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Title: The Story of the Mind
Author: James Mark Baldwin
Release Date: February 6, 2007 [EBook #20522]
Language: English
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THE
STORY OF THE MIND
BY
JAMES MARK BALDWIN
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS_
NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1905
COPYRIGHT, 1898, 1902,
BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.
* * * * *
PREFACE.
In this little book I have endeavoured to maintain the simplicity
which is the ideal of this series. It is more difficult, however, to
be simple in a topic which, even in its illustrations, demands of the
reader more or less facility in the exploration of his own mind. I am
persuaded that the attempt to make the matter of psychology more
elementary than is here done, would only result in making it untrue
and so in defeating its own object.
In preparing the book I have secured the right and welcomed the
opportunity to include certain more popular passages from earlier
books and articles. It is necessary to say this, for some people are
loath to see a man repeat himself. When one has once said a thing,
however, about as well as he can say it, there is no good reason that
he should be forced into the pretence of saying something different
simply to avoid using the same form of words a second time. The
question, of course, is as to whether he should not then resign
himself to keeping still, and letting others do the further speaking.
There is much to be said for such a course. But if one have the right
to print more severe and difficult things, and think he really has
something to say which would instruct the larger audience, it would
seem only fair to allow him to speak in the simpler way also, even
though all that he says may not have the merit of escaping the charge
of infringing his own copyrights!
I am indebted to the proprietors of the following magazines for the
use of such passages: The Popular Science Monthly, The Century
Magazine, The Inland Educator; and with them I also wish to thank The
Macmillan Company and the owners of Appletons' Universal Cyclopædia.
As to the scope and contents of the Story, I have aimed to include
enough statement of methods and results in each of the great
departments of psychological research to give the reader an
intelligent idea of what is being done, and to whet his appetite for
more detailed information. In the choice of materials I have relied
frankly on my own experience and in debatable matters given my own
opinions. This gives greater reality to the several topics, besides
making it possible, by this general statement, at once to acknowledge
it, and also to avoid discussion and citation of authorities in the
text. At the same time, in the exposition of general principles I have
endeavoured to keep well within the accepted truth and terminology of
psychology.
It will be remarked that in several passages the evolution theory is
adopted in its application to the mind. While this great theory can
not be discussed in these pages, yet I may say that, in my opinion,
the evidence in favour of it is about the same, and about as strong,
as in biology, where it is now made a presupposition of scientific
explanation. So far from being unwelcome, I find it in psychology no
less than in biology a great gain, both from the point of view of
scientific knowledge and from that of philosophical theory. Every
great law that is added to our store adds also to our conviction that
the universe is run through with Mind. Even so-called Chance, which
used to be the "bogie" behind Natural Selection, has now been found to
illustrate--in the law of Probabilities--the absence of Chance. As
Professor Pearson has said: "We recognise that our conception of
Chance is now utterly different from that of yore.... What we are to
understand by a chance distribution is one in accordance with law, and
one the nature of which can, for all practical purposes, be closely
predicted." If the universe be pregnant with purpose, as we all wish
to believe, why should not this purpose work itself out by an
evolution process under law?--and if under law, why not the law of
Probabilities? We who have our lives insured provide for our children
through our knowledge and use of this law; and our plans for their
welfare, in most of the affairs of life, are based upon the
recognition of it. Who will deny to the Great Purpose a similar
resource in producing the universe and in providing for us all?
I add in a concluding section on Literature some references to various
books in English, classified under the headings of the chapters of the
text. These works will further enlighten the reader, and, if he
persevere, possibly make a psychologist of him.
J. MARK BALDWIN.
PRINCETON, _April, 1898_.
* * * * *
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
I. THE SCIENCE OF THE MIND--PSYCHOLOGY
II. WHAT OUR MINDS HAVE IN COMMON--INTROSPECTIVE PSYCHOLOGY
III. THE MIND OF THE ANIMAL--COMPARATIVE PSYCHOLOGY
IV. THE MIND OF THE CHILD--CHILD PSYCHOLOGY
V. THE CONNECTION OF BODY WITH MIND--PHYSIOLOGICAL PSYCHOLOGY--MENTAL
DISEASES
VI. HOW WE EXPERIMENT ON THE MIND--EXPERIMENTAL PSYCHOLOGY
VII. SUGGESTION AND HYPNOTISM
VIII. THE TRAINING OF THE MIND--EDUCATIONAL PSYCHOLOGY
IX. THE INDIVIDUAL MIND AND SOCIETY--SOCIAL PSYCHOLOGY
X. THE GENIUS AND HIS ENVIRONMENT
XI. LITERATURE
* * * * *
LIST OF DIAGRAMS.
FIGURE
1. Origin of instinct by organic selection
2. Reflex and voluntary circuits
3. Outer surface of the left hemisphere of the brain
4. Inner surface or the right hemisphere of the brain
5. The speech zone (after Collins)
6. Mouth-key
7. Apparatus for optical experiment
8. Memory curves
* * * * *
THE STORY OF THE MIND
CHAPTER I.
THE SCIENCE OF THE MIND--PSYCHOLOGY,
Psychology is the science of the mind. It aims to find out all about
the mind--the whole story--just as the other sciences aim to find out
all about the subjects of which they treat--astronomy, of the stars;
geology, of the earth; physiology, of the body. And when we wish to
trace out the story of the mind, as psychology has done it, we find
that there are certain general truths with which we should first
acquaint ourselves; truths which the science has been a very long time
finding out, but which we can now realize without a great deal of
explanation. These general truths, we may say, are preliminary to the
story itself; they deal rather with the need of defining, first of
all, the subject or topic of which the story is to be told.
1. The first such truth is that the mind is not the possession of man
alone. Other creatures have minds. Psychology no longer confines
itself, as it formerly did, to the human soul, denying to the animals
a place in this highest of all the sciences. It finds itself unable to
require any test or evidence of the presence of mind which the animals
do not meet, nor does it find any place at which the story of the mind
can begin higher up than the very beginnings of life. For as soon as
we ask, "How much mind is necessary to start with?" we have to answer,
"Any mind at all"; and all the animals are possessed of some of the
actions which we associate with mind. Of course, the ascertainment of
the truth of this belongs--as the ascertainment of all the truths of
nature belongs--to scientific investigation itself. It is the
scientific man's rule not to assume anything except as he finds facts
to support the assumption. So we find a great department of psychology
devoted to just this question--i.e., of tracing mind in the animals
and in the child, and noting the stages of what is called its
"evolution" in the ascending scale of animal life, and its
"development" in the rapid growth which every child goes through in
the nursery. This gives us two chapters of the story of the mind.
Together they are called "Genetic Psychology," having two divisions,
"Animal or Comparative Psychology" and "Child Psychology."
2. Another general truth to note at the outset is this: that we are
able to get real knowledge about the mind. This may seem at first
sight a useless question to raise, seeing that our minds are, in the
thought of many, about the only things we are really sure of. But that
sort of sureness is not what science seeks. Every science requires
some means of investigation, some method of procedure, which is more
exact than the mere say-so of common sense; and which can be used over
and again by different investigators and under different conditions.
This gives a high degree of verification and control to the results
once obtained. The chemist has his acids, and reagents, and blowpipes,
etc.; they constitute his instruments, and by using them, under
certain constant rules, he keeps to a consistent method. So with the
physiologist; he has his microscope, his staining fluids, his means of
stimulating the tissues of the body, etc. The physicist also makes
much of his lenses, and membranes, and electrical batteries, and X-ray
apparatus. In like manner it is necessary that the psychologist should
have a recognised way of investigating the mind, which he can lay
before anybody saying: "There, you see my results, you can get them
for yourself by the same method that I used."
In fulfilling this requirement the psychologist resorts to two methods
of procedure. He is able to investigate the mind in two ways, which
are of such general application that anybody of sufficient training to
make scientific observations at all can repeat them and so confirm the
results. One of these is what is called Introspection. It consists in
taking note of one's own mind, as all sorts of changes are produced in
it, such as emotions, memories, associations of events now gone, etc.,
and describing everything that takes place. Other persons can repeat
the observations with their own minds, and see that what the first
reports is true. This results in a body of knowledge which is put
together and called "Introspective Psychology," and one chapter of the
story should be devoted to that.
Then the other way we have is that of experimenting on some one else's
mind. We can act on our friends and neighbours in various ways, making
them feel, think, accept, refuse this and that, and then observe how
they act. The differences in their action will show the differences in
the feelings, etc., which we have produced. In pursuing this method
the psychologist takes a person--called the "subject" or the
"re-agent"--into his laboratory, asks him to be willing to follow
certain directions carefully, such as holding an electric handle,
blowing into a tube, pushing a button, etc., when he feels, sees, or
hears certain things; this done with sufficient care, the results are
found recorded in certain ways which the psychologist has arranged
beforehand. This second way of proceeding gives results which are
gathered under the two headings "Experimental" and "Physiological
Psychology." They should also have chapters in our story.
3. There is besides another truth which the psychologist nowadays
finds very fruitful for his knowledge of the mind; this is the fact
that minds vary much in different individuals, or classes of
individuals. First, there is the pronounced difference between healthy
minds and diseased minds. The differences are so great that we have to
pursue practically different methods of treating the diseased, not
only as a class apart from the well minds--putting such diseased
persons into institutions--but also as differing from one another.
Just as the different forms of bodily disease teach us a great deal
about the body--its degree of strength, its forms of organization and
function, its limitations, its heredity, the inter-connection of its
parts, etc.--so mental diseases teach us much about the normal mind.
This gives another sphere of information which constitutes "Abnormal
Psychology" or "Mental Pathology."
[Illustration: PLATE I.]
[Illustration: PLATE II.]
There are also very striking variations between individuals even
within normal life; well people are very different from one another.
All that is commonly meant by character or temperament as
distinguishing one person from another is evidence of these
differences. But really to know all about mind we should see what its
variations are, and endeavour to find out why the variations exist.
This gives, then, another topic, "Individual or Variational
Psychology." This subject should also have notice in the story.
4. Allied with this the demand is made upon the psychologist that he
show to the teacher how to train the mind; how to secure its
development in the individual most healthfully and productively, and
with it all in a way to allow the variations of endowment which
individuals show each to bear its ripest fruit. This is "Educational
or Pedagogical Psychology."
5. Besides all these great undertakings of the psychologist, there is
another department of fact which he must some time find very fruitful,
although as yet he has not been able to investigate it thoroughly: he
should ask about the place of the mind in the world at large. If we
seek to know what the mind has done in the world, what a wealth of
story comes to us from the very beginnings of history! Mind has done
all that has been done: it has built human institutions, indited
literature, made science, discovered the laws of Nature, used the
forces of the material world, embodied itself in all the monuments
which stand to testify to the presence of man. What could tell us more
of what mind is than this record of what mind has done? The
ethnologists are patiently tracing the records left by early man in
his utensils, weapons, clothing, religious rites, architectural
remains, etc., and the anthropologists are seeking to distinguish the
general and essential from the accidental and temporary in all the
history of culture and civilization. They are making progress very
slowly, and it is only here and there that principles are being
discovered which reveal to the psychologist the necessary modes of
action and development of the mind. All this comes under the head of
"Race Psychology."
6. Finally, another department, the newest of all, investigates the
action of minds when they are thrown together in crowds. The animals
herd, the insects swarm, most creatures live in companies; they are
gregarious, and man no less is social in his nature. So there is a
psychology of herds, crowds, mobs, etc., all put under the heading of
"Social Psychology." It asks the question, What new phases of the mind
do we find when individuals unite in common action?--or, on the other
hand, when they are artificially separated?
We now have with all this a fairly complete idea of what The Story of
the Mind should include, when it is all told. Many men are spending
their lives each at one or two of these great questions. But it is
only as the results are all brought together in a consistent view of
that wonderful thing, the mind, that we may hope to find out all that
it is. We must think of it as a growing, developing thing, showing its
stages of evolution in the ascending animal scale, and also in the
unfolding of the child; as revealing its nature in every change of our
daily lives which we experience and tell to one another or find
ourselves unable to tell; as allowing itself to be discovered in the
laboratory, and as willing to leave the marks of its activity on the
scientist's blackened drum and the dial of the chronoscope; as subject
to the limitations of health and disease, needing to be handled with
all the resources of the asylum, the reformatory, the jail, as well as
with the delicacy needed to rear the sensitive girl or to win the love
of the bashful maid; as manifesting itself in the development of
humanity from the first rude contrivances for the use of fire, the
first organizations for defence, and the first inscriptions of picture
writing, up to the modern inventions in electricity, the complex
constitutions of government, and the classic productions of literary
art; and as revealing its possibilities finally in the brutal acts of
the mob, the crimes of a lynching party, and the deeds of collective
righteousness performed by our humane and religious societies.
It would be impossible, of course, within the limits of this little
volume, to give even the main results in so many great chapters of
this ambitious and growing science. I shall not attempt that; but the
rather select from the various departments certain outstanding results
and principles. From these as elevations the reader may see the
mountains on the horizon, so to speak, which at his leisure, and with
better guides, he may explore. The choice of materials from so rich a
store has depended also, as the preface states, on the writer's
individual judgment, and it is quite probable that no one will find
the matters altogether wisely chosen. All the great departments now
thus briefly described, however, are represented in the following
chapters.
CHAPTER II.
WHAT OUR MINDS HAVE IN COMMON--INTROSPECTIVE PSYCHOLOGY.
Of all the sources now indicated from which the psychologist may draw,
that of so-called Introspective Psychology--the actual reports of what
we find going on in our minds from time to time--is the most
important. This is true for two great reasons, which make Psychology
different from all the other sciences. The first claim which the
introspective method has upon us arises from the fact that it is only
by it that we can examine the mind directly, and get its events in
their purity. Each of us knows himself better than he knows any one
else. So this department, in which we deal each with his own
consciousness at first hand, is more reliable, if free from error,
than any of those spheres in which we examine other persons, so long
as we are dealing with the psychology of the individual. The second
reason that this method of procedure is most important is found in the
fact that all the other departments of psychology--and with them all
the other sciences--have to use introspection, after all, to make sure
of the results which they get by other methods. For example, the
natural scientist, the botanist, let us say, and the physical
scientist, the electrician, say, can not observe the plants or the
electric sparks without really using his introspection upon what is
before him. The light from the plant has to go into his brain and
leave a certain effect in his mind, and then he has to use
introspection to report what he sees. The astronomer who has bad eyes
can not observe the stars well or discover the facts about them,
because his introspection in reporting what he sees proceeds on the
imperfect and distorted images coming in from his defective eyesight.
So a man given to exaggeration, who is not able to report truthfully
what he remembers, can not be a good botanist, since this defect in
introspection will render his observation of the plants unreliable.
In practice the introspective method has been most important, and the
development of psychology has been up to very recently mainly due to
its use. As a consequence, there are many general principles of mental
action and many laws of mental growth already discovered which should
in the first instance engage our attention. They constitute the main
framework of the building; and we should master them well before we go
on to find the various applications which they have in the other
departments of the subject.
The greater results of "Introspective" or, as it is very often called,
"General" psychology may be summed up in a few leading principles,
which sound more or less abstract and difficult, but which will have
many concrete illustrations in the subsequent chapters. The facts of
experience, the actual events which we find taking place in our minds,
fall naturally into certain great divisions. These are very easily
distinguished from one another. The first distinction is covered by
the popularly recognised difference between "thought and conduct," or
"knowledge and life." On the one hand, the mind is looked at as
receiving, taking in, learning; and on the other hand, as acting,
willing, doing this or that. Another great distinction contrasts a
third mental condition, "feeling," with both of the other two. We say
a man has knowledge, but little feeling, head but no heart; or that he
knows and feels the right but does not live up to it.
I. On the side of Reception we may first point out the avenues through
which our experiences come to us: these are the senses--a great
number, not simply the five special senses of which we were taught in
our childhood. Besides Sight, Hearing, Taste, Smell, and Touch, we now
know of certain others very definitely. There are Muscle sensations
coming from the moving of our limbs, Organic sensations from the inner
vital organs, Heat and Cold sensations which are no doubt distinct
from each other, Pain sensations probably having their own physical
apparatus, sensations from the Joints, sensations of Pressure, of
Equilibrium of the body, and a host of peculiar sensational conditions
which, for all we know, may be separate and distinct, or may arise
from combinations of some of the others. Such, for example, are the
sensations which are felt when a current of electricity is sent
through the arm.
All these give the mind its material to work upon; and it gets no
material in the first instance from any other source. All the things
we know, all our opinions, knowledges, beliefs, are absolutely
dependent at the start upon this supply of material from our senses;
although, as we shall see, the mind gets a long way from its first
subjection to this avalanche of sensations which come constantly
pouring in upon it from the external world. Yet this is the essential
and capital function of Sensation: to supply the material on which the
mind does the work in its subsequent thought and action.
Next comes the process by which the mind holds its material for future
use, the process of Memory; and with it the process by which it
combines its material together in various useful forms, making up
things and persons out of the material which has been received and
remembered--called Association of Ideas, Thinking, Reasoning, etc. All
these processes used to be considered as separate "faculties" of the
soul and as showing the mind doing different things. But that view is
now completely given up. Psychology now treats the activity of the
mind in a much more simple way. It says: Mind does only one thing; in
all these so-called faculties we have the mind doing this one thing
only on the different materials which come and go in it. This one
thing is the combining, or holding together, of the elements which
first come to it as sensations, so that it can act on a group of them
as if they were only one and represented only one external thing. Let
me illustrate this single and peculiar sort of process as it goes on
in the mind.
We may ask how the child apprehends an orange out there on the table
before him. It can not be said that the orange goes into the child's
mind by any one of its senses. By sight he gets only the colour and
shape of the orange, by smell he gets only its odour, by taste its
sweetness, and by touch its smoothness, rotundity, etc. Furthermore,
by none of these senses does he find out the individuality of the
orange, or distinguish it from other things which involve the same or
similar sensations--say an apple. It is easy to see that after each of
the senses has sent in its report something more is necessary: the
combining of them all together in the same place and at the same
time, the bringing up of an appropriate name, and with that a sort of
relating or distinguishing of this group of sensations from those of
the apple. Only then can we say that the knowledge, "here is an
orange," has been reached. Now this is the _one typical way the mind
has of acting_, this combining of all the items or groups of items
into ever larger and more fruitful combinations. This is called
Apperception. The mind, we say, "apperceives" the orange when it is
able to treat all the separate sensations together as standing for one
thing. And the various circumstances under which the mind does this
give the occasions for the different names which the earlier
psychology used for marking off different "faculties."
These names are still convenient, however, and it may serve to make
the subject clear, as well as to inform the reader of the meaning of
these terms, to show how they all refer to this one kind of mental
action.
The case of the orange illustrates what is usually called Perception.
It is the case in which the result is the knowledge of an actual
object in the outside world. When the same process goes on after the
actual object has been removed it is Memory. When it goes on again in
a way which is not controlled by reference to such an outside
object--usually it is a little fantastic, as in dreams or fancy, but
often it is useful as being so well done as to anticipate what is
really true in the outside world--then it is Imagination. If it is
actually untrue, but still believed in, we call it Illusion or
Hallucination. When it uses mere symbols, such as words, gestures,
writing, etc., to stand for whole groups of things, it is Thinking or
Reasoning. So we may say that what the mind arrives at through this
its one great way of acting, no matter which of these forms it takes
on, except in the cases in which it is not true in its results to the
realities, is Knowledge.
Thus we see that the terms and faculties of the older psychology can
be arranged under this doctrine of Apperception without the necessity
of thinking of the mind as doing more than the one thing. It simply
groups and combines its material in different ways and in ever higher
degrees of complexity.
Apperception, then, is the one principle of mental activity on the
side of its reception and treatment of the materials of experience.
There is another term very current in psychology by which this same
process is sometimes indicated: the phrase Association of Ideas. This
designates the fact that when two things have been perceived or
thought of together, they tend to come up together in the mind in the
future; and when a thing has been perceived which resembles another,
or is contrasted with it, they tend to recall each other in the same
way. It is plain, however, that this phrase is applied to the single
thoughts, sensations, or other mental materials, in their relations or
connections among themselves. They are said to be "associated" with
one another. This way of speaking of the mental materials, instead of
speaking of the mind's activity, is convenient; and it is quite right
to do so, since it is no contradiction to say that the thoughts, etc.,
which the mind "apperceives" remain "associated" together. From this
explanation it is evident that the Association of Ideas also comes
under the mental process of Apperception of which we have been
speaking.
There is, however, another tendency of the mind in the treatment of
its material, a tendency which shows us in actual operation the
activity with which we have now become familiar. When we come to look
at any particular case of apperception or association we find that the
process must go on from the platform which the mind's attainments have
already reached. The passing of the mental states has been likened to
a stream which flows on from moment to moment with no breaks. It is so
continuous that we can never say: "I will start afresh, forget the
past, and be uninfluenced by my history." However we may wish this, we
can never do it; for the oncoming current of the stream is just what
we speak of as ourselves, and we can not avoid bringing the memories,
imaginations, expectations, disappointments, etc., up to the present.
So the effect which any new event or experience, happening for the
first time, is to have upon us depends upon the way it fits into the
current of these onflowing influences. The man I see for the first
time may be so neutral to me that I pass him unregarded. But let him
return after I have once remarked him, or let him resemble a man whom
I know, or let him give me some reason to observe, fear, revere, think
of him in any way, then he is a positive factor in my stream. He has
been taken up into the flow of my mental life, and he henceforth
contributes something to it.
For example, a little child, after learning to draw a man's face, with
two eyes, the nose and mouth, and one ear on each side, will
afterward, when told to draw a profile, still put in two eyes and
affix an ear to each side. The drift of mental habit tells on the new
result and he can not escape it.
He will still put in the two eyes and two ears when he has before him
a copy showing only one ear and neither eye.
In all such cases the new is said to be Assimilated to the old. The
customary figure for man in the child's memory assimilates the
materials of the new copy set before him.
Now this tendency is universal. The mind must assimilate its new
material as much as possible, thus making the old stand for the new.
Otherwise there would be no containing the fragmentary details which
we should have to remember and handle. Furthermore, it is through this
tendency that we go on to form the great classes of objects--such as
man, animal, virtue--into which numbers of similar details are put,
and which we call General Notions or Concepts.
We may understand by Assimilation, therefore, the general tendency of
new experiences to be treated by us in the ways which similar material
has been treated before, with the result that the mind proceeds from
the particular case to the general class.
Summing up our outcome so far, we find that general psychology has
reached three great principles in its investigation of knowledge.
First, we have the combining tendency of the mind, the grouping
together and relating of mental states and of things, called
_Apperception_. Then, second, there are the particular relations
established among the various states, etc., which are combined; these
are called _Associations_ of Ideas. And, third, there is the tendency
of the mind to use its old experiences and habits as general patterns
or nets for the sorting out and distributing of all the new details of
daily life; this is called _Assimilation_.
II. Let us now turn to the second great aspect of the mind, as general
or introspective psychology considers it, the aspect which presents
itself in Action or conduct. The fact that we act is of course as
important as the fact that we think or the fact that we feel; and the
distinction which separates thought and action should not be made too
sharp.
Yet there is a distinction. To understand action we must again go to
introspection. This comes out as soon as we ask how we reach our
knowledge of the actions of others. Of course, we say at once that we
see them. And that is true; we do see them, while as to their thoughts
we only infer them from what we see of their action. But, on the other
hand, we may ask: How do we come to infer this or that thought from
this or that action of another? The only reply is: Because when we act
in the same way this is the way we feel. So we get back in any case to
our own consciousness and must ask how is this action related to this
thought in our own mind.
To this question psychology has now a general answer: Our action is
always the result of our thought, of the elements of knowledge which
are at the time present in the mind. Of course, there are actions
which we do from purely nervous reasons. These are the Instincts,
which come up again when we consider the animals. But these we may
neglect so long as we are investigating actions which we consider our
own. Apart from the Instincts, the principle holds that behind every
action which our conduct shows there must be something thought of,
some sensation or knowledge then in mind, some feeling swelling within
our breast, which prompts to the action.
This general principle is Motor Suggestion. It simply means that we
are unable to have any thought or feeling whatever, whether it comes
from the senses, from memory, from the words, conduct, or command of
others, which does not have a direct influence upon our conduct. We
are quite unable to avoid the influence of our own thoughts upon our
conduct, and often the most trivial occurrences of our daily lives act
as suggestions to deeds of very great importance to ourselves and
others. For example, the influence of the newspaper reports of crime
stimulate other individuals to perform the same crimes by this
principle of suggestion; for the fact is that the reading of the
report causes us to entertain the thoughts, and these thoughts tend to
arouse in us their corresponding trains of suggested action.
The most interesting and striking sphere of operation of the principle
of Suggestion (of other sorts as well as motor) is what is commonly
known simply as Hypnotism. To that, as well as to further
illustrations of Suggestion, we will return later on.
We are able, however, to see a little more in detail how the law of
Motor Suggestion works by asking what sort of action is prompted in
each case of thought or feeling, at the different levels of the mind's
activity which have been distinguished above as all illustrating
Apperception--e.g., the stages known as Perception, Imagination,
Reasoning, etc.
We act, of course, on our perceptions constantly; most of our routine
life is made up of such action on the perceptions of objects which lie
about us. The positions of things in the house, in the streets, in the
office, in the store, are so well known that we carry out a series of
actions with reference to these objects without much supervision from
our consciousness. Here the law of Motor Suggestion works along under
the guidance of Perception, Memory, and the Association of Ideas. Then
we find also, in much of our action, an element due to the exercise of
the Imagination. We fill in the gaps in the world of perception by
imagining appropriate connections; and we then act as if we knew that
these imaginations were realities. This is especially true in our
intercourse with our fellow-men. We never really know what they will
do from time to time. Their action is still future and uncertain; but
from our familiarity with their character, we surmise or imagine what
they expect or think, and we then act so as to make our conduct fit
into theirs. Here is suggestion of a personal kind which depends upon
our ability, in a sense, to reconstruct the character of others,
leading us out into appropriate action. This is the sphere of the most
important affairs of our lives. It appears especially so when we
consider its connection with the next great sort of action from
suggestion.
This next and highest sphere is action from the general or abstract
thoughts which we have been able to work up by the apperceiving
activity of the mind. In this sphere we have a special name for those
thoughts which influence us directly and lead us to action: we call
such thoughts Motives. We also have a special name for the sort of
action which is prompted by clearly-thought-out motives: Will. But in
spite of this emphasis given to certain actions of ours as springing
from what is called Will, we must be careful to see that Will is not a
new faculty, or capacity, added to mind, and which is different from
the ways of action which the mind had before the Will arose. Will is
only a name for the action upon suggestions of conduct which are so
clear in our minds that we are able to deliberate upon them, acting
only after some reflection, and so having a sense that the action
springs from our own choice. The real reasons for action, however, are
thoughts, in this case, just as in the earlier cases they were. In
this case we call them Motives; but we are dependent upon these
Motives, these Suggestions; we can not act without Motives, nor can we
fail to act on those Motives which we have; just as, in the earlier
cases, we could not act without some sort of Perceptions or
Imaginations or Memories, and we could not fail to act on the
Perceptions or other mental states which we had. Voluntary action or
Will is therefore only a complex and very highly conscious case of the
general law of Motor Suggestion; it is the form which suggested action
takes on when Apperception is at its highest level.
The converse of Suggestion is also true--that we can not perform an
action without having in the mind at the time the appropriate thought,
or image, or memory to suggest the action. This dependence of action
upon the thought which the mind has at the time is conclusively shown
in certain patients having partial paralysis. These patients find that
when the eyes are bandaged they can not use their limbs, and it is
simply because they can not realize without seeing the limb how it
would feel to move it; but open the eyes and let them see the
limb--then they move it freely. A patient can not speak when the
cortex of the brain is injured in the particular spot which is used in
remembering how the words feel or sound when articulated. Many such
cases lead to the general position that for each of our intentional
actions we must have some way of thinking about the action, of
remembering how it feels, looks, etc.; we must have something in mind
_equivalent_ to the experience of the movement. This is called the
principle of Kinæsthetic Equivalents, an expression which loses its
formidable sound when we remember that "kinæsthetic" means having the
feeling of movement; so the principle expresses the truth that we must
in every case have some thought or mental picture in mind which is
equivalent to the feeling of the movement we desire to make; if not,
we can not succeed in making it.
What we mean by the "freedom" of the will is not ability to do
anything without thinking, but ability to think all the alternatives
together and to act on this larger thought. Free action is the fullest
expression of thought and of the Self which thinks it.
It is interesting to observe the child getting his Equivalents day by
day. He can not perform a new movement simply by wishing to do so; he
has no Equivalents in his mind to proceed upon. But as he learns the
action, gradually striking the proper movements one by one--oftenest
by imitation, as we will see later on--he stores the necessary
Equivalents up in his memory, and afterward only needs to think how
the movements feel or look, or how words sound, to be able to make
the movements or speak the words forthwith.
III. Introspection finds another great class of conditions in
experience, again on the receptive side--conditions which convert the
mind from the mere theatre of indifferent changes into the vitally
interested, warmly intimate thing which our mental life is to each of
us. This is the sphere of Feeling. We may see without more ado that
while we are receiving sensations and thoughts and suggestions, and
acting upon them in the variety of ways already pointed out, we
ourselves are not indifferent spectators of this play, this
come-and-go of processes. We are directly implicated; indeed, the very
sense of a self, an ego, a me-and-mine, in each consciousness, arises
from the fact that all this come-and-go is a personal growth. The mind
is not a mere machine doing what the laws of its action prescribe. We
find that nothing happens which does not affect the mind itself for
better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, for pleasure or for
pain; and there spring up a series of attitudes of the mind itself,
according as it is experiencing or expecting to experience what to it
is good or bad. This is, then, the great meaning of Feeling; it is the
sense in the mind that it is itself in some way influenced for good or
for ill by what goes on within it. It stands midway between thought
and action. We feel with reference to what we think, and we act
because we feel. All action is guided by feeling.
Feeling shows two well-marked characters: first, the Excitement of
taking a positive attitude; and, second, the Pleasure or Pain that
goes with it.
Here, again, it may suffice to distinguish the stages which arise as
we go from the higher to the lower, from the life of Sensation and
Perception up to that of Thought. This was our method in both of the
other phases of the mental life--Knowledge and Action. Doing this,
therefore, in the case of Feeling also, we find different terms
applied to the different phases of feeling. In the lowest sort of
mental life, as we may suppose the helpless newborn child to have it,
and as we also think it exists in certain low forms of animal life,
feeling is not much more than Pleasures and Pains depending largely
upon the physical conditions under which life proceeds. It is likely
that there are both Pleasures and Pains which are actually sensations
with special nerve apparatus of their own; and there are also states
of the Comfortable and the Uncomfortable, or of pleasant and
unpleasant feeling, due to the way the mind is immediately affected.
These are conditions of Excitement added to the Sensations of Pleasure
and Pain.
Coming up to the life of Memory and Imagination, we find many great
classes of Emotions testifying to the attitudes which the mind takes
toward its experiences. They are remarkably rich and varied, these
emotions. Hope gives place to its opposite despair, joy to sorrow, and
regret succeeds expectation. No one can enumerate the actual phases of
the emotional life. The differences which are most pronounced--as
between hope and fear, joy and sorrow, anger and love--have special
names, and their stimulating causes are so constant that they have
also certain fixed ways of showing themselves in the body, the
so-called emotional Expressions. It is by these that we see and
sympathize with the emotional states of other persons. The most that
we have room here to say is that there is a constant ebb and flow, and
that we rarely attain a state of relative freedom from the influence
of emotion.
The fixed bodily Expressions of emotion are largely hereditary and
common to man and the animals. It is highly probable that they first
arose as attitudes useful in the animal's environments for defence,
flight, seizure, embrace, etc., and have descended to man as
survivals, so becoming indications of states of the mind.
The final and highest manifestation of the life of feeling is what we
call Sentiment. Sentiment is aroused in response to certain so-called
ideal states of thought. The trend of mental growth toward constantly
greater adequacy in its knowledge leads it to anticipate conditions
when its attainments will be made complete. There are certain sorts of
reality whose completeness, thus imagined, arouses in us emotional
states of the greatest power and value. The thought of God gives rise
to the Religious sentiment, that of the good to the Ethical or Moral
sentiment, that of the beautiful to the Esthetic sentiment. These
sentiments represent the most refined and noble fruitage of the life
of feeling, as the thoughts which they accompany refer to the most
elevated and ideal objects. And it is equally true that the conduct
which is performed under the inspiration of Sentiment is the noblest
and most useful in which man can engage.
CHAPTER III.
THE MIND OF THE ANIMAL--COMPARATIVE PSYCHOLOGY.
It has already been pointed out that the animal has a very important
share of the endowment which we call mind. Only recently has he been
getting his due. He was formerly looked upon, under the teachings of a
dualistic philosophy and of a jealous humanity, as a soulless machine,
a mere automaton which was moved by the starting of certain springs to
run on until the machine ran down. There are two reasons that this
view has been given up, each possibly important enough to have
accomplished the revolution and to have given rise to Animal
Psychology.
First, there is the rise of the evolution theory, which teaches that
there is no absolute break between man and the higher animals in the
matter of mental endowment, and that what difference there is must
itself be the result of the laws of mental growth; and the second
reason is that the more adequate the science of the human mind has
become the more evident has it also become that man himself is more of
a machine than had been supposed. Man grows by certain laws; his
progress is conditioned by the environment, both physical and social,
in which he lives; his mind is a part of the natural system of things.
So with the animal. The animal fulfils, as far as he can, the same
sort of function; he has his environment, both physical and social; he
works under the same laws of growth which man also obeys; his mind
exhibits substantially the same phenomena which the human mind
exhibits in its early stages in the child. All this means that the
animal has as good right to recognition, as a mind-bearing creature,
so to speak, as the child; and if we exclude him we should also
exclude the child. Further, this also means--what is more important
for the science of psychology--that the development of the mind in its
early stages and in certain of its directions of progress is revealed
most adequately in the animals.
_Animal Instinct._--Turning to the animals, the first thing to strike
us is the remarkable series of so-called animal Instincts. Everybody
knows what animal instincts are like; it is only necessary to go to a
zoölogical garden to see them in operation on a large scale. Take the
house cat and follow her through the life of a single day, observing
her actions. She washes her face and makes her toilet in the morning
by instinct. She has her peculiar instinctive ways of catching the
mouse for breakfast. She whets her appetite by holding back her meal
possibly for an hour, in the meantime playing most cruelly with the
pitiful mouse, letting it run and catching it again, and doing this
over and over. If she has children she attends to their training in
the details of cat etiquette and custom with the utmost care, all by
instinct; and the kittens instinctively respond to her attentions. She
conducts herself during the day with remarkable cleanliness of life,
making arrangements which civilized man follows with admiration. She
shows just the right abhorrence of water for a creature that is not
able to swim. She knows just what enemies to fly from and when to turn
and fight, using with inborn dexterity her formidable claws. She
prefers nocturnal excursions and sociabilities, having eyes which
make it safe to be venturesome in the dark. She has certain vocal
expressions of her emotions, which man in vain attempts to eradicate
with all the agencies of domestication. She has special arts to
attract her mate, and he in turn is able to charm her with songs which
charm nobody else. And so on, almost _ad infinitum_.
Observe the dog, the birds of different species, the monkeys, the
hares, and you find wonderful differences of habit, each adapting the
animal differently, but with equal effectiveness, to the life which he
in particular is called upon to lead. The ants and bees are
notoriously expert in the matter of instinct. They have colonies in
which some of the latest principles of social organization seem to
find analogues: slavery, sexual regulations, division of labour,
centralization of resources, government distribution of food, capital
punishment, etc.
All this--not to stop upon details which the books on animal life give
in great abundance--has furnished grounds for speculation for
centuries, and it is only in the last generation that the outlines of
a theory of instinct have been filled in with substantial knowledge. A
rapid sketch of this theory may be drawn in the following pages.
1. In instinct in general there is a basis of inherited nervous
tendency toward the performance of just the sort of action which the
instinct exhibits. This nervous tendency shows itself independently of
learning by the individual in a great many cases, as in the instinct
of sucking by young animals, pecking for food by young fowls, the
migrating actions of adult mammals and birds, the courting movements
of many varieties of animal species. In all this we have what is
called the "perfect" instinct. To be perfect, an instinct must be
carried out successfully by the animal when his organism is ready,
without any instruction, any model to imitate, any experience to go
upon. The "perfect" instincts are entirely congenital or inborn; the
nervous apparatus only needs to reach the proper stage of maturity or
growth, and forthwith the instinctive action is performed as soon as
the external conditions of life are such as to make its performance
appropriate and useful.
2. On the other hand, many instincts--indeed, probably the greater
number--are not perfect, but "imperfect." Imperfect instincts are
those which do not fully equip the animal with the function in
question, but only take him part way to the goal. He has a spontaneous
tendency to do certain things, such as building a nest, singing, etc.;
but he is not able to do these things adequately or perfectly if left
to himself from birth. This sort of endowment with imperfect instincts
has been the field of some of the most interesting research in animal
psychology, and has led to a new view of the relation of instinct to
intelligence.
3. It has been found that young animals, birds, etc., depend upon the
example and instruction of adults for the first performance of many
actions that seem to be instinctive. This dependence may exist even in
cases in which there is yet a congenital tendency to perform the
action. Many birds, for example, have a general instinct to build a
nest; but in many cases, if put in artificial circumstances, they
build imperfect nests. Birds also have an instinct to make vocal
calls; but if kept from birth out of hearing of the peculiar notes of
their species, they come to make cries of a different sort, or learn
to make the notes of some other species with which they are thrown.
4. The principal agency for the learning of the animals, and for the
supplementing of their instincts, is Imitation. The sight of certain
movements on the part of the adult animals, or the hearing of their
cries, calls, notes, etc., leads the young to fall into an imitation
of these movements or vocal performances. The endowment which such a
young animal has in the direction of making movements and cries
similar to those of his species aids him, of course, in imitating
these in preference to others. So the endowment and the tendency to
imitate directly aid each other in all such functions, and hurry the
little creature on in his acquisition of the habits of his species. We
find young animals clinging even in their imitations pretty closely to
their own proper fathers and mothers, who are thus enabled to bring
them up _comme il faut_.
5. There is every reason to think, moreover, that the tendency to
imitate is itself instinctive. Young animals, notably the monkey and
the child, fall spontaneously to imitating when they reach a certain
age. Imitation shows itself to be instinctive in the case of the
mocking bird, the parrot, etc. Furthermore, the mechanism of this
function of imitation is now very well known. The principle of
psychology recognised above under the phrase Kinæsthetic Equivalents,
teaches us that the idea of a movement, coming into the mind through
sight or some other sense, stirs up the proper apparatus to bring
about the same movement in the observer. This we see in the common
tendency of an audience to repeat the gestures of a speaker, and in
many similar cases. When this principle is extended to include all
sorts of experiences besides those of movement, we have what is
generally called Imitation. Moreover, every time that by action the
child imitates, he perceives his own imitation, and this again acts as
a "copy" or model for another repetition of the act, and so on. This
method of keeping himself going gives the young animal or child
constant practice, and renders him more and more efficient in the acts
necessary to his life.
6. It is evident what great profit accrues from this arrangement
whereby a general instinct like imitation takes the place of a number
of special instincts, or supplements them. It gives a measure of
plasticity to the creature. He can now respond suitably to changes in
the environment in which he lives. The special instincts, on the
contrary, are for the most part so fixed that the animal must act just
as they require him to in this or that circumstance; but as soon as
his instinct takes on the form of imitation, the resulting action
tends to conform itself to the model actions of the other creatures
which set "copies" before him.
These more or less new results due to recent research in the province
of Instinct have had direct bearing upon theories of the origin of
instinct and of its place in animal life.
_Theories of Instinct._--Apart from the older view which saw in animal
instinct simply a matter of original created endowment, whereby each
animal was made once for all "after his kind," and according to which
there is no further reason that the instincts are what they are than
that they were made so; apart from this "special creation" view, two
different ideas have had currency, both based upon the theory of
evolution. Each of these views assumes that the instincts have been
developed from more simple animal actions by a gradual process; but
they differ as to the elements originally entering into the actions
which afterward became instinctive.
1. First, there is what is called the Reflex Theory. This holds that
instincts are reflex actions, like the closing of the eye when an
object threatens to enter it, only much more complex. They are due to
the compounding and adding together of simple reflexes, in greater and
greater number, and with increasing efficiency. This theory attempts
to account for instinct entirely in terms of nervous action. It goes
with that view of evolution which holds that the nervous system has
had its growth from generation to generation by the continued reflex
adjustments of the organism to its environment, whereby more and more
delicate adaptations to the external world were secured. In this way,
say the advocates of this theory, we may account for the fact that the
animal has no adequate knowledge of what he is doing when he performs
an act instinctively; he has no end or aim in his mind; he simply
feels his nervous system doing what it is fitted to do by its organic
adaptations to the stimulations of air, and earth, and sea, whatever
these may be.
But it may be asked: Why do succeeding generations improve each on its
parents, so that there is a gradual tendency to perfect the instinct?
The answer to this question brings up another great law of
biology--the principle of Variations. This principle states the common
fact that in every case of a family of offspring the individual young
vary slightly in all directions from their parents. Admitting this, we
will find in each group of families some young individuals which are
better than their parents; these will have the advantage over others
and will be the ones to grow up and have the children of the next
generation again, and so on. So by constant Variation and Natural
Selection--that is, the "Survival of the Fittest" in competition with
the rest--there will be constant improvement in the Instinct.
2. The other theory, the rival one, holds that there are some
instincts which show so plainly the marks of Reason that some degree
of intelligent adjustment to the environment must be allowed to the
animal in the acquiring of these functions. For example, we are told
that some of the muscular movements involved in the instincts--such,
for example, as the bird's nest-building--are so complex and so finely
adjusted to an end, that it is straining belief to suppose that they
could have arisen gradually by reflex adaptation alone. There is also
a further difficulty with the reflex theory which has seemed
insurmountable to many of the ablest psychologists of animal life; the
difficulty, namely, that many of the instincts require the action of a
great many muscles at the same time, so acting in "correlation" with
or support of one another that it is impossible to suppose that the
instinct has been acquired gradually. For in the very nature of these
cases we can not suppose the instinct to have ever been imperfect,
seeing that the partial instinct which would have preceded the perfect
performance for some generations would have been not only of no use to
the creature, but in many cases positively injurious. For instance,
what use to an animal to be able partly to make the movements of
swimming, or to the birds to build an inadequate nest? Such instincts
would not be usable at all. So we are told by the second theory that
the animals must have had intelligence to do these things when they
first acquired them. Yet, as is everywhere admitted, after the
instinct has been acquired by the species it is then carried out
without knowledge and intelligent design, being handed down from
generation to generation by heredity.
This seems reasonable, for we do find that actions which were at first
intelligent may be performed so frequently that we come to do them
without thinking of them; to do them from habit. So the animals, we
are told, have come to do theirs reflexly, although at first they
required intelligence. From this point of view--that although
intelligence was at first required, yet the actions have become
instinctive and lacking in intelligent direction in later
generations--this is called the theory of Lapsed Intelligence.
This theory has much to commend it. It certainly meets the objection
to the reflex theory which was stated just above--the objection that
some of the instincts could not have arisen by gradual reflex
adaptations. It also accounts for the extremely intelligent appearance
which many instincts have.
But this view in turn is liable to a criticism which has grown in
force with the progress of biological knowledge in recent years. This
criticism is based on the fact that the theory of lapsed intelligence
demands that the actions which the animals of one generation have
acquired by their intelligence should be handed down through heredity
to the next generation, and so on. It is evident that unless this be
true it does no good to the species for one generation to do things
intelligently, seeing that if the effects on the nervous system are
not transmitted to their children, then the next and later generations
will have to start exactly where their fathers did, and the actions in
question will never become ingrained in the nervous system at all.
Now, the force of this criticism is overwhelming to those who
believe--as the great majority of biologists now do[1]--that none of
the modifications or so-called "characters" acquired by the parents,
none of the effects of use or disuse of their limbs, none of the
tendencies or habits of action, in short, none of the changes wrought
in body or mind of the parents during their lifetime, are inherited by
their children. The only sorts of modification which show themselves
in subsequent generations are the deep-seated effects of disease,
poison, starvation, and other causes which concern the system as a
whole, but which show no tendency to reproduce by heredity any of the
special actions or functions which the fathers and mothers may have
learned and practised. If this difficulty could be met, the theory
that intelligence has been at work in the origination of the complex
instincts would be altogether the preferable one of the two; but if
not, then the "lapsed intelligence" view must be thrown overboard.
[Footnote 1: The matter is still under discussion, however, and I do
not mean in any way to deny the authority of those who still accept
the "inheritance of acquired characters."]
Recent discussion of evolution has brought out a point of view under
the name of Organic Selection which has a very fruitful application to
this controversy over the origin of instincts. This point of view is
one which in a measure reconciles the two theories. It claims that it
is possible for the intelligent adaptations, or any sort of
"accommodations," made by the individuals of one generation, to set
the direction of subsequent evolution, even though there be no direct
inheritance of acquired characters from father to son. It proceeds in
the case of instinct somewhat thus:
Suppose we say, with the first theory given above, that the organism
has certain reflexes which show some degree of adaptation to the
environment; then suppose we admit the point, urged by the advocates
of the lapsed intelligence theory, that the gradual improvement of
these reflexes by variations in the endowment of successive
generations would not suffice for the origin of instinct, seeing that
partial instincts would not be useful; and, further, suppose we agree
that many of the complex instincts really involved intelligent
adaptation in their acquisition. These points carefully understood,
then one new and further principle will enable us to complete a theory
which will avoid the objections to both the others. This principle is
nothing else than what we have seen already--namely, that the
intelligence supplements the partial instincts in each generation and
makes them useful in the respects in which they are inadequate, and so
keeps the young alive in successive generations as long as the
instinct is imperfect. This gives the species time gradually to
supplement its instinctive endowment, in the course of many
generations each of which uses its intelligence in the same way: time
to accumulate, by the occurrence of variations among the offspring,
the changes in the nervous system which the perfect instinct requires.
Thus as time goes on the dependence of each generation upon the aid of
intelligence is less and less, until the nervous system becomes
capable of performing the function quite alone. The result then will
be the same as if the acquisitions made by each generation had been
inherited, while in reality they have not. All that this theory
requires in addition to what is admitted by both the historical views
is that the species be kept alive long enough by the aid of its
intelligence, which supplements imperfect instincts, to give it time
to produce sufficient variations in the right direction. The instinct
then achieves its independence, and intelligent supervision of it is
no longer necessary (see Fig. 1).
[Illustration: FIG. 1,--Origin of instinct by Organic Selection: _A
n_, perfect instinct. 1, 2 ... _n_, successive generations. Solid
lines, nervous equipment in the direction of the instinct. Dotted
lines, intelligence supplementing the nervous equipment. The
intelligence is relied upon to keep the species alive until by
congenital variations the nervous equipment becomes "perfect."]
This theory is directly confirmed by the facts, already spoken of,
which show that many instincts are imperfect, but are pieced out and
made effective by the intelligent imitations and acquisitions of the
young creatures. The little chick, for example, does not know the
value of water when he sees it, as essential as water is to his life;
but he depends upon imitation of his mother's drinking, or upon the
mere accident of wetting his bill, to stimulate his partial instinct
of drinking in the peculiar fashion characteristic of fowls, by
throwing back the head. So in other functions which are peculiar to a
species and upon which their very lives depend, we find the delicate
adjustment between intelligent adaptation by conscious action and the
partially formed instincts which the creatures possess.
In the theory of Organic Selection, therefore, we seem to have a
positive solution of the question of the origin of instinct. It is
capable of a similar application in other cases where evolution has
taken certain definite directions, seemingly guided by intelligence.
It shows us that mind has had a positive place in the evolution of
organic nature.
* * * * *
_Animal Intelligence._--Coming to consider what further equipment the
animals have, we light upon the fact just spoken of when we found it
necessary to appeal in some measure to the animal's Intelligence to
supplement his instincts. What is meant by Intelligence?
This word may be used in the broad sense of denoting all use of
consciousness, or mind, considered as a thing in some way additional
to the reflexes of the nervous system. In the life of the animal, as
in that of man, wherever we find the individual doing anything with
reference to a mental picture, using knowledge or experience in any
form, then he is said to be acting intelligently.
The simplest form of intelligent action in the animal world and that
from which most of the higher forms have arisen is illustrated in the
following example: a chick will peck at a strange worm, and, finding
it unpalatable, will then in the future refuse to peck at worms of
that sort. This refusal to do a second time what has once had a
disagreeable result is intelligent. We now say that the chick "knows"
that the worm is not good to eat. The instinctive action of pecking at
all worms is replaced by a refusal to peck at certain worms. Again,
taking the reverse case, we find that the chick which did not respond
to the sight of drinking water instinctively, but had to see the
mother drink first, acted intelligently, or through a state of
consciousness, when it imitated the old hen, and afterward drank of
its own accord. It now "knows" that water is the thing to drink.
The further question which comes upon us here concerns the animal's
acquisition of the action appropriate to carry out his knowledge. How
does he learn the muscular combinations which supplement or replace
the earlier instinctive ways of acting?
This question appears very clearly when we ask about the child's
acquisition of new acts of skill. We find him constantly learning,
modifying his habits, refining his ways of doing things, becoming
possessed of quite new and complex functions, such as speech,
handwriting, etc. All these are intelligent activities; they are
learned very gradually and with much effort and pains. It is one of
the most important and interesting questions of all psychology to ask
how he manages to bring the nervous and muscular systems under greater
and greater control by his mind. How can he modify and gradually
improve his "reactions"--as we call his responses to the things and
situations about him--so as to act more and more intelligently?
The answer seems to be that he proceeds by what has been called
Experimenting. He does not simply do things because he has
intelligence,--simply that is, because he sees how to do them without
first learning how; that is the older and probably quite erroneous
view of intelligence. The mind can not move the body simply by its
fiat. No man can do that. Man, like the little animal, has to try
things and keep on trying things, in order to find out the way they
work and what their possibilities are. And each animal, man, beast, or
bird has to do it for himself. Apart from the instinctive actions
which the child does without knowing their value at all, and apart
from the equally instinctive imitative way of doing them without
aiming at learning more by the imitations, he proceeds in all cases to
make experiments. Generally his experiments work through acts of
imitation. He imitates what he sees some other creature do; or he
imitates his own instinctive actions by setting up before him in his
mind the memories of the earlier performance; or, yet again, after he
has struck a fortunate combination, he repeats that imitatively. Thus,
by the principle already spoken of, he stores up a great mass of
Kinæsthetic Equivalents, which linger in memory, and enable him to
act appropriately when the proper circumstances come in his way. He
also gets what we have called Associations established between the
acts and the pleasure or pain which they give, and so avoids the
painful and repeats the pleasurable ones.
The most fruitful field of this sort of imitative learning is in
connection with the "try-try-again" struggles of the young, especially
children. This is called Persistent Imitation. The child sees before
him some action to imitate--some complex act of manipulation with the
hand, let us say. He tries to perform it in an experimental way, using
the muscles of the hand and arm. With this he strains himself all
over, twisting his tongue, bending his body, and grimacing from head
to foot, so to speak. Thus he gets a certain way toward the correct
result, but very crudely and inexactly. Then he tries again,
proceeding now on the knowledge which the first effort gave him; and
his trial is less uncouth because he now suppresses some of the
hindering grimacing movements and retains the ones which he sees to be
most nearly correct. Again he tries, and again, persistently but
gradually reducing the blundering movements to the pattern of the
copy, and so learning to perform the act of skill.
The massive and diffused movements which he makes by wriggling and
fussing are also of direct use to him. They increase remarkably the
chances that among them all there will be some movements which will
hit the mark, and so contribute to his stock of correct Equivalents.
Dogs and monkeys learn to unlock doors, let down fence rails, and
perform relatively complex actions by experimenting; persistently
with many varied movements until the successful ones are finally
struck.
This is the type of all those acts of experimenting by which new
complex movements are acquired. In children it proceeds largely
without interference from others; the child persists of himself. He
has greater ability than the animals to see the meaning of the
completed act and to really desire to acquire it. With the animals the
acquisitions do not extend very far, on account of their limitation in
intelligent endowment; but in the training of the domestic animals and
in the education of show-animals the trainer aids them and urges them
on by making use of the associations of pleasure and pain spoken of
above. He supplements the animal's feelings of pain and pleasure with
the whip and with rewards of food, etc., so that each step of the
animal's success or failure has acute associations with pain or
pleasure. Thus the animal gradually gets a number of associations
formed, avoids the actions with which pain is associated, repeats
those which call up memories of pleasure all the way through an
extended performance in regular steps; and in the result the
performance so closely counterfeits the operations of high
intelligence--such as counting, drawing cards, etc.--that the audience
is excited to admiration.
This first glimpse of the animal's limitations when compared with man
may suggest the general question, how far the brutes go in their
intelligent endowment. The proper treatment of this much-debated point
requires certain further explanations.
In the child we find a tendency to act in certain ways toward all
objects, events, etc., which are in any respect alike. After learning
to use the hands, for example, for a certain act, the same hand
movements are afterward used for other similar acts which the child
finds it well to perform. He thus tends, as psychologists say, to
"generalize," that is, to take up certain general attitudes which will
answer for a great many details of experience. On the side of the
reception of his items of knowledge this was called Assimilation, as
will be remembered. This saves him enormous trouble and risk; for as
soon as an object or situation presents itself before him with certain
general aspects, he can at once take up the attitude appropriate to
these general aspects without waiting to learn the particular features
of the new. The ability to do this shows itself in two rather
different ways which seem respectively to characterize man on the one
hand and the lower animals on the other.
With the animals this tendency to generalize, to treat objects in
classes rather than as individuals, takes the form of a sort of
composition or direct union of brain pathways. Different experiences
are had, and then because they are alike they tend to issue in the
same channels of action. The animal is tied down strictly to his
experience; he does not anticipate to any extent what is going to
happen. He does not use one experience as a symbol and apply it
beforehand to other things and events. He is in a sense passive;
stimulations rain down upon him, and force him into certain attitudes
and ways of action. As far as his knowledge is "general" it is called
a Recept. A dog has a Recept of the whip; so far as whips are not too
different from one another, the dog will act in the same way toward
all of them. In man, on the other hand, the development of mind has
gone a decided step further. The child very quickly begins to use
symbols, words being the symbols of first importance to him. He does
not have, like the brute, to wait for successive experiences of like
objects to impress themselves upon him; but he goes out toward the
new, expecting it to be like the old, and so acting as to anticipate
it. He thus falls naturally into general ways of acting which it is
the function of experience to refine and distinguish. He seems to have
more of the higher sort of what was called above Apperception, as
opposed to the more concrete and accidental Associations of Ideas. He
gets Concepts, as opposed to the Recepts of the animals. With this
goes the development of speech, which some psychologists consider the
source of all the man's superiority over the animals. Words become
symbols of a highly abstract sort for certain classes of experiences;
and, moreover, through speech a means of social communication is
afforded by which the development of the individual is enormously
advanced.
It is probable, in fact, that this difference--that between the
Generalization which uses symbols, and mere Association--is the root
of all the differences that follow later on, and give man the
magnificent advantage over the animals which he has. From it is
developed the faculty of thinking, reasoning, etc., in which man
stands practically alone. On the brain side, it requires special
developments both through the preparation of certain brain centres
given over to the speech function, and also through the greater
organization of the gray matter of the cerebral cortex, to which we
revert again in a later chapter. Indeed, looked at from the side of
the development of the brain, we see that there is no break between
man and the animals in the laws of organization, but that the
difference is one of evolution.
Later on in the life of the child we find another contrast connected
with the difference of social life and organization as between the
animals and man. The animals probably do not have a highly organized
sense of Self as man does; and the reason doubtless is that such a
Self-consciousness is the outcome of life and experience in the very
complex social relations in which the human child is brought up, and
which he alone is fitted by his inherited gifts to sustain.
_The Play of Animals._--Another of the most interesting questions of
animal life is that which concerns their plays. Most animals are given
to play. Indeed that they indulge in a remarkable variety of sports is
well known even to the novice in the study of their habits. Beginning
when very young, they gambol, tussle, leap, and run together, chase
one another, play with inanimate objects, as the kitten with the ball,
join in the games of children and adults, as the dog which plays hide
and seek with his little master, and all with a knowingness and zest
which makes them the best of companions. The volumes devoted to the
subject give full accounts of these plays of animals, and we need not
repeat them; the psychologist is interested, however, mainly in the
general function of play in the life of the individual animal and
child, and in the psychological states and motives which it reveals.
Play, whether in animals or in man, shows certain general
characteristics which we may briefly consider.
1. The plays of animals are very largely instinctive, being indulged
in for the most part without instruction. The kitten leaps impulsively
to the game. Little dogs romp untaught, and fall, as do other animals
also, when they are strong enough, into all the playful attitudes
which mark their kind. This is seen strikingly among adult animals in
what are called the courtship plays. The birds, for example, indulge
in elaborate and beautiful evolutions of a playful sort at the mating
season.
2. It follows from their instinctive character that animal plays are
peculiar to the species which perform them. We find series of sports
peculiar to dogs, others to cats, and so on through all the species of
the zoölogical garden, whether the creatures be wild or tame. Each
shows its species as clearly by its sportive habits as by its shape,
cry, or any other of what are called its "specific" habits. This is
important not only to the zoölogist, as indicating differences of
evolution and scale of attainment, environment, etc., but also to the
psychologist, as indicating differences of what we may call animal
temperament. Animals show not only the individual differences which
human beings do, one liking this game and another that, one being
leader in the sport and another the follower, but also the greater
differences which characterize races. The Spaniards love the bull
fight; other nations consider it repulsive, and take their fun in less
brutal forms, although, perchance, they tolerate Rugby football! So
the animals vary in their tastes, some playing incessantly at
fighting, and so zealously as to injure one another, while others
like the milder romp, and the game with flying leaves, rolling stones,
or the incoming waves on the shore.
3. Psychologically, the most interesting characteristic of animal, as
of human, play is what is called the "make-believe" state of mind
which enters into it. If we consider our own sports we find that, in
the midst of the game, we are in a condition of divided consciousness.
We indulge in the scheme of play, whatever it be, as if it were a real
situation, at the same time preserving our sense that it is not real.
That is, we distinguish through it all the actual realities, but make
the convention with our companions that for the time we will act
together as if the playful situation were real. With it there is a
sense that it is a matter of voluntary indulgence that can stop at
anytime; that the whole temporary illusion to which we submit is
strictly our own doing, a job which we have "put up" on ourselves.
That is what is meant by make-believe.
Now it is clear that the animals have this sense of make-believe in
their games both with other animals and with man. The dog plays at
biting the hand of his master, and actually takes the member between
his teeth and mumbles it; but all the while he stops short of painful
pressure, and goes through a series of characteristic attitudes which
show that he distinguishes very clearly between this play biting and
the real. If perchance the master shows signs of being hurt, the dog
falls into attitudes of sorrow, and apologizes fulsomely. So also when
the animals play together, a vigorous squeal from a companion who is
"under" generally brings him his release.
The principal interest of this make-believe consciousness is that it
is considered by many to be an essential ingredient of Æsthetic
feeling. A work of art is said to have its effect through its tendency
to arouse in us a make-believe acceptance of the scene or motive
presented, while it nevertheless remains contrasted with the realities
of our lives. If this be true, the interesting question arises how far
the animals also have the germs of Æsthetic feeling in their
make-believe situations. Does the female pea-fowl consider the male
bird, with all his display of colour and movement, a beautiful object?
And does the animal companion say: How beautiful! when his friend in
the sport makes a fine feint, and comes up serene with the knowing
look, which the human on-looker can not fail to understand?
In some cases, at any rate, we should have to reply to this question
affirmatively, if we considered make-believe the essential thing in
æsthetic enjoyment.
_Theories of Animal Play._--The question of the meaning and value of
play to the animals has had very enlightening discussion of late.
There are two principal theories now advocated.
I. The older theory considered play simply the discharge of surplus
nerve force in the animal's organism. He was supposed to play when he
felt fresh and vigorous. The horse is "skittish" and playful in the
morning, not so much so at night. The dogs lie down and rest when they
are tired, having used up their surplus energies. This is called the
Surplus-Energy Theory of play.
The difficulty with this theory is that it is not adequate to explain
any of the characteristics of play which have been given above. Why
should play be instinctive in its forms, showing certain complex and
ingrained channels of expression, if it were merely the discharge of
surplus force? We are more lively in the morning, but that does not
explain our liking and indulging in certain sorts of complex games at
all hours. Moreover, animals and children will continue to play when
greatly fatigued. A dog, for example, which seems absolutely "used
up," can not resist the renewed solicitations of his friends to
continue the chase. Furthermore, why is it that plays are
characteristic of species, different kinds of animals having plays
quite peculiar to themselves? It is difficult to see how this could
have come about unless there had been some deeper-going reason in
accordance with which each species has learned the particular forms of
sport in which it indulges.
The advocates of this theory attempt to meet these objections by
saying that the imitative instinct accounts for the particular
directions in which the discharges of energy occur. A kitten's plays
are like those of the cat tribe because the kitten is accustomed to
imitate cats; when it falls to playing it is with cats, and so it
sheds its superfluous energies in the customary imitative channels. In
this way it grows to learn the games of its own species. There is a
good deal in this point; most games are imitative in so far as they
are learned at all. But it does not save the theory; for many animal
plays are not learned by the individual at all, as we have seen above;
on the contrary, they are instinctive. In these cases the animal does
not wait to learn the games of his tribe by imitation, but
starts-right-in on his own account. Besides this there are many forms
of animal play which are not imitative at all. In these the animals
co-operate, but do not take the same parts. The young perform actions
in the game which the mother does not.
All this goes to support another and most serious objection to this
theory--in the mind of all those who believe in the doctrine of
evolution. The Surplus-Energy Theory considers the play-impulse, which
is one of the most widespread characters of animal life, as merely an
accidental thing or by-product--a mere using-up of surplus energies.
It is not in any way important to the animals. This makes it
impossible to say that play has come to be the very complex thing that
it really is by the laws of evolution; for survival by natural
selection always supposes that the attribute or character which
survives is important enough to keep the animal alive in the struggle
for existence; otherwise it would not be continued for successive
generations, and gradually perfected on account of its utility.
On the whole, therefore, we find the Surplus-Energy Theory of play
quite inadequate.
II. Another theory therefore becomes necessary if we are to meet these
difficulties. Such a theory has recently been developed. It holds that
the plays of the animals are of the greatest utility to them in this
way: they exercise the young animals in the very activities--though in
a playful way--in which they must seriously engage later on in life. A
survey of the plays of animals with a view to comparing them in each
case with the adult activities of the same species, confirms this
theory in a remarkably large number of cases. It shows the young
anticipating, in their play, the struggles, enjoyments, co-operations,
defeats, emergencies, etc., of their after lives, and by learning to
cope with all these situations, so preparing themselves for the
serious onset of adult responsibilities. On this theory each play
becomes a beautiful case of adaptation to nature. The kitten plays
with the ball as the old cat handles the mouse; the little dogs
wrestle together, and so learn to fight with teeth and claws; the deer
run from one another, and so test their speed and learn to escape
their enemies. If we watch young animals at play we see that not a
muscle or nerve escapes this preliminary training and exercise; and
the instinctive tendencies which control the play direct the
activities into just the performances which the animal's later
life-habits are going on to require.
On this view play becomes of the utmost utility. It is not a
by-product, but an essential part of the animal's equipment. Just as
the infancy period has been lengthened in the higher animals in order
to give the young time to learn all that they require to meet the
harsh conditions of life, so during this infancy period they have in
the play-instinct a means of the first importance for making good use
of their time. It is beautiful to see the adults playing with their
young, adapting their strength to the little ones, repeating the same
exercises without ceasing, drilling them with infinite pains to
greater hardihood, endurance, and skill.
On this theory it is also easy to see why it is that the plays are
different for the different species. The actual life conditions are
different, and the habits of the species are correspondingly
different. So it is only another argument for the truth of this theory
that we find just those games natural to the young which train them
in the habits natural to the old.
This view is now being very generally adopted. Many fine illustrations
might be cited. A simple case may be seen in so small a thing as the
habit of leaping in play; the difference, for example, between the
mountain goat and the common fawn. The former, when playing on level
ground makes a very ludicrous exhibition by jumping in little
up-and-down leaps by which he makes no progress. In contrast with this
the fawn, whose adult life is normally in the plains, takes a long
graceful spring. The difference becomes clear from the point of view
of this theory, when we remember that the goat is to live among the
rocks, where the only useful jump is just the up-and-down sort which
the little fellow is now practising; while the deer, in his life upon
the plains, will always need the running jump.
Finally, on this theory, play becomes a thing for evolution to
cultivate for its utility in the progress of animal life, and for that
reason we may suppose it has been perfected in the remarkable variety
and beauty of form which it shows.
On the psychological side, we find a corresponding state of things.
The mind in the young animal or child gets the main education of early
life through its play situations. Games have an extraordinary
pedagogical influence. The more so because they are the natural and
instinctive way of getting an education in practical things. This
again is of supreme utility to the individuals.
Both for body and mind we find that play illustrates the principle of
Organic Selection explained above. It makes the young animal flexible,
plastic, and adaptable; it supplements all his other instincts and
imperfect functions; it gives him a new chance to live, and so
determines the course of evolution in the direction which the playful
animal represents. The quasi-social and gregarious habits of animals
probably owe much of their strength to the play-impulse, both through
the training of individual animals and through the fixing of these
tendencies as instincts in various animal species in the way just
mentioned.
In another place below I analyze a child's game and draw some
inferences from it. Here it may suffice to say that in their games the
young animals acquire the flexibility of mind and muscle upon which
much of the social co-operation, as well as the individual
effectiveness, of their later life depends. With children, it is not
the only agency, of course, though its importance is not less. We have
to carry the children further by other means; but the other means
should never interfere with this natural schooling. They should aim
the rather by supplementing it wisely to direct its operation and to
extend its sphere.
CHAPTER IV.
THE MIND OF THE CHILD--CHILD PSYCHOLOGY.
One of the most interesting chapters of modern psychology is that
which deals with the child. This is also one of the topics of general
concern, since our common humanity reacts with greater geniality upon
the little ones, in whom we instinctively see innocence and
simplicity. The popular interest in children has been, however--as
uncharitable as it may seem to say it--of very little service to the
scientific investigation of childhood. Even to-day, when a greater
body of valuable results are being secured, the main danger to the
proper study of the child's mind comes from the over-enthusiasm and
uninstructed assurance of some of its friends. Especially is this the
case in America, where "child study" has become a fad to be pursued by
parents and teachers who know little about the principles of
scientific method, and where influential educators have enlisted
so-called "observers" in taking indiscriminate notes on the doings of
children with no definite problem in view, and with no criticism of
their procedure. It is in place, therefore, to say clearly, at the
outset, that this chapter does not mean to stimulate parents or
unpsychological readers to report observations; and further to say
also that in the mind of the writer the publications made lately of
large numbers of replies to "syllabi" are for the most part worthless,
because they heap together observations obtained by persons of every
degree of competence and incompetence.
On the other hand, the requisites here, as in every other sphere of
exact observation, are clear enough. The student of the child's mind
should have a thorough knowledge of the principles of general
psychology, in order to know what is characteristic of the child when
he sees it, and what is exceptional; and he should also have enough
originality in his ideas and interpretations to catch the valuable in
the child's doings, distinguishing it from the commonplace, and to
plan situations and even experiments which will give him some control
upon those actions of the child which seem to be worth it. The need
of these qualities is seen in the history of the problems of the
child's growth which have been taken up even by the most competent
psychologists. The results show a gradual attainment of control over
the problem in hand, each observer criticising the method and results
of his predecessor until certain rules of observation and experiment
have been evolved which allow of the repetition and repeated
observation of the events of the child's life.
As illustrating the sort of problems in which there has been this
careful and critical work, I may instance these: the child's reflex
movements, the beginnings and growth of sensation, such as colour, the
rise of discrimination and preference, the origin of right and
left-handedness, the rise, mechanism, and meaning of imitation, the
acquisition of speech and handwriting, the growth of the child's sense
of personality and of his social consciousness, and the laws of
physical growth, as bearing upon mental development. In all these
cases, however, there is again a greater and a less exactness. The
topics with the reports of results which I am going on to give may be
taken, however, as typical, and as showing the direction of complete
knowledge rather than as having in any one case approached it.
Before we take up particular questions, however, a word may be allowed
upon the general bearings of the study of the child's mind. I do this
the more willingly, since it is still true, in spite of the hopeful
outlook for positive results, that it is mainly the willingness of
psychology to recognise the problems and work at them that makes the
topic important at present. To investigate the child by scientific
methods is really to bring into psychology a procedure which has
revolutionized the natural sciences; and it is destined to
revolutionize the moral sciences by making them also in a great
measure natural sciences. The new and important question about the
mind which is thus recognised is this: _How did it grow?_ What light
upon its activity and nature can we get from a positive knowledge of
its early stages and processes of growth? This at once introduces
other questions: How is the growth of the child related to that of the
animals?--how, through heredity and social influences, to the growth
of the race and of the family and society in which he is brought up?
All this can be comprehended only in the light of the doctrine of
evolution, which has rejuvenated the sciences of life; and we are now
beginning to see a rejuvenation of the sciences of mind from the same
point of view. This is what is meant when we hear it said that
psychology is becoming "genetic."
The advantages to be derived from the study of young children from
this point of view may be briefly indicated.
1. In the first place, the facts of the infant consciousness are very
simple; that is, they are the child's sensations or memories simply,
not his own observations of them. In the adult mind the disturbing
influence of self-observation is a matter of notorious moment. It is
impossible for me to report exactly what I feel, for the observation
of it by my attention alters its character. My volition also is a
complex thing, involving my personal pride and self-consciousness. But
the child's emotion is as spontaneous as a spring. The effects of it
in the mental life come out in action, pure and uninfluenced by
calculation and duplicity and adult reserve. There is around every one
of us adults a web of convention and prejudice of our own making. Not
only do we reflect the social formalities of our environment, and thus
lose the distinguishing spontaneities of childhood, but each of us
builds up his own little world of seclusion and formality with
himself. We are subject, as Bacon said, not only to "idols of the
forum," but also to "idols of the den."
The child, on the contrary, has not learned his own importance, his
pedigree, his beauty, his social place, his religion; he has not
observed himself through all these and countless other lenses of time,
place, and circumstance. He has not yet turned himself into an idol nor
the world into a temple; and we can study him apart from the complex
accretions which are the later deposits of his self-consciousness.
2. The study of children is often the only means of testing the truth
of our analyses. If we decide that a certain mental state is due to a
union of simpler elements, then we may appeal to the proper period of
child life to see the union taking place. The range of growth is so
enormous from the infant to the adult, and the beginnings of the
child's mental life are so low in the scale, in the matter of mental
endowment, that there is hardly a question of analysis now under
debate in psychology which may not be tested by this method.
At this point it is that child psychology is more valuable than the
study of the mind of animals. The latter never become men, while
children do. The animals represent in some few respects a branch of
the tree of growth in advance of man, while being in many other
respects very far behind him. In studying animals we are always
haunted by the fear that the analogy from him to man may not hold;
that some element essential to the development of the human mind may
not be in the animal at all. Even in such a question as the
localization of the functions of the brain described later on, where
the analogy is one of comparative anatomy and only secondarily of
psychology, the monkey presents analogies with man which dogs do not.
But in the study of children we may be always sure that a normal child
has in him the promise of a normal man.
3. Again, in the study of the child's mind we have the added advantage
of a corresponding simplicity on the bodily side; we are able to take
account of the physiological processes at a time when they are
relatively simple--that is, before the nervous system has grown to
maturity. For example, psychology used to hold that we have a "speech
faculty," an inborn mental endowment which is incapable of further
analysis; but support for the position is wanting when we turn to the
brain of the infant. Not only do we fail to find the series of centres
now known to be the "speech zone," but even those of them which we do
find have not yet taken up this function, either alone or together. In
other words, the primary object of each of the various centres
involved is not speech, but some other and simpler function; and
speech arises by development from a union of these separate functions.
4. In observing young children, a more direct application of
experiment is possible. By "experiment" here I mean both experiment
on the senses and also experiment directly on consciousness by
suggestion, social influence, etc. In experimenting on adults, great
difficulties arise through the fact that reactions--such as performing
a voluntary movement when a signal is heard, etc.--are complicated by
deliberation, habit, custom, choice, etc. The subject hears a sound,
identifies it, and presses a button--_if he choose_ and agree to do
so. What goes on in this interval between the advent of the incoming
nerve process and the discharge of the outgoing nerve process?
Something, at any rate, which represents a brain process of great
complexity. Now, anything that fixes or simplifies the brain process,
in so far gives greater certainty to the results. For this reason
experiments on reflex actions are valuable and decisive where similar
experiments on voluntary actions are uncertain and of doubtful value.
Now the child's mind is relatively simple, and so offers a field for
more fruitful experiment; this is seen in the reactions of the infant
to strong stimuli, such as bright colours, etc., as related further
on.
With this inadequate review of the advantages of infant psychology, it
is well also to point out the dangers of the abuse of it. Such dangers
are real. The very simplicity which seems to characterize the life of
the child is often extremely misleading, and this because the
simplicity in question is sometimes ambiguous. Two actions of the
child may appear equally simple; but one may be an adaptive action,
learned with great pains and really very complex, while the other may
be inadaptive and really simple. Children differ under the law of
heredity very remarkably, even in the simplest manifestations of their
conscious lives. It is never safe to say without qualification: "This
child did, consequently all children must." The most we can usually
say in observing single children is: "This child did, consequently
another child may."
Speaking more positively, the following remarks may be useful to those
who have a mind to observe children:
1. In the first place, we can fix no absolute time in the history of
the child at which a certain mental process takes its rise. The
observations, now quite extensively recorded, and sometimes quoted as
showing that the first year, or the second year, etc., brings such and
such developments, tend, on the contrary, to show that such divisions
do not hold in any strict sense. Like any other organic growth, the
nervous system may develop faster under more favourable conditions, or
more slowly under less favourable; and the growth of the mind is
largely dependent upon the growth of the brain. Only in broad outline
and within very wide limits can such periods be marked off at all.
2. The possibility of the occurrence of a mental state at a particular
time must be distinguished from its necessity. The occurrence of a
single clearly observed fact is decisive only against the theory
according to which its occurrence under the given conditions may not
occur. For example, the very early adaptive movements of the infant in
receiving its food can not be due to intelligence and will; but the
case is still open as to the question what is the reason of their
presence--i.e., how much nervous development is present, how much
experience is necessary, etc. It is well to emphasize the fact that
one case may be decisive in overthrowing a theory, but the conditions
are seldom simple enough to make one case decisive in establishing a
theory.
3. It follows, however, from the principle of growth itself that the
order of development of the main mental functions is constant, and
normally free from great variations; consequently, the most fruitful
observations of children are those which show that such an act was
present _before another_. The complexity becomes finally so remarkable
that there seems to be no before or after at all in mental things; but
if the child's growth shows a stage in which any process is clearly
absent, we have at once light upon the laws of growth. For instance:
if a single case is conclusively established of a child's drawing an
inference before it begins to use words or significant vocal sounds,
the one case is as good as a thousand to show that thought may develop
in some degree independently of spoken language.
4. While the most direct results are acquired by systematic
experiments with a given point in view, still general observations
carefully recorded by competent persons, are important for the
interpretation which a great many such records may afford in the end.
In the multitude of experiences here, as everywhere, there is
strength. Such observations should cover everything about the
child--his movements, cries, impulses, sleep, dreams, personal
preferences, muscular efforts, attempts at expression, games,
favourites, etc.--and should be recorded in a regular daybook at the
time of occurrence. What is important and what is not, is, as I have
said, something to be learned; and it is extremely desirable that any
one contemplating such observations should acquaint himself beforehand
with the principles of general psychology and physiology, and should
seek also the practical advice of a trained observer.
As yet many of the observations which we have in this field were made
by the average mother, who knows less about the human body than she
does about the moon or the wild flowers, or by the average father, who
sees his child for an hour a day, when the boy is dressed up, and who
has never slept in the same room with him--let alone the same bed!--in
his life; by people who have never heard the distinction between
reflex and voluntary action, or that between nervous adaptation and
conscious choice. The difference between the average mother and the
good psychologist is this: she has no theories, he has; he has no
interests, she has. She may bring up a family of a dozen and not be
able to make a single trustworthy observation; he maybe able, from one
sound of one yearling, to confirm theories of the neurologist and
educator, which are momentous for the future training and welfare of
the child.
As for experimenting with children, only the psychologist should
undertake it. The connections between the body and the mind are so
close in infancy, the mere animal can do so much to ape reason, and
the child is so helpless under the leading of instinct, impulse, and
external necessity, that the task is excessively difficult--to say
nothing of the extreme delicacy and tenderness of the budding tendrils
of the mind. But others do experiment! Every time we send a child out
of the home to the school, we subject him to experiment of the most
serious and alarming kind. He goes into the hands of a teacher who is
often not only not wise unto the child's salvation, but who is,
perchance, a machine for administering a single experiment to an
infinite variety of children. It is perfectly certain that a great
many of our children are irretrievably damaged or hindered in their
mental and moral development in the school; but we can not be at all
sure that they would fare any better if they were taught at home! The
children are experimented with so much and so unwisely, in any case,
that possibly a little intentional experiment, guided by real insight
and psychological information, would do them good.
_Methods of experimenting with Children._--In endeavouring to bring
such questions as the degree of memory, recognition, association,
etc., present in an infant, to a practical test, considerable
embarrassment has always been experienced in understanding the child's
vocal and other responses. Of course, the only way a child's mind can
be studied is through its expressions, facial, lingual, vocal,
muscular; and the first question--i.e., What did the infant do? must
be followed by a second--i.e., What did his doing that mean? The
second question is, as I have said, the harder question, and the one
which requires more knowledge and insight. It is evident, on the
surface, that the further away we get in the child's life from simple
inherited or reflex responses, the more complicated do the processes
become, and the greater becomes the difficulty of analyzing them, and
arriving at a true picture of the real mental condition which lies
back of them.
To illustrate this confusion, I may cite one of the few problems which
psychologists have attempted to solve by experiments on children: the
determination of the order of rise of the child's perceptions of the
different colours. The first series of experiments consisted in
showing the child various colours and requiring him to name them, the
results being expressed in percentages of correct answers to the whole
number. Now this experiment involves no less than four different
questions, and the results give absolutely no clew to their
separation. It involves:
1. The child's distinguishing different colours displayed
simultaneously before it, together with the complete development of
the eyes for colour sensation. 2. The child's ability to recognise or
identify a colour after having seen it once. 3. An association between
the child's colour seeing and word hearing and speaking memories, by
which the proper name for the colours is brought up in his mind. 4.
Equally ready facility in the pronunciation of the various names of
the colours which he recognises; and there is the further
embarrassment, that any such process which involves association of
ideas, is as varied as the lives of children. The single fact that
speech is acquired long after objects and some colours are
distinguished, shows that results reached by this method have very
little value as far as the problem of the first perception of colours
is concerned.
That the fourth element pointed out above is a real source of
confusion is shown by the fact that children recognise many words
which they can not readily pronounce. When this was realized, a
second phase in the development of the problem arose. A colour was
named, and then the child was required to pick out that colour. This
gave results different from those reached by the first method, blue
and red leading the list in correct answers by the first method, while
by this second method yellow led, and blue came near the end of the
list.
The further objection that colours might be distinguished before the
word names are learned, or that colour words might be interchanged or
confused by the child, gave rise to what we may call the third stage
in the statement of the problem. The method of "recognition" took the
place of the method of "naming." This consisted in showing to a child
a coloured disk, without naming it, and then asking him to pick out
the same colour from a number of coloured disks.
This reduces the question to the second of the four I have named
above. It is the usual method of testing for colour blindness, in
which, from defects of vision, certain colours can not be perceived at
all. It answers very well for colour blindness; for what we really
want to learn in the case of a sailor or a signal-man is whether he
can recognise a given signal when it is repeated; that is, does he
know green or red to be the same as his former experience of green or
red? But it is evident that there is still a more fundamental question
in the matter--the real question of colour perception. It is quite
possible that a child might not recognise an isolated colour when he
could really very well distinguish the colours lying side by side. The
last question, then, is this: When does the child get the different
colour _Sensations_ (not recognitions), and in what order?
To solve this question it would seem that experiments should be made
upon younger children. The results described above were all secured
after the children had made considerable progress in learning to
speak.
To meet this requirement another method may be used which can be
applied to children less than a year old. The colours are shown, and
the child led to grasp after them. This method is of such a character
as to yield a series of experiments whose results are in terms of the
most fundamental movements of the infant; it can be easily and
pleasantly conducted; and it is of wide application. The child's hand
movements are nearly ideal in this respect. The hand reflects the
child's first feelings, and becomes the most mobile organ of his
volition, except his organs of speech. We find spontaneous arm and
hand movements, reflex movements, reaching-out movements, grasping
movements, imitative movements, manipulating movements, and voluntary
efforts--all these, in order, reflecting the development of the mind.
To illustrate this method, I may cite certain results reached by
myself on the questions of colour and distance perception, and
right-handedness in the child.
_Distance and Colour Perception._--I undertook at the beginning of my
child H.'s ninth month to experiment with her with a view to arriving
at the exact state of her colour perception, and also to investigate
her sense of distance. The arrangements consisted in this instance in
giving the infant a comfortable sitting posture, kept constant by a
band passing around her chest and fastened securely to the back of her
chair. Her arms were left bare and quite free in their movements.
Pieces of paper of different colours were exposed before her, at
varying distances, front, right, and left. This was regulated by a
framework, consisting of a horizontal rod graded in inches, projecting
from the back of the chair at a level with her shoulder and parallel
with her arm when extended straight forward, and carrying on it
another rod, also graded in inches, at right angles to the first. This
second rod was thus a horizontal line directly in front of the child,
parallel with a line connecting her shoulders, and so equally distant
for both hands. This second rod was made to slide upon the first, so
as to be adjusted at any desired distance from the child. On this
second rod the colours, etc., were placed in succession, the object
being to excite the child to reach for them. So far from being
distasteful to the infant, I found that, with pleasant suggestions
thrown about the experiments, the whole procedure gave her much
gratification, and the affair became one of her pleasant daily
occupations. After each sitting she was given a reward of some kind. I
give the results, both for colour and distance, of 217 experiments. Of
these 111 were with five colours and 106 with ordinary newspaper
(chosen as a relatively neutral object, which would have no colour
value and no association, to the infant).
_Colour._--The colours range themselves in the order of
attractiveness--blue, red, white, green, and brown. Disregarding
white, the difference between blue and red is very slight, compared
with that between any other two. This confirms the results of the
second method described above. Brown, to my child--as tested in this
way--seemed to be about as neutral as could well be. A similar
distaste for brown has been noticed by others. White, on the other
hand, was more attractive than green. I am sorry that my list did not
include yellow. The newspaper was, at reaching distance (9 to 10
inches) and a little more (up to 14 inches), as attractive as the
average of the colours, and even as much so as the red; but this is
probably due to the fact that the newspaper experiments came after a
good deal of practice in reaching after colours, and a more exact
association between the stimulus and its distance. At 15 inches and
over, the newspaper was refused in 93 per cent of the cases, while
blue was refused at that distance in only 75 per cent, and red in 83
per cent.
_Distance._--In regard to the question of distance, the child
persistently refused to reach for anything put 16 inches or more away
from her. At 15 inches she refused 91 per cent of all the cases, 90
per cent of the colour cases, and, as I have said, 93 per cent of the
newspaper cases. At nearer distances we find the remarkable uniformity
with which the safe-distance association works at this early age. At
14 inches only 14 per cent of all the cases were refused, and at 13
inches only about 7 per cent. There was a larger percentage of
refusals at 11 and 12 inches than at 13 and 14 inches, a result due to
the influence of the brown, which was refused consistently when more
than 10 inches away. The fact that there were no refusals to reach for
anything exposed within reaching distance (10 inches)--other
attractive objects being kept away--shows two things; (1) the very
fine estimation visually of the distance represented by the
arm-length; and (2) the great uniformity at this age of the phenomenon
of Motor Suggestion upon which this method of child study is based,
and which is referred to again below. In respect to the first point,
it will be remembered that the child does not begin to reach for
anything that it sees until about the fourth or sixth week; so it is
evident at what a remarkably fast rate those obscure factors of size,
perspective, light and shade, etc., which signify distance to the eye,
become associated with arm movements of reaching. This method, applied
with proper precautions, obviates many of the difficulties of the
others. There are certain requirements of proper procedure, however,
which should never be neglected by any one who experiments with young
children.
In the first place, the child is peculiarly susceptible to the appeals
of change, novelty, chance, or happy suggestion; and often the failure
to respond to a stimulus is due to distraction or to discomfort rather
than to lack of intrinsic interest. Again, fatigue is a matter of
considerable importance. In respect to fatigue, I should say that the
first signs of restlessness, or arbitrary loss of interest, in a
series of stimulations, is sufficient warning, and all attempts at
further experimenting should cease. Often the child is in a state of
indisposition, of trifling nervous irritability, etc.; this should be
detected beforehand, and then nothing should be undertaken. No series
longer than three trials should be attempted without changing the
child's position, resting its attention with a song, or a game, etc.,
and thus leading it fresh to its task again. Furthermore, no single
stimulus, as a colour, should be twice repeated without a change to
some other, since the child's eagerness or alertness is somewhat
satisfied by the first effort, and a new thing is necessary to bring
him out to full exercise again. After each effort or two the child
should be given the object reached for to hold or play with for a
moment; otherwise he grows to apprehend that the whole affair is a
case of "Tantalus." In all these matters very much depends upon the
knowledge and care of the experimenter, and his ability to keep the
child in a normal condition of pleasurable muscular exercise
throughout.
In performing colour experiments, several requirements would appear to
be necessary for exact results. Should not the colours chosen be equal
in purity, intensity, lustre, illumination, etc.? In reference to
these differences, I think only that degree of care need be exercised
which good comparative judgment provides. Colours of about equal
objective intensity, of no gloss, of relatively evident spectral
purity, under constant illumination--this is all that is required. The
variations due to the grosser factors I have mentioned--such as
condition of attention, physical unrest, disturbing noises, sights,
etc.--are of greater influence than any of these more recondite
variations in the stimulus. Intensity and lustre, however, are
certainly important. It is possible, by carefully choosing a room of
pretty constant daylight illumination, and setting the experiments at
the same hour each day, to secure a regular degree of brightness if
the colours themselves are equally bright; and lustre may be ruled out
by using coloured wools or blotting-papers. The papers used in the
experiments given above were coloured blotting-papers. The omission of
yellow is due to the absence, in the neighbourhood, of a satisfactory
yellow paper.
The method now described may be further illustrated by the following
experiments on the use of the hands by the young child.
_The Origin of Right-handedness._--The question, "Why are we right or
left-handed?" has exercised the speculative ingenuity of many men. It
has come to the front anew in recent years, in view of the advances made
in the general physiology of the nervous system; and certainly we are
now in a better position to set the problem intelligently and to hope
for its solution. Hitherto the actual conditions of the rise of
"dextrality" in young children--as the general fact of uneven-handedness
may be called--have not been closely observed. It was to gain light,
therefore, upon the facts themselves that the experiments described in
the following pages were carried out.
My child H. was placed in a comfortable sitting posture, the arms left
bare and free in their movement, and allowed to reach for objects placed
before her in positions exactly determined and recorded by the simple
arrangement of sliding rods already described. The experiments took
place at the same hour daily, for a period extending from her fourth to
her tenth month. These experiments were planned with very great care and
with especial view to the testing of several hypotheses which, although
superficial to those who have studied physiology, yet constantly recur
in publications on this subject. Among these theories certain may be
mentioned with regard to which my experiments were conclusive. It has
frequently been held that a child's right-handedness arises from the
nurse's or mother's constant method of carrying it, the child's hand
which is left free being more exercised, and so becoming stronger. This
theory is ambiguous as regards both mother and child. The mother, if
right-handed, would carry the child on the left arm, in order to work
with the right arm. This I find an invariable tendency with myself and
with nurses and mothers whom I have observed. But this would leave the
child's left arm free, and so a right-handed mother would be found with
a left-handed child! Again, if the mother or nurse be left-handed, the
child would tend to be right-handed. Or if, as is the case in civilized
countries, nurses largely replace the mothers, it would be necessary
that most of the nurses be left-handed in order to make most of the
children right-handed. Now, none of these deductions are true. Further,
the child, as a matter of fact, holds on with both hands, however it is
itself held.
Another theory maintains that the development of right-handedness is
due to differences in weight of the two lateral halves of the body;
this tends to bring more strain on one side than the other, and to
give more exercise, and so more development, to that side. This
evidently assumes that children are not right or left-handed before
they learn to stand. This my results given below show to be false.
Again, we are told that infants get right-handed by being placed on
one side too much for sleep; this can be shown to have little force
also when the precaution is taken to place the child alternately on
its right and left sides for its sleeping periods.
In the case of the child H., certain precautions were carefully
enforced. She was never carried about in arms at all, never walked
with when crying or sleepless; she was frequently turned over in her
sleep; she was not allowed to balance herself on her feet until a
later period than that covered by the experiments. Thus the conditions
of the rise of the right-handed era were made as simple and uniform as
possible.
The experiments included, besides reaching for colours, a great many
of reaching for other objects, at longer and shorter distances, and in
unsymmetrical directions. I give some details of the results of the
experiments in which simple objects were used, extending over a period
of four months, from the fifth to the ninth in her life. The number of
experiments at each sitting varied from ten to forty, the position of
the child being reversed as to light from windows, position of
observation, etc., after half of each series.
No trace of preference for either hand was discernible during this
period; indeed, the neutrality was as complete as if it had been
arranged beforehand, or had followed the throwing of dice.
I then conceived the idea that possibly a severer distance test might
affect the result and show a marked preferential response by one hand
over the other. I accordingly continued to use a neutral stimulus, but
placed it from twelve to fifteen inches away from the child. This
resulted in very hard straining on her part, with all the signs of
physical effort (explosive breathing sounds resulting from the setting
of the larynx, rush of blood to the head, seen in the flushing of the
face, etc.). The number of experiments in each series was
intentionally made very small, from one to twelve, in order to avoid
fatigue.
The results were now very interesting. During the month ending June
15th the child showed no decided preference for either hand in
reaching straight before her within the easy reaching distance of ten
inches, but a slight balance in favour of the left hand; yet she was
right-handed to a marked degree during the same period as regards
movements which required effort or strain, such as grasping for
objects twelve to fifteen inches distant. For the greater distances,
the left hand was used in only five cases as against seventy-four
cases of the use of the right hand; and further, all these five cases
were twelve-inch distances, the left hand being used absolutely not at
all in the forty-five cases at longer distances.
In order to test this further, I varied the point of exposure of the
stimulus to the right or left, aiming thus to attract the hand on one
side or the other, and so to determine whether the growth of such a
preference was limited to experiences of convenience in reaching to
adjacent local objects, etc.
The deviation to the left in front of the body only called out the
right hand to greater exertion, while the left hand fell into still
greater disuse. This seems to show that "dextrality" is not derived
from the experience of the individual in using either hand
predominantly for reaching, grasping, holding, etc., within the
easiest range of that hand. The right hand intruded regularly upon the
domain of the left.
Proceeding upon the clew thus obtained, a clew which seems to suggest
that the hand preference is influenced by the stimulus to the eye, I
introduced hand observations into a series of experiments already
mentioned above on the same child's perception of the different
colours; thinking that the colour stimulus which represented the
strongest inducement to the child to reach might have the same effect
in determining the use of the right hand as the increased distance in
the experiments already described. This inference is proved to be
correct by the results.
It should be added that in all cases in which both hands were used
together, each hand was called out with evident independence of the
other, both about the same time, and both carried energetically to the
goal. In many other cases in which either right or left hand is given
in the results, the other hand also moved, but in a subordinate and
aimless way. There was a very marked difference between the use of
both hands in some cases, and of one hand followed by, or accompanied
by, the other in other cases. It was very rare that the second hand
did not thus follow or accompany the first; and this was extremely
marked in the violent reaching for which the right hand was mainly
used. This movement was almost invariably accompanied by an objectless
and fruitless symmetrical movement of the other hand.
The results of the entire series of experiments on the use of the
hands may be stated as follows, mainly in the words in which they were
summarily reported some time ago:
1. I found no continued preference for either hand as long as there
were no violent muscular exertions made (based on 2,187 systematic
experiments in cases of free movement of hands near the body--i. e.,
right hand, 577 cases; left hand, 568 cases--a difference of 9 cases;
both hands, 1,042 cases; the difference of 9 cases being too slight to
have any meaning); the period covered being from the child's sixth to
her tenth month inclusive.
2. Under the same conditions, the tendency to use both hands together
was about double the tendency to use either (seen from the number of
cases of the use of both hands in the figures given above).
3. A distinct preference for the right hand in violent efforts in
reaching became noticeable in the seventh and eighth months.
Experiments during the eighth month on this cue gave, in 80 cases,
right hand, 74 cases; left hand, 5 cases; both hands, 1 case. This was
true in two very distinct classes of cases: first, reaching for
objects, neutral as regards colour (newspaper, etc.), at more than the
reaching distance; and, second, reaching for bright colours at any
distance. Under the stimulus of bright colours, from 86 cases, 84 were
right-hand cases and 2 left-hand. Right-handedness had accordingly
developed under pressure of muscular effort in the sixth and seventh
months, and showed itself also under the influence of a strong colour
stimulus to the eye.
4. Up to this time the child had not learned to stand or to creep;
hence the development of one hand more than the other is not due to
differences in weight between the two longitudinal halves of the body.
As she had not learned to speak or to utter articulate sounds with
much distinctness, we may say also that right or left-handedness may
develop while the speech centres are not yet functioning. Further, the
right hand is carried over after objects on the left side, showing
that habit in reaching does not determine its use.
_Theoretical_.--Some interesting points arise in connection with the
interpretation of these facts. If it be true that the order of rise of
mental and physiological functions is constant, then for this question
the results obtained in the case of one child, if accurate, would hold
for others apart from any absolute time determination. We should
expect, therefore, that these results would be confirmed by
experiments on other children, and this is the only way their
correctness can be tested.
If, when tested, they should be found correct, they would be
sufficient answer to several of the theories of right-handedness
heretofore urged, as has been already remarked. The rise of the
phenomenon must be sought, therefore, in more deep-going facts of
physiology than such theories supply. Furthermore, if we go lower in
the animal scale than man, analogies for the kinds of experience which
are urged as reasons for right-handedness are not present; animals do
not carry their young, nor pat them to sleep, nor do animals shake
hands!
A full discussion would lead us to the conclusion that dextrality is
due to a difference in development in the two hemispheres of the
brain, that these differences are hereditary, and that they show
themselves toward the end of the first year.
It is a singular circumstance that right-handedness and speech are
controlled by the same hemisphere of the brain and from contiguous
areas. It would explain this--and at the same time it seems probable
from other considerations--if we found that right-handedness was first
used for expression before speech; and that speech has arisen from
the setting aside, for further development, of the area in the brain
first used for right-handedness. Musical expression has its seat in or
near the same lobe of the brain.
_The Child's Mental Development in General_.--The actual development
of the child, as observations from many sources indicate it, may be
sketched very briefly in its main outlines. It is probable that the
earliest consciousness is simply a mass of touch and muscular
sensations experienced in part before birth. Shortly after birth the
child begins to connect his impressions with one another and to show
Memory. But both memory and Association are very weak, and depend upon
intense stimulations, such as bright lights, loud noises, etc. The
things which most effect him at these early stages are those which
bring him into conditions of sharp physical pain or give him acute
pleasure. Yet it is a remarkable fact that at birth the pain reflex is
wanting. His whole life up to about the fourth month turns upon his
organic and vegetative needs. At three months the young child will
forget his mother or nurse after a very few days. Attention begins to
arise about the end of the first quarter year, appearing first in
response to bright lights and loud sounds, and being for a
considerable time purely reflex, drawn here and there by the
successive impressions which the environment makes. With lights and
sounds, however, movements also attract the infant's attention very
early; and the passage from reflex attention to a sort of vague
interest seems to arise first in connection with the movements of the
persons about him. This interest goes on to develop very rapidly in
the second half year, in connection more particularly with the
movements which are associated with the child's own comfort and
discomfort. The association of muscular sensations with those of touch
and sight serves to give him his first clear indications of the
positions of his own members and of other objects. His discrimination
of what belongs to his own body is probably aided by so-called "double
touch"--the fact that when he touches his own body, as in touching his
foot with the hand, he has two sensations, one in the foot and the
other in the hand. This is not the case when he touches other objects,
and he soon learns the distinction, getting the outlines of his own
body marked out in a vague way. The learning of the localities on his
body which he can not see, however, lags far behind. The movements of
his limbs in active exploration, accompanied by sight, enables him to
build up his knowledge of the world about him. Learning this he soon
falls to "experimenting" with the things of space. Thus he begins to
find out how things fit together, and what their uses are.
On the side of his movements we find him going through a series of
remarkable adaptations to his environment. At the beginning his
movements are largely random discharges, or reflexes of an instinctive
character, such as sucking. Yet in the first month he shows the
beginning of adaptation to the suggestions of his daily life, the
first manifestations of acquired Habit. He learns when and how long he
is expected to sleep, when and how much to eat; he very soon finds out
the peculiar touch and vocal tones of this person or that, and acts
upon these distinctions. He gets to know the meaning of his food
bottle, to understand the routine movements of persons about the
room, and the results of violations of their order. His hat, wraps,
carriage, become in the first half year signals to him of the outdoor
excursion. He no longer bobs his head about when held erect, and
begins to control his natural processes. The remarkable thing about
all these adaptations is that they occur before the infant can in any
sense be said to have a Will; for, as has been said, the fibres of the
brain necessary to voluntary action--in the cortex of the
hemispheres--are not yet formed.
The realization of this extraordinary adaptiveness of the very young
child should save parents many an anxious day and sleepless night.
There is practically nothing more easy than to impress upon the child
whatever habits of daily--and nightly!--routine one wishes to give
him, if he be taken early enough. The only requirements are knowledge
of what is good for him, and then _inviolable regularity_ in
everything that concerns him. Under this treatment he will become as
"obstinate" in being "good" as the opposite so-called indulgent or
capricious treatment always make him in being "bad." There is no
reason whatever that he should be walked with or held, that he should
be taken up when he cries, that he should be trotted when he awakes,
or that he should have a light by night. Things like this are simply
bad habits for which the parents have themselves to thank. The child
adapts himself to his treatment, and it is his treatment that his
habits reflect.
During the second half-year--sooner or later in particular cases--the
child is ready to begin to imitate. Imitation is henceforth, for the
following few years, the most characteristic thing about his action.
He first imitates movements, later sounds, especially vocal sounds.
His imitations themselves also show progress, being at first what is
called "simple imitation" (repeating a distinction already spoken of
in the chapter on animals), as when the child lies in bed in the
morning and repeats the same sound over and over again. He hears his
own voice and imitates it. In this sort of imitation he simply allows
his instinct to reproduce what he hears without control or
interference from him. He does not improve, but goes on making the
same sounds with the same mistakes again and again. But a little later
he begins what is called "persistent imitation"--the "try-try-again,"
already spoken of--which is a very different thing. Persistent
imitation shows unmistakably the presence of will. The child is not
satisfied with simple imitation or mere repetition, whether it be good
or bad in its results. He now sees his errors and aims consciously to
improve. Note the child's struggles to speak a word right by imitation
of the pronunciation of others. And he succeeds. He gradually gets his
muscles under control by persistence in his try-try-again.
Then he goes further--about the beginning of his second year, usually.
He gets the idea that imitation is the way to learn, and turns all his
effort into imitations experimentally carried out. He is now ready to
learn most of the great processes of his later culture. Speech,
writing, this special accomplishment and that, are all learned by
experimental imitation.
The example of the child's trying to draw or write has already been
cited. He looks at the copy before him; sets all his muscles of hand
and arm into massive contraction; turns and twists his tongue, bends
his body, winds his legs together, holds his breath, and in every way
concentrates his energies upon the copying of the model. In all this
he is experimenting.
He produces a wealth of movements, from which, very gradually, as he
tries and tries again, the proper ones are selected out. These he
practises, and lets the superfluous ones fall away, until he secures
the requisite control over hand and arm. Or suppose a child
endeavouring, in the crudest fashion, to put a rubber on the end of a
pencil, after seeing some one else do it--just the sort of thing a
year-old child loves to imitate. What a chaos of ineffective
movements! But with repeated effort he gets nearer and nearer to it,
and finally succeeds.
On the side of action, two general principles have been formulated in
child psychology, both illustrated in the cases and experiments now
given: The one, Motor Suggestion, is, as we saw, a principle of
general psychology. Its importance to the child is that by it he forms
Habits, useful responses to his environment, and so saves himself many
sad blunders. The other principle is that of Imitation; by it the
child learns new things directly in the teeth of his habits. By
exercising in an excessive way what he has already learned through his
experimental imitations, he is continually modifying his habits and
making new adaptations. These two principles dominate the active life
of the adult man as well.
_Personality Suggestion._--A further set of facts may be cited to
illustrate the working of Suggestion, now in the sphere of the
receptive life. They are important as showing the child's progress in
learning the great features of personality.
One of the most remarkable tendencies of the very young child in its
responses to its environment is the tendency to recognise differences
of personality. It responds to what have been called Suggestions of
Personality. As early as the second month it distinguishes its
mother's or nurse's touch in the dark. It learns characteristic
methods of holding, taking up, patting, kissing, etc., and adapts
itself, by a marvellous accuracy of protestation or acquiescence, to
these personal variations. Its associations of personality come to be
of such importance that for a long time its happiness or misery
depends upon the presence of certain kinds of "personality
suggestion." It is quite a different thing from the child's behavior
toward things which are not persons. Things come to be, with some few
exceptions which are involved in the direct gratification of appetite,
more and more unimportant; things may be subordinated to regular
treatment or reaction. But persons become constantly more important,
as uncertain and dominating agents of pleasure and pain. The sight of
movement by persons, with its effects on the infant, seems to be the
most important factor in this peculiar influence; later the voice
comes to stand for a person's presence, and at last the face and its
expressions equal the person in all his attributes.
I think this distinction between persons and things, between agencies
and objects, is the child's very first step toward a sense of
personality. The sense of uncertainty or lack of confidence grows
stronger and stronger in his dealings with persons--an uncertainty
aroused by the moods, emotions, changes of expression, and shades of
treatment of the persons around it. A person stands for a group of
quite unstable experiences. This period we may, for brevity of
expression, assuming it to be first in order of development, call the
"projective" stage in the growth of the child's personal
consciousness.
It is from this beginning that the child goes on to become fully
conscious of what persons are. And when we observe his actions more
closely we find no less than four steps in his growth, which, on
account of the importance of the topic, may be stated in some little
detail.
1. The first thing of significance to him, as has been said, is
_movement_. The first attempts of the infant at anything like steady
attention are directed to moving things--a swaying curtain, a moving
light, a stroking touch, etc. And further than this, the moving things
soon become more than objects of curiosity; these things are just the
things that affect him with pleasure or pain. It is movement that
brings him his bottle, movement that regulates the stages of his bath,
movement that dresses him comfortably, movement that sings to him and
rocks him to sleep. In that complex of sensations, the nurse, the
feature of importance to him, of immediate satisfaction or redemption
from pain, is this--movements come to succour him. Change in his
bodily feeling is the vital requirement of his life, for by it the
rhythm of his vegetative existence is secured; and these things are
accompanied and secured always in the moving presence of the one he
sees and feels about him. This, I take it, is the earliest reflection
in his consciousness of the world of personalities about him. At this
stage his "personality suggestion" is a _pain-movement-pleasure_
state of mind; to this he reacts with a smile, and a crow, and a kick.
Undoubtedly this association gets some of its value from the other
similar one in which the movements are the infant's own. It is by
movements that he gets rid of pains and secures pleasures.
Many facts tend to bear out this position. My child cried in the dark
when I handled her, although I imitated the nurse's movements as
closely as possible. She tolerated a strange presence so long as it
remained quietly in its place; but let it move, and especially let it
usurp any of the pieces of movement-business of the nurse or mother,
and her protests were emphatic. The movements tended to bring the
strange elements of a new face into the vital association,
pain-movement-pleasure, and so to disturb its familiar course; this
constituted it a strange "personality."
It is astonishing, also, what new accidental elements may become parts
of this association. Part of a movement, a gesture, a peculiar habit
of the nurse, may become sufficient to give assurance of the welcome
presence and the pleasures which the presence brings. Two notes of my
song in the night stood for my presence to H., and no song from any
one else could replace it. A lighted match stopped the crying of E.
for food in her fourteenth week, although it was but a signal for a
process of food preparation lasting several minutes; and a simple
light never stopped her crying under any other circumstances.
2. With this first start in the sense of personality we find also the
beginning of the recognition of different personalities. It is
evident that the sense of another's presence thus felt in the infant's
consciousness rests, as all associations rest, upon regularity or
repetition; his sense of expectancy is aroused whenever the chain of
events is started. This is soon embodied largely in two indications:
the face and the voice. But it is easy to see that this is a very
meagre sense of personality; a moving machine which brought pain and
alleviated suffering might serve as well. So the child begins to
learn, in addition, the fact that persons are in a measure individual
in their treatment of him; that their individuality has elements of
uncertainty or _irregularity_ about it. This growing sense is very
clear to one who watches an infant in its second half year. Sometimes
its mother gives it a biscuit, but sometimes she does not. Sometimes
the father smiles and tosses the child; sometimes he does not. Even
the indulgence of the grandmother has its times and seasons. The child
looks for signs of these varying moods and methods of treatment; for
his pains of disappointment arise directly on the basis of that former
sense of regular personal presence upon which his expectancy goes
forth.
This new element of the child's sense of persons becomes, at one
period of its development, quite the controlling element. His action
in the presence of the persons of the household becomes hesitating and
watchful. Especially does he watch the face, for any expressive
indications of what treatment is to be expected; for facial expression
is now the most regular as well as the most delicate indication.
Special observations on H.'s responses to changes in facial expression
up to the age of twenty months showed most subtle sensibility to
these differences; and normal children all do. Animals are also very
expert at this.
All through the child's second year, and longer, his sense of the
persons around him is in this stage. The incessant "why?" with which
he greets any action affecting him, or any information given him, is
witness to the simple puzzle of the apparent capriciousness of
persons. Of course he can not understand "why"; so the simple fact to
him is that mamma will or won't, he knows not beforehand which. He is
unable to anticipate the treatment in detail, and he has not of course
learned any principles of interpretation of the conduct of father or
mother lying back of the details.
But in all this period there is germinating in his consciousness--and this
very uncertainty is an important element of it--the seed of a far-reaching
thought. His sense of persons--moving, pleasure-or-pain-giving, uncertain
but self-directing persons--is now to become a sense of agency, of power,
which is yet not the power of the regular-moving door on its hinges or the
rhythmic swinging of the pendulum of the clock. The sense of _personal
agency_ is now forming, and it again is potent for still further
development of the social consciousness. It is just here, I think, that
imitation becomes so important in the child's life. This is imitation's
opportunity. The infant watches to see how others act, because his own
weal and woe depends upon this "how"; and inasmuch as he knows not what to
anticipate, his mind is open to every suggestion of movement. So he falls
to imitating. His attention dwells upon details, and by the principle of
adaptation which imitation expresses, it acts out these details for
himself.
It is an interesting detail, that at this stage the child begins to
grow capricious himself; to feel that he can do whatever he likes.
Suggestion begins to lose the regularity of its working, for it meets
the child's growing sense of his own agency. The youthful hero becomes
"contrary." At this period it is that obedience begins to grow hard,
and its meaning begins to dawn upon the child as the great reality.
For it means the subjection of his own agency, his own liberty to be
capricious, to the agency and liberty of some one else.
3. With all this, the child's distinction between and among the
persons who constantly come into contact with him grows on apace, in
spite of the element of irregularity of the general fact of
personality. As he learned before the difference between one presence
and another, so now he learns the difference between one _character_
and another. Every character is more or less regular in its
irregularity. It has its tastes and modes of action, its temperament
and type of command. This the child learns late in the second year and
thereafter. He behaves differently when the father is in the room. He
is quick to obey one person, slow to obey another. He cries aloud,
pulls his companions, and behaves reprehensibly generally, when no
adult is present who has authority or will to punish him. This stage
in his "knowledge of man" leads to very marked differences of conduct
on his part.
4. He now goes on to acquire real _self-consciousness_ and _social
feeling_. This stage is so important that we may give to it a separate
heading below.
It may not be amiss to sum up what has been said about
Personality-Suggestion. It is a general term for the information which
the child gets about persons. It develops through three or four
roughly distinguished stages, all of which illustrate what is called
the "projective" sense of personality.[2] There is, 1. A bare
distinction _of persons from things_ on the ground of peculiar
pain-movement-pleasure experiences. 2. A sense of the irregularity or
capriciousness of the behaviour of these persons, which suggests
_personal agency_. 3. A distinction, vaguely felt perhaps, but
wonderfully reflected in the child's actions, between the modes of
behaviour or _personal characters_ of different persons. 4. After his
sense of his own agency arises by the process of imitation, he gets
what is really _self-consciousness_ and _social feeling_.
[Footnote 2: It is very remarkable that in the child's bashfulness we
find a native nervous response to the presence of persons. And it is
curious to note that, besides the general gregariousness which many
animals have, they show in many instances special responses of the
presence of creatures of their own kind or of other kinds. Dogs seem
to recognise dogs by _smell_. So with cats, which also respond
instinctively with strong repulsion to the smell of dogs. Horses seem
to be guided by _sight_. Fowls are notoriously blind to shapes of
fowls, but depend on hearing the cries of their kind or their young.]
_Self-consciousness._--So far as we have now gone the child has only a
very dim distinction between himself as a person and the other persons
who move about him. The persons are "projective" to him, mere bodies
or external objects of a peculiar sort classed together because they
show common marks. Yet in the sense of agency, he has already begun,
as we saw, to find in himself a mental nucleus, or centre. This comes
about from his tendency to fall into the imitation of the acts of
others.
Now as he proceeds with these imitations of others, he finds himself
gradually understanding the others, by coming, through doing the same
actions with them, to discover what they are feeling, what their
motives are, what the laws of their behaviour. For example, he sees
his father handle a pin, then suddenly make a face as he pricks
himself, and throws the pin away. All this is simply a puzzle to the
child; his father's conduct is capricious, "projective." But the
child's curiosity in the matter takes the form of imitation; he takes
up the pin himself and goes through the same manipulation of it that
his father did. Thus he gets himself pricked, and with it has the
impulse to throw the pin away. By imitating his father he has now
discovered what was inside the father's mind, the pain and the motive
of the action.
This way of proceeding in reference to the actions of others, of which
many examples might be given, has a twofold significance in the
development of the child; and because of this twofold significance it
is one of the most important facts of psychology. Upon it rest, in the
opinion of the present writer, correct views of ethics and social
philosophy.
1. By such imitation the child learns to associate his own sense of
physical power, together with his own private pleasures and pains,
with the personal actions which were before observed, it is true, in
other persons but not understood. The act of the father has now become
his own. So one by one the various attributes which he has found to be
characteristic of the persons of his social circle, become his, in
his own thought. He is now _for himself_ an agent who has the marks of
a Person or a Self. He now understands _from_ _the inside_ all the
various personal suggestions. What he saw persons do is now no longer
"projective"--simply there, outside, in the environment; it has become
what we call "subjective." The details are grouped and held together
by the sense of agency working itself out in his imitative struggles.
This is what we mean by Self-consciousness. It is not an inborn thing
with the child. He gradually acquires it. And it is not a sense of a
distinct and separate self, first known and then compared with other
persons. On the contrary, it is gradually built up in the child's mind
from the same material exactly as that of which he makes up his
thought of other persons. The deeds he can do he first sees others
doing; only then can he imitate them and find out that he also is a
being who can perform them.
So it goes all through our lives. Our sense of Self is constantly
changing, constantly being enriched. We have not the same thought of
self two days in succession. To-day I think of myself as something to
be proud of, to-morrow as something to be ashamed of. To-day I learn
something from you, and the thought that it is common to you and to me
is the basis of my sympathy with you. To-morrow I learn to commit the
unworthy act which Mr. A. commits, and the thought that he and I are
so far the same is the basis of the common disapproval which I feel of
him and me.
2. The second result of this imitative learning about personality is
of equal importance. When the child has taken up an action by
imitation and made it subjective, finding out that personality has an
inside, something more than the mere physical body, then he reads this
fact back into the other persons also. He says to himself: "He too, my
little brother, must have _in him_ a sense of agency similar to this
of mine. He acts imitatively, too; he has pleasures and pains; he
shows sympathy for me, just as I do for him. So do all the persons
with whom I have become so far acquainted. They are, then, 'subjects'
as I am--something richer than the mere 'projects' which I had
supposed." So other persons become essentially like himself; and not
only like himself, but identical with himself so far as the particular
marks are concerned which he has learned from them. For it will be
remembered that all these marks were at first actually taken up by
imitation from these very persons. The child is now giving back to his
parents, teachers, etc., only the material which he himself took from
them. He has enriched it, to be sure; with it he now reads into the
other persons the great fact of subjective agency; but still whatever
he thinks of them has come by way of his thought of himself, and that
in turn was made up from them.
This view of the other person as being the same in the main as the
self who thinks of the other person, is what psychologists mean when
they speak of the "ejective" self. It is the self of some one else as
I think of it; in other words, it is myself "ejected" out by me and
lodged in him.
_The Social and Ethical Sense._--From this we see what the Social
Sense is. It is the feeling which arises in the child or man of the
real identity, through its imitative origin, of all possible thoughts
of self, whether yourself, myself, or some one else's self. The bond
between you and me is not an artificial one; it is as natural as is
the recognition of personal individuality. And it is doing violence to
this fundamental fact to say, as social science so often assumes, that
the individual naturally separates himself or his interests from the
self or the interests of others. He is, on the contrary, bound up with
others from the start by the very laws of his growth. His social
action and feeling are natural to him. The child can not be selfish
only nor generous only; he may seem to be this or that, in this
circumstance or that, but he is really social all the time.
Furthermore, his sense of right and wrong, his Ethical Sense, grows up
upon this sense of the social bond. This I can not stop to explain
further. But it is only when social relationships are recognised as
essential in the child's growth that we can understand the mutual
obligations and duties which the moral life imposes upon us all.
_How to Observe Children, with Especial Reference to Observations of
Imitation._--There are one or two considerations of such practical
importance to all those who wish to observe children that I venture to
throw them together--only saying, by way of introduction, that nothing
less than the child's personality is at stake in the method and matter
of its imitations. The Self is really the form in which the personal
influences surrounding the child take on their new individuality.
1. No observations are of much importance which are not accompanied by
a detailed statement of the personal influences which have affected
the child. This is the more important since the child sees few
persons, and sees them constantly. It is not only likely--it is
inevitable--that he _make up his personality_, under limitations of
heredity, by imitation, out of the "copy" set in the actions, temper,
emotions, of the persons who build around him the social enclosure of
his childhood. It is only necessary to watch a two-year-old closely to
see what members of the family are giving him his personal "copy"--to
find out whether he sees his mother constantly and his father seldom;
whether he plays much with other children, and what in some degree
their dispositions are; whether he is growing to be a person of
subjection, equality, or tyranny; whether he is assimilating the
elements of some low unorganized social personality from his foreign
nurse. The boy or girl is a social "monad," to use Leibnitz's figure
in a new context, a little world, which reflects the whole system of
influences coming to stir his sensibility. And just in so far as his
sensibilities are stirred, he imitates, and forms habits of imitating;
and habits?--they are character!
2. A point akin to the first is this: the observation of each child
should describe with great accuracy the child's relations to other
children. Has he brothers or sisters? how many of each, and of what
age? Does he sleep in the same bed or room with them? Do they play
much with one another alone? The reason is very evident. An only child
has only adult "copy." He can not interpret his father's actions, or
his mother's, oftentimes. He imitates very blindly. He lacks the more
childish example of a brother or sister near himself in age. And this
difference is of very great importance to his development. He lacks
the stimulus, for example, of games in which personification is a
direct tutor to selfhood, as I shall remark further on. And while he
becomes precocious in some lines of instruction, he fails in variety
of imagination, in richness of fancy, at the same time that his
imaging processes are more wild and uncontrolled. The dramatic, in his
sense of social situations, is largely hidden. It is a very great
mistake to isolate children, especially to separate off one or two
children. One alone is perhaps the worse, but two alone are subject to
the other element of social danger which I may mention next.
3. Observers should report with especial care all cases of unusually
close relationship between children in youth, such as childish
favoritism, "platonic friendships," "chumming," in school or home,
etc. We have in these facts--and there is a very great variety of
them--an exaggeration of the social or imitative tendency, a narrowing
down of the personal sensibility to a peculiar line of well-formed
influences. It has never been studied by writers either on the genesis
of social emotion or on the practice of education. To be sure,
teachers have been alive to the pros and cons of allowing children and
students to room together; but that has been with view to the
possibility of direct immoral or unwholesome contagion. This danger is
certainly real; but we, as psychological observers, and above all as
teachers and leaders of our children, must go deeper than that.
Consider, for example, the possible influence of a school chum and
roommate upon a girl in her teens; for this is only an evident case of
what all isolated children are subject to. A sensitive nature, a girl
whose very life is a branch of a social tree, is placed in a new
environment, to engraft upon the members of her mutilated self--her
very personality; it is nothing less than that--utterly new channels
of supply. The only safety possible, the only way to conserve the
lessons of her past, apart from the veriest chance, and to add to the
structure of her present character, lies in securing for her the
greatest possible variety of social influences. Instead of this, she
is allowed to meet, eat, walk, talk, lie down at night, and rise in
the morning, with one other person, a "copy" set before her, as
immature in all likelihood as herself, or, if not so, yet a single
personality, put there to wrap around her growing self the confining
cords of unassimilated and foreign habit. Above all things, fathers,
mothers, teachers, elders, give the children room! They need all that
they can get, and their personalities will grow to fill it. Give them
plenty of companions, fill their lives with variety; variety is the
soul of originality, and its only source of supply. The ethical life
itself, the boy's, the girl's, conscience, is born in the stress of
the conflicts of suggestion, born right out of his imitative
hesitations; and just this is the analogy which he must assimilate and
depend upon in his own conflicts for self-control and social
continence. So impressively true is this from the human point of view
that, in my opinion--formed, it is true, from the very few data
accessible on such points, still a positive opinion--friendships of a
close exclusive kind should be discouraged or broken up, except when
under the immediate eye of the wise parent or guardian; and even when
allowed, these relationships should, in all cases, be used to entrain
the sympathetic and moral sentiments into a wider field of social
exercise.
One of the merits of the great English schools and of the free schools
of America is that in them the boys acquire, from necessity, the
independence of sturdy character, and the self-restraint which is
self-imposed. The youth brought up to mind a tutor often fails of the
best discipline.
4. The remainder of this section may be devoted to the further
emphasis of the need of close observation of children's games,
especially those which may be best described as "society games." All
those who have given even casual observation to the doings of the
nursery have been impressed with the extraordinary facility of the
child's mind, from the second year onward, in imagining and plotting
social and dramatic situations. It has not been so evident, however,
to these casual observers, nor to many really more skilled, that they
were observing in these fancy plays the putting together anew of
fragments, or larger pieces, of the adult's mental history. Here, in
these games, we see the actual use which our children make of the
personal "copy" material which they get from you and me. If a man
study these games patiently in his own children, and analyze them out,
he gradually sees emerge from within the inner consciousness a picture
of the boy's own father, whom he aspires to be like, and whose actions
he seeks to generalize and apply. The picture is poor, for the child
takes only what he is sensible to. And it does seem often, as Sighele
pathetically notices on a large social scale, and as the Westminster
divines have urged without due sense of the pathetic and home-coming
point of it, that he takes more of the bad in us for reproduction than
of the good! But, be this as it may, what we give him is all he gets.
Heredity does not stop with birth; it is then only beginning. And the
pity of it is that this element of heredity, this reproduction of the
fathers in the children, which might be used to redeem the new-forming
personality from the heritage of past commonness or impurity, is
simply left to take its course for the further establishing and
confirmation of it. Was there ever a group of school children who did
not leave the real school to make a play school, setting up a box for
one of their number to sit on and "take off" the teacher? Was there
ever a child who did not play "church," and force the improvised
"papa" into the pulpit? Were there ever children who did not "buy"
things from fancied stalls in every corner of the nursery, after they
had once seen an elder drive a trade in the market? The point is this:
the child's personality grows; growth is always by action; he clothes
upon himself the scenes of the parent's life and acts them out; so he
grows in what he is, what he understands, and what he is able to
perform.
In order to be of more direct service to observers of games of this
character, let me give a short account of an observation of the kind
made some time ago--one of the simplest of many actual situations
which my two little girls, Helen and Elizabeth, have acted out
together. It is a very commonplace case, a game the elements of which
are evident in their origin; but I choose this rather than one more
complex, since observers are usually not psychologists, and they find
the elementary the more instructive.
On May 2 I was sitting on the porch alone with the children--the two
mentioned above, aged respectively four and a half and two and a half
years. Helen, the elder, told Elizabeth that she was her little baby;
that is, Helen became "mamma," and Elizabeth the "baby." The younger
responded by calling her sister "mamma," and the play began.
"You have been asleep, baby. Now it is time to get up," said mamma.
Baby rose from the floor--first falling down in order to rise!--was
seized upon by "mamma," taken to the railing to an imaginary
washstand, and her face washed by rubbing. Her articles of clothing
were then named in imagination, and put on, one by one, in the most
detailed and interesting fashion. During all this "mamma" kept up a
stream of baby talk to her infant: "Now your stockings, my darling;
now your skirt, sweetness--O! no--not yet--your shoes first," etc.,
etc. Baby acceded to all the details with more than the docility which
real infants usually show. When this was done--"Now we must go tell
papa good-morning, dearie," said mamma. "Yes, mamma," came the reply;
and hand in hand they started to find papa. I, the spectator,
carefully read my newspaper, thinking, however, that the reality of
papa, seeing that he was so much in evidence, would break in upon the
imagined situation. But not so. Mamma led her baby directly past me to
the end of the piazza, to a column in the corner. "There's papa," said
mamma; "now tell him good-morning."--"Good-morning, papa; I am very
well," said baby, bowing low to the column. "That's good," said mamma,
in a _gruff, low voice_, which caused in the real papa a thrill of
amused self-consciousness most difficult to contain. "Now you must
have your breakfast," said mamma. The seat of a chair was made a
breakfast table, the baby's feigned bib put on, and her porridge
carefully administered, with all the manner of the nurse who usually
directs their breakfast. "Now" (after the meal, which suddenly became
dinner instead of breakfast), "you must take your nap," said mamma.
"No, mamma; I don't want to," said baby. "But you must."--"No; you be
baby, and take the nap."--"But all the other children have gone to
sleep, dearest, _and the doctor says you must_," said mamma. This
convinced baby, and she lay down on the floor. "But I haven't
undressed you." So then came all the detail of undressing; and mamma
carefully covered her up on the floor with a light shawl, saying:
"Spring is coming now; that'll be enough. Now shut your eyes, and go
to sleep."--"But you haven't kissed me, mamma," said the little one.
"Oh, of course, my darling!"--so a long siege of kissing! Then baby
closed her eyes very tight, while mamma went on tiptoe away to the end
of the porch. "Don't go away, mamma," said baby. "No; mamma wouldn't
leave her darling," came the reply.
So this went on. The nap over, a walk was proposed, hats put on, etc.,
the mamma exercising great care and solicitude for her baby. One
further incident to show this: when the baby's hat was put on--the
real hat--mamma tied the strings rather tight. "Oh! you hurt, mamma,"
said baby. "No; mamma wouldn't draw the strings too tight. Let mamma
kiss it. There, is that better, my darling?"--all comically true to a
certain sweet maternal tenderness which I had no difficulty in
tracing.
Now in such a case what is to be reported, of course, is the facts.
Yet knowledge of more than the facts is necessary, as I have said
above, in order to get the full psychological lesson. We need just the
information which concerns the rest of the family and the social
influences of the children's lives. I recognised at once every phrase
which the children used in this play, where they got it, what it meant
in its original context, and how far its meaning had been modified in
this process, called in a figure "social heredity." But as that story
is reported to strangers who have no knowledge of the children's
social antecedents, how much beyond the mere facts of imitation and
personification do they get from it? And how much the more is this
true when we examine those complex games of the nursery which show the
brilliant fancy for situation and drama of the wide-awake
four-year-old?
Yet we psychologists are free to interpret; and how rich the lessons
even from such a simple scene as this! As for Helen, what could be a
more direct lesson--a lived-out exercise--in sympathy, in altruistic
self-denial, in the healthy elevation of her sense of self to the
dignity of kindly offices, in the sense of responsibility and agency,
in the stimulus to original effort and the designing of means to
ends--and all of it with the best sense of the objectivity which is
quite lost in wretched self-consciousness in us adults, when we
personate other characters? What could further all this highest mental
growth better than the game by which the lessons of her mother's daily
life are read into the child's little self? Then, in the case of
Elizabeth also, certain things appear. She obeys without command or
sanction, she takes in from her sister the elements of personal
suggestion in their simpler childish forms. Certainly such scenes,
repeated every day with such variation of detail, must give something
of the sense of variety and social equality which real life afterward
confirms and proceeds upon; and lessons of the opposite character are
learned by the same process.
All this exercise of fancy must strengthen the imaginative faculty
also. The prolonged situations, maintained sometimes whole days, or
possibly weeks, give strength to the imagination and train the
attention. I think, also, that the sense of essential reality, and its
distinction from the unreal, the merely imagined, is helped by this
sort of symbolic representation. Play has its dangers also--very
serious ones. The adults sometimes set bad examples. The game gives
practise in cunning no less than in forbearance. Possibly the best
service of observation just now is to gather the facts with a view to
the proper recognition and avoidance of the dangers.
Finally, I may be allowed a word to interested parents. You can be of
no use whatever to psychologists--to say nothing of the actual damage
you may be to the children--unless you _know your babies through and
through_. Especially the fathers! They are willing to study everything
else. They know every corner of the house familiarly, and what is done
in it, except the nursery. A man labours for his children ten hours a
day, gets his life insured for their support after his death, and yet
he lets their mental growth, the formation of their characters, the
evolution of their personality, go on by absorption--if no worse--from
common, vulgar, imported and changing, often immoral attendants! Plato
said the state should train the children; and added that the wisest
man should rule the state. This is to say that the wisest man should
tend his children! Hugo gives us, in Jean Valjean and Cosette, a
picture of the true paternal relationship. We hear a certain group of
studies called the _humanities_, and it is right. But the best school
in the humanities for every man is in his own house.
With this goes, finally, the highest lesson of sport, drama,
make-believe, even when we trace it up into the art-impulse--the
lesson of _personal freedom_. The child himself sets the limitations
of the game, makes the rules, and subjects himself to them, and then
in time pierces the bubble for himself, saying, "I will play no more."
All this is the germ of self-regulation, of the control of the
impulses, of the voluntary adoption of the ideal, which becomes in
later life--if so be that he cling to it--the pearl of great price.
CHAPTER V.
THE CONNECTION OF BODY WITH MIND--PHYSIOLOGICAL PSYCHOLOGY--MENTAL
DISEASES.
In the foregoing pages we have had intimations of some of the
important questions which arise about the connection of mind with
body. The avenues of the senses are the normal approaches to the mind
through the body; and, taking advantage of this, experiments are made
upon the senses. This gives rise to Experimental Psychology, to which
the chapter after this is devoted. Besides this, however, we find the
general fact that a normal body must in all cases be present with a
normal mind, and this makes it possible to arrange so to manipulate
the body that changes may be produced in the mind in other ways than
through the regular channels of sense. For example, we influence the
mind when we drink too much tea or coffee, not to mention the greater
changes of the same kind which are produced in the mind of the drinker
of too much alcohol or other poisonous substances. All the methodical
means of procedure by which the psychologist produces effects of this
kind by changing the condition or functions of the body within itself
belong to Physiological Psychology. So he modifies the respiration,
changes the heart beat, stimulates or slows the circulation of the
blood, paralyzes the muscles, etc. The ways of procedure may be
classified under a few heads, each called a method.
1. _Method of Extirpation._--This means simply the cutting away of a
part of the body, so that any effect which the loss of the part makes
upon the mind may be noted. It is used especially upon the brain.
Pieces of the brain, great or small--indeed, practically the whole
brain mass--may be removed in many animals without destroying life.
Either of the cerebral hemispheres entire, together with large
portions of the other, may be taken from the human brain without much
effect upon the vital processes, considered as a whole; the actual
results being the loss of certain mental functions, such as sight,
hearing, power of movement of particular limbs, etc., according to the
location of the part which is removed. Many of the facts given below
under the heading of Localization were discovered in this way, the
guiding principle being that if the loss of a function follows the
removal of a certain piece of the brain, then that portion of the
brain is directly concerned in the healthy performance of that
function.
2. _Method of Artificial Stimulation._--As the term indicates, this
method proceeds by finding some sort of agent by which the
physiological processes may be started artificially; that is, without
the usual normal starting of these processes. For example, the
physician who stimulates the heart by giving digitalis pursues this
method. For psychological purposes this method has also been fruitful
in studying the brain, and electricity is the agent customarily used.
The brain is laid bare by removing part of the skull of the animal,
and the two electrodes of a battery are placed upon a particular point
of the brain whose function it is wished to determine. The current
passes out along the nerves which are normally set in action from this
particular region, and movements of the muscles follow in certain
definite parts and directions. This is an indication of the normal
function of the part of the brain which is stimulated.
Besides this method of procedure a new one, also by brain stimulation,
has recently been employed. It consists in stimulating a spot of the
brain as before, but instead of observing the character of the
movement which follows, the observer places galvanometers in
connection with various members of the body and observes in which of
the galvanometers the current comes out of the animal's body (the
galvanometer being a very delicate instrument for indicating the
presence of an electric current). In this way it is determined along
what pathways and to what organs the ordinary vital stimulation passes
from the brain, provided it be granted that the electric current takes
the same course.
3. _Method of Intoxication, called the "Toxic Method._"--The remarks
above may suffice for a description of this method. The results of the
administration of toxic or poisonous agents upon the mind are so
general and serious in their character, as readers of De Quincy know,
that very little precise knowledge has been acquired by their use.
4. _Method of Degeneration._--This consists in observing the progress
of natural or artificially produced disease or damage to the tissues,
mainly the nervous tissues, with a view to discovering the directions
of pathways and the locations of connected functions. The degeneration
or decay following disease or injury follows the path of normal
physiological action, and so discloses it to the observer. This method
is of importance to psychology as affording a means of locating and
following up the course of a brain injury which accompanies this or
that mental disease or defect.
_Results_--_Localization of Brain Functions._--The more detailed
results of this sort of study, when considered on the side of the
nervous organism, may be thrown together under the general head of
Localization. The greatest result of all is just the discovery that
there is such a thing as localization in the nervous system of the
different mental functions of sensation and movement. We find
particular parts of the nervous organism contributing each its share,
in a more or less independent way, to the whole flow of the mental
life; and in cases of injury or removal of this part or that, there
is a corresponding impairment of the mind.
First of all, it is found that the nervous system has a certain
up-and-down arrangement from the segments of the spinal cord up to the
gray matter of the rind or "cortex" of the large masses or hemispheres
in the skull, to which the word brain is popularly applied. This
up-and-down arrangement shows three so-called "levels" of function.
Beginning with the spinal cord, we find the simplest processes, and
they grow more complex as we go up toward the brain.
The lowest, or "third level," includes all the functions which the
spinal cord, and its upper termination, called the "medulla," are able
to perform alone--that is, without involving necessarily the activity
of the nervous centres and brain areas which lie above them. Such
"third-level" functions are those of the life-sustaining processes
generally: breathing, heart-beat, vasomotor action (securing the
circulation of the blood), etc. These are all called Automatic
processes. They go regularly on from day to day, being constantly
stimulated by the normal changes in the physiological system itself,
and having no need of interference from the mind of the individual.
In addition to the automatic functions, there is a second great class
of processes which are also managed from the third level; that is, by
the discharge of nervous energy from particular parts of the spinal
cord. These are the so-called Reflex functions. They include all those
responses which the nervous system makes to stimulations from the
outside, in which the mind has no alternative or control. They happen
whether or no. For example, when an object comes near the eye the lid
flies to reflexly. If a tap be made upon the knee while one sits with
the legs crossed the foot flies up reflexly. Various reflexes may be
brought out in a sleeper by slight stimulations to this or that region
of his body. Furthermore, each of the senses has its own set of reflex
adjustments to the stimulations which come to it. The eye accommodates
itself in the most delicate way to the intensity of the light, the
distance of the object, the degree of elevation, and the angular
displacement of what one looks at. The taking of food into the mouth
sets up all sorts of reflex movements which do not cease until the
food is safely lodged in the stomach, and so on through a series of
physiological adaptations which are simply marvellous in their variety
and extent. These processes belong to the third level; and it may
surprise the uninitiated to know that not only is the mind quite "out
of it" so far as these functions are concerned, but that the brain
proper is "out of it" also. Most of these reflexes not only go on when
the brain is removed from the skull, but it is an interesting detail
that they are generally exaggerated under these conditions. This shows
that while the third or lowest level does its own work, it is yet in a
sense under the weight--what physiologists call the inhibiting
action--of the higher brain masses. It is not allowed to magnify its
part too much, nor to work out of its proper time and measure. The
nervous apparatus involved in these "third-level" functions may be
called the "reflex circuit" (see Fig. 2), the path being from the
sense organ up to the centre by a "sensory" nerve, and then out by a
"motor" nerve to the muscle.
[Illustration: FIG. 2.--_s c mt_ = reflex circuit; _s c sp mp c mt_ =
voluntary circuit.]
Going upward in the nervous system, we next find a certain group of
bodies within the gross mass of the brain, certain centres lying
between the hemispheres above and the medulla and spinal cord below,
and in direct connection by nervous tracts with both of these. The
technical names of the more important of these organs are these: the
"corpora striata," or striped bodies, of which there are two, the
"optic thalami," also two in number, and the "cerebellum" or little
brain, situated behind. These make up what is called the "second
level" in the system. They seem to be especially concerned with the
life of sensation. When the centres lying above them, the hemispheres,
are removed, the animal is still able to see, hear, etc., and still
able to carry out his well-knit habits of action in response to what
he sees and hears. But that is about all. A bird treated thus, for
example, these second-level centres being still intact while the
hemispheres are removed, retains his normal appearance, being quite
able to stand upon his feet, to fly, walk, etc. His reflexes are also
unimpaired and his inner physiological processes; but it soon becomes
noticeable that his mental operations are limited very largely to
sensations. He sees his food as usual, but does not remember its use,
and makes no attempt to eat it. He sees other birds, but does not
respond to their advances. He seems to have forgotten all his
education, to have lost all the meanings of things, to have
practically no intelligence. A dog in this condition no longer fears
the whip, no longer responds to his name, no longer steals food. On
the side of his conduct we find that all the actions which he had
learned by training now disappear; the trick dog loses all his tricks.
What was called Apperception in the earlier chapter seems to have been
taken away with the hemispheres.
Coming to the "first level," the highest of all, both in anatomical
position and in the character of the functions over which it presides,
we see at once what extraordinary importance it has. It comprises the
cortex of the hemispheres, which taken together are called the
cerebrum. It consists of the parts which we supposed cut out of the
pigeon and dog just mentioned; and when we remember what these animals
lose by its removal, we see what the normal animal or man owes to the
integrity of this organ. It is above all the organ of mind. If we had
to say that the mind as such is located anywhere, we should say in the
gray matter of the cortex of the hemispheres of the brain. For
although, as we saw, animals without this organ can still see and hear
and feel, yet we also saw that they could do little else and could
learn to do nothing more. All the higher operations of mind come back
only when we think of the animal as having normal brain hemispheres.
Further, we find this organ in some degree duplicating the function of
the second-level centres, for fibres go out from these intermediate
masses to certain areas of the hemispheres, which reproduce locally
the senses of hearing, sight, etc. By these fibres the functions of
the senses are "projected" out to the surface of the brain, and the
term "projection fibres" is applied to the nerves which make these
connections. The hemispheres are not content even with the most
important of all functions--the strictly intelligent--but they are
jealous, so to speak, of the simple sensations which the central brain
masses are capable of awaking. And in the very highest animals,
probably only monkeys and man, we find that the hemispheres have gone
so far with their jealousy as to usurp the function of sensation. This
is seen in the singular fact that with a monkey or man the removal of
the cortical centres makes the animal permanently blind or deaf, as
the case may be, while in the lower animals such removal does not have
this result, so long as the "second-level" organs are unimpaired. The
brain paths of the functions of the second and first levels taken
together constitute the so-called "voluntary circuit" (see Fig. 2).
In addition to this general demarcation of functions as higher and
lower--first, second, and third level--in their anatomical seat, many
interesting discoveries have been made in the localization of the
simpler functions in the cortex itself. The accompanying figures
(Figs. 3 and 4) will show the principle centres which have been
determined; and it is not necessary to dwell upon additional details
which are still under discussion. The areas marked out are in general
the same on both hemispheres, and that is to say that most of the
centres are duplicated. The speech centres, however, are on one side
only. And in certain cases the nervous fibres which connect the cortex
with the body-organs cross below the brain to the opposite side of the
body. This is always true in cases of muscular movement; the movements
of the right side of the body are controlled by the left hemisphere,
and _vice versa_. The stimulations coming in from the body to the
brain generally travel on the same side, although in certain cases
parallel impulses are also sent over to the other hemisphere as well.
For example, the very important optic nerve, which is necessary to
vision, comes from each eye separately in a large bunch of fibres, and
divides at the base of the brain, so that each eye sends impulses
directly to the visual centres of both hemispheres.
[Illustration: FIG. 3.--Outer surface of left hemisphere of the brain
(modified from Exner): _a_, fissure of Rolando; _b_, fissure of
Sylvius.]
[Illustration: FIG. 4.--Inner (mesial) surface of the right hemisphere
of the brain (modified from Schäfer and Horsley). In both figures the
shaded area is the motor zone.]
Of all the special questions which have arisen about the localization
of functions in the nervous system, that of the function of certain
areas known as "motor centres" has been eagerly discussed. The region
on both sides of the fissure of Rolando in Fig. 3 contains a number of
areas which give, when stimulated with electricity, very definite and
regular movements of certain muscles on the opposite side of the body.
By careful exploration of these areas the principal muscular
combinations--those for facial movements, neck movements, movements of
the arm, trunk, legs, tail, etc.--have been very precisely
ascertained. It was concluded from these facts that these areas were
respectively the centres for the discharge of the nervous impulses
running in each case to the muscles which were moved. The evidence
recently forthcoming, however, is leading investigators to think that
there is no cortical centre for the "motor" or outgoing processes
properly so called, and that these Rolandic areas, although called
"motor," are really centres for the incoming reports of the movements
of the respective muscles after the movements take place, and also for
the preservation of the memories of movement which the mind must have
before a particular movement can be brought about (the mental images
of movement which we called on an earlier page Kinæsthetic
Equivalents). These centres being aroused in the thought of the
movement desired, which is the necessary mental preparation for the
movement, they in turn stimulate the real motor centres which lie
below the cortex at the second level. This is in the present writer's
judgment the preferable interpretation of the evidence which we now
have.
[Illustration: FIG. 5.--The speech zone (after Collins).]
_The Speech Zone._--Many interesting facts of the relation of body and
mind have come to light in connection with the speech functions.
Speech is complex, both on the psychological and also on the
physiological side, and easily deranged in ways that take on such
remarkable variety that they are a source of very fruitful indications
to the inquirer. It is now proved that speech is not a faculty, a
single definite capacity which a man either has or has not. It is
rather a complex thing resulting from the combined action of many
brain centres, and, on the mental side, of many so-called faculties,
or functions. In order to speak a man normally requires what is called
a "zone" in his brain, occupying a large portion of the outside
lateral region (see Fig. 5). It extends, as in the figure, from the
Rolandic region (_K_), where the kinæsthetic lip-and-tongue memories
of words are aroused, backward into the temporal region (_A_), where
the auditory memories of words spring up; then upward to the angular
gyrus in the rear or occipital region (_V_), where in turn the visual
pictures of the written or printed words rise to perform their part in
the performance; and with all this combination there is associated the
centre for the movements of the hand and arm employed in writing, an
area higher up in the Rolandic region (above _K_). In the same general
zone we also find the music function located, the musical sounds being
received in the auditory centre very near the area for words heard
(_A_) while the centre for musical expression is also in the Rolandic
region. Furthermore, as may be surmised, the reading of musical
notation requires the visual centre, just as does the reading of
words. In addition to this, we find the curious fact that the location
of the whole speech zone is in one hemisphere only. Its location on
the left or the right, in particular cases, is also an indication as
to whether the person is right-or left-handed; this means that the
process which makes the individual either right or left-handed is
probably located in the speech zone, or near it. A large majority of
persons have the speech zone in the left hemisphere, and are
right-handed; it will be seen that the figure (5) shows the left
hemisphere of the brain, and with it the right hand holding the pen.
_Defects of Speech--Aphasia._--The sorts of injury which may befall a
large zone of the brain are so many that well-nigh endless forms of
speech defect occur. All impairment of speech is called Aphasia, and
it is called Motor Aphasia when the apparatus is damaged on the side
of movement.
If the fibres coming out from the speech zone be impaired, so that the
impulses can not go to the muscles of articulation and breathing, we
have Subcortical Motor Aphasia. Its peculiarity is that the person
knows perfectly what he wants to say, but yet can not speak the words.
He is able to read silently, can understand the speech of others, and
can remember music; but, with his inability to speak, he is generally
also unable to write or to perform on a musical instrument (yet this
last is not always the case). Then we find new variations if his
"lesion"--as all kinds of local nervous defects are called--is in the
brain centre in the Rolandic region, where arise the memories of the
movements required. In this latter case the aphasic patient can
readily imitate speech so long as he hears it, can imitate writing so
long as it lies before him, but can not do any independent speaking or
writing for himself. With this there goes another fact which
characterizes this form of aphasia, and which is called Cortical, as
opposed to the Subcortical Motor Aphasia described above, that the
person may not be able even to think of the words which are
appropriate to express his meaning. This is the case when those
persons who depend upon the memories of the movements of lip and
tongue in their normal speech are injured as described.
Besides the two forms of Motor Aphasia now spoken of, there are
certain other speech defects which are called Sensory Aphasia. When a
lesion occurs in one of the areas of the brain in the speech zone in
which the requisite memories of words seen or heard have their
seat--as when a ball player is struck over the sight centre in the
back of the head--special forms of sensory aphasia show themselves.
The ball player will, in this case, have Visual Aphasia, being unable
to speak in proportion as he is accustomed in his speaking to depend
upon the images of written or printed words. He is quite unable to
read or write from a copy which he sees; but he may be able,
nevertheless, to write from dictation, and also to repeat words which
are spoken to him. This is because in these latter performances he
uses his auditory centre, and not the visual. There are, indeed, some
persons who are so independent of vision that the loss of the visual
centre does not much impair their normal speech.
When, again, an injury comes to the auditory centre in the temporal
region, we find the converse of the case just described; the defect is
then called Auditory Aphasia. The patient can not now speak or write
words which he hears, and can not speak spontaneously in proportion as
he is accustomed to depend upon his memories of the word sounds. But
in most cases he can still both speak and write printed or written
words which he sees before him.
These cases may serve to give the reader an idea of the remarkable
delicacy and complexity of the function of speech. It becomes more
evident when, instead of cases of gross lesion, which destroy a whole
centre, or cut the connections between centres, we have disease of the
brain which merely destroys a few cells in the gray matter here or
there. We then find partial loss of speech, such as is seen in
patients who lack only certain classes of words; perhaps the verbs, or
the conjunctions, or proper names, etc.; or in the patients who
speak, but yet do not say what they mean; or, again, in persons who
have two verbal series going on at once, one of which they can not
control, and which they often attribute to an enemy inside them, in
control of the vocal organs, or to a persecutor outside whose abuse
they can not avoid hearing. In cases of violent sick headache we often
miscall objects without detecting it ourselves, and in delirium the
speech mechanism works from violent organic discharges altogether
without control. The senile old man talks nonsense--so-called
gibberish--thinking he is discoursing properly.
In the main cases of Aphasia of distinct sensory and motor types
psychological analysis is now so adequate and the anatomical
localization so far advanced that the physicians have sufficient basis
for their diagnosis, and make inferences looking toward treatment.
Many cases of tumour, of clot on the brain, of local pressure from the
skull, and of hæmorrhage or stopping up of the blood vessels in a
limited area, have been cured through the indications given by the
particular forms and degrees of aphasia shown by the patients. The
skull is opened at the place indicated by the defect of speech, the
lesion found where the diagnosis suggested, and the cause removed.
This account of Localization will suggest to the reader the truth that
there is no science of Phrenology. No progress has been made in
localizing the intelligence; and the view is now very general that the
whole brain, with all its interchange of impulses from part to part,
is involved in thinking. As for locating particular emotions and
qualities of temperament, it is quite absurd. Furthermore, the
irregularities of the skull do not indicate local brain differences.
It is thought that the relative weight of the brain may be an
indication of intellectual endowment, especially when the brain weight
is compared with the weight of the rest of the body, and that culture
in particular lines increases the surface of the cortex by deepening
and multiplying the convolutions. But these statements can not be
applied off-hand to individuals, as the practise of phrenology would
require.
_Defects of Memory--Amnesia._--The cases given just above, where the
failure of speech was seen to be due to the loss of certain memories
of words, illustrate also a series of mental defects, which are
classed together as Amnesias. Any failure in memory, except the normal
lapses which we call forgetfulness, is included under this term. Just
as the loss of word memories occasions inability to speak, so that of
other sorts of memories occasions other functional disturbances. A
patient may forget objects, and so not know how to use his penknife or
to put on his shoes. He may forget events, and so give false witness
as to the past.
One may forget himself also, and so have, in some degree, a different
character, as is seen, in an exaggerated way, in persons who have
so-called Dual Personality. These patients suddenly fall into a
secondary state, in which they forget all the events of their ordinary
lives, but remember all the events of the earlier periods of the
secondary personality. This state may be described as "general"
amnesia, in contrast to the "partial" amnesia of the other cases
given, in which only particular classes of memories are impaired.
The impairment of memory with advancing years also illustrates both
"general" and "partial" Amnesia. The old man loses his memory of
names, then of other words, then of events, and so gradually becomes
incapable of much retention of any sort.
_Defects of Will--Aboulia._--A few words may suffice to characterize
the great class of mental defects which arise on the side of action.
All inability to perform intentional acts is called Aboulia, or lack
of Will. Certain defects of speech mentioned above illustrate this:
cases in which the patient knows what he wishes to say and yet can not
say it. This is the type of all the "partial" Aboulias. There may be
no lack in determination and effort, yet the action may be impossible.
But, in contrast with this, there is a more grave defect called
"general" Aboulia. Here we find a weakening of resolution, of
determination, associated with some lack of self-control showing
itself frequently by a certain hesitation or indecision. The patient
says: "I can not make up my mind," "I can not decide." In exaggerated
cases it becomes a form of mania called "insanity of doubt." The
patient stands before a door for an hour hesitating as to whether he
can open it or not, or carries to its extreme the experience we all
sometimes have of finding it necessary to return again and again to
make sure that we have locked the door or shut the draught of the
furnace.
With these illustrations our notice of mental defects may terminate.
The more complex troubles, the various insanities, manias, phobias,
etc., can not be briefly described. Moreover, they are still wrapped
in the profoundest obscurity. To the psychologist, however, there are
certain guiding principles through the maze of facts, and I may state
them in conclusion.
First, all mental troubles involve diseases of the brain and can be
cured only as the brain is cured. It does not follow, of course, that
in certain cases treatment by mental agencies, such as suggestion,
arousing of expectation, faith, etc., may not be more helpful here,
when wisely employed, than in troubles which do not involve the mind;
but yet the end to be attained is a physical as well as a mental cure,
and the means in the present state of knowledge, at any rate, are
mainly physical means. The psychologist knows practically nothing
about the laws which govern the influence of mind on body. The
principle of Suggestion is so obscure in its concrete working that the
most practised and best-informed operators find it impossible to
control its use or to predict its results. To give countenance, in
this state of things, to any pretended system or practice of mind
cure, Christian science, spiritual healing, etc., which leads to the
neglect of ordinary medical treatment, is to discredit the legitimate
practice of medicine and to let loose an enemy dangerous to the public
health.
Moreover, such things produce a form of hysterical subjectivism which
destroys sound judgment, and dissolves the sense of reality which it
has taken modern science many generations to build up. Science has all
along had to combat such wresting of its more obscure and unexplained
facts into alliance with the ends of practical quackery, fraud, and
superstition; and psychologists need just now to be especially alive
to their duty of combating the forms of this alliance which arise when
the newer results of psychology are so used, whether it be to
supplement the inadequate evidence of "thought-transference," to
support the claims of spiritualism, or to justify in the name of
"personal liberty" the substitution of a "healer" for the trained
physician. The parent who allows his child to die under the care of a
"Christian Science healer" is as much a criminal from neglect as the
one who, going but a step further in precisely the same direction,
brings his child to starvation on a diet of faith. In France and
Russia experimenting in hypnotism on well persons has been restricted
by law to licensed experts; what, compared with that, shall we say to
this wholly amateurish experimenting with the diseased? Let the
"healer" heal all he can, but let him not experiment to the extremity
of life and death with the credulity and superstition of the people
who think one "doctor" is as good as another.
Second, many experts agree that diseases of the mind, whatever their
brain seat may be, all involve impairment of the Attention. This, at
any rate, is a general mark of a deranged or defective mind. The idiot
lacks power of attention. The maniac lacks control of his attention.
The deluded lacks grasp and flexibility of attention. The crank can
only attend to one thing. The old man is feeble in the attention,
having lost his hold. So it goes. The attention is the instrument of
the one sort of normal mental activity called Apperception, and so
impairment of the attention shows itself at once in some particular
form of defect.
Third, it is interesting to know that in progressive mental failure
the loss of the powers of the mind takes place in an order which is
the reverse of that of their original acquisition. The most complex
functions, which are acquired last, are the first to show impairment.
In cases of general degeneration, softening of the brain, etc., the
intelligence and moral nature are first affected, then memory,
association, and acquired actions of all sorts, while there remain,
latest of all, actions of the imitative kind, most of the deep-set
habits, and the instinctive, reflex, and automatic functions, This
last condition is seen in the wretched victim of dementia and in the
congenital idiot. The latter has, in addition to his life processes
and instincts, little more than the capacity for parrot-like
imitation. By this he acquires the very few items of his education.
The recovery of the patient shows the same stages again, but in the
reversed direction; he pursues the order of the original acquisition,
a process which physicians call Re-evolution.
CHAPTER VI.
HOW WE EXPERIMENT ON THE MIND--EXPERIMENTAL PSYCHOLOGY.
In recent years the growth of the method of experimenting with bodies
in laboratories in the different sciences has served to raise the
question whether the mind may not be experimented with also. This
question has been solved in so far that psychologists produce
artificial changes in the stimulations to the senses and in the
arrangements of the objects and conditions existing about a person,
and so secure changes also in his mental states. What we have seen of
Physiological Psychology illustrates this general way of proceeding,
for in such studies, changes in the physiological processes, as in
breathing, etc., are considered as causing changes in the mind. In
Experimental Psychology, however, as distinguished from Physiological
Psychology, we agree to take only those influences which are outside
the body, such as light, sound, temperature, etc., keeping the subject
as normal as possible in all respects.
A great many laboratories have now been established in connection with
the universities in Germany, France, and the United States. They
differ very much from one another, but their common purpose is so to
experiment upon the mind, through changes in the stimulations to which
the individual is subjected, that tests may be made of his sensations,
his ability to remember, the exactness and kind of movements, etc.
The working of these laboratories and the sort of research carried out
in them may be illustrated best, perhaps, by a description of some of
the results, apparatus, methods, etc., employed in my own laboratory
during the past year. The end in view will, I trust, be considered
sufficient justification for the degree of personal reference which
this occasions; since greater concreteness and reality attach to
definite descriptions such as this. The other laboratories, as those
at Harvard and Columbia Universities, take up similar problems by
similar methods. I shall therefore go on to describe some recent work
in the Princeton laboratory.
Of the problems taken up in the laboratory, certain ones may be
selected for somewhat detailed explanation, since they are from widely
different spheres and illustrate different methods of procedure.
I. _Experiments on the Temperature Sense._--For a score of years it
has been suspected that we have a distinct sense, with a nerve
apparatus of its own, for the feeling of different temperatures on the
skin. Certain investigators found that this was probably true; it is
proved by the fact that certain drugs alter the sensibility of the
skin to hot and cold stimulations.
Another advance was made when it was found that sensations of either
hot or cold may be had from regions which are insensible at the same
time to the other sort of stimulation, cold or hot. Certain minute
points were discovered which report cold when touched with a cold
point, but give no feeling from a hot object; while other points would
respond only with a sensation from heat, never giving cold. It was
concluded that we have two temperature senses, one for hot and the
other for cold.
Taking the problem at this point, Mr. C.[3] wished to define more
closely the relation of the two sorts of sensation to each other, and
thought he could do so by a method by which he might repeat the
stimulation of a series of exact spots, very minute points on the
skin, over and over again, thus securing a number of records of the
results for both hot and cold over a given area. He chose an area of
skin on the forearm, shaved it carefully, and proceeded to explore it
with the smallest points of metals which could be drawn along the skin
without pricking or tearing. These points were attached to metallic
cylinders, and around the cylinders rubber bands were placed; the
cylinders were then thrust in hot or cold water kept at certain
regular temperatures, and lifted by the rubber bands. They were placed
point down, with equal pressure, upon the points of the skin in the
area chosen. In this way, points which responded only to hot, and also
those responding only to cold, were found, marked with delicate ink
marks in each case, until the whole area was explored and marked in
different colours. This had often been done before. It remained to
devise a way of keeping these records, so that the markings might all
be removed from the skin, and new explorations made over the same
surface. This was necessary in order to see whether the results
secured were always the same. The theory that there were certain
nervous endings in the skin corresponding to the little points
required that each spot should be in exactly the same place whenever
the experiment was repeated.
[Footnote 3: Mr. J. F. Crawford, graduate student.]
Mr. C. made a number of so-called "transparent transfer frames." They
are rectangular pieces of cardboard, with windows cut in them. The
windows are covered with thin architect's paper, which is very
transparent. This frame is put over the forearm in such a way that the
paper in the window comes over the markings made on the arm. The
markings show through very clearly, and the points are copied on the
paper. Then certain boundary marks at the corners are made, both on
the paper and on the arm, at exactly the same places, the frame is
removed, and all the markings on the arm are erased except the
boundary points. The result is that at any time the frames can be put
over the arm again by matching the boundary points, and then the
original temperature spots on the skin will be shown by the markings
on the paper window.
Proceeding to repeat the exploration of the same area in this way, Mr.
C makes records of many groupings of points for both hot and cold
sensations on the same area; he then puts the frames one upon another,
holds them up before a window so that they have a bright background,
and is thus able to see at a glance how nearly the results of the
different sittings correspond.
His results, put very briefly, fail to confirm the theory that the
sense of temperature has an apparatus of fixed spots for heat and
other fixed spots for cold. For when he puts the different markings
for heat together he finds that the spots are not the same, but that
those of one frame fall between those of another, and if several are
put together the points fill up a greater or smaller area. The same
for the cold spots; they fill a continuous area. He finds, however, as
other investigators have found, that the heat areas are generally in
large measure separate from the cold areas, only to a certain extent
overlapping here and there, and also that there are regions of the
skin where we have very little sense of either sort of temperature.
The general results will show, therefore, if they should be confirmed
by other investigators, that our temperature sense is located in what
might be called somewhat large blotches on the skin, and not in minute
spots; while the evidence still remains good, however, to show that we
have two senses for temperature, one for cold and the other for hot.
II. _Reaction-Time Experiments._--Work in so-called "reaction times"
constitutes one of the most important and well-developed chapters in
experimental psychology. In brief, the experiment involved is this:
To find how long it takes a person to receive a sense impression of
any kind--for example, to hear a sound-signal--and to move his hand or
other member in response to the impression. A simple arrangement is as
follows: Sit the subject comfortably, tap a bell in such a way that
the tapping also makes an electric current and starts a clock, and
instruct the subject to press a button with his finger as soon as
possible after he hears the bell. The pressing of the button by him
breaks the current and stops the clock. The dial of the clock
indicates the actual time which has elapsed between the bell (signal)
and his response with his finger (reaction). The clock used for exact
work is likely to be the Hipp chronoscope, which gives on its dials
indications of time intervals in thousandths of a second. For the sake
of keeping the conditions constant and preventing disturbance, the
wires are made long, so that the clock and the experimenter may be in
one room, while the bell, the punch key, and the subject are in
another, with the door closed. This method of getting reaction times
has been in use for a number of years, especially by the astronomers
who need to know, in making their observations, how much time is taken
by the observer in recording a transit or other observation. It is
part of the astronomer's "personal equation."
Proceeding with this "simple-reaction" experiment as a basis, the
psychologists have varied the instructions to the subject so as to
secure from him the different times which he takes for more
complicated mental processes, such as distinguishing between two or
more impressions, counting, multiplying, dividing, etc., before
reacting; or they have him wait for an associated idea to come up
before giving his response, with many other variations. By comparing
these different times among themselves, interesting results are
reached concerning the mental processes involved and also about the
differences of different individuals in the simpler operations of
their daily lives. The following research carried out by Mr. B.[4]
serves to illustrate both of these assertions.
[Footnote 4: The writer.]
Mr. B. wished to inquire further into a fact found out by several
persons by this method: the fact that there is an important difference
in the length of a person's reaction time according to the direction
of his attention during the experiment. If, for example, Mr. X. be
tested, it is possible that he may prefer to attend strictly to the
signal, letting his finger push the key without direct care and
supervision. If this be true, and we then interfere with his way of
proceeding, by telling him that he must attend to his finger, and
allow the signal to take care of itself, we find that he has great
difficulty in doing so, grows embarrassed, and his reaction time
becomes very irregular and much longer. Yet another person, say Y, may
show just the opposite state of things; he finds it easier to pay
attention to his hand, and when he does so he gets shorter and also
more regular times than when he attends to the signal-sound.
It occurred to Mr. B. that the striking differences given by different
persons in this matter of the most favourable direction of the
attention might be connected with the facts brought out by the
physiological psychologists in connection with speech; namely, that
one person is a "visual," in speaking, using mainly sight images of
words, while another is a "motor," using mainly muscular images, and
yet another an "auditive," using mainly sound images. If the
differences are so marked in the matter of speech, it seemed likely
that they might also extend to other functions, and the so-called
"type" of a person in his speech might show itself in the relative
lengths of his reaction times according as he attended to one class of
images or another.
Calling this the "type theory" of reaction times, and setting about
testing four different persons in the laboratory, the problem was
divided into two parts; first, to direct all the individuals selected
to find out, by examining their mental preferences in speaking,
reading, writing, dreaming, etc., the class of images which they
ordinarily depended most upon; and then to see by a series of
experiments whether their reaction times to these particular classes
of images were shorter than to others, and especially whether the
times were shorter when attention was given to these images than when
it was given to the muscles used in the reactions. The meaning of this
would be that if the reaction should be shorter to these images than
to the corresponding muscle images, or to the other classes of images,
then the reaction time of an individual would show his mental type and
be of use in testing it. This would be a very important matter if it
should hold, seeing that many questions both in medicine and in
education, which involve the ascertaining of the mental character of
the individual person, would profit by such an exact method.
The results on all the subjects confirmed the supposition. For
example, one of them, Mr. C., found from an independent examination of
himself, most carefully made, that he depended very largely upon his
hearing in all the functions mentioned. When he thought of words, he
remembered how they sounded; when he dreamed, his dreams were full of
conversation and other sounds. When he wrote, he thought continually
of the way the words and sentences would sound if spoken. Without
knowing of this, many series of reaction experiments were made on him;
the result showed a remarkable difference between the lengths of his
reactions, according as he directed his attention to the sound or to
his hand; a difference showing his time to be one half shorter when he
paid attention to the sound. The same was seen when he reacted to
lights; the attention went preferably to the light, not to the hand;
but the difference was less than in the case of sounds. So it was an
unmistakable fact in his case that the results of the reaction
experiments agreed with his independent decision as to his mental
type.
In none of the cases did this correspondence fail, although all were
not so pronounced in their type preferences as was Mr. C.
The second part of the research had in view the question whether
reaction times taken upon speech would show the same thing; that is,
whether in Mr. C.'s case, for example, it would be found that his
reaction made by speaking, as soon as he heard the signal or saw the
light, would be shorter when he paid attention to the signal than when
he gave attention to his mouth and lips. For this purpose a mouth key
was used which made it possible for the subject simply by emitting a
puff of breath from the lips, to break an electric current and thus
stop the chronoscope as soon as possible after hearing the signal.
The mouth key is figured herewith (Fig. 6).
[Illustration: FIG. 6.--Mouth-key (Isometric drawing) The metallic
tongue E swings over the mercury H, making or breaking the circuit A H
E D B or C E H A. The tongue is moved by a puff of air through the
funnel F. (Devised by Prof. W. Libbey.)]
This experiment was also carried out on all the subjects, none of them
having any knowledge of the end in view, and the experimenters also
not having, as yet, worked out the results of the earlier research. In
all the cases, again, the results showed that, for speech, the same
thing held as for the hand--namely, that the shortest reaction times
were secured when the subject paid attention to the class of images
for which he had a general preference. In Mr. C.'s case, for example,
it was found that the time it took him to speak was much shorter when
he paid strict attention to the expected sound than when he attended
to his vocal organs. So for the other cases. If the individual's
general preference is for muscular images, we find that the quickest
time is made when attention is given to the mouth and lips. Such is
the case with Mr. B.
The general results go to show, therefore--and four cases showing no
exception, added to the indications found by other writers, make a
general conclusion very probable--that in the differences in reaction
times, as secured by giving the attention this way or that, we have
general indications of the individual's temperament, or at least of
his mental preferences as set by his education. These indications
agree with those found in the cases of aphasia known as "motor,"
"visual," "auditory," etc., already mentioned. The early examination
of children by this method would probably be of great service in
determining proper courses of treatment, subjects of study, modes of
discipline, tendencies to fatigue and embarrassment, and the direction
of best progress in education.
This research may be taken to illustrate the use of the reaction-time
method in investigating such complex processes as attention,
temperament, etc. The department which includes the various time
measurements in psychology is now called Mental Chronometry, the older
term, Psychometry, being less used on account of its ambiguity.
III. _An Optical Illusion._--In the sphere of vision many very
interesting facts are constantly coming to light. Sight is the most
complex of the senses, the most easily deranged, and, withal, the most
necessary to our normal existence. The report of the following
experimental study will have the greater utility, since, apart from
any intrinsic novelty or importance the results may prove to have, it
shows some of the general bearings of the facts of vision in relation
to Æsthetics, to the theory of Illusions, and to the function of
Judgment.
Illusion of the senses is due either to purely physiological causes or
to the operation of the principle of Assimilation, which has already
been remarked upon. In the latter case it illustrates the fact that at
any time there is a general disposition of the mind to look upon a
thing under certain forms, patterns, etc., to which it has grown
accustomed; and to do this it is led sometimes to distort what it sees
or hears unconsciously to itself. So it falls into errors of judgment
through the trap which is set by its own manner of working. Nowhere is
the matter better illustrated than in the sphere of vision. The number
of illusions of vision is remarkable. We are constantly taking shapes
and forms for something slightly different from what, by measurement,
we actually find them to be. And psychologists are attempting--with
rather poor success so far--to find some general principles of the
mechanism of vision which will account for the great variety of its
illusions.
Among these principles one is known as Contrast. It is hardly a
principle as yet. It is rather a word used to cover all illusions
which spring up when surfaces of different sizes and shapes, looked at
together or successively, are misjudged with reference to one another.
Wishing to investigate this in a simple way, the following experiment
was planned and carried out by Mr. B.
He wished to find out whether, if two detached surfaces of different
sizes be gazed at together, the linear distances of the field of
vision (the whole scene visible at once) would be at all misjudged. To
test this, he put in the window (W)[5] of the dark room a filling of
white cardboard in which two square holes had been cut (S S'). The
sides of the squares were of certain very unequal lengths. Then a slit
was made between the middle points of the sides of the squares next to
each other, so that there was a narrow path or trough joining the
squares between their adjacent sides. Inside the dark room he arranged
a bright light so that it would illuminate this trough, but not be
seen by a person seated some distance in front of the window in the
next room. A needle (D) was hung on a pivot behind the cardboard, so
that its point could move along the bright trough in either direction;
and on the needle was put the armature (A) of an electro-magnet which,
when a current passed, would be drawn instantly to the magnet (E), and
so stop the needle exactly at the point which it had then reached. A
clock motor (Cm) was arranged in such a way as to carry the needle
back and forth regularly over the slit; and the electro-magnet was
connected by wires with a punch key (K) on a table beside the subject
in the next room. All being now ready, the subject, Mr. S., is told to
watch the needle which appears as a bead of light travelling along the
slit, and stop it when it comes to the middle point of the line, by
pressing the electric key. The experimenter, who stands behind the
window in the dark room, reads on a scale (mm.) marked in millimetres
the exact point at which the needle stops, releases the needle by
breaking the current, thus allowing it to return slowly over the line
again. This gives the subject another opportunity to stop it at what
he judges to be the exact middle of the line, and so on. The
accompanying figure (Fig. 7) shows the entire arrangement.
[Footnote 5: This and the following letters in parentheses refer to
Fig. 7]
[Illustration: FIG. 7]
A great many experiments performed in this way, with the squares set
both vertically and horizontally, and with several persons, brought a
striking and very uniform result. The point selected by the subject as
the middle is regularly too far toward the smaller square. Not a
little, indeed, but a very appreciable amount. The amount of the
displacement, or, roughly speaking, of the illusion, increases as the
larger square is made larger and the smaller one smaller; or, put in a
sentence, the amount varies directly with the ratio of the smaller to
the larger square side.
Finding such an unmistakable illusion by this method, Mr. B. thought
that if it could be tested by an appeal to people generally, it would
be of great gain. It occurred to him that the way to do this would be
to reverse the conditions of the experiment in the following way: He
prepared the figures given in Plate I, in which the two squares are
made of suitable relative size, a line is drawn between them, and a
point on the line is plainly marked. This he had printed in a weekly
journal, and asked the readers of the journal to get their friends,
after merely looking at the figure (i. e., without knowing the result
to be expected), to say--as the reader may now do before reading
further--whether the point on the line (Plate I) is in the middle or
not; and if not, in which direction from the true middle it lies. The
results from hundreds of persons of all manner of occupations, ages,
and of both sexes, agree in saying that the point lies too far toward
the larger square. In reality it is in the exact middle. This is just
the opposite of the result of the experiments in the laboratory, where
the conditions were the reverse, i. e., to find the middle as it
appears to the eye. Here, therefore, we have a complete confirmation
of the illusion; and it is now fully established that in all cases in
which the conditions of this experiment are realized we make a
constant mistake in estimating distances by the eye.[6]
[Footnote 6: In redrawing the figure on a larger sheet (which is
recommended), the connecting line may be omitted, only the mid-point
being marked. Some get a better effect with two circles, the
intervening distance being divided midway by a dot, as in Plate II.]
For instance, if a town committee wish to erect a statue to their
local hero in the public square, and if on two opposite sides of the
square there are buildings of very different heights, the statue
should not be put in the exact middle of the square, if it is to give
the best effect from a distance. It should be placed a little toward
the smaller building. A colleague of the writer found, when this was
first made public, that the pictures in his house had actually been
hung in such a way as to allow for this illusion. Whenever a picture
was to be put up between two others of considerable difference of
size, or between a door (large) and a window (small), it had actually
been hung a little nearer to the smaller--toward the small picture or
toward the window--and not in the true middle.
It is probable that interesting applications of this illusion may be
discovered in æsthetics. For wherever in drawing or painting it is
wished to indicate to the observer that a point is midway between two
lines of different lengths, we should find that the artist, in order
to produce this effect most adequately, deviates a little from the
true middle. So in architecture, the effect of a contrast of masses
often depends upon the sense of bilateral balance, symmetry, or
equality, in which this visual error would naturally come into play.
Indeed, it is only necessary to recall to mind that one of the
principal laws of æsthetic effect in the matter of right line
proportion is the relation of "one to one," as it is called, or equal
division, to see the wide sphere of application of this illusion. In
all such cases the mistake of judgment would have to be allowed for if
masses of unequal size lie at the ends of the line which is to be
divided.
IV. _The Accuracy of Memory._--Another investigation may be cited to
illustrate quite a different department. It aimed to find out
something about the rate at which memory fades with the lapse of time.
Messrs. W., S., and B.[7] began by formulating the different ways in
which tests may be made on individuals to see how accurate their
memories are after different periods of time. They found that three
different tests might be employed, and called them "methods" of
investigating memory. These are, first, the method of Reproduction.
The individual is asked to reproduce, as in an oral or written
examination, what he remembers of something told him a certain time
before. This is the ordinary method of the schools and colleges, of
civil-service examinations, etc. Second, the method of Identification,
which calls upon the person to identify a thing, sentence, report,
etc., a second or third time, as being the same in all respects as
that which he experienced the first time it appeared. Third, the
method of Selection, in which we show to the person a number of
things, sentences, reports, descriptions of objects, etc., and require
him to select from them the ones which are exactly the same as those
he has had before. These methods will be better understood from the
account now to be given of the way they were carried out on a large
number of students.
[Footnote 7: Prof. H. C. Warren, Mr. W. J. Shaw, and the writer.]
The first experiments were made by Messrs. S. and B. in the University
of Toronto on a class of students numbering nearly three hundred, of
whom about one third were women. The instructors showed to the class
certain squares of cardboard of suitable size, and asked them to do
the following three things on different days: First, to reproduce from
memory, with pencil on paper, squares of the same size as those shown,
after intervals of one, ten, twenty, and forty minutes (this gives
results by the method of Reproduction); second, to say whether a new
set of squares, which were shown to them after the same intervals,
were the same in size as those which they had originally seen,
smaller, or larger (illustrating the method of Identification); third,
they were shown a number of squares of slightly different sizes, again
at the same intervals, and asked to select from them the ones which
they found to be the same size as those originally seen (method of
Selection).
The results from all these experiments were combined with those of
another series, secured from a large class of Princeton students; and
the figure (Fig. 8) shows by curves something of the result. The
figure is given in order that the reader may understand by its
explanation the "graphic method" of plotting statistical results,
which, with various complications, is now employed in psychology as
well as in the other positive sciences.
[Illustration: FIG. 8.--Memory curves: I. Method of Selection. II.
Method of Identification.]
Briefly described in words, it was found that the three methods agreed
(the curves are parallel)[8] in showing that during the first ten
minutes there was a great falling off in the accuracy of memory (slant
in the curves from 0 to 10); that then, between ten and twenty
minutes, memory remained relatively faithful (the curves are nearly
level from 10 to 20), and that a rapid falling off in accuracy
occurred after twenty minutes (shown by the slant in the lines from 20
to 40).
[Footnote 8: This figure shows curves for two of the methods only,
Selection and Identification.]
Further, the different positions of the curves show certain things
when properly understood. The curve secured by the method of
Reproduction (not given in the figure) shows results which are least
accurate, because most variable. The reason of this is that in drawing
the squares to reproduce the one remembered, the student is
influenced by the size of the paper he uses, by the varying accuracy
of his control over his hand and arm (the results vary, for example,
according as he uses his right or left hand), and by all sorts of
associations with square objects which may at the time be in his mind.
In short, this method gives his memory of the square a chance to be
fully assimilated to his current mental state during the interval, and
there is no corrective outside of him to keep him true.
That this difficulty is a real one no one who has examined students
will be disposed to deny. When we ask them to reproduce what the
text-book or the professor's lectures have taught, we also ask them to
express themselves accurately. Now the science of correct expression
is a thing in which the average student has had no training. With his
difficulty in remembering is connected his difficulty of expression;
and with it all goes a certain embarrassment, due to responsibility,
personal fear, and dread of disgrace. So the results finally obtained
by this method are really very complex.
One of the curves, that given by the method of Selection (I), also
shows memory to be interfered with by a certain influence. We saw in
connection with the experiments reported above that, even in the most
elementary arrangements of squares in the visual fields, an element of
contrast comes in to interfere with our judgment of size. This we find
confirmed in these experiments when the method of Selection is used.
By this method we show a number of squares side by side, asking the
individual to select the one he saw before. All the squares, being
shown at once, come into contrast with one another on the background;
and so his judgment of the size of the one he remembers is distorted.
This, again, is a real influence in our mental lives, leading to
actual illusion. An unscrupulous lawyer may gradually modify the story
which his client or a witness tells by constantly adding to what is
really remembered, other details so expertly contrasted with the
facts, or so neatly interposed among them, that the witness gradually
incorporates them in his memory and so testifies more nearly as the
lawyer desires. In our daily lives another element of contrast is also
very strong--that due to social opinion. We constantly modify our
memories to agree more closely with the truths of social belief,
paring down unconsciously the difference between our own and others'
reports of things. If several witnesses of an event be allowed to
compare notes from time to time, they will gradually come to tell more
nearly the same story.
The other curve (II) in the figure, that secured by the method of
Identification, seemed to the investigators to be the most accurate.
It is not subject to the errors due to expression and to contrast, and
it has the advantage of allowing the subject the right to recognise
the square. It is shown to him again, with no information that it is
the same, and he decides whether from his remembrance of the earlier
one, it is the same or not. The only objection to this method is that
it requires a great many experiments in order to get an average
result. To be reliable, an average must be secured, seeing that, for
one or two or a few trials, the student may guess right without
remembering the original square at all. By taking a large number of
persons, such as the three hundred students, this objection may be
overcome. Comparing the averages, for example, of the results given
by the men and women respectively, we found practically no difference
between them.
This last point may serve to introduce a distinction which is
important in all work in experimental psychology, and one which is
recognised also in many other sciences--the distinction between
results obtained respectively from one individual and from many. Very
often the only way to learn truth about a single individual is to
investigate a number together. In all large classes of things,
especially living things, there are great individual differences, and
in any particular case this personal variation may be so large that it
obscures the real nature of the normal. For example, three large sons
may be born to two small parents; and from this case alone it might be
inferred that all small parents have large sons. Or three girls might
have better memories than three boys in the same family or school, and
from this it might be argued that girls are better endowed in this
direction than boys. In all such cases the proper thing to do is to
get a large number of cases and combine them; then the preponderance
which the first cases examined may have shown, in one direction or the
other, is corrected. This gives rise to what is called the statistical
method; it is used in many practical matters, such as life insurance,
but its application to the facts of life, mind, variation, evolution,
etc., is only begun. Its neglect in psychology is one of the crying
defects of much recent work. Its use in complicated problems involves
a mathematical training which people generally do not possess; and its
misuse through lack of exactness of observation or ignorance of the
requirements is worse than its neglect.
Another result came out in connection with these experiments on
memory, which, apart from its practical interest, may serve to show an
additional resource of experimental psychology. In making up the
results of a series of experiments it is very important to observe the
way in which the different cases differ from one another. Some cases
may be so nearly alike that the most extreme of them are not far from
the average of them all; as we find, for example, if we measure a
thousand No. 10 shot. But now suppose we mix in with the No. 10 some
No. 6 and some No. 14, and then take the average size; we may now get
just the same average, and we can tell that this pile is different
from the other only by observing the individual measurements of the
single shot and setting down the relative frequency of each particular
size. Or, again, we may get a different average size in one of two
ways: either by taking another lot of uniform No. 14 shot, let us say,
or by mixing with the No. 10 a few very large bullets. Which is
actually the case would be shown only by the examination of the
individual cases. This is usually done by comparing each case with the
average of the whole lot, and taking the average of the differences
thus secured--a quantity called the "mean variation."
In the case of the experiments with the squares, the errors in the
judgments of the students were found to lie always in one direction.
The answers all tended to show that they took, for the one originally
shown, a square which was really too large. Casting about for the
reason of this, it was considered necessary to explain it by the
supposition that the square remembered had in the interval become
enlarged in memory. The image was larger when called up after ten or
twenty minutes than it was before. This might be due to a purely
mental process; or possibly to a sort of spreading-out of the brain
process in the visual centre, giving the result that whenever, by the
revival of the brain process, the mental image is brought back again
to mind, this spreading out shows itself by an enlargement of the
memory image. However it may be explained, the indications of it were
unmistakable--unless, of course, some other reason can be given for
the uniform direction of the errors; and it is further seen in other
experiments carried out by Messrs. W. and B. and by Dr. K.[9] at a
later date.
[Footnote 9: Dr. F. Kennedy, demonstrator, now professor in the
University of Colorado (results not yet published).]
If this tendency to the enlargement of our memories with the lapse of
time should be found to be a general law of memory, it would have
interesting bearings. It would suggest, for instance, an explanation
of the familiar fact that the scenes of the past seem to us, when we
return to them, altogether too small. Our childhood home, the old
flower garden, the height of house and trees, and even that of our
hero uncle, all seem to the returning traveller of adult life
ridiculously small. That we expect them to be larger may result from
the fact that the memory images have undergone change in the direction
of enlargement.
V. _Suggestion._--Space permits only the mention of another research,
which, however, should not be altogether omitted, since it illustrates
yet other problems and the principles of their solution. This is an
investigation by Messrs. T. and H.,[10] which shows the remarkable
influence of mental suggestions upon certain bodily processes which
have always been considered purely physiological. These investigators
set out to repeat certain experiments of others which showed that if
two points, say those of a pair of compasses, be somewhat separated
and put upon the skin, two sensations of contact come from the points.
But if while the experiment is being performed the points be brought
constantly nearer to each other, a time arrives when the two are felt
as only one, although they may be still some distance apart. The
physiologists argued from this that there were minute nerve endings in
the skin at least so far apart as the least distance at which the
points were felt as two; and that when the points were so close
together that they only touched one of these nerve endings, only one
sensation was produced. Mr. T. had already found, working in Germany,
that, with practice, the skin gradually became more and more able to
discriminate the two points--that is, to feel the two at smaller
distances; and, further, that the exercise of the skin in this way on
one side of the body not only made that locality more sensitive to
minute differences, but had the same effect, singularly, on the
corresponding place on the other side of the body. This, our
experimenters inferred, could only be due to the continued suggestion
in the mind of the subject that he should feel two points, the result
being an actual heightening of the sensibility of the skin. When he
thought that he was becoming more sensitive on one side--and really
was--this sense or belief of his took effect in some way in both
hemispheres of his brain, and so both sides of the body were alike
affected.
[Footnote 10: G. A. Tawney, now professor in Beloit College, and C. W.
Hodge, now professor in Lafayette College.]
This led to other experiments in Princeton in which suggestions were
actually made to the subjects that they were to become more or less
sensitive to distance and direction between the points on the skin,
with the striking result that these suggestions actually took effect
all over the body. This was so accurately determined that from the
results of the experiments with the compasses on the skin in this case
or that, pretty accurate inferences could be made as to what mental
suggestions the subject was getting at the time. There was no chance
for deception in the results, for the experiments were so controlled
that the subject did not know until afterward of the correspondences
actually reached between his states of mind and the variations in
sensibility of the skin.
This slight report of the work done in one laboratory in about two
sessions, involving a considerable variety of topics, may give an
idea, so far as it goes, of the sort of work which experimental
psychology is setting itself to do. It will be seen that there is as
yet no well-knit body of results on which new experiments may proceed,
and no developed set of experimental arrangements, such as other
positive sciences show. The procedure is, in many important matters,
still a matter of the individual worker's judgment and ability. Even
for the demonstrations attempted for undergraduate students, good and
cheap apparatus is still lacking. For these reasons it is premature as
yet to expect that this branch of the science will cut much of a
figure in education. There can be no doubt, however, that it is making
many interesting contributions to our knowledge of the mind, and that
when it is more adequately organized and developed in its methods and
apparatus, It will become the basis of discipline of a certain kind
lying between that of physical science and that of the humanities,
since it will have features in common with the biological and natural
sciences. Its results may be expected also to lead to better results
than we now have in the theory and practice of education.
CHAPTER VII.
SUGGESTION IN CHILDREN AND ADULTS--HYPNOTISM.
In an earlier place certain illustrations of Suggestion have been
given. By Suggestion we mean the fact that all sorts of hints from
without disturb and modify the beliefs and actions of the individual.
Certain cases from my own observation may be given which will make the
matter clear.
_Physiological Suggestion._--Observation of an infant for the first
month or six weeks after birth leads to the conviction that his life
is mainly physiological. When the actions which are purely reflex,
together with certain random impulsive movements, are noted, we seem
to exhaust the case.
Yet even at this remarkably early stage H. was found to be in some
degree receptive to certain Suggestions conveyed by repeated
stimulation under uniform conditions. In the first place, the
suggestions of sleep began to tell upon her before the end of the
first month. Her nurse put her to sleep by laying her face down and
patting gently upon the end of her spine. This position soon became
itself not only suggestive to the child of sleep, but sometimes
necessary to sleep, even when she was laid across the nurse's lap in
what seemed to be an uncomfortable position.
This case illustrates what may be called Physiological Suggestion. It
shows the law of physiological habit as it borders on the conscious.
The same sort of phenomena appear also in adult life. Positions given
to the limbs of a sleeper lead to movements ordinarily associated with
these positions. The sleeper defends himself, withdraws himself from
cold, etc. Children learn gradually to react upon conditions of
position, lack of support, etc., of the body, with those actions
necessary to keep from falling, which adults have so perfectly. All
secondary automatic reactions may be classed here; the sensations
coming from one action, as in walking, being suggestions to the next
movement, unconsciously acted upon. The consciousness at any stage in
the chain of movements, if present at all, must be similar to the
baby's in the case above--a mere internal glimmering. The most we can
say of such physiological suggestion is, that there is probably some
consciousness, and that the ordinary reflexes seem to be abbreviated
and improved.
_Subconscious Adult Suggestion._--There are certain phenomena of a
rather striking kind coming under this head whose classification is so
evident that we may enumerate them without discussion of the general
principles which they involve.
_Tune Suggestion._--It has been pointed out recently that dream states
are largely indebted for their visual elements--what we see in our
dreams--to accidental lines, patches, etc., in the field of vision
when the eyes are shut, due to the distended blood vessels of the
cornea and lids, to changes in the external illumination, to the
presence of dust particles of different configuration, etc. The other
senses also undoubtedly contribute to the texture of our dreams by
equally subconscious suggestions. There is no doubt, further, that our
waking life is constantly influenced by such trivial stimulations.
I have tested in detail, for example, the conditions of the rise of
so-called "internal tunes"--we speak of "tunes in our head" or "in our
ears"--and find certain suggestive influences which in most cases
cause these tunes to rise and take their course. Often, when a tune
springs up "in my head," the same tune has been lately sung or
whistled in my hearing, though quite unnoticed at the time. Often the
tunes are those heard in church the previous day or earlier. Such a
tune I am entirely unable to recall voluntarily; yet when it comes
into the mind's ear, so to speak, I readily recognise it as belonging
to an earlier day's experience. Other cases show various accidental
suggestions, such as the tune Mozart suggested by the composer's name,
the tune Gentle Annie suggested by the name Annie, etc. In all these
cases it is only after the tune has taken possession of consciousness
and after much seeking that the suggesting influence is discovered.
Closer analysis reveals certain additional facts: The "time" of such
internal tunes is usually dictated by some rhythmical subconscious
occurrence. After hearty meals it is always the time of the heart
beat, unless there be "in the air" some more impressive stimulus; as,
for example, when on shipboard, the beat is with me invariably that of
the engine throbs. When walking it is the rhythm of the footfall. On
one occasion a knock of four beats on the door started the
Marseillaise in my ear; following up this clew, I found that at any
time different divisions of musical time being struck on the table at
will by another person, tunes would spring up and run on, getting
their cue from the measures suggested. Further, when a tune dies away,
its last notes often suggest, some time after, another having a
similar movement--just as we pass from one tune to another in a
"medley." It may also be noted that in my case the tune memories are
auditive: they run in my head when I have no words for them and have
never sung them--an experience which is consistent with the fact that
these "internal tunes" arise in childhood before the faculty of
speech. They also have distinct pitch. For example, I once found a
tune "in my head" which was perfectly familiar, but for which I could
find no words. Tested on the piano, the pitch was F-sharp and the time
was my heart beat. Finally, after much effort, I got the unworthy
words "Wait till the clouds roll by" by humming the tune over
repeatedly. The pitch is determined probably by the accidental
condition of the auditory centre in the brain or by the pitch of the
external sound which serves as stimulus to the tune.
_Normal Auto-Suggestion._--A further class of Suggestions, which fall
under the general phrase Auto-suggestion, or Self-suggestion of a
normal type, may be illustrated. In experimenting upon the possibility
of suggesting sleep to another I have found certain strong reactive
influences upon my own mental condition. Such an effort, which
involves the picturing of another as asleep, is a strong
Auto-suggestion of sleep, taking effect in my own case in about five
minutes if the conditions be kept constant. The more clearly the
patient's sleep is pictured the stronger becomes the subjective
feeling of drowsiness. After about ten minutes the ability to give
strong concentration seems to disintegrate, attention is renewed only
by fits and starts and in the presence of great, mental inertia, and
the oncoming of sleep is almost overpowering. An unfailing cure for
insomnia, speaking for myself, is the persistent effort to put some
one else asleep by hard thinking of the end in view, with a continued
gentle movement, such as stroking the other with the hand.
On the other hand, it is impossible to bring on a state of drowsiness
by imagining myself asleep. The first effort at this, indeed, is
promising, for it leads to a state of restfulness and ease akin to the
mental composure which is the usual preliminary to sleep; but it goes
no further. It is succeeded by a state of steady wakefulness, which
effort of attention or effort not to attend only intensifies. If the
victim of insomnia could only forget that he is thus afflicted, could
forget himself altogether, his case would be more hopeful. The
contrast between this condition and that already described shows that
it is the Self-idea, with the emotions it awakens,[11] which prevents
the suggestion from realizing itself and probably accounts for many
cases of insomnia.
[Footnote 11: A friend informs me that when he pictures himself dead
he can not help feeling gratified that he makes so handsome a
corpse.]
_Sense Exaltation._--Recent discussions of Hypnotism have shown the
remarkable "exaltation" which the senses may attain in somnambulism,
together with a corresponding refinement in the interpretative
faculty. This is described more fully below. Events, etc., quite
subconscious, usually become suggestions of direct influence upon the
subject. Unintended gestures, habitual with the experimenter, may
suffice to hypnotize his accustomed subject. The possibility of such
training of the senses in the normal state has not had sufficient
emphasis. The young child's subtle discriminations of facial and other
personal indications are remarkable. The prolonged experience of
putting H. to sleep--extending over a period of more than six months,
during which I slept beside her bed--served to make me alive to a
certain class of suggestions otherwise quite beyond notice. It is well
known that mothers are awake to the needs of their infants when they
are asleep to everything else.
In the first place, we may note the intense auto-suggestion of sleep
already pointed out, under the stimulus of repeated nursery rhymes or
other regular devices regularly resorted to in putting the child
asleep. Second, surprising progressive exaltation of the hearing and
interpretation of sounds coming from her in a dark room. At the end of
four or five months, her movements in bed awoke me or not according as
she herself was awake or not. Frequently after awaking I was
distinctly aware of what movements of hers had awaked me.[12] A
movement of her head by which it was held up from the pillow was
readily distinguished from the restless movements of her sleep. It was
not so much, therefore, exaltation of hearing as exaltation of the
function of the recognition of sounds heard and of their
discrimination.
[Footnote 12: This fact is analogous to our common experience of being
awaked by a loud noise and then hearing it after we awake; yet the
explanation is not the same.]
Again, the same phenomenon to an equally marked degree attended the
sound of her breathing. It is well enough known that the smallest
functional bodily changes induce changes in both the rapidity and the
quality of the respiration. In sleep the muscles of inhalation and
exhalation are relaxed, inhalation becomes long and deep, exhalation
short and exhaustive, and the rhythmic intervals of respiration much
lengthened. Now degrees of relative wakefulness are indicated with
surprising delicacy by the slight respiration sounds given forth by
the sleeper. Professional nurses learn to interpret these indications
with great skill. This exaltation of hearing became very pronounced in
my operations with the child. After some experience the peculiar
breathing of advancing or actual wakefulness in her was sufficient to
wake me. And when awake myself the change in the infant's respiration
sounds to those indicative of oncoming sleep was sufficient to suggest
or bring on sleep in myself. In the dark, also, the general character
of her breathing sounds was interpreted with great accuracy in terms
of her varied needs, her comfort or discomfort, etc. The same kind of
suggestion from the respiration sounds now troubles me whenever one of
the children is sleeping within hearing distance.[13]
[Footnote 13: This is an unpleasant result which is confirmed by
professional infants' nurses. They complain of loss of sleep when off
duty. Mrs. James Murray, an infants' nurse in Toronto, informs me
that she finds it impossible to sleep when she has no infant in
hearing distance, and for that reason she never asks for a vacation.
Her normal sleep has evidently come to depend upon continuous
soporific suggestions from a child. In another point, also, her
experience confirms my observations, viz., the child's movements,
preliminary to waking, awake her, when no other movements of the child
do so--the consequence being that she is ready for the infant when it
gets fully awake and cries out.]
The reactions in movement upon these suggestions are very marked and
appropriate, in customary or habitual lines, although the stimulations
are quite subconscious. The clearest illustrations in this body of my
experiences were afforded by my responses in crude songs to the
infant's waking movements and breathing sounds. I have often waked
myself by myself singing one of two nursery rhymes, which by endless
repetition night after night had become so habitual as to follow in an
automatic way upon the stimulus from the child. It is certainly
astonishing that among the things which one may get to do
automatically, we should find singing; but writers on the subject have
claimed that the function of musical or semi-musical expression may be
reflex.
The principle of subconscious suggestion, of which these simple facts
are less important illustrations, has very interesting applications in
the higher reaches of social, moral, and educational theory.
_Inhibitory Suggestion._--An interesting class of phenomena which
figure perhaps at all the levels of nervous action now described, may
be known as Inhibitory Suggestions. The phrase, in its broadest use,
refers to all cases in which the suggesting stimulus tends to
suppress, check, or inhibit movement. We find this in certain cases
just as strongly marked as the positive movement--bringing kind of
suggestion. The facts may be put under certain heads which follow.
_Pain Suggestion._--Of course, the fact that pain inhibits movement
occurs at once to the reader. So far as this is general, and is a
native inherited thing, it is organic, and so falls under the head of
Physiological Suggestion of a negative sort. The child shows
contracting movements, crying movements, starting and jumping
movements, shortly after birth, and so plainly that we need not
hesitate to say that these pain responses belong purely to his nervous
system; and that, in general, they are inhibitory and contrary to
those other native reactions which indicate pleasure.
The influence of pain extends everywhere through mental development,
however. Its general effect is to dampen down or suppress the function
which brings the pain; and in this its action is just the contrary to
that of pleasure, which furthers the pleasurable function.
_Control Suggestion._--This covers all cases which show any kind of
restraint set upon the movements of the body short of that which comes
from voluntary intention. The infant brings the movements of his legs,
arms, head, etc., gradually into some sort of order and system. It is
accomplished by a system of organic checks and counter-checks, by
which associations are formed between muscular sensations on the one
hand and certain other sensations, as of sight, touch, hearing, etc.,
on the other hand. The latter serve as suggestions to the performance
of these movements, and these alone. The infant learns to balance his
head and trunk, to direct his hands, to grasp with thumb opposite the
four fingers--all largely by such control suggestions, aided, of
course, by his native reflexes.
_Contrary Suggestion._--By this is meant a tendency of a very striking
kind observable in many children, no less than in many adults, to do
the contrary when any course is suggested. The very word "contrary" is
used in popular talk to describe an individual who shows this type of
conduct. Such a child or man is rebellious whenever rebellion is
possible; he seems to kick constitutionally against the pricks.
The fact of "contrariness" in older children--especially boys--is so
familiar to all who have observed school children with any care that I
need not cite further details. And men and women often become so
enslaved to suggestions of the contrary that they seem only to wait
for indications of the wishes of others in order to oppose and thwart
them.
Contrary suggestions are to be explained as exaggerated instances of
control. It is easy to see that the checks and counter-checks already
spoken of as constituting the method of control of muscular movement
may themselves become so habitual and intense as to dominate the
reactions which they should only regulate. The associations between
the muscular series and the visual series, let us say, which controls
it, comes to work backward, so that the drift of the organic processes
is toward certain contrary reverse movements.
In the higher reaches of conduct and life we find interesting cases of
very refined contrary suggestion. In the man of ascetic temperament,
the duty of self-denial takes the form of a regular contrary
suggestion in opposition to every invitation to self-indulgence,
however innocent. The over-scrupulous mind, like the over-precise, is
a prey to the eternal remonstrances from the contrary which intrude
their advice into all his decisions. In matters of thought and belief
also cases are common of stubborn opposition to evidence, and
persistence in opinion, which are in no way due to the cogency of the
contrary arguments or to real force of conviction.
_Hypnotic Suggestion._--The facts upon which the current theories of
hypnotism are based may be summed up under a few headings, and the
recital of them will serve to bring this class of phenomena into the
general lines of classification drawn out in this chapter.
_The Facts._--When by any cause the attention is held fixed upon an
object, say a bright button, for a sufficient time without
distraction, the subject begins to lose consciousness in a peculiar
way. Generalizing this simple experiment, we may say that any method
or device which serves to secure undivided and prolonged attention to
any sort of Suggestion--be it object, idea, anything that is clear and
striking--brings on what is called Hypnosis to a person normally
constituted.
The Paris school of interpreters find three stages of progress in the
hypnotic sleep: First, Catalepsy, characterized by rigid fixity of the
muscles in any position in which the limbs may be put by the
experimenter, with great Suggestibility on the side of consciousness,
and Anæsthesia (lack of sensation) in certain areas of the skin and in
certain of the special senses; second, Lethargy, in which
consciousness seems to disappear entirely; the subject not being
sensitive to any stimulations by eye, ear, skin, etc., and the body
being flabby and pliable as in natural sleep; third, Somnambulism, so
called from its analogies to the ordinary sleep-walking condition to
which many persons are subject. This last covers the phenomena of
ordinary mesmeric exhibitions at which travelling mesmerists "control"
persons before audiences and make them obey their commands. While
other scientists properly deny that these three stages are really
distinct, they may yet be taken as representing extreme instances of
the phenomena, and serve as points of departure for further
description.
On the mental side the general characteristics of hypnotic
Somnambulism are as follows:
1. _The impairment of memory_ in a peculiar way. In the hypnotic
condition all affairs of the ordinary life are forgotten; on the other
hand, after waking the events of the hypnotic condition are forgotten.
Further, in any subsequent period of Hypnosis the events of the former
similar periods are remembered. So a person who is frequently
hypnotized has two continuous memories: one for the events of his
normal life, exercised only when he is normal; and one for the events
of his hypnotic periods, exercised only when he is hypnotized.
2. _Suggestibility_ to a remarkable degree. By this is meant the
tendency of the subject to have in reality any mental condition which
is suggested to him. He is subject to Suggestions both on the side of
his sensations and ideas and also on the side of his actions. He will
see, hear, remember, believe, refuse to see, hear, etc., anything,
with some doubtful exceptions, which may be suggested to him by word
or deed, or even by the slightest and perhaps unconscious indications
of those about him. On the side of conduct his suggestibility is
equally remarkable. Not only will he act in harmony with the illusions
of sight, etc., into which he is led, but he will carry out, like an
automaton, the actions suggested to him. Further, pain and pleasure,
with their organic accompaniments may be produced by Suggestion. The
skin may be actually scarred with a lead pencil if the patient be told
that it is red-hot iron. The suggested pain brings about vasomotor and
other bodily changes that prove, as similar tests in the other cases
prove, that simulation is impossible and the phenomena are real. These
truths and those given below are no longer based on the mere reports
of the "mesmerists," but are the recognised property of legitimate
psychology.
Again, such suggestions may be for a future time, and be performed
only when a suggested interval has elapsed; they are then called
Deferred or Post-hypnotic Suggestions. Post-hypnotic Suggestions are
those which include the command not to perform them until a certain
time after the subject has returned to his normal condition; such
suggestions--if of reasonably trifling character--are actually carried
out afterward in the normal state, although the person is conscious of
no reason why he should act in such a way, having no remembrance
whatever that he has received the suggestion when hypnotized. Such
post-hypnotic performances may be deferred by suggestion for many
months.
3. So-called _Exaltation_ of the mental faculties, especially of the
senses: increased acuteness of vision, hearing, touch, memory, and the
mental functions generally. By reason of this great "exaltation,"
hypnotized patients may get suggestions from the experimenters which
are not intended, and discover their intentions when every effort is
made to conceal them. Often emotional changes in expression are
discerned by them; and if it be admitted that their power of logical
and imaginative insight is correspondingly exalted, there is hardly a
limit to the patient's ability to read, simply from physical
indications, the mental states of those who experiment with him.
4. So-called _Rapport_. This term covers all the facts known, before
the subject was scientifically investigated, by such expressions as
"personal magnetism," "will power over the subject", etc. It is true
that one particular operator alone may be able to hypnotize a
particular patient; and in this case the patient is, when hypnotized,
open to suggestions from that person only. He is deaf and blind to
everything enjoined by anyone else. It is easy to see from what has
already been said that this does not involve any occult nerve
influence or mental power. A sensitive patient anybody can hypnotize,
provided only that the patient have the idea or conviction that the
experimenter possesses such power. Now, let a patient get the idea
that only one man can hypnotize him, and that is the beginning of the
hypnotic suggestion itself. It is a part of the suggestion that a
certain personal _Rapport_ is necessary; so the patient must have this
_Rapport_. This is shown by the fact that when such a patient is
hypnotized, the operator _en rapport_ with him can transfer the
so-called control to any one else simply by suggesting to the patient
that this third party can also hypnotize him. _Rapport_, therefore,
and all the amazing claims of charlatans to powers of charming,
stealing another's personality, controlling his will at a
distance--all such claims are explained, so far as they have anything
to rest upon, by suggestion under conditions of mental hyperæsthesia
or exaltation.
I may now add certain practical remarks on the subject.
In general, any method which fixes the attention upon a single stimulus
long enough is probably sufficient to produce Hypnosis; but the result is
quick and profound in proportion as the patient has the idea that it is
going to succeed, i. e., gets the suggestion of sleep. It may be said,
therefore, that the elaborate performances, such as passes, rubbings,
mysterious incantations, etc., often resorted to, have no physiological
effect whatever, and only serve to work in the way of suggestion upon the
mind of the subject. In view of this it is probable that any person in
normal health can be hypnotized, provided he is not too sceptical of the
operator's knowledge and power; and, on the contrary, any one can
hypnotize another, provided he do not arouse too great scepticism, and is
not himself wavering and clumsy. It is probable, however, that
susceptibility varies greatly in degree, and that race exerts an important
influence. Thus in Europe the French seem to be most susceptible, and the
English and Scandinavians least so. The impression that weak-minded
persons are most available is quite mistaken. On the contrary, patients in
the insane asylums, idiots, etc., are the most refractory. This is to be
expected, from the fact that in these cases power of strong, steady
attention is wanting. The only class of pathological cases which seem
peculiarly open to the hypnotic influence is that of the
hystero-epileptics, whose tendencies are toward extreme suggestibility.
Further, one may hypnotize himself--what we have called above
Auto-suggestion--especially after having been put into the trance more
than once by others. When let alone after being hypnotized, the patient
usually passes into a normal sleep and wakes naturally.
It is further evident that frequent hypnotization is very damaging if
done by the same operator, since then the patient contracts a habit of
responding to the same class of suggestions; and this may influence
his normal life. A further danger arises from the possibility that all
suggestions have not been removed from the patient's mind before his
awaking. Competent scientific observers always make it a point to do
this. It is possible also that damaging effects result directly to a
man from frequent hypnotizing; and this is in some degree probable,
simply from the fact that, while it lasts, the state is abnormal.
Consequently, all general exhibitions in public, as well as all
individual hypnotizing by amateurs, should be prohibited by law, and
the whole practical application as well as observation of Hypnosis
should be left in the hands of physicians or experts who have proved
their fitness by an examination and secured a certificate of licence.
In Russia a decree (summer, 1893) permits physicians to practise
hypnotism for purposes of cure under official certificates. In France
public exhibitions are forbidden.
So-called Criminal Suggestions may be made, with more or less effect,
in the hypnotic state. Cases have been tried in the French courts, in
which evidence for and against such influence of a third person over
the criminal has been admitted. The reality of the phenomenon,
however, is in dispute. The Paris school claim that criminal acts may
be suggested to the hypnotized subject, which are just as certain to
be performed by him as any other acts. Such a subject will discharge a
blank-loaded pistol at one, when told to do so, or stab him with a
paper dagger. While admitting the facts, the Nancy theorists claim
that the subject knows the performance to be a farce; gets suggestions
of the unreality of it from the experimenters, and so acquiesces. This
is probably true, as is seen in frequent cases in which patients have
refused, in hypnotic sleep, to perform suggested acts which shocked
their modesty, veracity, etc. This goes to show that the Nancy school
are right in saying that while in Hypnosis suggestibility is
exaggerated to an enormous degree, still it has limits in the more
well-knit habits, moral sentiments, social opinions, etc., of the
subject. And it further shows that Hypnosis is probably, as they
claim, a temporary disturbance, rather than a pathological condition
of mind or body.
There have been many remarkable and sensational cases of cure of
disease by hypnotic suggestion, reported especially in France. That
hysteria in many of its manifestations has been relieved is certainly
true; but that any organic, structural disease has ever been cured by
hypnotism is unproved. It is not regarded by medical authorities as an
agent of much therapeutic value, and is rarely employed; but it is
doubtful, in view of the natural prejudice caused by the pretensions
of charlatans, whether its merits have been fairly tested. On the
European Continent it has been successfully applied in a great variety
of cases; and Bernheim has shown that minor nervous troubles,
insomnia, migraines, drunkenness, lighter cases of rheumatism, sexual
and digestive disorders, together with a host of smaller temporary
causes of pain--corns, cricks in back and side, etc.--may be cured or
very materially alleviated by suggestions conveyed in the hypnotic
state. In many cases such cures are permanently effected with aid from
no other remedies. In a number of great city hospitals patients of
recognised classes are at once hypnotized, and suggestions of cure
made. Liébeault, the founder of the Nancy school, has the credit of
having first made use of hypnosis as a remedial agent. It is also
becoming more and more recognised as a method of controlling
refractory and violent patients in asylums and reformatory
institutions. It must be added, however, that psychological theory
rather than medical practice is seriously concerning itself with this
subject.
_Theory._--Two rival theories are held as to the general character of
Hypnosis. The Paris school already referred to, led by the late Dr.
Charcot, hold that it is a pathological condition which is most
readily induced in patients already mentally diseased or having
neuropathic tendencies. They claim that the three stages described
above are a discovery of great importance. The so-called Nancy school,
on the other hand, led by Bernheim, deny the pathological character of
Hypnosis altogether, claiming that the hypnotic condition is nothing
more than a special form of ordinary sleep brought on artificially by
suggestion. Hypnotic suggestion, say they, is only an exaggeration of
an influence to which all persons are normally subject. All the
variations, stages, curious phenomena, etc., of the Paris school, they
claim, can be explained by this "suggestion" hypothesis. The Nancy
school must be considered completely victorious apart from some facts
which no theory has yet explained.
Hypnotism shows an intimacy of interaction between mind and body to
which current psychology is only beginning to do justice; and it is
this aspect of the whole matter which should be emphasized in this
connection. The hypnotic condition of consciousness may be taken to
represent the working of Suggestion most remarkably.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE TRAINING OF THE MIND--EDUCATIONAL PSYCHOLOGY.
A great deal has been said and written about the physical and mental
differences shown by the young; and one of the most oft-repeated of
all the charges which we hear brought against the current methods of
teaching is that all children are treated alike. The point is carried
so far that a teacher is judged from the way he has or has not of
getting at the children under him as individuals. All this is a move
in the right direction; and yet the subject is still so vague that
many of the very critics who declaim against the similar treatment
which diverse pupils get at school have no clear idea of what is
needed; they merely make demands that the treatment shall suit the
child. How each child is to be suited, and the inquiry still back of
that, what peculiarity it is in this child or that which is to be
"suited"--these things are left to settle themselves.
It is my aim in this chapter to indicate some of the variations which
are shown by different children; and on the basis of such facts to
endeavour to arrive at a more definite idea of what variations of
treatment are called for in the several classes into which the
children are divided. I shall confine myself at first to those
differences which are more hereditary and constitutional.
_First Period--Early Childhood._--The first and most comprehensive
distinction is that based on the division of the life of man into the
two great spheres of reception and action. The "sensory" and the
"motor" are becoming the most common descriptive terms of current
psychology. We hear all the while of sensory processes, sensory
contents, sensory centres, sensory attention, etc.; and, on the other
hand, of motor processes, motor centres, motor ataxy, motor attention,
motor consciousness, etc. And in the higher reaches of mental
function, the same antithesis comes out in the contrast of sensory and
motor aphasia, alexia, sensory and motor types of memory and
imagination, etc. Indeed the tendency is now strong to think that when
we have assigned a given function of consciousness to one or other
side of the nervous apparatus, making it either sensory or motor, then
our duty to it is done. Be that as it may, there is no doubt that the
distinction is throwing great light on the questions of mind which
involve also the correlative questions of the nervous system. This is
true of all questions of educational psychology.
This first distinction between children--as having general
application--is that which I may cover by saying that some are more
active, or motile, while others are more passive, or receptive. This
is a common enough distinction; but possibly a word or two on its
meaning in the constitution of the child may give it more actual
value.
The "active" person to the psychologist is one who is very responsive
to what we have called Suggestions. Suggestions may be described in
most general terms as any and all the influences from outside, from
the environment, both physical and personal, which get a lodgment in
consciousness and lead to action. A child who is "suggestible" to a
high degree shows it in what we call "motility." The suggestions which
take hold of him translate themselves very directly into action. He
tends to act promptly, quickly, unreflectively, assimilating the newer
elements of the suggestions of the environment to the ways of
behaviour fixed by his earlier habits. Generally such a person, child
or adult, is said to "jump" at conclusions; he is anxious to know in
order to act; he acts in some way on all events or suggestions, even
when no course of action is explicitly suggested, and even when one
attempts to keep him from acting.
Psychologically such a person is dominated by habit. And this means
that his nervous system sets, either by its hereditary tendencies or
by the undue predominance of certain elements in his education,
quickly in the direction of motor discharge. The great channels of
readiest out-pouring from the brain into the muscles have become fixed
and pervious; it is hard for the processes once started in the sense
centres, such as those of sight, hearing, etc., to hold in their
energies. They tend to unstable equilibrium in the direction of
certain motor combinations, which in their turn represent certain
classes of acts. This is habit; and the person of the extreme motor
type is always a creature of habit.
Now what is the line of treatment that such a child should have? The
necessity for getting an answer to this question is evident from what
was said above--i. e., that the very rise of the condition itself is
due, apart from heredity, oftener than not to the fact that he has not
had proper treatment from his teachers.
The main point for a teacher to have in mind in dealing with such a
boy or girl--the impulsive, active one, always responsive, but almost
always in error in what he says and does--is that here is a case of
habit. Habit is good; indeed, if we should go a little further we
should see that all education is the forming of habits; but here, in
this case, what we have is not habits, but habit. This child shows a
tendency to habit _as such_: to habits of any and every kind. The
first care of the teacher in order to the control of the formation of
habits is in some way to bring about a little inertia of habit, so to
speak--a short period of organic hesitation, during which the reasons
pro and con for each habit may be brought into the consciousness of
the child.
The means by which this tendency to crude, inconsiderate action on the
part of the child is to be controlled and regulated is one of the most
typical questions for the intelligent teacher. Its answer must be
different for children of different ages. The one thing to do, in
general, however, from the psychologist's point of view, is in some
way to bring about greater complications in the motor processes which
the child uses most habitually, and with this complication to get
greater inhibition along the undesirable lines of his activity.
Inhibition is the damming up of the processes for a period, causing
some kind of a "setback" of the energies of movement into the sensory
centres, or the redistribution of this energy in more varied and less
habitual discharges. With older children a rational method is to
analyze for them the mistakes they have made, showing the penalties
they have brought upon themselves by hasty action. This requires great
watchfulness. In class work, the teacher may profitably point out the
better results reached by the pupil who "stops to think." This will
bring to the reform of the hasty scholar the added motive of
semi-public comparison with the more deliberate members of the class.
Such procedure is quite unobjectionable if made a recognised part of
the class method; yet care should be taken that no scholar suffer
mortification from such comparisons. The matter may be "evened up" by
dwelling also on the merit of promptness which the scholar in question
will almost always be found to show.
For younger pupils as well as older more indirect methods of treatment
are more effective. The teacher should study the scholar to find the
general trend of his habits. Then oversight should be exercised over
both his tasks and his sports with certain objects in view. His
habitual actions should be made as complicated as his ability can cope
with; this in order to educate his habits and keep them from working
back into mere mechanism. If he shows his fondness for drawing by
marking his desk, see that he has drawing materials at hand and some
intelligent tasks in this line to do; not as tasks, but for himself.
Encourage him to make progress always, not simply to repeat himself.
If he has awkward habits of movement with his hands and feet, try to
get him interested in games that exercise these members in regular and
skilful ways.
Furthermore, in his intellectual tasks such a pupil should be trained,
as far as may be, on the more abstract subjects, which do not give
immediate openings for action. Mathematics is the best possible
discipline for him. Grammar also is good; it serves at once to
interest him, if it is well taught, in certain abstract relationships,
and also to send out his motor energies in the exercise of speech,
which is the function which always needs exercise, and which is always
under the observation of the teacher. Grammar, in fact, is one of the
very best of primary-school subjects, because instruction in it issues
at once in the very motor functions which embody the relationships
which the teacher seeks to impress. The teacher has in his ear, so to
speak, the evidence as to whether his instruction is understood or
not. This gives him a valuable opportunity to keep his instruction
well ahead of its motor expression--thus leading the pupil to think
rather than to act without thinking--and at the same time to point out
the errors of performance which follow from haste in passing from
thought to action.
These indirect methods of reaching the impulsive pupil should never be
cast aside for the direct effort to "control" such a scholar. The very
worst thing that can be done to such a boy or girl is to command him
or her to sit still or not to act; and a still worse thing--to make a
comparative again on the head of the superlative--is to affix to the
command painful penalties. This is a direct violation of the principle
of Suggestion. Such a command only tends to empty the pupil's mind of
other objects of thought and interest, and so to keep his attention
upon his own movements. This, then, amounts to a continual suggestion
to him to do just what you want to keep him from doing. On the
contrary, unless you give him suggestions and interests which lead his
thought away from his acts, it is impossible not to aggravate his bad
tendencies by your very efforts. This is the way, as I intimated
above, that many teachers create or confirm bad habits in their
pupils, and so render any amount of well-intended positive instruction
abortive. It seems well established that a suggestion of the
negative--that is, not to do a thing--has no negative force; but, on
the contrary, in the early period, it amounts only to a stronger
suggestion in the positive sense, since it adds emphasis, to the thing
which is forbidden. The "not" in a prohibition is no addition to the
pictured course to which it is attached, and the physiological fact
that the attention tends to set up action upon that which is attended
to comes in to put a premium on disobedience. Indeed, the philosophy
of all punishment rests in this consideration, i. e., that unless the
penalty tends to fill the mind with some object other than the act
punished, it does more harm than good. The punishment must be actual
and its nature diverting; never a threat which terminates there, nor a
penalty which fixes the thought of the offence more strongly in mind.
This is to say, that the permanent inhibition of a movement at this
period is best secured by establishing some different movement.
The further consideration of the cases of great motility would lead to
the examination of the kinds of memory and imagination and their
treatment; to that we return below. We may now take up the instances
of the sensory type considered with equal generality.
The sensory children are in the main those which seem more passive,
more troubled with physical inertia, more contemplative when a little
older, less apt in learning to act out new movements, less quick at
taking a hint, etc.
These children are generally further distinguished as being--and here
the antithesis to the motor ones is very marked--much less
suggestible. They seem duller when young. Boys often get credit for
dulness compared with girls on this account. Even as early as the
second year can this distinction among children be readily observed in
many instances. The motor child will show sorrow by loud crying and
vigorous action, while the sensory child will grieve in quiet, and
continue to grieve when the other has forgotten the disagreeable
occurrence altogether. The motor one it is that asks a great many
questions and seems to learn little from the answers; while the
sensory one learns simply from hearing the questions of the other and
the answers given to them. The motor child, again, gets himself hurt a
great many times in the same way, without developing enough
self-control to restrain himself from the same mistake again and
again; the sensory child tends to be timid in the presence of the
unknown and uncertain, to learn from one or a few experiences, and to
hold back until he gets satisfactory assurances that danger is absent.
The former tends to be more restless in sitting, standing, etc., more
demonstrative in affection, more impulsive in action, more forgiving
in disposition.
As to the treatment of the sensory child, it is a problem of even
greater difficulty and danger than that of his motor brother. The very
nature of the distinction makes it evident that while the motor
individual "gives himself away," so to speak, by constantly acting out
his impressions, and so revealing his progress and his errors, with
the other it is not so. All knowledge that we are ever able to get of
the mental condition of another individual is through his movements,
expressive, in a technical sense, or of other kinds, such as his
actions, attitudes, lines of conduct, etc. We have no way to read
thought directly. So just in so far as the sensory individual is less
active, to that degree he is less expressive, less self-revealing. To
the teacher, therefore, he is more of an enigma. It is harder to tell
in his case what instruction he has appreciated and made his own; and
what, on the other hand, has been too hard for him; what wise, and
what unwise. Where the child of movement speaks out his impulsive
interpretations, this one sinks into himself and gives no answer. So
we are deprived of the best way of interpreting him--that afforded by
his own interpretation of himself.
A general policy of caution is therefore strongly to be recommended.
Let the teacher wait in every case for some positive indication of the
child's real state of mind. Even the directions given the child may
not have been understood, or the quick word of admonition may have
wounded him, or a duty which is so elementary as to be a commonplace
in the mental life of the motor child may yet be so vaguely
apprehended that to insist upon its direct performance may cost the
teacher all his influence with the pupil of this type. It is better to
wait even at the apparent risk of losing valuable days than to proceed
a single step upon a mistaken estimate of the child's measure of
assimilation. And, further, the effect of wrong treatment upon this
boy or girl is very different from that of a similar mistake in the
other case. He becomes more silent, retired, even secretive, when once
an unsympathetic relationship is suggested between him and his elder.
Then more positively--his instruction should be well differentiated.
He should in every possible case be given inducements to express
himself. Let him recite a great deal. Give him simple verses to
repeat. Keep him talking all you can. Show him his mistakes with the
utmost deliberation and kindliness of manner; and induce him to repeat
his performances in your hearing after the correction has been
suggested. Cultivate the imitative tendency in him; it is the handmaid
to the formation of facile habits of action. In arranging the
children's games, see that he gets the very active parts, even though
he be backward and hesitating about assuming them. Make him as far as
possible a leader, in order to cultivate his sense of responsibility
for the doing of things, and to lead to the expression of his
understanding of arrangements, etc. In it all, the essential thing is
to bring him out in some kind of expression; both for the sake of the
improved balance it gives himself, and as an indication to the
observant teacher of his progress and of the next step to be taken in
his development.
It is for the sensory child, I think, that the kindergarten has its
great utility. It gives him facility in movement and expression, and
also some degree of personal and social confidence. But for the same
reasons the kindergarten over-stimulates the motor scholars at the
corresponding age. There should really be two kindergarten
methods--one based on the idea of deliberation, the other on that of
expression.
The task of the educator here, it is evident, is to help nature
correct a tendency to one-sided development; just as the task is this
also in the former case; but here the variation is on the side of
idiosyncrasy ultimately, and of genius immediately. For genius, I
think, is the more often developed from the contemplative mind, with
the relatively dammed-up brain, of this child, than from the
smooth-working machine of the motor one. But just for this reason, if
the damming-up be liberated, not in the channels of healthy
assimilation, and duly correlated growth, but in the forced discharges
of violent emotion, followed by conditions of melancholy and by
certain unsocial tendencies, then the promise of genius ripens into
eccentricity, and the blame is possibly ours.
It seems true--although great caution is necessary in drawing
inferences--that here a certain distinction may be found to hold also
between the sexes. It is possible that the apparent precocious
alertness of girls in their school years, and earlier, may be simply a
predominance among them of the motor individuals. This is borne out by
the examination of the kinds of performance in which they seem to be
more forward than boys. It resolves itself, so far as my observation
goes, into greater quickness of response and greater agility in
performance; not greater constructiveness, nor greater power of
concentrated attention. The boys seem to need more instruction because
they do not learn as much for themselves by acting upon what they
already know. In later years, the distinction gets levelled off by the
common agencies of education, and by the setting of tasks requiring
more thought than the mere spontaneities of either type avail to
furnish. Yet all the way through, I think there is something in the
ordinary belief that woman is relatively more impulsive and more prone
to the less reflective forms of action.
What has now been said may be sufficient to give some concrete force
to the common opinion that education should take account of the
individual character at this earliest stage. The general distinction
between sensory and motor has, however, a higher application in the
matter of memory and imagination at later stages of growth, to which
we may now turn.
_Second Period._--The research is of course more difficult as the
pupil grows older, since the influences of heredity tend to become
blurred by the more constant elements of the child's home, school, and
general social environment. The child whom I described just above as
sensory in his type is constantly open to influences from the
stimulating behaviour of his motor companion, as well as from the
direct measures which parent and teacher take to overcome his
too-decided tendencies and to prevent one-sided development. So, too,
the motor child tends to find correctives in his environment.
The analogy, however, between the more organic and hereditary
differences in individuals, and the intellectual and moral variations
which they tend to develop with advance in school age, is very
marked; and we find a similar series of distinctions in the later
period. The reason that there is a correspondence between the
variations given in heredity and those due in the main to the
educative influences of the single child's social environment is in
itself very suggestive, but space does not permit its exposition here.
The fact is this: the child tends, under the influence of his home,
school, social surroundings, etc., to develop a marked character
either in the sensory or in the motor direction, in his memory,
imagination, and general type of mind.
Taking up the "motor" child first, as before, we find that his
psychological growth tends to confirm him in his hereditary type. In
all his social dealing with other children he is more or less
domineering and self-assertive; or at least his conduct leads one to
form that opinion of him. He seems to be constantly impelled to act so
as to show himself off. He "performs" before people, shows less
modesty than may be thought desirable in one of his tender years,
impresses the forms of his own activity upon the other children, who
come to stand about him with minds constrained to follow him. He is an
object lesson in both the advantages and the risks of an aggressive
life policy. He has a suggestion to make in every emergency, a line of
conduct for each of his company, all marked out or supplied on the
spur of the moment by his own quick sense of appropriate action; and
for him, as for no one else, to hesitate is to be lost.
Now what this general policy or method of growth means to his
consciousness is becoming more and more clear in the light of the
theory of mental types. The reason a person is motor is that his mind
tends always to be filled up most easily with memories or revived
images of the twitchings, tensions, contractions, expansions, of the
activities of the muscular system. He is a motor because the means of
his thought generally, the mental coins which pass current in his
thought exchange, are muscular sensations or the traces which such
sensations have left in his memory. The very means by which he thinks
of a situation, an event, a duty, is not the way it looked, or the way
it sounded, or the way it smelt, tasted, or felt to the touch--in any
of the experiences to which these senses are involved--but the means,
the representatives, the instruments of his thought, are the feelings
of the way he has acted. He has a tendency--and he comes to have it
more and more--to get a muscular representation of everything; and his
gauge of the value of this or that is this muscular measure of it, in
terms of the action which it is calculated to draw out.
It is then this preference for one particular kind of mental imagery,
and that the motor, or muscular kind, which gives this type of child
his peculiarity in this more psychological period. When we pass from
the mere outward and organic description of his peculiarities,
attempted above in the case of very young children, and aim to
ascertain the mental peculiarity which accompanies it and carries on
the type through the individual's maturer years, we see our way to its
meaning. The fact is that a peculiar kind of mental imagery tends to
swell up in consciousness and monopolize the theatre of thought. This
is only another way of saying that the attention is more or less
educated in the direction represented by this sort of imagery. Every
time a movement is thought of, in preference to a sound or a sight
which is also available, the habit of giving the attention to the
muscular equivalents of things becomes more firmly fixed. This
continues until the motor habit of attention becomes the only easy and
normal way of attending; and then the person is fixed in his type for
one, many, or all of his activities of thinking and action.
So now it is no longer difficult to see, I trust, why it is that the
child or youth of this sort has the characteristics which he has. It
is a familiar principle that attention to the thought of a movement
tends to start that very movement. I defy any of my readers to think
hard and long of winking the left eye and not have an almost
irresistible impulse to wink that eye. There is no better way to make
it difficult for a child to sit still than to tell him to sit still;
for your words fill up his attention, as I had occasion to say above,
with the thought of movements, and these thoughts bring on the
movements, despite the best intentions of the child in the way of
obedience. Watch an audience of little children--and children of an
older growth will also do--when an excited speaker harangues them with
many gestures, and see the comical reproduction of the gestures by the
children's hands. They picture the movements, the attention is fixed
on them, and appropriate actions follow.
It is only the generalizing of these phenomena that we find realized
in the boy or girl of the motor type. Such a child is constantly
thinking of things by their movement equivalents. Muscular sensations
throng up in consciousness at every possible signal and by every train
of association; so it is not at all surprising that all informations,
instructions, warnings, reproofs, suggestions, pass right through such
a child's consciousness and express themselves by the channels of
movement. Hence the impulsive, restless, domineering, unmeditative
character of the child. We may now endeavour to describe a little more
closely his higher mental traits.
1. In the first place the motor mind tends to _very quick
generalization_. Every teacher knows the boys in school who anticipate
their conclusions, on the basis of a single illustration. They reach
the general notion which is most broad in extent, in application, but
most shallow in intent, in richness, in real explaining or descriptive
meaning. For example, such a boy will hear the story of Napoleon,
proceed to define heroism in terms of military success, and then go
out and try the Napoleon act upon his playfellows. This tendency to
generalize is the mental counterpart of the tendency to act seen in
his conduct. The reason he generalizes is that the brain energies are
not held back in the channels of perception, but pour themselves right
out toward the motor equivalents of former perceptions which were in
any way similar; then the present perceptions are lost in the old ones
toward which attention is held by habit, and action follows. To the
child all heroes are Napoleons because Napoleon was the first hero,
and the channels of action inspired by him suffice now for the
appropriate conduct.
2. Such a scholar is very _poor at noting and remembering
distinctions_. This follows naturally from the hasty generalizations
which he makes. Having once identified a new fact as the same as an
old one, and having so reached a defective sense of the general
class, it is then more and more hard for him to retrace his steps and
sort out the experiences more carefully. Even when he discovers his
mistake, his old impulse to act seizes him again, and he rushes to
some new generalization wherewith to replace the old, again falling
into error by his stumbling haste to act. The teacher is oftener
perhaps brought to the verge of impatience by scholars of this class
than by any others.
3. Following, again, from these characteristics, there is a third
remark to be made about the youth of this type; and it bears upon a
peculiarity which it is very hard for the teacher to estimate and
control. These motor boys and girls have what I may characterize as
_fluidity of the attention_. By this is meant a peculiar quality of
mind which all experienced teachers are in some degree familiar with,
and which they find baffling and unmanageable.
By "fluidity" of the attention I mean the state of hurry, rush,
inadequate inspection, quick transition, all-too-ready-assimilation,
hear-but-not-heed, in-one-ear-and-out-the-other habit of mind. The
best way to get an adequate sense of the state is to recall the pupil
who has it to the most marked degree, and picture his mode of dealing
with your instructions. Such a pupil hears your words, says "yes,"
even acts appropriately so far as your immediate instructions go; but
when he comes to the same situation again, he is as virginly innocent
of your lesson as if his teacher had never been born. Psychologically,
the state differs from preoccupation, which characterizes quite a
different type of mind. The motor boy is not preoccupied. Far from
that, he is quite ready to attend to you. But when he attends, it is
with a momentary concentration--with a rush like the flow of a
mountain stream past the point of the bank on which you sit. His
attention is flowing, always in transition, leaping from "it to that,"
with superb agility and restlessness. But the exercise it gains from
its movements is its only reward. Its acquisitions are slender in the
extreme. It illustrates, on the mental plane, the truth of the
"rolling stone." It corresponds, as a mental character, to the
muscular restlessness which the same type of child shows in the
earlier period previously spoken of.
The psychological explanation of this "fluid attention" is more or
less plain, but I can not take space to expound it. Suffice it to say
that the attention is itself, probably, in its brain seat, a matter of
the motor centres; its physical seat both "gives and takes" in
co-operation with the processes which shed energy out into the
muscles. So it follows that, in the ready muscular revivals,
discharges, transitions, which we have seen to be prominent in the
motor temperament the attention is carried along, and its "fluidity"
is only an incident to the fluidity of the motor symbols of which this
sort of a mind continually makes use.
Coming a little closer to the pedagogical problems which this type of
pupil raises before us, we find, in the first place, that it is
excessively difficult for this scholar to give continuous or adequate
attention to anything of any complexity. The movements of attention
are so easy, the outlets of energy, to use the physical figure, so
large and well used, that the minor relationships of the thing are
passed over. The variations of the object from its class are swept
away in the onrush of his motor tendencies. He assumes the facts which
he does not understand, and goes right on to express himself in
action on these assumptions. So while he seems to take in what is told
him, with an intuition that is surprisingly swift, and a personal
adaptation no less surprising, the disappointment is only the more
keen when the instructor finds the next day that he has not penetrated
at all into the inner current of this scholar's mental processes.
Again, as marked as this is in its early stages, the continuance of it
leads to results which are nothing short of deplorable. When such a
student has gone through a preparatory school without overcoming this
tendency to "fluid attention" and comes to college, the instructors in
the higher institutions are practically helpless before him. We say of
him that "he has never learned to study," that he does not know "how
to apply himself," that he has no "power of assimilation." All of
which simply means that his channels of reaction are so formed already
that no instruction can get sufficient lodgment in him to bring about
any modification of his "apperceptive systems." The embarrassment is
the more marked because such a youth, all through his education
period, is willing, ready, evidently receptive, prompt, and punctual
in all his tasks.
Now what shall be done with such a student in his early school years?
This is a question for the secondary teacher especially, apart from
the more primary measures recommended above. It is in the years
between eight and fifteen that this type of mind has its rapid
development; before that the treatment is mainly preventive, and
consists largely in suggestions which aim to make the muscular
discharges more deliberate and the general tone less explosive. But
when the boy or girl comes to school with the dawning capacity for
independent self-direction and personal application, then it is that
the problem of the motor scholar becomes critical. The "let-alone"
method puts a premium upon the development of his tendencies and the
eventual playing out of his mental possibilities in mere motion.
Certain positive ways of giving some indirect discipline to the mind
of this type may be suggested.
Give this student relatively difficult and complex tasks. There is no
way to hinder his exuberant self-discharges except by measures which
embarrass and baffle him. We can not "lead him into all truth"; we
have to drive him back from all error. The lessons of psychology are
to the effect that the normal way to teach caution and deliberation is
the way of failure, repulse, and unfortunate, even painful,
consequences. Personal appeals to him do little good, since it is a
part of his complaint that he is too ready to hear all appeals; and
also, since he is not aware of his own lack nor able to carry what he
hears into effect. So keep him in company of scholars a little more
advanced than he is. Keep him out of the concert recitations, where
his tendency to haste would work both personal and social harm.
Refrain from giving him assistance in his tasks until he has learned
from them something of the real lesson of discouragement, and then
help him only by degrees, and by showing him one step at a time, with
constant renewals of his own efforts. Shield him with the greatest
pains from distractions of all kinds, for even the things and events
about him may carry his attention off at the most critical moments.
Give him usually the secondary parts in the games of the school,
except when real planning, complex execution, and more or less
generalship are required; then give him the leading parts: they
exercise his activities in new ways not covered by habit, and if he do
not rise to their complexity, then the other party to the sport will,
and his haste will have its own punishment, and so be a lesson to him.
Besides these general checks and regulations, there remains the very
important question as to what studies are most available for this type
of mind. I have intimated already the general answer that ought to be
given to this question. The aim of the studies of the motor student
should be discipline in the direction of correct generalization, and,
as helpful to this, discipline in careful observation of concrete
facts. On the other hand, the studies which involve principles simply
of a descriptive kind should have little place in his daily study.
They call out largely the more mechanical operations of memory, and
their command can be secured for the most part by mere repetition of
details all similar in character and of equal value. The measure of
the utility to him of the different studies of the schoolroom is found
in the relative demand they make upon him to modify his hasty personal
reactions, to suspend his thoughtless rush to general results, and
back of it all, to hold the attention long enough upon the facts as
they arise to get some sense of the logical relationships which bind
them together. Studies which do not afford any logical relationships,
and which tend, on the contrary, to foster the habit of learning by
repetition, only tend to fix the student in the quality of attention
which I have called "fluidity."
In particular, therefore: give this student all the mathematics he
can absorb, and pass him from arithmetic into geometry, leaving his
algebra till later. Give him plenty of grammar, taught inductively.
Start him early in the elements of physics and chemistry. And as
opposed to this, keep him out of the classes of descriptive botany and
zoölogy. Rather let him join exploring parties for the study of
plants, stones, and animals. A few pet animals are a valuable adjunct
to any school museum. If there be an industrial school or machine shop
near at hand, try to get him interested in the way things are made,
and encourage him to join in such employments. A false generalization
in the wheels of a cart supplies its own corrective very quickly, or
in the rigging and sails of a toy boat. Drawing from models is a fine
exercise for such a youth, and drawing from life, as soon as he gets a
little advanced in the control of his pencil. All this, it is easy to
see, trains his impulsive movements into some degree of subjection to
the deliberative processes.
With this general line of treatment in mind, the details of which the
reader will work out in the light of the boy's type, space allows me
only two more points before I pass to the sensory scholar.
First, in all the teaching of the type of mind now in question, pursue
a method which proceeds from the particular to the general. The
discussion of pedagogical method with all its ins and outs needs to
take cognizance of the differences of students in their type. The
motor student should never, in normal cases, be given a general
formula and told to work out particular instances; that is too much
his tendency already--to approach facts from the point of view of
their resemblances. What he needs rather is a sense of the dignity of
the single fact, and of the necessity of giving it its separate place,
before hastening on to lose it in the flow of a general statement. So
whether the teacher have in hand mathematics, grammar, or science, let
him disclose the principles only gradually, and always only so far as
they are justified by the observations which the boy has been led to
make for himself. For the reason that such a method is practically
impossible in the descriptive sciences, and some other branches, as
taught in the schoolbooks--botany, zoölogy, and, worse than all,
history and geography--we should restrict their part in the discipline
studies of such a youth. They require simple memory, without
observation, and put a premium on hasty and temporary acquisition.
As I have said, algebra should be subordinated to geometry. Algebra
has as its distinctive method the principle of substitution, whereby
symbols of equal and, for the most part, absolute generality are
substituted for one another, and the results stand for one fact as
well as for another, in disregard of the worth of the particular in
the scheme of nature. For the same reason, deductive logic is not a
good discipline for these students; empirical psychology, or political
economy, is a better introduction to the moral sciences for them when
they reach the high school. This explains what was meant above in the
remark as to the method of teaching grammar. As to language study
generally, I think the value of it, at this period, and later, is
extraordinarily overrated. The proportion of time given to language
study in our secondary schools is nothing short of a public crime in
its effect upon students of this type--and indeed of any type. This,
however, is a matter to which we return below. The average student
comes to college with his sense of exploration, his inductive
capacity, stifled at its birth. He stands appalled when confronted
with the unassimilated details of any science which does not give him
a "key" in the shape of general formulas made up beforehand. Were it
not that his enlarging experience of life is all the while running
counter to the trend of his so-called education, he would probably
graduate ready for the social position in which authority takes the
place of evidence, and imitation is the method of life.
Second, the teacher should be on the lookout for a tendency which is
very characteristic of a student of this type, the tendency, i. e., to
fall into elaborate guessing at results. Take a little child of about
seven or eight years of age, especially one who has the marks of motor
heredity, and observe the method of his acquisition of new words in
reading. First he speaks the word which his habit dictates, and, that
being wrong, he rolls his eyes away from the text and makes a guess of
the first word that comes into his mind; this he keeps up as long as
the teacher persists in asking him to try again. Here is the same
tendency that carries him later on in his education to a general
conclusion by a short cut. He has not learned to interpret the data of
a deliberate judgment, and his attention does not dwell on the
necessary details. So with him all through his training; he is always
ready with a guess. Here, again, the teacher can do him good only by
patiently employing the inductive method. Lead him back to the
simplest elements of the problem in hand, and help him gradually to
build up a result step by step.
I think in this, as in most of the work with these scholars, the
association with children of the opposite type is one of the best
correctives, provided the companionship is not made altogether
one-sided by the motor boy's perpetual monopolizing of all the avenues
of personal expression. When he fails in the class, the kind of social
lesson which is valuable may be taught him by submitting the same
question to a pupil of the plodding, deliberate kind, and waiting for
the latter to work it out. Of course, if the teacher have any
supervision over the playground, similar treatment can be employed
there.
Coming to consider the so-called "sensory" youth of the age between
eight, let us say, and sixteen--the age during which the training of
the secondary school presents its great problems--we find certain
interesting contrasts between this type and that already characterized
as "motor." The study of this type of youth is the more pressing for
reasons which I have already hinted in considering the same type in
the earlier childhood period. It is necessary, first, to endeavour to
get a fairly adequate view of the psychological characteristics of
this sort of pupil.
The current psychological doctrine of mental "types" rests upon a
great mass of facts, drawn in the first instance from the different
kinds of mental trouble, especially those which involve derangements
of speech--the different kinds of Aphasia. The broadest generalization
which is reached from these facts is that which marks the distinction,
of which I have already said so much, between the motor and the
sensory types. But besides this general distinction there are many
finer ones; and in considering the persons of the sensory type, it is
necessary to inquire into these finer distinctions. Not only do men
and children differ in the matter of the sort of mental material which
they find requisite, as to whether it is pictures of movements on the
one hand, or pictures from the special senses on the other hand; but
they differ also in the latter case with respect to which of the
special senses it is, in this case or that, which gives the particular
individual his necessary cue, and his most perfect function. So we
find inside of the general group called "sensory" several relatively
distinct cases, all of which the teacher is likely to come across in
varying numbers in a class of pupils. Of these the "visual" and the
"auditory" are most important.
There are certain aspects of the case which are so common to all the
cases of sensory minds, whether they be visual, auditory, or other,
that I may set them out before proceeding further.
First, in all these matters of type distinction, one of the essential
things to observe is the behaviour of the Attention. We have already
seen that the attention is implicated to a remarkable degree--in what
I called "fluid attention" above--in the motor scholar. The same
implication of the attention occurs in all the sensory cases, but
presents very different aspects; and the common fact that the
attention is directly involved affords us one of the best rules of
judgment and distinction. We may say, generally, of the sensory
children, that the attention is best, most facile, most
interest-carrying for some one preferred sense, leading for this sense
into preoccupation and ready distraction. This tendency manifests
itself, as we saw above, in the motor persons also, taking effect in
action, speed, vivacity, hasty generalization, etc.; but in the
sensory one it takes on varying forms. This first aspect of our
typical distinction of minds we may call "the relation of the
'favoured function' to the attention."
Then, second, there is another and somewhat contrasted relation which
also assumes importance when we come to consider individual cases; and
that is the relation of the "favoured function"--say movement, vision,
hearing, etc.--to Habit. It is a common enough observation, that habit
renders functions easy, and that habits are hard to break; indeed, all
treatment of habits is likely to degenerate into the commonplace. But,
when looked at as related to the attention, certain truths emerge from
the consideration of habit.
In general, we may say that habit bears a twofold relation to
attention: on the one hand, _facile attention shows the reign of
habit_. The solid acquisitions are those with which attention is at
home, and which are therefore more or less habitual. But, on the other
hand, it is equally true that _attention is in inverse ratio to
habit_. We need to attend least to these functions which are most
habitual, and we have to attend most to those which are novel and only
half acquired. We get new acquisitions mainly, indeed, by strained
attention. So we have a contrast of possible interpretations in all
cases of sharp and exclusive attention by the children: _does the
attention represent a Habit in this particular action of the
child_?--or, _does it represent the breaking up of a habit, an act of
Accommodation_? In each case these questions have to be intelligently
considered. The motor person, usually, when uninstructed and not held
back, uses his attention under the lead of habit. It is largely the
teacher's business in his case, as we saw, to get him to hold,
conserve, and direct his attention steadily to the novel and the
complex. The sensory person, on the other hand, shows the attention
obstructed by details, hindered by novelties, unable to pass smoothly
over its acquisitions, and in general lacking the regular influence of
habit in leading him to summarize and utilize his mental store in
general ways.
The third general aspect of the topic is this: the person of the
sensory type is more likely to be the one in whom positive derangement
occurs in the higher levels, and in response to the more refined
social and personal influences. This, for the reason that this type
represents brain processes of greater inertia and complexity, with
greater liability to obstruction. They are slower, and proceed over
larger brain areas.
With these general remarks, then, on the wider aspects of the
distinction of types, we may now turn to one of the particular cases
which occurs among sensory individuals. This is all that our space
will allow.
_The Visual Type._--The so-called "visuals," or "eye-minded" people
among us, are numerically the largest class of the sensory population.
They resort to visual imagery whenever possible, either because that
is the prevailing tendency with them, or because, in the particular
function in question in any special act, the visual material comes
most readily to mind. The details of fact regarding the "visuals" are
very interesting; but I shall not take space to dwell upon them. The
sphere in which the facts regarding the pupil of this type are
important to the teacher is that of language, taken with the group of
problems which arise about instruction in language. The question of
his symbolism, and its relations to mathematics, logic, etc., is
important. And finally, the sphere of the pupil's _expression_ in all
its forms. Then, from all his discoveries in these things, the teacher
is called upon to make his method of teaching and his general
treatment suitable to this student.
The visual pupil usually shows himself to be so predominately in his
speech and language functions; he learns best and fastest from copies
which he sees. He delights in illustrations put in terms of vision, as
when actually drawn out on the blackboard for him to see. He
understands what he reads better than what he hears; and he uses his
visual symbols as a sort of common coin into which to convert the
images which come to him through his other senses. In regard to the
movements of attention, we may say that this boy or girl illustrates
both the aspects of the attention-function which I pointed out above;
he attends best--that is, most effectively--to visual instruction
provided he exert himself; but on the other hand, it is just here that
the drift of habit tends to make him superficial. As attention to the
visual is the most easy for him, and as the details of his visual
stock are most familiar, so he tends to pass too quickly over the new
matters which are presented to him, assimilating the details to the
old schemes of his habit. It is most important to observe this
distinction, since it is analogous to the "fluid attention" of the
motor scholar; and some of the very important questions regarding
correlation of studies, the training of attention, and the stimulation
of interest depend upon its recognition. _Acquisition best just where
it is most likely to go wrong_; that is the state of things. The
voluntary use of the visual function gives the best results; but the
habitual, involuntary, slipshod use of it gives bad results, and tends
to the formation of injurious habits.
For example, I set a strongly visual boy a "copy" to draw. Seeing this
visual copy he will quickly recognise it, take it to be very easy,
dash it off quickly, all under the lead of habit; but his result is
poor, because his habit has taken the place of effort. Once get him to
make effort upon it, however, and his will be the best result of all
the scholars, perhaps, just because the task calls him out in the line
of his favoured function. The same antithesis comes out in connection
with other varieties of sensory scholars.
We may say, therefore, in regard to two of the general aspects of
mental types--the relation of the favoured function to attention, on
the one hand, and to habit, on the other--that they both find emphatic
illustration in the pupil of the visual type. He is, more than any
other sensory pupil, a special case. His mental processes set
decidedly toward vision. He is the more important, also, because he is
so common. Statistics are lacking, but possibly half of the entire
human family in civilized life are visual in their type for most of
the language functions. This is due, no doubt, to the emphasis that
civilization puts upon sight as the means of social acquisition
generally, and to our predominantly visual methods of instruction.
The third fact mentioned is also illustrated by this type; the fact
that mental instruction and derangement may come easily, through the
stress laid upon vision in the person's mental economy. I need not
enlarge upon the different forms of special defect which come through
impairment of sight by central lesion or degeneration of the visual
centers and connections. Suffice it to say that they are very common,
and very difficult of recovery. The visual person is often so
completely a slave to his sight that when that fails either in itself
or through weakness of attention he becomes a wreck off the shore of
the ocean of intellect. When we consider the large proportion just
mentioned of pupils of this type, the care which should be exercised
by the school authorities in the matter of favourable conditions of
light, avoidance of visual fatigue, proper distance-adjustments in all
visual application as regards focus, symmetry, size of objects,
copies, prints, etc., becomes at once sufficiently evident to the
thoughtful teacher, as it should be still earlier to the parent. There
should be a medical examination, by a competent oculist, before the
child goes to school, and regular tests afterward. School examiners
and boards should have qualifications for reporting on the hygienic
conditions of the school as regards lighting. The bright glare of a
neighbouring wall before a window toward which children with weak eyes
face when at their desks may result not only in common defects of
vision but also in resulting mental and moral damage; and the results
are worse to those who depend mainly on vision for the food, drink,
and exercise, so to speak, of their growing minds.
As to the methods of teaching these and also the other sensory pupils,
the indications already given must suffice. The statement of some of
these far-reaching problems of educational psychology, and of the
directions in which their answers are to be sought, exhausts the
purpose of this chapter. In general it may be said that the
recommendations made for the treatment of sensory children at the
earlier stage may be extended to later periods also, and that the
treatment should be, for the most part, in intelligent contrast to
that which the motor pupils receive.
_Language Study._--From this general consideration of the child's
training it becomes evident that the great subjects which are most
useful for discipline in the period of secondary education are the
mathematical studies on the one hand, which exercise the faculty of
abstraction, and the positive sciences, which train the power of
observation and require truth to detail. If we should pursue the
subject into the collegiate period, we should find mental and moral
science, literature, and history coming to their rights. If this be in
the main psychological, we see that language study, as such, should
have no great place in secondary education. The study of grammar, as
has been already said, is very useful in the early periods of
development if taught vocally; it brings the child out in
self-expression, and carries its own correctives, from the fact that
its results are always open to social control. These are, in my mind,
the main functions of the study of language.
What, then, is the justification for devoting ten or twelve years of
the youth's time to study of a dead language, as is commonly done in
the case of Latin? The utility of expression does not enter into it,
and the discipline of truth to elegant literary copy can be even so
well attained from the study of our own tongue, which is lamentably
neglected. In all this dreary language study, the youth's interest is
dried up at its source. He is fed on formulas and rules; he has no
outlet for invention or discovery; lists of exceptions to the rules
destroy the remnant of his curiosity and incentive; even reasoning
from analogy is strictly forbidden him; he is shut up from Nature as
in a room with no windows; the dictionary is his authority as absolute
and final as it is flat and sterile. His very industry, being forced
rather than spontaneous, makes him mentally, no less than physically,
stoop-shouldered and near-sighted. It seems to be one of those
mistakes of the past still so well lodged in tradition and class
rivalry that soundness of culture is artificially identified with its
maintenance. Yet there is no reason that the spirit of classical
culture and the durable elements of Greek and Roman life should not be
as well acquired--nay, better--from the study of history, archæology,
and literature. For this language work is not study of literature. Not
one in one hundred of the students who are forced through the
periodical examinations in these languages ever gets any insight into
their æsthetic quality or any inspiration from their form.
But more than this. At least one positively vicious effect follows
from language study with grammar and lexicon, no matter what the
language be. The habit of intellectual guessing grows with the need of
continuous effort in putting together elements which go together for
no particular reason. When a thing can not be reasoned out, it may
just as well be guessed out. The guess is always easier than the
dictionary, and, if successful, it answers just as well. Moreover, the
teacher has no way of distinguishing the pupil's replies which are due
to the guess from those due to honest work. I venture to say, from
personal experience, that no one who has been through the usual
classical course in college and before it has not more than once
staked his all upon the happy guess at the stubborn author's meaning.
This shallow device becomes a substitute for honest struggle. And it
is more than shallow; to guess is dishonest. It is a servant to
unworthy inertia; and worse, it is a cloak to mental unreadiness and
to conscious moral cowardice. The guess is a bluff to fortune when the
honest gauntlet of ignorance should be thrown down to the issue.
The effects of this show themselves in a habit of mind tolerated in
persons of a literary bent, which is a marked contrast to that
demanded and exemplified by science. I think that much of our literary
impressionism and sentimentalism reveal the guessing habit.
Yet why guess? Why be content with an impression? Why hint of a
"certain this and a certain that" when the "certain," if it mean
anything, commonly means the uncertain? Things worth writing about
should be formulated clearly enough to be understood. Why let the
personal reaction of the individual's feeling suffice? Our youth need
to be told that the guess is immoral, that hypothesis is the servant
of research, that the private impression instructs nobody, that
presentiment is usually wrong, that science is the best antidote to
the fear of ghosts, and that the reply "I guess so" betrays itself,
whether it arise from bravado, from cowardice, or from literary
finesse! I think that the great need of our life is honesty, that the
bulwark of honesty in education is exact knowledge with the scientific
habit of mind, and, furthermore, that the greatest hindrance to these
things is the training which does not, with all the sanctions at its
command, distinguish the real, with its infallible tests, from the
shadowy and vague, but which contents itself with the throw of the
intellectual dice box. Any study which tends to make the difference
between truth and error pass with the throwing of a die, and which
leads the student to be content with a result he can not verify, has
somewhat the function in his education of the puzzle in our society
amusements or the game of sliced animals in the nursery.
CHAPTER IX.
THE INDIVIDUAL MIND AND SOCIETY--SOCIAL PSYCHOLOGY.
THE series of questions which arise when we consider the individual as
a member of society fall together under the general theory of what has
been called, in a figure, Social Heredity.
The treatment of this topic will show something of the normal relation
of the individual's mind to the social environment; and the chapter
following will give some hints as to the nature and position of that
exceptional man in whom we are commonly so much interested--the
Genius.
The theory of social heredity has been worked up through the
contributions, from different points of view, of several authors.
What, then, is social heredity?
This is a very easy question to answer, since the group of facts which
the phrase describes are extremely familiar--so much so that the
reader may despair, from such a commonplace beginning, of getting any
novelty from it. The social heritage is, of course, all that a man or
woman gets from the accumulated wisdom of society. All that the ages
have handed down--the literature, the art, the habits of social
conformity, the experience of social ills, the treatment of crime, the
relief of distress, the education of the young, the provision for the
old--all, in fact, however described, that we men owe to the ancestors
whom we reverence, and to the parents whose presence with us perhaps
we cherish still. Their struggles, the orator has told us, have bought
our freedom; we enter into the heritage of their thought and wisdom
and heroism. All true; we do. We all breathe a social atmosphere; and
our growth is by this breathing-in of the tradition and example of the
past.
Now, if this be the social heritage, we may go on to ask: Who are to
inherit it? To this we may again add the further question: How does
the one who is born to such a heritage as this come into his
inheritance? And with this yet again: How may he use his
inheritance--to what end and under what limitations? These questions
come so readily into the mind that we naturally wish the discussion to
cover them.
Generally, then, who is eligible for the social inheritance? This heir
to society we are, all of us. Society does not make a will, it is
true; nor does society die intestate. To say that it is we who inherit
the riches of the social past of the race, is to say that we are the
children of the past in a sense which comes upon us with all the force
that bears in upon the natural heir when he finds his name in will or
law. But there are exceptions. And before we seek the marks of the
legitimacy of our claim to be the heirs of the hundreds of years of
accumulated thought and action, it may be well to advise ourselves as
to the poor creatures who do not enter into the inheritance with us.
They are those who people our asylums, our reformatories, our jails
and penitentiaries; those who prey upon the body of our social life by
demands for charitable support, or for the more radical treatment by
isolation in institutions; indeed, some who are born to fail in this
inheritance are with us no more, even though they were of our
generation; they have paid the penalty which their effort to wrest the
inheritance from us has cost, and the grave of the murderer, the
burglar, the suicide, the red-handed rebel against the law of social
inheritance, is now their resting place. Society then is, when taken
in the widest sense, made up of two classes of people--the heirs who
possess and the delinquents by birth or conduct who have forfeited the
inheritance.
We may get a clear idea of the way a man attains his social heritage
by dropping figure for the present and speaking in the terms of plain
natural science. Ever since Darwin propounded the law of Natural
Selection the word Variation has been current in the sense explained
on an earlier page.
The student in natural science has come to look for variations as the
necessary preliminary to any new step of progress and adaptation in
the sphere of organic life. Nature, we now know, is fruitful to an
extraordinary degree. She produces many specimens of everything. It is
a general fact of reproduction that the offspring of plant or animal
is quite out of proportion in numbers to the parents that produce
them, and often also to the means of living which await them. One
plant produces seeds which are carried far and near--to the ocean and
to the desert rocks, no less than to the soil in which they may take
root and grow. Insects multiply at a rate which is simply
inconceivable to our limited capacity for thinking in figures. Animals
also produce more abundantly, and man has children in numbers which
allow him to bury half his offspring yearly and yet increase the adult
population from year to year. This means, of course, that whatever the
inheritance is, all do not inherit it; some must go without a portion
whenever the resources of nature, or the family, are in any degree
limited and when competition is sharp.
Now Nature solves the problem among the animals in the simplest of
ways. All the young born in the same family are not exactly alike;
"variations" occur. There are those that are better nourished, those
that have larger muscles, those that breathe deeper and run faster. So
the question who of these shall inherit the earth, the fields, the
air, the water--this is left to itself. The best of all the variations
live, and the others die. Those that do live have thus, to all intents
and purposes, been "selected" for the inheritance, just as really as
if the parents of the species had left a will and had been able to
enforce it. This is the principle of "Natural Selection."
Now, this way of looking at problems which involve aggregates of
individuals and their distribution is becoming a habit of the age.
Wherever the application of the principles of probability do not
explain a statistical result--that is, wherever there seem to be
influences which favour particular individuals at the expense of
others--men turn at once to the occurrence of Variations for the
justification of this seeming partiality of Nature. And what it means
is that Nature is partial to individuals _in making them_, in their
natural heredity, rather than after they are born.
The principle of heredity with variations is a safe assumption to make
also in regard to mankind; and we see at once that in order to come in
for a part in the social heritage of our fathers we must be born fit
for it. We must be born so endowed for the race of social life that we
assimilate, from our birth up, the spirit of the society into which we
are reared. The unfittest, socially, are suppressed. In this there is
a distinction between this sphere of survival and that of the animal
world. In it the fittest survive, the others are lost; but in society
the unfittest are lost, all the others survive. Social selection weeds
out the unfit, the murderer, the most unsocial man, and says to him:
"You must die"; natural selection seeks out the most fit and says:
"You alone are to live." The difference is important, for it marks a
prime series of distinctions, when the conceptions drawn from biology
are applied to social phenomena; but for the understanding of
variations we need not now pursue it further. The contrast may be put,
however, in a sentence: in organic evolution we have the natural
selection of the fit; in social progress we have the social
suppression of the unfit.
Given social variations, therefore, differences among men, what
becomes of this man or that? We see at once that if society is to live
there must be limits set somewhere to the degree of variation which a
given man may show from the standards of society. And we may find out
something of these limits by looking at the evident, and marked
differences which actually appear about us.
First, there is the idiot. He is not available, from a social point of
view, because he varies too much on the side of defect. He shows from
infancy that he is unable to enter into the social heritage because he
is unable to learn to do social things. His intelligence does not grow
with his body. Society pities him if he be without natural protection,
and puts him away in an institution. So of the insane, the pronounced
lunatic; he varies too much to sustain in any way the wide system of
social relationships which society requires of each individual. Either
he is unable to take care of himself, or he attempts the life of some
one else, or he is the harmless, unsocial thing that wanders among us
like an animal or stands in his place like a plant. He is not a factor
in social life; he has not come into the inheritance.
Then there is the extraordinary class of people whom we may describe
by a stronger term than those already employed. We find not only the
unsocial, the negatively unfit, those whom society puts away with pity
in its heart; there are also the antisocial, the class whom we usually
designate as criminals. These persons, like the others, are
variations; but they seem to be variations in quite another way. They
do not represent lack on the intellectual side always or alone, but on
the moral side, on the social side, as such. The least we can say of
the criminals is that they tend, by heredity or by evil example, to
violate the rules which society has seen fit to lay down for the
general security of men living together in the enjoyment of the social
heritage. So far, then, they are factors of disintegration, of
destruction; enemies of the social progress which proceeds from
generation to generation by just this process of social inheritance.
So society says to the criminal also: "You must perish." We kill off
the worst, imprison the bad for life, attempt to reform the rest.
They, too, then, are excluded from the heritage of the past.
So our lines of eligibility get more and more narrowly drawn. The
instances of exclusion now cited serve to give us some insight into
the real qualities of the man who lives a social part, and the way he
comes to live it.
Passing on to take up the second of the informal topics suggested, we
have to find the best description that we can of the social man--the
one who is fitted for the social life. This question concerns the
process by which any one of us comes into the wealth of relationships
which the social life represents. For to say that a man does this is
in itself to say that he is the man society is looking for. Indeed,
this is the only way to describe the man--to actually find him.
Society is essentially a growing, shifting thing. It changes from age
to age, from country to country. The Greeks had their social
conditions, and the Romans theirs. Even the criminal lines are drawn
differently, somewhat, here and there; and in a low stage of
civilization a man may pass for normal who, in our time, would be
described as weak in mind. This makes it necessary that the standards
of judgment of a given society should be determined by an actual
examination of the society, and forbids us to say that the limits of
variation which society in general will tolerate must be this or that.
We may say, then, that the man who is fit for social life _must be
born to learn_. The need of learning is his essential need. It comes
upon him from his birth. Speech is the first great social function
which he must learn, and with it all the varieties of verbal
accomplishment--reading and writing. This brings to the front the
great method of all his learning--imitation. In order to be social he
must be imitative, imitative, imitative. He must realize for himself
by action the forms, conventions, requirements, co-operations of his
social group. All is learning; and learning not by himself and at
random, but under the leading of the social conditions which surround
him. Plasticity is his safety and the means of his progress. So he
grows into the social organization, takes his place as a Socius in the
work of the world, and lays deep the sense of values, upon the basis
of which his own contributions--if he be destined to make
contributions--to the wealth of the world are to be wrought out. This
great fact that he is open to the play of the personal influences
which are about him is just the "suggestibleness" which we have
already described in an earlier chapter; and the influences themselves
are "suggestions"--social suggestions. These influences differ in
different communities, as we so often remark. The Turk learns to live
in a very different system of relations of "give and take" from ours,
and ours differ as much from those of the Chinese. All that is
characteristic of the race or tribe or group or family--all this sinks
into the child and youth by his simple presence there in it, with the
capacity to learn by imitation. He is suggestible, and here are the
suggestions; he is made to inherit and he inherits. So it makes no
difference what his tribe or kindred be; let him be a learner by
imitation, and he becomes in turn possessor and teacher.
The case becomes more interesting still when we give the matter
another turn, and say that in this learning all the members of society
agree; _all must be born to learn the same things_. They enter, if so
be that they do, into the same social inheritance. This again seems
like a very commonplace remark; but certain things flow from it. Each
member of society gives and gets the same set of social suggestions;
the differences being the degree of progress each has made, and the
degree of variation which each one gives to what he has before
received. This last difference is treated below where we consider the
genius.
There grows up, in all this give and take, in all the interchange of
suggestions among you, me, and the other, an obscure sense of a
certain social understanding about ourselves generally--a _Zeitgeist_,
an atmosphere, a taste, or, in minor matters, a style. It is a very
peculiar thing, this social spirit. The best way to understand that
you have it, and something of what it is, is to get into a circle in
which it is different. The common phrase "fish out of water" is often
heard in reference to it. But that does not serve for science. The
next best thing that I can do in the way of rendering it is to appeal
to another word which has a popular sense, the word Judgment. Let us
say that there exists in every society a general system of values,
found in social usages, conventions, institutions, and formulas, and
that our judgments of social life are founded on our habitual
recognition of these values, and of the arrangement of them which has
become more or less fixed in our society. For example, to be cordial
to a disagreeable neighbour shows good social judgment in a small
matter; not to quarrel with the homoeopathic enthusiast who meets
you in the street and wishes to doctor your rheumatism out of a
symptom book--that is good judgment. In short, the man gets to show
more and more, as he grows up from childhood, a certain good judgment;
and his good judgment is also the good judgment of his social set,
community, or nation. The psychologist might prefer to say that a man
"feels" this; perhaps it would be better for psychological readers to
say simply that he has a "sense" of it; but the popular use of the
word "judgment" fits so accurately into the line of distinction we are
now making that we may adhere to it. So we reach the general position
that the eligible candidate for social life must have good judgment as
represented by the common standards of judgment of his people.
It may be doubted, however, by some of my readers whether this sense
of social values called judgment is the outcome of suggestions
operating throughout the term of one's social education. This is an
essential point, and I must just assume it. It follows from what we
said in an earlier chapter to be the way of the child's learning by
imitation. It will appear true, I trust, to any one who may take the
pains to observe the child's tentative endeavours to act up to social
usages in the family and school. One may then actually see the growth
of the sort of judgment which I am describing. Psychologists are
coming to see that even the child's sense of his own personal self is
a gradual attainment, achieved step by step through his imitative
responses to his personal environment. His thought of himself is an
interpretation of his thought of others, and his thought of another
is doe to further accommodation of his active processes to changes in
his thought of a possible self. Around this fundamental movement in
his personal growth all the values of his life have their play. So I
say that his sense of truth in the social relationships of his
environment is the outcome of his very gradual learning of his
personal place in these relationships.
We reach the conclusion, therefore, from this part of our study, that
the socially unfit person is the person of poor judgment. He may have
learned a great deal; he may in the main reproduce the activities
required by his social tradition; but with it all he is to a degree
out of joint with the general system of estimated values by which
society is held together. This may be shown to be true even of the
pronounced types of unsocial individuals of whom we had occasion to
speak at the outset. The criminal is, socially considered, a man of
poor judgment. He may be more than this, it is true. He may have a bad
strain of heredity, what the theologians call "original sin"; he then
is an "habitual criminal" in the current distinction of criminal
types; and his own sense of his failure to accept the teachings of
society may be quite absent, since crime is so normal to him. But the
fact remains that in his judgment he is mistaken; his normal is not
society's normal. He has failed to be educated in the judgments of his
fellows, however besides and however more deeply he may have failed.
Or, again, the criminal may commit crime simply because he is carried
away in an eddy of good companionship, which represents a temporary
current of social life; or his nervous energies may be overtaxed
temporarily or drained of their strength, so that his education in
social judgment is forgotten: he is then the "occasional" criminal. It
is true of the man of this type also that while he remains a criminal
he has lost his balance, has yielded to temptation, has gratified
private impulse at the expense of social sanity; all this shows the
lack of that sustaining force of moral consciousness which represents
the level of social rightness in his time and place. Then, as to the
idiot, the imbecile, the insane, they, too, have no good judgment, for
the very adequate but pitiful reason that they have no judgment at
all.
This, then, is the doctrine of Social Heredity; it illustrates the
side of conformity, of personal acquiescence on the part of the
individual in the rules of social life. Another equally important
side, that of the personal initiative and influence of the individual
mind in society, remains to be spoken of in the next chapter. Social
Heredity emphasizes _Imitation_; the Genius, to whom we now turn,
illustrates _Invention_.
CHAPTER X.
THE GENIUS AND HIS ENVIRONMENT.
The facts concerning the genius seem to indicate that he is a being
somewhat exceptional and apart. Common mortals stand about him with
expressions of awe. The literature of him is embodied in the alcoves
of our libraries most accessible to the public, and even the
wayfaring man, to whom life is a weary round, and his conquests over
nature and his fellows only the division of honours on a field that
usually witnesses drawn battles or bloody defeats, loves to stimulate
his courage by hearing of the lives of those who put nature and
society so utterly to rout. He hears of men who swayed the destinies
of Europe, who taught society by outraging her conventions, whose
morality even was reached sometimes by scorn of the peccadilloes which
condemn the ordinary man. Every man has in him in some degree the hero
worshipper, and gets inflamed somewhat by reading Carlyle's Frederick
the Great.
Of course, this popular sense can not be wholly wrong. The genius does
accomplish the world movements. Napoleon did set the destiny of
Europe, and Frederick did reveal, in a sense, a new phase of moral
conduct. The truth of these things is just what makes the enthusiasm
of the common man so healthy and stimulating. It is not the least that
the genius accomplishes that he thus elevates the traditions of man
and inspires the literature that the people read. He sows the seeds of
effort in the fertile soil of the newborn of his own kind, while he
leads those who do not have the same gifts to rear and tend the
growing plant in their own social gardens. This is true; and a
philosophy of society should not overlook either of the facts--the
actual deeds of the great man with his peculiar influence upon his own
time, and his lasting place in the more inspiring social tradition
which is embodied in literature and art.
Yet the psychologist has to present just the opposite aspect of these
apparent exceptions to the Canons of our ordinary social life. He has
to oppose the extreme claim made by the writers who attempt to lift
the genius quite out of the normal social movement. For it only needs
a moment's consideration to see that if the genius has no reasonable
place in the movement of social progress in the world, then there can
be no possible doctrine or philosophy of such progress. To the hero
worshipper his hero comes in simply to "knock out," so to speak, all
the regular movement of the society which is so fortunate, or so
unfortunate, as to have given him birth; and by his initiative the
aspirations, beliefs, struggles of the community or state get a push
in a new direction--a tangent to the former movement or a reversal of
it. If this be true, and it be farther true that no genius who is
likely to appear can be discounted by any human device before his
abrupt appearance upon the stage of action, then the history of facts
must take the place of the science or philosophy of them, and the
chronicler become the only historian with a right to be.
For of what value can we hold the contribution which the genius makes
to thought if this contribution runs so across the acquisitions of the
earlier time and the contributions of earlier genius that no line of
common truth can be discovered between him and them? Then each society
would have its own explanation of itself, and that only so long as it
produced no new genius. It may be, of course, that society is so
constituted--or, rather, so lacking in constitution--that simple
variations in brain physiology are the sufficient reason for its
cataclysms; but a great many efforts will be made to prove the
contrary before this highest of all spheres of human activity is
declared to have no meaning--no thread which runs from age to age and
links mankind, the genius and the man who plods, in a common and
significant development.
In undertaking this task we must try to judge the genius with
reference to the sane social man, the normal Socius. What he is we
have seen. He is a person _who learns to judge by the judgments of
society_. What, then, shall we say of the genius from this point of
view? Can the hero worshipper be right in saying that the genius
teaches society to judge; or shall we say that the genius, like other
men, must learn to judge by the judgments of society?
The most fruitful point of view is, no doubt, that which considers the
genius a variation. And unless we do this it is evidently impossible
to get any theory which will bring him into a general scheme. But how
great a variation? And in what direction?--these are the questions.
The great variations found in the criminal by heredity, the insane,
the idiotic, etc., we have found excluded from society; so we may well
ask why the genius is not excluded also. If our determination of the
limits within which society decides who is to be excluded is correct,
then the genius must come within these limits. He can not escape them
and live socially.
_The Intelligence of the Genius._--The directions in which the genius
actually varies from the average man are evident as a matter of fact.
He is, first of all, a man of great power of thought, of great
"constructive imagination," as the psychologists say. So let us
believe, first, that a genius is a man who has occasionally greater
thoughts than other men have. Is this a reason for excluding him from
society? Certainly not; for by great thoughts we mean true thoughts,
thoughts which will work, thoughts which will bring in a new area in
the discovery of principles, or of their application. This is just
what all development depends upon, this attainment of novelty, which
is consistent with older knowledge and supplementary to it. But
suppose a man have thoughts which are not true, which do not fit the
topic of their application, which contradict established knowledges,
or which result in bizarre and fanciful combinations of them; to that
man we deny the name genius; he is a crank, an agitator, an anarchist,
or what not. The test, then, which we bring to bear upon the
intellectual variations which men show is that of truth, practical
workability--in short, to sum it up, "fitness." Any thought, to live
and germinate, must be a fit thought. And the community's sense of the
fitness of the thought is their rule of judgment.
Now, the way the community got this sense--that is the great result we
have reached above. Their sense of fitness is just what I called above
their judgment. So far, at least, as it relates to matters of social
import, it is of social origin. It reflects the outcome of all social
heredity, tradition, education. The sense of social truth is their
criterion of social thoughts, and unless the social reformer's thought
be in some way fit to go into the setting thus made by earlier social
development, he is not a genius but a crank.
I may best show the meaning of the claim that society makes upon the
genius by asking in how far in actual life he manages to escape this
account of himself to society. The facts are very plain, and this is
the class of facts which some writers urge, as supplying an adequate
rule for the application of the principles of their social philosophy.
The simple fact is, say they, that without the consent of society the
thoughts of your hero, whether he be genius or fool, are practically
valueless. The fulness of time must come; and the genius before his
time, if judged by his works, can not be a genius at all. His thought
may be great, so great that, centuries after, society may attain to it
as its richest outcome and its profoundest intuition; but before, that
time, it is as bizarre as a madman's fancies and as useless. What
would be thought, we might be asked by writers of this school, of a
rat which developed upon its side the hand of a man, with all its
mechanism of bone, muscle, tactile sensibility, and power of delicate
manipulation, if the remainder of the creature were true to the
pattern of a rat? Would not the rest of the rat tribe be justified in
leaving this anomaly behind to starve in the hole where his singular
appendage held him fast? Is such a rat any the less a monster because
man finds use for his hands.
To a certain extent this argument is forcible and true. If social
utility be our rule of definition, then certainly the premature genius
is no genius. And this rule of definition may be put in another way
which renders it still more plausible. The variations which occur in
intellectual endowment, in a community, vary about a mean; there is,
theoretically, an average man. The differences among men which can be
taken account of in any philosophy of life must be in some way
referable to this mean. The variation which does not find its niche at
all in the social environment, but which strikes all the social
fellows with disapproval, getting no sympathy whatever, is thereby
exposed to the charge of being the "sport" of Nature and the fruit of
chance. The lack of hearing which awaits such a man sets him in a form
of isolation, and stamps him not only as a social crank, but also as a
cosmic tramp.
Put in its positive and usual form, this view simply claims that man
is always the outcome of the social movement. The reception he gets is
a measure of the degree in which he adequately represents this
movement. Certain variations are possible--men who are forward in the
legitimate progress of society--and these men are the true and only
geniuses. Other variations, which seem to discount the future too
much, are "sports"; for the only permanent discounting of the future
is that which is projected from the elevation of the past.
The great defect of this view is found in its definitions. We exclaim
at once: who made the past the measure of the future? and who made
social approval the measure of truth? What is there to eclipse the
vision of the poet, the inventor, the seer, that he should not see
over the heads of his generation, and raise his voice for that which,
to all men else, lies behind the veil? The social philosophy of this
school can not answer these questions, I think; nor can it meet the
appeal we all make to history when we cite the names of Aristotle,
Pascal, and Newton, or of any of the men who single-handed and alone
have set guide-posts to history, and given to the world large portions
of its heritage of truth. What can set limit to the possible
variations of fruitful intellectual power? Rare such variations--that
is their law: the greater the variation, the more rare! But so is
genius; the greater, the more rare. As to the rat with the human hand,
he would not be left to starve and decay in his hole; he would be put
in alcohol when he died, and kept in a museum! And the lesson which he
would teach to the wise biologist would be that here in this rat
Nature had shown her genius by discounting in advance the slow
processes of evolution!
It is, indeed, the force of such considerations as these which have
led to many justifications of the positions that the genius is quite
out of connection with the social movement of his time. The genius
brings his variations to society whether society will or no; and as to
harmony between them, that is a matter of outcome rather than of
expectation or theory. We are told the genius comes as a
brain-variation; and between the physical heredity which produces him
and the social heredity which sets the tradition of his time there is
no connection.
But this is not tenable, as we have reason to think, from the
interaction which actually takes place between physical and social
heredity. To be sure, the heredity of the individual is a
physiological matter, in the sense that the son must inherit from his
parents and their ancestors alone. But granted that two certain
parents are his parents, we may ask how these two certain parents came
to be his parents. How did his father come to marry his mother, and
the reverse? This is distinctly a social question; and to its solution
all the currents of social influence and suggestion contribute. Who is
free from social considerations in selecting his wife? Does the
coachman have an equal chance to get the heiress, or the blacksmith
the clergyman's daughter? Do we find inroads made in Newport society
by the ranchman and the dry-goods clerk? And are not the inroads which
we do find, the inroads made by the counts and the marquises, due to
influences which are quite social and psychological? Again, on the
other hand, what leads the count and the marquis, to lay their titles
at Newport doors, while the ranchman and the dry-goods clerk keep
away, but the ability of both these types of suitors to estimate their
chances just on social and psychological grounds? Novelists have rung
the changes on this intrusion of social influences into the course of
physical heredity. Bourget's Cosmopolis is a picture of the influence
of social race characteristics on natural heredity, with the reaction
of natural heredity again upon the new social conditions.
A speech of a character of Balzac's is to the point, as illustrating a
certain appreciation of these social considerations which we all to a
degree entertain. The Duchesse de Carigliano says to Madame de
Sommervieux: "I know the world too well, my dear, to abandon myself to
the discretion of a too superior man. You should know that one may
allow them to court one, but marry them--that is a mistake! Never--no,
no. It is like wanting to find pleasure in inspecting the machinery of
the opera instead of sitting in a box to enjoy its brilliant
illusions." To be sure, we do not generally deliberate in this wise
when we fall in love; but that is not necessary, since our social
environment sets the style by the kind of intangible deliberation
which I have called judgment and fitness. Suppose a large number of
Northern advocates of social equality should migrate to the Southern
United States, and, true to their theory, intermarry with the blacks.
Would it not then be true that a social theory had run athwart the
course of physiological descent, leading to the production of a
legitimate mulatto society? A new race might spring from such a purely
psychological or social initiation.
While not agreeing, therefore, with the theory which makes the genius
independent of the social movement--least of all with the doctrine
that physical heredity is uninfluenced by social conditions--the hero
worshipper is right, nevertheless, in saying that we can not set the
limitations of the genius on the side of variations toward high
intellectual endowment. So if the general position be true that he is
a variation of some kind, we must look elsewhere for the direction of
those peculiar traits whose excess would be his condemnation. This we
can find only in connection with the other demand that we make of the
ordinary man--the demand that he be a man of good judgment. And to
this we may now turn.
_The Judgment of the Genius._--We should bear in mind in approaching
this topic the result which follows from the reciprocal character of
social relationships. No genius ever escapes the requirements laid
down for his learning, his social heredity. Mentally he is a social
outcome, as well as are the fellows who sit in judgment on him. He
must judge his own thoughts therefore as they do. And his own proper
estimate of things and thoughts, his relative sense of fitness, gets
application, by a direct law of his own mental processes, to himself
and to his own creations. The limitations which, in the judgment of
society, his variations must not overstep, are set by his own
judgment also. If the man in question have thoughts which are
socially true, _he must himself know that they are true_. So we reach
a conclusion regarding the selection of the particular thoughts which
the genius may have: _he and society must agree in regard to the
fitness of them_, although in particular cases this agreement ceases
to be the emphatic thing. The essential thing comes to be the
reflection of the social standard in the thinker's own judgment; _the
thoughts thought must always be critically judged by the thinker
himself; and for the most part his judgment is at once also the social
judgment_. This may be illustrated further.
Suppose we take the man of striking thoughts and withal no sense of
fitness--none of the judgment about them which society has. He will go
through a mighty host of discoveries every hour. The very eccentricity
of his imaginations will only appeal to him for the greater
admiration. He will bring his most chimerical schemes out and air them
with the same assurance with which the real inventor exhibits his. But
such a man is not pronounced a genius. If his ravings about this and
that are harmless, we smile and let him talk; but if his lack of
judgment extend to things of grave import, or be accompanied by equal
illusions regarding himself and society in other relationships, then
we classify his case and put him into the proper ward for the insane.
Two of the commonest forms of such impairment of judgment are seen in
the victims of "fixed ideas" on the one hand, and the _exaltés_ on the
other. These men have no true sense of values, no way of selecting the
fit combinations of imagination from the unfit; and even though some
transcendently true and original thought were to flit through the
diseased mind of such a one, it would go as it came, and the world
would wait for a man with a sense of fitness to arise and rediscover
it. The other class, the _exaltés_, are somewhat the reverse; the
illusion of personal greatness is so strong that their thoughts seem
to them infallible and their persons divine.
Men of such perversions of judgment are common among us. We all know
the man who seems to be full of rich and varied thought, who holds us
sometimes by the power of his conceptions or the beauty of his
creations, but in whose thought we yet find some incongruity, some
eminently unfit element, some grotesque application, some elevation or
depression from the level of commonplace truth, some ugly strain in
the æsthetic impression. The man himself does not know it, and that is
the reason he includes it. His sense of fitness is dwarfed or
paralyzed. We in the community come to regret that he is so
"visionary," with all his talent; so we accommodate ourselves to his
unfruitfulness, and at the best only expect an occasional hour's
entertainment under the spell of his presence. This certainly is not
the man to produce a world movement.
Most of the men we call "cranks" are of this type. They are
essentially lacking in judgment, and the popular estimate of them is
exactly right.
It is evident, therefore, from this last explanation, that there is a
second direction of variation among men: _variation in their sense of
the truth and value of their own thoughts_, and with them of the
thoughts of others. This is the great limitation which the man of
genius shares with men generally--a limitation in the amount of
variation which he may show in his social judgments, especially as
these variations affect the claim which he makes upon society for
recognition. It is evident that this must be an important factor in
our estimate of the claims of the hero to our worship, especially
since it is the more obscure side of his temperament, and the side
generally overlooked altogether. This let us call, in our further
illustrations, the "social sanity" of the man of genius.
The first indication of the kind of social variation which oversteps
even the degree of indulgence society is willing to accord to the
great thinker is to be found in the effect which education has upon
character. The discipline of social development is, as we have seen,
mainly conducive to the reduction of eccentricities, the levelling off
of personal peculiarities. All who come into the social heritage learn
the same great series of lessons derived from the past, and all get
the sort of judgment required in social life from the common exercises
of the home and school in the formative years of their education. So
we should expect that the greater singularities of disposition which
represent insuperable difficulty in the process of social assimilation
would show themselves early. Here it is that the actual conflict
comes--the struggle between impulse and social restraint. Many a
genius owes the redemption of his intellectual gifts to legitimate
social uses to the victory gained by a teacher and the discipline
learned through obedience. And thus it is also that many who give
promise of great distinction in early life fail to achieve it. They
run off after a phantom, and society pronounces them mad. In their
case the personal factor has overcome the social factor; they have
failed in the lessons they should have learned, their own
self-criticism is undisciplined, and they miss the mark.
These two extremes of variation, however, do not exhaust the case. One
of them tends in a measure to the blurring of the light of genius, and
the other to the rejection of social restraint to a degree which makes
the potential genius over into a crank. The average man is the mean.
Put the greatest reach of human attainment, and with it the greatest
influence ever exercised by man, is yet more than either of these. It
is not enough, the hero worshipper may still say, that the genius
should have sane and healthy judgment, as society reckons sanity. The
fact still remains that even in his social judgments he may instruct
society. He may stand alone and, by sheer might, left his fellow-men
up to his point of vantage, to their eternal gain and to his eternal
praise. Even let it be that he must have self-criticism, the sense of
fitness you speak of, that very sense may transcend the vulgar
judgment of his fellows. His judgment may be saner than theirs; and as
his intellectual creations are great and unique, so may his sense of
their truth be full and unique. Wagner led the musical world by his
single-minded devotion to the ideas of Wagner; and Darwin had to be
true to his sense of truth and to the formulations of his thought,
though no man accorded him the right to instruct his generation either
in the one or in the other. To be sure, this divine assurance of the
man of genius may be counterfeited; the vulgar dreamer often has it.
But, nevertheless, when a genius has it, he is not a vulgar dreamer.
This is true, I think, and the explanation of it leads us to the last
fruitful application of the doctrine of variations. Just as the
intellectual endowment of men may vary within very wide limits, so may
the social qualifications of men. There are men who find it their meat
to do society service. There are men so naturally born to take the
lead in social reform, in executive matters, in organization, in
planning our social campaigns for us, that we turn to them as by
instinct. They have a kind of insight to which we can only bow. They
gain the confidence of men, win the support of women, and excite the
acclamations of children. These people are the social geniuses. They
seem to anticipate the discipline of social education. They do not
need to learn the lessons of the social environment.
Now, such persons undoubtedly represent a variation toward
suggestibility of the most delicate and singular kind. They surpass
the teachers from whom they learn. It is hard to say that they "learn
to judge by the judgments of society." They so judge without seeming
to learn, yet they differ from the man whose eccentricities forbid him
to learn through the discipline of society. The two are opposite
extremes of variation; that seems to me the only possible construction
of them. It is the difference between the ice boat which travels
faster than the wind and the skater who braves the wind and battles
up-current in it. The latter is soon beaten by the opposition; the
former outruns its ally. The crank, the eccentric, the enthusiast--all
these run counter to sane social judgment; but the genius leads
society to his own point of view, and interprets the social movement
so accurately, sympathetically, and with such profound insight that
his very singularity gives greater relief to his inspiration.
Now let a man combine with this insight--this extraordinary sanity of
social judgment--the power of great inventive and constructive
thought, and then, at last, we have our genius, our hero, and one that
we well may worship! To great thought he adds balance; to originality,
judgment. This is the man to start the world movements if we want a
single man to start them. For as he thinks profoundly, so he
discriminates his thoughts justly, and assigns them values. His
fellows judge with him, or learn to judge after him, and they lend to
him the motive forces of success--enthusiasm, reward. He may wait for
recognition, he may suffer imprisonment, he may be muzzled for
thinking his thoughts, he may die and with him the truth to which he
gave but silent birth. But the world comes, by its slower progress, to
traverse the path in which he wished to lead it; and if so be that his
thought was recorded, posterity revives it in regretful sentences on
his tomb.
The two things to be emphasized, therefore, on the rational side of
the phenomenally great man--I mean on the side of our means of
accounting for him in reasonable terms--are these: first, his
intellectual originality; and, second, the sanity of his judgment. And
it is the variations in this second sort of endowment which give the
ground which various writers have for the one-sided views now current
in popular literature.
We are told, on the one hand, that the genius is a "degenerate"; on
another hand, that he is to be classed with those of "insane" temper;
and yet again, that his main characteristic is his readiness to
outrage society by performing criminal acts. All these so-called
theories rely upon facts--so far as they have any facts to rest
upon--which, if space permitted, we might readily estimate from our
present point of view. In so far as a really great man busies himself
mainly with things that are objective, which are socially and morally
neutral--such as electricity, natural history, mechanical theory, with
the applications of these--of course, the mental capacity which he
possesses is the main thing, and his absorption in these things may
lead to a warped sense of the more ideal and refined relationships
which are had in view by the writer in quest for degeneracy. It will
still be admitted, however, by those who are conversant with the
history of science, that the greatest scientific geniuses have been
men of profound quietness of life and normal social development. It is
to the literary and artistic genius that the seeker after abnormality
has to turn; and in this field, again, the facts serve to show their
own meaning.
As a general rule, these artistic prodigies do not represent the union
of variations which we find in the greatest genius. Such men are often
distinctly lacking in power of sustained constructive thought. Their
insight is largely what is called intuitive. They have flashes of
emotional experience which crystallize into single creations of art.
They depend upon "inspiration"--a word which is responsible for much
of the overrating of such men, and for a good many of their illusions.
Not that they do not perform great feats in the several spheres in
which their several "inspirations" come; but with it all they often
present the sort of unbalance and fragmentary intellectual endowment
which allies them, in particular instances, to the classes of persons
whom the theories we are noticing have in view. It is only to be
expected that the sharp jutting variation in the emotional and
æsthetic realm which the great artist often shows should carry with it
irregularities in heredity in other respects. Moreover, the very habit
of living by inspiration brings prominently into view any half-hidden
peculiarities which he may have in the remark of his associates, and
in the conduct of his own social duties. But mark you, I do not
discredit the superb art of many examples of the artistic
"degenerate," so-called; that would be to brand some of the highest
ministrations of genius, to us men, as random and illegitimate, and to
consider impure some of our most exalting and intoxicating sources of
inspiration. But I do still say that wherein such men move us and
instruct us they are _in these spheres_ above all things sane with our
own sanity, and wherein they are insane they do discredit to that
highest of all offices to which their better gifts make legitimate
claim--the instruction of mankind.
Again one of Balzac's characters hits the nail on the head. "My dear
mother," says Augustine, in the Sign of the Cat and Racket, "you judge
superior people too severely. If their ideas were the same as other
folks they would not be men of genius."
"Very well," replies Madame Guillaume, "then let men of genius stop at
home and not get married. What! A man of genius is to make his wife
miserable? And because he is a genius it is all right! Genius! genius!
It is not so very clever to say black one minute and white the next,
as he does, to interrupt other people, to dance such rigs at home,
never to let you know which foot you are to stand on, to compel his
wife never to be amused unless my lord is in gay spirits, and to be
dull when he is dull."
"But his imaginations...."
"What are such imaginations?" Madame Guillaume went on, interrupting
her daughter again. "Fine ones are his, my word! What possesses a man,
that all on a sudden, without consulting a doctor, he takes it into
his head to eat nothing but vegetables? There, get along! if he were
not so grossly immoral, he would be fit to shut up in a lunatic
asylum."
"O mother, can you believe?"
"Yes, I do believe. I met him in the Champs Élysées. He was on
horseback. Well, at one minute he was galloping as hard as he could
tear, and then pulled up to a walk. I said to myself at that moment,
'There is a man devoid of judgment!'"
* * * * *
The main consideration which this chapter aims to present, that of the
responsibility of all men, be they great or be they small, to the same
standards of social judgment, and to the same philosophical treatment,
is illustrated in the very man to whose genius we owe the principle
upon which my remarks are based--Charles Darwin; and it is singularly
appropriate that we should also find the history of this very
principle, that of variations with the correlative principle of
natural selection, furnishing a capital illustration of our
inferences. Darwin was, with the single exception of Aristotle,
possibly the man with the sanest judgment that the human mind has ever
brought to the investigation of nature. He represented, in an
exceedingly adequate way, the progress of scientific method up to his
day. He was disciplined in all the natural science of his
predecessors. His judgment was an epitome of the scientific insight of
the ages which culminated then. The time was ripe for just such a
great constructive thought as his--ripe, that is, so far as the
accumulation of scientific data was concerned. His judgment differed
then from the judgment of his scientific contemporaries mainly in that
it was sounder and safer than theirs. And with it Darwin was a great
constructive thinker. He had the intellectual strength which put the
judgment of his time to the strain--everybody's but his own. This is
seen in the fact that Darwin was not the first to speculate in the
line of his great discovery, nor to reach formulas; but with the
others guessing took the place of induction. The formula was an
uncriticised thought. The unwillingness of society to embrace the
hypothesis was justified by the same lack of evidence which prevented
the thinkers themselves from giving it proof. And if no Darwin had
appeared, the problem of evolution would have been left about where it
had been left by the speculations of the Greek mind. Darwin reached
his conclusion by what that other great scientific genius in England,
Newton, described as the essential of discovery, "patient thought";
and having reached it, he had no alternative but to judge it true and
pronounce it to the world.
But the principle of variations with natural selection had the
reception which shows that good judgment may rise higher than the
level of its own social origin. Even yet the principle of Darwin is
but a spreading ferment in many spheres of human thought in which it
is destined to bring the same revolution that it has worked in the
sciences of organic life. And it was not until other men, who had both
authority with the public and sufficient information to follow
Darwin's thought, seconded his judgment, that his formula began to
have currency in scientific circles.
Now we may ask: Does not any theory of man which loses sight of the
supreme sanity of Darwin, and with him of Aristotle, and Angelo, and
Leonardo, and Newton, and Leibnitz, and Shakespeare, seem weak and paltry?
Do not delicacy of sentiment, brilliancy of wit, fineness of rhythmical
and æsthetic sense, the beautiful contributions of the talented special
performer, sink into something like apologies--something even like
profanation of that name to conjure by, the name of genius? And all the
more if the profanation is made real by the moral irregularities or the
social shortcomings which give some colour of justification to the
appellation "degenerate"!
But, on the other hand, why run to the other extreme and make this
most supremely human of all men an anomaly, a prodigy, a bolt from the
blue, an element of extreme disorder, born to further or to distract
the progress of humanity by a chance which no man can estimate? The
resources of psychological theory are adequate, as I have endeavoured
to show, to the construction of a doctrine of society which is based
upon the individual, in all the possibilities of variation which his
heredity may bring forth, and which yet does not hide nor veil those
heights of human greatness on which the halo of genius is wont to
rest. Let us add knowledge to our surprise in the presence of such a
man, and respect to our knowledge, and worship, if you please, to our
respect, and with it all we then begin to see that because of him the
world is the better place for us to live and work in.
We find that, after all, we may be social psychologists and hero
worshippers as well. And by being philosophers we have made our
worship more an act of tribute to human nature. The heathen who bows
in apprehension or awe before the image of an unknown god may be
rendering all the worship he knows; but the soul that finds its
divinity by knowledge and love has communion of another kind. So the
worship which many render to the unexplained, the fantastic, the
cataclysmal--this is the awe that is born of ignorance. Given a
philosophy that brings the great into touch with the commonplace, that
delineates the forces which arise to their highest grandeur only in a
man here and there, that enables us to contrast the best in us with
the poverty of him, and then we may do intelligent homage. To know
that the greatest men of earth are men who think as I do, but deeper,
and see the real as I do, but clearer, who work to the goal that I do,
but faster, and serve humanity as I do, but better--that may be an
incitement to my humility, but it is also an inspiration to my life.
LITERATURE[14]
[Footnote 14: Only books in English. The order of mention is without
significance.]
GENERAL PSYCHOLOGY--SYSTEMATIC TREATISES.
Bain, _The Senses and the Intellect_ (New York: Appletons London:
Longmans).
----, _The Emotions and the Will_ (the same).
James, _Principles of Psychology_, 2 vols. (New York: Holt & Co.
London: Macmillans. Abridged in Briefer Course).
Ladd, _Psychology, Descriptive and Explanatory_ (New York: Scribners.
London: Longmans. Abridged in _Elements of Descriptive Psychology_).
Stout, _Analytic Psychology_, 2 vols. (London: Sonnenschein. New York:
Macmillans).
Wundt, _Lectures on Human and Animal Psychology_ (the same).
Höffding, _Outlines of Psychology_ (Macmillans).
Sterrett, _The Power of Thought_ (New York: Scribners).
Baldwin, _Handbook of Psychology_, 2 vols. (New York: Holt. London:
Macmillans. Abridged in _Elements of Psychology_).
----, Articles in _Appletons' Universal Cyclopædia_ (New York:
Appletons).
PSYCHOLOGY OF THE CHILD.
Preyer, _The Mind of the Child_, 2 vols. (New York: Appletons).
Compayré, _Intellectual and Moral Development of the Child_, 2 vols.
(New York: Appletons).
Sully, _Studies of Childhood_ (New York: Appletons. London:
Longmans).
Baldwin, _Mental Development in the Child and the Race_ (New York and
London: Macmillans).
PHYSIOLOGICAL PSYCHOLOGY.
Ziehen, _Introduction to Physiological Psychology_ (London:
Sonnenschein. New York: Macmillans).
Ladd, _Elements of Physiological Psychology_ (New York: Scribners.
London: Longmans. Abridged in _Outlines_).
Donaldson, _The Growth of the Brain_ (London: Walter Scott. New York:
Scribners).
EXPERIMENTAL PSYCHOLOGY.
Külpe, _Outline of Psychology_ (London: Sonnenschein New York:
Macmillans).
Sanford, _Course in Experimental Psychology_ (Boston: Heath & Co.).
Scripture, _The New Psychology_ (London: Walter Scott. New York:
Scribners).
ANIMAL AND EVOLUTION PSYCHOLOGY.
Romanes _Mental Evolution in Animals and Man_, 2 vols. (New York:
Appletons).
----, _Animal Intelligence_ (New York: Appletons).
----, _Darwin and After Darwin_, 3 parts (Chicago: Open Court Company.
London: Longmans).
C. Lloyd Morgan, _Comparative Psychology_ (London: W. Scott. New York:
Scribners).
----, _Animal Life and Intelligence_ (London and New York: Arnold).
----, _Habit and Instinct_ (the same).
Groos, _The Play of Animals_ (New York: Appletons. London: Chapman &
Hall).
Spencer, _Principles of Psychology_, 2 vols. (New York: Appletons).
Hudson, _The Naturalist in La Plata_ (London: Chapman & Hall).
Darwin, _Descent of Man_ (New York: Appletons).
-----, _Origin of Species_ (the same).
Wallace, _Darwinism_ (New York and London: Macmillans),
Stanley, _The Evolutionary Psychology of Feeling_ (London:
Sonnenschein, New York: Macmillans).
Baldwin, _Mental Development in the Child and the Race_ (New York and
London: Macmillans).
MENTAL DEFECT AND DISEASE.
Maudsley, _Pathology of Mind_ (Macmillans).
Starr, _Familiar Forms of Nervous Disease_ (New York: Wood).
Collins, _The Faculty of Speech_ (Macmillans).
Hirsch, _Genius and Degeneration_ (Appletons).
Tuke, _Dictionary of Psychological Medicine_ (Philadelphia:
Blakiston).
HYPNOTISM AND ALLIED TOPICS.
Moll, _Hypnotism_ (London: Scott. New York: Scribners).
Binet, _Alterations of Personality_ (New York: Appletons. London:
Chapman & Hall).
Parish, _Hallucinations and Illusions_ (London: Scott. New York:
Scribners).
SOCIAL AND ETHICAL PSYCHOLOGY.
Tarde, _The Laws of Imitation_ (New York: Holt).
Le Bon, _The Crowd_ (London: Scott. New York: Scribners)
Royce, _Studies in Good and Evil_ (Appletons).
Baldwin, _Social and Ethical Interpretations in Mental Development_
(Macmillans).
EDUCATIONAL PSYCHOLOGY.
Spencer, _On Education_ (Appletons).
Guyau, _Education and Heredity_ (Scribners).
Herbart, _The Application of Psychology to Education_ (Scribners).
Harris, _The Psychologic Foundations of Education_ (Appletons).
PHILOSOPHY.
Paulsen, _Introduction to Philosophy_ (Holt).
Royce, _The Spirit of Modern Philosophy_ (Boston: Houghton, Mifflin &
Co.).
Ormond, _Basal Concepts in Philosophy_ (Scribners).
James, _The Will to Believe_ (Longmans).
PSYCHOLOGY AND PHILOSOPHY (over the whole field),
_Baldwin's Dictionary of Philosophy and Psychology_, with full
bibliographies, French, German, and Italian equivalents, etc.
(Macmillans).
UNCLASSIFIED.
Spencer, _Principles of Sociology_ (Appletons).
Giddings, _Principles of Sociology_ (Macmillans).
Mackensie, _Introduction to Social Philosophy_ (Macmillans).
Marshall, _Pain, Pleasure, and Æsthetics_ (Macmillans).
Galton, _Inquiries into Human Faculty_ (Macmillans).
----, _Natural Inheritance_ (Macmillans).
Pearson, _The Chances of Death_ (Arnold).
JOURNALS.
_The Psychological Review_ (Macmillans, all departments).
_The American Journal of Psychology_ (Worcester: Orpha, experimental).
_Mind_ (London: Williams & Norgate, mainly for philosophy).
INDEX
A.
Abnormal psychology, 4.
Aboulia, 119.
Action, 16, 22.
See Conduct.
Æsthetic feeling, 46, 133.
Algebra, study of, 187, 188.
Amnesia, 118.
Anæsthesia, 158.
Animal psychology, 2, 24, 55.
Animals, instinct of, 25;
intelligence of, 36;
mind in, 1, 24;
play of, 43.
Ants, instinct of, 26.
Aphasia, 114, 132, 190;
auditory, 116, 132;
motor, 114, 132;
sensory, 115;
visual, 116, 132.
Apperception, 12, 15, 17, 42, 108, 121.
Assimilation, 14, 41, 133.
Association of ideas, 11, 13, 15, 18, 39, 42, 76.
Attention, 76, 121, 182, 191.
Auto-suggestion, 151, 163.
B.
Bashfulness, 87 note.
Bees, instinct of, 26.
Birds, instinct of, 26.
Body, relation of mind to, 101.
Brain, 102.
C.
Cat, instinct of, 25.
Catalepsy, 158.
Cerebellum, 107.
Chance, vii.
Child, development of the, 28, 37, 50, 76, 167.
Child Psychology, 2, 25, 37, 51.
Children, play games of, 95.
Christian Science, 120.
"Chumming," 93.
Cold sensations, 124.
Colour blindness, 63.
Colour sensations, 62, 64.
Comparative psychology, 2, 24.
Concept, the, 42.
Conduct, 9, 16.
See Action.
Contrariness in children, 86, 157.
Contrary suggestion, 157.
Contrast, law of visual, 136.
Control suggestion, 156.
Copora striata, 107.
Cortex of brain, 105, 108.
Criminals, 205.
Cures, mental, 120.
D.
Darwin, Charles, 229.
Degeneracy, 104, 122, 226.
Dextrality, 53, 69.
Diseases of mind, 4, 101, 114.
Distance, perception of, 64, 66.
Dog, instinct of, 26, 39.
Doubting insanity, 139.
Dual personality, 118.
E.
Eccentricity, 176.
Educational psychology, 5, 166.
Ejective self, 90.
Electric stimulus, 103.
Emotional expressions, 22.
Environment, 24.
Equivalents, kinesthetic, 20, 28, 38, 112.
Ethical sense, the, 90.
Evolution, theory of, vi, 24, 31, 33, 54, 202, 229.
Exaltation, sense, 153.
Exaltation of the faculties in hypnosis, 160.
Excitement, 21.
Experimental psychology, 4, 101, 122.
Experimenting with children, 6, 57, 61.
Expressions of emotions, 22.
Extirpation method, 102.
F.
Feeling, 10, 21.
Fluid attention, 182.
G.
Galvanometer experiment, 103.
Games, of animals, 42;
of children, 95;
value of, 50.
Generalization, 41, 181.
Genetic psychology, 2.
Genius, 208, 211.
Geometry, study of, 187, 188.
Grammar, study of, 187, 188, 197.
Guessing, 189, 198.
H.
Habit, 77, 80, 168, 192.
Hallucination, 12.
Heating, 10.
Heat and cold sensations, 10, 124.
Heredity, 32, 58, 75,95, 169, 177, 200, 204, 218.
Heredity, social, 200.
Hypnotic cures, 164.
Hypnotism, 17, 121, 148, 158.
I.
Idiocy, 205.
Illusions, 12;
optical, 132.
Imagination, 12, 17, 22, 214.
Imitation, 28, 38, 47, 53, 78, 80, 88, 91, 211;
persistent, 39.
Individual psychology, 5.
Inhibitory suggestion, 155, 170.
Insanity, 205.
Inspiration, 227.
Instinct, 17, 25;
lapsed intelligence theory, 31;
reflex theory, 30, 34;
theory of, 26.
Intelligence, 36, 214;
animal, 36.
Intoxication, 102, 104.
Introspection, 3, 8.
Invention, 211.
J.
Judgement, 133, 208, 220.
K.
Kinæsthetic equivalents, 20, 28, 38, 112.
Kindergarten, value of, 175.
Knowledge, 9, 13, 22.
L.
Laboratories, psychological, 132.
Language, study of, 183, 197.
Lapsed intelligence theory of instinct, 31.
Left-handedness, 53, 69.
Levels, of brain functions, 105.
Life, sensory and motor periods of, 167.
Localization of brain inactions, 102, 104.
M.
"Make-believe," in animals and children, 45.
Mathematics, study of, 187, 197.
Medulla, 105.
Memory, 11, 12, 18, 22, 76, 138, 150;
defects of, 118.
Mental pathology, 4, 101.
Mind cure, 120.
Mind, of animals, 1, 24;
relation of body to, 101.
Monkeys, instinct of, 26, 39.
Motives, 18.
Motor centres of brain, 111
Motor period, 167.
Motor suggestion, 17, 67, 80.
Muscle sensations, 10.
Musical expression, 76.
N.
Natural selection, 202.
O.
Optic thalami, 107.
Optical illusion, 132.
Organic selection, principle of, 34, 50.
Organic sensations, 10.
P.
Pain, 21, 156.
Pain-movement-pleasure, 83.
Pathology, mental, 4, 101.
Pedagogical psychology, 5.
Perception, 12, 17, 22.
Personality, dual, 118.
Personality suggestion, 80.
Phrenology, unreliableness of, 117.
Physiological psychology, 4, 101, 122.
Play of animals, 43;
of children, 95.
Pleasure, 21, 156.
Post-hypnotic suggestion, 160.
Projection fibres, 109.
Psychology, 1, 55;
abnormal, 4;
animal, 2, 24;
child, 2, 25, 37, 51;
comparative, 2, 24;
educational, 5, 166;
experimental, 4, 101, 122;
genetic, 2;
individual, 5;
introspective, 3, 8;
pedagogical, 5;
physiological, 4, 101, 122;
race, 6;
social, 6, 200;
variational, 5.
Punishment, effect of, 172.
R.
Race psychology, 6.
Rapport, 161.
Reaction-time experiments, 126.
Reason in animals, 31.
Reasoning, 11, 13, 17.
Recept, the, 41.
Reception, 10.
Re-evolution, 122.
Reflex actions, 57, 105, 53.
Reflex theory of instinct, 30, 34.
Right-handedness, 53, 69.
Rolandic region, 112.
S.
Schools, public, advantages of, 95;
dangers of, 61.
Selection, natural, 31, 202;
organic, 34, 50.
Self-consciousness, 43, 54, 80, 86.
Self-suggestion, 151.
Sensation, 10, 21, 22, 107, 109, 146, 179.
Senses, the, 10, 101, 107, 109.
Sense exaltation, 153.
Sensory period, 167.
Sentiment, 23.
Sexes, difference in mental disposition, 176.
Sight, 10;
experiments on, 132.
Smell, 10.
Social heredity, 200;
social psychology, 6, 200.
Social sense, the, 90.
Somnambulism, 153, 159.
Speech, 75, 79; defects of, 114.
Speech zone, 56, 109, 112.
Spinal cord, 105.
Spiritual healing, 120.
Statistical method of investigation, 143.
Stimulation, artificial, 103.
Subconscious suggestion, 149.
Suggestion, 17, 21, 67, 80, 120, 145, 148, 168, 172.
Suggestion, motor, 80.
T.
Taste, 10.
Temperature sense, 10, 124.
Thought, 9, 11, 12, 21, 23.
Thought-transference, 120.
Touch, 10.
Toxic method, 104.
Tune suggestions, 149.
V.
Variation, 202;
theory of, 30, 218.
Variational psychology, 5.
Vision, 133.
Visual type of mind, 128, 193.
W.
Will, 19, 78;
defects of, 119
Writing, 14, 79.
THE END.
* * * * *
THE
LIBRARY OF USEFUL STORIES
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THE STORY OF EXTINCT CIVILIZATIONS OF THE WEST. By
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THE STORY OF ANIMAL LIFE. By B. LINDSAY.
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THE STORY OF THE BRITISH RACE. By JOHN MUNRO, C.E.
THE STORY OF GEOGRAPHICAL DISCOVERY. By JOSEPH JACOBS.
THE STORY OF THE COTTON PLANT. By F. WILKINSON, F.G.S.
THE STORY OF THE MIND. By Prof. J. MARK BALDWIN.
THE STORY OF PHOTOGRAPHY. By ALFRED T. STORY.
THE STORY OF LIFE IN THE SEAS. By SYDNEY J. HICKSON.
THE STORY OF GERM LIFE. By H. W. CONN.
THE STORY OF THE EARTH'S ATMOSPHERE. By D. ARCHIBALD.
THE STORY OF EXTINCT CIVILIZATIONS OF THE EAST. By
ROBERT ANDERSON. M.A., F.A.S.
THE STORY OF ELECTRICITY. By JOHN MUNRO, C.E.
THE STORY OF A PIECE OF COAL. By E. A. MARTIN, F.G.S.
THE STORY OF THE SOLAR SYSTEM. By G. F. CHAMBERS, F.R.A.S.
THE STORY OF THE EARTH. By H. G. SEELEY, F.R.S.
THE STORY OF THE PLANTS. By GRANT ALLEN.
THE STORY OF "PRIMITIVE" MAN. By EDWARD CLODD.
THE STORY OF THE STARS. By G. F. CHAMBERS, F.R.A.S.
OTHERS IN PREPARATION.
* * * * *
PROF. JOSEPH LE CONTE'S WORKS.
_ELEMENTS OF GEOLOGY._ A Text-Book for Colleges and for the General
Reader. With upward of 900 Illustrations. New and enlarged edition.
8vo. Cloth, $4.00.
"Besides preparing a comprehensive text-book suited to present
demands, Professor Le Conte has given us a volume of great value as an
exposition of the subject, thoroughly up to date. The examples and
applications of the work are almost entirely derived from this
country, so that it may be properly considered an American geology. We
can commend this work without qualification to all who desire an
intelligent acquaintance with geological science, as fresh, lucid,
full, and authentic, the result of devoted study and of long
experience in teaching."--_Popular Science Monthly._
_EVOLUTION AND ITS RELATION TO RELIGIOUS THOUGHT._ With numerous
Illustrations. New and enlarged edition. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
"The questions suggested by this title must weigh with more or less
persistence on the mind of every intelligent and liberal thinker....
The man who can keep his science and his religion in two boxes, either
of which may be opened separately is to be congratulated. Many of us
can not, and his peace of mind we can not attain. Therefore every
contribution toward a means of clearer vision is most welcome, above
all when it comes from one who knows the ground on which he stands,
and has conquered his right to be there.... Professor Le Conte is a
man in whom reverence and imagination have not become desiccated by a
scientific atmosphere, but flourish, in due subordination and control,
to embellish and vivify his writings. Those who know them have come to
expect a peculiar alertness of mind and freshness of method in any new
work by this author, whether his conclusions be such as they are ready
to receive or not."--_The Nation._
_RELIGION AND SCIENCE._ A Series of Sunday Lectures on the Relation of
Natural and Revealed Religion, or the Truths revealed in Nature and
Scripture. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
"We commend the book cordially to the regard of all who are interested
in whatever pertains to the discussion of these grave questions, and
especially to those who desire to examine closely the strong
foundations on which the Christian faith is reared,"--_Boston
Journal_.
_SIGHT._ An Exposition of the Principles of Monocular and Binocular
Vision. With Illustrations, 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
"Professor Le Conte has long been known as an original investigator in
this department; all that he gives us is treated with a master hand.
It is pleasant to find an American book that can rank with the very
best of foreign books on this subject."-_The Nation._
* * * * *
A STUDY IN PSYCHOLOGY.
Genius and Degeneration.
By Dr. WILLIAM HIRSCH. With a Preface by Prof. Dr. E. Mendel.
Translated from the second edition of the German work. Large 8vo,
uniform with Nordau's "Degeneration." Cloth, $3.50.
Dr. Hirsch's acute and suggestive study of modern tendencies was begun
before "Degeneration" was published, with the purpose of presenting
entirely opposite deductions and conclusions. The appearance of Dr.
Nordau's famous book, with its criticisms upon Dr. Hirsch's position,
enabled the latter to extend the scope of his work, which becomes a
scientific answer to Dr. Nordau, although this was not his specific
purpose originally. Dr. Nordau has startled the reading world by his
cry of "Degeneration"; Dr. Hirsch opposes his conclusions by
demonstrating the difference between "Genius" and "Degeneration," and
analyzing the social, literary, and artistic manifestations of the day
dispassionately and with a wealth of suggestive illustrations.
"The first intelligent, rational, and scientific study of a great
subject.... In the development of his argument Dr. Hirsch frequently
finds it necessary to attack the positions assumed by Nordau and
Lombroso, his two leading adversaries.... Only calm and sober reason
endure. Dr. Hirsch possesses that calmness and sobriety. His work will
find a permanent place among the authorities of science."--_New York
Herald_.
"Dr. Hirsch's researches are intended to bring the reader to the
conviction that 'no psychological meaning can be attached to the word
genius.'... While all men of genius have common traits, they are not
traits characteristic of genius; they are such as are possessed by
other men, and more or less by all men.... Dr. Hirsch believes that
most of the great men, both of art and science, were misunderstood by
their contemporaries, and were only appreciated after they were
dead."--_Miss J. L. Gilder in the Sunday World._
"'Genius and Degeneration' ought to be read by every man and woman who
professes to keep in touch with modern thought. It is deeply
interesting and so full of information that by intellectual readers it
will be seized upon with avidity."--_Buffalo Commercial._
* * * * *
"A SUBJECT GREAT AND FASCINATING."
Degeneration.
By Professor MAX NORDAU. Translated from the second edition of the
German work. 8vo. Cloth, $3.50.
"A powerful, trenchant, savage attack on all the leading literary and
artistic idols of the time by a man of great intellectual power,
immense range of knowledge, and the possessor of a lucid style rare
among German writers, and becoming rarer everywhere, owing to the very
influences which Nordau attacks with such unsparing energy, such eager
hatred."--_London Chronicle_.
"Let us say at once that the English-reading public should be grateful
for an English rendering of Max Nordau's polemic. It will provide
society with a subject that may last as long as the present
government.... We read the pages without finding one dull, sometimes
in reluctant agreement, sometimes with amused contempt, sometimes with
angry indignation."--_London Saturday Review_.
"Herr Nordau's book fills a void, not merely in the systems of
Lombroso, as he says, but in all existing systems of English and
American criticism with which we are acquainted. It is not literary
criticism pure and simple, though it is not lacking in literary
qualities of a high order, but it is something which has long been
needed, for of literary criticism, so called, good, bad, and
indifferent, there is always an abundance: but it is scientific
criticism--the penetration to and the interpretation of the spirit
within the letter, the apprehension of motives as well as means and
the comprehension of temporal effects as well as final results, its
explanation, classification, and largely condemnation, for it is not a
healthy condition which he has studied, but its absence, its loss; it
is degeneration.... He has written a great book, which every
thoughtful lover of art and literature and every serious student of
sociology and morality should read carefully and ponder slowly and
wisely."--_Richard Henry Stoddard in the Mail and Express_.
* * * * *
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY'S PUBLICATIONS
_EVOLUTION OF MAN AND CHRISTIANITY._
New edition. By the Rev. HOWARD MACQUEARY. With a new Preface, in
which the Author answers his Critics, and with some important
Additions. 12mo. Cloth, $1.75.
"This is a revised and enlarged edition of a book published last year.
The author reviews criticisms upon the first edition, denies that he
rejects the doctrine of the incarnation, admits his doubts of the
physical resurrection of Christ, and his belief in evolution. The
volume is to be marked as one of the most profound expressions of the
modern movement toward broader theological positions."--_Brooklyn
Times_.
_HISTORY OF THE CONFLICT BETWEEN RELIGION AND SCIENCE._ By Dr. JOHN
WILLIAM DRAPER. 12mo, Cloth, $1.75.
"The keynote to this volume is found in the antagonism between the
progressive tendencies of the human mind and the pretensions of
ecclesiastical authority, as developed in the history of modern
science. No previous writer has treated the subject from this point of
view, and the present monograph will be found to possess no less
originality of conception than vigor of reasoning and wealth of
erudition."--_New York Tribune_.
_A CRITICAL HISTORY OF FREE THOUGHT IN REFERENCE TO THE CHRISTIAN
RELIGION._ By Rev. Canon ADAM STOREY FARRAR, D. D., F. R. S., etc.
12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
"A conflict might naturally be anticipated between the reasoning
faculties of man and a religion which claims the right, on superhuman
authority, to impose limits on the field or manner of their exercise.
It is the chief of the movements of free thought which it is my
purpose to describe, in their historic succession and their connection
with intellectual causes. We must ascertain the facts, discover the
causes, and read the moral."--_The Author._
_CREATION OR EVOLUTION? A Philosophical Inquiry._ By GEORGE TICKNOR
CURTIS, 12mo. Cloth, $2.00.
"A treatise on the great question of Creation or Evolution by one who
is neither a naturalist nor theologian, and who does not profess to
bring to the discussion a special equipment in either of the sciences
which the controversy arrays against each other, may seem strange at
first sight; but Mr. Curtis will satisfy the reader, before many pages
have been turned, that he has a substantial contribution to make to
the debate, and that his book is one to be treated with respect. His
part is to apply to the reasonings of the men of science the rigid
scrutiny with which the lawyer is accustomed to test the value and
pertinency of testimony, and the legitimacy of inferences from
established facts."--_New York Tribune_.
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
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