CHAPTER XII

SELF AND CONSCIOUSNESS

The savage commonly fancies that the link between a name and the person denominated by it is a real and substantial bond. In fact, primitive man regards his name as a vital portion of himself, and takes care of it accordingly.—Sir JAMES FRAZER

§ 73. =The Concept of Self.=—We said on p. 9 that the word _mind_ is used by the psychologist as an inclusive name for all the phenomena of the psychological world, that is to say, of the world _with man left in_. We then found, on p. 10, that the _man left in_ reduces to a functional nervous system. This means, of course, that there are as many psychological worlds as there are separate nervous systems; so that _the_ psychological world, which the psychologist tries to describe, is in reality an average or generalize world; though the observations upon which his descriptions rest are always made upon this or that particular world. The same thing holds of any science. A boy picks up a bit of jagged stone, and with a jerk of his wrist flips it across the road. No physicist could tell you the exact course described by that stone, and no physicist wants to. Physics deals with the ideal course of ideal projectiles hurled under fixed conditions; the boy and the jerk and the jagged stone are all generalised away into some mathematically smooth trajectory. The observations of physics, on the other hand, are made by men working under conditions that are not ideal, and using instruments that differ from the wrist and the stone only in degree, not in kind; the smooth curve is derived from data all of which have their margin of empirical error.

Psychology, however, just because it has to do with a world in which man himself remains, is in a different case from the physical sciences; it has to take account of the =self=. _The concept of self is not solely psychological_; it is a common-sense concept; and like all the constructions of common sense it has three sides, philosophical, practical, and scientific. It is _philosophical_, in so far as it involves an attempt to explain or to rationalise the facts of observation; and it evidently does that; the notion of self is a way of explaining the continuity of memory and of conduct; I remember my past because I am I, and I behave in this way or that because it is ‘like me’ to do so. The concept is also _practical_; common sense rates a self as gifted or energetic or lazy or improvident; it is always valuing or estimating some Him or Her, some You or Me. It is further _scientific_, that is, psychological; for the self thus rated is some particular combination of talent, temperament and character, and the continuity which the self explains is some particular mental constitution, intellectual, emotive, active; one cannot at all define the ‘person’ or ‘individual’ of common sense without using psychological terms. So that psychology, if only in self-defence, must have its say in the matter, and must recast the self from its own point of view.

The recasting is not difficult. _A self, in the psychological sense, is one of the particular psychological worlds._ It is not mind, but _a_ mind, the mental phenomena correlated with a particular nervous system, and arranged and determined in accordance with the tendencies of that system. We have made no mention of it hitherto, in this book, because our main business has been with general psychology, and we have had no need of it. Psychology, however, does not confine itself to the generalised world: and that is how it comes to be in different case from the physical sciences, and takes account, not only in self-defence, of the concept of self. If you go back to pp. 31 f., you will note that there is a =differential psychology=, a psychology of individual differences, as well as a general psychology. The variation of mental processes from observer to observer, and the limits and manner of this variation, are indeed just as much matter of observable fact, and therefore just as proper a subject for scientific enquiry, as their uniformity; and as the incidents of a man’s career may be set forth objectively, without praise or blame, in a biography, so may his psychological self, his mental processes in correlation with his nervous system, be set forth in a =psychography=. We ourselves, although we have been occupied with general psychology, and have for the most part spoken of ‘practised observers’ as a physicist might speak of ‘a sensitive galvanometer,’ without going into particulars,—we ourselves have, nevertheless, found frequent occasion to mention individual differences. The facts that we have thus touched upon incidentally are worked up, systematically, by differential psychology.

The concept of self is, however, a common-sense concept; it has, as we have seen, its practical side; and you will understand, therefore, that _the differential study of selves has a high practical importance_. Such a study is not rigorously or exclusively psychological. But since certain ‘mental traits,’ and certain combinations of them, may render a man fit or unfit for a proposed business or profession, it is important to know in what degree these traits are present; and here the psychologist is of assistance; he has helped to devise ‘mental tests’ which serve to identify and measure them. It is also especially important to know what traits are likely to be found together, and in what degree. This problem has been vigorously attacked, of recent years, on the side of intellect; and while the details belong to a chapter in practical psychology (p. 33) which we cannot here open, there is one result, at any rate, which should find a place in a scientific text-book. There seems to be no doubt that _the individual nervous system possesses, over and above its special habits, susceptibilities, tendencies, and activities, a characteristic manner of functioning at large_; so that a =common or general factor= enters into all the special intellectual responses that are called forth by particular situations. It is not easy to make this result clear to the reader, mainly because no one has as yet a clear idea of what the common or general factor is; we have good evidence that it exists, but we can say very little more about it. Different names have been given to it: ‘energy of attention,’ ‘general ability,’ ‘intellective energy,’ ‘general intelligence’; but they indicate the way in which it manifests itself, and not its own nature; the best name for the present is the vague ‘general common factor.’ We do not know, either, upon what it depends: on blood-supply, perhaps, or on the arrangement of nervous structures, or on some individual ‘quality’ of the nervous elements, or perhaps on something else that we cannot even guess at. What it does is to hold a man’s intellectual traits together and to enter into the exhibition of them all; _it is thus, from the psychological point of view, a sort of supreme determining tendency, guiding all mental processes whatsoever into the channels of intellectual selfhood_. Whether there is a like general factor on the emotive side, and whether ‘emotive energy’ is of the same kind as this ‘intellective energy,’ cannot be said.

One further point! We have been careful, in dealing with the common-sense concept of self, to distinguish its three aspects, philosophical, practical, scientific; but _we have drawn the limits of this self more strictly than everyday usage warrants_; and we must now correct that error. Common sense, as we remarked on p. 2, is likely to confuse the Me with the Mine, and the Him with the His; the self is extended from personality to possessions. The confusion of Him and His is a natural consequence of the practical reference of the concept; the easiest way to rate or estimate another person is to consider his property, his sphere of influence, his social prominence; and these things, which are a part of the other person’s value, thus become for us a part of himself. The confusion of Me with Mine has a different origin. Intellect, temperament and character are based upon habits, and habits imply an habitual surroundings; we are ‘not ourselves’ when we leave our accustomed groove. No doubt, each of these sources of confusion intermingles with the other; we are not concerned, however, to follow them in detail.

§ 74. =The Persistence of the Self.=—A full account of the self of common sense, in so far as this self calls for psychological treatment, belongs to social and not to general psychology; and the discussion therefore falls outside the scope of the present book. We must, however, say a word about that _observed continuity of memory and conduct_ which the concept of self, on its philosophical side, professes to explain (p. 308); for the notion of the =persistence of the self= has had a marked influence, as we shall see in § 75, upon this chapter of general psychology.

_We are all of us disposed to take the persistence of the self for granted._ Do I not now remember what I did and thought and felt when I was a small child? and do I not now act in accordance with my character, as family and friends expect me to act? Surely the thing is obvious: the organism is physically continuous, from infancy to old age; a likeness of interest, of skill, of aptitudes, may be traced from childhood to manhood; and the discovery of the ‘general common factor’ in the intellectual sphere only confirms what we knew before. The child becomes the adult, and the adult passes into senility, while the self remains the same,—growing and developing and shrinking, to be sure, but essentially unchanged throughout. _That is the natural view_; and for the most part it goes unchallenged.

_Let us see, however, whether it may not be questioned._ We remember; that is true; but we also forget. The fact that certain past events are remembered tells more heavily, in common-sense thinking, than the fact that very many past events are forgotten, simply because it is human nature, as Bacon said, to give more weight to positive than to negative instances; but science does not emphasize; science takes all the facts at the same level. The organism, again, is physically continuous, and ‘the child is father of the man’; but who makes these observations? Not I, who am the continuous organism, but—in the first instance, at any rate—my fellow-men, those who are about me; and my fellow-men clinch their observations by the bestowal upon me of a personal name. In primitive thought, the superstitions that connect the name with the personality are legion; and even to-day our own name is warmly intimate, a very factor of our self. This name, which forms part of us and holds us together all through life, comes nevertheless from the outside; we do not name ourselves! Consider, further, the influence of language in general. It is clear that language, as it developed forms of speech in accordance with the common-sense notion of self, would powerfully reinforce that notion; the words and phrases which at first expressed ideas would come, in time, to shape or suggest ideas. The common-sense view is thus accepted as natural; but there is no proof that it is correct.

Suppose, then, that we openly challenge that view; _what can we urge against it?_ We find, first of all, that _language_ bears witness against itself. We say that a man is at times ‘out of himself,’ ‘not himself,’ ‘beside himself’; we say that he forgets, surpasses, loses, disregards, neglects, discredits, contradicts himself; we say that he does himself injustice, that he cannot contain himself, and so forth. Our _daily life_ bears witness to the same effect. A man may be suave and affable in business and a veritable bear at home; and the man who sits as judge upon the bench, and plays a beginner’s game upon the golf-course, and carries his little son pick-a-back to bed, is he the same self in all three situations? There are changes of selfhood so abrupt that they remind us of the ‘mutations’ of the biologists: religious conversion, loss of fortune, sudden elevation to a position of responsibility, disappointment in love, may make ‘another man’ of the man we knew. The seven ages, we might almost say, correspond with as many different selves; it is a common remark that so-and-so has not fulfilled the promise of his youth, and that so-and-so is no longer the man he was. _Pathology_ brings corroboration of the most striking kind; there are cases of =dual or multiple personality=, in which the same ‘individual’ shows at different times very marked differences of intelligence, emotivity and conduct, differences so marked that the same organism appears as two or more distinct ‘selves’; and these selves may be wholly separate in experience, so that one self has no knowledge or memory of the experiences of another. Here, therefore, the abnormal is a more trenchant and clean-cut figure of the normal; it is the normal carried, so to say, to its logical extreme. The judge delivering a charge does not think of his golf, and the irritated golf-player does not think of his charge; but in the abnormal cases the division may be complete; the one ‘personality’ _cannot_ think of the other.

_If, then, there are facts which look toward the persistence and continuity and stability of the self, there are also other facts which look toward impermanence and discontinuity and instability._ Common sense has laid stress upon the positive evidence, and has enshrined in language the concept of a persistent and continuous self. This one-sided attitude, as we are now to see, has had its effect upon psychology. We have carried the present analysis only so far as was necessary for our own purposes; the full psychological discussion of the self of common sense belongs, as we said just now, to another branch of the science.

§ 75. =The Self in Experience.=—So far, we have been discussing the psychological self as viewed, so to say, from the outside; we have found out what the word ‘self’ means when it is used as a technical term like ‘mind’ or ‘memory.’ We have now to raise a different question, and to ask: _How is_ =myself= _represented in experience?_ There are very many occasions when the organism is, literally, thrown back on _itself_, when it meets a situation by a _self_-response; what mental processes are then involved?

Self, in such cases, is a meaning; and, in principle, _any mental process whatsoever may represent the self_ (or the phase or feature of the self that is called forth by the situation) _if its context and determination carry the meaning of selfhood_. We can hardly expect, however, that the context and determination will be explicit, a group of mental processes lying open to observation. For the meaning of self is very old in human history; and we learn from early childhood to speak a language in which it is already stereotyped, a language which bristles with _I_ and _my_. We shall say more about language later. Meantime, you see that these are just the circumstances in which context and determination cease to be explicit, and reduce to a set or disposition of the nervous system (p. 120). Hence we must be satisfied to distinguish the _forms_ in which the self-experience appears, and to discover what _particular mental processes_, if any, fall characteristically into these self-forms. In other words, we enquire whether the self-meaning attaches to a perception, or an idea, or a feeling, and so on down the list; and we enquire also whether the self-perception or self-idea, or whatever the form may be, is characteristically visual or auditory or kinæsthetic, and so on. In principle, remember, any form and any kind of process may represent the self, provided that the self-context and the self-determination are somehow there; we are now to gather observations, and to see what forms and what processes do, in fact, represent the self in our experience.

Let us begin, however, by clearing out of the way certain =erroneous views= that have appeared in psychology under the influence of common sense. Since the self of common sense is persistent, it has been argued that the self-experience must also be continuous; and psychologists, instead of going to the facts, have tried to find a basis in experience for this supposed continuity. _It is sometimes said, for instance, that all mental processes alike are essentially self-processes_; _because_ they are processes within a particular psychological world, _because_ they belong to a self, _therefore_ they have the character of selfness stamped upon them, and are known and experienced as processes-of-me. Does that view seem to you to be natural and reasonable? But consider the logic of it; try a parallel argument! We might as well say that _because_ every native-born American belongs to the group of American citizenship, _therefore_ he is always aware that he is an American citizen; or that _because_ a certain man is wealthy, _therefore_ he is always aware of his possessions. The fallacy is plain. _It is sometimes said, again, that not all mental processes alike, but only the feeling-processes_—sense-feelings, emotions, sentiments, feeling-attitudes—_have this character of selfness stamped upon them_; the feelings are ‘subjective’ experiences, and therefore being with them a reference to the self. The confusion is the same as that which we have just pointed out; it is argued that, because all the feeling-processes _are_ subjective (we need not enquire too curiously what that word means!), therefore they must always _mean_ the great subjective thing, the self; because a man _is_ wealthy, therefore his wealth must always _mean_ wealth to him; whereas it may, in various circumstances, mean an oil-painting or a steam-yacht. There is, however, another objection. This view maintains that feeling-processes of some kind are always present in experience; otherwise, indeed, they could not continuously refer to self; but observation shows that much of our experience is indifferent, without tinge of feeling. _It is sometimes said, once more, that the organic sensations are the peculiar self-experiences_; they are always with us, forming a constant background of self, upon which our other and less stable experiences come and go. But it may be doubted whether these sensations are continuous; at any rate, they vary enormously in intensity and in their appeal to the attention. An experience of nausea is overwhelming; but need there be, in perfect health, any sensation whatever from heart-beat or breathing or digestion? Moreover, the logic of the position is still unsound. For a continuous experience is not necessarily the experience of something continuous; the fact that a man is all the while wealthy does not imply that he is continually realising his wealth.

Having thus cleared the ground of bad argument, we may turn to the facts of observation. The question whether the self-experience is or is not continuous we leave, for the moment, entirely open. We ask, first: _In what form or forms does this self-experience occur?_ and the answer is: In all possible forms. We may _perceive_ ourself, as when we consult the glass to make sure that we look all right; we may have an _idea_ of ourself, in memory or imagination; we may have a _feeling_ of self, when we are lonely or vexed or ill at ease; we may have a _concept_ of self, as when we say emphatically in conversation ‘_I_ can’t conceive of so-and-so’; we may have all sorts of _self-attitudes_, intellectual and emotive. Any form of mental connection may appear under a determination, or in a context, that gives it the meaning of self; only be clear that it is always the determination or context, and not the form, which is recept; ponsible for the selfness of the experience. We look in the glass, time and again, without having a self-perception; and we are often lonely and uncomfortable, without having a self-feeling; and we may say ‘I’ a hundred times over, without having a self-concept. The setting is what gives the self-meaning to the experience.

We ask, secondly: _Are there any particular mental processes that enter characteristically into the self-forms?_ and here the answer is less easy. We have seen that language has a large number of self-words ready made for us to use; and we learn in our early years—sometimes painfully enough—to connect the self with our body. So the perceived self tends to be a visual perception of the body, or of some part of it; the felt self tends to be a blend of feeling with kinæsthetic and organic sensation (these processes are, indeed, regular components of feelings and mental attitudes); while the conceived self is, of course, a matter of verbal perception and idea,—ordinarily, that is, a matter of auditory-kinæsthetic complexes. If, however, these processes are characteristic, we have no evidence that they are essential; continued observation would probably show that the self-meaning may attach to all sorts of processes, as it is carried by all sorts of forms, so that tones and touches, tastes and smells, may on occasion come to us as the experienced Me.

On the whole, therefore, what holds in principle of the _form of the self-experience_ holds also in observable fact; the experience may take all possible forms; though, in a given mind, some forms may appear more frequently than others. Within the different forms, on the other hand, there seems to be a tendency toward the appearance of _particular mental processes_, those concerned in the visual perception of the body, in felt organic stir and in verbal perceptions and ideas. And now, _what of continuity_?

Prejudice is strong; but you must be ready to discard it. _Experimental and everyday observation both testify, when the question is directly put, to the intermittence of the self-experience._ We are not always aware of our self. The self-experience does not appear, for example, when we are engaged in our ordinary routine employment. It does not appear in concentrated thought; the views and theories which a popular psychology regards as personal are, as a rule, quite selfless in their forming and phrasing. It does not appear when we are absorbed in a novel, or a play, or the hearing of music. It need not appear in many of the situations that are designated by self-words. The very fact that we can call it up at will, that we can ‘come to ourselves’ whenever we like, indicates that it is not always present in our experience. _It is the specific expression of a special determination_; and the frequency of the determination varies, we must suppose, in different cases; some of us are continually recurring to a self-experience, while others find it a more casual visitor.

You should not accept this conclusion blindly; you may test it in your own experience. Notice meanwhile that, if it is sound, it throws further light upon the theories of pp. 316 ff. Mental processes are not always experienced as self-processes, but all mental forms and probably all mental processes may lie under the self-determination. Feelings do not always bring a reference to self, but the self-meaning is very often carried by a feeling. The organic sensations are not always self-experiences, but a self-feeling may be largely composed of organic processes. If we have dismissed the theories themselves, we must still credit them with the measure of truth that they contain.

§ 76. =The Snares of Language.=—You were warned on p. 36 that language may be misleading, and that the phrases which you naturally use oftentimes imply a view of the world, or an attitude towards experience, which is foreign to science. Nowhere, perhaps, is this discrepancy greater than in the phrases which refer to the self. Language, as we know, is older than science, and expresses the results of common-sense interpretation rather than of factual observation. _The self of language is, accordingly; not the psychological self, but the counterpart of the mannikin-mind_ (p. 7); and just as we must be on guard, and remember our psychological definition, whenever in a psychological context we say or think the word ‘mind,’ so must we be on guard against the common-sense notion of ‘self’ that has insinuated itself into a thousand turns of familiar speech. An observer, describing a particular experience, may say, quite naturally, ‘I find no trace of self-reference!’—and there is no harm done, if we realise that the _I_ of his remark is the traditional self-concept of language, and the _self_ the psychological experience of self; but there may be very great harm, if likeness of words leads us to confound the personal with the impersonal, common sense with science. Only by an unreadable pedantry can we avoid the I-phrases and the other personal sentences; but we must always bear in mind that _language, the very form and structure of it, embodies a theory, an explanation or interpretation of the self_; and that, if we reject this theory, we have to couch our criticism in terms of the theory we reject.

There is another danger. Language has many words which begin with _self_: self-possession, self-assurance, self-consciousness, and the like; and the implication is that the corresponding mental processes represent self-experiences, in the sense of p. 315. But do they? Let us take _self-consciousness_ as an example. A young lecturer stands for the first time upon the platform, and a kindly soul in the audience may murmur: ‘Poor young man! he is dreadfully self-conscious!’ Truly, the signs are there: parched throat, burning cheeks, gasping breath, hoarse and broken voice, moist and trembling hands, uncertainty of all coordinated movements; everything that indicates what the audience, from their external standpoint (p. 313), must regard as self-consciousness; and yet there may be nothing whatever of self-reference in the lecturer’s own experience. He feels timid, excited, heartily uncomfortable; but it is very unlikely that he is thinking of himself; he has too many other things to think of! Suppose that his lecture is a success, and that he steps from the lecture-room in a mood of self-congratulation; he feels relief, relaxation; he ‘glows’ with satisfaction and pride; but, again, there need be no sort of self-reference in his experience. Yet, in writing to a friend about the eventful lecture, he may very well say: ‘I felt terribly self-conscious when I began, but afterwards I really was a bit pleased with myself!’ The personal forms are so natural as to be almost inevitable. How often, when a conversation has languished, do two or three persons with a simultaneous impulse try to revive it—by uttering a long-drawn ‘I’! and how often are we surprised, when we read over a letter just written, to see that every paragraph begins with the same ‘I’! Not by any means necessarily because we are thinking at the time of ourselves, but very likely because we have nothing urgent to say, and so slip instinctively into the commonest and most stereotyped pattern of speech. Language, therefore, is no more than any other movement (p. 232) an index to mind. The I-phrases and the self-words may carry a self-meaning, or they may not; it all depends upon the determination of the moment.

_Do not imagine, however, that psychology alone suffers from this warp and bias of language_! The tendency to personalisation (p. 205), which shows itself in the mannikin-mind and the common-sense self, appears also in the ‘forces’ of physics and the ‘attractions’ of chemistry; and if the psychologist has to clarify the current notions of mind and self, the worker in these other sciences must, on his side, come to terms with a like heritage of equivocal words. All such concepts illustrate the same speculative trend of primitive thinking; and all of them are stumbling-blocks in the path of science.

§ 77. =Consciousness and The Subconscious.=—“Consciousness,” says Professor Ward, “is the vaguest, most protean, and most treacherous of psychological terms”; and Bain, writing in 1880, distinguished no less than thirteen meanings of the word; he could find more to-day! The =ambiguity= of the term seems to be due, in the last resort, to _the running together of two fundamental meanings_, the one of which is scientific or psychological, the other logical or philosophical. _In the latter, the logical meaning, consciousness is awareness or knowledge_, and ‘conscious of’ means ‘aware of’; _in the former, the scientific meaning, consciousness is mental experience_, experience regarded from the psychological point of view, and one can no more use the phrase ‘conscious of’ than one can use ‘mental of.’ If you think how natural it is to say ‘I was conscious of so-and-so,’ you will realise that the logical meaning is generally current; and if you remember that we have the terms ‘mind,’ ‘mental process,’ as names of mental experience, you will see that in psychology the word ‘consciousness’ is unnecessary; we have, in fact, not used it in this book,—until we came upon the popular expression ‘self-consciousness’ in § 76.

We have avoided the word, however, not only because it is unnecessary, but also because the logical or philosophical meaning that it tends to suggest is directly harmful in psychology. For _the psychologist has nothing in the world to do with knowledge or awareness_; he stands, in this regard, upon precisely the same level as the physicist or the chemist. Look up the word _atom_ in a dictionary; you find, perhaps, that it is ‘an ultimate indivisible particle of matter’; and you would smile if you read ‘knowledge of an ultimate indivisible particle of matter.’ Look up _metal_; and you find ‘an elementary substance possessing such and such properties’; you would think it absurd to say ‘an awareness of an elementary substance’ possessing those properties. But now think of _sensation_, which is an elementary mental process (p. 65): you would probably not smile if you found ‘the first stage of knowledge; the elementary way of knowing some phenomenon of the outside world’; and that is because you are thoroughly accustomed to regard consciousness as awareness, and conscious processes as processes which are aware of something beyond themselves. Yet it is every whit as absurd, from the scientific point of view, to make sensation a ‘stage of knowledge’ or a ‘way of knowing’ as it is to define the atom as ‘knowledge’ or the metal as ‘an awareness.’ Science takes experience for granted, deals with the nature of things given (p. 4); so that questions about ‘knowing’ or ‘being aware of’ lie beyond the range of science, whether the particular science is psychology or physics.

You now understand why it is that we have avoided the term ‘consciousness.’ If we had said that _red_ is an elementary conscious process, then you might have supposed that it is an elementary process in or by which you become aware of a red object; whereas, if we say that _red_ is an elementary mental process, you have no reason to think of the red object, since ‘to become mental of a red object’ is not English. It is very likely, all the same, that you _have_ been thinking of the object of knowledge, in spite of the terminology of the book, and in spite of the express warning that science has nothing to do with values or meanings or uses; the statements of a text-book, however emphatic they are, cannot always make headway against ingrained habits of thought and speech. If, then, you have at any point fallen into this mistake (and it may comfort you to know that the author, in his first years of studentship, was trapped by it again and again), go back now and read over the chapters in point; and if you discover that the mistake was partly due to the language there employed, remember that authors are human and that words are very slippery things.

So much of consciousness: what, now, shall we say of the =subconscious=? The term is fashionable; and though we have nowhere used it, we can hardly pass it by without mention. The subconscious may be defined as _an extension of the conscious beyond the limits of observation_. As an extension of the _conscious_, it tends always to be an extension of meaning beyond the _meaning_ of the conscious; we do not hear of a ‘submental.’ As an _extension_ of the conscious, it is always a matter of _inference_; what we cannot observe, we must infer. So there needs no argument to prove that the subconscious is not a part of the subject-matter of psychology. How, then, does it come into psychology?

It comes in as _an explanatory concept_, like the older concept of association (p. 146), to account for, to rationalise, the phenomena that are conscious. We have ourselves been satisfied with description and correlation, and we have therefore confined ourselves to mental and nervous processes which are in principle observable; though we have often enough been obliged to say that the facts, in this or that chapter of psychology or neurology, are few or wanting. There is, however, in many minds, a craving for ‘explanation’; and it must be admitted that such a craving is natural enough; for it shows in every phase of primitive thought, and may be traced throughout the history of science. Think, for instance, of the potency of explanation by ‘cause and effect’!—though when we examine a case of cause and effect we never, in fact, find anything more than correlation. There are many psychologists, then, who cannot be satisfied with description and correlation; they must refer the direction of thought to a ‘subconscious disposition,’ and explain the connections of ideas by ‘subconscious tendencies,’ and so on. They have recourse to the subconscious for purposes of explanation.

We must urge two objections against this mode of psychologising. In the first place, _the construction of a subconscious is unnecessary_. Science is not called upon to ‘explain’ anything; description and correlation are the modern—and more modest—representatives of the ‘explanation’ that an older science looked for and professed to find. Secondly, _the introduction of a subconscious is dangerous_. It is a matter of inference from the conscious; but who shall draw the line, in such a case, between legitimate and illegitimate inference? When from the course of the mental stream and the interplay of mental processes we infer the existence of associative and determining tendencies in the nervous system, our argument is safeguarded. No man, it is true, has seen those tendencies in course; but the inference to them is checked and controlled by the whole vast body of fact and method that makes up modern physiology. Things stand very differently with the subconscious. Here the inference must, it is plain, go beyond the conscious, since its aim is to explain the conscious; yet the conscious facts are all the facts we have; when once we have embarked on the subconscious, there are no more facts to steer by. Henceforth everything depends upon individual preference; and we may have many theories of the subconscious, widely different and equally plausible. The danger is that an erroneous theory of the subconscious distort our view of the conscious.

There is, however, another side to this whole question. _The notion of a subconscious has proved useful in certain fields of practical psychology, and more especially in psychiatry and psychotherapeutics; and in matters of practice utility is a sufficient justification._ Science cannot ask the physician to give up a theory which works. She can only point out that present utility is no test of ultimate truth,—there were plenty of useful inventions in the days when the physics of heat was dominated by the theory of caloric, and the physics of light by the theory of emission!—and that nobody has ever observed, or can ever observe, the subconscious at work; the wonderful things that it does testify rather to their reporter’s thought and imagination, to his conscious ingenuity in explaining, than to the scientific reality of the subconscious itself.

§ 78. =Conclusion.=—So we are at an end; and as you look back over the chapters of the book, you will have your own thoughts about the work done,—about your change of attitude from common sense to psychology, about the nature of mind, when mind is regarded from the scientific point of view, about the difficult or unsatisfactory places in psychology. The author has no wish to disturb these thoughts; every student must sum things up for himself, as every student, if he is to get the scientific point of view, must rely on his own thinking from the beginning (p. 36); for the kingdom of science is not in word but in power. There are, nevertheless, a few considerations that may be set down here, not as a summary made for you by the author, but simply as a general supplement to your own conclusions.

Realise, then, first of all, that _there is nothing in the whole wide world that cannot be psychologised_. Sound and light and heat, law and language and morals, “the whole choir of heaven and furniture of earth,” all alike become subject-matter of psychology if we regard them from the psychological standpoint, as they are in man’s experience (p. 9). The range of psychology is the range of that experience, and nothing more narrow. The psychological point of view is logically coordinate with the point of view of the physical sciences; these describe the world with man left out, psychology describes the world with man left in; but the psychologist surveys the broader field.

Realise, secondly, that _you have the materials and the opportunity of psychological observation always with you_. Truly, we must have laboratories; if we are to attain to accurate and comparable results, we must put ourselves under conditions that can be rigorously controlled. But get the habit of psychological observation, and you will be surprised to find (though it follows, does it not, from the laws of attention?) how much psychology there is in your daily life; how often you can snapshot a baffling experience, and catch a hint of analytical possibilities; how often you light upon something that the text-books do not discuss, but that this habit of observation reveals and places for you. Take the occasions as they come; plenty of good astronomical work has been done with a pair of opera glasses!—and if you cannot, later on, experiment for yourself in a laboratory, at least you have gained a new outlook and a new competence; it is as if you had gained access to a whole literature by the mastery of some foreign language.

Realise, thirdly, that _a system of science, whether the science be psychology or any other, is built up of nothing else than facts and logic_. The facts of observation are the essential things; without them there is no science possible; but logic makes the facts available and rememberable; it groups and classifies, decides the sequence of chapters and paragraphs, points to gaps and discrepancies in the record of facts, governs the whole presentation. So there should be nothing more in a text-book of science than facts and logic. The man of science, trying to answer an unanswered question (p. 277), will guess and forecast and speculate and imagine; and some of his guesses and speculations may be worthy of mention in the history of his science; but there should be no glimmer of them in the scientific system. Science, you remember, is impersonal and disinterested, dry fact and cold logic; there are all sorts of personal adventures and interesting episodes by the way, while science is in the making; but if you have the scientific temperament, you feel the fascination of fact and logic themselves.

And, in any case, they are all that science gives you! So realise, lastly, _the limitations of science; do not expect from it more than it can give_. Over and over you hear it said ‘Science has failed to satisfy us about this’ and ‘Science has shown itself unable to deal with that’; but ask yourself—if you deem the statements true—what are the ‘this’ and the ‘that,’ and whether science ever gave any pledge that she would handle them. Scientific discoveries have had far-reaching consequences for practice, and have changed our whole mode of living; but the fact remains that “the most useful parts of science have been investigated for the sake of truth, and not for their usefulness.” Scientific progress is reflected in the systems of logic and ethics and æsthetics, even in metaphysics itself; but theoretical values lie, as practical values also lie, beyond the purview of the scientific enquirer. Science is bound down from the outset to a certain method, the method of observation; to a certain point of view, the existential as opposed to the significant; to a certain task, the task of description and correlation. Beyond these limits, science has no pretensions; within them, she has accomplished much, and is earnest to accomplish more.

Questions and Exercises

(1) Keep a pad by you for a week, and note down the occasions when your experience is wholly selfless and markedly selfful. Describe, as well as you can, the various self-experiences.

(2) Mention some of the superstitions that connect the name with the personality (p. 313). Is there any echo of these superstitions in our own civilised experience?

(3) On p. 319 a hint is given of the way in which vision, kinæsthesis and organic sensation, and verbal ideas might come to be preferred, as vehicles of the meaning of self. Can you make any further suggestion as regards kinæsthesis and organic sensation?

(4) A well-known medical writer remarks: “Self is stomach. The function of assimilating food is the most fundamental of all the functions; it is antecedent even to locomotion and propagation. Hence anything which directly affects the organism as a whole affects the stomach.” What self is here referred to?

(5) Professor Mach tells the following story. “I got into an omnibus one morning, after a tiring night on the train, just as some one else was entering from the far end. ‘Some broken-down schoolmaster,’ I thought. It was myself; there was a large mirror opposite the omnibus door” (see Analysis of Sensations, 1910, 4). What psychological laws does the story illustrate?

(6) What is meant by the ‘unity of consciousness’?

(7) Sir Walter Scott tells the tale of a boy, always at the top of his class, who, when asked a question, “fumbled with his fingers at a particular button in the lower part of his waistcoat”; Scott cut the button off, and the boy came down from his place of leadership (J. G. Lockhart, Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott, i., 1837, 94). What is the psychology of the incident?

(8) Write a psychological criticism of the following statement: “Alike in conflict, rivalry, sense of liability to punishment or vengeance, etc., the truth is continually being borne in upon the mind of an animal that it is a separate individuality; and this though it be conceded that the animal is never able, even in the most shadowy manner, to think about itself as such. In this way there arises a sort of ‘outward self-consciousness,’ which differs from true or inward self-consciousness only in the absence of any attention being directed upon the inward mental states as such” (G. J. Romanes, Mental Evolution in Man, 1888, 198 f.).

(9) Among the facts which have led to the hypothesis of a subconscious are (_a_) the existence of blind strivings, organic tendencies, etc., for which no conscious antecedent can be discovered; (_b_) the mechanisation of complicated movements, such as piano-playing; (_c_) the appearance in ‘memory’ of ideas which seem to have cropped up of themselves, _i.e._, have no assignable physical or mental condition; (_d_) the phenomena of secondary personality (Dictionary of Philosophy and Psychology, ii., 1902, 606). How does the hypothesis help in such cases? and how does the psychology of this book take account of the facts?

(10) Consider any case of remedial suggestion, of what is popularly called faith-cure, that you happen to know at first-hand. Show how the hypothesis of subconscious agency might naturally occur to one who tries to ‘explain’ the facts, and show how science might deal with them apart from that hypothesis.

(11) (_a_) Satisfy yourself, by the collection of phrases, that the words ‘conscious,’ ‘subconscious,’ ‘unconscious,’ are used in very various meanings. (_b_) What does the word ‘conscious’ mean by derivation? How did it originate?

(12) The complaint is often made that scientific men do not popularise their results. What do you take to be the great stumbling-block in the way of popularisation?

References

W. James, Principles of Psychology, i., 1890, chs. ix., x.; J. Sully, The Human Mind, i., 1892, ch. xii., §§ 25, 26; C. Mercier, Sanity and Insanity, 1899; T. Ribot, The Diseases of Personality, 1895; J. M. Baldwin, Mental Development in the Child and the Race: Methods and Processes, 1906, and Social and Ethical Interpretations in Mental Development, 1906, refs. in indices; W. Wundt, Lectures on Human and Animal Psychology, 1896, and Outlines of Psychology, 1907, refs. in indices; E. B. Titchener, Text-book of Psychology, 1910, 544 ff.; A. Bain, The Emotions and the Will, 1880, 539 ff., 602 ff.; T. Flournoy, From India to the Planet Mars, 1900; M. Prince, The Dissociation of a Personality, 1906, and The Unconscious, 1914; S. Freud, Psychopathology of Everyday Life, 1914; B. Hart and C. Spearman, General Ability, Its Existence and Nature, in the British Journal of Psychology, v., March 1912, 51 ff.

On beliefs connected with names, see E. B. Tylor, Researches into the Early History of Mankind, 1878, 123 ff.; J. G. Frazer, Taboo and the Perils of the Soul, 1911, 318 ff.

APPENDIX

DREAMING AND HYPNOSIS

I am assured that a lady of a well-known court saw in a dream and described to her friends the person she afterwards married, and the hall in which the betrothal was celebrated; and she did this before she had seen or known either the man or the place. They attributed the circumstance to some indefinite secret presentiment; but chance may produce this effect, since it is quite rare that it happens; besides, dream-images being somewhat obscure, there is more liberty in connecting them afterwards with certain others.—GOTTFRIED WILHELM LEIBNIZ

§ 79. =Sleep and Dream.=—The profound sleep that comes to us every night, and that we take entirely as a matter of course, rests without any doubt upon an instinctive tendency; but there can be little doubt, either, that the instinct has been modified in the course of human evolution. _It seems probable, indeed, that profound sleep, the lapse of all but the vegetative organic functions, has been developed from the same fundamental tendency as hypnosis_, so that natural sleep and artificial hypnosis represent two branches which spring from a single stem. This original and instinctive tendency is toward what we may call, in biological phrase, a =partial or defensive sleep=, a rest enjoyed while the animal is still partly on guard. It underlies the sleep of the mother, who is roused at once by the movement of her infant child; the sleep of the nurse, who is awaked by the restlessness of her patient; the sleep of the tired horseman or driver, who keeps the saddle or holds the reins, and remains alive to any sign of uneasiness on the part of his horse. It shows also in the ability of the wearied surgeon to rouse himself and perform an operation, though he falls asleep once more the moment it is over and has no remembrance of it at his normal waking. Such a partial rest, persisting only thus occasionally in the life of civilised man, is all that an animal surrounded by dangers can afford; if sight and smell and taste may be allowed to lapse, still touch and hearing must keep awake,—must keep awake, at any rate, to the kind of stimulus that spells danger. We are speaking now in figurative terms; the history and nervous mechanism of the sleep-tendency offer a problem to science, and must be scientifically worked out; but it is enough here if you get a general notion of the way in which sleep began.

In process of time, as dangers grow less or as the nightly care of the community is put into the hands of watchmen whose special duty it is to signal their approach, _sleep becomes total and profound_. Even our own protected sleep, however, is not always undisturbed. We resign ourselves to it with a full sense of security; and we go to sleep in a dark and quiet room, we rid ourselves of the friction of clothes, we keep a constant temperature in our bedroom, we lie down. Sleep, nevertheless, is interrupted, more or less often according to age and constitution, by a =dream=, by a series of experiences like those of the waking life; and sometimes the dream is accompanied by muscular activity; we talk or walk in our sleep.

The dream, then, is subject-matter for psychology; and the first question that we have to ask about it concerns its make-up; _of what mental processes is the dream composed_? The answer is twofold. So far as _pattern_ goes, anything whatsoever may appear in the dream-state: perception, memory, emotion, imagination, thought, everything. But as regards the _mental processes_ themselves, the dream is selective; certain processes are preferred for dreaming, so to say, as certain processes are preferred for the representation of self. The details of dreams are very quickly forgotten; and there is always danger lest recall and report, in the waking state, change the terms of a dream, translate them from their original mode into the customary terms of waking experience. We have, however, a large number of records, taken under favourable conditions, and we find substantial agreement among the various observers. Dreams are mainly visual, though lights are more and colours are less common, perhaps, than is ordinarily supposed. Next in order of frequency to vision stands audition; conversation, especially, is a common feature of dreams. Next follow sense-feelings and feeling-attitudes; unpleasant experiences seem, on the whole, to be more frequent than pleasant, though there are marked individual differences. Thereafter, at a wide remove, come touch and kinæsthesis and organic complexes; and last of all, taste and smell.

We know so little of the nervous correlates of the dream that a discussion of these facts must of necessity be speculative. It has been said that we dream largely in terms of sight for the same reason that we remember and imagine largely in those terms (‘dream’ is, for that matter, the older English word for ‘imagine’): the eye is the most important of all the sense-organs, the organ most continuously used, and the organ most relied upon for knowledge of the outside world; hence the visual centre of the brain has multitudinous connections with all the other brain-centres, and is readily excited when any one of them is excited. It has been pointed out, also, that the eye is extremely sensitive to slight changes of illumination, as well as to changes in the pressure of the eyelids, the state of circulation in the retina, and so forth; and that the sensations thus set up are reinforced by the persistent central grey. Observation has proved that the figures of a dream-scene may roughly correspond with the dots and splashes of light and colour that you see over the dark field of vision just before you fall asleep. So in regard to hearing: it may be said that verbal perceptions and ideas are, in the waking life, subordinate in number and importance only to those of vision; and it may be said, also, that the ear is the great defensive organ of the night-time, so that ear-sleep (if we may coin the word) is rarely profound, and the ear is liable to excitation by any chance crack or rustle in our surroundings, even by the pulsing of the blood through its own vessels. Here, indeed, we raise the whole difficult question of _the origination of dreams_. We cannot say that a dream may not arise ‘in the brain’ altogether apart from stimulation of a sense-organ; yet the sense-organs are always liable to stimulation, from without or from within; we know that stimuli, too weak to arouse a sleeper, will set up dreams; and it seems safe to conclude that most dreams are originated by sensory stimulation, while their subsequent course is due to associative and perhaps to determining tendencies active at the moment. Attempts have been made to refer certain familiar kinds of dream—dreams of flying, falling, appearing in public scantily clothed, preparing for a journey, etc.—to particular forms of stimulus: arrest of heart-beat, irregular breathing, cold from the slipping down of bed-clothes, etc.; but no positive correlation has been arrived at.

_Dreams are ordinarily regarded as the type of fantastic and disordered experience_, “the children of an idle brain, begot of nothing but vain fantasy”; and some dreams, it is true, are very fragmentary, and some dream-combinations seem ridiculous enough to the waking judgement, and some shifts of dream-scene are startlingly abrupt. It may be questioned, nevertheless, whether the changes are in fact more sudden or more radical than those of the waking life, and whether the grouping is more fantastic than in the day-dream. _The great perceptive attitudes remain for the most part unchanged._ We notice, on later reflection, that time may be curiously foreshortened, so that we have the events of a day crowded into a few seconds; but this is due partly to the occurrence of attitudes, of the nutshell-packing of experiences (p. 271), such as we find also in our waking memories, and partly to our own reflective reading of the dream; we, who are now awake, distribute the events over a day, much as the novelist may do in telling his story, or the playwright in developing his plot. _The sense of personal identity is rarely lost_; and the dream frequently reflects the personality of the dreamer; temperament, interests, principles, show themselves in it; no one of us could dream his neighbour’s dreams. In general, too, _the dream plays about a topic or situation_; and if the changes are both sudden and profound, we must remember that our waking trains are held in course, as dreams are not, by the continuity of the stimuli around us, and that even so we are often interrupted in a current train, and shift from topic to topic at a moment’s notice. The dream is under no external control by an environment, nor is it as a rule organised and regulated throughout by a dominant determining tendency, as is the case with thought and constructive imagination. It is subject, however, to the laws of associative tendency, and sometimes at any rate it seems to issue from a determination; a dream may, for example, be continued on successive nights. On the whole, then, _dream-experience is less disorderly than is usually supposed_. Our statements must be guarded: we cannot say that the perceptive attitudes are never disturbed; we know that personality may be greatly modified; we know that scene may follow scene in the most bizarre way. The whole trend of popular psychology, however, is to emphasize the differences between dreaming and waking, while the trend of accurate observation is to bring them together.

The _dream-incidents_ are derived, in the lighter stages of of sleep, mainly from the incidents of the preceding day, and in the deeper stages mainly from the remoter experience of the waking life. This is what we should expect from our knowledge of the temporal course of associative tendencies. Moreover, we know that, in profound sleep, the brain is comparatively bloodless; and it is reasonable to suppose that, in dreaming, the activity of the tendencies is local and sporadic. That would account for the _incongruities_ that our waking judgement discovers in the dream-situations, and also for the general _ineffectiveness_ of dream-thought. When, however, we enquire further into the nervous mechanism of dreaming, we must enter the realm of hypothesis. _It is a real puzzle_, for instance, _that we do not oftener walk and talk in our sleep_; for dream-ideas are vivid, and the vivid ideas of the waking life are ordinarily followed or accompanied by action. We may guess that there is a positive blocking of the nerve-paths that lead from sensory to motor centres in the brain, or from the motor centres to the muscles; else the dream would surely be talked or acted out; but we can say nothing definite about this motor inhibition. The organism at large seems to be under a ‘negative suggestion’ in regard to movement; for the pattern of action—though, like all the mental patterns, it may appear in the dream-state—is notably less frequent than the patterns of perception and idea and emotion.

We said that dream-ideas are vivid; and there is no doubt that dreams in general have an _hallucinatory_ character; dream-images are extremely vivid, dream-scenes are staged in what is taken for objective space, dream-events occur without any felt dependence upon the dreamer. This impression of the reality of dream-incident is partly due to a negative condition; we have no means, in the dream-state, of testing or checking what happens. In the waking life we compare experience with experience; in the dream there is nothing with which the present train of ideas may be compared. It seems, however, that the hallucinatory character is native to our dream-ideas, that it is due to positive as well as negative conditions; though, again, we cannot say what the conditions are, until we know more about the nervous correlate of dreaming. The net result is that, in popular phrase, _we take our dreams for granted_; the dream-world, so long as we are in it, appears as real as the world of our waking existence. This does not at all mean that we accept, blindly, everything that takes place. We may protest and criticise in dreams, just precisely as we protest and criticise in real life; we may dream that we are dreaming, just as we sometimes say ‘I must have been dreaming’ when we give a wrong account of some waking experience or find ourselves mistaken in a recollection; and we may have a sense of unreality in dreams, just as we have it now and again in waking situations. It means only that the nervous system of the dreamer is stamped with the great biological tendencies that we have noted and discussed; the tendency to take things as real is present by night as well as by day.

The old common-sense notion that dreams are prophetic has no foundation in fact. The idea that underlies it—the idea that dreams must be of some use to the organism—nevertheless persists, and has found recent expression in a comprehensive theory of dreams. _The theory is that all dreams, if one interprets them aright, represent the fulfilment of a wish, entertained in the waking life but repressed by circumstances._ The organism attains by night, though in veiled and transmuted shape, what it has failed of attaining by day. This theory has been elaborated and illustrated with very great ingenuity; but _its claims are too sweeping_. Recent observations seem to show that the wish-dream is likely to occur in the hours before waking, rather than in the early hours of the night or in the middle period of profound sleep; that many dreams cannot be interpreted, even with the best will, as fulfilments of wish; and, in particular, that fear-dreams form a category as distinct and ultimate as wish-dreams. The merit of the theory is that it emphasises the feeling-processes of the dream-life; it does not give us the key to the psychology of dreaming.

§ 80. =Hypnosis.=—We have seen that there are two lines of development from partial or defensive sleep; and that hypnosis is the final term of the one line, as normal deep sleep is the final term of the other. _Hypnosis may therefore be regarded as a state in which the organism is partly asleep, and partly alert and awake._ The wakefulness is characterised by a high degree of attention; and the hypnotised subject is accordingly liable to suggestion by anything that fits in with the direction of attention.

The symptoms of hypnosis do not follow any stereotyped pattern; so that _it is difficult to draw a generalised picture of the hypnotic individual_. If, however, we are willing to run the risk of generalisation, we may distinguish three successive stages in the phenomena. The hypnotised subject is at first =heavy or drowsy=; his behaviour is like that of a man suddenly aroused from sound sleep, and not yet ‘come to himself.’ Then follows the stage of light hypnosis or, as it is technically called, the stage of =catalepsy=. The subject is to some extent anæsthetic; his sense-organs are closed to all the ordinary impressions from the outside world. At the same time, he hears what is said to him by the operator, and performs any action that the operator may suggest. He does nothing without the word of command; so that he will maintain a position, however uncomfortable it might be under ordinary circumstances, until the order comes to relax it. On waking, he remembers cloudily what took place during hypnosis. In the third and final stage, which is known as =somnambulism=, the anæsthesia becomes more complete; and the subject not only acts, but also perceives, at the bidding of the operator; takes coal for sugar, ink for wine, tapping on the table for the playing of a violin, and so forth. On waking, he has no memory of what has taken place.

We see, then, that _there are four main symptoms of hypnosis: anæsthesia, motionlessness, suggestibility and amnesia_; and it is worth while to remind ourselves, at once, that all these symptoms have their counterparts in the normal waking life. Thus, a child falls down and hurts itself; it may be crying bitterly; but you distract its attention by a toy, and the crying stops and the pain is forgotten; the diversion of attention has meant anæsthesia. Again, you are on a country walk with a friend, and you begin to discuss some topic of mutual interest; you both get more and more absorbed, and you both walk more and more slowly, until presently you find yourselves at a standstill in the middle of the road; concentrated attention has meant arrest of movement. If the lecturer in a class-room says: ‘I want you now to take down what I am going to say,’ the suggestion is immediately accepted, and the whole class makes ready to write. Finally, we are all forgetful of what happens in a particular situation if circumstances change and we are confronted by another situation; how many of us remember our dreams? The new day brings its novel situations, and the dreams drop out of sight; and the change from dreaming to waking is no greater than the change from the hypnotic to the normal state. Hence the peculiarity of hypnosis is not the introduction of strange or curious phenomena, but rather the grouping, in an extreme and unusual way, of phenomena with which we are in principle familiar.

It would seem to follow from this analysis that _we are all and sundry liable, under certain favourable conditions, to fall into the hypnotic state_; and that conclusion is borne out by the facts. Only idiots and infants are exempt from hypnosis; and they are exempt only because of the low development of attention, because they cannot, under any conditions, concentrate or ‘pull themselves together.’ When people tell you that Professor So-and-so tried to hypnotise them, but that their will proved too strong for him, you may reply that they do not understand what they are talking about; it would be as logical for them to assert that the champion tennis-player of the world had failed to beat them in a match, because they had refused to lift a racquet. The stronger the ‘will,’ that is to say, the stronger the habit of absorbed attention and the greater the power of dominant determinations, the easier is the induction of hypnosis. Moreover, as human beings are one and all liable to be hypnotised, so do we find that the animals, in their degree, are liable to something like catalepsy. The nightly sleep of birds and the winter-sleep of many animals is a cataleptic sleep; very many insects ‘sham dead,’ as we say, when they are surprised or handled; and animals may be thrown, by manipulation, into an artificial state which resembles catalepsy in ourselves, and which has received the like name of =cataplexy= (‘catalepsy’ is a seizure, and ‘cataplexy’ is a stroke).

So much for the primary facts: what, now, of the ‘operator’? Well, it is quite possible to hypnotise oneself, just as it is quite possible to put oneself to sleep by counting sheep or listening to an imaginary rain. One has only to _mean_ or _intend_ to oneself that the hypnotic state is coming, and—if there is no interruption—it will presently come; self-suggestion or autosuggestion may be as effective as the suggestion of an operator. For _in every case the influence that the operator has over the subject is an influence given him by the subject_; the immediate conditions of hypnosis lie in the subject himself, and not in the personality of some other man. The professional operator has, it is true, two advantages. He asserts emphatically that he ‘can hypnotise’; he advertises; and we tend to believe emphatic and repeated statements, however groundless they may really be; so that we are likely to give him an influence over us before we have even seen him. Secondly, the operator knows, from long experience with hypnotised subjects, how the individual shall most readily be brought into the hypnotic state, how (that is) his complete attention may be secured and directed: whether by coaxing or by bullying, whether by strokes of the hand that suggest a gradual flow of power or by a smart blow on the back of the neck that produces a momentary helplessness and confusion. _All the ‘methods’ of hypnotising are so many tricks to bring about a state of undivided attention and a corresponding suggestibility in the subject._ So the operator has genuine advantages, but they are advantages that might be secured by anyone who took the trouble; they are not connected with special gifts or superiorities.

Here, however, you may raise an objection; you will say that operator and subject are _en rapport_, that there _is_ a special bond which connects them, and that the records of hypnosis prove it. Yes, there may be a special bond; and yet the preceding paragraph sets forth the truth about the operator. Do we not all believe in our own physician, our own family lawyer, our own clergyman? and yet our neighbours make different choices. Suppose, then, that you have first-hand evidence of the powers of some platform operator, or of some physician who treats his patients hypnotically; you may very easily come to think that this particular man has a peculiar control over you. You may suggest this belief to yourself, or perhaps the physician—not wishing to have his case interfered with by others—may suggest it to you; in any event, you are imbued with the idea that this man, and this man only, is able to treat you; and it then follows, naturally, that the required concentration of attention and the required openness to suggestion can be secured only when he is present. But the _rapport_ is, after all, nothing more than _an insistent belief of your own_; it is neither more effective nor less intelligible than would be the contrary belief that a certain person of your acquaintance could _not_ hypnotise you. So far, therefore, from invalidating our former conclusions, the occasional existence of the _rapport_ serves to confirm them.

We now turn from the hypnotic state itself to its relations with the waking state; and the first point to consider is the fact of =post-hypnotic or terminal suggestion=. Suppose that an operator suggests to the hypnotised subject that a certain action is to be performed at such-and-such a time after waking; “before I wake you let me impress upon you that you are to drink two glasses of water at five o’clock this afternoon; you understand?—two glasses of water at five o’clock.” The subject rouses; has no memory of the command; and yet, when the time comes, obediently pours and drinks the water. The fact is, you see, that the suggestion of _time_ builds a bridge between the two separate states, the hypnotic and the waking; the idea of time is common to both. Hence when the suggested time comes round, and the subject knows—by the clock, by the sun, by his occupation, by his organic sensations—that five o’clock is approximately here, this idea acts as a suggestion; the hypnotic state is reinstated for a while, though probably in weakened form; and the action is performed. As soon as it is over, the subject is his waking self again.

We have the obverse of this post-hypnotic suggestion in the phenomenon of =double consciousness=. A subject is hypnotised and becomes somnambulistic; when he is waked, he has no memory whatsoever of the events that occurred during the hypnotic state. Later, he is hypnotised again; and now it turns out that he remembers what took place during the previous hypnosis. So he seems to have a double consciousness; the normal waking consciousness, which is sensibly continuous in his waking states, and a secondary hypnotic consciousness, which is continuous from one state of somnambulism to another. There is, again, nothing mysterious in the facts; we have their parallel in the normal shifts of personality; we have seen that a man is a different self in the office, on the golf-links, with his children in the nursery; and we have now only to add that the known laws of memory are adequate to these phenomena of double consciousness. For we do not pass in thought from one situation to another unless the situations are connected by some idea which is common to them both; the hard-worked professional man, when he is on the links, _forgets_ the office; that is the reason for his play; and he forgets the office because there is no community of ideas between his work and his recreation. In hypnosis, too, we break sharply with the waking life; if the two are to be connected, a bridge must be built _ad hoc_ by the operator; but when we relapse into hypnosis we pick up again the thread of our hypnotic memory, as naturally as the professional man picks up his work when he seats himself at his desk after a half-holiday.

There are still a couple of questions, often asked by students, that you may care to have answered; and the first of them usually takes the form: _Can a man be hypnotised against his will?_ To which the author’s reply always is: It depends on what you mean by ‘against his will.’ For consider! There is no reason at all why we may not, any one of us, be taken off guard and surprised into the hypnotic state. We have probably all been surprised by sleep during a lecture or a sermon; the conditions were favourable, and we nodded. So the conditions may be favourable for hypnosis; and if someone is watching us, and sees that the conditions are favourable, he may have us hypnotised before we know where we are. The risk is not great; but the possibility is there. Again, if a patient has fallen into the habit of taking hypnotic treatment, and if he has thus slipped into a position of invalidish dependence upon his physician, so that obedience to the suggestion of hypnosis has become natural to him, then it is entirely likely that the physician’s command would induce the hypnotic state, even if the patient at the time should not desire it. And what holds of physician and patient holds of any operator and any subject in like circumstances; the habit of obedience grows by obeying. In this sense, then, one might be hypnotised ‘against one’s will.’ If, however, the question means what it is probably intended to mean: Can another man come to me and, by virtue of some inherent power, force me into hypnosis in spite of my resistance to that suggestion? then the answer is No; no more than a man can force you to lend him money or to perjure yourself for him in a court of law. It is you who must entertain his suggestion; so long as you refuse to do that, you are immune to hypnosis at his hands.

The other question concerns the value of hypnosis for medical or therapeutic purposes; _can hypnosis effect cures? can it replace the anæsthetics of ordinary medical practice?_ It has, as a matter of fact, received fairly extended trial as an anæsthetic; and while it has allowed many operations, minor and major, to be carried out successfully, it is far less reliable than the an æsthetic drugs; mainly, no doubt, because it cannot be administered by the physician, as drugs can, but depends upon the attitude of the patient himself. There is no future for hypnosis in this connection. As to its therapeutic value, we can only say that whatever can be accomplished by suggestion, in the normal life, can be accomplished by the very strong suggestion of hypnosis in the disordered life. A suggestion can initiate, modify, and arrest movement; a sharp rebuke will start a child into activity, or change his occupation, or stop a present misdeed and prevent like misdeeds in the immediate future. A suggestion, again, can make us blush; and a suggestion can make us cry. Here, then, is the therapeutic value of hypnosis; it may arrest or remedy habits like alcoholism, and it may act upon derangements of circulation and secretion. Farther than this it cannot go; and even within these limits its utility is variable. Some children obey the first word of command, and others must be bidden over and over again before they do as they are told; some of us blush easily, and some hardly ever; some are readily stirred to tears, and some with great difficulty. So it is with the liability to hypnotic suggestion; everyone is liable, but not everyone to the same degree. Besides, as we saw just now, the habit of hypnosis grows, like all habits, upon him who has formed it; the patient may develop a craving for the hypnotic treatment, and in this way may take on a habit of dependence, of constant reliance upon others, which is as afflicting and demoralising as the disorder which the treatment was meant to cure. So that, on the whole, _hypnosis should not be lightly appealed to; the decision should in every case remain in the hands of the experienced physician_.

There is one other effect of hypnosis that we have not spoken of in detail, and that is of great psychological interest; the somnambulist, we said, will _perceive_ as the operator wishes him to perceive, will take coal for sugar and ink for wine. It has long been debated whether this statement is literally true. The hypnotised subject behaves _as if_ he perceived the sugar and the wine; but is there any reason to think that he actually perceives them? Or if the suggestion is negative, and the subject is told that a certain person has left the room, he will behave _as if_ that person were no longer present; but does he actually fail to see him? May not the suggestion bear directly upon the subject’s conduct, and leave his perceptions unchanged? The facts point in both directions. Many of the apparent changes of perception are, in all probability, nothing more than changes of behaviour towards the perceptual stimuli; but there is, all the same, no impossibility in a change of perception itself. We have already noted the negative effects of abstraction (p. 281); and recent experiments with normal subjects seem to show conclusively that a suggestion, a form of words that carries the force of a command, may set up the mental process, or the change of mental processes, normally correlated with presence or change of external stimulus. A red, seen under the suggestion of blue, will not only be reported _as_ bluish, but will actually _look_ bluish; and a thermally indifferent impression will not only be reported _as_ warm or cold, but will actually be _felt_ warm or cold. If such things happen in the normal waking life, they may assuredly happen in the narrowed and intensive suggestibility of the hypnotic state.

References

A. Moll, Hypnotism, 1891; W. Wundt, Lectures on Human and Animal Psychology, 1896, Lect. xxii.; M. de Manacéïne, Sleep, 1897; J. Jastrow, Fact and Fable in Psychology, 1900; E. Jones, Freud’s Theory of Dreams, in American Journal of Psychology, xxi., April 1910, 283 ff.; S. Ferenczi, The Psychological Analysis of Dreams, _ibid._, 309 ff.; M. Bentley, The Study of Dreams, _ibid._, xxvi., April 1915, 196 ff.

INDEX OF NAMES

Angelo, M., 299.

Aristotle, 25, 41, 84, 142 f., 145 ff., 168, 175, 218, 305.

Arnold, M., 305.

Bacon, F., 34, 313.

Bain, A., 229, 257, 260, 324, 334.

Baldwin, J. M., 41, 72, 89, 334.

Barrie, J. M., 247.

Bastian, H. C., 72.

Beethoven, L. van, 196.

Bentley, M., 349.

Bergson, H., 229.

Berkeley, G., 264, 289.

Blagden, C. O., 72.

Boas, F., 303, 306.

Bradley, F. H., 174, 176.

Bridgman, L., 27, 41.

Buridan, J., 247.

Burr, A. R., 39.

Cannon, W. B., 220 f., 229.

Carpenter, W. B., 108 f., 111.

Carroll, L., 21.

Charcot, J. M., 139, 143.

Chavannes, P. de, 196.

Clifford, W. K., 38.

Dalton, J., 58, 72.

Darwin, C., 3, 51, 222 f., 225, 228 f.

Da Vinci, L., 228.

Deland, M., 175.

Descartes, R., 228.

Dessoir, M., 42.

Dickens, C., 141, 187, 202.

Downey, J. E., 88.

Dunlap, K., 41.

Ebbinghaus, H., 151 f., 176.

Ferenczi, S., 349.

Fernald, M. R., 144.

Fiske, E. W., 41.

Flournoy, T., 334.

France, A., 293.

Franz, S. I., 41.

Frazer, J. G., 40, 334.

Freud, S., 334.

Froude, J. A., 37 f.

Galen, C., 227.

Galton, F., 51, 87 f., 140.

Goethe, J. W. von, 141.

Haddon, A. C., 306.

Hall, F. H., 41.

Hamilton, W., 103, 110 f.

Hammond, W. A., 41.

Hart, B., 334.

Hawthorne, N., 201.

Hearn, L., 194, 294 f., 306.

Helmholtz, H. L. F. von, 38, 54 f., 72, 143.

Henry, W. C., 72.

Hering, E., 59, 202.

Hill, A., 37 f.

Hobbes, T., 162, 261 f.

Howe, M., 41.

Howell, W. H., 72.

Hume, D., 73, 76, 88, 148, 258.

Huxley, T. H., 20, 37 f., 243 f., 260, 264, 289.

James, W., 25, 39, 111, 141, 143, 149, 168, 174, 176, 202, 207, 218 ff., 229, 256, 260, 287 f., 334.

Jastrow, J., 41, 349.

Jevons, W. S., 41, 202.

Jones, E., 349.

Kipling, R., 98.

Kirchhoff, G. R., 37 f.

Klemm, O., 42.

Külpe, O., 41, 176.

Kuhlmann, F., 202.

Ladd, G. T., 38, 41, 72.

Lang, A., 206.

Lange, C., 219, 221.

Lathrop, G. P., 201.

Le Bon, G., 41.

Leuba, J. H., 303, 306.

Lewes, G. H., 183, 202.

Ludwig, C., 48.

McDougall, W., 41, 229.

Mach, E., 72, 332.

Manacéïne, M. de, 349.

Mercier, C., 334.

Meredith, G., 202.

Meumann, E., 176.

Mill, J., 174.

Mill, J. S., 39.

Millet, J. F., 299.

Moll, A., 41, 349.

Moore, G., 306.

Morgan, C. L., 247, 260.

Münsterberg, H., 42.

Myers, C. S., 72, 89, 176.

Newton, I., 36, 39.

Offner, M., 176.

Parry, C. H. H., 143.

Parsons, J. H., 72.

Pearson, K., 38.

Pillsbury, W. B., 38 f., 110 f., 288.

Plato, 65, 186.

Poe, E. A., 201.

Preyer, W., 41.

Prince, M., 334.

Quintilian, M. F., 202.

Rhys Davids, C. A. F., 41.

Ribot, T., 202, 229, 288, 306, 334.

Romanes, G. J., 333.

Rousseau, J. J., 40.

Ruskin, J., 299.

Sanford, E. C., 260.

Santayana, G., 306.

Schäfer, E. A., 72.

Scott, W., 332.

Scriabin, A. N., 77.

Shakespeare, W., 302.

Skeat, W. W., 72.

Spearman, C., 334.

Spencer, H., 37 f., 40, 84 ff., 89, 257, 260.

Stephen, L., 257, 260.

Stoelting, C. H., 142, 260.

Störring, G., 41.

Stout, G. F., 38.

Sully, J., 229, 258, 260, 306, 334.

Taylor, H. O., 40.

Thackeray, W. M., 227.

Thomas of Aquino, 103, 111.

Thorndike, E. L., 42, 173, 176, 229, 301, 306.

Titian, 299.

Tylor, E. B., 39 f., 72, 289, 334.

Velasquez, D., 299.

Voltaire, F. M., 286.

Wagner, R., 30, 77, 82.

Ward, J., 38, 289, 323.

Washburn, M. F., 41.

Watson, J. B., 41.

Weber, E. H., 68 f.

Wells, H. G., 2.

Whewell, W., 40.

Whistler, J. McN., 296.

Woodworth, R. S., 41, 72.

Wundt, W., 26, 41, 72, 88 f., 111, 143, 229, 260, 288, 306, 334, 349.

Yerkes, A. W., 41.

Yerkes, R. M., 41.

INDEX OF SUBJECTS

Absolute impression, 125, 285.

Abstract idea, 263 ff.

Abstraction, nature of, 280; experiments on, 249 f., 280 ff.; laws of, 280 f., 349.

Accommodation, sensations of, 128.

Ache, 64.

Action, distinguished from movement, 231; psychological problem of, 231 f., 258; typical, 233 ff.; impulsive, 234 f., 244 f.; studied in the reaction experiment, 236 ff.; varies with shift of emphasis in instruction, 242, 252; sensorimotor and ideomotor, 243, 251; artificial and physiological reflex, 243 f., 251; primitive, 244 f., 258; selective, 246 ff.; by ‘trial and error,’ 247 f.; volitional, 249 ff.; alleged determination of, by pleasure and pain, 257 f.

Activity, ascribed by common sense to mind, 6 f., 91 f., 146, 258.

Adaptation, visual, 61; olfactory, 51, 63.

Æsthetic sentiments, 299 f., 301 f.

After-image, visual negative, 62, 74; positive, 74, 133; of memory, 74.

Amnesia, hypnotic, 342 f.

Anæsthesia, kinæsthetic, 46; in hypnosis, 342 f.

Analysis, psychological, 15 f., 112; tested by synthesis and repeated analysis, 16 f.; of perception and idea, 114 ff., 125, 125 f.; of recognition, 177 ff.; of emotion, 215 f.; of a typical action, 234 f.; of expectation, 272 ff.; of intellectual attitudes, 274 f.

Animals, psychology of, 12 ff., 32, 51, 134, 219 f., 247, 267.

Antagonism, retinal, 59 f., 61, 63.

Antithesis, Darwin’s principle of, 223.

Apprehension, direct, 181 f.; disturbance of, 182 f.

Association, the doctrine of, derives from Aristotle, 145 ff.; ‘laws’ of, 146 f., 168, 175; agreeable to common sense, 146 ff., 203; has done psychological service, 148; works with meanings, 149, 162, 163 f., 168; regards course of ideas too intellectually, 161 f., 258; successive, 161 f.; regards action too emotionally, 258.

Attention, common-sense view of, 91; description of, 91 f.; implies shift of vividness, 91 f., 93 f.; a pattern of processes, 92, 99, 109; psychological problem of, 93; development of, 93 ff., 98 f.; primary, and its determinants, 94 f., 101, 195; secondary, 95 ff., 101 f.; derived primary, 97 f., 102; two or more levels of, 99 ff., 108 f.; feeling in, 101 f.; kinæsthesis in, 101 f.; normal to waking life, 102 f.; range of visual, 103; range of auditory, 103 f.; duration of, 104 f.; bodily changes in secondary, 105 f.; ‘sensory’ and ‘intellectual,’ 106; nervous correlate of, 106 ff., 164, 166, 249 f.; proposed definitions of, 110; necessary to mental connection, 163 ff.; implies a general nervous disposition, 166; necessary to start of practice, 169 f.; in remembrance, 190; in recollection, 190 f.; in imagination, 197 ff.; direction of, in simple reaction, 240; levels of, in reaction experiment, 254; in thought, 262; in expectation, 273; in emotion and sentiment, 290.

Attitudes, mental, 271 ff.; psychological status of, 272, 275; in dreams, 338.

Attributes of sensation, 60, 67, 92; and types of perception, 121 ff.

Autosuggestion, 344.

Awareness, irrelevant to psychology, 324 ff.

Beats, 55.

Behaviour, as index of mind, 12 ff.; two types of animal, 203 f.

Black, a contrast-effect, 61.

Blend, see Fusion.

Blind, psychological world of the, 130 f.

Brain, not the ‘organ of mind,’ 10; evidence of its correlation with mind, 11 f.; responsible for sensation of grey, 59; associates, 149, 168; a complex and plastic machine, 150.

Brain-habit, in perception and idea, 115 ff., 131; in perceptions of time, 123; in perception of distance, 129 f., 131; in perception of visual movement, 133 f.; in optical illusion, 137; in direct apprehension, 182 f.; in memory, 185; in imagination, 195.

Catalepsy, 342 ff.

Cataplexy, 344.

Change, perception of, 132 f., 160.

Chess, blindfold, 265.

Chroma, 57.

Coincidences, law of, 98.

Cold, sensation of, 43 f., 64; paradoxical, 44 f.; in sense-feelings, 82.

Colour, sensations of, 57; all simple, 57 f.; mixture of stimuli, 57, 59 f., 63; contrast of, 61; adaptation to, 61, 63; after-images of, 62; memory-colours, 63, 75; in sense-feelings, 81.

Colour, of tones, 54, 294.

Colour-blindness, normal, 58, 62; congenital, 58 f.

Coloured hearing, 76 f.

Comedy, 302, 305.

Common factor, in intellectual responses, 310 f.

Common sense, thinks in terms of value, 1; and of self, 2, 311; its mixed origin, 4, 308, 311; its view of mind, 5 ff., 17, 321; of the relation of mind to body, 6 ff., 10 f.; seeks to interpret or explain, 8, 65, 146, 148, 202, 213, 258; its view of physical and psychological method, 21 f., 39; in psychology of touch, 48; distinguishes sensation and image, 73; rightly opposes ‘pleasure’ and ‘pain,’ 80; its view of attention, 91, 166; of the association of ideas, 146 f., 203; of recognition, 184; of instinct, 203, 213; of self, 22, 189, 308 f., 309 f., 311 f., 315; reads ‘wareness’ into sensation, 324 ff.

Comparison, need not imply image, 284 f.; direct and indirect, 284 f.; by absolute impression, 285.

Composite photograph, 264 ff.

Compound reactions, 252 ff., 255.

Concept, 270 f., 281 f.

Conjunction, a mode of connection of mental processes, 159 f., 168.

Connection, of elementary processes, 159 f.; of perceptions and ideas, three types of, 160 f.; often involves feeling, 161 f., 258, 271; law of mental, 162 ff., 166 f., 168; depends on attention, 163, 165; and situational context, 165 ff.; is usually a marriage by proxy, 167, 185.

Consciousness, two meanings of term, 324; hence misleading, 324 ff.; double, in hypnosis, 346.

Constructive imagination, 198 ff.

Context, the psychological equivalent of meaning, 118 f.; in perception, 114 f., 117, 121, 131, 165, 167; in idea, 116 f., 121, 165, 167; situational, 166 ff.

Contiguity, ‘law’ of association by, 147, 168 f.

Contrast, visual, 61; olfactory, 63.

Convergence, sensations of, 127; convergence of associative tendencies, 158 f., 162, 197, 199.

Correlation, of brain and mind, 10 ff., 17; studied by psychology, 17 f., 113, 231; in general, replaces causation and interpretation, in work of science, 327, 331.

Curiosity, 205 f., 301 f.

Demonstrative gesture, 268.

Depth, perception of, see Distance, perception of.

Description, the business of science, 8, 14, 331; implies analysis, 17.

Desire, 256 f.

Differential psychology, 31 f., 309.

Discrimination, experiments on, 254, 283 ff.

Distance, perception of visual, 125 ff.; secondary cues to, 126 f.; kinæsthetic sensations in, 127 ff.; rôle of binocular vision in, 128; rests upon a brain-habit, 129 f., 131; perception of tactual, 130 f.; illusion of, 135.

Dizziness, 56, 64.

Double consciousness, in hypnosis, 346.

Dream, 76, 78, 336 ff.; pattern of, 336, 340 f.; processes of, 336 f.; nervous correlate of, 337 f., 339 f., 341; origination of, 338; compared with waking state, 338 f.; hallucinatory character of, 340; not prophetic, 341; interpreted as wish-fulfilment, 341.

Dual division, tendency to, 205 f., 211, 276, 278.

Duration of sensation, 66, 122 f.; determinant of sense-feelings, 82; as basis of temporal perceptions, 122 ff.; duration of attention, 104 f.; of mood, 227, 255.

Ear, organ of hearing, 51 ff., 55 f.; of equilibrium, 56.

Effort, sensation of, 46.

Elements, mental, 15 f., 18, 90, 117; sensations, 65; simple images, 78; simple feelings, 79; meaningless, 90; modes of connection of, 159 f.; are not awarenesses, 324 ff.

Emotion, analysis of, 215 f.; issues from a determination, 216; organic sensations in, 216, 218 ff., 290; classification of, 216 f.; James-Lange theory of, 218 ff.; expression of, 222 ff., 268; primary, 228; and instinct, 207, 211, 216, 219.

Empathy, 198; in optical illusion, 137 f.; in imagination, 198, 200; instinctive tendency toward, 205 f., 211; in emotion, 215; in hearing of tones, 284 f.; mediated by sentiment, 293; as basis of moral or social sentiments, 301; in æsthetic sentiment, 302.

Expectation, analysis of, 272 ff.

Experiment, 22 ff.; its relation to observation, 22 f.; instance of a psychological, 23 ff.

Explanation, demand for, not scientific, 327; see Common sense

Expression, of sense-feelings, 82 ff.; of secondary attention, 105 f.; of emotion, 222 ff., 268; of sentiment, 291; intention of, in music, 135.

Extension, sensory, 66, 124; as basis of spatial perception, 124.

Eye, sensations from, 56 ff.; a photographic camera, 58; structure of daylight, 59; of twilight, 60; central blindness of twilight, 60; normal colour-blindness of daylight, 58, 62; adaptation of, 61 f.; as organ of space-perception, 128.

Eye-and-ear method, 236 f.

Facial expression, 222, 223 f., 228, 274.

Familiarity, feeling of, 178 f., 190 f., 200; derivation of, 179, 195; lapses to of-course feeling, 181 f.; makes an idea a memory-idea, 184; and feeling of validity, 279.

Fatigue, as muscular sensation, 46, 172; as sense-feeling, 172; not an index of inefficiency, 172; disadvantage of, in psychological observation, 172; no single test of, 172 f.; mental and muscular, probably the same, 173.

Feeling, simple, as pleasant and unpleasant, 79, 81 f., 83; relation of, to sensation, 79 f., 87 f.; method of observing, 80; opposition of, 80 f.; falls under Weber’s law, 81; nervous correlate of, 84, 86; biological theory of, 84 ff., 172; of familiarity, 178 f., 190 f., 200; of of-course, 181 f.; in memory, 188 f.; in connections of ideas, 161 f., 271; of strangeness, 194 f., 198 ff.; of validity, 279; relational, 279; not necessarily a self-experience, 317, 321; in dreams, 337, 341.

Feeling-attitude, 271, 291 f.; in thought, 279; variety of, 293 ff., 300; likeness of, in different situations, 300; in dreams, 337.

Freemasonry of artists, 293.

Fusion, in perception of heat, 44 f.; of cutaneous and kinæsthetic qualities, 47; of tastes, 49; of smells, 49; of taste, touch and smell, 48, 159; of tones, 54, 122, 159; of organic sensations, 64, 159; of feeling and sensation, 81, 90, 319; hypothetical, of vision and kinæsthesis, in space-perception, 129; a mode of connection of mental processes, 159, 168; and synergy of brain-processes, 160.

General factor, in intellectual response, 310 f.

Generalisation, nature of, 280; experiments on, 282 f.

Genius, 198.

Gesture, 222, 224; definition of, 268; language of, 267 ff.; and origin of speech, 269 f.

Grey, neutral, a brain-sensation, 59; physiologically mixed with all visual processes, 59 ff.; the final term of adaptation, 61.

Growth and decay, law of mental, 183, 211, 233.

Habit, 96, 99, 311; formation of, 170 f.; disadvantage of, in psychological observation, 171 f.; pattern of processes in, 171 f.; Darwin’s principle of serviceable associated, 223; of psychological observation, 329 f.; hypnotic, 348.

Habitual images, 77 f., 265 f., 270.

Hallucination, 76, 78, 340.

Heat, perception of, 44 f.

Hue, 57.

Hunger, 64 f.

Hypnosis, instinctive origin of, 335, 341; generalised picture of, 342; symptoms of, 342 f.; liability to, 343 f.; function of operator in, 344 f.; methods of, 344; therapeutic value of, 347 f.; habit of, 348; relation of, to will, 343; change of perception in, 342, 348 f.

Idea, analysis of typical, 116 f.; made up of core and context, 116 f., 121, 165, 167; meaning in, 117 ff.; varying complexity of, 121; types of, 138 ff., 154, 166 f., 197; association of ideas, 145 ff.; idea of associationism is a meaning, 149, 162, 163 f., 168; situational context of ideas, 166 ff.; the memory-idea, 184 ff.; the idea of imagination, 194 ff.; empathic, peculiarity of, 198; abstract, 263 ff.

Ideas, community of, 296.

Ideomotor action, 243, 251.

Illusion, perceptive, 135 ff.; arrow head and feather, 136 ff.; of memory, 186, 188 f.; of recognition, 187 f.

Image, simple, probably not distinguishable from sensation, 73 ff., 78, 90, 184; after-image, 62, 74, 78; memory after-image, 74, 78; memory colour, 63, 75, 78; recurrent, 75, 78; tied, 75, 78, 87; of later origin than sensation, 75; variable with the individual, 75 f., 78, 138 ff., 166 f., 185; hallucinatory, 76, 78, 340; dream, 76, 78, 336 f., 340; synæsthetic, 76 f., 78; habitual, 77 f., 265 f., 270; free, of memory and imagination, 77 f., 120, 184 ff., 195 ff.; complex, 78, 197; relative frequency of, in different sense-departments, 78 f.; in perception and idea, 114 ff.; and meaning, 120, 271; of recognition, 184, 273; typical, 266, 282; verbal, peculiarity of, 271; of expectation, 273; of comparison, 284 f.

Imagery, types of, 138 ff., 154, 166 f.; outward signs of, 140; utility of, 141, 195 f.; translation of, in memory, 166 f., 185 f.; stability of, in imagination, 195 ff.; in thought, 265 f.

Imagination, implies feeling of strangeness, 194 f., 198 f., 200; idea of, conservative, 195 ff.; idiosyncratic, 197; pattern of, 197 ff.; receptive, 197 f.; constructive, 198 ff.; characterised by empathy and feeling of strangeness, 198, 200; and memory, 200; and thought, 275 f., 279 f., 300.

Impulsive action, analysis of, 234 f.

Inattention, 102 f.

Index of change, 132.

Inhibition, nervous, in attention, 106 ff., 164, 249 f.; initial and terminal, of associative tendencies, 157 f.; of instincts, 209.

Initial inhibition, 157 f.

Instinct, popular view of, 203; definition of, 204; rôle of, in life of man, 205, 207; list of human instincts, 205 ff.; biological characters of, 208 ff.; psychological characters of, 210 ff.; and reason, 203, 207, 210, 301; and emotion, 207, 211, 216, 219.

Instruction, 96 f., 214; significance of, for action, 240 ff., 252; negative, 250, 253.

Intellectual attitudes, 271 f.; analysis of, 274 f.

Intellectual ‘common factor,’ 310 f.

Intellectual sentiments, 297 f., 299 f.; and curiosity, 301.

Intensity of sensation, 66, 67 ff.; and vividness, 92; as determinant of attention, 94; does not found a group of intensive perceptions, 125; absolute impression of, 125, 285; of feeling, in passion, 225 f., 304; in classification of temperament, 227.

Interest, acquired, 97 f., 226; in attention, 101; natural, 207, 226.

Introspection, as method of psychology, 22; formula of, 19, 22, 80; difficulties of, 20 ff.; experimental,23 ff.; of feeling, 80.

Itch, 44.

Judgement, borrowed from social surroundings, 262 f., 291 f.; terminus of thought, 276; has no definite pattern, 279; core of sentiment, 290.

Kinæsthetic sensations, 45 ff.; meaning of term, 46; blend with cutaneous sensations, 47 f.; play a large part in perception, 65; fall under Weber’s law, 68, 135; enter into sense-feelings, 81 f., 319; in attention, 101 f.; as vehicle of meaning, 119 f., 140; in visual perception of distance, 127 ff.; empathic, in optical illusion, 137 f.; imitative, in memory, 190 ff., 200; empathic, in imagination, 198; in motor reaction, 241; in expectation, 273.

Knowledge, problem of, foreign to psychology, 324 ff.

Language, serves practical needs, 36, 313, 321; relation of, to thought, 266 ff.; spoken, originally gesture, 269 f.; development of, 270; unsafe guide to psychology of sentiment, 297; embodies a theory of the self, 313, 316, 321 ff.; disadvantages of, for science, 36, 321 ff.; an unreliable index of mental process, 323.

Learning, 150 f., 152, 154 f.; implies attention, 163 ff.; importance of psychological situation for, 163 f., 165 f.; and mnemonics, 193 f.

Light, sensations of, 56 f.; all lights psychologically simple, 57; contrast of, 61, 63; adaptation to, 61; after-images of, 62, 133; intensity of, falls under Weber’s law, 68; in sense-feelings, 81.

Man, inner, of common sense, 7; ‘man left in,’ of psychology, 9, 10 f., 17 f., 19, 307.

Marriage by proxy, of ideas, 166 f., 185.

Matter, 9.

Meaning, not a scientific term, 4, 26, 325; may be stripped from process, 26 f.; added to process, 27; disjoined from process in time, 27 f.; different, may attach to same process, 28 f.; same, may attach to different processes, 29; not covariant with process, 29 f.; of touch-blends, 47 f.; of organic complexes, 65; does not inhere in mental elements, 90; not to be confused with sensory vividness, 93; of perception and idea, 113, 117 ff., 123, 127; psychologically regarded, is context, 118 f.; carried by kinæsthesis and organic sensations, 119 f., 140; older than free image, 120; carried physiologically, 120 f., 129 f., 181, 316; in perceptions of time, 123; in perceptions of space, 123, 127, 129 f., 133 f.; in doctrine of association, 147 f., 149, 162, 163 f., 168; and memory-idea, 185 f., 197; of words, 150, 164, 269 f.; in verbal image, 271; in mental attitudes, 272; of self, 315, 318 f.

Melody, perception of, 134 f.

Memory, implies recognition, 177; common-sense view of memory-image, 184, 185 f.; image need not appear, 184; turns upon feeling of familiarity, 184 f.; idea of, does not copy past experience, 185 f.; illusions of, 186, 188 f.; pattern of, 189 ff.; as remembrance, 190; as recollection, 190 f.; characterised by familiarity and imitative kinæsthesis, 192, 200; artificial, 192 ff.; and imagination, 195, 200; proposed definitions of, 201; in old age, 282.

Memory after-image, 74, 78.

Memory-colour, 63, 75.

Memory-image, 77 f., 120, 184 ff.

Mental processes, nature of, 20 f., 90; relation of, to meaning, 26 ff., 30, 47 f., 90; contextual, 118 f., 241, 265, 270, 273; not reliably indicated by movement, 232 f., 323; not intrinsically self-experiences, 316 f., 320 f.

Method, of psychology, 18 ff.; eye-and-ear, 236 f.; of trial and error, 247; of reaction, 253 f.

Mind, common-sense view of, 5 ff., 17, 321; scientific view of, 8 f., 307; relation of, to body, in common sense, 6 ff.; in scientific psychology, 10 ff., 17 f., 232; made up of processes, 20 f.; historical differences in attitude toward, 38 f.

Mnemonics, principle of, 192; topographical, 193; number and rhythm in, 193; utility of, 193 f.

Mood, 225 ff., 255, 304.

Moral sentiments, 298 ff.; and empathy, 301.

Motor reaction, 239 ff.

Movement, of head and eyes in fixation, 62 f.; as determinant of attention, 94; as cue to distance, 127; perception of visual, 132 ff.; of eyes, in optical illusion, 136 f.; instinctive, 204 ff.; expressive, 222 ff.; differentiates plant from animal, 230 f.; distinguished from action, 231; unreliable index of mental processes, 232 f., 323; ‘sensations of intended movement,’ 241; inhibition of, in sleep, 340; in hypnosis, 342 f.

Muscle sense, 45 ff.

Music, implies intent to express, 135; involves transposition, 135; primitive, 134 f.

Name, personal, 313.

Naming, first stage in process of association, 160 f.

Nausea, 64 f.

Negative instruction, 250, 253.

Nerve-forces, directive, 18, 96 f., 164, 205 f., 212 ff.; in attention, 96, 166; in perception and idea, 115 ff.; of reinforcement and inhibition, in attention, 106 ff., 164, 249 f.; double-acting, 109, 249 f.; in memory, 190; in imagination, 199 f.; in selective action, 248; in volitional action, 251; in thought, 261, 274, 275, 277.

Nervous disposition, as vehicle of meaning, 120 f., 129 f., 131, 133 f., 181 f., 185, 195, 243, 274, 316.

Nervous system, functions of, 10; correlated with mind, 10 ff., 17 f., 232, 307; the ‘man left in’ of psychology, 10; as index of mind, 13; Darwin’s principle of direct action of, 223.

Noise, sensations of, 55, 57.

Note, musical, perception of, 122; analysis of, 159.

Observation, as scientific method, 19, 331; formula of, 19, 22, 80; difficulties of, 20; and experiment, 22 f.

Of-course, feeling of, 181 f.

Organic changes, in sense-feeling, 82 ff.; in secondary attention, 105 f.; in emotion, 219 ff.

Organic sensations, 64 f.; their part in emotion, 65, 216, 218 ff., 290; in sense-feelings, 81 f., 319; as vehicle of meaning, 119 f.; in instinct, 211; in sentiment, 291; not necessarily self-experiences, 318, 321.

Origin of language, 269 f.

Pain, sensation of, from skin, 43 ff.; from underlying tissues, 46 f.; organic, varieties of, 64; in hunger and nausea, 64; may be pleasant or unpleasant, 79; see Pleasure and pain

Paramnesia, 187 f.

Passion, 226, 304.

Pathology, as aid to psychology, 26 ff., 46, 139, 314 f.

Perception, analysis of typical, 114 ff.; made up of core and context, 114 f., 117, 121, 131, 165, 167; meaning in, 117 ff., 123, 127, 129 ff., 133 f.; varying complexity of, 121; types of, 121 ff.; qualitative, 122; temporal, 122 ff.; spatial, 124 f.; complex, 125; no class of intensive, 125; of distance, 125 ff.; of visual movement, 132 ff.; of melody, 134 f.; illusory, 135 ff.; connection of elements in, 159 f.

Personal difference, 237.

Personal equation, 237.

Personalisation, tendency toward, 205, 323.

Personality, dual and multiple, 314 f.

Physics, leaves man out of the world, 8; method of, 21 f.; early became experimental, 25; suffers from bias of language, 323.

Pitch, of tones, 52; of noises, 55; memory of absolute, 134.

Plants, psychology of, 13 f., 31 f., 230.

Pleasantness and unpleasantness, the qualities of simple feeling, 79, 81; in memory, 188 f.

Pleasure and pain, 79, 84 ff.; alleged determinants of action, 257 f.

Post-hypnotic suggestion, 345 f.

Pressure, sensation of, from skin, 43 ff.; from muscle, 46 f.; from joint, 46 f.; organic, 64; falls under Weber’s law, 68.

Primitive man, mind of, 303, 313; primitive music, 134 f.

Problem, of psychology, 14 ff., 18, 113, 148, 231, 258, 331; of attention, 93; of meaning, 117 f.; of action, 231 f., 258.

Process, see Mental processes, Psychoneural processes

Psychography, 309.

Psychologist, how concerned with himself, 3; not a student of human nature, 3 f.; not adequate to the whole of his science, 31.

Psychology, the science of mind, 2, 5; subject-matter of, as defined by common sense, 6 ff., 17, 34, 321; by science, 8 f., 329; leaves man in the world, 9, 307; takes account of nervous system, 10 ff., 17 f.; of animals, 12 ff., 32, 51, 134, 219 f., 247, 267; of plants, 13 f.,31 f., 230; problem of human, 14 ff., 18, 113, 148, 231, 326 f.; method of, 18 ff.; has recently become experimental, 25 f., 34; scope of, 30 ff., 329; classification of, 31 ff.; differential, 31 f., 309; immaturity of, 25 f., 34; difficulties of, to beginner, 34 ff., 90, 112 ff., 321 ff., 325 f.; definitions of, 38; may have begun with observation of expressive movements, 222; describes a generalised world, 307; has to do with self, 308 f.; has nothing to do with knowledge or awareness, 324 f.; in daily life, 329 f.; results of, are useful in practice, 4 f., 33, 232, 281, 310.

Psychoneural processes, 164, 212.

Psychotechnics, 33.

Quality, of sensation, 65 f.; as basis of qualitative perception, 122; of simple feeling, 79, 81.

Question, as stimulus to thought, 276 ff., 330.

Rapport, hypnotic, 344 f.

Reaction experiment, history of, 236 f., 252 ff.; simple form of, 238; aids us to analyse action, 238 f., 253; compound form of, 252 ff., 255; has not developed in accordance with classification of action, 252 f.; various uses of, 253 ff.; association reaction, 254 f.

Reaction method, 253 ff.

Reaction time, 238; sensory and motor, 240; significance of, 242, 254.

Reason, 203, 207, 210, 301.

Receptive imagination, 197 f.

Recognition, analysis of, 177 ff.; hinges on feeling of familiarity, 178, 181, 184 f., 276; varies in definiteness, 179 f.; direct and indirect, 180 f.; halting and partial, 181; lapses to direct apprehension, 181 ff.; common-sense view of, 184; illusions of, 187 f.

Recollection, 190 f.

Recurrent images, 75, 78.

Reflex, artificial, 244, 251; physiological, 244 f.

Reinforcement, nervous, in attention, 106 ff., 164, 249 f.

Relational feelings and attitudes, 279.

Religious sentiments, 299 f., 302 f.

Remembrance, 190.

Repetition, as determinant of attention, 94, 163; strengthens associative tendencies, 153, 163.

Representative gesture, 268 f.

Resistance, perception of, 122.

Retina, complex structure of, 58 ff., 60, 63; normal colour-blindness of, in daylight, 58, 62; central blindness of, in twilight, 60; compared with olfactory membrane, 63.

Rhythm, perception of, 123, 125, 159 f.; subjective, 104; helps to establish associative tendencies, 153; in mnemonics, 193.

Saturation, of colours, 57.

Science, has no concern with values, 1 ff., 22, 325; is no respecter of persons, 2 f.; makes impersonal and disinterested search for facts, 2 f., 4, 30 f., 39, 48, 275, 313, 325, 330; limitations of, 4, 331; physical and psychological, 8 f.; describes and does not explain, 8, 14, 37, 91; method of, 19, 22 f.; definitions of, 37; generalises, 307 f.; finds language misleading, 323; is built up of facts and logic, 330 f.

Self, of common sense, 2, 22, 189, 308 f., 309 f., 311 f., 315, 321 ff.; concept of, 307 ff., 318, 321 f.; psychological definition of, 308 f.; persistence of, 312 ff., 320; as experienced, 315 ff.; a meaning, 315, 318 f.

Self-consciousness, 322 f.

Self-experience, forms of, 316, 318 ff.; processes involved in, 316, 319 ff.

Sensation, definition of, 65, 66; attributes of, 65 f., 67, 92; from skin, 43 ff.; from muscle, tendon, joint, 45 ff.; of taste and smell, 48 ff.; from ear, 51 ff., 56; from eye, 56 ff.; from internal organs, 64 f.; intensity of, 67 ff.; relation of, to simple image, 73 ff.; secondary, 74 f.; in perception and idea, 114 ff.; of accommodation and convergence, 127 f.; no sensation of depth, 126, 128 f., 132; no sensation of visual movement, 132; of ‘intended movement,’ 241, 273; of ‘future occurrence,’ 273.

Sense-feeling, blend of sensation and feeling, 81, 319; classification of, 81 f., 212, 216 f.; variety of, 82; opposition of, 82; in attention, 101 f.; in connections of ideas, 161 f., 271; in recognition, 178; in instinct, 212; in wish and desire, 256 f.; uniformities of, 296.

Sense-organs, their importance for psychology, 17 f.; of skin, 43 f.; of muscle, tendon, joint, 47; of taste, 49; of smell, 49 f., 63; of hearing, 55 f.; of equilibrium, 56; of sight, 58 ff., 63.

Sensorimotor action, 243, 251.

Sensory reaction, 239 ff.

Sentiment, nature of, 290; instances of, 291; a rare experience, 291; lapses to feeling-attitude, 292; empathy by, 293; and sentimentality, 295 f.; forms of, 297 ff.; runs in threes, 297; pattern of, 300; means of studying, 300 ff.

Short-cuts, nervous, in perception, 123, 127; in practice, 170; in action, 245 f., 252; in thought, 286.

Similarity, ‘law’ of association by, 147.

Situation, importance of the psychological, in learning, 163 f., 165 f.; attentional, 165 f., 261; connection of ideas within, 166; connection of ideas belonging to different situations, 167 f.; in emotion, 216, 290; in thought, 276 ff.; social, 298 f.; religious, 299; in sentiment, 290, 300 ff.

Skin, sensations from, 43 ff., 47; borrows from underlying tissues, 45, 47 f.

Sleep, instinctive origin of, 335 f.; walking and talking in, 336, 340.

Smell, sensations of, 48 ff.; blends of, with taste and touch, 48; blends of odorous qualities, 49; disused but not degenerate, 50 f.; arithmetic by, 51; adaptation to, 51, 63; contrast of, 63; mixture of stimuli, 63; comparison of, with sight, 63; in tensity of, falls under Weber’s law, 68; in sense-feelings, 81.

Social sentiments, 298 ff.; and empathy, 301.

Somnambulism, 342.

Space, psychological problem of, 124 f.; short-cuts to meaning of, 123, 127; perceptions of, show conjunction of mental processes, 159 f.

State of consciousness, a misleading phrase, 21.

Stereoscope, 128.

Stimulus, a technical term in experimental psychology, 24; the ‘biological’ stimuli to attention, 95, 165; ‘situational’ stimuli, 165 f.

Strain, sensation of, 46.

Strangeness, feeling of, 194 f.; derivation of, 195; makes an idea into an idea of imagination, 195.

Stroboscope, 133.

Style, literary, sentiment of, 294 ff.

Subconsciousness, definition of, 326; an explanatory concept, 326; unnecessary and dangerous, 327 f.; but has proved useful in practice, 328.

Subject-matter of psychology, 5 ff., 113 f., 326.

Suggestion, 213 f., 242, 252, 348 f.; in volitional action, 250 f. hypnotic, 342 f., 348 f.; post-hypnotic or terminal, 345 f.; perceptive, 348 f.

Syllables, meaningless, experimental use of, 151, 152 ff., 155, 163 f.

Sympathy, as basis of moral or social sentiment, 301.

Synæsthesia, 76 f., 78.

Synthesis, a test of analysis, 16 f.

Taste, sensations of, 48 f.; blend of sweet and salt, 49; blends of taste, smell, and touch, 48; in sense-feelings, 81; perceptions of, 122; and expression of emotion, 223 f.

Temperament, 226 f., 304.

Temperature, sensations of, 43 ff.

Tendencies, associative, 150, 327; studied by use of meaningless syllables, 151, 152; by use of meaningful material, 152, 154 f., 156 ff.; conditions of their establishment, 152 ff., 155 f., 164 f.; decay of, 156 f., 266 f.; interference of, 157 f.; convergence of, 158 f., 162, 197, 199; in paramnesia, 187; and mnemonics, 193 f.; and typical images, 266 f.; in dreams, 338 f.

Tendencies, determining, 212, 327; their relation to suggestion, 213 f.; in action, 234 f., 246 ff., 258; studied by reaction method, 253; in emotion, 216; in thought, 276 ff.; intellectual ‘common factor,’ 310 f.; in dreams, 338 f.

Tendencies, instinctive, to forms of ‘thing’ and ‘space,’ 115, 124, 129, 205, 276; to express and communicate, 135, 268; list of human, 205 ff.; to dual division, 205, 211, 276, 278; in sentiment, 300 ff.; to personalisation, 205, 323; in sleep, 335.

Tendencies, nervous, shape perception and idea, 115 ff., 124 f.; see Nerve-forces

Terminal inhibition, 157 f.; suggestion, 345 f.

Tests, mental, 310.

Thought, general character of, 261 f.; true thought rare, 262 f.; imaginal processes in, 263 ff.; relation of language to, 266 ff.; and mental attitudes, 271 ff.; pattern of, 275 ff., 283, 286; relation of, to imagination, 275 f., 279 f., 300; in dreams, 339.

Tickle, 44.

Tied images, 75, 78, 87.

Timbre, 54.

Time, and sense-feelings, 52, 217 f.; perception of, 122 f.; short-cuts to meaning of, 123; in dreams, 338 f.

Tint, 57.

Tonality, 52, 134.

Tones, simple and compound, 51 f., 122; characters of, 52 f.; fundamental and overtones, 53 f., 122, 159; colour or timbre of, 54; fusion of, 54; differential, 54 f.; beating of, 55; in sense-feelings, 81.

Tragedy, 302, 305.

Traits, mental, 310.

Trial and error, method of, 247.

Tropism, 245.

Utility, not the aim of science, 1, 4, 30, 38, 325; nor the test of truth, 328; but results of science are useful, 1 f., 4 f., 38, 331.

Value, not a scientific term, 1, 4, 22, 30, 325, 331.

Vividness, of sensation, 66, 92; shift of, in attention, 91 f., 93; not to be confused with intensity, 92 f.; or with clearness of meaning, 93; levels of, in attention, 99 ff.; inverse relation of focal and marginal, 100, 108 f.; nervous correlate of, 107, 109.

Vocality, of simple tones, 52 f.

Volume, of tones, 52; perception of crude spatial, due to brain-habit, 130 f.

Warmth, sensation of, 43 ff., 64; in sense-feelings, 82.

Weber’s law, 67 f., 81, 135; usefulness of, 68 f.

Will, definition of, 255; types of, 256; in relation to hypnosis, 343, 347.

Wish, 256 f.; alleged fulfilment of, in dreams, 341.

Word-reaction, 254 f.

Words, experiment on perception of, 23 ff.; are ingrained meanings, 150, 164, 269 f., 316; induce secondary images, 186; logical order of, psychologically misleading, 191; danger of technical terms, 213; always had derivative or symbolic meaning, 270; relating to self, misleading, 322 f.

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