, <a href="#page_236">236</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">attention and free-will, <a href="#page_237">237</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">what holds attention determines action, <a href="#page_448">448</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">volitional effort is effort of attention, <a href="#page_450">450</a></span><br /> - -Auditory centre in brain, <a href="#page_113">113</a><br /> - -Auditory type of imagination, <a href="#page_306">306</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Austen</span>, Miss, <a href="#page_261">261</a><br /> - -Automaton theory, <a href="#page_010">10</a>, <a href="#page_101">101</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Azam</span>, <a href="#page_210">210</a><br /> - -<br /> -<span class="smcap"><a name="B" id="B"></a>Bahnsen</span>, <a href="#page_147">147</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Bain</span>, <a href="#page_145">145</a>, <a href="#page_367">367</a>, <a href="#page_370">370</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Berklev</span>, <a href="#page_302">302</a>, <a href="#page_303">303</a>, <a href="#page_347">347</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Binet</span>, <a href="#page_318">318</a>, <a href="#page_332">332</a><br /> - -Black, <a href="#page_045">45-6</a><br /> - -Blind Spot, <a href="#page_031">31</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Blix</span>, <a href="#page_064">64</a>, <a href="#page_068">68</a><br /> - -Blood-supply, cerebral, <a href="#page_130">130</a><br /> - -Bodily expression, cause of emotions, <a href="#page_375">375</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Brace, Julia</span>, <a href="#page_252">252</a><br /> - -Brain, the functions of, <a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">Chapter VIII</a>, <a href="#page_091">91</a><br /> - -<i>Brain</i>, its connection with mind, <a href="#page_005">5-7</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">its relations to outer forces, <a href="#page_009">9</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">relations of consciousness to, <a href="#page_462">462</a></span><br /> - -Brain, structure of, <a href="#CHAPTER_VII">Chapter VII</a>, 7<a href="#page_008">8</a> ff.;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">vesicles, <a href="#page_078">78</a> ff.;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">dissection of sheep's, <a href="#page_081">81</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">how to preserve, <a href="#page_083">83</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">functions of, <a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">Chapter VIII</a>, <a href="#page_091">91</a> ff.</span><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Bridgman, Laura</span>, <a href="#page_252">252</a>, <a href="#page_308">308</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Broca</span>, <a href="#page_109">109</a>, <a href="#page_113">113</a>, <a href="#page_115">115</a><br /> - -Broca's convolution, <a href="#page_109">109</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Brodhun</span>, <a href="#page_046">46</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Brooks</span>, Prof. W. K., <a href="#page_412">412</a><br /> - -Brutes, reasoning of, <a href="#page_367">367</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="C" id="C"></a>Calamus scriptorius, <a href="#page_084">84</a><br /> - -<i>Canals</i>, semicircular, <a href="#page_050">50</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Carpenter</span>, <a href="#page_223">223</a>, <a href="#page_224">224</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Cattell</span>, <a href="#page_125">125</a>, <a href="#page_126">126</a>, <a href="#page_127">127</a><br /> - -Caudate nucleus, <a href="#page_081">81</a>, <a href="#page_086">86</a><br /> - -Centres, nerve, <a href="#page_092">92</a><br /> - -Cerebellum, its relation to equilibrium, <a href="#page_076">76</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">its anatomy, <a href="#page_079">79</a>, <a href="#page_084">84</a></span><br /> - -Cerebral laws, of association, <a href="#page_255">255</a><br /> - -Cerebral process, see <i>Neural Process</i><br /> - -Cerebrum, see <i>Brain</i>, <i>Hemisphere</i><br /> - -Changing character of consciousness, <a href="#page_152">152</a>, <a href="#page_466">466</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Charcot</span>, <a href="#page_113">113</a>, <a href="#page_309">309</a><br /> - -Choice, see <i>Interest</i><br /> - -Coalescence of different sensations into the same 'thing,' <a href="#page_339">339</a><br /> - -<i>Cochlea</i>, <a href="#page_051">51</a>, <a href="#page_052">52</a><br /> - -Cognition, see <i>Reasoning</i><br /> - -Cold, sensations of, <a href="#page_063">63</a> ff.;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">nerves of, <a href="#page_064">64</a></span><br /> - -<i>Color</i>, <a href="#page_040">40-3</a><br /> - -Commissures, <a href="#page_084">84</a><br /> - -Commissure, middle, <a href="#page_088">88</a> ff.;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">anterior, <a href="#page_088">88</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">posterior, <a href="#page_088">88</a></span><br /> - -Comparison of magnitudes, <a href="#page_342">342</a><br /> - -<i>Compounding</i> of sensations, <a href="#page_023">23</a>, <a href="#page_043">43</a>, <a href="#page_057">57</a><br /> - -Compound objects, analysis of, <a href="#page_248">248</a><br /> - -Concatenated acts, dependent on habit, <a href="#page_140">140</a><br /> - -Conceiving, mode of, what is meant by, <a href="#page_354">354</a><br /> - -Conceptions, <a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">Chapter XIV</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">defined, <a href="#page_239">239</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">their permanence, <a href="#page_239">239</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">different states of mind can mean the same, <a href="#page_239">239</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">abstract, universal, and problematic, <a href="#page_240">240</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the thought of 'the same' is not the same thought over again, <a href="#page_243">243</a></span><br /> - -Conceptual order different from perceptual, <a href="#page_243">243</a><br /> - -Consciousness, stream of, <a href="#CHAPTER_XI">Chapter XI</a>, <a href="#page_151">151</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">four characters in, <a href="#page_152">152</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">personal, <a href="#page_152">152</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">is in constant change, <a href="#page_152">152</a>, <a href="#page_466">466</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">same state of mind never occurs twice, <a href="#page_154">154</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">consciousness is continuous, <a href="#page_157">157</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">substantive and transitive states of, <a href="#page_160">160</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">interested in one part of its object more than another, <a href="#page_170">170</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">double consciousness, <a href="#page_206">206</a> ff.;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">narrowness of field of, <a href="#page_217">217</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">relations of to brain, <a href="#page_462">462</a></span><br /> - -Consciousness and Movement, <a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">Chapter XXIII</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">all consciousness is motor, <a href="#page_370">370</a></span><br /> - -Concomitants, law of varying, <a href="#page_251">251</a><br /> - -Consent, in willing, <a href="#page_452">452</a><br /> - -Continuity of object of consciousness, <a href="#page_157">157</a><br /> - -<i>Contrast</i>, <a href="#page_025">25</a>, <a href="#page_044">44-5</a><br /> - -<i>Convergence</i> of eyeballs, <a href="#page_031">31</a>, <a href="#page_033">33</a><br /> - -Convolutions, motor, <a href="#page_106">106</a><br /> - -Corpora fimbriata, <a href="#page_086">86</a><br /> - -Corpora quadrigemma, <a href="#page_079">79</a>, <a href="#page_086">86</a>, <a href="#page_089">89</a><br /> - -Corpus albicans, <a href="#page_084">84</a><br /> - -Corpus callosum, <a href="#page_081">81</a>, <a href="#page_084">84</a><br /> - -Corpus striatum, <a href="#page_081">81</a>, <a href="#page_086">86</a>, <a href="#page_108">108</a><br /> - -<i>Cortex</i>, <a href="#page_011">11</a>, note<br /> - -Cortex, localization in, <a href="#page_104">104</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">motor region of, <a href="#page_106">106</a></span><br /> - -<i>Corti's</i> organ, <a href="#page_052">52</a><br /> - -Cramming, <a href="#page_295">295</a><br /> - -Crura of brain, <a href="#page_079">79</a>, <a href="#page_084">84</a>, <a href="#page_108">108</a><br /> - -Curiosity, <a href="#page_407">407</a><br /> - -Currents, in nerves, <a href="#page_010">10</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Czermak</span>, <a href="#page_070">70</a><br /> - -<br /> -<span class="smcap"><a name="D" id="D"></a>Darwin</span>, <a href="#page_388">388</a>, <a href="#page_389">389</a><br /> - -Deafness, mental, <a href="#page_113">113</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Delage</span>, <a href="#page_076">76</a><br /> - -Deliberation, <a href="#page_448">448</a><br /> - -Delusions of insane, <a href="#page_207">207</a><br /> - -Dermal senses, <a href="#page_060">60</a> ff.<br /> - -Determinism and psychology, <a href="#page_461">461</a><br /> - -Decision, five types, <a href="#page_429">429</a><br /> - -Differences, <a href="#page_024">24</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">directly felt, <a href="#page_245">245</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">not resolvable into composition, <a href="#page_245">245</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">inferred, <a href="#page_248">248</a></span><br /> - -Diffusion of movements, the law of, <a href="#page_371">371</a><br /> - -Dimension, third, <a href="#page_342">342</a>, <a href="#page_346">346</a><br /> - -Discharge, nervous, <a href="#page_120">120</a><br /> - -Discord, <a href="#page_058">58</a><br /> - -Discrimination, <a href="#CHAPTER_XV">Chapter XV</a>, <a href="#page_059">59</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">touch, <a href="#page_062">62</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">defined, <a href="#page_244">244</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">conditions which favor, <a href="#page_245">245</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sensation of difference, <a href="#page_246">246</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">differences inferred, <a href="#page_248">248</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">analysis of compound objects, <a href="#page_249">249</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">to be easily singled out a quality should already be separately known, <a href="#page_250">250</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">dissociation by varying concomitants, <a href="#page_251">251</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">practice improves discrimination, <a href="#page_252">252</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of space, <a href="#page_338">338</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">See <i>Difference</i></span><br /> - -'Disparate' retinal points, <a href="#page_035">35</a><br /> - -Dissection, of sheep's brain, <a href="#page_081">81</a><br /> - -<i>Distance</i>, as seen, <a href="#page_039">39</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">between members of series, <a href="#page_024">24</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">in space, see <i>Third dimension</i></span><br /> - -Distraction, <a href="#page_218">218</a> ff.<br /> - -Division of space, <a href="#page_338">338</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Donaldson</span>, <a href="#page_064">64</a><br /> - -Double consciousness, <a href="#page_206">206</a> ff.<br /> - -Double images, <a href="#page_036">36</a><br /> - -Double personality, <a href="#page_205">205</a><br /> - -Duality of brain, <a href="#page_205">205</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Dumont</span>, <a href="#page_135">135</a><br /> - -Dura mater, <a href="#page_082">82</a><br /> - -Duration, the primitive object in time-perception, <a href="#page_280">280</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">our estimation of short, <a href="#page_281">281</a></span><br /> -<br /> -<a name="E" id="E"></a>Ear, <a href="#page_047">47</a> ff.<br /> - -Effort, feeling of, <a href="#page_434">434</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">feels like an original force, <a href="#page_442">442</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">volitional effort is effort of attention, <a href="#page_450">450</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ethical importance of the phenomena of effort, <a href="#page_458">458</a></span><br /> - -Ego, see <i>Self</i><br /> - -Embryological sketch, <a href="#CHAPTER_VII">Chapter VII</a>, <a href="#page_078">78</a><br /> - -Emotion, <a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">Chapter XXIV</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">compared with instincts, <a href="#page_373">373</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">varieties of, innumerable, <a href="#page_374">374</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">causes of varieties, <a href="#page_375">375</a>, <a href="#page_381">381</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">results from bodily expression, <a href="#page_375">375</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">this view not materialistic, <a href="#page_380">380</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the subtler emotions, <a href="#page_384">384</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fear, <a href="#page_385">385</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">genesis of reactions, <a href="#page_388">388</a></span><br /> - -Emotional congruity, determines association, <a href="#page_264">264</a><br /> - -Empirical self, see <i>Self</i><br /> - -Emulation, <a href="#page_406">406</a><br /> - -End-organs, <a href="#page_010">10</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of touch, <a href="#page_060">60</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of temperature, <a href="#page_064">64</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of pressure, <a href="#page_060">60</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of pain, <a href="#page_067">67</a></span><br /> - -Environment, <a href="#page_003">3</a><br /> - -Essence of reason, always for subjective interest, <a href="#page_358">358</a><br /> - -Essential characters, in reason, <a href="#page_354">354</a><br /> - -Ethical importance of effort, <a href="#page_458">458</a><br /> - -Exaggerated impulsion, causes an explosive will, <a href="#page_439">439</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Exner</span>, <a href="#page_123">123</a>, <a href="#page_281">281</a><br /> - -Experience, <a href="#page_218">218</a>, <a href="#page_244">244</a><br /> - -Explosive will, from defective inhibition, <a href="#page_437">437</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">from exaggerated impulsion, <a href="#page_439">439</a></span><br /> - -Expression, bodily, cause of emotions, <a href="#page_375">375</a><br /> - -Extensity, primitive to all sensation, <a href="#page_335">335</a><br /> - -Exteriority of objects, <a href="#page_015">15</a><br /> - -External world, <a href="#page_015">15</a><br /> - -Extirpation of higher nerve-centres, <a href="#page_095">95</a> ff.<br /> - -Eye, its anatomy, <a href="#page_028">28-30</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="F" id="F"></a>Familiarity, sense of, see <i>Recognition</i><br /> - -Fear, <a href="#page_385">385</a>, <a href="#page_406">406</a>, <a href="#page_407">407</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Fechner</span>, <a href="#page_021">21</a>, <a href="#page_229">229</a><br /> - -Feeling of effort, <a href="#page_434">434</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Féré</span>, <a href="#page_311">311</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Ferrier</span>, <a href="#page_132">132</a><br /> - -Fissure of Rolando, seat of motor incitations, <a href="#page_106">106</a><br /> - -Fissure of Sylvius, <a href="#page_108">108</a><br /> - -Foramen of Monro, <a href="#page_088">88</a><br /> - -Force, original, effort feels like, <a href="#page_442">442</a><br /> - -Forgetting, <a href="#page_300">300</a><br /> - -Fornix, <a href="#page_081">81</a>, <a href="#page_086">86</a>, <a href="#page_087">87</a>, <a href="#page_089">89</a><br /> - -Fovea centralis, <a href="#page_031">31</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Franklin</span>, <a href="#page_121">121</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Franz</span>, Dr., <a href="#page_308">308</a><br /> - -Freedom of the will, <a href="#page_237">237</a><br /> - -Free-will and attention, <a href="#page_237">237</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">relates solely to effort of attention, <a href="#page_455">455</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">insoluble on strictly psychologic grounds, <a href="#page_456">456</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ethical importance of the phenomena of effort, <a href="#page_458">458</a></span><br /> - -Frequency, determines association, <a href="#page_264">264</a><br /> - -"Fringes" of mental objects, <a href="#page_163">163</a> ff.<br /> - -Frogs' lower centres, <a href="#page_095">95</a><br /> - -Functions of the Brain, <a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">Chapter VIII</a>, <a href="#page_091">91</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">nervous functions, general idea of, <a href="#page_091">91</a></span><br /> - -Fusion of mental states, <a href="#page_197">197</a>, <a href="#page_245">245</a>, <a href="#page_339">339</a><br /> - -Fusion, of sensations, <a href="#page_023">23</a>, <a href="#page_043">43</a>, <a href="#page_057">57</a><br /> - -<br /> -<span class="smcap"><a name="G" id="G"></a>Galton</span>, <a href="#page_126">126</a>, <a href="#page_265">265</a>, <a href="#page_303">303</a>, <a href="#page_306">306</a><br /> - -Genius, <a href="#page_227">227</a>, <a href="#page_327">327</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Goethe</span>, <a href="#page_146">146</a>, <a href="#page_157">157</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Goldscheider</span>, <a href="#page_011">11</a>, <a href="#page_064">64</a>, <a href="#page_068">68</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Goltz</span>, <a href="#page_100">100</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Guiteau</span>, <a href="#page_185">185</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Gurney, Edmund</span>, <a href="#page_331">331</a>, <a href="#page_334">334</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="H" id="H"></a>Habit, <a href="#CHAPTER_X">Chapter X</a>, <a href="#page_134">134</a> ff.;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">has a physical basis, <a href="#page_134">134</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">due to plasticity, <a href="#page_135">135</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">due to pathways through nerve-centres, <a href="#page_136">136</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">effects of, <a href="#page_138">138</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">practical use of, <a href="#page_138">138</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">depends on sensations not attended to, <a href="#page_141">141</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ethical and pedagogical importance of <a href="#page_142">142</a> ff.;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">habit the ultimate cause of association, <a href="#page_256">256</a></span><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Hagenauer</span>, <a href="#page_386">386</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Hall, Robert</span>, <a href="#page_223">223</a><br /> - -Hallucinations, <a href="#page_330">330</a> ff.<br /> - -<span class="smcap">Hamilton</span>, <a href="#page_260">260</a>, <a href="#page_268">268</a><br /> - -Harmony, <a href="#page_058">58</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Hartley</span>, <a href="#page_255">255</a><br /> - -Hearing, <a href="#page_047">47</a> ff.;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">centre of, in cortex, <a href="#page_113">113</a></span><br /> - -Heat-sensations, <a href="#page_063">63</a> ff.;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">nerves of, <a href="#page_064">64</a></span><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Helmholtz</span>, <a href="#page_026">26</a>, <a href="#page_042">42</a>, <a href="#page_043">43</a>, <a href="#page_055">55</a>, <a href="#page_056">56</a>, <a href="#page_058">58</a>, <a href="#page_121">121</a>, <a href="#page_226">226</a>, <a href="#page_227">227</a>, <a href="#page_231">231</a>, <a href="#page_233">233</a>, <a href="#page_234">234</a>, <a href="#page_321">321</a><br /> - -Hemispheres, general notion of, <a href="#page_097">97</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">chief seat of memory, <a href="#page_098">98</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">effects of deprivation of, on frogs, <a href="#page_092">92</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">on pigeons, <a href="#page_096">96</a></span><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Herbart</span>, <a href="#page_222">222</a>, <a href="#page_326">326</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Herbartian School</span>, <a href="#page_157">157</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Hering</span>, <a href="#page_024">24</a>, <a href="#page_026">26</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Herzen</span>, <a href="#page_123">123</a>, <a href="#page_124">124</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Hippocampi</span>, <a href="#page_088">88</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Hodgson</span>, <a href="#page_262">262</a>, <a href="#page_264">264</a>, <a href="#page_280">280</a>, <a href="#page_283">283</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Holbrook</span>, <a href="#page_297">297</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Horsley</span>, <a href="#page_107">107</a>, <a href="#page_118">118</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Hume</span>, <a href="#page_161">161</a>, <a href="#page_244">244</a><br /> - -Hunger, sensations of, <a href="#page_069">69</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Huxley</span>, <a href="#page_143">143</a><br /> - -Hypnotic conditions, <a href="#page_301">301</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="I-i" id="I-i"></a>Ideas, the theory of, <a href="#page_154">154</a> ff.;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">never come twice the same, <a href="#page_154">154</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">they do not permanently exist, <a href="#page_157">157</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">abstract ideas, <a href="#page_240">240</a>, <a href="#page_251">251</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">universal <a href="#page_240">240</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">order of ideas by association, <a href="#page_253">253</a></span><br /> - -'Identical retinal points,' <a href="#page_035">35</a><br /> - -Identity, personal, <a href="#page_201">201</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">mutations of, <a href="#page_205">205</a> ff.;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">alternating personality, <a href="#page_205">205</a></span><br /> - -Ideo-motor action the type of all volition, <a href="#page_432">432</a><br /> - -Illusions, <a href="#page_317">317</a> ff., <a href="#page_330">330</a><br /> - -Images, mental, compared with sensations, <a href="#page_014">14</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">double, in vision, <a href="#page_036">36</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">'after-images,' <a href="#page_043">43-5</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">visual, <a href="#page_302">302</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">auditory, <a href="#page_306">306</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">motor, <a href="#page_307">307</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">tactile, <a href="#page_308">308</a></span><br /> - -Imagination, <a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">Chapter XIX</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">defined, <a href="#page_302">302</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">differs in individuals, <a href="#page_302">302</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Galton's statistics of, <a href="#page_302">302</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">visual, <a href="#page_302">302</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">auditory, <a href="#page_306">306</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">motor, <a href="#page_307">307</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">tactile, <a href="#page_308">308</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">pathological</span><br /> -differences, <a href="#page_308">308</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">cerebral process of, <a href="#page_310">310</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">not locally distinct from that of sensation, <a href="#page_310">310</a></span><br /> - -Imitation, <a href="#page_406">406</a><br /> - -Inattention, <a href="#page_218">218</a>, <a href="#page_236">236</a><br /> - -Increase of stimulus, <a href="#page_020">20</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">serial, <a href="#page_024">24</a></span><br /> - -Infundibulum, <a href="#page_082">82</a>, <a href="#page_084">84</a>, <a href="#page_088">88</a><br /> - -Inhibition, defective, causes an Explosive Will, <a href="#page_437">437</a><br /> - -Inhibition of instincts by habits, <a href="#page_399">399</a><br /> - -Insane delusions, <a href="#page_207">207</a><br /> - -Instinct, <a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">Chapter XXV</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">emotions compared with, <a href="#page_373">373</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">definition of, <a href="#page_391">391</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">every instinct is an impulse, <a href="#page_392">392</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">not always blind or invariable, <a href="#page_395">395</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">modified by experience, <a href="#page_396">396</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">two principles of non-uniformity, <a href="#page_398">398</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">man has more than beasts, <a href="#page_398">398</a>, <a href="#page_406">406</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">transitory, <a href="#page_402">402</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of children, <a href="#page_406">406</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">fear, <a href="#page_407">407</a></span><br /> - -Intellect, part played by, in space-perception, <a href="#page_349">349</a><br /> - -Intensity of sensations, <a href="#page_016">16</a><br /> - -Interest, selects certain objects and determines thoughts <a href="#page_170">170</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">influence in association, <a href="#page_262">262</a></span><br /> - -Introspection, <a href="#page_118">118</a><br /> - -<br /> -<span class="smcap"><a name="J" id="J"></a>Janet</span>, <a href="#page_211">211</a>, <a href="#page_212">212</a>, <a href="#page_301">301</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Jackson, Hughlings</span>, <a href="#page_105">105</a>, <a href="#page_117">117</a><br /> - -Joints, their sensibility, <a href="#page_074">74</a><br /> - -<br /> -<span class="smcap"><a name="K" id="K"></a>Kadinsky</span>, <a href="#page_330">330</a><br /> - -Knowledge, theory of, <a href="#page_002">2</a>, <a href="#page_464">464</a>, <a href="#page_467">467</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">two kinds of, <a href="#page_014">14</a></span><br /> - -<span class="smcap">König</span>, <a href="#page_046">46</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Krishaber</span>, <a href="#page_208">208</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="L" id="L"></a>Labyrinth, <a href="#page_047">47</a>, <a href="#page_049">49-52</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Lange, K.</span>, <a href="#page_329">329</a><br /> - -Laws, cerebral, of association, <a href="#page_255">255</a><br /> - -Law, Weber's, <a href="#page_017">17</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">—, Fechner's <a href="#page_021">21</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">—, of relativity, <a href="#page_024">24</a></span><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Lazarus</span>, <a href="#page_300">300</a>, <a href="#page_323">323</a><br /> - -Lenticular nucleus, <a href="#page_081">81</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Lewes</span>, <a href="#page_011">11</a>, <a href="#page_232">232</a>, <a href="#page_326">326</a><br /> - -Likeness, <a href="#page_243">243</a>, <a href="#page_364">364</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Lindsay</span>, Dr., <a href="#page_413">413</a><br /> - -Localization of Functions in the hemispheres, <a href="#page_104">104</a> ff.<br /> - -Localization, Skin, <a href="#page_061">61</a><br /> - -Locations, in environment, <a href="#page_340">340</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">serial order of, <a href="#page_341">341</a></span><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Locke</span>, <a href="#page_244">244</a>, <a href="#page_302">302</a>, <a href="#page_357">357</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Lockean School</span>, <a href="#page_157">157</a><br /> - -Locomotion, instinct of, <a href="#page_406">406</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Lombard</span>, <a href="#page_131">131</a><br /> - -Longituditional fissure, <a href="#page_084">84</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Lotze</span>, <a href="#page_175">175</a><br /> - -Love, <a href="#page_407">407</a><br /> - -Lower Centres, of frogs and pigeons, <a href="#page_095">95</a> ff.<br /> - -<span class="smcap">Ludwig</span>, <a href="#page_130">130</a><br /> - -<br /> -<span class="smcap"><a name="M" id="M"></a>Mach</span>, <a href="#page_075">75</a><br /> - -Mamillary bodies, <a href="#page_084">84</a><br /> - -Man's intellectual distinction from brutes, <a href="#page_367">367</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Mantegazza</span>, <a href="#page_390">390</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Martin</span>, <a href="#page_040">40</a>, <a href="#page_044">44</a>, <a href="#page_045">45</a>, <a href="#page_049">49</a>, <a href="#page_052">52</a>, <a href="#page_053">53</a>, <a href="#page_060">60</a>, <a href="#page_061">61</a>, <a href="#page_065">65</a>, <a href="#page_069">69</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Martineau</span>, <a href="#page_251">251</a><br /> - -Materialism and emotion, <a href="#page_380">380</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Matteuci</span>, <a href="#page_120">120</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Maudsley</span>, <a href="#page_138">138</a><br /> - -Measurement, of sensations, <a href="#page_022">22</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of space, <a href="#page_342">342</a></span><br /> - -'Mediumships,' <a href="#page_212">212</a><br /> - -Medulla oblongata, <a href="#page_084">84</a>, <a href="#page_108">108</a><br /> - -Memory, <a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">Chapter XVIII</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hemispheres physical seat of, <a href="#page_098">98</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">defined, <a href="#page_287">287</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">analysis of the phenomenon of memory, <a href="#page_287">287</a> ff.;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">return of a mental image is not memory, <a href="#page_289">289</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">association explains recall and retention, <a href="#page_289">289</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">brain-scheme of, <a href="#page_291">291</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">conditions of good memory, <a href="#page_292">292</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">multiple associations favor, <a href="#page_294">294</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">effects of cramming on, <a href="#page_295">295</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">how to improve memory, <a href="#page_298">298</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">recognition, <a href="#page_299">299</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">forgetting, <a href="#page_300">300</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">hypnotics, <a href="#page_301">301</a></span><br /> - -Mental blindness, <a href="#page_112">112</a><br /> - -Mental images, <a href="#page_014">14</a><br /> - -Mental operations, simultaneous, <a href="#page_219">219</a><br /> - -Mental states, cannot fuse, <a href="#page_197">197</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">relation of, to their objects, <a href="#page_464">464</a></span><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Merkel</span>, <a href="#page_059">59</a>, <a href="#page_066">66</a><br /> - -Metaphysics, what the word means, <a href="#page_461">461</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Meyer, G. H.</span>, <a href="#page_308">308</a>, <a href="#page_311">311</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Meynert</span>, <a href="#page_105">105</a>, <a href="#page_117">117</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Mill, James</span>, <a href="#page_196">196</a>, <a href="#page_276">276</a>, <a href="#page_289">289</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Mill, J. S.</span>, <a href="#page_147">147</a>, <a href="#page_157">157</a><br /> - -Mimicry, <a href="#page_406">406</a><br /> - -Mind depends on brain conditions, <a href="#page_003">3-7</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">states of, their relation to their objects, <a href="#page_464">464</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">see <i>Consciousness</i></span><br /> - -Modesty, <a href="#page_407">407</a><br /> - -Monistic theories of consciousness, <a href="#page_462">462</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Morgan, Lloyd</span>, <a href="#page_368">368</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Mosso</span>, <a href="#page_130">130</a>, <a href="#page_131">131</a><br /> - -Motion, sensations of, <a href="#CHAPTER_VI">Chapter VI</a>, <a href="#page_070">70</a> ff.;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">feeling of motion over surfaces, <a href="#page_070">70</a></span><br /> - -Motor aphasia, <a href="#page_108">108</a><br /> - -Motor region of cortex, <a href="#page_106">106</a><br /> - -Motor type of imagination, <a href="#page_307">307</a><br /> - -Movement, consciousness and, II, <a href="#CHAPTER_I">Chapter I</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">images of movement, <a href="#page_307">307</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">all consciousness is motor, <a href="#page_370">370</a></span><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Munk</span>, <a href="#page_110">110</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Münsterberg</span>, <a href="#page_023">23</a>, <a href="#page_311">311</a><br /> - -Muscular sensation, <a href="#page_065">65</a> ff.;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">relations to space, <a href="#page_066">66</a>, <a href="#page_074">74</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">muscular centre in cortex, <a href="#page_106">106</a></span><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Mussey, Dr.</span>, <a href="#page_440">440</a><br /> - -<br /> -<span class="smcap"><a name="N" id="N"></a>Naunyn</span>, <a href="#page_115">115</a><br /> - -<i>Nerve-currents</i>, <a href="#page_009">9</a><br /> - -Nervous discharge, <a href="#page_120">120</a><br /> - -Nerve-endings in the skin, <a href="#page_060">60</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">in muscles and tendons, <a href="#page_066">66-67</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pain, <a href="#page_067">67</a> ff.;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">nerve-centres, <a href="#page_092">92</a></span><br /> - -Nerves, general functions of, <a href="#page_091">91</a> ff.<br /> - -Neural activity, general conditions of, <a href="#CHAPTER_IX">Chapter IX</a>, <a href="#page_120">120</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">nervous discharge, <a href="#page_120">120</a></span><br /> - -Neural functions, general idea of, <a href="#page_091">91</a><br /> - -Neural process, in habit, <a href="#page_134">134</a> ff.;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">in association, <a href="#page_255">255</a> ff.;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">in memory, <a href="#page_291">291</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">in imagination, <a href="#page_310">310</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">in perception, <a href="#page_329">329</a></span><br /> - -Nucleus lenticularis, <a href="#page_081">81</a>, <a href="#page_108">108</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">caudatus, <a href="#page_081">81</a>, <a href="#page_108">108</a></span><br /> -<br /> -<a name="O" id="O"></a>Object, the, of sensation, <a href="#page_013">13-15</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of thought, <a href="#page_154">154</a>, <a href="#page_163">163</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">one part of, more interesting than another, <a href="#page_170">170</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">object must change to hold attention, <a href="#page_226">226</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">objects as signs and as realities, <a href="#page_345">345</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">relation of states of mind to their object, <a href="#page_464">464</a></span><br /> - -Occipitel lobes, seat of visual centre, <a href="#page_110">110</a><br /> - -Old-fogyism vs. genius, <a href="#page_327">327</a><br /> - -Olfactory lobes, <a href="#page_082">82</a>, <a href="#page_084">84</a><br /> - -Olivary bodies, <a href="#page_085">85</a><br /> - -Optic nerve, <a href="#page_082">82</a>, <a href="#page_089">89</a><br /> - -Optic tracts, <a href="#page_084">84</a><br /> - -Original force, effort feels like one, <a href="#page_442">442</a><br /> - -Overtones, <a href="#page_055">55</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="P" id="P"></a>Pain, <a href="#page_067">67</a> ff.;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">pain and pleasure as springs of action, <a href="#page_444">444</a></span><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Pascal</span>, <a href="#page_223">223</a><br /> - -Past time, known in a present feeling, <a href="#page_285">285</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the immediate past is a portion of the present duration-block, <a href="#page_280">280</a></span><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Paulhan</span>, <a href="#page_219">219</a>, <a href="#page_220">220</a><br /> - -Pedagogic remarks on habit, <a href="#page_142">142</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">on attention, <a href="#page_236">236</a></span><br /> - -Peduncles, <a href="#page_084">84</a>, <a href="#page_085">85</a>, <a href="#page_086">86</a><br /> - -Perception, <a href="#CHAPTER_XX">Chapter XX</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">compared with sensation, <a href="#page_312">312</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">involves reproductive processes, <a href="#page_312">312</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the perceptive state of mind is not a compound, <a href="#page_313">313</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">perception is of definite and probable things, <a href="#page_316">316</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">illusory perceptions, <a href="#page_317">317</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">physiological process of perception, <a href="#page_329">329</a></span><br /> - -Perception of Space, <a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">Chapter XXI</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Perez, M.</span>, <a href="#page_408">408</a><br /> - -Personal Identity, <a href="#page_201">201</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">mutations of, <a href="#page_205">205</a> ff.;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">alternating personality, <a href="#page_205">205</a> ff.</span><br /> - -Personality, alterations of, <a href="#page_205">205</a> ff.<br /> - -Philosophy, Psychology and, Epilogue, <a href="#page_461">461</a><br /> - -Phosphorus and thought, <a href="#page_132">132</a><br /> - -Pia mater, <a href="#page_082">82</a><br /> - -Pigeons' lower centres, <a href="#page_096">96</a><br /> - -Pitch, <a href="#page_054">54</a><br /> - -Pituitary body, <a href="#page_082">82</a>, <a href="#page_089">89</a><br /> - -Place, a series of positions, <a href="#page_341">341</a><br /> - -Plasticity, as basis of habit, defined, <a href="#page_135">135</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Plato</span>, <a href="#page_240">240</a><br /> - -Play, <a href="#page_407">407</a><br /> - -Pleasure, and pain, as springs of action, <a href="#page_444">444</a><br /> - -Psychology and Philosophy, Epilogue, <a href="#page_461">461</a><br /> - -Pons Varolii, <a href="#page_079">79</a>, <a href="#page_084">84</a>, <a href="#page_108">108</a><br /> - -Positions, place a series of, <a href="#page_341">341</a><br /> - -Practice, improves discrimination, <a href="#page_252">252</a><br /> - -Present, the present moment, <a href="#page_280">280</a><br /> - -Pressure sense, <a href="#page_060">60</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Preyer</span>, <a href="#page_406">406</a><br /> - -Probability determines what object shall be perceived, <a href="#page_316">316</a>, <a href="#page_329">329</a><br /> - -Problematic conceptions, <a href="#page_240">240</a><br /> - -Problems, solution of, <a href="#page_272">272</a><br /> - -Projection of sensations, eccentric, <a href="#page_015">15</a><br /> - -Psychology, defined, <a href="#page_001">1</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">a natural science, <a href="#page_002">2</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">what data it assumes, <a href="#page_002">2</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Psychology and Philosophy, Chapter XXVII</span><br /> - -Psycho-physic law, <a href="#page_017">17</a>, <a href="#page_024">24</a>, <a href="#page_046">46</a>, <a href="#page_059">59</a>, <a href="#page_066">66</a>, <a href="#page_067">67</a><br /> - -Pugnacity, <a href="#page_406">406</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Purkinje</span>, <a href="#page_075">75</a><br /> - -Pyramids, <a href="#page_085">85</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="Q" id="Q"></a>Quality, <a href="#page_013">13</a>, <a href="#page_023">23</a>, <a href="#page_025">25</a>, <a href="#page_056">56</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="R" id="R"></a>Raehlmann, <a href="#page_349">349</a><br /> - -Rationality, <a href="#page_173">173</a><br /> - -Reaction-time, <a href="#page_120">120</a> ff.<br /> - -Real magnitude, determined by æsthetic and practical interests, <a href="#page_344">344</a><br /> - -Real space, <a href="#page_337">337</a><br /> - -Reason, <a href="#page_254">254</a><br /> - -Reasoning, <a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">Chapter XXIII</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">what it is, <a href="#page_351">351</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">involves use of abstract characters, <a href="#page_353">353</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">what is meant by an essential character, <a href="#page_354">354</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the essence is always for a subjective interest, <a href="#page_358">358</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">two great points in reasoning, <a href="#page_360">360</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sagacity, <a href="#page_362">362</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">help from association by similarity, <a href="#page_364">364</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">reasoning power of brutes, <a href="#page_367">367</a></span><br /> - -Recall, <a href="#page_289">289</a><br /> - -Recency, determines association, <a href="#page_264">264</a><br /> - -'Recepts,' <a href="#page_368">368</a><br /> - -Recognition, <a href="#page_299">299</a><br /> - -Recollection, <a href="#page_289">289</a> ff.<br /> - -Redintegration, <a href="#page_264">264</a><br /> - -Reflex acts, defined, <a href="#page_092">92</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">reaction-time measures one, <a href="#page_123">123</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">concatenated habits are constituted by a chain of, <a href="#page_140">140</a></span><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Reid</span>, <a href="#page_313">313</a><br /> - -Relations, between objects, <a href="#page_162">162</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">feelings of, <a href="#page_162">162</a></span><br /> - -'<i>Relativity</i> of knowledge,' <a href="#page_024">24</a><br /> - -Reproduction in memory, <a href="#page_289">289</a> ff.;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">voluntary, <a href="#page_271">271</a></span><br /> - -Resemblance, <a href="#page_243">243</a><br /> - -Retention in memory, <a href="#page_289">289</a><br /> - -Retentiveness, organic, <a href="#page_291">291</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">it is unchangeable, <a href="#page_296">296</a></span><br /> - -Retina, peripheral parts of, act as sentinels, <a href="#page_073">73</a><br /> - -Revival in memory, <a href="#page_289">289</a> ff.<br /> - -<span class="smcap">Ribot</span>, <a href="#page_300">300</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Richet</span>, <a href="#page_410">410</a><br /> - -Rivalry of selves, <a href="#page_186">186</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Robertson</span>, Prof. <span class="smcap">Croom</span>, <a href="#page_318">318</a><br /> - -Rolando, fissure of, <a href="#page_106">106</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Romanes</span>, <a href="#page_128">128</a>, <a href="#page_322">322</a>, <a href="#page_367">367</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Rosenthal</span>, <a href="#page_011">11</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Rousseau</span>, <a href="#page_148">148</a><br /> - -Rotation, sense of, <a href="#page_075">75</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="S" id="S"></a>Sagacity, <a href="#page_362">362</a><br /> - -Sameness, <a href="#page_201">201</a>, <a href="#page_202">202</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Schaefer</span>, <a href="#page_107">107</a>, <a href="#page_110">110</a>, <a href="#page_118">118</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Schiff</span>, <a href="#page_131">131</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Schneider</span>, <a href="#page_072">72</a>, <a href="#page_372">372</a>, <a href="#page_392">392</a><br /> - -<i>Science</i>, natural, <a href="#page_001">1</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Scott</span>, Prof., <a href="#page_311">311</a><br /> - -Sea-sickness, accidental origin, <a href="#page_390">390</a><br /> - -Seat of consciousness, <a href="#page_005">5</a><br /> - -Selection, <a href="#page_010">10</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">a cardinal function of consciousness, <a href="#page_170">170</a></span><br /> - -Self, The, <a href="#CHAPTER_XII">Chapter XII</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">not primary, <a href="#page_176">176</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the empirical self, <a href="#page_176">176</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">its constituents, <a href="#page_177">177</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the material self, <a href="#page_177">177</a>;</span><br /> - -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the social self, <a href="#page_179">179</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the spiritual self, <a href="#page_181">181</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">self-appreciation, <a href="#page_182">182</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">self-seeking, bodily, social, and spiritual, <a href="#page_184">184</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">rivalry of the mes. <a href="#page_186">186</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">their hierarchy, <a href="#page_190">190</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">teleology of self-interest, <a href="#page_193">193</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the I, or 'pure ego,' <a href="#page_195">195</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">thoughts are not compounded of 'fused' sensations, <a href="#page_196">196</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the soul as a combining medium, <a href="#page_200">200</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the sense of personal identity, <a href="#page_201">201</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">explained by identity of function in successive passing thoughts, <a href="#page_203">203</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">mutations of the self, <a href="#page_205">205</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">insane delusions, <a href="#page_207">207</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">alternating personalities, <a href="#page_210">210</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">medium-ships, <a href="#page_212">212</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">who is the thinker? <a href="#page_215">215</a></span><br /> - -Self-appreciation, <a href="#page_182">182</a><br /> - -Self-interest, theological uses of, <a href="#page_193">193</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">teleological character of, <a href="#page_193">193</a></span><br /> - -Selves, their rivalry, <a href="#page_186">186</a><br /> - -Semicircular canals, <a href="#page_050">50</a><br /> - -Semicircular canals, their relation to sensations of rotation, <a href="#page_075">75</a><br /> - -Sensations, in General, <a href="#CHAPTER_II">Chapter II</a>, p. <a href="#page_009">9</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">distinguished from perceptions, <a href="#page_012">12</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">from images, <a href="#page_014">14</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>first</i> things in consciousness, <a href="#page_012">12</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">make us acquainted with qualities, <a href="#page_014">14</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">their exteriority, <a href="#page_015">15</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">intensity of sensations, <a href="#page_016">16</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">their measurement, <a href="#page_021">21</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">they are not compounds, <a href="#page_023">23</a></span><br /> - -Sensations, of touch, <a href="#page_060">60</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of skin, <a href="#page_060">60</a> ff.;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of smell, <a href="#page_069">69</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of pain, <a href="#page_067">67</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of heat, <a href="#page_063">63</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of cold, <a href="#page_063">63</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of hunger, <a href="#page_069">69</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of thirst, <a href="#page_069">69</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of motion, <a href="#page_070">70</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">muscular, <a href="#page_065">65</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of taste, <a href="#page_069">69</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of pressure, <a href="#page_060">60</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of joints, <a href="#page_074">74</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of movement through space, <a href="#page_075">75</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of rotation, <a href="#page_075">75</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of translation, <a href="#page_076">76</a></span><br /> - -Sense of time, see <i>Time</i><br /> - -Sensory centres in the cortex, <a href="#page_113">113</a> ff.<br /> - -Septum lucidum, <a href="#page_087">87</a><br /> - -Serial order of locations, <a href="#page_341">341</a><br /> - -Shame, <a href="#page_374">374</a><br /> - -Sheep's brain, dissection of, <a href="#page_081">81</a><br /> - -Sight, <a href="#page_028">28</a> ff.;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">see <i>Vision</i></span><br /> - -Signs, <a href="#page_040">40</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">sensations are, to us of other sensations, whose space-value is held to be more real, <a href="#page_345">345</a> ff.</span><br /> - -Similarity, association by, <a href="#page_267">267</a>, <a href="#page_364">364</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">see <i>Likeness</i></span><br /> - -Size, <a href="#page_040">40</a><br /> - -Skin—senses, <a href="#page_060">60</a> ff.;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">localizing power of, <a href="#page_061">61</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">discrimination of points on, <a href="#page_247">247</a></span><br /> - -Smell, <a href="#page_069">69</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">centre of, in cortex, <a href="#page_116">116</a></span><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Smith, T. C.</span>, <a href="#page_311">311</a><br /> - -Sociability, <a href="#page_407">407</a><br /> - -Soul, the, as ego or thinker, <a href="#page_196">196</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">as a combining medium, <a href="#page_200">200</a>, <a href="#page_203">203</a></span><br /> - -Sound, <a href="#page_053">53-59</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">images of, <a href="#page_306">306</a></span><br /> - -Space, Perception of, <a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">Chapter XXI</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">extensity in three dimensions primitive to all sensation, <a href="#page_335">335</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">construction of real space, <a href="#page_337">337</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the processes which it involves: (1) Subdivision, <a href="#page_338">338</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">(2) Coalescence of different sensible data into one 'thing,' <a href="#page_339">339</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">(3) Location in an environment, <a href="#page_342">342</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">objects which are signs, and objects which are realities, <a href="#page_345">345</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the third dimension, <a href="#page_346">346</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Berkeley's theory of distance, <a href="#page_346">346</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">part played by intellect in space-perception, <a href="#page_349">349</a></span><br /> - -Space, relation of muscular sense to, <a href="#page_066">66</a>, <a href="#page_074">74</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Spalding</span>, <a href="#page_401">401</a> ff.<br /> - -Span of consciousness, <a href="#page_219">219</a>, <a href="#page_286">286</a><br /> - -Specific energies, <a href="#page_011">11</a><br /> - -Speech, centres of, in cortex, <a href="#page_109">109</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">thought possible without it, <a href="#page_169">169</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">see <i>Aphasia</i></span><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Spencer</span>, <a href="#page_103">103</a>, <a href="#page_387">387</a>, <a href="#page_390">390</a><br /> - -Spinal cord, conduction of pain by, <a href="#page_068">68</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">centre of defensive movements, <a href="#page_093">93</a></span><br /> - -Spiritual substance, see <i>Soul</i><br /> - -Spiritualistic theories of consciousness, <a href="#page_462">462</a><br /> - -Spontaneous trains of thought, <a href="#page_257">257</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">examples, <a href="#page_257">257</a> ff., <a href="#page_271">271</a></span><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Starr</span>, <a href="#page_107">107</a>, <a href="#page_113">113</a>, <a href="#page_115">115</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Steinthal</span>, <a href="#page_327">327</a><br /> - -Stream of Consciousness, <a href="#CHAPTER_XI">Chapter XI</a>, <a href="#page_151">151</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Stricker</span>, <a href="#page_307">307</a><br /> - -Subdivision of space, <a href="#page_338">338</a><br /> - -Substantive states of mind, <a href="#page_160">160</a><br /> - -Succession <i>vs.</i> duration, <a href="#page_280">280</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">not known by successive feelings, <a href="#page_285">285</a></span><br /> - -Summation of stimuli, <a href="#page_128">128</a><br /> - -Surfaces, feeling of motion over, <a href="#page_070">70</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="T" id="T"></a>Tactile centre in cortex, <a href="#page_116">116</a><br /> - -Tactile images, <a href="#page_308">308</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Taine</span>, <a href="#page_208">208</a><br /> - -Taste, <a href="#page_069">69</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">centre of, in cortex, <a href="#page_116">116</a></span><br /> - -Teleological character of consciousness, <a href="#page_004">4</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of self-interest, <a href="#page_193">193</a></span><br /> - -Temperature-sense, <a href="#page_063">63</a> ff.<br /> - -Terminal organs, <a href="#page_010">10</a>, <a href="#page_030">30</a>, <a href="#page_052">52</a><br /> - -Thalami, <a href="#page_080">80</a>, <a href="#page_086">86</a>, <a href="#page_089">89</a>, <a href="#page_108">108</a><br /> - -Thermometry, cerebral, <a href="#page_131">131</a><br /> - -'Thing,' coalescence of sensations to form the same, <a href="#page_339">339</a><br /> - -Thinking principle, see <i>Soul</i><br /> - -Third dimension of space, <a href="#page_346">346</a><br /> - -Thirst, sensations of, <a href="#page_069">69</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Thomson</span>, Dr. <span class="smcap">Allen</span>, <a href="#page_129">129</a><br /> - -Thought, the 'Topic' of, <a href="#page_167">167</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">stream of, <a href="#page_151">151</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">can be carried on in any terms, <a href="#page_167">167</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">unity of, <a href="#page_196">196</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">spontaneous trains of, <a href="#page_257">257</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the entire thought the minimum, <a href="#page_464">464</a></span><br /> - -'Timbre,' <a href="#page_055">55</a><br /> - -Time, sense of, <a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">Chapter XVII</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">begins with duration, <a href="#page_280">280</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">no sense of empty time, <a href="#page_281">281</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">compared with perception of space, <a href="#page_282">282</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">discrete flow of time, <a href="#page_282">282</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">long intervals conceived symbolically, <a href="#page_283">283</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">we measure duration by events that succeed in it, <a href="#page_283">283</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">variations in our estimations of its length, <a href="#page_283">283</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">cerebral processes of, <a href="#page_286">286</a></span><br /> - -Touch, <a href="#page_060">60</a> ff.;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">centre of, in cortex, <a href="#page_116">116</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">images of, <a href="#page_308">308</a></span><br /> - -Transcendental self or ego, <a href="#page_196">196</a><br /> - -Transitive states of mind, <a href="#page_160">160</a><br /> - -Translation, sense of, <a href="#page_076">76</a><br /> - -Trapezium, <a href="#page_085">85</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Turner</span>, Dr. J. E., <a href="#page_440">440</a><br /> - -Tympanum, <a href="#page_048">48</a><br /> - -Types of decision, <a href="#page_429">429</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="U" id="U"></a>Unity of the passing thought, <a href="#page_196">196</a><br /> - -Universal conceptions, <a href="#page_240">240</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Urbantschitch</span>, <a href="#page_025">25</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="V-i" id="V-i"></a>Valve of Vieussens, <a href="#page_080">80</a>, <a href="#page_086">86</a><br /> - -Variability of the emotions, <a href="#page_381">381</a><br /> - -Varying concomitants, law of disassociation by, <a href="#page_251">251</a><br /> - -Ventricles, <a href="#page_079">79</a> ff.<br /> - -<span class="smcap">Vierordt</span>, <a href="#page_071">71</a><br /> - -Vision, <a href="#page_028">28</a> ff.;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">binocular, <a href="#page_033">33-9</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">of solidity, <a href="#page_037">37</a></span><br /> - -Visual centre of cortex, <a href="#page_110">110</a>, <a href="#page_115">115</a><br /> - -Visual imagination, <a href="#page_302">302</a><br /> - -Visualizing power, <a href="#page_302">302</a><br /> - -Vividness, determines association, <a href="#page_264">264</a><br /> - -Volition, see <i>Will</i><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Volkmann</span>, <a href="#page_285">285</a><br /> - -Voluminousness, primitive, of sensations, <a href="#page_335">335</a><br /> - -Voluntary acts, defined, <a href="#page_092">92</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">voluntary attention, <a href="#page_224">224</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">voluntary trains of thought, <a href="#page_271">271</a></span><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="W" id="W"></a>Weber's law, <a href="#page_017">17</a>, <a href="#page_024">24</a>, <a href="#page_046">46</a>, <a href="#page_059">59</a><br /> - -Weber's law—weight, <a href="#page_066">66</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">pain, <a href="#page_067">67</a></span><br /> - -Weight, sensibility to, <a href="#page_066">66</a> ff.<br /> - -<span class="smcap">Wernicke</span>, <a href="#page_109">109</a>, <a href="#page_113">113</a>, <a href="#page_115">115</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Wesley</span>, <a href="#page_223">223</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Wheatstone</span>, <a href="#page_347">347</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Wigan</span>, <a href="#page_300">300</a><br /> - -Will, <a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">Chapter XXVI</a>;<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">voluntary acts, <a href="#page_415">415</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">they are secondary performances, <a href="#page_415">415</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">no third kind of idea is called for, <a href="#page_418">418</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the motor-cue, <a href="#page_420">420</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ideo-motor action, <a href="#page_432">432</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">action after deliberation, <a href="#page_428">428</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">five types of decision, <a href="#page_429">429</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">feeling of effort, <a href="#page_434">434</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">healthiness of will, <a href="#page_435">435</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">defects of, <a href="#page_436">436</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the explosive will: (1) from defective inhibition, <a href="#page_437">437</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">(2) from exaggerated impulsion, <a href="#page_439">439</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the obstructed will, <a href="#page_441">441</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">effort feels like an original force, <a href="#page_442">442</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">pleasure and pain as springs of action, <a href="#page_444">444</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">what holds attention determines action, <a href="#page_448">448</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">will is a relation between the mind and its ideas, <a href="#page_449">449</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">volitional effort is effort of attention, <a href="#page_450">450</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">free-will, <a href="#page_455">455</a>;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">ethical importance of effort, <a href="#page_458">458</a></span><br /> - -Willing terminates with the prevalence of the idea, <a href="#page_449">449</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Wundt</span>, <a href="#page_011">11</a>, <a href="#page_018">18</a>, <a href="#page_025">25</a>, <a href="#page_058">58</a>, <a href="#page_122">122</a>, <a href="#page_123">123</a>, <a href="#page_125">125</a>, <a href="#page_127">127</a>, <a href="#page_220">220</a>, <a href="#page_281">281</a><br /> -</p> - -<div class="footnotes"><p class="cb">FOOTNOTES:</p> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> 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 intrinsically 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 immediately 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.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> The subject may feel <i>pain</i>, 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.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> Thus the optic nerve-fibres are traced to the occipital -lobes, the olfactory tracts go to the lower part of the temporal lobe -(hippocampal 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 will be explained -later. The <i>cortex</i> is the gray surface of the convolutions.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> Vorlesungen über Menschen u. Thierseele, Lecture VII.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> In other words, <i>S</i> standing for the sensation in general, -and <i>d</i> for its noticeable increment, we have the equation <i>d</i><i>S</i> = -const. The increment of stimulus which produces <i>d</i><i>S</i> (call it <i>d</i><i>R</i>) -meanwhile varies. Fechner calls it the 'differential threshold'; and as -its <i>relative</i> value to <i>R</i> is always the same, we have the equation -<i>d</i><i>R</i>/<i>R</i> = const.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> Beiträge zur exp. Psychol., Heft 3, p. 4.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_7_7" id="Footnote_7_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_7"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> I borrow it from Ziehen: Leitfaden d. Physiologischen -Psychologie, 1891, p. 36, who quotes Hering's version of it.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_8_8" id="Footnote_8_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8_8"><span class="label">[8]</span></a> Successive ones also; but I consider simultaneous ones -only, for simplicity's sake.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_9_9" id="Footnote_9_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_9_9"><span class="label">[9]</span></a> The extreme case is where green light and red, <i>e.g.</i> light -falling simultaneously on the retina, give a sensation of yellow. But I -abstract from this because it is not certain that the incoming currents -here affect different fibres of the optic nerve.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_10_10" id="Footnote_10_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_10_10"><span class="label">[10]</span></a> 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 aperature, cut through sclerotic, -choroid, and retina (avoid wounding the membrane of the vitreous body!) -all round the eyeball parallel to the cornea's edge. -</p><p> -The eyeball is thus divided into two parts, the anterior one containing -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 pulling 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. -</p><p> -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 sclerotic, which remains in the forceps. Examine 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 cling 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 from its suspensory -ligament. A fine capillary tube may now be used to insufflate the clear -ring, just below the letter <i>p</i> in <a href="#ill_3">Fig. 3</a>, and thus to reveal the -suspensory ligament itself. -</p><p> -All these parts can be seen in section in a frozen eye or one hardened -in alcohol.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_11_11" id="Footnote_11_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_11_11"><span class="label">[11]</span></a> This vertical partition is introduced into stereoscopes, -which otherwise would give us three pictures instead of one.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_12_12" id="Footnote_12_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor_12_12"><span class="label">[12]</span></a> 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.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_13_13" id="Footnote_13_13"></a><a href="#FNanchor_13_13"><span class="label">[13]</span></a> Martin: The Human Body, p. 530.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_14_14" id="Footnote_14_14"></a><a href="#FNanchor_14_14"><span class="label">[14]</span></a> Ibid.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_15_15" id="Footnote_15_15"></a><a href="#FNanchor_15_15"><span class="label">[15]</span></a> The ordinary mixing of <i>pigments</i> is not an addition, but -rather, as Helmholtz has shown, a subtraction, of lights. To <i>add</i> 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 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.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_16_16" id="Footnote_16_16"></a><a href="#FNanchor_16_16"><span class="label">[16]</span></a> Martin: <i>op. cit.</i></p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_17_17" id="Footnote_17_17"></a><a href="#FNanchor_17_17"><span class="label">[17]</span></a> Martin, pp. 525-8.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_18_18" id="Footnote_18_18"></a><a href="#FNanchor_18_18"><span class="label">[18]</span></a> 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—<i>Oreille, temporal de</i> 60 cm., nouvelle édition," etc.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_19_19" id="Footnote_19_19"></a><a href="#FNanchor_19_19"><span class="label">[19]</span></a> This description is abridged from Martin's 'Human Body'.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_20_20" id="Footnote_20_20"></a><a href="#FNanchor_20_20"><span class="label">[20]</span></a> Martin: <i>op. cit.</i></p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_21_21" id="Footnote_21_21"></a><a href="#FNanchor_21_21"><span class="label">[21]</span></a> Martin: <i>op. cit.</i></p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_22_22" id="Footnote_22_22"></a><a href="#FNanchor_22_22"><span class="label">[22]</span></a> Martin: <i>op. cit.</i></p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_23_23" id="Footnote_23_23"></a><a href="#FNanchor_23_23"><span class="label">[23]</span></a> Martin: <i>op. cit.</i></p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_24_24" id="Footnote_24_24"></a><a href="#FNanchor_24_24"><span class="label">[24]</span></a> Martin: <i>op. cit.</i></p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_25_25" id="Footnote_25_25"></a><a href="#FNanchor_25_25"><span class="label">[25]</span></a> Martin: <i>op. cit.</i>, with omissions.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_26_26" id="Footnote_26_26"></a><a href="#FNanchor_26_26"><span class="label">[26]</span></a> Martin: <i>op. cit.</i></p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_27_27" id="Footnote_27_27"></a><a href="#FNanchor_27_27"><span class="label">[27]</span></a> Vierteljahrsch. für wiss. Philos., <small>II.</small> 377.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_28_28" id="Footnote_28_28"></a><a href="#FNanchor_28_28"><span class="label">[28]</span></a> 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 Vaugirard, -Paris. It is a wonderful work of art, and costs 300 francs. M. Jules -Talrich of No. 97 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.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_29_29" id="Footnote_29_29"></a><a href="#FNanchor_29_29"><span class="label">[29]</span></a> All the places in the brain at which the cavities come -through are filled in during life by prolongations of the membrane -called <i>pia mater</i>, carrying rich plexuses of blood-vessels in their -folds.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_30_30" id="Footnote_30_30"></a><a href="#FNanchor_30_30"><span class="label">[30]</span></a> The Physiology of Mind, p. 155.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_31_31" id="Footnote_31_31"></a><a href="#FNanchor_31_31"><span class="label">[31]</span></a> J. Bahnsen: 'Beiträge zu Charakterologie' (1867), vol. I. -p. 209.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_32_32" id="Footnote_32_32"></a><a href="#FNanchor_32_32"><span class="label">[32]</span></a> De l'Intelligence, 3<sup>me</sup> édition (1878), vol. <small>II.</small> p. 461, -note.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_33_33" id="Footnote_33_33"></a><a href="#FNanchor_33_33"><span class="label">[33]</span></a> Some of the evidence for this medium's supernormal powers -is given in The Proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research, vol. -<small>VI.</small> p. 436, and in the last Part of vol. <small>VII.</small> (1892).</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_34_34" id="Footnote_34_34"></a><a href="#FNanchor_34_34"><span class="label">[34]</span></a> Mental Physiol., § 124. The oft-cited case of soldiers in -battle not perceiving that they are wounded is of an analogous sort.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_35_35" id="Footnote_35_35"></a><a href="#FNanchor_35_35"><span class="label">[35]</span></a> Physiol. Optik, p. 741.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_36_36" id="Footnote_36_36"></a><a href="#FNanchor_36_36"><span class="label">[36]</span></a> I refer to a recency of a few hours. Mr. Galton found that -experiences 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.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_37_37" id="Footnote_37_37"></a><a href="#FNanchor_37_37"><span class="label">[37]</span></a> Miss M. W. Calkins (Philosophical Review, I. 389, 1892) -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 yesterday's -breakfast-table, with the same setting and in the same surroundings, the -association is practically total," and yet the case is one of -similarity. For Miss Calkins, accordingly, the more important -distinction is that between what she calls <i>desistent</i> and <i>persistent</i> -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 useful contribution. -Wundt's division of associations into the two classes of <i>external</i> and -<i>internal</i> 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, suggests the process by which the successive ideas -become external to each other or preserve no inner tie.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_38_38" id="Footnote_38_38"></a><a href="#FNanchor_38_38"><span class="label">[38]</span></a> A common figure-alphabet is this: -</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr class="c"> -<td>1</td> -<td>2</td> -<td>3</td> -<td>4</td> -<td>5</td> -<td>6</td> -<td>7</td> -<td>8</td> -<td>9</td> -<td>0</td></tr> -<tr class="c"> -<td>t</td> -<td>n</td> -<td>m</td> -<td>r</td> -<td>l</td> -<td>sh</td> -<td>g</td> -<td>f</td> -<td>b</td> -<td>s</td></tr> -<tr class="c"> -<td>d</td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td>j</td> -<td>k</td> -<td>v</td> -<td>p</td> -<td>c</td></tr> -<tr class="c"> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td>ch</td> -<td>c</td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td>z</td></tr> -<tr class="c"> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td>g</td> -<td>qu</td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td></tr> -</table> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_39_39" id="Footnote_39_39"></a><a href="#FNanchor_39_39"><span class="label">[39]</span></a> In Mind, <small>IX.</small> 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.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_40_40" id="Footnote_40_40"></a><a href="#FNanchor_40_40"><span class="label">[40]</span></a> Romanes, Mental Evolution in Animals, p. 324.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_41_41" id="Footnote_41_41"></a><a href="#FNanchor_41_41"><span class="label">[41]</span></a> M. Lazarus: Das Leben d. Seele (1857), <small>II.</small> p. 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 understood -even when spoken in low tones and far off. An unfamiliar language is -unintelligible under these conditions. The 'ideas' for interpreting 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.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_42_42" id="Footnote_42_42"></a><a href="#FNanchor_42_42"><span class="label">[42]</span></a> Einleitung in die Psychologie u. Sprachwissenschaft -(1881), p. 171.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_43_43" id="Footnote_43_43"></a><a href="#FNanchor_43_43"><span class="label">[43]</span></a> The great maxim in pedagogy is to knit every new piece of -knowledge on to a preëxisting 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 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,—<i>then</i> only will the -cannon-ball be getting near, <i>then</i> you may jump to one side! See, so -great as that is the sun's distance!'<span class="lftspc">"</span> (K. Lange, Ueber Apperception, -1879, p. 76.)</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_44_44" id="Footnote_44_44"></a><a href="#FNanchor_44_44"><span class="label">[44]</span></a> The writer of the present work is Agent of the Census for -America, and will thankfully receive accounts of cases of hallucination -of vision, hearing, etc., of which the reader may have knowledge.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_45_45" id="Footnote_45_45"></a><a href="#FNanchor_45_45"><span class="label">[45]</span></a> Cf. Raehlmann in Zeitschrift für Psychol. und Physiol. der -Sinnesorgane, <small>II.</small> 79.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_46_46" id="Footnote_46_46"></a><a href="#FNanchor_46_46"><span class="label">[46]</span></a> 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 <i>all</i> of these -things with equal reality, and the only reason why <i>for the chemist</i> it -is H-O-H primarily, and only secondarily the other things, is that <i>for -his purpose</i> of laboratory analysis and synthesis, and inclusion 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.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_47_47" id="Footnote_47_47"></a><a href="#FNanchor_47_47"><span class="label">[47]</span></a> Mental Evolution in Man, p. 74.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_48_48" id="Footnote_48_48"></a><a href="#FNanchor_48_48"><span class="label">[48]</span></a> Origin of the Emotions (N. Y. ed.), p. 292.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_49_49" id="Footnote_49_49"></a><a href="#FNanchor_49_49"><span class="label">[49]</span></a> Spalding, Macmillan's Magazine, Feb. 1873, p. 287.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_50_50" id="Footnote_50_50"></a><a href="#FNanchor_50_50"><span class="label">[50]</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i>, p. 289.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_51_51" id="Footnote_51_51"></a><a href="#FNanchor_51_51"><span class="label">[51]</span></a> Psychologie de l'Enfant, p. 72.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_52_52" id="Footnote_52_52"></a><a href="#FNanchor_52_52"><span class="label">[52]</span></a> Der Menschliche Wille, p. 224.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_53_53" id="Footnote_53_53"></a><a href="#FNanchor_53_53"><span class="label">[53]</span></a> Deutsches Archiv f. Klin. Medicin, xxii. 321.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_54_54" id="Footnote_54_54"></a><a href="#FNanchor_54_54"><span class="label">[54]</span></a> Medicinische Psychologie, p. 293.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_55_55" id="Footnote_55_55"></a><a href="#FNanchor_55_55"><span class="label">[55]</span></a> This <i>volitional</i> effort pure and simple must be carefully -distinguished from the <i>muscular</i> effort with which it is usually -confounded. The latter consists of all those peripheral feelings to -which a muscular 'exertion' may give rise. These feelings, whenever they -are massive and the body is not 'fresh,' are rather disagreeable, -especially when accompanied by stopped breath, congested head, bruised -skin of fingers, toes, or shoulders, and strained joints. And it is only -<i>as thus disagreeable</i> that the mind must make its <i>volitional</i> 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 morning. -Again, a soldier standing still to be fired at expects disagreeable -sensations from his muscular passivity. The action of his will, in -sustaining the expectation, is identical with that required for a -painful muscular effort. What is hard for both is <i>facing an idea as -real</i>.</p></div> -</div> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Psychology, by William James - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PSYCHOLOGY *** - -***** This file should be named 55262-h.htm or 55262-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/5/2/6/55262/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif, MWS and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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