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MENTAL

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Originally appearing in Volume V22, Page 603 of the 1911 Encyclopedia Britannica.
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MENTAL ASSOCIATION) Mental Association and the Memory-Continuum. 24. Great confusion has been occasioned, as we have seen incidentally, by the lax use of the term " association," and this Association confusion has been increased by a further laxity in by similar- the use of the term " association by similarity." ity not In so far as the similarity amounts to identity, as in Funds- assimilation, we have a process which is more mental. fundamental than association by contiguity, but then it is not a process of association. And when the reviving presentation is only partially similar to the presentation revived, the nature of the association does not appear to differ from that operative when one " contiguous " presentation revives another. In the one case we have, say, a b x recalling a b y , and in the other a b c recalling d e f. Now anybody who will reflect must surely see that the similarity between. a b x and a b y, as distinct from the identity of their partial constituent a b, cannot be the means of recall; for this similarity is nothing but the state of mind—to be studied presently—which results when a b x and a b y, having been recalled are in consciousness together and then compared. But if a b, having concurred with y before and being now present in a b x, again revives y, the association, so far as that goes, is manifestly one of contiguity, albeit as soon as the revivalis complete, the state of mindimmediatelyincident may be what Bain loved to style " the flash of similarity." So far as the mere revival itself goes, there is no more similarity in this case than there is when a b c revives d e f. For the very a b c that now operates as the reviving presentation was obviously never in time contiguous with the d e f that is revived; if all traces of previous experiences of a b c were obliterated there would be no revival. In other words, the a b c now present must be " automatically associated," or, as we prefer to say, must be assimilated to those residua of a b c which were " contiguous " with d e f, before the representation of this can occur. And this, and nothing more than this, we have seen, is all the " similarity " that could be at work when a b x " brought up "aby. On the whole, then, we may assume that the only principle of association we have to examine is the so-called association by Contiguity contiguity, which, as ordinarily formulated, runs: Inexplicable. Any presentations whatever, which are in conscious- ness together or in close succession, cohere in such a way that when one recurs it tends to revive the rest, such tendency increasing with the frequency of the conjunction. It has been often contended that any investigation into the nature of association must be fruitless.' But, if association is thus a first principle, it ought at least to admit of such a statement as shall remove the necessity for inquiry. So long, however, as we are asked to conceive presentations originally distinct and isolated becoming eventually linked together, we shall naturally feel the need of some explanation of the process, for neither the isolation nor the links are clear—not the isolation, for we can only conceive two presentations separated by other presentations intervening; nor the links, unless these are also presentations, and then the difficulty recurs. But, if for contiguity we substitute continuity and regard the associated presentations as parts of a new continuum, the only important inquiry is how this new whole was first of all integrated. To ascertain this point we must examine each of the two leading divisions of contiguous association—that of simultaneous Formation presentations and that of presentations occurring of Memory- in close succession. The last, being the clearer, may continuum. be taken first. In a series of associated presentations A B C D E, such as the movements made in writing, the words of a poem learned by heart, or the simple letters of the alphabet themselves, we find that each member recalls its successor but not its predecessor. Familiar as this fact is, it is not perhaps easy to explain it satisfactorily. Since C is associated both with B and D, and apparently as intimately with the one as with the other, why does it revive the later only and not the earlier? B recalls C; why does not C recall B? We have seen that any ' So Hume, Treatise of Human Nature, pt. i. § 4 (Green and Grose's ed., p. 321); also Lotze, Metaphysik, 1st ed., p. 526.573 reproduction at all of B, C or D depends primarily upon its having been the object of special attention, so as to occupy at least momentarily the focus of consciousness. Now we can in the first instance only surmise that the order in which they are reproduced is determined by the order in which they were thus attended to when first presented. The next question is whether the association of objects simultaneously presented can be resolved into an association of objects successively attended to. Whenever we try to recall a scene we saw but for a moment there are always a few traits that recur, the rest being blurred and vague, instead of the whole being revived in equal distinctness or indistinctnpss. On seeing the same scene a second time our attention is apt to be caught by something unnoticed before, as this has the advantage of novelty; and so on, till we have " lived ourselves into " the whole, which may then admit of simultaneous recall. Bain, who is rightly held to have given the best exposition of the laws of association, admits something very like this in saying that " coexistence is an artificial growth formed from a certain peculiar class of mental successions." But, while it is easy to think of instances in which the associated objects were attended to successively, and we are all perfectly aware that the surest—not to say the only—way to fix the association of a number of objects is by thus concentrating attention on each in turn, it seems hardly possible to mention a case in which attention to the associated objects could not have been successive. In fact, an aggregate of objects on which attention could be focused at once would be already associated. The exclusively successional character of contiguous association has recently been denied, and its exclusively simultaneous character maintained instead. It is at once obvious that this opposition of succession and simultaneity cannot be pressed so as to exclude duration altogether and reduce the whole process to an instantaneous event. Nor is there any ground for saying that there is a fixed and even distribution of attention to whatever is simultaneously presented: facts all point the other way. Still, though we cannot exclude the notion of process from consciousness, we may say that presentations attended to together become pro tanto a new whole, are synthesized or complicated. Such primary synthesis leads not to an association of ideas, but rather to the formation of one percept, which may be-come eventually a free idea. The disconcerted preperception which sets this free may likewise liberate a similar or contrasting idea, but it will not resolve either complex into the several " ideas of its sensory or motor constituents, with which only the psychologist is familiar. The actual recurrence of some of these constituents may again reinstate the rest, not, however, as memories or as " thoughts," but only as tied ideas in a renewed perception. Again, it has become usual to distinguish the association of contiguous experiences and the so-called association of similars or opposites as respectively external and internal forms of association. The new terminology is illuminating: the substitution of forms for laws marks the abandonment of the old notion that association was by " adhesion " of the contiguous and " attraction " of the similar. We are thus left to find the cause of association in interested attention; and that, we may safely say, is an adequate, and apparently the sole adequate, cause for the two commonly recognized forms of external association, the so-called simultaneous and the successive. But these two are certainly not co-ordinate; and if our analysis be sound, the former—for which we would retain the Herbartian term complication—yields us not members of an association but a member for association. So far, then, we should have but one form of association, that of the successive contents of focalized attention: and but one result, the representation or memory-continuum,' in contrast to the primary- or presentation-continuum, whence its constituents arise. Turning now to the distinction of external and internal, it at once strikes the unprejudiced mind that " internal association " is something of an anomaly, since the very notion of association implies externality. Also, on closer inspection what we find is not an association of similars or opposites as such, but—something quite distinct—a similarity or contrast of associates; of ideas, that is to say, which are contiguous members of the memory (or experience) continuum, or of ideas which have become contiguous through its reduplication. The only case, then, that now remains to be considered is that—to take it in its simplest form—of two primary presentations A and X, parts of different special continua or distinct—i.e. non-adjacent—parts of the same, and occupying the focus of consciousness in immediate succession. This constitutes z Experience-continuum would perhaps be a better name, since it is only a preliminary to a true memory record, as we shall presently see. their integration; for the result of this occupation may be regarded as a new continuum in which A and X become adjacent parts. For it is characteristic of a continuum that an increase in the intensity of any part leads to the intenser presentation of adjacent parts; and in this sense A and X, which were not originally continuous, have come to be so. We have here, then, some justification for the term secondary- or memory-continuum when applied to this continuous series of representations to distinguish it from the primary or presentation-continuum from which its constituents are derived. The most important peculiarity of this continuum, therefore, is that it is a series of representations integrated by means of the movements of attention out of the differentiations of the primary or presentation-continuum, or rather out of so much of these differentiations as pertain to what we know as the primary memory-image. These movements of attention, if the phrase may be allowed, come in the end to depend mainly upon interest, but at first appear to be determined entirely by mere intensity.' To them it is proposed to look for that continuity which images lose in so far as they part with the local signs they had as percepts and cease to be either localized or projected. Inasmuch as it is assumed that these movements form the connexion between one representation and another in the memory-train, they may be called " temporal signs." 2 The evidence for their existence can be more conveniently adduced presently; it must suffice to remark here that it consists almost wholly of facts connected with voluntary attention and the voluntary control of the flow of ideas, so that temporal signs, unlike local signs, are fundamentally motor and not sensory. And, unlike impressions, representations can have each but a single sign,' the continuum of which, in contrast to that of local signs, is not rounded and complete, but continuously advancing. But in saying this we are assuming for a moment that the memory-continuum forms a perfectly single and unbroken train. If it ever actually were such, then, in the absence of any repetition of old impressions and apart from voluntary interference with the train, consciousness, till it ceased entirely, would consist of a fixed and mechanical round of images. Some approximation to such a state is often found in uncultured persons who lead uneventful lives, and still more in idiots, who can scarcely think at all. 25. In actual fact, however, the memory-train is liable to change in two respects, which considerably modify its structure, viz. (1) through the evanescence of some parts, and (2) through the partial recurrence of like impressions, which produces reduplications of varying amount and extent in other parts. As regards the first, we may infer that the waning or sinking towards the threshold of consciousness which we can observe Formation in the primary mental image continues in sub-of ideational consciousness after the threshold is past. For the Continuum. longer the time that elapses before their revival the fainter, the less distinct, and the less complete are the images when revived, and the more slowly they rise. All the elements of a complex are not equally revivable, as we have seen already: tastes, smells and organic sensations, though powerful as impressions to revive other images, have little capacity for ideal ' This connexion of association with continuous movements of attention makes it easier to understand the difficulty above referred to, viz. that in a series A B C D ... B revives C but not A, and so on —a difficulty that the analogy of adhesiveness or links leaves unaccountable. To ignore the part played by attention in association, to represent the memory-continuum as due solely to the concurrence of presentations, is perhaps the chief defectof the associationist psychology, both English and German. Spencer's endeavour to show " that psychical life is distinguished from physical life by consisting of successive changes only instead of successive and simultaneous changes " (Principles of Psychology, pt. iv. ch. ii., in particular pp. 403, 406) is really nothing but so much testimony to the work of attention in forming the memory-continuum, especially when, as there is good reason to do, we reject his assumption that this growing seriality is physically determined. 2 A term borrowed from Lotze (Metaphysik, 1st ed., p. 295), but the present writer is alone responsible for the sense here given to it and the hypothesis in which it is used. ' Apart, that is to say, of course, from the reduplications of the memory-train spoken of below.reproduction themselves, while muscular movements, though perhaps of all presentations the most readily revived, do not so readily revive other presentations. Idiosyncrasies are, however, frequent; thus we find one person has an exceptional memory for sounds, another for colours, another for forms. Still it is in general true that the most intense, the most impressive, and the most interesting presentations persist the longest. But the evanescence, which is in all cases comparatively rapid at first, deepens sooner or later into real or apparent oblivion. In this manner it comes about that parts of the memory-continuum lose all distinctness of feature and, being without Obiiriscence. recognizable content, shrivel up to a dim and meagre representation of life that has lapsed—a representation that just suffices, for example, to show us that " our earliest recollections " are not of our first experiences, or to save them from being not only isolated but discontinuous. Such discontinuity can, of course, never be absolute; we must have something represented even to mark the gap. Oblivion and the absence of all representation are thus the same, and the absence of all representation cannot psychologically constitute a break. The terms " evolution " and " involution " have in this respect been happily applied to the rising and falling of representations. When we recall a particular period of our past life, or what has long ceased to be a familiar scene, events and features gradually unfold and, as it were, spread out as we keep on attending. A precisely opposite process may then be supposed to take place when they are left in undisturbed forgetfulness; this process is called obliviscence. More important changes are produced by the repetition of parts of the memory-train. The effect of this is not merely to prevent the evanescence of the particular image Repetition. or series of images, but by partial and more or less frequent reduplications of the memory-train or " thread " upon itself to convert it into a partially new continuum, which we might perhaps call the ideational continuum or " tissue." The reduplicated portions of the train are strengthened, while at the points of divergence it becomes comparatively weakened, and this apart from the effects of obliviscence. One who had seen the king but once would scarcely be likely to think of him without finding the attendant circumstances recur as well; this could not happen after seeing him in a hundred different scenes. The central representation of the whole complex would have become more distinct, whereas the several Generic diverging lines would tend to dissipate attention and, Images. by involving opposing representations, to neutralize each other, so that probably no definite background would be re-instated. Even this central representation would be more or less generalized. It has been often remarked that one's most familiar friends are apt to be mentally pictured less concretely and vividly than persons seen more seldom and then in similar attitudes and moods; in the former case a " generic image " has grown out of such more specific representations as the latter affords. Still further removed from memory-images are the images that result from such familiar percepts as those of horses, houses, trees, &c. Thus as the joint effect of obliviscence and reduplication we are provided with trains of ideas distinct from the memory-thread and thereby with the material, already more Trains of or less organized, for intellectual and volitional Ideas. manipulation. We do not experience the flow of ideas—save very momentarily and occasionally—altogether undisturbed; even in dreams and reverie it is continually interrupted and diverted. Nevertheless it is not difficult to ascertain that, so far as it is left to itself, it takes a very different course from that which we should have to retrace if bent on reminiscence and able to recollect perfectly. The readiness and steadiness of this flow are shown by the extremely small effort necessary in order to follow it. Nevertheless from its very nature it is liable, though not to positive breaches This contrast of thread and tissue is suggested, of course, by Herbart's terms Reihe and Gewebe. It is justified by the fact that memory proper follows the single line of temporal continuity, while ideation furnishes the basis for manifold logical connexions. of continuity from its own working, yet to occasional blocks or impediments to the smooth succession of images at points where reduplications diverge, and either permanently or at the particular time neutralize each other.' The flow of ideas is, however, exposed to positive interruptions from -two distinct sides—by the intrusion of new presentations and Cont7icto! of voluntary interference. The only result of such interruptions which we need here consider is the conflict Presents- of presentations that may ensue. Herbart and his dons. followers have gone so far as to elaborate a complete system of psychical statics and dynamics, based on the conception of presentations as, forces and on certain more or, less improbable assumptions as to the modes in which such forces interact. Since our power of attention is limited, it continually .happens that attention is drawn off by new presentations at the expense of old ones. But, even if we regard this non-voluntary redistribution of attention as implying a struggle between presentations, still such conflict to secure a place in consciousness is very different from a conflict between presentations that are already there. Either may be experienced to any degree possible without the other appearing at all; thus, absorbed in watching a starry sky, one might be unaware of the chilliness of the air, though recognizing at once, as soon as the cold is felt, that, so far from being incompatible, the clearness and the coldness are causally connected. This difference between a conflict of presentations to enter the field of consciousness—if we allow for a moment the propriety of the expression—and that opposition or incompatibility between presentations which is only possible when they are in consciousness has been strangely confused by the Herbartians. In the former the intensity of the presentation is primarily alone of account; in the latter, on the contrary, quality and content are mainly concerned. Only the last requires any notice here, since such opposition arises when the ideational continuum is interrupted in the ways just mentioned, and apparently arises in no other way. Certainly there is no such opposition between primary presentations: there we have the law of incopresentability preventing the presentation of opposites with the same local sign; and their presentation with different local signs involves, on this level at all events, no conflict. But what has never been presented could hardly be represented, if the ideational process were undisturbed: even in our dreams white negroes or round squares, for instance, never appear. In fact, absurd and bizarre as dream-imagery is, it never at any moment entails overt contradictions, though contradiction may be implicit. But between ideas and percepts actual incompatibility is frequent. In the perplexity of Isaac, e.g. —" The voice is Jacob's voice, but the hands are the hands of Esau "—we have such a case in a familiar form. There is here not merely mental arrest but actual conflict: the voice perceived identifies Jacob, at the same time the hands identify Esau. The images of Esau and Jacob by themselves are different, but do not conflict; neither is there any strain, quite the contrary, in recognizing a person partly like Jacob and partly like Esau. For there is no direct incompatibility between smooth and rough, so long as one pertains only to voice and the other only to hands, but the same hands and voice cannot be both smooth and rough. Similar incompatibilities may arise without the intrusion of percepts, as when, in trying to guess a riddle or to solve a problem, or generally to eliminate intellectual differences, we have images which in themselves are only logically opposite, psychologically opposed, or in conflict, because each strives to enter the same complex. In all such conflicts alike we find, in fact, a relation of presentations the exact converse] of that which constitutes similarity. In the latter we have two complete presentations, a b x and a b y, as similar, each including the common part a b; in the former we have two partial presentations, x and y, as contraries, each excluding the other from the incomplete a b—. And this a b, it is to be noted, is not more essential to the similarity than to the conflict. But in the one case it is a generic image (and can logically be predicated of two subjects) ; in the other it is a partially determined individual (and cannot be subject to opposing predicates). Except as thus supplementing a b, x and y do not conflict; black and white are not incompatible save as-attributes of the same thing. The possibility of most of these conflicts—of all, indeed, that have any logical interest—lies in that reduplication of the memory-continuum which gives rise to these new complexes, generic images or general ideas. Reminiscence and Expectation: Temporal Perception. 26. Having thus attempted to ascertain the formation of the ideational continuum out of the memory-train, the question arises: How now are we to distinguish between imagining and remembering, and again, between imagining and expecting? ' It is a mark of the looseness of much of our psychological terminology that facts of this kind are commonly described as cases of association. Dr Bain calls them " obstructive association," which is about on a par with " progress backwards " ; Mr Sully's " divergent association " is better. But it is plain that what we really have is an arrest or inhibition consequent on association, and nothing that is either itself association or that leads to association. It is plainly absurd to make the difference depend on the presence of belief in memory and expectation and on its absence in mere imagination; for the belief itself depends on this difference instead of constituting it. One real and obvious distinction, however, which Hume pointed out as regards memory, is the fixed order and position of the ideas of what is remembered or expected as contrasted with " the liberty " of the imagination to transpose and change its ideas. This order and Imagination and Memory position in the case of memory are, of course, norm- ally those of the original impressions, but it seems rather naive of Hume to tell us that memory " is tied down to these without any power of variation," while imagination has liberty to trans-pose as it pleases, as if the originals sat to memory for their portraits, while to imagination they were but studies. Such correspondence being out of the question—as Hume takes care to state as soon as it suits him—all we have, so far, is this fixity and definiteness as contrasted with the kaleidoscopic instability of ideation. In this respect what is remembered or expected resembles what is perceived: the grouping not only does not change capriciously and spontaneously, but resists any mental efforts to change it. But, provided these characteristics are there, we should be apt to believe that we are remembering, just as, mutatis mutandis, with like characteristics we might believe that we were perceiving: hallucination is possible in either case. This fixity of order and position is, however, not sufficient to constitute a typical reminiscence where the term is exactly used. But remembering is often regarded as equivalent to knowing and recognizing, as when on revisiting some once familiar place one remarks, " How well I remember it!" What is meant is that the place is recognized, and that its recognition awakens memories. Memory includes recognition; recognition as such does not include memory. In human consciousness, as we directly observe it, there is, perhaps, no pure recognition: here the new presentation in not only assimilated to the old, but the former framing of circumstance is reinstated, and so perforce distinguished from the present. It may be there is no warrant for supposing that such redintegration of a preceding field is ever absolutely nil, still we are justified in regarding it as extremely vague and meagre, both where mental evolution is but slightly advanced and where frequent repetition in varying and irrelevant circumstances has produced a blurred and neutral zone. The last is the case with a great part of our knowledge; the writer happens to know that bos is the Latin for " ox " and bufo the Latin for " toad," and may be said to remember both items of knowledge, if " remember " is only to be synonymous with " retain." But if he came across bos in reading he would think of an ox and nothing more; bufo would immediately call up not only " toad " but Virgil's Georgics, the only place in which he has seen the word, and which he never read but once. In the former there is so far nothing but recognition (which, however, of course rests upon retentiveness); in the latter there is also remembrance of the time and circumstances in which that piece of knowledge was acquired. Of course in so far as we are aware that we recognize we also think that remembrance is at any rate possible, since what we know we must previously have learned—recognition excluding novelty. But the point here urged is that there is an actual reminiscence only when the recognition is accompanied by a reinstatement of portions of the memory-train continuous with the previous presentation of what is now recognized. Summarily stated, we may say that between knowing and remembering on the one hand and imagining on the other the difference primarily turns on the fixity and completeness of the grouping in the former; in the latter there is a shifting play of images more or less " generic," reminding one of " dissolving views." Hence the first two approximate in character to perception, and are rightly called recognitions. Between them, again, the difference turns primarily on the presence or absence of temporal signs. In what is remembered these are still intact enough to ensure a localization in the past of what is recognized; in what is known merely such localization is prevented, either because of the obliviscence of temporal connexions or because the reduplications of the memory-train that have consolidated the central group have entailed their suppression. There is further the difference first mentioned, which is often only a difference of degree, viz. that reminiscences have more circumstantiality, so to say, than mere recognitions have: more of the collateral constituents of the original concrete field of consciousness are reinstated. But of the two characteristics of memory proper—(a) concreteness or circumstantiality, and (b) localization in the past—the latter is the more essential. It sometimes happens that we have the one with little or nothing of the other. For example, we may have but a faint and meagre representation of a scene, yet if it falls into and retains a fixed place in the memory train we have no doubt that some such experience was once actually ours. On the other hand, as in certain so-called illusions of memory, we may suddenly find ourselves reminded by what is happening at the moment of a preceding experience exactly like it—some even feel that they know from what is thus recalled what will happen next; and yet, because we are wholly unable to assign such representation a place in the past, instead of a belief that it happened, there arises a most distressing sense of bewilderment, as if one were haunted and had lost one's personal bearings.' It has been held by some psychologists 2 that memory proper includes the representation of one's past self as agent or patient in the event or situation recalled. And this is true as regards all but the earliest human experience, at any rate; still, whereas it is easy to see that memory is essential to any development of self consciousness, the converse is not at all clear, and would involve us in a needless circle. 27. Intimately connected with memory is expectation. We may as the result of reasoning conclude that a certain event Expectation. will happen; we may also, in like manner, conclude that a certain other event has happened. But as we should not call the latter memory, so it is desirable to distinguish such indirect anticipation as the former from that expectation which is directly due to the interaction of ideas. Any man knows that he will die, and may make a variety of arrangements in anticipation of death, but he cannot with propriety be said to be expecting it unless he has actually present to his mind a series of ideas ending in that of death, such series being due to previous associations, and unless, further, this series owes its representation at this moment to the actual recurrence of some experience to which that series succeeded before. And as familiarity with an object or event in very various settings may be a bar to recollection, so it may be to expectation: the average Englishman, e.g. is continually surprised without his umbrella, though only too familiar with rain, since in our climate one not specially attentive to the weather obtains no clear representation of its successive phases. But after a series of events A B C D E . . . has been once experienced we instinctively expect the recurrence of B C . . . on the recurrence of A, i.e. provided the memory-train continues so far intact. Such expectation, at first perhaps slight—a mere tendency easily overborne—becomes strengthened by every repetition of the series in the old order, till eventually, if often fulfilled and never falsified, it becomes certain and, as we commonly say, irresistible. To have a clear case of expectation, then, it is not necessary that we should distinctly remember any previous experience like it, but only that we should have actually present some earlier member of a series which has been firmly associated by such previous experiences, the remaining members, or at least the next, if they continue serial, being revived through that which is once again realized. This expectation may be instantly checked by reflection, just as it may, of course, be disappointed in fact;'but these are matters which do not concern the inquiry as to the nature of expectation while expectation lasts. We shall continue this inquiry to most advantage by widening it into an examination of the distinction of present, past and future. To a being whose presentations never passed through ' Any full discussion of paramnesia, as these very interesting states of mind are called, belongs to mental pathology. 2 As, e.g. James Mill (Analysis of the Human Mind, ch. x.), who treats this difficult subject with great acuteness and thoroughness.the transitions which ours undergo—first divested of the strength and vividness of impressions, again reinvested with them and brought back from the faint world of ideas present, —the sharp contrasts of " now " and " then," and past, and all the manifold emotions they occasion, would be Future. quite unknown. Even we, so far as we confine our activity and attention to ideas are almost without them. Time-order, succession, antecedence, and consequence, of course, there might be still, but in that sense of events as " past and gone for ever," which is one of the melancholy factors in our life; and in the obligation to wait and work in hope or dread to what is " still to come " there is much more than time-order. It is to presentations in their primary stage, to impressions, that we owe what real difference we find between now and then, whether prospective or retrospective, as it is to them also that we directly owe our sense of the real, of what is and exists as opposed to the non-existent that is not. But the present alone and life in a succession of presents, or, in other words, continuous occupation with impressions, give us no knowledge of the present as present. This we first obtain when our present consciousness consists partly of memories or partly of expectations as well. An event expected differs from a like event remembered chiefly in two ways—in its relation to present impressions and images and in the active attitude to which it leads. The diverse feelings that accompany our intuitions of time and contribute so largely to their colouring are mainly consequences of these differences. Let us take a series of simple and familiar events A B C D E, representing ideas by small letters, and perceptions by capitals whenever it is necessary to distinguish them. Such series may be present in consciousness in such wise that a b e d are imaged while E is perceived anew, i.e. the whole symbolized as proposed would be a b e d E; such would be, e.g. the state of a dog that had just finished his daily meal. Again, there may be a fresh impression of A which revivesb c d e; we should have then (I) Abed e—the state of our dog when he next day gets sight of the dish in which his food is brought to him. A little later we may have (2) a b C d e. Here a b are either after-sensations or primary memory-images, or have at any rate the increased intensity due to recent impression; but this increased intensity will be rapidly on the wane even while C lasts, and a b will pale still further when C gives place to D, and we have (3) a b c D e. But, returning to (2), we should find d e to be increasing in intensity and definiteness, as compared with their state in (I), now that C, instead of A, is the present impression. For, when A occupied this position, not only was e raised less prominently above the threshold of consciousness by reason of its greater distance from A in the memory-continuum, but, owing to the reduplications of this continuum, more lines of possible revival were opened up, to be successively negatived as B succeeded to A and C to E; even dogs know that " there is many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip." But, where A B C D E is a series of percepts such as we have here supposed—and a series of simpler states would hardly afford much ground for the distinctions of past, present and future—there would be a varying amount of active adjustment of sense-organs and other movements supplementary to full sensation. In (2), the point at which we have a b C d e, for instance, such adjustments and movements as were appropriate to b would cease as B lapsed and be replaced by those appropriate to C. Again, as C succeeded to B, and d in consequence increased in intensity and definiteness, the movements adapted to the reception of D would become nascent, and so on. Thus, psycho-logically regarded, the distinction of past and future and what we might call the oneness of direction of time depend, as just described, (I) upon the continuous sinking of the primary memory-images on the one side, and the continuous rising of the ordinary images on the other side, of that member of a series of percepts then repeating which is actual at the moment; and (2) 011 the prevenient adjustments of attention, to which such words as " expect," " await," " anticipate," all testify by their etymology. These conditions in turn will be found to depend upon all that is implied in the formation of the memory-train and upon that recurrence of like series of impressions which we attribute to the " uniformity of nature. " If we never had the continuum preserves the order of events intact, we have still no same series of impressions twice, knowledge of time would be impossible, as indeed would knowledge of any sort. 28. Time is often figuratively represented as a line, and we may perhaps utilize this figure to make clear the relation of our perception of time to what we call time itself. The Succession. present, though conceived as a point or instant of time, is still such that we actually can and do in that moment attend to a plurality of presentations to which we might other-wise have attended to severally in successive moments. Granting this implication of simultaneity and succession, we may, if we represent succession as a line, represent simultaneity as a second line at right angles to the first; pure time—or time-length without time-breadth, we may say— is a mere abstraction. Now it is with the former line that we have to do in treating of time as it is (or as we conceive it), and with the latter in treating of our perception of time, where, just as in a perspective representation of distance, we are confined to lines in a plane at right angles to the actual line of depth. In a succession of events A B C D E ... the presence of B means the absence of A and of C, but the presentation of this succession involves the simultaneous presence, in some mode or other, of two or more of the presentations A B C D. In our temporal perception, then, all that corresponds to the differences of past, present and future is presented simultaneously. To this fact the name of " specious present or " psychical present " has been given. What we have is not a moving point or moment of objective time, but rather a moving line, the contents of which, continuously changing, simultaneously represent a portion of the line of objective succession, viz. the immediate past as still present in primary memory-images, and the immediate future as anticipated in prepercepts and nascent acts.' This truism—or paradox—that all we know of succession is but an interpretation of what is really simultaneous or coexistent, we may then concisely express by saying that we are aware of time only through time-perspective, and experience shows that it is a long step from a succession of presentations to such presentation of succession. The first condition of such presentation is that we should have represented together presentations that were in the first instance attended to successively, and this we have both in the persistence of primary memory-images and in the simultaneous reproduction of longer or shorter portions of the memory-train. In a series thus secured there may be time-marks, though no time, and by these marks the series will be distinguished from other simultaneous series. To ask which is first among a number of simultaneous presentations is unmeaning; one might be logically prior to another, but in time they are together and priority. is excluded. Nevertheless after each distinct representation a, b, c, d there probably follows, as we have supposed, some trace of that movement of attention of which we are aware in passing from one presentation to another. In our present reminiscences we have, it must be allowed, little direct proof of this inter-position, though there is strong indirect evidence of it in the tendency of the flow to follow the order in which the presentations were first attended to. With the movements themselves we are familiar enough, though the residua of such movements are not ordinarily conspicuous. These residua, then, are our temporal signs, and, together with the representations connected by them, constitute the memory-continuum. But temporal signs alone will not furnish all the pictorial exactness of the time-perspective. They give us only a fixed series; but the working of obliviscence, by insuring a progressive variation in intensity and distinctness as we pass from one member of the series to the other, yields the effect which we call time-distance. By themselves such variations would leave us liable to confound more vivid representations in the distance with fainter ones nearer the present, but from this mistake the temporal signs save us; and, as a matter of fact, where the memory-train is imperfect such mistakes continually occur. On the other hand, where these variations are slight and imperceptible, though the memory- ' Cf. W. James, Principles of Psychology, i. 629 sqq. ; L. W. Stern, "Psychische Prasenzzeit," Z. f. Psych., (1897), xiii. 325 sqq. such distinct appreciation of comparative distance in time as we have nearer the present where these perspective effects are considerable. 29. When in retrospect we note that a particular presentation X has had a place in the field of consciousness, while certain other presentations, A B C D ..., have succeeded each other, then we may be said in observing this Duration. relation of the two to perceive the duration of X. And it is in this way that we do subjectively estimate longer periods of time. But first, it is evident that we cannot apply this method to indefinitely short periods without passing beyond the region of distinct presentation; and, since the knowledge of duration implies a relation between distinguishable presentations ABC D and X, the case is one in which the hypothesis of subconsciousness can hardly help any but those who confound the fact of time with the knowledge of it. Secondly, if we are to compare different durations at all, it is not enough that one of them should last out a series A B C D, and another a series L M N 0; we also want some sort of common measure of those series. Locke was awake to this point, though he expresses himself vaguely (Essay, ii. r4, §§ 9-12). He speaks of our ideas succeeding each other " at certain distances not much unlike the images in the inside of a lantern turned round by the heat of a candle, " and " guesses " that " this appearance of theirs in train varies not very much in a waking man." Now what is this " distance " that separates A from B, B from C, and so on, and what means have we of knowing that it is tolerably constant in waking life? It is probably that the residuum of which we have called a temporal sign; or, in other words, it is the movement of attention from A to B. But we must endeavour here to get a more exact notion of this movement. Everybody knows what it is to be distracted by a rapid succession of varied impressions, and equally what it is to be wearied by the slow and monotonous recurrence of the same impressions. Now these " feelings " of distraction and tedium owe their characteristic qualities to movements of attention. In the first, attention is kept incessantly on the move; before it is accommodated to A, it is disturbed by the suddenness, intensity, or novelty of B; in the second, it is kept all but stationary by the repeated presentation of the same impression. Such excess and defect of surprises make one realize a fact which in ordinary life is so obscure as to escape notice. But recent experiments have set this fact in a more striking light, and made clear what Locke had dimly before his mind in talking of a certain distance between the presentations of a waking man. In estimating very short periods of time, of a second or less—indicated say by the beats of a metronome—it is found that there is a certain period for which the mean of a number of estimates is correct, while shorter periods are on the whole over-estimated, and longer periods under-estimated. This we may perhaps take to be evidence of the time occupied in accommodating or fixing attention. Whether the " point of indifference " is determined by the rate of usual bodily movement, as Spencer asserts and Wundt conjectures, or conversely, is a question we need not discuss just now. But, though the fixation of attention does of course really occupy time, it is probably not in the first instance perceived as time, i.e. as continuous " protensity, " to use a term of Hamilton's, but as intensity. Thu,s, if this supposition be true, there is an element in our concrete time-perception which has no place in our abstract conception of time. In time conceived as physical there is no trace of intensity; in time psychically experienced duration is primarily an intensive magnitude, witness the comparison of times when we are " bored " with others when we are amused. It must have struck every one as strange who has reflected upon it that a period of time which seems long in retrospect—such as an eventful excursion—should have appeared short in passing; while a period, on the contrary, which in memory has dwindled to a wretched span seemed everlasting till it was gone. But, if we consider that in retrospect length of time is represented primarily and chiefly by impressions that have survived, we have an explanation of one-half; and in the intensity of the movements of attention we shall perhaps find an explanation II of the other. What tells in retrospect is the series a b e d e, &c.; what tells in the wearisome present is the intervening t,t213, &c., or rather the original accommodation of which these temporal signs are the residuum. For, as we have seen elsewhere, the intensity of a presentation does not persist, so that in memory the residuum of the most intense feeling of tedium may only be so many is in a memory-continuum whose surviving members are few and uninteresting. But in the actual experience, say, of a wearisome sermon, when the expectation of release is continually balked and attention forced back upon a monotonous dribble of platitudes, the one impressive fact is the hearer's impatience. On the other hand, so long as we are entertained, attention is never involuntary, and there is no continually deferred expectation. Just as we are said to walk with least effort when our pace accords with the rate of swing of our legs regarded as pendulums, so in pastimes impressions succeed each other at the rate at which attention can be most easily accommodated, and are such that we attend willingly.' We are absorbed in the present without being unwillingly confined to it; not only is there no motive for retrospect or expectation, but there is no feeling that the present endures. Each impression lasts as long as it is interesting, but does not continue to monopolize the focus of consciousness till attention to it is fatiguing, because uninteresting. In such facts, then, we seem to have proof that our perception of duration rests ultimately upon quasi-motor acts of varying intensity, the duration of which we do not directly experience as duration at all. They do endure and their intensity is a function of their duration; but the intensity is all that we directly perceive. In other words, it is here con-tended that what Locke called an instant or moment—" the time of one idea in our minds without the succession of another, of one wherein therefore we perceive no succession at all "—is psychologically not " a part in duration " in that sense in which, as he says, " we cannot conceive any duration without succession " (Essay, ii. 16, 12). But, if our experience of time depends primarily upon acts of attention to a succession of distinct objects, it would seem that Is time time, subjectively regarded, must be discrete and not Discrete or continuous. This, which is the view steadily main-Continuous? tained by the psychologists of Herbart's school, was implied if not stated by Locke, Berkeley and Hume. Locke hopelessly confuses time as perceived and time as conceived, and can only save himself from pressing objections by the retort, " It is very common to observe intelligible discourses spoiled by too much subtlety in nice divisions." But Berkeley and Hume, with the mathematical discoveries of Newton and Leibnitz before them, could only protest that there was nothing answering to mathematical continuity in our experience. And, whereas Locke had tried to combine with his general psychological account the inconsistent position that " none of the distinct ideas we have of either [space or time] is without all manner of composition," Berkeley declares, " For my own part, whenever I attempt to frame a simple idea of time, abstracted from the succession of ideas in my mind, which flows uniformly and is participated by all beings, I am lost and embrangled in inextricable difficulties. I have no notion of it at all, only I hear others say it is infinitely divisible, and speak of it in such a manner as leads me to harbour odd thoughts of my existence. Time therefore being nothing, abstracted from the succession of ideas in our minds, it follows that the duration of any finite spirit must be estimated by the number of ideas or actions succeeding each other in that same spirit or mind " (Principles of Knowledge, i. § 98).. Hume, again, is at still greater pains to show that " the idea which we form of any finite quality is not infinitely divisible, but that by proper distinctions and separations we may run this idea up to inferior ones, which will be perfectly simple and indivisible . . that the imagination reaches a minimum, and may raise up to itself an idea of which it cannot conceive any subdivision, and which cannot be diminished without a total annihilation " (Human Nature, pt. ii. § 1, Green's ed., pp. 334 seq.). At first blush we are perhaps disposed to accept this account of our time-perception, as Wundt, e.g. does, and to regard the attribution of continuity as wholly the result of after-reflection.' But it may be doubted if this is really an exact analysis of the case. ' To this rate the " indifference point " mentioned above is obviously related. It has also been called " adequate time " or " optional time." It is, however, a tempo that varies with the subject-matter attended to; when effective attention is more difficult the tempo is slower than it is when to attend is easy. 2 Cf. Wundt, Logik, i. 432.Granted that the impressions to which we chiefly attend are distinct and discontinuous in their occupation of the focus of consciousness, and that, so far, the most vivid element in our time-experience is discrete; granted further that in recollection and expectation such objects are still distinct—all which seems to imply that time is a mere plurality—yet there is more behind. The whole field of consciousness is not occupied by distinct objects, neither are the changes in this field discontinuous. The experimental facts above-mentioned illustrate the transition from a succession the members of which are distinctly attended to to one in which they are indistinctly attended to, i.e. are not discontinuous enough to be separately distinguished. Attention does not move by hops from one definite spot to another. but, as Wundt himself allows, by alternate diffusion and concentration, like the foot of a snail, which never leaves the surface it is traversing. We have a clear presentation discerned as A or B when attention is gathered up; and, when attention spreads out, we have confused presentations not admitting of recognition. But, though not recognizable, such confused presentations are represented, and so serve to bridge over the comparatively empty interval during which attention is unfocused. Thus our perception of a period of time is not comparable to so many terms in a series of finite units any more than it is to a series of infinitesimals. When attention is concentrated in expectation of some single impression, then, no doubt, it is brought to a very fine point (" zugespitzt," as Herbart would say) ; and a succession of such impressions would be represented as relatively discrete compared with the representation of the scenery of a day-dream. But absolutely discrete it is not and cannot be. In this respect the truth is rather with Herbert Spencer, who, treating of this subject from another point of view, remarks, " When the facts are contemplated objectively, it becomes manifest that, though the changes constituting intelligence approach to a single succession, they do not absolutely form one " (Psychology, i.' § 18o). On the whole, then, we may conclude that our concrete time-experiences are due to the simultaneous representation of a series of definite presentations both accompanied and separated by more or fewer indefinite presentations more or less confused; that, further, the definite presentations have certain marks or temporal signs due to the movements of attention; that the rate of these movements or accommodations is approximately constant; and that each movement itself is primarily experienced as an intensity. Experimental Investigations concerning Memory and Association. 3o. Of the vast mass of experimental work 'undertaken in recent years, that relating to memory and association is probably the most important. A brief account of some of it is therefore offered at this point, by way of illustrating the character of the " new psychology." The learning and retaining of a stanza of poetry, say, is obviously a function of many variables, such as the mode of presentation (whether the words are heard only, or heard and seen, or both heard, seen and spoken aloud), the length, familiarity with the words and ideas used, the number of repetitions, the attention given, &c. Familiarity of course implies previous learning and retaining; the first essential, there-fore, in any attempt to study these processes from the beginning, is the exclusion of this factor. Accordingly Ebbinghaus, the pioneer in experiments of this kind,3 devised the new material, which is now regularly employed, namely, closed monosyllables, not themselves words, and strung together promiscuously into lines of fixed length so as never to form words: bam, rit, por, sig, nef, gud, &c., is an instance of such " senseless verses." With very slight attention most persons would be able to reproduce three or four such syllables on a single reading or hearing; and by greater concentration six or seven might be so reproduced. This maximum, called sometimes the " span of prehension, " has been repeatedly made the subject of special inquiry. In idiots it is found, as might be expected, remarkably low; in school children it increases rapidly between the ages of eight and fourteen, and then remains almost stationary, individual differences being small compared with the striking differences that appear when longer lines make repetitions necessary.'. This comparatively constant span of prehension is doubtless 3 H. Ebbinghaus, " Ueber das Gednchtniss: Untersuchungen zur experimentellen Psychologie " (1885). ' Cf. J. Jacobs and F. Calton on the " Span of Prehension," Mind, (1887), pp. 75 sqq.; Bourdon, " Influence de Page sur la memoire immediate," Rev. Phil. (1894) xxxviii., 148 sqq. closely connected with certain other psychical constants, such as the duration of the psychical present and of the primary memory-image, the tempo of movements of attention (§§ 28, 29), &c. There are isolated investigations of these several conditions, but the subject as a whole still awaits systematic treatment.' That it is not wanting in interest is evident when we consider that if our span of prehension were enlarged, a corresponding increase in the variety and range of metre and rhyme in poetry, of " phrase " in music, and of evolution in the dance would be possible. The limits at present imposed on these and like complexities find their ultimate explanation in the constants just mentioned. With lines of greater length than seven syllables some repetition is requisite before they can be said correctly: the number of such repetitions was found by Ebbinghaus to increase very rapidly with the number of syllables to be learnt. In his own case, for lines of 12, 16, 24, 36 syllables the repetitions necessary were on the average 16.6, 30, 44, 55 respectively. Thus for a line exceeding in length that of the span of prehension only about five times, he required fifty-five times as many repetitions, if we may call the single presentation of the syllables a " repetition." Substituting poetry for gibberish of equal amount, Ebbinghaus found that one-tenth the number of repetitions sufficed; the enormous saving thus effected showing how numerous and intimate are the ready-made associations that " rhyme and reason " involve. But at one and the same time to memorize five verses even of sense requires more than five times as many repetitions as the memorizing of one. Two or three lines of inquiry here present themselves, e.g. (1) as to the comparative value of successive repetitions when several are taken together; (2) as to retention after an interval, as (a) a function of the number of repetitions previously made, and as (b) a function of the time; (3) as to the respective effects of more or less cumulating, or more or less distributing, the repetitions, on the number of these required. 1. It is at once obvious that beyond a certain point exhaustion of attention renders further repetition for a time futile; thus Ebbinghaus found 64 repetitions at one sitting of six 16-syllable nonsense verses, a task lasting some three-quarters of an hour, " was apt to bring on asthenia, a sort of epileptic aura, and the like!" But keeping well within this heroic limit, a certain " law of diminishing return," to use an economic analogy, discloses itself. Thus taking a line of 10 syllables, the number of syllables reproduced correctly and in their proper order, after 1, 3, 6, 9 and 12 " repetitions," were 2.2, 2.5, 2.8, 3'4, 3'9 respectively, as the averages of a series of experiments with each of eight persons.2 " The first repetition is undoubtedly the best," assuming, of course, that the subjects start with their attention fully concentrated. Some persons naturally do this, many do not; the experimenter has therefore to take special precautions to secure uniformity in this respect. 2. (a) On relearning a line after an interval of twenty-four hours there was in Ebbinghaus's case an average saving of one repetition for every three made the day before. A line of 16 syllables, for example, required some 30 repetitions, and could then be said off correctly. If only 8 repetitions were taken at first, the line being " underlearnt," it probably appeared quite strange the next day, yet the proportional saving was no less; on the other hand, if an additional 30 repetitions followed immediately on the first, the line being " doubly learnt," in spite of the ' Cf. Dietze, " Untersuchungen fiber den Umfang des Bewusst- seins u.s.w.," Phil. Studien (1885), pp. 362 sqq.; L. W. Stern, " Psychische Prasenzzeit," Ztschr. f. Psychologie (1897), xiii. 325 sqq.; Daniels, " Memory After-image and Attention," Am. Jour. of Psychology (1893), vi. 558 sqq. ' W. G. Smith, " The Place of Repetition in Memory," Psycho-logical Rev. (1896), pp. 20 sqq. The figures given are unquestionably low, partly, as the writer point: out, in consequence of the method employed, but partly, as his detailed tables show, in consequence of the lax attention of three out of his eight subjects. Objections have been taken to the plan of this investigation, but it is doubtful if they invalidate the result here mentioned. Cf. Jost, " Die Associationsfestigkeit in ihrer Abhangigkeit von der Vertheilung der Wiederholungen," Ztschr. f. Psychologie, xiv. 455 sqq.familiarity next day apparent, the proportional saving was no greater. The absolute saving would, of course, be less. We are so far led to infer that the stronger associations effected by many repetitions at one time fall off more rapidly than weaker associations effected by fewer repetitions in the same way. Herbart in his " psychical dynamics "—influenced probably by physical analogies—conjectured that the " sinking " or " inhibition " of presentations generally was proportional to their intensity: the less there was to sink, the slower the sinking became. Recent experiments certainly point in this direction. (b) As to retention as a function of the time—we all know that memories fade with time, but not at what precise rate. Ebbinghaus, by a series of prolonged experiments, ascertained the rate to be proportional to the logarithm of the time—a result already implied in that connecting retention and intensity; albeit in inquiries of this kind independent confirmation is always of value. 3. Had the proportional saving just described held good indefinitely, some loo repetitions of the 16 syllables at one time should have dispensed with any further repetition twenty–four hours afterwards; whereas, in fact, this result seemed never attainable. Beyond a certain degree of accumulation, an ever-diminishing return was manifest, and that apparently short of the stage at which exhaustion of attention began to be felt. But, contrariwise, when the repetitions were distributed over several days, an ever-increasing efficiency was then the result. Thus, for Ebbinghaus, 38 repetitions spread over three days were as effective as 68 taken together. The results of careful experiments by Jost with two different subjects, using G. E. Mailer's " method of telling " (to be described later on), are still more conclusive. Comparing 8 repetitions on three successive days with 4 repetitions on six, and 2 on twelve, the efficiencies, tested twenty-four hours later, were respectively as 11.5, 35, and 54; and probably, as Jost surmises, the effect of the maximum distribution—single " repetition " on twenty-four successive days—would have been more advantageous still, securing in fact the superiority of a first impression (cf. 1, above) on every occasion. This result again, is in part explained by the law of sinking already found. For if the sinking were simply proportional to the time, or were independent of the intensity, there would so far be no reason why one mode of distributing a given number of repetitions should be more economical than another. There is, however, another reason for this superiority, less clearly implied, to which we shall come presently. Invariably, and almost of necessity, a more or less complex rhythmical articulation becomes apparent as the syllables are repeated, even when—as in the improved methods of G. E. Mailer and his collaborateurs—they are presented singly and at regular intervals. A series of twelve syllables, for example, would be connected into six trochees, with a caesura in the middle of the verse; while in each half of it the first and last accented syllables would be specially emphasized; thus: Min ifs I lap tol gen ker 11 dub naf &c. In trying to suppress this tendency and to repeat the syllables in a monotonous, staccato fashion, just as they were presented, the tempo, though really unchanged, seemed to be distinctly quickened, a consequence, doubtless, of the greater effort involved. Moreover, the attempt, which was seldom successful, about doubled the number of repetitions required for learning off, thereby showing how much is gained by this psychical organization of disconnected material. But the gain thus ensured was manifest in other ways. Each foot, whether dissyllabic or trisyllabic, became a new complex unit, the elements to be connected by successive association being thereby reduced to a half or a third, and the whole line seemingly shortened. The varied intonation, again, helped to fix the place of each foot in the verse, thus further facilitating the mind's survey of the whole. Such a transformation can hardly be accounted for so long as retention and association are regarded as merely mechanical and passive processes. Psychical rhythm, upon which we here touch, has also been experimentally investigated at great length, alike in its physiological psychological and aesthetical aspects. The topic is far too intricate and unsettled for discussion here, yet two or three points may be noted in passing. We are not specially concerned with objective rhythms, recurring series of impressions—that is to say, in which there are actually periodic variations of intensity, interval and the like. What is remarkable is that even a perfectly regular succession of sounds (or touches), qualitatively and quantitatively all alike, a series therefore devoid of all objective rhythm, is nevertheless apprehended as rhythmically grouped, provided the rate lies between the limits of about o•8" and 0.14". The slower of these rates leads to simple groups of two, replaced by groups of four or eight as the rate increases; groups of three and six also occur, though less frequently. The average duration of the groups, whether these are large or small, is comparatively constant, measuring rather more than one second. The subject usually keeps time by taps, nods or other accompanying movements; the pulse and respiration are also implicated. These organic rhythms have even been regarded as the prime source of all psychical rhythm and of its manifold aesthetic effects. Some connexion there is unquestionably. As the decimal system corresponds to our possession of ten fingers, and our movements to the structure of our limbs, so here we may assume that physiological processes fix the limits within which psychical rhythm is possible, but yet may be as little an adequate cause of it or its developments as fingers are of arithmetic, or legs of an Irish jig. In motor rhythms, such as the last, the initiative is obviously psychical, and the respiratory and other periodic organic processes simply follow suit. And even sensory rhythms can often be varied at the subject's own choice, or on the suggestion of another; and then again the breathing is altered in consequence. Familiar instances of such procedure are to be found in the " tunes " so readily attributed to the puff of a locomotive, to the churning of a steamer's screw, and the like. Psychical rhythm, then, we may conclude, is due to attention or apperception, but the conditions determining it are many, and their relations very complex. If the presentations to be " rhythmized " (the rhythmizomenon, as the Germans say) succeed each other slowly, the length (or shall we say the breadth?) of the " psychical present " tells one way: the first impression is below the threshold when the third appears. If they arrive rapidly, their intensity and duration and the span of prehension tell another way; for it is essential that they retain their individual distinctness and only so many can be grasped at once. But if the series continue long enough, or be frequently experienced, sub-groups may be treated as individuals; and indeed till some facility is acquired, the subject attending is aware of no rhythm. In the act of attention itself there are phases, in so far as expectation involves preadjustment to what is coming: usually the first members of a tact are predominant, and the rhythm tends to " fall "; several alternations of accent within a complex rhythmic whole are of course still compatible with this. But it is important to note that, whether simple or complex, the rhythm is an intuited unity as truly as a geometrical figure may be. Unlike a geometrical figure, however, it rarely or never has symmetry. We cannot reverse a tune and obtain an effect comparable with that obtained by reprinting the score backwards in line with the original. We now pass to a question in which the psychological bearing of this fact becomes apparent). But first a new method of dealing with memory-problems must he mentioned, in which the connexion between rhythmizing and memorizing has been turned to account by the Gottingen psychologists. The method of Ebbinghaus consisted in ascertaining the repetitions saved in consequence of previous repetitions, when the verse was relearnt some fixed time later. Hence this method is called the learning method or the method of saving. When, a given time after a certain number of repetitions (say) in trochaic measure, the subject is confronted with one of the accented syllables and asked to name the unaccented syllable that belongs to it, he will answer sometimes rightly, sometimes wrongly, and sometimes be unable to answer at all. This, the new, method is therefore named Tre,Jfer-methode, the method of " shots," or, let us say, the telling method. It enables the experimenter to obtain far more insight into details than was possible before, for the " misses " as well as the " hits " are instructive. Moreover, by measuring the time of each answer-(Trefferzeit) and comparing these times together, much can be learnt; in stronger or recent associations, for example, the answers being quicker than in weaker or older ones. Does association work forwards only or backwards also, as the middle link of a chain, when lifted, raises the contiguous links on either side of it? This is certainly not the case when the forward direction makes sense, but with nonsense verses, if the mechanical analogy is a sound one, such reversal is to be expected. For here there are none of the " obstructing associations " which ' The following are among the more important papers on rhythm: T. L. Bolton, " Rhythm," Am. Journ. of Psychology (1894), pp. 145 sqq.; E. E. Meumann, " Untersuchungen z. Psychologie u. Aesthetik des Rhythmus," Phil. Studien (1894), X. 249 sqq., 393 sqq.; M. K. Smith, " Rhythmus and Arbeit," Phil Studien (1900), xvi. 71 sqq. 197 sqq.; Arbeit and Rhythmus (1899), by K. Bucher, a well-known economist, bringing out the teleological aspects of rhythm." rhyme and reason " imply. In learning a verse backwards Ebbinghaus found a saving of 12.4 % of the time originally taken up in learning it forwards. A saving almost as great (10.4 %) was effected by relearning a like verse forwards, but skipping one syllable: the order of syllables, that is to say, being 1, 3, 5, . . . 15, 2, 4, . . . 16. Even when learning backwards and skipping one syllable, Ebbinghaus found a saving of 5 %. But the number of his experiments (four) was too few to give this result much value, as he fully admits. These experiments as a whole, then, might incline us to suppose that association does work in both directions, though the connexions backwards are considerably weaker. But if so the associations both ways should be alike at least in form—continuous, that is to say, backwards, d c b a, as well as forwards, a b c d. The facts at present available are, however, against this. In two or three hundred. experiments by Muller and Pilzecker, verses of twelve syllables were repeated a set number of times in anapaestic measure —accented, that is to say, on the 3rd, 6th, 9th and 12th. After a fixed interval the subject, confronted with one of the accented syllables, mentioned any of the other syllables which he called to mind. Now the cases in which the syllable immediately preceding was revived were only about half as frequent as those in which the syllable next but one preceding was revived; the time of telling (Trefferzeit) for the latter was also shorter. This result is incompatible with the theory of continuous backward association, but it is readily explained by the fact that the group of three syllables had become one complex whole, and it shows that the tendency to reinstate the initial member of the group is stronger than that to reinstate the middle. The saving effected in Ebbinghaus's experiment is also thus explained.2 A somewhat paradoxical situation is brought to light when the method of saving and the method of telling are used together. In the experiments by Jost, mentioned above, the series of verses were repeated thirty times; after an interval of twenty-four hours one series was tested by the first method and the other by the second. Two new series were then taken: the first repeated four times, and after an interval of a minute tested by the first method; the other was then repeated in like manner, and tested after the same interval by the second method. The old series was found (by the method of saving) to require on an average 5.85 repetitions for relearning, and the new 9.6; yet on the method of telling, the new series yielded 2.7 " hits," with an average time of about i second for each, while the old yielded only •9 " hits," with an average time of 41 seconds for each. Thus one may be able to reproduce relatively little of a given subject-matter, and yet require only a few repetitions in order to learn it off anew; on the other hand, one may know relatively much, and still find many more repetitions requisite for such complete learning. The " age " of the associations is then important. Other things being equal, we may conclude that each fresh repetition effects more for old associations than for recent ones. It might be supposed that the strength of the old associations was more uniform and on the average greater than the strength of the new; so that while none of the old were far below the threshold, few, if any, were above it; whereas more of the new might be above the threshold though the majority had lapsed entirely. And the latter would certainly be the case if the subject of experiment tried to make sure of a few " hits," and paid no attention to the rest of the series. Due care was, however, taken that the ends of the experiment should not in this way be defeated. Also, there is ample evidence to show that the, supposed greater uniformity in strength of old associations is not, in fact, the rule. We seem left, then, to conjecture that the difference is the effect of the process of assimilation working subconsciously—that psychical aspect of nervous growth which Professor James has aptly characterized by saying that " we learn to skate in summer and to swim in winter." It continually happens that we can recognize connexions that we are quite unable to reproduce. To the diminished "strength" of an association, as tested by the 2 There are still other forms of what seems at first sight to be regressive association, but none that do not admit of explanation without this assumption. method of telling, there may then quite well be an equivalent set-off in more developed assimilation. As a seed germinates it has less latent energy, but this is replaced by growth in root and stem: similar relations may obtain when an old association is said merely to lose " strength." On the other hand—within the range of the primary memory-image—we can often reproduce what after a longer interval we should fail to recognize. We seem warranted, then, in concluding that this conception of " association-strength," so freely used by G. E. Muller and his co-workers, requires more analysis than it has yet received. The two factors which their methods disclose in it appear to confirm the distinction we have already made between impressions and free ideas. They help us also to understand, further, the superiority of distributed over cumulated repetition, of " inwardly digesting " over " cram." Feeling. 31. Such summary survey as these limits allow of the more elementary facts of cognition is here at an end; so far the most conspicuous factors at work have been those of what might be termed the ideational mechanism. In the higher processes of thought we have to take more account of mental activity and of the part played by language. But it seems preferable, before entering upon this, to explore also the emotional and active constituents of mind in their more elementary phases. In our preliminary survey we have seen that psychical life consists in the main of a continuous alternation of predominantly receptive and predominantly reactive consciousness. In its earliest form experience is simply an interplay of alternations of sensation and movement. At a later stage we find that in the receptive phase ideation is added to sensation; and that in the active phase thought and fancy, or the voluntary manipulation and control of the ideational trains, are added to the voluntary manipulation and control of the muscles. At this higher level also it is possible that either form of receptive consciousness may lead to either form of active: sensations may lead to thought rather than to action in the restricted sense, and ideas apart from sensations may prompt to muscular exertion. There is a further complication still: not only may either sensations or ideas lead to either muscular or mental movements, but movements themselves, whether of mind or limb, may as mere presentations determine other movements of either kind. In this respect, however, movements and thoughts either in themselves or through their sensational and ideational accompaniments may be regarded as pertaining to the receptive side of consciousness. With these provisos, then, the, broad generalization may hold that receptive states lead through feeling to active states, and that presentations that give neither pleasure nor pain meet with no responsive action. But first the objection must be met that presentations that are in themselves purely indifferent lead continually to very energetic action, often the promptest and most definite action. To this there are two answers. First, on the higher levels of psychical life presentations in themselves indifferent are often indirectly interesting as signs of, or as means to, other presentations that are more directly interesting. It is enough for the present, therefore, if it be admitted that all such indifferent presentations are without effect as often as they are not instrumental in furthering the realization of some desirable end. Secondly, a large class of movements, such as those called sensori-motor and ideo-motor, are initiated by presentations that are frequently, it must be allowed, neither pleasurable nor painful. In all such cases, however, there is probably only an apparent exception to the principle of subjective selection. They may all be regarded as instances of another important psychological principle which we shall have to deal with more fully by and by, viz. that voluntary actions, and especially those that either only avert pain or are merely subsidiary to pleasure-giving actions, tend at length, as the effect of habit in the individual and of heredity in the race, to become " secondarily automatic," as it has been called. Such mechanical or instinctive dexterities make possible a more efficient use of present energies in securing pleasurable and interesting experiences, and, like the rings of former growths in a tree, afford a basis for further advance, as old interests pall and new ones present themselves. Here, again, it suffices for our present purpose if it be granted that there is a fair presumption in favour of supposing all such movements to have been originally initiated by feeling, as certainly very many of them were. Of the feeling itself that intervenes between these sensory and motor presentations there is but little to be said. The chief points have been already insisted upon, viz. that it is not itself a presentation, but a purely subjective state, at once the effect of a change in receptive consciousness and the cause of a change in motor consciousness; hence its continual confusion either with the movements, whether ideational or muscular, that are itscauses of feeling on the one hand, and on the other causes of Feeling. in its manifestations and effects. To begin with the first question, which we may thus formulate: What, if any, are the invariable differences characteristic of the presentations or states of mind we respectively like and dislike; or, taking account of the diverse sources of feeling—sensuous, aesthetic, intellectual, active—is there anything that we can predicate alike of all that are pleasurable and deny of all that are painful, and vice versa? It is at once evident that at least in presentations objectively regarded no such common characters will be found; if we find them anywhere it must be in some relation to the conscious subject i.e. in the fact of presentation itself. There is one important truth concerning pleasures and pains that may occur at once as an answer to our inquiry, and that is often advanced as such, viz. that whatever is pleasurable tends to further and perfect life, and whatever is painful to disturb or destroy it. The many seeming exceptions to this law of self-conservation, as it has been called, probably all admit of explanation in conformity with it, so as to leave its substantial truth unimpeached.' But this law, however stated, is too teleological to serve as a purely psychological principle, and, as generally formulated and illustrated, it takes account of matters quite outside the psychologist's ken. We are not now concerned to know why a bitter taste e.g. is painful or the gratification of an appetite pleasant, but what marks distinctive of all painful presentations the one has and the other lacks. From a biological standpoint it may be true enough that the final cause of sexual and parental feelings is the perpetuation of the species; but this does not help us to ascertain what common character they have as actual sources of feeling for the individual. From the biological standpoint again, even the senile decadence and death of the individual may be shown to be advantageous to the race; but it would certainly be odd to describe this as advantageous to the individual; so different are the two points of view. What we are in search of, although a generalization, has reference to some-thing much more concrete than concepts like race or life, and does not require us to go beyond the consciousness of the moment to such ulterior facts as they imply. Were it possible it would be quite unnecessary to examine in detail every variety of pleasurable and painful consciousness in connexion with a general inquiry of this sort. It will be best to enumerate at the outset the only cases that specially call for investigation. Feeling may arise mainly from (a) single sensations or movements, including in these what recent psychologists call their tone; or it may be chiefly determined by (b) some combination or arrangement of these primary presentations—hence what might be styled the lower aesthetic feelings. We have thus among primary presentations a more material and a more formal cause or ground of feeling. The mere representation of these sources of feeling involves nothing of moment: the idea of a bright colour or a bitter taste has not definiteness or intensity enough to produce feeling; and the ideal presentation of a harmonious arrangement of sounds or colours does not in itself differ essentially as regards the feeling it occasions from the actual presentation. When we advance to the level at which there occur ideas more complex and more highly representative —or re-representative, as Mr Spencer would say—than any we have yet considered we can again distinguish between material and formal grounds of feeling. To the first we might refer, e.g. (c) the egoistic, sympathetic, and religious feelings; this class will probably require but brief notice. The second, consisting of (d) the intellectual and (e) the higher aesthetic feelings, is psychologically more important. There is a special class of ' See Spencer, Data of Ethics, chs. i.–iv.; G. H. Schneider, Freud and Leid des Menschengeschlechts, ch. i. expression, or with the sensations or ideas that are its cause. For feeling as such is, so to put it, matter of being rather than of direct knowledge; and all that we know about it we know from its antecedents or consequents in presentation. Pure feeling, then, ranging solely between the opposite extremes of pleasure and pain, we are naturally led to inquire whether there is any corresponding contrast in the feelings, which might be distinguished from all the preceding as reflex, since they arise from the memory or expectation of feelings but in fact these are largely involved in all the higher feelings, and this brief reference to them will suffice: of such hope, fear, regret are examples. a. The quality and intensity as well as the duration and frequency of a sensation or movement all have to do with Sensations determining to what feeling it gives rise. It will and Move- be best to leave the last two out of account for a time. meats. Apart from these, the pleasantness or painfulness of a movement appears to depend solely upon its intensity, that is to say, upon the amount of effort necessary to effect it, in such wise that a certain amount of exertion is agreeable and any excess disagreeable. Some sensations also, such as those of light and sound, are agreeable if not too intense, their pleasantness increasing with their intensity up to a certain point, on nearing which the feeling rapidly changes and becomes disagreeable or even painful. Other sensations, as bitter tastes, e.g. are naturally unpleasant, however faint—though we must allow the possibility of an acquired liking for moderately bitter or pungent flavours. But in every case such sensations produce unmistakable manifestations of disgust, if at all intense. Sweet tastes, on the other hand, however intense, are pleasant to an unspoiled palate, though apt before long to become mawkish, like " sweetest honey, loathsome in his own deliciousness," as confectioners' apprentices are said soon to find. The painfulness of all painful sensations or movements increases with their intensity without any assignable maximum being reached. A comparison of examples of this kind, which it would be tedious to describe more fully and which are indeed too familiar to need much description, seems to show (r) that, so far as feeling is determined by the intensity of a presentation, there is pleasure so long as attention can be adapted or accommodated to the presentation, and pain so soon as the intensity is too great for this; and (2) that, so far as feeling is determined by the quality of a presentation, those that are pleasurable enlarge the field of consciousness and introduce or agreeably increase in intensity certain organic sensations, while those that are painful contract the field of consciousness and introduce or disagreeably increase in intensity certain organic sensations. There are certain other hedonic effects due to quality, the examination of which we must for the present defer. Meanwhile as to the first point it may be suggested, as at any rate a working hypothesis, that in itself any and every simple sensation or movement is pleasurable if there is attention forthcoming adequate to its intensity. In the earliest and simplest phases of life, in which the presentation-continuum is but little differentiated, it is reasonable to suppose that variation in the intensity of presentation preponderates over changes in the quality of presentation, and that to the same extent feeling is determined by the former and not by the latter. And, whereas this dependence on intensity is invariable, there is no ground for supposing the quality of any primary presentation, when not of excessive intensity, to be invariably disagreeable; the changes above-mentioned in the hedonic effects of bitter tastes, sweet tastes, or the like tend rather to prove the contrary. This brings us to the second point, and it requires some elucidation. We need here to call to mind the continuity of our presentations and especially the existence of a background of organic sensations or somatic consciousness, as it is variously termed. By the time that qualitatively distinct presentations have been differentiated from this common basis it becomes possible for any of these, without having the intensity requisite to affect feeling directly, to change it indirectly by means of the systemic sensations accompanying them, or, in other words, by their tone. The physiological concomitants of these changes of somatic tone are largely reflex movements or equivalents of movements, such as alterations in circulatory, respiratory and excretory processes. Such movements are psychologically movements no longer, and are rightly regarded as pertaining wholly to the sensory division of presentations. But originally it may have been otherwise. To us now, these organic reflexes seem but part and parcel of the special sensation whose tone theyform, and which they accompany even when that sensation, so far as its mere intensity goes, might be deemed indifferent. But perhaps at first the special qualities that are now throughout unpleasant may have been always presented with an excessive intensity that would be painful on this score alone, and the reflexes that at present pertain to them may then have been psychologically the expression of this pain). At any rate it is manifestly unfair to refuse either to seek out the primitive effects of the sensations in question and allow for the workings of heredity, or to reckon this accompanying systemic feeling as part of them. The latter seems the readier and perhaps, too, the preferable course. A word will now suffice to explain what is meant by enlarging and contracting the field of consciousness and agreeably increasing or decreasing certain elements therein. The difference in point is manifest on comparing the flow of spirits, buoyancy and animation which result from a certain duration of pleasurable sensations with the lowness or depression of spirits, the gloom and heaviness of heart, apt to ensue from prolonged physical pain. Common language, in fact, leaves us no choice but to describe these contrasted states by figures which clearly imply that they differ in the range and variety of the presentations that make up consciousness, and in the quickness with which these succeed each other? It is not merely that in hilarity as contrasted with dejection the train of ideas takes a wider sweep and shows greater liveliness, but as it were at the back of this, on the lower level of purely sensory experience, certain organic sensations which are ordinarily indifferent acquire a gentle intensity, which seems by flowing over to quicken and expand the ideational stream as we see, for instance, in the effects of mountain air and sushine. Or, on the other hand, these sensations become so violently intense as to drain off and ingulf all available energy in one monotonous corroding care, an oppressive weight which leaves no place for free movement, no life or leisure to respond to what are wont to be pleasurable solicitations .3 As regards the duration and the frequency of presentation, it is in general true that the hedonic effect soon attains its maxi-mum, and then, if pleasant, rapidly declines, or even changes to its opposite. Pains in like manner decline, but more slowly and without in the same sense changing to pleasures. The like holds of too frequent repetition. Physiological explanation of these facts, good as far as it goes, is, of course, at once forth-coming: sensibility is blunted, time is required for restoration, and so forth; but at least we want the psychological equivalent of all this. In one respect we find nothing materially new; so . In the lowly organisms that absorb food directly through the skin such bitter juices as exist naturally might at once produce very violent effects—comparable, say, to scalding; and the reflexes then established may have been continued by natural selection so as to save from poisoning the higher organisms, whose absorbent surfaces are internal and only guarded in this way by the organ of taste. Some light is thrown on questions of this kind by the very interesting experiments of Dr Romanes; for a general account of these see his Jelly-fish, Star-fish, and Sea-urchins, ch. ix. 2 This is one among many cases in which the study of a vocabulary is full of instruction to the psychologist. The reader who will be at the trouble to compare the parallel columns under the heading " Passive Affections," in Roget's Thesaurus of English Words and Phrases, will find ample proof both of this general statement and of what is said above in the text. 3 Observation and experiment show that the physical signs of pain in the higher animals consist in such changes as a lowered and weaker pulse, reduction of the surface temperature, quickened respiration, dilatation of the iris, and the like. And so far as can be ascertained these effects are not altogether the emotional reaction to pain but in large measure its actual accompaniments, the physical side of what we have called its tone. The following is a good description of these general characteristics of feeling: " En meme temps, it se fait une serie de mouvements generaux de flexion, comme si ]'animal voulait se rendre plus petit, et offrir moins de surface a la douleur. I1 est interessant de remarquer que, pour 1'homme comme pour tons les animaux, on retrouve ces memes mouvements generaux de flexion et d'extension repondant aux sentiments differents de plaisir et de la douleur. Le piaisir repond a un mouvement d'epanouissement, de dilatation, d'extension. Au contraire, dans la douleur, on se rapetisse, on se referme sur soi; c'est un mouvement general de flexion " (C. Richet, L'Homme et .'Intelligence: la douleur, P. 9). far as continued presentation entails diminished intensity we have nothing but diminished feeling as a consequence; so far as its continued presentation entails satiety the train of agreeable accompaniments ceases in which the pleasurable tone consisted. But in another way long duration and frequent repetition produce indirectly certain characteristic effects on feeling in consequence of habituation and accommodation. We may get used to a painful presentation in such wise that we cease to be conscious of it as positively disagreeable, though its cessation is at once a source of pleasure; in like manner we come to require things simply because it is painful to be without them, although their possession has long ceased to be a ground of positive enjoyment. This loss (or gain) consequent on accommodation has a most important effect in changing the sources of feeling: it helps to transfer attention from mere sensations to what we may distinguish as interests. b. Certain sensations or movements not separately unpleasant become so when presented together or in immediate succession; Combina- and contrariwise, some combinations of sensations Lions of or of movements may be such as to afford pleasure sensations distinct from, and often greater than, any that and of they separately yield. Here again we find that in movements. some cases the effect seems mainly to depend on intensity, in others mainly on quality. (i.) As instances of the former may be mentioned the pleasurableness of a rhythmic succession of sounds or movements, of symmetrical forms and curved outlines, of gentle crescendos and diminuendos in sound, and of gradual variations of shade in colour, and the painfulness of flickering lights, " beats " in musical notes, false time, false steps, false quantities, and the like. In all these, whenever the result is pleasurable, attention can be readily accommodated—is, so to say, economically meted out; and, whenever the result is painful, attention is surprised, balked, wasted. Thus we can make more movements and with less expenditure of energy when they are rhythmic than when they are not, as the performances of a ball-room or of troops marching to music amply testify. Of this economy we have also a striking proof in the ease with which rhythmic language is retained. (ii.) As instances of the latter may be cited those arrangements of musical tones and of colours that are called harmonious or the opposite. Harmony, however, must be taken to have a different meaning in the two cases. When two or three tones harmonize there results, as is well known, a distinct pleasure over and above any pleasure due to the tones themselves. On the other hand, tones that are discordant are unpleasant in spite of any pleasantness they may have singly. Besides the negative condition of absence of beats, a musical interval to be pleasant must fulfil certain positive conditions, sufficiently expressed for our purpose by saying that two tones are pleasant when they give rise to few combination-tones, and when among these there are several that coincide, and that they are unpleasant when they give rise to many combination-tones, and when among these there are few or none that coincide. Too many tones together prevent any from being distinct. But where tones coincide the number of tones actually present is less than the number of possible tones, and there is a proportionate simplification, so to put it: more is commanded and with less effort. An ingenious writer2 on harmony, in fact, compares the confusion of a discord to that of " trying to reckon up a sum in one's head and failing because the numbers are too high." A different explanation must be given of the so-called harmonies of colour. The pleasurable effect of graduations of colour or shade—to which, as Ruskin tells us, the rose owes its victorious beauty when compared with other flowers—has been already mentioned: it is rather a quantitative than a qualitative effect. What we are t It has been definitely formulated, but in physiological language, by Bain as the Law of Novelty: " No second occurrence of any great shock or stimulus, whether pleasure, pain, or mere excitement, is ever fully equal to the first, notwithstanding that full time has been given for the nerves to recover from their exhaustion " (Mind and Body, p. 51). Cf. also his Emotions and Will, 3rd ed., p. 83. 2 Preyer, Akustische Untersuchungen, p. 59now concerned with are the pleasurable or painful combinations of different ungraduated colours. A comparison of these seems to justify the general statement that those colours yield good combinations that are far apart in the colour circle, while those near together are apt to be discordant. The explanation given, viz. that the one arrangement secures and the other prevents perfect retinal activity, seems on the whole satisfactory—especially if we acknowledge the tendency of all recent investigations and distinguish sensibility to colour and sensibility to mere light as both psychologically and physiologically two separate facts. Thus, when red and green are juxtaposed, the red increases the saturation of the green and the green that of the red, so that both colours are heightened in brilliance. But such an effect is only pleasing to the child and the savage; for civilized men the contrast is excessive, and colours less completely opposed, as red and blue, are preferred, each being a rest from the other, so that as the eye wanders to and fro over their border different elements are active by turns. Red and orange, again, are bad, in that both exhaust in a similar manner and leave the remaining factors out of play. c. The more or less spontaneous workings of imagination, as well as that direct control of this working necessary to thinking in the stricter sense, are always productive of pain or pleasure in varying degrees. Though the ex- Ideation and intellect ion. position of the higher intellectual processes has not yet been reached, there will be no inconvenience in at once taking account of their effects on feeling, since these are fairly obvious and largely independent of any analysis of the processes themselves. It will also be convenient to include under the one term " intellectual feelings," not only the feelings connected with certainty, doubt, perplexity, comprehension, and so forth, but also what the Herbartian psychologists—whose work in this department of psychology is classical—have called par excellence the formal feelings—that is to say, feelings which they regard as entirely determined by the form of the flow of ideas, and not by the ideas themselves. Thus, be the ideas what they may, when their onward movement is checked by divergent or obstructing lines of association, and especially when in this manner we are hindered, say, from recollecting a name or a quotation (as if, e.g. the names of Archimedes, Anaximenes and Anaximander each arrested the clear revival of the other), we are conscious of a certain strain and oppressiveness, which give way to momentary relief when at length what is wanted rises into distinct consciousness and our ideas resume their flow. Here again, too, as in muscular movements, we have the contrast of exertion and facility, when " thoughts refuse to flow " and we work " invita Minerva," or when the appropriate ideas seem to unfold and display themselves before us like a vision before one inspired. To be confronted with propositions we cannot reconcile i.e. with what is or appears inconsistent, false, contradictory—is apt to be painful; the recognition of truth or logical coherence, on the other hand, is pleasurable. The feeling in either case is, no doubt, greater the greater our interest in the subject-matter; but the mere conflict of ideas as such is in itself depressing, while the discernment of agreement, of the one in the many, is a distinct satisfaction. Now in the one case we are conscious of futile efforts to comprehend as one ideas which the more distinctly we apprehend them for the purpose only prove to be the more completely and diametrically opposed: we can only affirm and mentally envisage the one by denying and suppressing the representation of the other; and yet we have to strive to predicate both and to embody them together in the same mental image. Attention is like a house divided against itself: there is effort but it is not effective, for the field of consciousness is narrowed and the flow of ideas arrested. When, on the other hand, we discern a common principle among diverse and apparently disconnected particulars, instead of all the attention we can command being taxed in the separate apprehension of these " disjecta membra," they become as one, and we seem at once to have at our disposal resources for the command of an enlarged field and the detection of new resemblances. d. Closely related to these formal intellectual feelings are certain of the higher aesthetic feelings. A reference to some Higher of the commonplaces of aesthetical writers may be Aesthetic sufficient briefly to exhibit the leading characteristics Feelings. of these feelings. There is a wide agreement among men in general as to what is beautiful and what is not, and it is the business of a treatise on empirical aesthetics from an analysis of these matters of fact to generalize the principles of taste—to do, in fact, for one source of pleasure and pain what we are here attempting in a meagre fashion for all. And these principles are the more important in their bearing upon the larger psychological question, because among aesthetic effects are reckoned only such as are pleasing or otherwise in themselves, apart from all recognition of utility, of possession, or of ulterior gratification of any kind whatever. Thus, if it should be objected that the intellectual satisfaction of consistency is really due to its utility, to the fact that what is incompatible and incomprehensible is of no avail for practical guidance, at least this objection will not hold against the aesthetic principle of unity in variety. In accordance with this primary maxim of art criticism, at the one extreme art productions are condemned for monotony, as incapable of sustaining interest because " empty," " bald " and " poor "; at the other extreme they are condemned as too incoherent and disconnected to furnish a centre of interest. And those are held as so far praiseworthy in which a variety of elements, be they movements, forms, colours or incidents, instead of conflicting, all unite to enhance each other and to form not merely a mass but a whole. Another principle that serves to throw light on our inquiry is that which has been called the principle of economy,' viz. that an effect is pleasing in proportion as it is attained by little effort and simple means. The brothers Weber in their classic work on human locomotion discovered that those movements that are aesthetically beautiful are also physiologically correct; grace and ease, in fact, are well-nigh synonymous, as Herbert Spencer points out, and illustrates by apt instances of graceful attitudes, motions and forms. The same writer,'- again, in seeking for a more general law underlying the current maxims of writers on composition and rhetoric is led to a special formulation of this principle as applied to style, viz. that " economy of the recipient's attention is the secret of effect." Perhaps of all aesthetical principles the most wide-reaching, as well as practically the most important, is that which explains aesthetic effects by association. Thus, to take one example where so many are possible, the croaking of frogs and the monotonous ditty of the cuckoo owe their pleasantness, not directly to what they are in themselves, but entirely to their intimate association with spring-time and its gladness. At first it might seem, therefore, that in this principle there is nothing fresh that is relevant to our present inquiry, since a pleasure that is only due to association at once carries back the question to its sources; so that in asking why the spring, for example, is pleasant we should be returning to old ground. But this is not altogether true; aesthetic effects call up not merely ideas but ideals. A great work of art improves upon the real in two respects: it intensifies and it transfigures. It is for art to gather into one focus, cleared from dross and commonplace, the genial memories of a life-time, the instinctive memories of a race; and, where theory can only classify and arrange what it receives, art—in a measure free from " the literal unities of time and place "—creates and glorifies. Still art eschews the abstract and speculative; however plastic in its hands, the material wrought is always that of sense. We have already noticed more than once the power which primary presentations have to sustain vivid re-presentations, and the, bearing of this on the aesthetic effects of works of art must be straightway obvious. The notes and colours, rhymes and rhythms, forms and movements, which produce the lower aesthetic feelings also serve as the means of bringing into view, ' Cf. Fechner, Vorschule der Aesthetik, ii. 263. Fechner's full style for it is " Princip der okonomischen Verwendung der Mittel oder des kleinsten Kraftmasses." 2 Essays, Scientific, Political and Speculative, vol. ii., Ess. I. and VIII.and maintaining at a higher level of vividness, a wider range and flow of pleasing ideas than we can ordinarily command. When we reach the level at which there is distinct self-consciousness (cf. § 44), we have an important class of feelings determined by the relation of the presenta- Egnisticand tion of self to the other contents of consciousness. socialistic And as the knowledge of other selves advances pari Feelings. passu with that of one's own self, so along with the egoistic feelings appear certain social or altruistic feelings. The two have much in common; in pride and shame, for example, account is taken of the estimate other persons form of us and of our regard for them; while, on the other hand, when we admire or despise, congratulate or pity another, we have always present to our mind a more or less definite conception of self in like circumstances. It will therefore amply serve all the ends of our present inquiry if we briefly survey the leading characteristics of some contrasted egoistic feelings, such as self-complacency and disappointment. When a man is pleased with himself, his achievements, possessions or circumstances, such pleasure is the result of a comparison of his present position in this respect with some former position or with the position of someone else. Without descending to details, we may say that two prospects are before him, and the larger and fairer is recognized as his own. Under disappointment or reverse the same two pictures may be present to his mind, but accompanied by the certainty that the better is not his or is his no more. So far, then, it might be said the contents of his consciousness are in each case the same, the whole difference lying in the different relationship to self. But this makes all the difference even to the contents of his consciousness, as we shall at once see if we consider its active side. Even the idlest and most thoughtless mind teems with intentions and expectations, and in its prosperity, like the fool in the parable, thinks to pull down its barns and build greater, to take its ease, eat, drink and be merry. The support of all this pleasing show and these far-reaching aims is, not the bare knowledge of what abundance .will do, but the reflection—These many goods are mine. In mind alone final causes have a place, and the end can produce the beginning; the prospect of a summer makes the present into spring. But action is paralysed or impossible when the means evade us. In so far as a man's life consists in the abundance of the things he possesseth, we see then why it dwindles with these. The like holds where self-complacency or displicency rests on a sense of personal worth or on the honour or affection of others. 32. We are now at the end of our survey of certain typical pleasurable and painful states. The answer to our inquiry which it seems to suggest is that there is pleasure in proportion as a maximum of attention is effectively andQesu/ Summary t. exercised, and pain in proportion as such effective attention is frustrated by distractions, shocks, or incomplete and faulty adaptations, or fails of exercise, owing to the narrowness of the field of consciousness and the slowness and smallness of its changes. Something must be said in explication of this formula, and certain objections that might be made to it must be considered. First of all it implies that feeling is determined partly by quantitative, or, as we might say, material conditions, and partly by conditions that are formal or qualitative. As regards the former, both the intensity or concentration of attention and its diffusion or the extent of the field of consciousness have to be taken into account. Attention, whatever else it is, is a limited quantity Pluribus intentus minor est ad singula sensus- to quote Hamilton's pet adage. Moreover, as we have seen, attention requires time. If, then, attention be distributed over too wide a field, there is a corresponding loss of intensity, and so of distinctness: we tend towards a succession of indistinguishables—indistinguishable, therefore, from no succession. We must not have more presentations in the field of consciousness than will allow of some concentration of attention: a maximum diffusion will not do. A maximum concentration, in like manner—even if there were no other objection to it- would seem to conflict with the general conditions of consciousness, inasmuch ag a single simple presentation, however intense, would admit of no differentiation, and any complex presentation is in some sort a plurality. The most effective attention, then, as regards its quantitative conditions, must lie somewhere between the two zeros of complete indifference and complete absorption. If there be an excess of diffusion, effective attention will increase up to a certain point as concentration increases, but beyond that point will decrease if this intensification continues to increase; and vice versa, if there be an excess of concentration. But, inasmuch as these quantitative conditions involve a plurality of distinguishable presentations or changes in consciousness, the way is open for formal conditions as well. Since different presentations consort differently when above the threshold of consciousness together, one field may be wider and yet as intense as another, or intenser and yet as wide, owing to a more advantageous arrangement of its constituents.' The doctrine here developed, viz., that feeling depends on efficiency, is in the main as old as Aristotle; all that has been done is to give it a more accurately psychological pleasure pleasures. expression, and to free it from the implications of the faculty theory, in which form it was expounded by Hamilton. Of possible objections there are at least two that we must anticipate, and the consideration of which will help to make the general view clearer. First, it may be urged that, according to this view, it ought to be one continuous pain to fall asleep, since in this state consciousness is rapidly restricted both as to intensity and range. This statement is entirely true as regards the intensity and substantially true as regards the range, at least of the higher consciousness: certain massive and agreeable organic sensations pertain to falling asleep, but the variety of presentations at all events grows less. But then the capacity to attend is also rapidly declining; even a slight intruding sensation entails an acute sense of strain in one sense, in place of the massive pleasure of repose through-out; and any voluntary concentration either in order to move or to think involves a like organic conflict, futile effort, and arrest of balmy ease. There is as regards the more definite constituents of the field of consciousness a close resemblance between natural sleepiness and the state of monotonous humdrum we call tedium or ennui; and yet the very same excitement that would relieve the one by dissipating the weariness of inaction would disturb the other by renewing the weariness of action: the one is commensurate with the resources of the moment, the other is not. Thus the maximum of effective attention in question is, as Aristotle would say, a maximum " relative to us." It is possible, therefore, that a change from a wider to a narrower field of consciousness may be a pleasurable change, if attention is more effectively engaged. Strictly speaking, however, the so-called negative pleasures of rest do not consist in a mere narrowing of the field of consciousness so much as in a change in the amount of concentration. Massive organic sensations connected with restoration take the place of the comparatively acute sensations of jaded powers forced to work. We have, then, in all cases to bear in mind this subjective relativity of all pleasurable or painful states of consciousness. ' As it is impossible to say that any distinguishable presentation is absolutely simple, the hypothesis of subconsciousness would leave us free to assume that any pleasantness or unpleasantness that cannot be explained on the score of intensity is due to some obscure harmony or discord, compatibility or incompatibility, of elements not separately discernible. But this, though tempting, is not really a very scientific procedure. If a particular presentation is pleasurable or painful in such wise as to lead to a redistribution of attention, it is reasonable to look for an explanation primarily in its connexion with the rest of the field of consciousness. Moreover, it is obvious—since what takes place in subconsciousness can only be explained in analogy with what takes place in consciousness—that, if we have an inexplicable in the one, we must have a corresponding inexplicable in the other. If the feeling produced by what comports itself as a simple presentation cannot be explained by what is in consciousness, we should be forced to admit that some presentations are unpleasant simply because they are unpleasant—an inexplicability which the hypothesis of subconsciousness might push farther back but would not remove. 33. But there is still another and more serious difficulty to face. It has long been a burning question with theoretical moralists whether pleasures differ only quantita- Do pleasures tively or differ qualitatively as well, whether psycho- Differ Qualilogical analysis will justify the common distinction tatlrel'? of higher and lower pleasures or force us to recognize nothing but differences of degree, of duration, and so forth—as expounded, e.g. by Bentham, whose cynical mot, " pushpin is as good as poetry provided it be as pleasant," was long a stumbling block in the way of utilitarianism. The entire issue here is confused by an ambiguity in terms that has been already noticed: pleasure and pleasures have not the same connotation. By a pleasure or pleasures we mean some assign-able presentation or presentations experienced as pleasant—i.e. as affording pleasure; by pleasure simply is meant this subjective state of feeling itself. The former, like other objects of know-ledge, admit of classification and comparison: we may distinguish them as coarse or as noble, or, if we will, as cheap and wholesome. But while the causes of feeling are manifold, the feeling itself is a subjective state, varying only in intensity and duration. The best evidence of this lies in the general character of the actions that ensue through feeling—the matter which has next to engage us. Whatever be the variety in the sources of pleasure, whatever be the moral or conventional estimate of their worthiness, if a given state of consciousness is pleasant we seek so far to retain it, if painful to be rid of it: we prefer greater pleasure before less, less pain before greater. This is, in fact, the whole meaning of preference as a psychological terns. Wisdom and folly each prefer the course which the other rejects. Both courses cannot, indeed, be objectively preferable; that, however, is not a matter for psychology. But as soon as reflection begins, exceptions to this primary principle of action seem to arise continually, even though we regard the individual as a law to himself. Such exceptions, however, we may presently find to be apparent only. At any rate the principle is obviously true before reflection begins—true so long as we are dealing with actually present sources of feeling, and not with their . re-presentations. But to admit this is psychologically to admit everything, at least if experience is to be genetically explained. Assuming then that we start with only quantitative variations of feeling, we have to attempt to explain the development of formal and qualitative differences in the character given to the grounds of feeling. But, if aversions and pursuits result from incommensurable states of pain and pleasure, there seems no other way of saving the unity and continuity of the subject except by speculative assumption—the doctrine known as the freedom of the will in its extremest form. The one position involves the other, and the more scientific course is to avoid both as far as we can. The question, then, is : How, if action depends in the last resort on a merely quantitative difference, could it ever come about that what we call the higher sources of feeling should supersede the lower? If it is only quantity that turns the scales, where does quality come in, for we cannot say, e.g. that the astronomer experiences a greater thrill of delight when a new planet rewards his search than the hungry savage in finding a clump of pig-nuts? Tempera mutentur nos et mutamur in illis contains the answer in brief. We shall understand this answer better if we look at a parallel case, or what is really our own from another point of view. We distinguish between higher and lower forms of life: we might say there is more life in a large oyster than in a small one, other things being equal, but we should regard a crab as possessing not necessarily more life—as measured by waste of tissue—but certainly as manifesting life in a higher form. How, in the evolution of the animal kingdom, do we suppose this advance to have been made? The tendency at any one moment is simply towards more life, simply towards growth; but this process of self-conservation imperceptibly but steadily modifies the self that is conserved. The creature is bent only on filling its skin; but in doing this as easily as may be it gets a better skin to fill, and accordingly seeks to fill it differently. Though cabbage and honey are what they were before, they have changed relatively to the grub now it has become a butterfly. So, while we are all along preferring a more pleasurable state of consciousness before a less, the content of our consciousness is continually changing; the greater pleasure still outweighs the less, but the pleasures to be weighed are either wholly different, or at least are the same for us no more. What we require then, is not that the higher pleasures shall always afford greater pleasure than the lower did, but that to advance to the level of life on which pleasure is derived from higher objects shall on the whole be more pleasurable and less painful than to remain behind. And this condition seems provided in the fact of accommodation above referred to and in the important fact that attention can be more effectively expended by what we may therefore call improvements in the form of the field of consciousness. But when all is said and done a certain repugnance is apt to arise against any association of the differences between the higher and lower feelings with differences of quantity. Yet such repugnance is but another outcome of the common mistake of supposing that the real is obtained by pulling to pieces rather than by building up. No logical analysis—nay, further, no logical synthesis—is adequate to the fullness of things. For the rest, such aversion is wholly emotional, and has no more an intellectual element in it than has the disgust we feel on first witnessing anatomical dissections.' Emotion and Emotional Expression. 34. We now pass from the causes of feeling to its effects. We have assumed (§ 7) that the simplest and earliest of these Effects of effects are to be found in the various bodily move-Feeling. ments commonly described as the expression or manifestation of emotion. But in a notorious article, entitled "What is an Emotion?" Professor James2 attempted to turn this, the common-sense position, upside down. Before proceeding we must, therefore, examine his alternative theory: " Common sense says: we lose our for-tune, are sorry and weep; we meet a bear, are frightened and run; we are insulted by a rival, are angry and strike." But, Professor James continues, " 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." In a word, whereas it is commonly supposed that the emotion precedes and produces the expression, it seems here to be maintained that the expression precedes and produces the emotion. But the sequence denied in the first case is a psychological sequence, the sequence maintained in the second is a physiological 'sequence. The subject's experiences of the bodily expressions is here the emotion, and these are physically, not psychically, determined. " They are sensational processes," says Professor James; " processes due to inward currents set up by physical happenings." The new theory is, then, in part psychological, in part psycho-physical. As to the first part, which the author calls " the vital point of the whole theory," it consists mainly in exposing the ambiguity of the phrase " bodily expression of an emotion " —a phrase which is liable to mislead us into fancying that " To look at anything in its elements makes it appear inferior to what it seems as a whole. Resolve the statue or the building into stone and the laws of proportion, and no worthy causes of the former beautiful result seem now left behind. So, also, resolve a virtuous act into the passions and some quantitative law, and it seems to be rather destroyed than analysed, though after all what was there else it could be resolved into? " Sir A. Grant, Aristotle's Ethics, Essay IV., " The Doctrine of the Mean," i. 210 (2nd ed.). 2 Mind (1884), ix. 188 sqq.; and, again, Principles of Psychology, ch. xxv. Very similar views were advanced independently and almost at the same time by the Danish physiologist C. Lange; hence the name James-Lange theory, by which their views are commonly known. Of Lange's work a German translation was published in 1887.emotion, like thought, may be antecedent to, or independent of, any expression or utterance. My fear or anger may chance to be expressive to another, but they are of necessity impressive to me. " A disembodied human emotion is a sheer nonentity." In so far as I have a certain emotion, in so far I have " the feelings of its bodily symptoms." This is true, not to say trite; but, how do these symptoms arise? With this question we pass to the psychophysical side of the theory, and here it be-comes perplexing, and is itself perplexed; for to this question it is driven to return two distinct and divergent answers. First, we are told that it is not the emotion that gives rise to the bodily expression, but that, on the contrary, " the bodily changes follow directly the perception of the existing fact," it being beyond doubt " that objects do excite bodily changes by a preorganised mechanism." Again: Each emotion is," for Professor James, " a 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 existing object." The old attempts at classification and description being contemptuously dismissed as belonging only to " the lowest stage of science," we are informed that now we step from a superficial to a deep order of inquiry. " 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?'" But we have not had to wait for the James-Lange theory to raise these questions, and surely there are none that bring out its defects more glaringly. "Objects " that determine bodily changes by means of preorganized mechanism and without psychical interposition might fairly be taken to be physical objects; and indeed the whole process is expressly described as reflex. But only very slovenly physiologists talk of " objects " exciting reflexes: it is inexact even to say that sensations do so. All that reflex action requires is a stimulus. " The essence of a reflex action," says Foster, " consists in the transmutation, by means of the irritable protoplasm of a nerve-cell, of afferent into efferent impulses." Let Professor James be confronted first by a chained bear and next by a bear at large: to the one object he presents a bun, and to the other a clean pair of heels; or let him first be thrilled by a Beethoven symphony and then by a Raphael Madonna. Will he now undertake to account, in terms of stimuli and their reflex effects, for the very different results of the similar " causes " in the one case, or for the similar results of the very different " causes " in the other? Such a challenge would certainly be declined, and Professor James would remind us that in his nomenclature " it is the total situation on which the reaction of the subject is made." 3 But there is just a world of difference between "object" stimulus transformed by preorganised mechanism into an efferent discharge, and" object " =total situation to which the subject reacts. The attempt to explain emotion causally on the lines of the former meaning lands us in the conscious automaton theory, with which we must deal presently: this Professor James rejects. The latter meaning, on the other hand, involves the recognition of the subject's attitude as essential to the reaction, and of this as determined by pleasure, pain or by some " interest " resting ultimately on these. Such, with scarcely an exception; has always been, and still remains, the analysis of emotion in vogue among psychologists. It brings to the fore a new category, that of worth or value, one wholly extraneous to the physiologist's domain, and repugnant to the mechanical analogies which are there in place. No doubt such a concept is attained only by reflexion, but the experiences from which it is drawn, the affective states and the conative tendencies of the subject experiencing, must have preceded. From this central stand-point alone the objective situation has a worth which explains the subject's attitude, and here alone can we find the clue which 3 " Physical Basis of Emotion," Psychological Review (1894), p. 518. In this reply to criticisms Professor James is supposed to have modified his views: it would be nearer the truth to say that he has made admissions incompatible with them. will enable us to answer the questions of cause that Professor James propounds. The experimental investigations of Mosso, Fer6, Lehmann, and others have shown that the vaso-motor and such like bodily changes as are prominent in emotional excitement are present also to some extent in all forms of conscious activity. The more unwonted and interesting the situation, the more diffused movements predominate over movements that are purposive; the further assimilation, both on the cognitive and the reactive side, has advanced, the more diffusion is replaced by restriction and adaptation. But we are not warranted in separating these factors of voluntary activity into distinct processes, as the physiologist, for example, separates the functions of striped and unstriped muscle. Unless we are prepared to treat all activity as reflex—as the physiologist may quite well do, if he keep strictly to his own point of view—it does not seem possible to regard emotional expression as so much organic sensation with which purposive movement has nothing to do. No doubt this connexion of vegetal and animal functions remains one of the obscurest in all psycho-biology, though its teleological fitness is obvious enough. Nevertheless, Professor James's main position is that an emotion is but a sum of organic sensations; and in order to establish this he is led to the second and very different statement which we have now to examine. Here, so far from suggesting inquiries as to the " objects " that excite emotion, his point is to maintain that in so far as the bodily cause is set up, be the means what they may, in so far the emotion is present.' And here, at length, the contention is explicit: Emotions are a certain complex of organic sensations, and such complexes are emotions: the two are not merely coexistent, they are identical. The exciting object is thus, after all, physiological; that is to say, it is whatever stimulus sets up the sensations. It cannot be psychological, " the total situation for the reacting subject," for in this sense the emotion, it is maintained, may be " objectless." In support of his position Professor James first of all cites pathological cases of such objectless emotion. He next follows up these with accounts of other cases in which emotional apathy seemed to keep pace with sensory anaesthesia, arguing that, according to his theory, a subject absolutely anaesthetic should also be incapable of emotion, although " emotion-inspiring objects might evoke the usual bodily expression from him." Whether any testimony from lunatics, hypnotics and other minds diseased could suffice to establish this novel doctrine is questionable: that the evidence so far adduced is insufficient, Professor James himself seems to allow. There are some four or five of the apathetic cases altogether: three of them are regarded by the mental pathologists who describe them as adverse to Professor James's theory.' Of the fourth case, reported by a pathologist on Professor James's side, the latter himself candidly observes, " We must remember that the patient's inemotivity may have been a co-ordinate result with the anaesthesia of his neural lesions, and not the anaesthesia's mere effect." This missing link in the argument is supplied by the experiments of Professor Sherrington,' and these show conclusively that normal emotional states are possible along with complete visceral anaesthesia. As to emotional excitement induced by intoxication or disease, and so far groundless, the most that can safely be said is that the object may be vague, ill-defined and shifting, but not that it is absent altogether. States of physical exaltation, depression or irritability readily arouse by association appropriate troupes of imagery; only when they fail of this are we entitled to say that there is no object, and then we must add that there is also no emotion. Emotional and Conative Action. 35. As in dealing with the causes of feeling, so we may now in like mariner proceed to inquire whether in its manifestations or effects there is any contrast corresponding to the opposing extremes of pleasure and pain. We have already seen reasons for dismissing reflex movements or movements not determined by feeling as psychologically secondary, the effects of habit and heredity, and for regarding those diffusive movements that are immediately expressive of feeling as primordial—such movements as are strictly purposive being gradually selected or elaborated from them. But some distinction is called for among the various movements expressive of emotion; for there is more in these than the direct effect of feeling regarded as merely pleasure or pain. It has been usual with psychologists to confound emotions with feeling, because intense feeling is essential to emotion. But, strictly 1 Text-Book of Psychology (189o), p. 383• 2 G. H. J. Berkley, " Two Cases of General Cutaneous and Sensory Anaesthesia without marked Psychical Implications," Brain (1891), xiv. 441 sqq. ' Experiments on the Value of Vascular and Visceral Factors for the Genesis of Emotion," Proc. Roy. Soc. (190o), lxvi. 390 sqq.; and Nature, lxii. 328 sqq.speaking, a state of emotion is a complete state of mind, a psychosis, and not a psychical element, if we may so say. Thus in anger we have over and above pain a more or less definite object as its cause, and a certain characteristic reactive display—frowns, compressed lips, erect head, clenched fists, in a word, the combative attitude—as its effect, and similarly of other emotions; so that generally in the particular movements indicative of particular emotions the primary and primitive effects of feeling are overlaid by what Darwin has called service-able associated habits. The purposive actions of an earlier stage of development become, though somewhat atrophied as it were, the emotive. outlet of a later stage: in the circumstances in which our ancestors worried their enemies we only show our teeth. We must, therefore, leave aside the more complex emotional manifestations and look only to the simplest effects of pleasure and of pain, if we are to discover any fundamental contrast between them.4 Joy finds expression in dancing, clapping the hands and meaningless laughter, and these actions are not only pleasurable in themselves but such as increase the existing pleasure. Attention is not drafted off or diverted; Emotional Expression. but rather the available resources seem reinforced, so that the old expenditure is supported as well as the new. To the pleasure on the receptive side is added pleasure on the active side. The violent contortions due to pain, on the other hand, are painful in themselves, though less intense than the pains from which they withdraw attention; they are but counter-irritants that arrest or inhibit still more painful thoughts or sensations. Thus, according to Darwin, " sailors who are to be flogged sometimes take a piece of lead into their mouths in order to bite it with their utmost force, and thus to bear the pain." When in this way we take account of the immediate effects as well as of the causes of feeling, we find it still more strikingly true that only in pleasurable states is there an efficient expenditure of attention. It is needless now to dwell upon this point, although any earlier mention of it would hardly have been in place. But we should fail to realize the contrast between the motor effects of pleasure and of pain if we merely regarded them as cases of diffusion. The intenser the feeling the intenser the reaction, no doubt, whether it be smiles or tears, jumping for joy, or writhing in agony; but in the movements consequent on pleasure the diffusion is the result of mere exuberance, an overflow of good spirits, as we sometimes say, and these movements, as already remarked, are always comparatively purposeless or playful. Even the earliest expressions of pain, on the contrary, seem but so many efforts to escape from the cause of it; in them there is at least the blind purpose to flee from a definite ill, but in pleasure only the enjoyment of present fortune. From Plato downwards psychologists and moralists have been fond of discussing the relation of pleasure and pain. It has been maintained that pain is the first and more fundamental fact, and pleasure nothing but relief from pain; and, again, on the other side, that pleasure is prior and positive, and pain only the negation of pleasure. So far as the mere change goes, it is obviously true that the diminution of pain is pro tanto pleasant, and the diminution of pleasure pro tanto unpleasant; and if relativity had the unlimited range sometimes assigned to it this would be all we could say. But we must sooner or later recognize the existence of a comparatively fixed neutral state, deviations from which, of comparatively short duration and of sufficient intensity, constitute distinct states of pleasure or pain. Such states, if not of liminal intensity, may then be further diminished without reversing 4 Of the three principles Darwin advances in explanation of emotional expression that which he places last—perhaps because it admits of less definite illustration—seems both psychologicaily and physiologically more fundamental than the more striking principle of serviceable associated habits which he places first; indeed the following, which is his statement of it, implies as much: " Certain actions which we recognize as expressive of certain states of mind are the direct result of the constitution of the nervous system, and have been from the first independent of the will, and to a large extent of habit " (Expression of the Emotions, p. 66). It is in illustration of this principle too that Darwin describes the movements expressive of joy and grief, emotions which in some form or other are surely the most primitive of any. their pleasurable or painful character. The turning-point here implied may, of course, gradually change too—as a result, in fact, of the law of accomriiodation. Thus a long run of pleasure would raise " the hedon'ihtic zero," while—to the small extent to which accommodation to pain is possible—a continuance of pain would lower it. But such admission makes no material difference where the actual feeling of the moment is alone concerned and retrospect out of the question. On the whole it seems, therefore, most reason-able to regard pleasure and pain as emerging out of a neutral state, which is prior to and distinct from both—not a state of absolute indifference, but of simple contentment, marked by no special active display. But it is by reference to such state of equilibrium or drat/la that we see most clearly the superior volitional efficacy of via upon which pessimists love to descant. " Nobody," says Von Hartmann, " who had to choose between no taste at all for ten minutes or five minutes of a pleasant taste and then five minutes of an unpleasant taste, would prefer the last " Most men and all the lower animals are content " to let well alone." To ascertain the origin and progress of purposive action it seems, then, that we must look to the effects of pain rather than to those of pleasure. It is true that psy- ?lion. chologists not infrequently describe the earliest pur- posive movements as appetitive; or at least they treat appetitive and aversive movements as co-ordinate and equally primitive, pleasures being supposed to lead to actions for their continuance as much as pains to actions for their removal. No doubt, as soon as the connexion between a pleasurable sensation and the appropriate action is completely established, as in the case of imbibing food, the whole process is then self-sustaining till satiety begins. But the point is that such facility was first acquired under the teaching of pain—the pain of unsatisfied hunger. The term " appetite " is apt both by its etymology and its later associations to be misleading. What are properly called the " instinctive " appetites are—when regarded from their active side—movements determined by some existing uneasy sensation. So far as their earliest manifestation in a particular individual is concerned, this urgency seems almost entirely of the nature of a ids' a tergo; and the movements are only more definite than those simply expressive of pain because of inherited pre-adaptation, on. which account, of course, they are called " instinctive." But what one inherits another must have acquired, and we have agreed here to leave heredity on one side and consider only the original evolution. But if none but psychological causes were at work this evolution would be very long and in its early stages very uncertain. At first, when only random movements ensue, we may fairly suppose both that the chance of at once making a happy hit would be small and that the number of chances, the space for repentance, would also be small. Under such circumstances natural selection would have to do almost everything and subjective selection almost nothing. So far as natural selection worked, we should have, not the individual subject making a series of tries and perfecting itself by practice, as in learning to dance or swim, but we should have those individuals whose structure happened to vary for the better surviving, increasing and displacing the rest. How much natural selection, apparently unaided, can accomplish in the way of complicated adjustment we see in the adaptation of the form and colour of plants and animals to their environment. Both factors, in reality, operate at once-, and it would be hard to fix a limit to either, though to our minds natural selection seems to lose in comparative importance as we advance towards the higher stages of life. But psychologically we have primarily to consider subjective selection, i.e. first of all, the association of particular movements with particular sensations through the mediation of feeling. The sensations here concerned are mainly painful excitations from the environment, the recurring pains of innutrition, weariness, &c., and pleasurable sensations due to the satisfaction of these organic wants—pleasures which, although not a mere " filling-up," as Plato at one time contended, are still preceded by pain, but imply over and above the removal of this a certain surplus of positive good. There seem only a few points to notice. (a) When the movements that ensue through pleasure are themselves pleasurable there is ordinarily no ground forsingling out any one; such movements simply enhance the general enjoyment, which is complete in itself and so far contains no hint of anything beyond. (b) Should one of these spontaneous movements of pleasure chance to cause pain, no doubt such movement is speedily arrested. Probably the most immediate connexion possible between feeling and purposive action is that in which a painful movement leads through pain to its own suppression. But such connexion is not very fruitful of consequences, inasmuch as it only secures what we may call internal training and does little to extend the relation of the individual to its environment. (c) Out of the irregular, often conflicting movements which indirectly relieve pain some one may chance to remove the cause of it altogether. Upon this movement, the last of a tentative series, attention, released from the pain, is concentrated; and in this way the evil and the remedy become so far associated that on a recurrence of the former the many diffused movements become less, and the one purposive movement more, pronounced; the one effectual way is at length established and the others, which were but palliatives, disappear. (d) When things have advanced so far that some one definite movement is definitely represented along with the painful sensation it remedies, it is not long before a still further advance is possible and we have preventive movements. Thanks to the orderliness of things, dangers have their premonitions. After a time, therefore, the occurrence of some signal sensation revives the image of the harm that has previously followed in its wake, and a movement—either like the first, or another that has to be selected from the random tries of fear—occurs in time to avert the impending ill. (e) In like manner, provided the cravings of appetite are felt, any signs of the presence of pleasurable objects prompt to movements for their enjoyment or appropriation. In these last cases we have action determined by percepts. The cases in which the subject is incited to action by ideas as distinct from percept require a more detailed consideration; such are the facts mainly covered by the term " desire." By the time that ideas are sufficiently self-sustaining to form trains that are not wholly shaped by the circumstances of the present, entirely new possibilities of action are Desire. opened up. We can desire to live again through experiences of which there is nothing actually present to remind us, and we can desire a new experience which as yet we only imagine. We often, no doubt, apply the term to the simpler states mentioned under (e) in the last paragraph: the fox in the fable is said to have desired the grapes he vilified because out of his reach. Again, at the other extreme it is usual to speak of a desire for honour, or for wealth, and the like; but such are not so much single states of mind as inclinations or habitual desires. Moreover, abstractions of this kind belong to a more advanced stage of development than that at which desire begins, and of necessity imply more complicated grounds of action than we can at present examine. The essential characteristics of desire will be more apparent if we suppose a case somewhere between these extremes. A busy man reads a novel at the close of the day, and finds himself led off by a reference to angling or tropical scenery to picture himself with his rods packed en route for Scotland, or booked by the next steamer for the fairyland of the West Indies. Presently, while the ideas of Jamaica or fishing are at least as vividly imagined as before, the fancied preparations receive a rude shock as the thought of his work recurs. Some such case we may take as typical and attempt to analyse it. First of all it is obviously true, at least of such more concrete desires, that what awakens desire at one time fails to do so at another, and that we are often so absorbed or content with the present as not to be amenable to (new) desires at all. A given x or y cannot, then, be called desirable per se, it is only desirable by relation to the contents of consciousness at the moment. Of what nature is this relation? (r) At the level of psychical life that we have now reached very close and complete connexions have been formed between ideas and the movements necessary for their realization, so that when the idea is vividly present these movements are apt to be nascent. This association is the result of subjective selection—i.e. of feeling—but being once established, it persists like other associations independently of it. (2) Those movements are especially apt to become nascent which have not been recently executed, which are therefore fresh and accompanied by the organic sensations of freshness, but also those which are frequently executed, and so from habit readily aroused. The latter fact, which chiefly concerns habitual desires, may be left aside for a time. (3) At times, then, when there is a lack of present interests, or when these have begun to wane, or when there is positive pain, attention is ready to fasten on any new suggestion that calls for more activity, requires a change of active attitude, or promises relief. Such spontaneous concentration of attention ensures greater vividness to the new idea, whatever it be, and to its belongings. In some cases this greater vividness may suffice. This is most likely to happen when the new idea affords intellectual occupation, and this is at the time congenial, or with indolent and imaginative persons who prefer dreaming to doing. (4) But when the new idea does not lead off the pent-up stream of action by opening out fresh channels, when, instead of this, it is one that keeps them intent upon itself in an attitude comparable to expectation, then we have desire. In such a state the intensity of the re-presentation is not adequate to the intensity of the incipient actions it has aroused. This is most obvious when the latter are directed towards sensations or percepts, and the former remains only an idea. If it were possible by concentrating attention to convert ideas into percepts, there would be an end of most desires: " if wishes were horses beggars would ride." (5) But our voluntary power over movements is in general of this kind: here the fiat may become fact. When we cannot hear we can at least listen, and, though there be nothing to fill them, we can at least hold out our hands. It would seem, then, that the source of desire lies essentially in this excess of the active reaction above the intensity of the re-presentation (the one constituting the " impulse," the other the " object " of desire, or the desideratum), and that this disparity rests ultimately on the fact that movements have, and sensations have not, a subjective initiative. (6) The impulse or striving to act will, as already hinted, be stronger the greater the available energy, the fewer the present outlets, and, habits apart, the fresher the new opening for activity. (y) Finally, it is to be noted that, when such inchoate action can be at once consummated, desire ends where it begins: to constitute a definite state of desire there must be not only an obstacle to the realization of the desideratum—if this were all we should rather call the state one of wishing—but an obstacle to its realization by means of the actions its representation has aroused. However the desire may have been called forth, its intensity is primarily identical with the strength of this impulse to action, Relation of and has no definite or constant relation to the amount Desire to of pleasure that may result from its satisfaction. Feeling. The feeling directly consequent on desire as a state of want and restraint is one of pain, and the reaction which this pain sets up may either suppress the desire or prompt to efforts to avoid or overcome the obstacles in its way. To inquire into these alternatives would lead us into the higher phases of voluntary action; but we must first consider the relation of desire to feeling more closely. Instances are by no means wanting of very imperious desires accompanied by the clear knowledge that their gratification will be positively distasteful.' On the other hand it is possible to recollect or picture circumstances known or believed to be intensely pleasurable without any desire for them being awakened at all: we can regret or admire without desiring. Yet there are many psychologists who maintain that desire is excited only by the prospect of the pleasure that may arise through its gratification, and that the strength of the desire is proportional to the intensity of the pleasure thus anticipated. ' As such an instance may be cited Plato's story of Leontius, the son of Aglaeon, in Rep. iv. 439 fin. Quid quid petitur petitur sub specie boni is their main formula. The plausibility of this doctrine rests partly upon a seemingly imperfect analysis of what strictly pertains to desire and partly on the fact that it is substantially true both of what we may call " presentation-prompted " action, which belongs to an earlier stage than desire, and of the more or less rational action that comes later. In the very moment of enjoyment it may be fairly supposed that action is sustained solely by the pleasure received and is proportional to the intensity of that pleasure. But there is here no re-presentation and no seeking; the conditions essential to desire, therefore, do not apply. Again, in rational action, where both are present, it may be true —to quote the words of an able advocate of the view here controverted—that " our character as rational beings is to desire everything exactly according to its pleasure value."2 But consider what such conceptions as the good, pleasure value and rational action involve. Here we have foresight and calculation, regard for self as an object of permanent interest—Butler's cool self-love; but desire as such is blind, without either the present certainty of sense or the assured prevision of reason. Pleasure in the past, no doubt, has usually brought about the association between the representation of the desired object and the movement for its realization; but neither the recollection of this pleasure nor its anticipation is necessary to desire, and even when present they do not determine what urgency it will have. The best proof of this lies in certain habitual desires. Pleasures are diminished by repetition, whilst habits are strengthened by it; if the intensity of desire, therefore, were proportioned to the " pleasure value " of its gratification, the desire for renewed gratification should diminish as this pleasure grows less; but, if the present pain of restraint from action determines the intensity of desire, this should increase as the action becomes habitual. And observation seems to show that, unless prudence suggests the forcible suppression of such belated desires or the active energies themselves fail, they do in fact become more imperious, although less productive of positive pleasure, as time goes on. In this there is, of course, no exception to the general principle that action is consequent on feeling—a greater pleasure being preferred before a less, a less pain before a greater; for, though the feeling that follows upon its satisfaction be less or even change entirely, still the pain of the unsatisfied desire increases as the desire hardens into habit. It is also a point in favour of the position here taken that appetites, which may be compared to inherited desires, certainly prompt to action by present pain rather than by prospective pleasure. Intellection. 36. Desire naturally prompts to the search for the means to its satisfaction and frequently to a mental rehearsal of various possible courses of action, their advantages and disadvantages. Thus, by the time the ideational continuum has become—mainly by the comparatively passive working of association—sufficiently developed to furnish free ideas as thinking material, motives are forthcoming for thinking to begin. It is obviously impossible to assign any precise time for this advance; like all others, it is gradual. Fitfully, in strange circumstances and under strong excitement, the lower animals give unmistakable signs that they can understand and reason. But thought as a permanent activity may be fairly said to originate in and even to depend upon the acquisition of speech. This indispensable instrument, which more than anything else enables our pyschological individual to advance to the distinctly human or rational stage, consists of gestures and vocal utterances, which were originally—and, indeed, are still to a large extent—emotional expressions.3 Our space will only allow us to note in what 2 Bain, Emotions and Will, 3rd ed., p. 438. 3 It must be noted that, though we still retain our psychological standpoint, the higher development of the individual is only possible through intercourse with other individuals, that is to say, through society. Without language we should be mutually exclusive and impenetrable, like so many physical atoms; with it each several mind may transcend its own limits and share the minds of others. As a way language when it already exists, is instrumental in the development as distinct from the communication of thought. But first of all, what in general is thinking, of which language is the instrument? In entering upon this inquiry we are really passing one of the hardest and fastest lines of the old psychology—that between sense and understanding. So lung as it was the fashion to assume a multiplicity of faculties the need was less felt for a clear exposition of their connexion. A man had senses and intellect much as he had eyes and ears; the heterogeneity in the one case was no more puzzling than in the other. But for psychologists who do not cut the knot in this fashion it is confessedly a hard matter to explain the relation of the two. The contrast of receptivity and activity hardly avails, for all presentation involves activity and essentially the same activity, that of attention. Nor can we well maintain that the presentations attended to differ in kind, albeit such a view has been held from Plato downwards. Nihil est in intellectu quod non fuerit Arius in sensu: the blind and deaf are necessarily without some concepts that we possess. If pure being is pure nothing, pure thought is equally empty. Thought consists of a certain elaboration of sensory and motor presentations and has no content apart from these. We cannot even say that the forms of this elaboration are psychologically a priori; on the contrary, what is epistemologically the most fundamental is the last to be psychologically realized. This is not only true as a fact; it is also true of necessity, in so far as the formation of more concrete concepts is an essential preliminary to the formation of others more abstract—those most abstract, like the Kantian categories, &c., being thus the last of all to be thought out or understood. And though this formative work is substantially voluntary, yet, if we enter upon it, the form at each step is determined by the so-called matter, and not by us; in this respect " the spontaneity of thought " is not really freer than the receptivity of sense.' It is sometimes said that thought is synthetic, and this is true; but imagination is synthetic also; and the processes which yield the ideational train are the only processes at work in intellectual synthesis. Moreover, it would be arbitrary to say at what point the mere generic image ceases and the true concept begins—so continuous are the two. No wonder, therefore, that English psychology has been prone to regard thought as only a special kind of perception—perceiving the agreement or disagreement of ideas—and the ideas themselves as mainly the products of associa- tion. Yet this is much like confounding observation with experi- ment or invention—the act of a cave-man in betaking himself to a drifting tree with that of Noah in building himself an ark. In reverie, and even in understanding the communications of others, we are comparatively passive spectators of ideational movements, non-voluntarily determined. But in thinking or " intellection," as it has been conveniently termed, there is always a search for something more or less vaguely conceived, for a clue which will be known when it occurs by seeming to satisfy certain conditions. Thinking may be broadly described as solving a problem—finding an AX that is B. In so doing we start from a comparatively fixed central idea or intuition and work along the several diverging lines of ideas associated with it—hence far the aptest and in fact the oldest description of thought is that it is discursive. Emotional excitement —and at the outset the natural man does not think much in cold blood—quickens the flow of ideas: what seems relevant is at once contemplated more closely, while what seems irrelevant awakens little interest and receives little attention. At first the control acquired is but very imperfect; the actual course of thought of even a disciplined mind falls far short of the clearness, distinctness, and coherence of the logician's ideal. Familiar associations are apt to harry attention away from the proper topic, so that thought herd of individuals mankind would have a natural history as other animals have; but personality can only emerge out of intercourse with persons, and of such intercourse language is the means. But important as is this addition of a transparent and responsive world of minds to the dead opaqueness of external things, the development of our psychological individual still remains a purely individual development. The only new point is—and it is of the highest importance to keep it in sight—that the materials of this development no longer consist exclusively of presentations elaborated by a single mind in accordance with psychical laws. Nevertheless that combination of individual experiences which converts subjective idiosyncrasy and isolation into the objectivity and solidarity of Universal Mind only affects the individual in accordance with psychical laws, and we have no need therefore to overstep our proper domain in studying the advance from the non-rational phase to the phase of reason. ' Locke, so often misrepresented, expressed this truth according to his lights in the following: " The earth will not appear painted with flowers nor the fields covered with verdure whenever we have a mind to it. . . . Just thus is it with our understanding: all that is voluntary in our knowledge is the employing or withholding any of our faculties from this or that sort of objects and a more or less accurate survey of them " (Essay, iv. 13, 2).becomes not only discursive but wandering; in place of concepts of fixed and crystalline completeness, such as logic describes, we may find a congeries of ideas but imperfectly compacted into one . generic idea, subject to continual transformation and implicating much that is irrelevant and confusing. Thus, while it is possible for thought to begin without language, just as arts may begin without tools, yet language enables us to carry the same process enormously farther. In the first place it gives us an increased command ofLanThouguaght and ge. even such comparatively concrete generic images as can be formed without it. The name of a thing or action becomes, for one who knows the name, as much an objective mark or attribute as any quality whatever can be. The form and colour of what we call an " orange " are perhaps even more intimately combined with the sound and utterance of this word than with the taste and fragance which we regard as strictly essential to the thing. But, whereas its essential attributes often evade us, we can always command its nominal attribute, in so far as this depends upon movements of articulation. By uttering the name (dr hearing it uttered) we have secured to us, in a greater or less degree, that superior vividness and definiteness that pertain to images reinstated by impressions: our idea approximates to the fixity and independence of a percept (cf. § zr above). With young children and uncultured minds—who, by the way, not uncommonly " think aloud "—the gain in this respect is probably more striking than those not confined to their mother-tongue or those used to an analytical handling of language at all realize? When things are thus made ours by receiving names from us and we can freely manipulate them in idea, it becomes easier mentally to bring together facts that logically belong together, and so to classify and generalize. For names set us free from the cumbersome tangibility and particularity of perception, which is confined to just what is presented here and now. But as ideas increase in generality they diminish in definiteness and unity; they not only become less pictorial and more schematic, but they become vague and unsteady as well, because formed from a number of concrete images only related as regards one or two constituents, and not assimilated as the several images of the same thing may be. The mental picture answering to the word " horse " has, so to say, body enough to remain a steady object when under attention from time to time; but that answering to the word " animal " is perhaps scarcely twice alike. The relations of things could thus never be readily recalled or steadily controlled if the names of those relations, which as words always remain concrete, did not give us a definite hold upon them—m&e them comprehensible. Once these " airy nothings " have a name, we reap again the advantages a concrete constituent affords: by its means that which is relevant becomes more closely associated, and that which is irrelevant—abstracted from—falls off. When what answers to the logical connotation or meaning of a concept is in this way linked with the name, it is no longer necessary that such " matter or content" should be distinctly present in consciousness. It takes time for an image to raise its associates above the threshold; and, when all are there, there is more demand upon attention in proportion. There is thus a manifest economy in what Leibnitz happily styled " symbolic," in contrast to " intuitive " thinking. Our power of efficient attention is limited, and with words for counters we can, as Leibnitz remarks, readily perform operations involving very complex presentations, and wait till these operations are concluded before realizing and spreading out the net result in sterling coin. But this simile must not mislead us. In actual thinking there never is any complete separation between the symbol and the ideas symbolized: the movements of the one are never entirely suspended till those of the laeaHont and other are complete. " Thus," says Hume, " if, instead of saying, that in war the weaker have always recourse ' Ruskin, in his Fors clavigera, relates that the sight of the word " crocodile " used to frighten him when a child so much that he could not feel at ease again till he had turned over the page on which it occurred. Distinction between Sense and Under- standing. to negotiation, we should say, that they have always recourse to conquest, the custom which we have acquired of attributing certain relations to ideas still follows the words and makes us immediately perceive the absurdity of that proposition."' How intimately the two are connected is shown by the surprises that give what point there is to puns, and by the small confusion that results from the existence of homonymous terms. The question thus arises—What are the properly ideational elements concerned in thought? Over this question psychologists long waged fight as either nominalists or conceptualists. The former maintain that what is imaged in connexion with a general concept, such as triangle, is some individual triangle " taken in a certain light,"a while the latter maintain that an " abstract idea " is formed embodying such constituents of the several particulars as the concept connotes, but dissociated from the specific or accidental variations that distinguish one particular from another. As often happens in such controversies, each side saw the weak point in the other. The nominalists easily showed that there was no distinct abstract idea representable apart from particulars; and the conceptualists could as easily show that a particular presentation " considered in a certain light " is no longer merely a particular presentation nor yet a mere crowd of presentations. The very thing to ascertain is what this consideration in a certain light implies. Perhaps a speedier end might have been put to this controversy if either party had been driven to define more exactly what was to be understood by image or idea. Such ideas as are possible to us apart from abstraction are, as we have seen, revived percepts, not revived sensations, are complex total re-presentations made up of partial re-presentations, which may figure in other totals (cf. § 21). Reproductive imagination is so far but a faint rehearsal of actual percepts, and constructive imagination but a faint anticipation of possible percepts. In either case we are busied with elementary presentations complicated or synthesized to what are tantamount to intuitions, in so far as the forms of intuition remain in the idea, though the fact, as tested by movement, &c., is absent. The several partial re-presentations, however, which make up an idea might also be called ideas, not merely in the wide sense in which every mental object may be so called, but also in the narrower sense as secondary presentations, i.e. as distinguished from primary presentations or impressions. But such isolated images of an impression, even if possible, would no more be intuitions than the mere impression itself would be one: taken alone the one would be as free of space and time as is the other. Till it is settled, therefore, whether the ideational elements concerned in conception are intuitive complexes or something answering to the ultimate elements of these, nothing further can be done. In the case of what are specially called " concrete " as distinct from " abstract " concepts—if this rough-and-ready, but unscientific, distinction may be allowed—the idea answering to the concept differs little from an intuition, and we have already remarked that the generic image (Gemeinbild of German psychologists) constitutes the connecting link between imagination and conception. But even concerning these it is useless to ask what does one imagine in thinking, e.g. of triangle or man or colour. We never—except for the sake of this very inquiry—attempt to fix our minds in this manner upon some isolated concept; in actual thinking ideas are not in consciousness alone and disjointedly, but as part of a context. When the idea " man" is present, it is present in some proposition or question, as—Man is the paragon of animals; In man there is nothing great but mind; and so on. It is quite clear that in understanding or mentally verifying such statements very different constituents out of the whole complex " man " are prominent in each. Further, what is present to consciousness when a general term is understood will differ, not only with a different context, but also the longer we dwell upon it: we may either analyse its connota- Treatise of Human Nature (Green and Grose's ed.), pt, i. § vii. P. 331. ' Cf. Berkeley, Principles of Human Knowledge, Introd. § 16, Hume, op. cit. § 7.tion or muster its denotation, as the context or the cast of our minds may determine. Thus what is relevant is alone prominent, and the more summary the attention we bestow the less the full extent and intent of the concept are displayed. To the nominalist's objection, that it is impossible to imagine a man without imagining him as either tall or short, young or old, dark or light, and so forth, the conceptualist might reply that at all events percepts may be clear without being distinct, that we can recognize a tree without recognizing what kind of tree it is, and that, moreover, -the objection proves too much: for, if our image is to answer exactly to fact, we must represent not only a tall or a short man, but a man of definite stature—one not merely either light or dark, but of a certain precise complexion. But the true answer rather is that in conceiving as such we do not necessarily imagine a man or a tree at all, any more than—if such an illustration may serve—in writing the equation to the parabola we necessarily draw a parabola as well. The individuality of a concept is thus not to be confounded with the sensible concreteness of an intuition either distinct or indistinct, and " the pains and skill " which Locke felt were required in order to frame what he called an abstract idea are not comparable to the pains and skill that may be necessary to discriminate or decipher what is faint or fleeting. The material " framed " consists no doubt of ideas, if by this is meant that in thinking we work ultimately with the ideational continuum, but what results is never a mere intuitive complex nor yet a mere group of such. The concept or " abstract idea " only emerges when a certain intelligible relation is established among the members of such a group; and the very same intuition may furnish the material for different concepts as often as a different geistiges Band is drawn between them. The stuff of this bond, as we have seen, is the word, and this brings into the foreground of consciousness when necessary those elements—whether they form an intuition or not—which are relevant to the concept. Conception, then, is not identical with imagination, although the two terms are still often, and were once generally, regarded as synonymous. The same ultimate materials occur in each; but in the one they start with and retain a sensible form, in the other they are elaborated into the form which is called " intelligible." 37. The distinctive character of this intellectual synthesis lies, we have seen, in the fact that it is determined entirely by what is synthesized, whether that be the elemen- General tary constituents of intuitions or general relations character of whatever kind among these. It differs, therefore, and Growth in being selective from the synthesis of association, oflntellecwhich rests upon contiguity and unites together tion. whatever occurs together. It differs also from any synthesis, though equally voluntary in its initiation, which is determined by a,purely subjective preference, since intellection depends upon objective relations alone. Owing to the influence of logic, which has long been in a much more forward state than psychology, it has been usual to resolve intellection into comparison, abstraction, and classification, after this fashion: AB CM and ABCN are compared, their differences M and N left out of sight, and the class notion ABC formed including both; the same process repeated with ABC and ABD yields a higher class notion AB; and so on. But our ideational continuum is not a mere string of ideas of concrete things, least of all such concrete things as this view implies. Not till our daily life resembles that of a museum porter receiving specimens will our higher mental activity be comparable to that of the savant who sorts such specimens into cases and compartments. What we perceive is a world of things in continual motion, waxing, waning, the centres of manifold changes, affecting us and apparently affected by each other, amenable to our action and, as it seems, continually interacting among themselves. Even the individual thing, as our analysis of perception has attempted to show, is not a mere sum of properties which can be taken to pieces and distributed like type, but a whole combined of parts very variously related. To understand intellection we must look at its actual development under the impetus of practical needs, rather than to logical ideals of what it ought to be. Like other forms of purposive activity, thinking is primarily undertaken as a means to an end, and especially the end of economy. It is often easier and always quicker to manipulate ideas than to manipulate real things; to the common mind the thoughtful man is one who " uses his head to save his heels." In all the arts of life, in the growth of language and institutions, in scientific explanation, and even in the speculations of philosophy, we may remark a steady simplification in the steps to a given end or conclusion, or—what is for our present inquiry the same thing —the attainment of better results with the same means. The earliest machines are the most cumbrous and clumsy, the earliest speculations the most fanciful and anthropomorphic. Gradually imitation yields to invention, the natural fallacy of post hoc, ergo propter hoc to methodical induction, till what is essential and effective is realized and appreciated and what is accidental and inert is discarded and falls out of sight. In this way man advances in the construction of a complete mental clue or master key to the intricacies of the real world, but this key is still the counterpart of the world it enables us to control and explain. To describe the process ,by which such insight is attained as a mere matter of abstraction deserves the stigma of " soulless blunder " which Hegel applied to it. Of course if attention is concentrated on X it must pro tanto be abstracted from Y, and such command of attention may require " some pains and skill." But to see in this invariable accompaniment of thinking its essential feature is much like the schoolboy's saying that engraving consists in cutting fine shavings out of a hard block. The great thing is to find out what are the light-bearing and fruit-bearing combinations. Moreover, thinking does not begin with a conscious abstraction of attention from recognized differences in the way logicians describe. The actual process of generalization, for the most part at all events, is much simpler. The same name is applied to different things or events because only their more salient features are perceived at all. Their differences, so far from being consciously and with effort left out of account, often cannot be observed when attention is directed to them: to the inexperienced all is gold that glitters. Thus, and as an instance of the principle of progressive differentiation already noted (§ 6) ,we find genera recognized before species, and the species obtained by adding on differences, not the genus by abstracting from them. Of course such vague and indefinite concepts are not at first logically general: they only become so when certain common elements are consciously noted as pertaining to presentations in other respects qualitatively different, as well as numerically distinct. But actually thinking starts from such more potential generality as is secured by the association of a generic image with a name. So far the material of thought is always general—is freed, that is, from the local and temporal and other defining marl's of percepts. 38. The process of thinking, itself is psychologically much better described as (r,) an analysis and (2) a re-synthesis of this material already furnished by the ideational Thought as trains. The logical resolution of thought into Analytic. hierarchies of concepts arranged like Porphyry's tree, into judgments uniting such concepts by means of a. logical copula, &c., is the outcome of later reflection—mainly for technical purposes—upon thought as a completed product, and entirely presupposes all that psychology has to explain. The logical theory of the formation of concepts by generalization (or abstraction) and by determination (or concretion)—i.e. by the removal or addition of defining marks—assumes the previous existence of the very things to be formed, for these marks or attributes—X's and Y's, A's and B's—are themselves already concepts. Moreover, the act of generalizing or determining is really an act of judgment, so that the logician's account of conception presupposes judgment, while at the same time his account of judgment presupposes conception. But this is no evil; for logic does not essay to exhibit the actual genesis of thought but only an ideal for future thinking. Psychologically, however—that is to say, chronologically—the judgment isfirst. The growing mind, we may suppose, passes beyond simple perception when some striking peculiarity in what is at the moment perceived is a bar to its recognition. The stalking hunter is not instantly recognized as the destroying biped, because he crawls on all fours; or the scarecrow looks like him, and yet not like him, for, though it stands on two legs, it never moves. There is thus no immediate assimilation; recognition under such circumstances is in itself a judgment, involving an analysis more or less explicit. But of more account is the further judgment to which it leads, that which connects the new fact with the generic idea. Though actually complex, generic images are not explicitly known as complexes when they first enter into judgments; as the subjects of such judgments they are but starting-points for predication—It crawls; It does not move; and the like. Such impersonal judgments, according to most philologists, are in fact the earliest; and we may reasonably suppose that by means of them our generic images have been partially analysed, and have attained to something of the distinctness and constancy of logical concepts. But the analysis is rarely complete: a certain confused and fluctuating residuum remains behind. The psychological concept merges at sundry points into those cognate with it—in other words, the continuity of the underlying memory-train still operates; only the ideal concept of logic is in all respects totus, teres, atque rotundus. Evidence of this, if it seem to any to require proof, is obtain-able on all sides, and, if we could recover the first vestiges of thinking, would doubtless be more abundant still. But, if we agree that it is through acts of judgment which successively resolve composite presentations into elements that concepts first arise, it is still very necessary to inquire more Logics/ carefully what these elements are. On the one side we have seen logicians comparing them to so many letters, Bias in and on the other psychologists enumerating the several Psychology. sensible properties of gold or wax—their colour, weight, texture, &c. —as instances of such elements. In this way formal logic and sensationalist psychology have been but blind leaders of the blind. Language, which has enabled thought to advance to the level at which reflection about thought can begin, is now an obstacle in the way of a thorough analysis of it. A child or savage would speak only of " red " and " hot," but we of " redness " and " heat." They would probably say, " Swallows come when the days are lengthening and snipe when they are shortening "; we say, " Swallows are spring and snipe are winter migrants." Instead of " The sun shines and plants grow," we should say, " Sunlight is the cause of vegetation." In short, there is a tendency to resolve all concepts into substantive concepts; and the reason of this is not far to seek. Whether the subject or starting-point of our discursive thinking be actually what we perceive as a thing, or whether it be a quality, an action, an effectuation (i.e. a transitive action), a concrete spatial or temporal relation, or finally, a resemblance or difference in these or in other respects, it becomes by the very fact of being the central object of thought pro tanto a unity, and all that can be affirmed concerning it may so far be regarded as its property or attribute. It is, as we have seen, the characteristic of every completed concept to be a fixed and independent whole, as it were, crystallized out of the still-fluent matrix of ideas. Moreover, the earliest objects of thought and the earliest concepts most naturally be those of the things that live and move about us; hence, then—to seek no deeper reason for the present—this natural tendency, which language by providing distinct names powerfully seconds, to reify or personify not only things but every element and relation of things which we can single out, or, in other words, to concrete our abstracts.' It is when things have reached this stage that logic begins. But ordinary, so-called formal, logic, which intends to concern itself not with thinking but only with the most general structure of thought, is debarred from recognizing any difference between concepts that does not affect their relations as terms in a pro-position. As a consequence it drifts inevitably into that compartmental logic or logic of extension which knows nothing of categories or predicables, but only of the one relation of whole and part qualitatively considered. It thus pushes this reduction to a common denomination to the utmost: its terms, grammatically regarded, are always names and symbolize classes or compartments of things. From this point of view all disparity among concepts, save that of contradictory exclusion, and all connexion, save that of partial coincidence, are at an end. Of a piece with this are the logical formula for a simple judgment, X is Y, and the corresponding definitions of judgment as the comparison of two concepts and the recognition of their agreement or 1 See Wundt, Logik, i. I07 seq., where this process is happily styled " die kategoriale Verschiebung der Begriffe." disagreement.' It certainly is possible to represent every judgment as a comparison, although the term is strictly adequate only to judgments of one kind and affords but a very artificial description of others. But for a logic mainly concerned with inference—i.e. with explicating what is implicated in any given statements concerning classes—there is nothing more to be done than to ascertain agreements or disagreements; and the existence of these, if not necessarily, is at least most evidently represented by spatial relations. Such representation obviously implies a single ground of comparison only and therefore leaves no room for differences of category. The resolution of all concepts into class concepts and that of all judgments into comparisons thus go together. On this view if a concept is complex it can only be so as a class combination ; and, if the mode of its synthesis could be taken account of at all, this could only be by treating it too as an element in the combination like the rest: iron is a substance, &c., virtue a quality, &c., distance a relation, &c., and so on. There is much of directly psychological interest in this thoroughgoing reduction of thought to a form which makes its consistency and logical concatenation conspicuously evident. But of the so-called matter of thought it tells us nothing. And, as said, there are many forms in that- matter of at least equal moment, both for psychology and for epistemology: these formal logic has tended to keep out of sight. It has generally been under the bias of such a formal or comutational logic that psychologists, and especially English psycho-Fogists, have entered upon the study of mind. They have brought with them an analytic scheme which affords a ready place for sensations or " simple ideas " as the elements of thought, but none for any differences in the combinations of these elements. Sensations being in their very nature concrete, all generality becomes an affair of names; and, as Sigwart has acutely remarked, sensationalism and nominalism always go together. History would have borne him out if he had added that a purely formal logic tends in like manner to be nominalistic. If we are still to speak of the elements of thought, we must extend this term so as to include not only the sensory elements Forms of we are said to receive but three distinct ways in synthesis. which this pure matter is' combined: (r) the forms of intuition—Time and Space2; (2) the real categories —Substance, Attribute, State, Act, Effect, End or Purpose, &c.—the exact determination of which is not here in place; and (3) certain formal (logical and mathematical) categories —as Unity, Difference, Identity, Likeness. These cannot be obtained by such a process of abstraction and generalization as logicians and psychologists alike have been wont to describe. They are not primarily concepts more general than all others in the sense in which animal is more general than man, but rather distinct methods of relating or synthesizing presentations. Kant, though he accepted almost unquestioned the logic and psychology current in his day, has yet been the occasion, in spite of himself, of materially advancing both, and chiefly by the distinction he was led to make between formal and transcendental logic. In his exposition of the latter he brings to light the difference between the " functions of the understanding " in synthesizing—or, as we might say, organizing—percepts into concepts and the merely analytic subsumption of abc and abd under ab—a, b, c and d being what they may. Unlike other concepts, categories as such do not in the first instance signify objects of thought, however general, but these functions of the understanding in constituting objects. In fine, they all imply some special process, and the general characteristic of the resulting products is what we have first of all to note Objects of Higher Order: their Analysis and Genesis. 39. By transposing a tune from one key to another we may obtain two entirely diverse aggregates of notes, and yet the melody may remain unchanged. On the other hand, by varying the order of the notes two distinct tunes may result from the same collection of tones. Sense furnishes merely the parts: whence, then, this identity of the whole in spite of their diversity, this diversity of the whole in spite of their identity? From the sameness or difference of the several "intervals," it is replied. But the answer is insufficient; for the tune is a unity, not a mere series, and, further, with every interval the same problem recurs. ' Cf. Hamilton: " To judge (Kpiveev, judicare) is to recognize the relation of congruence or of confliction in which two concepts, two individual things, or a concept and an individual, compared together, stand to each other " (Lectures on Logic, i. 225). 2 As to these it must suffice to refer to what has peen already said ; cf. § 11 and § 28. For the interval, too, is a whole, though a simpler one: it does not necessarily change with a change of its constituents, nor remain the same as long as their distance is unaltered. Feelings and " associations," again, cannot account for the result, inasmuch as such accompaniments are not invariably present: moreover, they obviously presuppose the melody instead of producing it. Of such complex wholes or combinations—as distinct from mere aggregates or collections—there are many forms; as, for example, geometrical figures and patterns, motions and other changes, numbers, logical connexions, &c. In view of this variety it seems to strike the unprejudiced as wild to expect that " the progress of psychophysics may disclose an explanation of such combinations conforming to the old scholastic maxim, Nihil est in intellectu quod non fuerit Arius in sensu. Yet hopes of such a generatio aequivoca are entertained! s Meanwhile the " old psychology," at any rate, is content to regard such complex wholes as new presentations, the products, that is to say, not of a quasi-mechanical interaction of their constituents, but of intellectual synthesis. What is here said of the combinations whereby the items of an aggregate are construed as parts of a whole holds equally of the comparisons whereby such items are related, as like or unlike, compatible or incompatible. Before either combination or comparison is possible, such items or particulars must be "given." But it is conceivable that they should be given and no intellectual synthesis ensue; such a consciousness has been happily named anoetic.' Whether or no it actually exists is another matter: it is a conceivable limit, and has the theoretical usefulness of limiting conceptions generally. But relative anoesis suffices here. Suppose, then, we have: (a) item, a sound; item, ditto; item, ditto; or (b) item, blue; item, green. The sensationalist, from Hume onwards, has complained that he does not find in the one case a further item: total three; nor in the other a further item: unlikeness. After vainly seeking the living whole among the dead particulars, he next surmises that they generate it by their conjoint action! But whence this notion of " action "; and how, if such disjecta membra suffice, do they so often fail of their effect, so that we cannot " see the wood for the trees "? Combinations and comparisons then, we conclude, are not given, but " grounded " on what is given, and is thus their fundamentum. Hence Meinong, who has studied the psychology of intellection with especial care, has called the new presentations, due to this process of " grounding " (Fundiren), " objects of a higher order," or ideal objects.' They have validity in respect of the particulars on which they are grounded, but not reality as data existing for perception alongside of such particulars. The reader will here be reminded of Hume's distinction between knowledge and probability. His four philosophical relations, " which, depending solely upon ideas, can be the objects of know-ledge and certainty—resemblance, continuity, degrees in quality and proportions in quantity or number "—are objects of higher order and ideal. " The other three, which depend not upon the idea, and may be absent or present even while that remains the same " —namely, identity, the situations in time and place, and causation —are thus obviously not the result of grounding or noesis merely, are not ideal but empirical, and have, that is to say, existential import. In fact, the second of these, the situations, though they imply synthesis in the wider sense in which all complex perception does, do not involve intellectual synthesis at all: are neither ideal combinations nor ideal relations. And since such temporal and spatial situations enter into both the other two—numerical identity and causation—the mixed, a posteriori character of these is obvious. Whatever be the defects of Hume's psychology, his classification of relations is so far sound, and its epistemological importance can hardly be overrated. It is accordingly to be regretted that the one vague term " relation " does not allow us to make these distinctions more precise. The German language, with the two terms Verhdltniss and Beziehung, can do more. ' Cf. e.g. F. Schumann, " Zur Psychologie der Zeitanschauung," Ztschr. f. Psychologie, xvii. 130, 136. ' G. F. Stout, Analytic Psychology. . go seq. ' A. Meinong, " Ueber C"genstande hoherer Ordnung u.s.w.," Ztschr. f. Psychologie (1899), xxi. 182 sqq. Special mention must be made of an earlier paper by C. v. Ehrenfels (" Ueber Gestaltqualitate's." h;erteljahrsschr. f. wissensch. Philosophic, 189o, pp. 249 sqq.), round which the whole subsequent discussion of this topic centres. f Cf., too, Stout, op. cit. bk. i. ch. iii. It will be convenient at this point to digress somewhat for a moment to consider a question of some psychological interest. When we say that two " contents " are similar, and when too they admit of analysis, we can, if need be, enumerate certain elements as the ground of their partial likeness, and certain others as the ground of their partial diversity. We may further say that, abstracting from these last, we can regard the points of resemblance as constituting a general class to which the two contents belong as specific instances. But how is either comparison or abstraction possible when the two resembling contents appear as simple, and so far unanalysable? Instances, of course, are familiar to every one: thus we call red and orange colours, and say they resemble each other more than do red and blue. In presence of this question logicians and psychologists are apt to be at loggerheads. The logician maintains that abstraction and resemblance (as distinct from qualitative identity) imply complexity; and surely here he cannot be gainsaid. Yet there are the facts: reds and blues of sorts and a whole scale of degrees of likeness and unlikeness; but no constituent parts, no assignable marks of identity or diversity, are forthcoming, such as we find when we class sugar and salt together as solid or soluble, and pronounce them like in colour and unlike in taste. Here the logician's symbols a+b+c, a +b +d, have their counterparts: there—for the percipient's consciousness at all events—they have not. We cannot " consider and attend to either the sameness or the differences in " red and blue, as we can to the like or the unlike properties in salt and sugar. None the less it would be hasty to conclude that colours or any given sensations are simple. We are often struck by the likeness of complex wholes—two faces, say—long before we can discern the exact points of resemblance. Still, so long as there is no perceptible complexity in the individual presentations there can be no analysis of them, and, therefore, neither abstraction nor comparison based upon it. Can we find elsewhere the complexity that generalization and comparison invariably imply? Though colour may be regarded as a general term applicable alike to red, green and blue, just as animal is a general term applicable alike to bird, beast and fish, it is a mistake to infer that the processes are the same because of this similarity in their products. We seem bound to distinguish between consciously logical or " noetic " processes and processes that are unconsciously logical or " hyponoetic," as we may perhaps call them. In the former the subjective aspect is left aside; in the latter it cannot be. The only common mark we can psychologically assign to colours is that they are all seen, and to tones—as the element of notes and noises—that they are all heard. So often as we talk of tasting tastes, smelling smells, feeling touches, language leads us to bear witness to this fact. When the sunset red changes to the twilight grey, I still see; but when the thunder follows the lightning there is a double change, though not an absolute one: from seeing I pass to hearing, but I am sentient still. And if progressive differentiation be the order of experience then the " universal " sentience precedes the differentiations seeing, hearing, &c., and, again, the " universal " colour the differentiations, red, green, blue, &c. Such " first universals," then, are not reached by abstraction, but are given in the fundamental continuity of experience, and their subsequent differentiation admits neither of definition nor the classification applicable to discrete complexes, which are the material of logical comparison only. When red is pronounced liker or nearer to yellow than it is to green, this is because a smaller change is experienced in the transition from red to yellow than in that from red to green, and because in the latter yellow is reached and passed before green appears?. Proximity and resemblance are, then, so far one and the same ; also both are equally relative, admit of the same indefinite gradation, and have the same limit in zero, regarded either as coincidence or identity. The conception of " distance between " answers, then, to what we have called a hyponoetic relation, and this is plainly distinct from the analysis of discrete complexes, with which, as said, noetic comparison is alone concerned : the one implies and the other excludes the notion of continuity and change—a fact which helps still further to distinguish the two. Categories. 40. We come now to deal with the categories in more detail. To begin with what are par excellence formal categories, Formal and among these with that which is the most funds,-categories: mental and formal of all—How do we come by the Unity. conception of unity? " Amongst all the ideas we have," says Locke, " as there is none suggested to the mind by more ways, so there is none more simple than that of unity, or one. It has no shadow of variety or composition in it; every object our senses are employed about, every idea in our under-standings, every thought of our minds, brings this idea along with it." But to assign a sensible origin to unity is certainly ' Assuming, of course, that the change is the simplest or directest possible, i.e. a change of " colour proper " without change of saturation. 2 Essay concerning Human Understanding, II. xvi. § i.a mistake—one of a class of mistakes already more than once referred to, which consist in transferring to the data, of sense all that is implied in the language necessarily used in speaking of them. The term " a sensation " no doubt carries along with it the idea of unity, but the bare sensation as received brings along with it nothing but itself. And, if we consider sensory consciousness merely, we do not receive a sensation, and then another sensation, and so on seriatim; but we have always a continuous diversity of sensations even when these are qualitatively sharply differentiated. Moreover, if unity were an impression of sense and passively received, it would, in common with other impressions, be unamenable to change. We cannot see red as blue, but we can resolve many (parts) into one (whole), and vice versa .3 Unity, then, is the result of an act the occasions for which, no doubt, are at first non-voluntarily determined; but the act is still as distinct from them as is attention from the objects attended to. It is to that movement of attention already described in dealing with ideation (§ 24) that we must look as the source of this category. This same movement, in like manner, yields us temporal signs; and the complex unity formed by a combination of these is what we call number. When there is little or no difference between the field and the focus of attention, unifying is an impossibility, whatever the impressions received may be. On the other hand, as voluntary acts of concentration become more frequent and distinct the variegated continuum of sense is shaped into intuitions of definite things and events. Also, as soon as words facilitate the control of ideas, it becomes possible to single out special aspects and relations of things as the subjects or starting-points of our discursive thinking. Thus the forms of unity are manifold: every act of intuition or thought, whatever else it is, is an act of unifying. It is obvious that the whole field of consciousness at any moment can never be actually embraced as one. What is unified becomes thereby the focus of consciousness and so leaves an outlying field; so far unity may be held to imply plurality. But it cannot with propriety be said that in a simple act of attention the field of consciousness is analysed into two distinct parts, i.e. two unities—this (now attended to) and the other or the rest (abstracted from). For the not-this is but the rest of a continuum and not itself a whole; it is left out but not determined, as the bounding space is left out when a figure is drawn. To know two unities we must connect both together; and herein comes to light the difference between the unity which is the form of the concept or subject of discourse and the unity of a judgment. The latter is of necessity complex; the former may or may not be. But in any case the complexity of the two is different. If the subject of thought is not only clear but distinct—i.e. not merely defined as a whole but having its constituents like-wise more or less defined—such distinctness is due to previous judgments. At any future time these may of course be repeated; such are the analytical or explicative judgments of logic. As the mere subject of discourse it is, however, a single unity simultaneously apprehended; the relation ascertained between it and its predicate constitutes the unity of judgment, a unity which is comprehended only when its parts are successively apprehended. But, though a judgment is always a complex unity, the extent of this complexity seems at first sight to vary as the form of synthesis varies. Formal logic, as we have seen, Law of by throwing the form of synthesis into the predicate Dichotomy has no difficulty in reducing every judgment to an or Duality. S is P. But, if we at all regard the matter thought, it is certain, for example, that " It is an explosion " is less complex than " The enemy explodes the mine." The first answers one question; the second answers three. But as regards the more complex judgment both the process of ascertaining the fact and the language in which it is expressed show that the three elements concerned in it are not synthesized at once. " We may regard one of the words here printed as one, in that by a definite act we unite a plurality of letters in our image and separate it from its neighbours: we may also regard the one word as many when we attend to the transition from one letter to another and mark each step " (Sigwart, Logic, ii. § 66). Suppose we start from the explosion—and changes or movements are not only apt to attract attention first, but, when recognized as events and not as abstracts personified, they call for some supplementing beyond themselves—then in this case we may search for the agent at work or for the object affected, but not for both at once. Moreover, if we find either, a complete judgment at once ensues: " The enemy explodes," or " The mine is exploded." The original judgment is really due to a synthesis of these two. But, when the results of former judgments are in this manner taken up into a new judgment, a certain " condensation of thought " ensues. Of this condensation the grammatical structure of language is evidence, though logical manipulation—with great pains—obliterates it. Thus our more complex judgment would take the form—" The enemy is now mine-exploding " or " The mine is enemy-exploded," according as one or other of the simpler judgments was made first. An examination of other cases would in like manner tend to show that intellectual synthesis is always—in itself and apart from implications—a binary synthesis. Wundt, to whom belongs the merit of first explicitly stating this " law of dichotomy or duality " 1 as the cardinal principle of discursive thinking, contrasts it with synthesis by mere association. This, as running on continuously, he represents thus—A—B—C—D—. . . ; the synthesis of thought, on the other hand, he symbolizes by forms such as the following: .. , — AB; AB CD; AB CDE. &c. Thus, Socrates is a philosopher; the philosopher Socrates dis-:overed a method; the philosopher Socrates discovered the dialectical method; &c. The point is that the one thing attended to in an intellective act is the synthesis of two ideas, and of two ideas only, because, as only one movement of attention is possible at a time, only two ideas at a time can be synthesized. In that merely associative synthesis by which the memory-continuum is produced attention moves from A to B and thence to C without any relation between A and B being attended to at all, although they must have relations, that of sequence e.g. at least. " Difference," says Hume, " I consider rather as a negation of relation than anything real or positive. Difference is of two Difference kinds, as opposed either to identity or resemblance. and The first is called a difference of number, the other Likeness.' of kind." The truth seems rather to be that difference in Hume's sense of numerical differences is so far an element in all relations as all imply distinct correlatives. To this extent even identity—or at least the recognition of it—rests on difference, that form of difference, viz. which is essential to plurality. But absolute difference (i.e. diversity) of kind may be considered tantamount not, indeed, to the negation, but at least to the absence of all formal relation. That this absolute difference—or disparateness, as we may call it—affords no ground for relations becomes evident when we consider (i) that, if we had only a plurality of absolutely different presentations, we should have no consciousness at all (cf. § iI); and (2) that we never compare—although we distinguish—presentations which seem absolutely or totally disparate, as e.g. a thunderclap and the taste of sugar, or the notion of free trade and that of the Greek accusative. All actual comparison of what is qualitatively different rests upon at least partial likeness. This being under-stood, it is noteworthy that the recognition of unlikeness is, if anything, more " real or positive " than that of likeness, and is certainly the simpler of the two. In the comparison of sensible impressions—as of two colours, two sounds, the lengths or the directions of two lines, &c.—we find it easier in some cases to have the two impressions that are compared presented together, in others to have first one presented and then the other. But, either way, the 'essential matter is to secure the most effective presentation of their difference, which in every case is something 'Wundt, Logik: eine Untersuchung der Principien der Erkenntniss (2nd ed., 1893), i. 59 sqq. 2 Hume's numerical difference, that is to say, is really distinctness, not quantitative difference.positive and, like any other impression, may vary in amount from bare perceptibility to the extremest distance that the continuum to which it belongs will admit. Where no difference or distance at all is perceptible there we say there is likeness or equality. Is the only outcome, then, that when we pass from ab to ac there is a change in consciousness, and that when ab persists there is none? To say this is to take no account of the operations (we may symbolize them as ac-->ab : c, ab—* ab :o) by which the difference or the equality results. The change of presentation (c) and absence of change (o) are not here what they are as merely passive occurrences, so to put it. This is evident from the fact that in the former there is positive presentation and in the latter no presentation at all. The relation of unlikeness, then, is distinguished from the mere " position " or fact of change by (r) the voluntary concentration of attention upon ab and ac with a view to the detection of this change as their difference, and by (2) the act, relating them through it, in that they are judged unlike to that extent. The type of comparison is such superposition of geometrical lines or figures (as, e.g. in Euclid I. iv.) : if they coincide we have concrete equality; if they do not their difference is a line or figure. All sensible comparisons conform essentially to this type. In comparing two shades we place them side by side, and passing from one to the other seek to determine not the absolute shade of the second but its shade relative to the first—in other words, we look out for contrast. We do not say of one " It is dark," for in the scale or shades it may be light, but " It is darker "; or vice versa. Where there is no distance or contrast we simply have not two impressions, and, as said—if we consider the difference by itself—no impression at all. Two coincident triangles must be perceived as one. The distinction between the one triangle thus formed by two coinciding and the single triangle rests upon something extraneous to this bare presentation of a triangle that is one and the same in both cases. The marks of this numerical distinctness may be various: they may be different temporal signs, as in reduplications of the memory-continuum; or they may be constituents peculiar to each, from which attention is for the moment abstracted, any one of which suffices to give the common or identical constituent a new setting. In general, it may be said (i) that the numerical distinctness of the related terms is secured in the absence of all qualitative difference solely by the intellectual act which has so unified each as to retain what may serve as an individual mark; and (2) that they become related as " like " either in virtue of the active adjustment to a change of impression which their partial assimilation defeats, or in virtue of an anticipated continuance of the impression which this assimilation confirms. It is in keeping with this analysis that we say in common speech that two things in any respect similar are so far the same. This ambiguity in the word " same," whereby it Identity. means either individual identity or indistinguishable resemblance has been often noticed, and from a logical or objective point of view justly complained of as " engendering fallacies in otherwise enlightened understandings." But apparently no one has inquired into its psychological basis, although more than one writer has admitted that the ambiguity is one " in itself not always to be avoided."3 It is not enough to trace the confusion to the existence of common names and to cite the forgotten controversies of scholastic realism. We are not now concerned with the conformity of thought to things or with logical analysis, but with the analysis of a psycho-logical process. The tendency to treat presentations as if they were copies of things—the objective bias, as we may call it—is the one grand obstacle to psychological observation. Some only realize with an effort that the idea of extension is not extended; no wonder, then, if it should seem " unnatural " to maintain that the idea of two like things does not consist of two like ideas. But, assuming that both meanings of identity have a psychological justification, it will be. well to distinguish 3 Cf. J. S. Mill, Logic, bk. i. ch. iii. § ii, and Examination of Hamilton, 3rd ed., ch. xiv. p. 306, note; also Meinong, " Hume-Studien " II., Wiener Sitzungsberichte (Phil. Hist. CI.), ci. 709. them and to examine their connexion. Perhaps we might term the one " material identity " and the other " individual identity "—following the analogy of expressions such as " different things but all made of the same stuff," " the same person but entirely changed." Thus there is unity and plurality concerned in both, and herein identity or sameness differs from singularity or mere oneness, which so far entails no relation. But the unity and the plurality are different in each, and each is in some sort the converse of the other. In the one, two different individuals partially coincide; in the other, one individual is partially different; the unity in the one case is an individual presentation, in_the other is the presentation of an individual. In material identity the unity is that of a single presentation, whether simple or complex, which enters as a common con-Material stituent into two or more others. It may be possible, Identity. of course, to individualize it, but as it emerges in a comparison it is a single presentation and nothing more. On account of this absence of individual marks this single presentation is what logicians call " abstract "; but this is not psychologically essential. It may be a generic image which has resulted from the neutralization of individual marks, but it may equally well be a simple presentation, like red, to which such marks never belonged. We come here from a new side upon a truth which has been already expounded at length, viz. that presentations are not given to us as individuals but as changes in a continuum. Time and space—the instruments, as it were, of individualization, which are presupposed in the objective sciences—are psychologically later than this mere differentiation. The many vexed questions that arise concerning individual identity are metaphysical rather than psychological. But it individual will serve to bring out the difference between the identity. two forms of identity to note that an identification cannot be established solely by qualitative comparison; an alibi or a breach of temporal continuity will turn the flank of the strongest argument from resemblance. Moreover, resemblance itself may be fatal to identification when the law of being is change. 41. As regards the real categories, it may be said generally that these owe their origin in large measure to the anthropo-Real morphic or mythical tendency of human thought—Categories. T% oµotov Tut Lott!) lam' oacevOat. Into the forma- tion of these conceptions two very distinct factors enter—(r) the facts of what in the stricter sense we call " self-consciousness," and (2) certain spatial and temporal relations among our presentations themselves. On the one hand, it has to be noted that these spatial and temporal relations are but the occasion or motive—and ultimately perhaps, we may say, the warrant—for the analogical attribution to things of selfness, efficiency and design, but are not directly the source of the forms of thought that thus arise. On the other hand, it is to be noted also that such forms, although they have an independent source, would never apart from suitable material come into actual existence. If the followers of Hume err in their exclusive reliance upon " associations naturally and even necessarily generated by the order of our sensations" (J. S. Mill), the disciple of Kant errs also who relies exclusively on " the synthetic unity of apperception." The truth is that we are on the verge of error in thus sharply distinguishing the two at all; if we do so momentarily for the purpose of exposition it behoves us here again to remember that mind grows and is not made. The use of terms like " innate," " a priori," " necessary," " formal," &c., without further qualification leads only too easily to the mistaken notion that all the mental facts so named are alike underived and original, independent not only of experience but of each other; whereas but for the forms of intuition the forms of thought would be impossible—that is to say, we should never have a self-consciousness at all if we had not previously learnt to distinguish occupied and unoccupied space, past and present in time, and the like. But, again, it is equally true that, if we could not feel and move as well a& receive impressions, and if experience did not repeatitself, we should never attain even to this level of spatial and temporal intuition. Kant shows a very lame and halting recognition of this dependence of the higher forms on the lower both in his schematism of the categories, and again in correcting in his Analytic the opposition of sense and understanding as respectively receptive and active with which he set out in his Aesthetic. Still, although what are called the subjective and objective factors of real knowledge advance together, the former is in a sense always a step ahead. We find again without us the permanence, individuality, efficiency, and adaptation we have found first of all within (cf. § 20, b and d). But such primitive imputation of personality, though it facilitates a first understanding, soon proves itself faulty and begets the contradictions which have been one chief motive to philosophy. We smile at the savage who thinks a magnet must need food or the child who is puzzled that the horses in a picture remain for ever still; but few consider that underlying all common-sense thinking there lurks the same natural precipitancy. We attribute to extended things a unity which we know only as the unity of an unextended subject; we attribute to changes among these extended things what we know only when we act and suffer ourselves; and we attribute further to them in their changes a striving for ends which we know only because we feel. In asking what they are, how they act, and why they are thus and thus, we assimilate them to ourselves, in spite of the differences which lead us by-and-by to see a gulf between mind and matter. Such instinctive analogies have, like other analogies, to be confirmed, refuted, or modified by further knowledge, i.e. by the very insight into things which these analogies have themselves made possible. That in their first form they were mythical, and that they could never have been at all unless originated in this way, are considerations that make no difference to their, validity—assuming, that is, that they admit, now or hereafter, of a logical transformation which renders them objectively valid. This legitimation is, of course, the business of philosophy; we are concerned only with the psychological analysis and origin of the conceptions themselves. _ 42. As it must here suffice to examine one of these categories; let us take that which is the most important and central of the three, viz. causality or the relation of cause and effect, Causality. as that will necessarily throw some light upon the con- stitution of the others. To begin, we must distinguish three things, which, though very different, are very liable to be confused. (t) Perceiving in a definite case, e.g. that on the sun shining a stone becomes warm, we may say the sun makes the stone warm. This is a concrete instance of predicating the causal relation. In this there is, explicitly at all events, no statement of a general law or axiom, such as we have when we say (2) " Every event must have a cause "—a statement commonly known as the principle of causality. This again is distinct from what is on all hands allowed to be an empirical generalization, viz. (3) that such and such particular causes have invariably such and such particular effects. With these last psychology is not directly concerned at all: it has only to analyse and trace to its origin the bare conception of causation as expressed in (t) and involved in both these generalizations. Whether only some events have causes, as the notion of chance implies, whether all causes are uniform in their action or some capricious and arbitrary, as the unreflecting suppose—all this is beside the question for us. One point in the analysis of the causal relation Hume may be said to have settled once for all: it does not rest upon or contain any immediate intuition of a causal nexus. The two relations that Hume allowed to be perceived (or " presumed to exist "), viz. contiguity in space of the objects causally related and priority in time of the cause before the effect, are the only relations directly discernible. We say indeed " The sun warms the stone " as readily as we say " The sun rises and sets," as if both were matters of direct observation then and there. But that this is not so is evident from the fact that only in some cases when one change follows upon another do we regard it as following from the other: casual coincidence is at least as common as causal connexion. Whence the difference, then, if not from perception? Hume's answer,' repeated in the main by English psychologists since, is, as all the world knows, that the difference is the result of association, that when a change a in an object A has been frequently observed to precede a change # in another object B, this repetition determines the mind to a transition from the one to the other. It is this ' Treatise of Human Nature, pt. iii. § xiv., " of the idea of necessary connexion." determination, which could not be present at first, that constitutes " the third relation betwixt these objects." This " internal impression " generated by association is then projected ; " for 'tis a common observation that the mind has a great propensity to spread itself on external objects." The subjective origin and the after-projection we must admit, but all else in Hume's famous doctrine seems glaringly at variance with facts. In one respect it proves too much, for not all constant sequences are regarded as causal, as according to his analysis they ought to be; again, in another respect it proves too little, for causal connexion is continually predicated on a first occurrence. The natural man has always distinguished between causes and signs or portents; but there is nothing to show that he produced an effect many times before regarding himself as the cause of it. J. S. Mill has indeed obviated the first objection epistemologically by adding to constant conjunction the further characteristic of " unconditionality." But this is a conception that cannot be psychologically explained from Hume's premisses, unless perhaps by resolving it into the qualification that the invariability must be complete and not partial, whereupon the second objection applies. " Unconditional " is a word for which we can find no meaning as long as we confine our attention to temporal succession. It will not do to say both that an invariable succession generates the idea, and that such invariable succession must be not only invariable but also unconditional in order to generate it. We may here turn the master against the disciple: " the same principle," says Hume, " cannot be both the cause and the effect of another, and this is perhaps the only proposition concerning that relation which is either intuitively or demonstratively certain " (op. cit. p. 391). Unconditionality is then part of the causal relation and yet not the product of invariable repetition. Perhaps the source of this element in the relation will become clear if we examine more closely the so-called " internal impression " of the mind, which according to Hume constitutes the whole of our idea of power or efficacy. To illustrate the nature of this impression Hume cites the instant passage of the imagination to a particular idea on hearing the word commonly annexed to it, when " 'twill scarce be possible for the mind by its utmost efforts to prevent that transition " (op. cit. p. 393). It is this determination, then, which is felt internally, not perceived externally, that we mistakenly transfer to objects and regard as an intelligible connexion between them. But, if Flume admits this, must he not admit more? Can it be pretended that it is through the workings of association among our ideas that we first feel a determination which our utmost efforts can scarce resist, or that we feel such determination under no other circumstances? If it be allowed that the natural man is irresistibly determined to imagine an apple when he hears its name or .to expect thunder when he sees lightning, must it not also be allowed that he is irresistibly determined much earlier and in a much more impressive way when overmastered by the elements or by his enemies? But, further, such instances bring to light what Hume's " determination " also implies, viz. its necessary correlative, effort or action. Even irresistible association can only be known as such by efforts to resist it. Hume allows this when he says that his principles of association " are not infallible causes; for one may fix his attention during some time on any one object without looking farther " (op. cit. p. 393). But the fact is, we know both what it is to act and what it is to suffer, to go where we would and to be carried where we would not, quite apart from the workings of association. And, had Hume not confused the two different inquiries, that concerning the origin of the idea of causation and that concerning the ground of causal inference or law of causation, it could never have occurred to him to offer such an analysis of the former as he does. Keeping to the•former and simpler question, it would seem that when in ordinary thinking we say A causes this or that in B we project or analogically attribute to A what we experience in acting, and to B what we experience in being acted on; and the structure of language shows that such projection was made long before it was suspected that what A once did and B once suffered will be done and suffered in the same circumstances again. The occasions suitable for this projection are determined by the temporal and spatial relations of the objects concerned, which relations are matter of intuition. These are of no very special interest from a psychological point of view, but the subjective elements we shall do well to consider further. First of all, we must note the distinction of immanent action and transuent action; the former is what we call action simply, and implies only a single thing, the agent; the latter, which we might with advantage call effectuation, implies two things, a patient as well as an agent. In scientific language the agent in an intransitive act is called a causa immanens and so distinguished from the agent in effectuation or cause transiens. Common thought, however, does not regard mere action as caused at all; and we shall find it, in fact, impossible to resolve action into effectuation. But, since the things with which we ordinarily deal are complex, have many parts, properties, members, phases, and in consequence of the analytic procedure of thought, there ensues, indeed, a continual shifting of the point of view from which we regard any given thing, so that what is in one aspect one'thing is in another many(cf. § 2o). So it comes about that, when regarding himself as one, the natural man speaks of himself as walking, shouting, &c.; but, when distinguishing between himself and his members, he speaks of raising his voice, moving his legs, and so forth. Thus no sooner do we resolve any given action into an effectuation, by analytically distinguishing within the original agent an agent and a patient, than a new action appears. Action is thus a simpler notion than causation and inexplicable by means of it. It is certainly no easy problem in philosophy to determine where the resolution of the complex is to cease, at what point we must stop, because in the presence of an individual thing and a simple activity. At any rate, we reach such a point psychologically in the conscious subject, and that energy in consciousness we call attention. If this be allowed, Hume's critique of the notion of efficacy is really wide of the mark. " Some," he says, " have asserted that we feel an energy or power in our own mind; and that, having in this manner acquir'd the idea of power, we transfer that quality to matter, where we are not able immediately to discover it. . . . But to convince us how fallacious this reasoning is, we need only consider that the will, being here consider'd as a cause, has no more a discoverable connexion with its effects than any material cause has with its proper effect. . . . The effect is there [too] distinguishable and separable from the cause, and could not be foreseen without the experience of their constant conjunction (op.cit. p. 455). This is logical analysis, not psychological ; the point is that the will is not considered as a cause and distinguished from its effects, nor in fact considered at all. It is not a case of sequence between two separable impressions; for we cannot really make the indefinite regress that such logical distinctions as that between the conscious subject and its acts implies. Moreover, our activity as such is not directly presented at all: we are, being active; and further than this psychological analysis will not go., There are, as we have seen, two ways in which this activity is manifested, the receptive or passive and the motor or active in the stricter sense—(cf. § 8) and our experience of these we project in predicating the causal relation. But two halves do not make a whole; so we have no complete experience of effectuation, for the simple reason that we cannot be two things at once. We are guided in piecing it together by the temporal and spatial relations of the things concerned. Hence, perhaps, some of the antinomies that beset this concept. In its earliest form, then, the so-called necessary connexion of cause and effect is perhaps nothing more than that of physical constraint. To this, no doubt, is added the strength of expectation—as Hume supposed—when the same effect has been found invariably to follow the same cause. Finally, when upon the basis of such associated uniformities of sequence a definite intellectual elaboration of such material ensues, the logical necessity of reason and consequent finds a place, and so far as deduction is applicable cause and reason become interchange-able ideas. Belief. 43• The mention of logical necessity brings us to a new topic, viz. the " objectivity " of thought and cognition generally. The psychological treatment of this topic is tantamount to an inquiry into the characteristics of the states of mind we call certainty, doubt, belief—all of which centre round the one fact of evidence. Between the certainty that a proposition is true and the certainty that it is not there may intervene many grades of uncertainty. We may know that A is sometimes B, or sometimes not; or that some at least of the conditions of B are present or absent; or the presentation of A may be too confused for distinct analysis. This is the region of probability, possibility, more or less obscurity. Leaving this aside, it will be enough to notice those cases in which certainty may be complete. With that certainty which is absolutely objective, i.e. with knowledge, psychology has no direct concern; it is for logic to furnish the criteria by which knowledge is ascertained. Emotion and desire are frequent indirect causes of subjective certainty, in so far as they determine the constituents and the 1 Hume here has Locke and Berkeley specially in view. Locke as a patient and acute inquirer was incomparably better as a psychologist than a man addicted to literary foppery like Hume, for all his genius, could possibly be. On the particular question, see Locke, Essay, bk. ii. c. 21, §§ 3-5. s In an article (Mind, 1886, p. 317) Mr F. H. Bradley created some stir by declaring that " the present use of these phrases [active energy] is little better than a scandal and a main obstacle in the path of English psychology." In Mind for 1902 and 1903 he has made important contributions towards clearing up the supposed confusion, and the subject is still being debated. But the main contention of the text, that activity is for psychology at all events ultimate and unanalysable, seems still to await refutation. A brief notice of some of the diverse views obtaining will be found in an address, " The Problems of General Psychology," by J. Ward Philosophical Review (1904), pp. 608 sqq. grouping of the field of consciousness at the moment—" pack the jury " or " suborn the witnesses," as it were. But the ground of certainty is in all cases some quality or some relation of these presentations inter se. In a sense, therefore, the ground of all certainty is objective—in the sense, that is, of being something at least directly and immediately determined for the subject and not by it. Where certainty is mediate, one judgment is often spoken of as the ground of another; but a syllogism is still psychologically a single, though not a simple, judgment, and the certainty of it as a whole is immediate. Between the judgment A is B and the question Is A B? the difference is not one of content nor scarcely one of form: it is a difference which depends upon the effect of the proposition on the subject judging. (i.) We have this effect before us most clearly if we consider what is by common consent regarded as the type of certainty and evidence, the certainty of present sense-impressions whence it is said, " Seeing is believing." The evident is here the actual, and the " feeling or consciousness " of certainty is in this case nothing but the sense of being taken fast hold of and forced to apprehend what is there. (ii.) The like is true of memory and expectation: in these also there is a sense of being tied down to what is given, whereas in mere imagination, however lively, this non-voluntary determination is absent (cf. § 26). Hume saw this at times clearly enough, as, e.g. when he says, " An idea assented to feels different from a fictitious idea that the fancy alone presents to us." But unfortunately he not only made this difference a mere difference of intensity, but spoke of belief itself as " an operation of the mind " or " manner of conception that bestowed on our ideas this additional force or vivacity."' In short, Hume confounded one of the indirect causes of belief with the ground of it, and again, in describing this ground committed the 6Qrepov rpbrepov of making the mind determine the ideas instead of the ideas determine the mind. (iii.) In speaking of intellection he is clearer: " The answer is easy with regard to propositions that are prov'd by intuition or demonstration. In that case the person who assents not only conceives the ideas according to the proposition, but is necessarily determin'd to conceive them in that particular manner " (op. Cit. p. 395). It has been often urged—as by J. S. Mill, for example—that belief is something " ultimate and primordial." No doubt it is; but so is the distinction between activity and passivity, and it is not here maintained that certainty can be analysed into something simpler, but only that it is identical with what is of the nature of passivity—objective determination. As Bain put it, " The leading fact in belief . . . is our primitive credulity. We begin by believing everything; whatever is is true " (Emotions and Will, 3d ed., p. 511). But the point is that in this primitive state there is no act answering to " believe " distinct from the non-voluntary attention answering to " perceive," and no reflection such as a modal term like " true " implies. With eyes open in the broad day no man says, " I am certain there is light "; he simply sees. He may by-and-by come absolutely to disbelieve much that he sees—e.g. that things are nearer when viewed through a telescope—just as he will come to disbelieve his dreams, though while they last he is certain in these too. The consistency we find it possible to establish among certain of our ideas becomes an ideal, to which we expect to find all our experience conform. Still the intuitive evidence of logical and mathematical axioms is psychologically but a new form of the actual; we are only certain that two and two make four and we are not less certain that we see things nearer through a telescope. Presentation of Self, Self-Consciousness and Conduct. 44. The concept of self we have just seen underlying and to a great extent shaping the rest of our intellectual furniture; on this account it is at once desirable and difficult to analyse it and ascertain the conditions of its development. In attempting this we must carefully distinguish between the bare presentation of self and that reference of other presentations to it which is often called specially self-consciousness, " inner sense," or Treatise of Human Nature, Green and Grose's ed., i. 396.internal perception. Concerning all presentations whatever—that of self no less than the rest—it is possible to reflect, " This presentation is mine; it is my object; I am the subject attending to it." The presentation of self, then, is one presentation among others, the result, like them, of the differentiation of the original continuum. But it is obvious that this presentation must be in existence first before other presentations can be related to it. On the other hand, it is only in and by means of such relations that the concept of self is completed. We begin, therefore, with self simply as an object, and end with the concept of that object as the subject or " myself " that knows itself. The self has, first of all (a) a unique interest and (b) a certain inwardness, (c) it is an individual that (d) persists, (e) is active, and finally (f) knows itself. These several characteristics of self are intimately involved; so far as they appear at all they advance in definiteness from the lowest level of mere sentience to those moments of highest self-consciousness in which conscience approves or condemns volition. The earliest and to the last the most important element in self—what we might perhaps term its root or material element—is that variously styled the organic sensations—vital sense, Self and coenaesthesis, or somatic consciousness. This largely Se Body. determines the tone of the special sensations and enters, the though little suspected, into all our higher feelings. If, as some- times happens in serious nervous affections, the whole body or any part of it should lose common sensibility, the whole body or that part is at once regarded as strange and even as hostile. In some forms of hypochondria, in which this extreme somatic insensibility and absence of zest leave the intellect and memory unaffected, the individual doubts his own existence or denies it altogether. Ribot cites the case of such a patient, who, declaring that he had been dead for two years, thus expressed his perplexity:—" J'existe, mais en dehors de la vie reelle, materielle, et, malgre moi, rien ne m'ayant donne la mort. Tout est mecanique chez moi et se fait inconsciemment." 2 It is not because they accompany physiological functions essential to the efficiency of the organism as an organism, but simply because they are the most immediate and most constant sources of feeling, that these massive but ill-defined organic sensations are from the first the objects of the directest and most unreflecting interest. Other objects have at the outset but a mediate interest through subjective selection in relation to these, and never become so instictively and inseparably identified with self, never have the same inwardness. This brings us to a new point. As soon as definite perception begins, the body as an extended thing is distinguished from other bodies, and such organic sensations as can be localized at all are localized within it. At the same time the actions of other bodies upon it are accompanied by pleasures and pains, while their action upon each other is not. The body also is the only thing directly set in motion by the reactions of these feelings, the purpose of such movements being to bring near to it the things for which there is appetite and to remove it from those towards which there is aversion. It is thus not merely the type of occupied space and the centre from which all positions are reckoned, but it affords us an unfailing and ever-present intuition of the actually felt and living self, to which all other things are external, more or less distant, and at times absent altogether. The body then first of all gives to self a certain measure of individuality, permanence and inwardness. But with the development of ideation there arises within this what we may call an inner zone of self, having still more unity and permanence. We have at this stage not only an intuition of the bodily self doing or suffering Inner Self. here and now, but also memories of what it has been and done under varied circumstances in the past. External impressions have by this time lost in novelty and become less absorbing, while the train of ideas, largely increased in number, distinctness and mobility, diverts attention and often shuts out the things of sense altogether. In all such reminiscence or reverie a generic image of self is the centre, and every new image as it arises derives all its interest from relation to this; and so apart from bodily appetites new desires may be quickened and old emotions stirred again when all that is actually present is dull and unexciting. But desires and emotions, it must be remembered, though awakened by what is only imaginary, invariably entail actual organic perturbations, and with these the generic image of self comes to be intimately united. Hence arises a contrast between the inner self, which the natural man locates in his breast or 4.piv, the chief seat of these emotional disturbances, and the whole visible and tangible body be-sides. Although from their nature they do not admit of much ideal representation, yet, when actually present, these organic sensations exert a powerful and often irresistible influence over other ideas; they have each their appropriate train, and so heighten in the very 2 " Bases affectives de la personnalite " in Revue philosophique, xviii. 149. complex and loosely compacted idea of self those' 'traits they different aspects." 2 But different aspects of the same thing are not the same thing, for psychology at least. Not only is it not the same thing to feel and to know that you feel; but it might even be held to be a different thing still to know that you feel and to know that you know that you feel—such being the difference perhaps between ordinary reflection and psychological introspection .3 The difficulty of apprehending these facts and keeping them distinct seems obviously due to the necessary presence of the earlier along with the later; that is to say, we can never know that we feel without feeling. But the converse need not be true. How distinct the two states are is shown in one way by their notorious incompatibility, the direct consequence of the limitation of attention: whatever we have to do that is not altogether mechanical is ill done unless we lose our-selves in the doing of it. This mutual exclusiveness receives a further explanation from the fact so often used to discredit psychology, viz. that the so-called introspection, and indeed all reflection, are really retrospective. It is not while we are angry or lost in reverie that we take note of such states, but afterwards, or by momentary side glances intercepting the main interest, if this be not too absorbing. originally wrought into it, suppressing to an equal extent all the rest. Normally there is a certain equilibrium to which they return, and which, we may suppose, determines the so-called temperament, nature/ or disposition, thus securing some tolerable uniformity and continuity in the presentation of self. But even within the limits of sanity great and sudden changes of mood are possible, as, e.g. in hysterical persons or those of a " mercurial temperament," or among the lower animals at the onset of parental or migratory instincts. Beyond those limits—as the concomitant apparently of serious visceral derangements or the altered nutrition of parts of the nervous system itself—complete " alienation" may ensue. A new self may arise, not only distinct from the old and devoid of all save the most elementary knowledge and skill that the old possessed, but diametrically opposed to it in tastes and disposition—obscenity, it may be, taking the place of modesty and cupidity or cowardice succeeding to generosity or courage. The most convincing illustrations of the psychological growth and structure of the presentation of self on the lower levels of sensation and ideation are furnished by these melancholy spectacles of minds diseased ; but it is impossible to refer to them in detail here.' Passing to the higher level of intellection, we come at length upon the concept which every intelligent being more or less dissettasa tinctly forms of himself as a person, M. or N., having Person. such and such a character, tastes and convictions, such and such a history, and such and such an aim in life. The main instrument in the formation of this concept, as of others, is language, and especially the social intercourse that language makes possible. Up to this point the presentation of self has shaped that of not-self,—that is to say, external things have been comprehended by the projection of its characteristics. But now the order is in a sense reversed: the individual advances to a fuller self-knowledge by comparing the self within with what is first discernible in other persons without. So far avant l'homme est la society; it is through the " us " that we learn of the " me " (cf. § 36, note I). Collective action for common ends is of the essence of society, and in taking counsel together for the good of his tribe each one learns also to take counsel with himself for his own good on the whole; with the idea of the common weal arises the idea of happiness as distinct from momentary gratification. The extra-regarding impulses are now confronted by a reasonable self-love, and in the deliberations that thus ensue activity attains to its highest forms —those of thought and volition. In the first we have a distinctly active manipulation of ideas as compared with the more passive spectacle of memory and imagination. Thereby emerges a contrast between the thinker and these objects of his thought, including among them the mere generic image of self, from which is now formed this concept of self as a person. A similar, even sharper, contrast also accompanies the exercise of what is very misleadingly termed " self-control," i.e. control by this personal self of " the various natural affections "—to use Butler's phrase—which often hinder it as external objects hindered them. It is doubtful whether the reasoning, regulating self is commonly regarded as definitely localized. The effort of thinking and concentrating attention upon ideas is no doubt referred to the brain, but this is only comparable with the localization of other efforts in the limbs; when we think we commonly feel also, and the emotional basis is of all the most subjective and inalienable. If we speak of this latest phase of self as par excellence " the inner self," such language is then mainly figurative, inasmuch as the contrasts just described are contrasts into which spatial relations do not enter. 45• The term " reflection," or internal perception is applied to that state of mind in which some particular presentation or group of presentations (x or y) is not simply in the field of self consciousness but there as consciously related to self, sness. , which is also presented at the same time. Self here may be symbolized by M, to emphasize the fact that it is in like manner an object in the field of consciousness. The relation of the two is commonly expressed by saying, " This (x or y) is my (M's) percept, idea or volition; I (M) it is that perceive, think, will it." Self-consciousness, in the narrowest sense, as when we say " I know myself, I am conscious that I am," &c., is but a special, though the most important, instance of this internal perception: here self (M) is presented in relation to self (with a difference, M'); the subject itself—at least, so we say —is or appears as its own object. It has been often maintained that the difference between consciousness and reflection is not a real difference, that to know and to know that you know are " the same thing considered in This subject has a very wide literature. The following are specially interesting: Rihot, Les Maladies de la personnalite (3rd ed., 1889) ; Boris Sidis and S. P. Goodhart, Multiple Personality (1905) ; Morton Prince, The Dissociation of a Personality (1906). But we require an exacter analysis of the essential fact in this retrospect—the relation of the presentation x or y to that of self or M. What we have to deal with, it will be observed, is, implicitly at least, a judgment. First of all, then, it is noteworthy that we are never prompted to such judgments by everyday occurrences or acts of routine, but only by matters of interest, and, as said, generally when these are over or have ceased to be all-engrossing. Now in such cases it will be found that some effect of the preceding state of objective absorption persists, like wounds received in battle, unnoticed till the fight is over—such e.g. as the weariness of muscular exertion or of long concentration of attention; some pleasurable or painful after-sensation passively experienced, or an emotional wave subsiding but not yet spent; " the jar of interrupted expectation," or the relief of sudden attainment after arduous striving, making prominent the contrast of contentment and want in that particular; or, finally, the quiet retrospect and mental rumination in which we note what time has wrought upon us and either regret or approve what we were and did. All such presentations are of the class out of which, as we have seen, the presentation of self is built up, and so form in each case the concrete bond connecting the generic image of self with its object. In this way and in this respect each is a concrete instance of what we call a state, act, affection, &c., and the judgments in which such relations to the standing presentation of self are recognized are the original and the type of all real predications. The opportunities for reflection are at first few, the materials being as it were thrust upon attention, and the resulting " percepts " are but vague. By the time, however, that a clear concept of self has been attained the exigencies of life make it a frequent object of contemplation, and as the abstract of a series of instances of such definite self-consciousness we reach the purely formal notion of a subject or pure ego. For empirical psychology this notion is ultimate; its speculative treatment falls altogether—usually under the heading_` rational psychology "—to metaphysics, 46. The growth of intellection and self-consciousness reacts powerfully upon the emotional and active side of mind. To de- scribe the various sources of feeling and of desire that Conduct thus arise—aesthetic, social and religious sentiments, pride, ambition, selfishness, sympathy, &c.—is beyond the scope of systematic psychology, and certainly quite beyond the limits of an article like the present. But at least a general resume of the characteristics of activity on this highest or rational level is indispensable. If we are to gain any oversight in a matter of such complexity it is of the first importance to keep steadily in view, as a fundamental principle, that as the causes of feeling become more complex, internal, and representative the consequent actions change in like manner. We have noted this 2 So—misled possibly by the confusions incident to a special faculty of reflection, which they controvert—James Mill, Analysis, i. 224 seq. (corrected, however, by both his editors, pp. 227 and 230), and also Hamilton, Lect. i. 192. 3 It has been thought a fatal objection to this view that it implies the possibility of an indefinite regress; but why should it not ? We reach the limit of our experience in reflection, or at most in deliberate introspection, just as in space of three dimensions we reach the limit of our experience in another respect. But there is no absurdity in supposing a consciousness more evolved and explicit than our self-consciousness, and advancing on it as it advances on that of the unreflecting brutes. connexion already in the case of the emergence of desires, and ally motives are reasons and reason is itself a motive. In the blind seen that desire in prompting to the search for' means. to its end struggle of so-called " self-regarding " impulses might is the only right; but in the light of principles or practical maxims right is is the primum mavens of intellection (cf. § 35). But intellect the only might.2 This superiority in position of principles is only does much more than devise and contrive in unquestioning explicable by reference to the inhibitory power of attention, which subservience to the impulse of the moment, like some demon of alone makes deliberation possible and is essentially voluntary; Eastern fable; even the brutes, whose cunning is on the whole that is, subjectively determined. But no, it may be objected, deliberation in such cases is just the result of painful experiences of this sort, are not without traces of self-control. As motives of the evil of hasty action, and only ensues when this motive is conflict and the evils of hasty action recur to mind, deliberation strong enough to restrain the impulse that would otherwise prevail. succeeds to mere invention and design, In moments of leisure, Even if this be granted, it does not prove that the subject's action the more imperious cravings being stilled, besides the rehearsal is determined for and not by him; it merely states the obvious of failures or successes in the longer and longer that prudence and self-control are gradually acquired. Authon- Past come ger ger tative principles of action, such as self-love and conscience, are flights of imagination into the future. Both furnish material for no more psychologically on a par with appetites and desires than intellectual rumination, and so we have at length (r) concepts thought and reason are on a par with the association of ideas. of general and distant ends, as wealth, power, knowledge, and Relation of Body and Mind. —self-consciousness having arisen—that concept also of the 47 The question of subjective initiative leads us naturally happiness or perfection of self, and (2) maxims or practical to that concerning the connexion of mind and organism, to which generalizations as to the best means to these ends. Instead of we now proceed. In development and efficiency, in actions determined by the vis a tergo of blind passion we have the intensity and complexity of their processes, mind Parallelism. conduct shaped by what is literally prudence or foresight, the and brain keep invariably and exactly in line together. Striking pursuit of ends that are not esteemed desirable till they are and impressive instances of this correspondence are to be judged to be good. The good, it is truly urged, is not to be found in comparative psychology, and especially in mental identified with the pleasant, for the one implies a standard and pathology; but it is needless here to enlarge on a point which a judgment, and the other nothing but a bare fact of feeling; in the main is beyond dispute. In this correspondence lay the thus the good is often not pleasant and the pleasant not good; in plausibility of the old materialism. But a closer scrutiny die-talking of the good, in short, we are passing out of the region of closes an equally impressive disparity: we reject materialism, nature into that of character. It is so, and yet this progress accordingly, while still maintaining this psychoneural parallelism is itself so far natural as to admit of psychological explication. to be a well-established fact. From this we must distinguish a As already urged (§ 34), the causes of feeling change as the con second sense of parallelism founded on the disparity just menstituents of consciousness change; also they depend more upon tioned as pertaining to the psychical and neural correlates. We the form of that consciousness as this increases in complexity. may call this physiologico-psychological or, more briefly, methodo- When we can deliberately range to and fro in time and circum- stances, the good that is not directly pleasant may indeed be logical, parallelism. It disclaims as illogical the attempt to preferred to what is only pleasant while attention is confined penetrate to psychical facts from the standpoint of physiology, pto the seen and sensible; but then the choice of such good is so persistently and confidently pursued by the old materialists. itself pleasant—pleasanter than its rejection would have been. It also forbids the psychologist to piece out his own shortcomings with tags borrowed The mention of deliberation brings us to the perennial problem sciences are t be the distinct, physiologist. The concepts oe to of " the freedom of the will." But to talk of will is to lapse into two sciences are to be kept distinct, as the facts themselves to the confusions of the old faculty—psychology. As which they, relate are distinct. Confusion is inevitable if the Freedom. Locke long ago urged: " The question is not proper, psychologist, for example, talks of his volition as the cause of his whether the will be free, but whether a man be free." i In the absence arm moving, when by arm movement he means the process of external constraint, when a man does what he likes, we say described by the physiologist in terms of efferent excitations, he is externally free "; but he may still be the slave of every momentary impulse, and then it is said that he is not " internally " muscular flexions, and so forth; or if the physiologist speaks of a free. The existence and nature of this internal freedom is the sensation of red as produced by retinal stimulation due to light problem. But if such freedom is held to imply a certain sovereignty waves of a certain length, when by sensation he means what or autonomy of self over against momentary propensions and blind he immediately experiences on looking at a field poppy. This desires, there can obviously be no question of its existence till the level of self-consciousness is reached and maxims or principles methodological convention, as we may call it, implies a more of action are possible. The young child, the brute and the im- stringent interpretation of causation than that expounded by becile, even when they do as they like, have not this freedom, though J. S. Mill and his contemporaries. It does not, however, forbid they may be said to act spontaneously A resolutely virtuous s cholo teal inferences on the basis of facts, nor man will have more of this freedom than the man of good moral P- g physiological ' disposition who often succumbs to temptation; but it is equally vice versa. But in spite of this distinctness of the facts, and of true that the hardened sinner has more of it than one still deterred the standpoints from which they are respectively studied, their in his evil ways by scruples of conscience. A man is internally causal relation cannot be simply ignored: it is, however, a problem free, then, whenever the ends he pursues have his whole-hearted that pertains strictly to the higher standpoint of philosophy. approval, whether he say with Milton's Satan, "Evil be thou my There have been in all four different theories of this relation good," or with Ji:sus, Thy will be done." But this freedom is always within our experience a relative freedom; hence at a later within modern times: (i) that of mutual interaction—the time we often declare that in some past act of choice we were not common-sense view—very inconsistently maintained by Des-our true selves, not really free. But what is this true self more cartes; (2) the " occasionalism " substituted for this by Geulincx than our ideal ? Or perhaps we prefer to say that we were free and the later Cartesians; (3) the pre-established harmony of and could have acted otherwise; and no doubt we might, if the place of the purely formal and abstract concept of self had been Leibnitz; and (4) the monism of Spinoza, which reduced matter occupied by some other phase ,of that empirical self which is and mind to parallel attributes of the One Substance. The last continuously, but at no one moment completely, presented. It of these—severed, however, from Spinoza's metaphysics—is still must then be admitted that psychological analysis in this case is perhaps the prevailing theory, and to it the term psychophysical not only actually imperfect, but must always remain so—so long, at anv rate, as all that we discern by reflection is less than all we arc. Parallelism most properly applies. For whereas the parallelism But this admission does not commit us to allowing the possible first mentioned states a real correspondence between psychical existence of a liberum arbitrium indifferentiae, sometimes called processes and neural processes, but leaves open the question of " absolute indeterminism "; for that would seem to differ in no a possible interaction between matter and mind, modern respect from absolute chance or caprice. On the other hand, the rigidly determinist position can only be psychologically justified Psychophysical parallelism is a pure hypothesis concerning the by ignoring the activity of the experiencing subject altogether. relation of psychical facts to physical theories, on the ground of At bottom it treats the analysis of conduct as if it were a dynamical which—as we shall presently see—any interaction between problem pure and simple. But motives are never merely so many matter and mind is expressly denied. entirely by et forces themselves. playing At the upon something of self-consciousness inert, or interacting especi- 2 The right is only relative, of course, when the maxims are hypothetical "—to use Kant's phrase,—but it is absolute when 1 Essay concerning Human Understanding, II. xxi. §§ i6 sqq. the maxim is " categorical." - But in the exposition of this hypothesis these two meanings of parallelism are frequently confused or interchanged. The same term " body " is applied both to an aggregate of matter and to the living organism. Now life must be regarded as either inherent in matter, or as the result simply of a particular material configuration, or as physically inexplicable. But, for the present at all events, it cannot be explained physically; nor are we even within measurable distance of such an explanation: so much is beyond cavil. Yet the hypothesis of psychophysical parallelism confines us to one or other of the former alternatives: at the same time its unwarrantable identification with psychoneural parallelism—where we find a real correspondence between mind and organism—tends to conceal the gravity of such assumptions. The standpoint of physiology, there-fore, must be described not as identical with that of physics, but as intermediate between it and the standpoint of psychology. If the fact of life could he reduced to physical terms, physiology then, no doubt, would have to fall into line with physics, much as chemistry, for example, may have had to do. On the other hand, till a physical explanation of life is forthcoming, physiology belongs, with psycho-logy, to the biological group of sciences, and cannot divest itself completely of the teleological concepts essential to them, not a vestige of which belongs to bare physics. It is just because of this community in their concepts that there actually is a certain " point to point" correspondence or parallelism between the psychical and the neural: as an organ a neuron is a unit; physically regarded, it ceases to be one. Yet this illicit identification of organism and material body is thought to be legitimate, inasmuch as physiological processes are found to rest invariably on a physical basis : and inasmuch as, though methodological parallelism forbids the physiologist to identify psychosis with neurosis, no limits can be imposed on his efforts to ascertain the mechanism of the neurosis itself. But if this be granted, is not psychophysical parallelism justified, in principle at all events? By no means: as little, for example, as an explanation of the mechanism of a locomotive would justify us in ascribing its origin, its maintenance or its guidance to the machine itself. When life and mind are explained by their mechanism the physicist may summon the biologist, as Mephistopheles did Faust, " Her zu mir ": then, but not before. A favourite mode of stating psychophysical parallelism is that known as the Double Aspect Theory. In this, besides "Double the unjustified identification of the first and third Aspect" meanings, we find also an equally unjustified inter-Theory. pretation of parallelism in the second sense. All that methodology prescribes is that psychologists and neurologists—and, we may add, that physicists too—shall severally, as " specialists," mind their own business. Again, all that the first two jointly ascertain is simply the fact of correspondence: the explanation of it is still to seek. Two propositions are now advanced which are held to meet this need. First—and negatively—the connexion, it is said, is not causal: mind does not act on body, nor body on mind: the changes on each side form two independent series, each " going along by itself." In other words, the series themselves are said to exemplify what methodology enjoins on the sciences that investigate them—they mind their own business and never intrude into each other's domains. Nevertheless their interaction is not prima facie contradictory or absurd, and ordinary thought, as we have seen, assumes that it exists. What evidence, then, is there for denying it absolutely? Empirical evidence for such a universal negative there can hardly be; it must be established therefore—if established at all—on a priori grounds. Meanwhile two facts, already noticed, make seriously against it. On the psychical side sensations point to an intrusion of some sort, and are not psychically explicable (cf. § 16), and the like—for the present at all events—must be said of the fact of life on the physical side. Apart from all this, it seems plain that methodological parallelism, so far from justifying the denial of interaction, simply precludes its discussion on the dualistic level to which that parallelism is confined. The gulf implied is indeed not absolute of so much, parallelism in the first sense assures us—but those who are forced to keep to their own side of it obviously are not the people to settle how it is crossed. We are aware that the dualism is not absolute, it is replied: it is only phenomenal, and the two series of phenomena are conditioned by an underlying unity of substance. Such is the second, and positive, proposition of the theory. Again asking for evidence, we are told that this underlying unity is unknown—in fact, unknowable. This unknowable substance is assumed, then, simply because—the impossibility of causal connexion being taken as established—no other alternative remains. The nega- Live proposition is thus the foundation of the theory, and without it this agnostic monism becomes entirely arbitrary. We have, therefore, to continue our search for the grounds on which the possibility of interaction is denied. But it will be worth while first to examine certain ambiguities besetting the positive statement. Difference of aspect may result solely from difference of stand-point, or it may be due to difference in the reality itself. The circle, seen as concave from within and as convex from without, is an ancient instance of the first still in great favour; the pillar that was cloud and darkness to the Egyptians, but light to the children of Israel, may serve to exemplify the second. The former we may call the phenomenal, and the latter the ontal, meaning of " aspect." With these two very different meanings our theory plays fast and loose, as suits its own convenience. To do this is easy—in so far as the reality is unknown and unknowable; and necessary—since in the end, the reality, however unknowable, must somehow include both the phenomenal aspects and all that pertains to them, and so far therefore be known. In dealing with " aspect " in the first sense, the one question to be raised concerns the nature and relation of the respective standpoints. To one belongs what we know as individual experience, and this is essentially concrete, immediate, and qualitatively diverse; to the other belongs an abstract, conceptual scheme, wholly quantitative, familiarly known as the mechanical theory. Between these there is plainly no such co-ordination as the inept comparison with the inside and the outside of a circle implies.' Neither is there, on the other hand, the same complete opposition; for the entire mechanical theory is based upon individual experience as enlarged and developed by inter-subjective intercourse. Both the sense-knowledge of the one and the thought-knowledge of the other relate to the one objective factor involved in both. So far, then, there is fundamentally only one standpoint—that of the subjective factor to the objective factor, which is immediately perceived in the one and mediately conceived ih the other. The question here raised is thus primarily epistemological, but it is a question, as we have seen, in which psychology is intimately concerned. " Aspect " in the second sense is independent of standpoints. We have here to deal with attributes of the one reality, more or less in Spinoza's sense: this reality itself, as possessed of disparate attributes, is so far dual, and the question of causal connexion between these attributes is not escaped. For to know that a thing has invariably two distinct attributes does not enable us to determine straightway how the changes or " modes " of the one are connected with those of the other. (r) The same attribute might be always the initiating or independent variant, and then would come the question of finding out which of the two it was; or (2) it might be that now one, now the other, took the lead, the grounds of this alternation being then the topic for inquiry; or, finally, (3) it might be, as our theory assumes, that there was but a single series of double changes. The questions here raised are philosophical questions, but again they are questions in which psychology is intimately concerned. Our examination thus yields two results: first, there is fundamentally only a single standpoint—that of experience, now at the perceptual, now at the conceptual, level; and secondly, the distinction of aspects is not merely phenomenal, but pertains " somehow " to reality. The question is how; and this leads us to resume our inquiry into the grounds on which interaction is denied. These grounds neither pertain to psychology nor to physiology. In spite of the outstanding difficulties connected with sensation and life, which these sciences severally raise, such denial is upheld ' In fact, if there were, since it is only as we contemplate finite portions of the circle that the distinction of concave and convex is present, the nearer we approximated to its elements the more this difference of aspect would disappear. If on the physical side we called these elements atoms, there would be an answering element of " mind-stuff " on the psychical; and there would be no more unity and no other diversity in a given man's mind than in his brain regarded as a complex of primordial atoms. Wild as all this seems, yet views of the kind have been seriously put forward more than once as the logical outcome of psychophysical parallelism. mainly on the strength of an interpretation of the principle known as the conservation of energy—an interpretation of it, however, which many of the ablest physicists disallow. The energy of the physical world, it is maintained, is a strictly in-variable amount; matter, therefore, cannot act on mind, for such action would entail a decrease, nor can mind act on matter, since that would entail an increase, of this energy. In other words, the material world is held to be a " closed system "; and as all the changes within it are mass-motions, there can be none which are not the effect and equivalent of antecedent mass-motions. But now this statement must be established on physical grounds: to assume it otherwise would be openly to beg the very question at issue. For if mind does act on matter, the physical mechanism is subject to changes from without, and so often its motions are not due to antecedent motions; and this —the common-sense view—cannot, of course, be summarily dismissed as impossible or absurd. Now, energy is essentially a metrical notion, and its conservation in finite and isolated material systems has been ascertained by careful quantitative experiments. To say that the energy of the material universe is constant is only a way of expressing the generalization of this result—is tantamount, in other words, to saying that it holds of all finite isolated systems. The whole universe may perhaps be called isolated, but we do not know that it is finite. We cannot, therefore, apply metrical concepts to it; and consequently we cannot interpret the conservation of energy as meaning that the physical part of it is a closed system. But if not a closed system, then the energy of a given group of bodies may be increased or decreased without interaction between that group and other bodies—may be increased or decreased by psychophysical interaction, that is to say. And, moreover, such psychophysical interaction would not invalidate the conservation of energy, rightly understood; for that merely means that the energy of a group of bodies can be altered only from without, and this might happen whenever such interaction occurred.' We seem, therefore, justified for the present in rejecting psychophysical parallelism as one of the three possible modes of relating mind and matter regarded as attributes of the real. Not only are there psychological as well as biological objections which it has not yet overcome, but there are so far no physical grounds in its favour. At this point we may again for a moment turn aside to consider a modified form of the doctrine—the so-called Conscious Auto-"Conscious mason Theory, an attempt to blend the old Cartesian Auto- views concerning the minds of man and brute. maton " According to Huxley,2 the best known modern Theory. exponent of this theory, "our mental conditions are simply the symbols in consciousness of the changes that take place automatically in the organism." This consciousness is supposed " to be related to the mechanism of the body simply as a collateral product of its working, and to be as completely without any power of modifying that Norking as the steam-whistle . . . is without influence upon the locomotive's machinery ": thus " the feeling we call volition is not the cause of a voluntary act, but the symbol of that state of the brain which is the immediate cause of that act." In other words, physical changes are held to be independent of psychical, whereas psychical changes are declared to be their " collateral products." They are called collateral products, or " epiphenomena," to obviate the charge of materialism, and to conform to the interpretation of the conservation of energy that we have just discussed. Such a theory is, strictly speaking, one of parallelism no longer: rather it adopts, instead, the first of the two possibilities we have noted above as opposed to parallelism. According to it, matter is the initiating or independent variant, on whose changes mind simply follows suit. It is open to two fatal objections. First, it is methodologically unsound: its psychology is physiological in the ' The possibility is enough: we cannot tell what actually happens, and do not, therefore, knew how far the direction of matter by mind calls for a modification or limitation of physical hypotheses. Cf. Ward, Naturalism and Agnosticism (3rd ed., 1906), ii. 73-86. 2 Essay on " Animal Automatism," Collected Essays. vol. i.bad sense. It regards all states of consciousness as passive, i.e. as ultimately either " feelings " or " reflexes." Volitional activity is declared illusory; and if this be true, intellectual activity must be illusory too. But to detect illusion requires experience of reality—we only know the sham by knowing the genuine first; and even passive states could not be experienced as such save by contrast with states that are active. To the physical side, then, we naturally turn for this knowledge which we are told is not to be found on the psychical; and we do so the more readily as, according to the present theory, the physical holds the primary place. But we turn in vain; for matter is inert, and its energy only " works " by taking the line of least resistance, like water running down hill. Moreover, such activity as we are in search of could only be found here in case the physical mechanism showed signs of being intelligently directed, and that would also be evidence that psychical activity is not illusory. Is, then, the physical side after all primary? No, we reply: the assumption is epistemologically unsound. This is our second objection. The order implied in the distinction of physical phenomena and psychical epiphenomena is contrary to all experience and indefensible. A physical phenomenon is either actually perceived or possibly perceptible; other-wise it is devoid of empirical reality altogether. But objects of perception are so far psychical; that is, they belong to immediate or individual experience. Therefore we cannot regard them as independent of this experience, nor this as their collateral product, i.e. as epiphenomenal. Again, the phenomenality sup-posed to be common to both involves, as we have already seen, a fundamental identity in the standpoint of each: they belong to the same continuous experience at different levels. And lastly, their abstract, merely quantitative, character shows that it is the concepts of physics, and not the facts of immediate experience, that are symbolic, and so to say epithetic. The attempt—either empirically or speculatively—to outflank mind by way of matter is an absurdity on a par with getting into a basket in the hope of being able to carry oneself. These epistemological considerations may help us to deal with the prime and ultimate argument for strict parallelism. When all is said and done, it is urged, still the interaction of mind and matter remains inconceivable. But this is hardly a sufficient reason for denying what is prima facie a fact. Occasionalists, from Geulincx to Lotze, have acknowledged the same obscurity in all cases of transeunt action. Yet they did not venture to deny that sensations were interruptions in the psychical series, the " occasions " for which were only to be found in the physical; nor that purposive movements were interruptions in the physical series, the " occasions " for which were only to be found in the psychical. And surely such a position is more in harmony with experience than that of the parallelists, who maintain that each series " goes along of itself "—a statement which, as we have repeatedly urged, contradicts psychology and assumes the physical " explanation " of life. Whereas occasionalism leaves the question of ultimate means to be dealt with by a metaphysics which will respect the facts,3 parallelism forecloses it on the basis of a ready-made metaphysics—modern naturalism, that is to say—in which psychology as an independent science is entirely ignored. Starting with a dualism as absolute as that of Descartes —but replacing his two substances by one, enjoying the otium cum dignitate of the Unknowable—starting, too, from the physical side, no wonder such a philosophy finds that what is for us the most familiar and of the supremest interest, the concrete world of sense and striving, is for it the altogether inconceivable, the supreme " world riddle." And yet if the naturalist could deign to listen to the plainest teachings of psychology and of epistemology, the riddle would seem no longer insoluble, for his phenomenal dualism and his agnostic monism would alike disappear. The material mechanism which he calls Nature would rank not as the profoundest reality there is to know: it would rather become—what indeed " machine " primarily connotes—an instrumentality subservient to the " occasions " of the living world of ends; and so regarded, it would cease to be merely calculable, and 2 Cf. Lotze, Metaphysik, § 61 fn. would be found intelligible as well. Psychophysical parallelism, then, we conclude, is not a philosophically tenable position; and —pending the metaphysical discussion as to the ultimate nature of interaction generally—we have to rest content with the second of the three possible modes of connexion above defined, as occasionalism formulates it. According to this, the two series, the psychical and the physical, are not independent and " closed " against each other; but in certain circumstances—e.g. in perception—physical changes are the occasion of psychical, and in certain circumstances—e.g. in purposive movements—psychical changes are the occasion of physical: the one change not being explicable from its psychical antecedents, nor the other from its physical. Into the metaphysical discussion we cannot, of course, enter here. It must suffice to say that it will not be conducted on the lines of our present inquiry: it will not start from a dualism of matter and mind, either regarded as substances or as phenomena. Its problem will rather be the interaction of subject and object—a duality in the unity of experience, which by no means coincides with the dualism of matter and mind, neurosis and psychosis, and the like.up of such reflexes, supposed to be devoid of all psychical concomitants; but consciousness—so far from having disappeared —first comes upon the scene at the opportune moment when the increasing complexity of the mechanism calls for its guidance. Psychologically this hypothesis is less defensible than the last, and it has already been dealt with at some length (cf. § q). It not only assumes, as that does, far more uniformity in the interaction of organism and environment than the facts warrant, but in regarding life as prior to mind, and as the means of its evolution, it burdens science with two insoluble problems instead of one. For even if it were possible chemically to build up protoplasm, we should still be as far from organisms as a heap of bricks are from putting themselves together as a house. (iii.) The last view we have to notice is essentially an extension of the preceding, and is chiefly interesting as a reductio ad absurdum of that. The physics of colloidal substances—at present wanting, but confidently expected " in the near future " by certain biologists—is the key which is to unlock the mysteries of protoplasm. Certain organisms, regarded as varieties of such a substance, react positively to a given physical property of the environment, and others negatively: thus a moth flies towards the light, and a centipede runs from it—the one is positively, the other negatively, " heliotropic "; the radicle of a seed, growing downwards, is, positively, the plumule, growing up-wards, is, negatively, " geotropic." Instincts are but complexes of such tropisms, and owe their character entirely to the symmetrical form and definite structure of the colloidal substance. Now if it facilitate the work of the biologist to say that when what we ordinarily regard as a hungry caterpillar climbs to the tip of a branch it is forced so to do by positive heliotropism; that then positive chemiotropism sets up mastication of the young buds; and that, lastly, " we can imagine this process leading to the destruction of the substances in the skin of the animal that are sensitive to light, and upon which the heliotropism depended," so leaving it free to crawl downwards and come in contact with the new buds which have in the meantime unfolded 2 —if such language serve any useful purpose, all well and good; only it must be applied to the hungry man too: in short, all behaviour must be described in the same terms. For the champion of colloids to betake himself to consciousness as he approaches the higher forms of life is as much a breach of methodological parallelism as it is for the psychologist to fall back upon protoplasm as he approaches the lower. But to suppose that psychical processes first appear in the complicated form of association of ideas—which learning by experience is taken to imply—and at the same time to assume that such experience, even when it appears, is " ultimately due to the motions of colloidal substances," these are incongruous absurdities which only the grossest ignorance would be bold enough to maintain. Concluding, as we have done, that mind and matter—as we may provisionally call them—do really interact, we naturally infer that organic structures are not the result solely of material processes, but involve the co-operation of mental direction and selection: in other words, we are led to regard structure as partly shaped and perfected by function, rather than function as solely determined by structure, itself mechanically evolved. And such a view is justified by the fact that mechanical evolution is primarily a process of " degradation " rather than development, a case of facilis descensus contrasting with the upward struggle of life per aspera ad astra. Still, the notion of life or mind as formative and directive has its difficulties. In the first place, we have no experience of mind organizing matter—no experience of the actual process, that is to say—however sure we may feel of the fact.' Hence the occasionalism to which here, at any rate, science is confined. But even so, the difficulty is not wholly removed. In the handicrafts whence we derive the conception 2 Cf. J. Loeb, Comparative Psychology (1901), pp. 188 sqq.—an interesting book, full of psychological crudities. ' But, of course, a thoroughgoing spiritualism ought to explain the very existence of matter as really the appearance or manifestation of mind.
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