Chapter III: Complications of Mental Life (2)

Coherent thought depends largely on _memory_, on associative connections. But it depends also on those conditions which determine _attention_: unless the thoughts have an affective value, unless they are interesting to the individual in question, they are not likely to enter consciousness. Because of this dependence on the conditions of attention, certain persons are capable of coherent thought in some lines, but not in others. Whenever the purely _associative_ function predominates over the conditions of _attention_, or conversely, those abnormalities occur of which we have just spoken, mere chain-like thought, or obsession by a single idea.

Nothing else favors coherent thought so much as the possession of language. The simplicity of a word or phrase and its connection with experiences of unlimited complexity enable the mind to keep within one system of thought in spite of temporary deviations, numerous and winding though they be. Such complicated ideas, inexhaustible to him who tries to describe them, as propriety, honor, duty, may guide and determine a long-continued train of thoughts and actions. The most important one of all these guiding ideas, crystallizing around a single word, is the idea of self, of _I_.

2. _The Self and the World_

Among the impressions received by a child through his sense organs, some must very early distinguish themselves from the rest. (1) When the child is carried about or creeps about, the majority of his impressions change from moment to moment: instead of a wall with pictures, seen a few seconds ago, he sees windows with curtains; instead of tables and chairs he sees houses, trees, and strange people. Certain impressions, however, hardly change. Whatever else he may see, he almost invariably sees also his hands and some of the lower parts of his body. Whatever may be the position of his body, sensations from his clothing, from the movements of his limbs, from the processes in his digestive and other organs are always present. (2) Another impressive phenomenon is this. The things seen often move, and thus cause alterations in the field of vision. But when these moving things are his own arms and legs, yielding to the pull of their muscles, there is an additional experience, made up of kinesthetic and usually also tactual sensations. Certain experiences are therefore a kind of twofold experience as compared with others which are of one kind only: visual plus kinesthetic-tactual. (3) In still a third way certain experiences distinguish themselves. Whenever the child’s hands and feet come in contact with external things, a tactual sensation is added to the visual impression. But when one hand touches the other hand or a foot or another part of the body, even a part which is not seen, a peculiar double tactual impression is received. That this double tactual sensation is particularly interesting may be concluded from the concentration with which an infant plays with his feet, and the enjoyment which a kitten seems to get from biting its tail.

For various reasons, therefore, the sensations of a child’s _own body_, visual, tactual, organic, etc., become experiences of a special class. By various peculiarities they distinguish themselves from all others and become a special, unitary group. But the child’s _ideas and feelings_, when compared with his perceptions, also form a peculiar system, often keeping unchanged while the perceptions change because of movements of the objective things or of the body itself. It is quite natural, then, that in opposition to the external world _a dual system_ is conceived, made up of the bodily sensations on the one hand and the ideas and feelings of frequently repeated or especially impressive experiences on the other. But in spite of this unison between the complex of bodily sensations and the complex of ideas, forming a personal world as opposed to the external world, there remains an opposition between the constituents of the personal world as between a material and a spiritual half of the whole.

This complex idea of a personal world, of personality, which constantly increases in content, is given a special name, John or Mary, and still later another name, _I_. The unity of the idea of personality, the readiness of its appearance in consciousness in spite of the multitude of its contents, is greatly enhanced by this name. The idea _I_ becomes the omnipresent and dominating factor in consciousness. I can see nothing, hear nothing, imagine nothing without, however vaguely, thinking that it is _I_ who reads, _I_ who answers, _I_ who designs. It is altogether impossible to express such thoughts in language without reference to the _I_ or the _mine_. In the ecstasy of the mystic or the mental exaltation of the insane, the idea of _I_ may be absent, but never under normal conditions at an age beyond that of infancy. Consciousness in which the idea of _I_ is rather pronounced is commonly called self-consciousness.

It is plain enough that thinking of the other half of the world, other than the self, is also facilitated by such names as “the world,” “the external world.” But the concept of the external world does not easily attain the unity of the concept of self, because the experiences referred to are too changeable in comparison with those referred to by _I_. We speak of the external world chiefly in order to distinguish it from the self, not because of the unity of its conception.

The extraordinary support which the consciousness of self receives from language has had also a certain undesirable consequence. We have mentioned in an earlier chapter the universal desire to imagine the world as being under the power of innumerable demons. The consciousness of the self thus leads naturally to the thought of a demon who inhabits the human body. When a person under ordinary conditions is conscious of the _I_, there is no time for its content to unfold itself to any considerable extent. Usually one small group of ideas enters consciousness, even when I ask myself the question as to what I am: ideas of a certain visual appearance, a certain position in society, a certain age, certain aims in life. It seems then that the concept of self is exceedingly simple. This apparent simplicity gives aid to the idea of the existence of a simple demon, independent of time, eternal, inhabiting and governing this body as long as its organs are held together by their normal physiological functions, after the body’s death going elsewhere--whither, we do not know. But this conclusion as to the existence of a simple, unitary subjective reality is no more justifiable than the statement that, because of the simplicity of the idea _it_ in ordinary language, there must be an absolutely simple objective reality which corresponds to it.

Mind may justly be called a unity. But it is not a simple, indescribable unity, a unitary something separable from the sum of the parts of which it consists. It is, rather, a unity comparable to the unity of an animal organism or a plant, which may be well described as consisting of so many different parts functioning together according to definite laws. Within the unity of the mind there are smaller groups which may also be called unities, though in a restricted sense. The _I_ is one of these subordinate unities. It, too, is not simple, but consists of parts, sometimes a greater, sometimes a smaller number. It may expand and include almost as much content as mind itself, provided that time is given for such an expansion, and a sufficient stimulus. Usually the _I_ is very poor in content, hardly anything else than the word-idea which is the representative of the whole concept.

3. _Intelligence_

It is but natural that thought is largely in harmony with the actual facts. Its contents are derived from sensory experiences, are molded by sensory experiences, and must therefore often be anticipations of sensory experiences. With reference to its agreement or disagreement with the actual facts, we give our thought the name of truth, knowledge--or error. Both truths and errors, like perceptions and illusions, are the results of the laws governing mental functions. But truths are more common in the mental life of certain individuals than in that of others. Youth is more apt than mature age to give free rein to its imagination, no matter whether it agrees with reality or not. This is partly the result of the mature man’s realizing the high value of this agreement and therefore striving for it; partly the unintended consequence of innumerable pleasant and sad experiences, of adaptations which have proved now more, now less successful. But aside from such differences developing during life, there are immense differences of a similar kind resulting from native capacities. We speak of such capacities as reason, judgment, intelligence.

Intelligence does not consist merely in a good memory, making possible the exact reproduction of experiences of long ago. A good memory in this sense contributes much toward a high degree of intelligence, but is not identical with it. Even the feeble-minded are often found to possess an astonishing capacity for retaining dates, poetry, music. But memory adapts the thought processes only to very simple and frequently recurring events. When the circumstances become complicated, it soon proves inadequate.

Imagine a servant sent on an errand. He finds it impossible to execute the instructions received from his master. That ends it, if he is deficient in intelligence. No instructions have been given for this case; thus there is nothing to do but to return home. But the thought of an intelligent servant is more comprehensive. He recalls his master’s situation and analogous cases; the probable purpose of the master’s order; other possibilities of realizing the same end. Thus he succeeds perhaps in reconstructing the totality of the conditions which led his master to send him, and in meeting these conditions.

Take another example. Of several physicians, all but one are mistaken in the diagnosis of a case. Why do they differ? Every disease is characterized by a multitude of symptoms. Some of them are obvious, so that no one can fail to notice them: the complaints of the patient. Others are more hidden, but no less important. The physician must search for them. Each symptom, for example, fever, lack of appetite, dizziness, megalomania, may appear in very different diseases. A definite group of symptoms in definite degrees of intensity is characteristic of a particular disease. Two conditions, therefore, must be fulfilled to make a correct diagnosis. The symptoms which are hidden must be called up by those which are obvious, so that the physician can search for them and determine whether they are present or absent; for without first thinking of them he cannot search for them. Secondly, the thought of the present and absent symptoms must reproduce the idea of the disease which is characterized by the presence or absence of just these symptoms. This reproduction is possible only in a mind in which all these ideas are very closely connected, forming a well-organized system. Where this is not the case, the less obvious symptoms cannot influence the decision, and the correctness of the diagnosis becomes a matter of chance.

Lack of intelligence, then, means a _deficiency in the organization of ideas_, a lack of those manifold interconnections by which a large number of ideas may enter into a unitary group--no matter how _effectively_ each idea is associated with a small number of others, that is, how excellent the person’s _memory_. Intelligence means organization of ideas, manifold interconnection of all those ideas which ought to enter into a unitary group, because of the natural relations of the objective facts represented by them. The discovery of a physical law in a multitude of phenomena apparently unrelated, the interpretation of an historical event of which only a few details are directly known, are examples of intelligent thought which takes into consideration innumerable experiences neglected by the less intelligent mind. Neither memory alone nor attention alone is the foundation of intelligence, but a union of memory and attention. Energy of concentration must be combined with breadth of interest. It is clear that thought determined by both these conditions is more likely to agree with the enormously complicated events in the external world than thought which is governed mainly by one of them.

How does human intelligence differ from that of animals? That man is immeasurably superior to animals cannot be doubted. But human superiority does not consist in the possession of a higher faculty--let us call it reason--in no way dependent on the lower, animal faculties, to which it is added as a jeweler’s tools might be added to a blacksmith’s tools. The difference between the animal mind and the human mind is simply this: that the imaginative anticipation of possible experiences of the future is brought about in the human mind by means of more abstract and therefore more comprehensive ideas than in the animal mind. Man’s mind is by natural inheritance far more capable of forming abstract ideas than is the mind of the highest animals. Man is further immensely aided in abstract thought by language--his own invention--which furnishes him with symbols taking the place of the most complicated ideas, and because of their simplicity, effecting economy in mental work as tools and machines do in manual labor. Animals, too, possess symbols, cries; but their number is insignificant. The difference between man and animals is therefore only one of degree in properties which are common to both. But these degrees are indeed very far apart in the scale.

QUESTIONS

160. How does coherent thought differ from dreaming?

161. How does coherent thought differ from mere recurrent thought?

162. What are the conditions on which coherent thought depends?

163. What is the significance of language for coherent thought?

164. What are the two sources of the idea of self?

165. What influence has language on the concept of the unity and
indivisibility of self?

166. What is the true concept of the unity of mind?

167. How does intelligence differ from memory?

168. How does the text describe “lack of intelligence”?

169. How does human intelligence differ from that of animals?

§ 18. BELIEF

It seems, then, that all our knowledge is a mere adaptation to external circumstances, that truth is entirely relative, being only a fitting relation between the subject and his surroundings. But are there no truths whose evidence is inherent in them? Are there no axioms which are immediately evident? Is it not our task to derive all other truths from these axioms by means of logical rules the correctness of which we are obliged to admit? Or, if there are also secondary truths, which we recognize as such only because they suit our experience, are not those immediately evident truths a superior kind, preëminently worthy of the name? For example, the logical, mathematical, and religious truths?

Our previous discussion of truth and knowledge is indeed insufficient. We called truth any mental state which is in harmony with objective reality, no matter whether this relation of harmony is itself thought of in the truth or not. But we may use the word _truth_, or _knowledge_, in a subjective sense, meaning by it a complex mental state which _includes the thought of its agreeing_ with objective reality; that is, a state which includes the _belief_ of its objective counterpart. Most people take it for granted that knowledge is mental activity which has its objective counterpart. However, there are very many subjective truths to which an objective reality cannot correspond. Christian, Jewish, pagan, and philosophical martyrs have testified with their blood to their faiths, which in certain respects contradict each other. They must, therefore, have sacrificed their lives partly for something objectively untrue. On the other hand, there are objective truths which are not believed; for instance, theories which are rejected for some time, but later prove to be right.

We have seen how objectively correct thought originates. Let us now consider the origin of thought which includes the thought of the existence of its objective counterpart; that is, the origin of belief.

An infant has no consciousness of either reality or unreality. He has simply conscious states, without any such distinction. But he cannot fail to learn the distinction. He is hungry. He cries. He becomes conscious of reproduced former experiences of food and of the mother bringing the food. And, indeed, the door opens, the mother enters with the food, very similar to the imagined mother, and yet differing in vividness, in permanence, in number of details. At a later time the child imagines strange compositions: animals with legs both below and on their backs, so that they can turn over and continue running when one set of legs is tired; princes and princesses with golden crowns on their heads; fairies carrying marvelous gifts in their hands. But nothing of this kind appears with the vividness, permanence, and distinctness characteristic of the mother entering the door. Human beings who appear with a similar vividness, permanence, and distinctness, either are bareheaded or wear plain-looking hats; and their gifts amount to but little. When the child imagines the experience with his mother, he recalls the substitution of the vivid and stable consciousness for the feeble and fleeting image of the mother and the food. When he imagines his dreams of princes and fairies, he recalls the substitution of those vivid but homely mental states for less vivid but more beautiful ones. When such experiences have been repeated hundreds of times, the child begins to realize that there is a distinction of the greatest importance between the two classes. He forms the abstract concepts of sensory perception and of fancy--of consciousness of various sensory qualities and characterized by indescribable vividness, permanence, and distinctness; and on the other hand, of consciousness of various sensory qualities and characterized by feebleness, fleetingness, and vagueness, and in this respect flatly contradicted by the mental states of the other kind. _In these abstract conceptions consists the consciousness of reality and unreality._ Reality and unreality are not logical opposites, but merely relative concepts.

As soon as the ideas of reality and unreality are once formed, ample opportunity is found for their application. They are applied also to cases which do not belong to either of the extremes of vividness, permanence, and distinctness, or feebleness, fleetingness, and vagueness. Finally, they are applied by mere analogy to cases which do not directly call for their application--as in a discussion of historical truths. At this point another distinction is made. Trees with leaves of silver are never presented to our sense organs. But the elements which make up even the most contradictory compounds of fancy have been known through the sense organs and become known again as sensory impressions. Trees with a foliage of silver are not seen in everyday life; but trees are seen, and leaf-like things of silver, too. Even if all our ideational thought were fancy, its elements would tend to make us conscious of the concept of reality rather than of unreality because separately the elements have often been experienced with a high degree of vividness, permanence, and distinctness. The opportunities for thinking of reality are incomparably more numerous in human life than those for thinking of unreality. We develop the habit of conceiving our thoughts as real, unless there is a positive force compelling us to accept the opposite concept. Thus we understand why the child, as soon as he has formed these two concepts, is immensely credulous.

Tell the child that the moon is going to drop from heaven, and he will look up, expecting to see it fall. The child’s experience is limited. There is but rarely a positive force tending to reproduce in his consciousness the concept of unreality. Where there is no such force, the child does not remain neutral, skeptical, but conceives his thought as including objective reality. Language assists in this tendency, for the first words acquired by the child mean objective realities, persons, clothes, furniture, and so on. The frequent use of these words strengthens the habit of thinking of things as realities. Of much influence is also the use of the verb _to be_ as a mere copula and also in the sense of _to exist_. The child is thus induced to regard a thing as existing because it is thought _to be_ yellow, round, etc. That _to be_ is used in this ambiguous manner in all languages seems to be additional proof of what is historically certain, that the human race, like the human child, has passed through a period of extreme credulity. This racial credulity through the traditional usage of language contributes now to the credulity of the individual.

Gradually the child’s experience becomes more extensive and begins to exert upon the multitude of original beliefs an influence which sometimes continues all through life, although ultimately the progress becomes very slow. Experience steadily encroaches upon the realm of belief, driving it from ground which it previously occupied. It also gives additional authority to belief, enabling it to hold more firmly that to which previously it possessed but a doubtful title.

Much that contradicts frequent experiences is taken out of the realm of belief and called a fairy tale or a story. Trees with golden apples? There is no such thing, the real apples assert--we are all mellow and meaty, not hard as gold. A Santa Claus who distributes gifts to all the children everywhere at the same time? Impossible, says everyday experience. He who is here cannot also be yonder and in a thousand other places.

On the other hand, experience gives strength to the child’s belief. Single matters of belief are connected mutually and with the absolute basis of all knowledge, the sensory perceptions of the present. When I am obliged to think, however briefly and vaguely, that as really as I now see this paper and perceive the words printed on it, I was at that particular time, previous to those and those events of the meantime, at a certain place witnessing a certain act, my belief in the reality of this event is unshakable. Whatever can be connected in this manner with this fixed point, is itself fixed, placed beyond doubt.

Why can I believe my dreams while I am dreaming them, but not after waking up? Because consciousness is limited during sleep. There are _no perceptions_ with their normal vividness, permanence, and distinctness, with which the dream may be compared as to its reality. There are but _few other ideas_ accompanied by a vivid idea of reality, with which the dream may be compared. The dream has therefore the _maximum of reality_ of all mental states present at that time in the mind. This is meant when we _believe_ our dreams while we dream them. In a dream it may seem real to be shot toward the moon in an immense shell in company with other people, as in Jules Verne’s story. But in waking life this thought is altogether devoid of reality. In comparison with the reality of my present experience and of my ideas of the limits of engineering, of the low temperature of interstellar space, and so on, that thought of a journey in a shell immediately makes me conscious of the vivid idea of unreality. I cannot believe that story.

We call a verbal statement _proved_ as soon as the connection between it and our present experience has been established in such a manner that the idea of reality is aroused in our mind. The believing of that which has been proved is called _knowing_. Belief is often used in a narrower sense, excluding that which is known and including only that which does not arouse either an idea of reality or an idea of unreality. Both usages are justifiable, the narrower one and also the wider one. Knowledge and belief are opposed as well as related. It is of much practical importance to distinguish that which has been proved from that which has not been proved. But it is also of practical importance to distinguish that which is surely unreal from that which is merely unproved. It is quite impossible in human life to prove every statement before we permit it to affect our thought and our action.

The chief thing which a man must have learned when he arrives at maturity is this: that the number of facts to be believed is very much smaller than he thought originally. The belief of childhood and youth is subject to continuous losses. Something is, indeed, confirmed and strengthened by growing experience; but it was believed before it was known, and cannot properly be called an additional belief. Much that has been believed for some time is recognized as unreal. That apparent errors have to be recognized as truths happens much more rarely. Experience makes a man more and more skeptical, cautious. This is of great advantage to him in his adaptation to the world, and higher institutions of learning to a large extent have their purpose in aiding the young to develop cautious, critical habits of thinking. A student goes to college not merely in order to cram himself with bare facts, but to be trained in the habit of seeing men and things in the abundance of their relations, of asking for their passports before granting them free passage.

Thus the original tendency to believe is gradually limited, more in one individual, less in another. But it is never perfectly eradicated. This, indeed, would not be advantageous. A limited tendency to believe is indispensable. Two conditions contribute chiefly toward the retention of a belief which can be neither proved nor disproved: authority and personal needs.

“He told us so” is reported to have been a common remark among the disciples of Pythagoras. And to the present time disciples of any master have not failed to quote their master. It is not even necessary to be a master in order to be a prophet. A strong voice, significant gesticulation, and impressive speech are sufficient to guide the belief of the masses of the people. When everybody holds a certain belief and gives expression to it, no member of the crowd can escape the influence of the constant repetition of the thought. I cannot help believing what my friends or my associates in a profession believe. Even if I begin to reflect on the reasonableness of accepting as a truth what I have merely often heard, I can hardly free myself of the belief. Is it not highly improbable that all of them should have been led into error without noticing it? On the consensus of everybody, philosophers have frequently founded their highest doctrines. Cicero calls it the voice of nature. On the other hand, narrow-minded people often attempt to fight a truth which they dislike by pointing out partial disagreements among its adherents.

But the belief in statements which are neither proved nor disproved is not always based on authority; that is, produced by emphatic and often-repeated expression of these statements by the people among whom we live. It is frequently the result of strong and deep-seated needs of the human mind. As long as these needs make themselves felt, they call up in the mind ideas of remedies and means in harmony with analogous experiences; and unless these remedies and means are contradicted by other experiences, they are believed. One may call this, in distinction from the authoritative belief, practical or emotional belief.

Every one believes in his own destiny. Every mother believes in her son. Napoleon believed in his star. A general who doubts if he is going to win the impending battle has already half lost it. Can he prove it, that is, can he interpret what he sees and what is reported to him in such a manner that the idea of his winning the battle cannot appear in his mind without the idea of reality? He is probably very far from giving his experiences such an interpretation. Of course, he will do his best in order to make victory come his way. But his knowledge constantly informs him that the outcome is dubious. Yet this knowledge does not keep him from believing that it is not dubious. He cannot help believing it. His whole existence depends on this belief. His honor, his future career, his nation, all is lost unless he wins. The idea of loss is impossible. It is inhibited by the idea of success, by that idea which alone can give him the prudence and presence of mind that are needed.

Or the mother who believes that her son will turn out a respectable man, does she do it because of her experiences? Her experiences are perhaps opposed to her belief; she believes, nevertheless. Circumstances were unfavorable to her son, his father does not understand his real nature, he merely enjoys his youth: thus she comforts herself. Experience is not the foundation of her belief, but her belief interprets her experience. The belief is founded on the fact that she needs it. The idea of a wayward son would deprive her of the most valued part of her existence. Therefore she cannot believe it.

Misfortune of any kind has a marvelous belief-creating power, because it constantly revives ideas of remedying the misfortune. “Whoever has lived among people,” says Spinoza, “knows how full of wisdom they feel, insulted if any one should offer any advice, as long as their affairs are prosperous. But let misfortune overpower them, and they are willing to ask any one’s advice, and to accept it, however senseless and ill-considered it may be.”

Experiential, authoritative, and practical belief differ according to their sources, but they appear in life in various combinations. However, one of three kinds can usually be found to be the chief component in a system of conviction. That we cannot escape the authoritative belief is plain. Who could repeat every observation made by others in order to avoid the possibility of accepting erroneous reports? Practical belief has different limits according to the amount of experience possessed by each individual. And a whole class of people having about the same kind and amount of experience may thus be distinguished from another class by their practical beliefs. A practical belief of one, which is not shared by another, is called by the latter a superstition. How much superstitions differ and how much they change is well known. Recall, for example, a superstitious means of improving one’s looks, of curing diseases, of regaining a lost love. But wherever a superstition is difficult to contradict because it is so stated as to concern only that which is beyond experience (spiritualism), or when it is supported by a famous name, it may successfully resist all attempts at overthrowing it.

We saw that practical belief is not altogether independent of experiential belief. Neither is the latter independent of the former. When two theories agree equally well with experiential facts, we accept the one that is simpler. Not because we know that it is nature’s obligation to proceed in the simplest manner possible, and that therefore the simpler theory is more likely to be correct; but because our practical needs compel us to accept a simpler theory whenever we can. We believe the Copernican theory of the solar system and reject the Ptolemaic system. Not because one is more correct than the other; but because the Copernican system combines the same objective fitness with an immeasurably greater simplicity. The simple we desire; the simple, therefore, we believe. A simple connection of a variety of things is pleasant, beautiful. It is easy to survey it. It takes but a small amount of mental energy to imagine it. Whenever our experiences leave us a choice, we choose what is simpler. In other cases, too, practical belief comes to the aid of experiential belief. In the border regions of knowledge and within the blank spaces found within the field of knowledge, belief must take the place of knowledge.

QUESTIONS

170. What is the difference between objectively correct thought and
belief?

171. What is the wider and what the narrower meaning of “belief”?

172. How do the ideas of reality and of unreality originate in the
child?

173. Why are we more inclined to apply the concept of reality than
that of unreality?

174. What is the double influence of experience on the child’s
belief?

175. Should authoritative belief be eradicated? Give reasons for
your answer.

176. Should practical belief be eradicated? Give reasons for your
answer.

177. What is a superstition?

178. Why do we believe the Copernican theory and reject the
Ptolemaic theory?

B. _Affection and Conduct_

§ 19. COMPLICATIONS OF FEELING

1. _Feeling Dependent on Form and Content_

Perception and ideation rarely, if ever, occur in the isolation in which they were shown above in order to make clear their structure: they are accompanied by, interwoven with, feelings. A summer landscape not only looks different from the same landscape when covered with snow, but also arouses different feelings. I may look forward to the same event--an ocean voyage or an automobile tour--as a danger or as a pleasure; I may regard an assertion as a truth or as doubtful. The ideas of which I am conscious surely differ much in the alternative cases. But still greater is the difference of feeling to which we refer by such terms as _fear_, _low spirits_, _disquietude_, _comfort_, _joy_. The exact make-up of these complexes of feeling is difficult to describe, but we may try to point out the conditions on which they depend. We shall first consider form and content.

Sensations, images, perceptions, and so on, give rise to feelings, not only on account of what they are, but also and indeed chiefly because of their manner of connection, of succession, and of spatial relation. Colors which we regard as most beautiful separately may compose a carpet whose color scheme we dislike and call inharmonious; on the other hand, the most uninteresting gray dots may compose a beautiful design. A piece of music is beautiful not alone because of the clearness of the single tones, but chiefly because of the relations of these tones in melody, harmony, and rhythm.

One principle is generally applicable to this class of feelings: a variety of mental contents is bound together into a unity for our perception and imagination. A multitude of unconnected things is not easily perceivable or thinkable; therefore it is unpleasant. A single thing, so simple that it cannot be analyzed into component parts, cannot occupy our mind for any length of time; it is tedious, unpleasant. A combination of variety and unity is able to keep us mentally busy without overburdening the mind; therefore it is pleasant.

The general principle, however, admits of a great many different applications. The unity may consist, for example, in the similarity and regularity of arrangement of the pickets of a fence. The unity may consist in subordination of a number of equal elements to a dominating element, as the larger fence post taking the place of a picket at regular intervals, or the accented element in a rhythm. The unity may consist in organic unity of the elements of a living thing. It may be logical unity, as in a sentence or a lecture. Several of these and other kinds of unity may appear simultaneously in the same matter; and one of these unities may be subordinate to another, this again to another, and so on, as in a Gothic cathedral, a symphony, or a drama.

Thus the variety and complication of the feelings based on the principle in question is immensely great, depending on all these unities, their harmonious relation or opposition, and the contents of impression or imagination directly. This complication is further increased by the conditions discussed below.

2. _Feeling Dependent on Association of Ideas_

Why does a sunny spring landscape give us pleasure? What is its advantage over a gloomy winter landscape? Possibly green is a pleasanter color than brown or gray, which predominate in the winter landscape. Possibly the curved outlines of the trees in their foliage are more beautiful than the naked branches appearing like a system of dark veins on a gray sky. But these are hardly the main causes of the difference in feeling, which are found rather in the different ideas associated with the one and the other percept. The spring landscape reminds one of life, warmth, travel, picnics; the winter scene suggests death and decay, cold, moisture, overheated and ill-ventilated rooms. The feelings aroused by these things when we actually experience them are likely to be aroused now when these thoughts, however fleetingly, are reproduced. For the same reason the cold sensation of touching a corpse is accompanied by a feeling differing from that of touching a piece of ice. It is a different thing to see a stream of blood or of cherry juice, and in a lesser degree even of cherry juice or milk. In every case a multitude of memories influence our feelings, or lead us directly into a train of thought of pleasant or unpleasant character. Thus the feelings which have their first origin in a simple percept may become exceedingly complicated.

An especially important consideration is that these feelings increase in intensity and finally become more conspicuous than the memories by which they are aroused. A house in which I experienced an unpleasant scene finally arouses unpleasantness directly, without any mediation by the consciousness of that event. This kind of transference of feeling is particularly noticeable when the same feeling is aroused by many different memories, quite unconnected among themselves, though attached to the same percept. No better illustration of this law can be found than the feelings accompanying the thought of money. From early childhood all through life man learns that it is money and again money on which the realization of his desires depends. A definite memory of any of these special experiences soon becomes impossible because of the competition among them. But the pleasantness originally aroused by them is not lost. It attaches itself directly to money. In a similar manner our love for our parents, our friends, our home, and so on, originates. A reverent child may reject as a brutal theory the statement that he loves his parents because of the innumerable benefits received from them, that this love is but a kind of precipitation of all the pleasures derived from the actions of his parents and from his living with them. This rejection is in so far justified as the child’s love is not a conscious deduction from the memory of benefits received. Nevertheless, it is quite certain that his love is in some way naturally derived from them. Children who are brought up by foster parents, if they are as well taken care of as by real parents, love them equally well.

We have pointed out that the idea of _I_ is almost omnipresent in our thought, and that it constantly influences our feelings. To understand this influence better, we may distinguish two relations between _I_ and the rest of our thought, according as this or the _I_ is the predominant part of our consciousness. The former case may be illustrated by our perceiving the movements, gestures, and voice-sounds of a person or of an animal as the expressions of conscious motives. Even into the percepts of inorganic things the idea of _I_ is carried in a similar manner. We speak of a bridge boldly swinging across the river, a mountain rising proudly to the clouds, a beam resting heavily on columns, lines crowding together or leaning against each other, tones hiding before and seeking each other. We attribute contents of the _I_ to the things which we perceive; we give them mental life, feeling, and conduct, and experience in consequence further responses of our own life of feeling. In such cases, the influence of the _I_ on our thought is obvious, but it does not predominate. On the other hand, the idea of _I_ may be predominant, but may receive its special coloring from the data presented: as when I feel the tragic fate of a hero, not merely through the sympathy or admiration which it arouses in me, but as my own pain; when in the stress and striving of a Faust I feel my own dreams and desires; when the precipice pulls me down or the towering rock uplifts me.

Since the idea of _I_ is so influential for our life of feeling, it is to be expected that the opposite idea, the idea of the external _world_, is also of considerable importance in this respect. Very often we refer to a thing by merely emphasizing that it is opposed to, different from, or independent of the _self_. We frequently speak of _the world and its ways_, of _the course of the world_, meaning all its sense and nonsense, its kindness and cruelty. Naturally, this idea of the world also gives rise to many complicated feelings.

3. _Irradiation of Feeling_

We mentioned above that feeling is easily transferred from one percept or idea--its _substratum_--to another one which is associated with the first. A special form of this law of feeling may be called irradiation of feeling. A disagreeable message received early in the morning may spoil the whole day; the news of a great success may for some time give to every other experience a joyful aspect. Not that the unpleasant or pleasant event is constantly recalled. It is recalled now and then; and the feeling may be more intense at these moments. But the feeling does not depend on this recall. It attaches itself to any other substratum, even to one which is scarcely in any way related to the first. I have been vexed by an employee’s failure to carry out an order in the proper way and by the resulting consequences. Now I am provoked to anger by everything that happens, by a harmless question of a child, by the visit of a friend who is ordinarily welcome, by the happy looks of a neighbor, by the fly on the wall, not least by myself, being so stupid and so deficient in self-control that I give room to all this unpleasantness.

So many-sided are the complications of our life of feeling. The contents, their mutual relations, their connections in the past, the prevailing impressions of the present, all these are conditions on which our feeling depends.

QUESTIONS

179. Illustrate the independence of form feeling and content
feeling.

180. Explain the pleasantness of unity in variety.

181. Give examples of unity in variety.

182. Illustrate feeling based on association of ideas.

183. What examples are given in the text of transference of
feeling?

184. What are the two relations between the _I_ and the rest of our
thought, important for our feeling?

185. What is irradiation of feeling?

§ 20. EMOTIONS

Our preceding discussion shows that an exhaustive description of all our complicated feelings is an enormous task. We cannot enter upon it here. But certain classes of feelings may be described in more detail; namely, emotions and moods.

Those feelings which are based on associated ideas, and which rise at once to great intensity, are called emotions. This definition is somewhat deficient in so far as it is difficult to draw the line which exactly separates great from small intensity and a quick from a slow rise of intensity. Nevertheless, the stormy character of certain feelings not directly attached to sensory stimulation is so conspicuous that a special name is desirable. Anger, fright, distress, and hilarity are such feelings: hilarity distinctly pleasant, fright and distress equally unpleasant; anger also unpleasant, yet mixed sometimes with a certain amount of pleasure. The feeling and the consciousness of its cause are usually so intense in an emotion that there is little room for coherent thought. The judgment of a person in a state of emotion is narrow; his actions may be called shortsighted.

Those feelings which become separated from their original perceptual or ideational substratum and attach themselves to any other kind of perception or ideation--no matter what feelings properly belong to these--are called moods. They are usually, probably because of the separation mentioned, of small intensity. But their duration is often very extended. As typical examples may be mentioned grudge, worry, dejection, and cheerfulness.

Like all feelings, emotions and moods are in some way related to motor activity. Of particular interest here are not the purposive movements, which are by no means absent, but a large number of muscular activities seemingly of little or no usefulness, resulting from inherited nervous connections. In so far as these muscular activities become outwardly noticeable they are called the expressions of the emotions or moods. The angry man instinctively clinches his fist, the hilarious fellow dances about. Laughing, weeping, wrinkling of the forehead, and blushing are further expressions of this class. Contraction of the muscle fibers in the skin causes goose flesh, or the hair to stand on end. Breathing undergoes changes, becoming quicker or slower than normal. The blood vessels expand or diminish in size through the activity of the muscle fibers in their walls, causing the subject to look red or pale, to feel warm or cold, and in the latter case to shiver. Secretion of saliva, perspiration, and secretion of the lachrymal glands may result from the changes in the circulation of the blood. Fatigue, nausea, lack of appetite, and other symptoms of internal processes may occur.

These phenomena were almost entirely neglected by the older psychology, although their significance was understood by physicians. More recently their psychological import has been recognized and even overestimated. It has been said that these phenomena not only occur in emotions, but _are_ the emotions; that the emotions consist in the organic sensations resulting from these reflex muscular activities (theory of James and Lange). We do not weep because we are sorry, but we are sorry because we weep. We do not tremble because we fear a pistol held up before us, but we are frightened because we tremble. Two arguments favor this view. Let all bodily symptoms be gone, and the strongest emotion is gone too. Anger without clinching the hand is no anger. While I am sitting calmly on a chair, smiling, I cannot be angry. And further, when the bodily symptoms are exactly imitated or produced by drugs or by nervous disease, the emotion is there. Alcohol makes a person hilarious and courageous without any perception of the kind which usually produces this effect. Certain poisons or mania cause rage very much like that produced by an insult.

However, these facts do not prove that an emotion contains nothing else than organic sensations. It is obvious that, according to the laws of association, the contents of an emotion must be reproduced by those organic sensations which were present innumerable times when that emotion was present. The organic sensations resulting from poisons or mania perhaps call up an idea of an insult, and the complete emotion of anger naturally follows. Because of the firmly established associations, it is also to be expected that the voluntary substitution of a different set of organic sensations interferes with a present emotion. Introspection makes it clear that an emotion contains much more than a mere group of organic sensations.

The instinctive motor activities characteristic of the various emotions may be classified under two headings: excitation and depression. The difference is especially noticeable in unpleasant emotions: anger is an emotion of excitement; fear, as a rule, of depression. But this distinction is not entirely absent in pleasant emotions. The joy of a grateful memory is characterized, not indeed by depression, but by a restfulness very distinct from the excited joy of expectation or the delight at a present experience, although the pleasantness felt may be of exactly the same degree of intensity. A careful analysis of these motor activities must distinguish, not only excitement and depression, but also their occurrence in either the skeletal or the involuntary muscles, the muscles of the vascular system. Thus one may distinguish four classes of emotions, as characterized chiefly by heightened activity of the skeletal or of the vascular muscles, or by weakened activity of the skeletal or of the vascular muscles. Symptoms resulting from abnormal contraction or relaxation of the vascular muscles are, for example, a person’s growing pallid, or blushing, and the corresponding sensations of cold and warmth.

Two other concepts relating to the emotional life deserve to be mentioned, temperament and passion. Temperaments are inherited tendencies of the life of feeling in special directions. Since ancient times four have been distinguished: the sanguine, bilious (choleric), melancholic (atrabilious), phlegmatic (lymphatic). The ancients held that temperament is conditioned on the predominance of one of the four humors, the blood, lymph, yellow bile, and black bile. This is of course pure speculation of a prescientific period. But the distinction of the four classes agrees well with common observation, although mixed forms of temperament are more common than the pure types. People are either optimistically or pessimistically inclined. The sanguine and the phlegmatic are the optimists, the bilious and the melancholic the pessimists. On the other hand, some people are excitable, impetuous, others are not easily aroused. The sanguine and the bilious are quickly excited, the melancholic and the phlegmatic are calm and sluggish.

Passions are acquired dispositions toward special kinds of pleasant experiences. We might say that they are foreseeing, voluntary emotions. We speak of the passion of the gambler, the smoker, the collector, the lover. One may also compare an emotion with an acute disease, a passion with a chronic disease. Animals, too, possess emotions, as joy, fear, and rage. But it seems that they are not sufficiently capable of anticipating emotions to be said to possess passions.

QUESTIONS

186. How are emotions defined?

187. How does an emotion influence coherent thought?

188. How are moods defined?

189. Mention a number of moods and an equal number of emotions,
each comparable to one of the moods.

190. What four classes of motor activities characteristic of
emotions are distinguished in the text?

191. What motor activities are called expressions?

192. Give examples of expressions of emotion.

193. Give examples of motor activities which are not expressions of
emotion, but nevertheless of much significance for the subject’s
experience of an emotion.

194. What is temperament?

195. What is a passion?

§ 21. COMPLICATIONS OF WILLING

We have shown in an earlier chapter how voluntary--that is, foreseeing--actions develop out of instincts. Sensations result from the instinctive action, are associated with those other impressions which called forth the instinctive response, can then be reproduced by them, and can themselves produce the action. When an action is thus foreseen, it is called voluntary. Such simple voluntary actions are then combined into complicated groups and chain-like progressions. The conscious result of the first movement calls up the idea of a further movement, its execution that of a third movement, and so on. Serial activities of this kind often go on for a long time; for example, walking, eating, dressing, writing, sewing, rowing. As experience of the relations between the external things and practice in the performance advance, such serial actions become more and more perfect in several respects. Their conscious anticipation is more and more extended, so that they may be adapted to very remote consequences, the occurrence of which is not expected until days or weeks afterward. They are more and more refined in that they adjust themselves accurately in direction, speed, and force to the special circumstances of each case. They are performed in less time and more economically; all detail movements which are either wrong or merely superfluous come to be entirely omitted.

That the conscious processes in voluntary movements tend toward simplification has been mentioned in § 10. A whole series of movements, which was originally performed by each movement being consciously anticipated in order, is now performed without further consciousness as soon as the series has once begun. One fact, however, is highly interesting in this connection because it shows how the several movements of the series are actually caused. Although consciousness of all those anticipations of the movements is no longer required, the physiological sensory functions must run their course in the normal order or disturbances occur in the movement. This may be demonstrated in an animal by cutting all the sensory nerves of a limb, but carefully leaving all the motor nerves intact. The limb nevertheless appears paralyzed. A similar case in man has been described by Strümpell. A workman received a knife wound in the spinal cord. Complete recovery occurred, with the exception that the right hand and lower arm remained perfectly anesthetic: no kind of cutaneous or organic sensation was any longer perceived. The muscles of the hand and arm functioned almost normally. But movements, even very moderately complicated, could no longer be performed unless the man saw his hand and its movement. The illustration (figure 18) shows his behavior when requested to form a ring with his thumb and index finger. He could do this fairly well when permitted to look at his hand. Otherwise it was impossible, in spite of his will and the muscular capacity to perform this action. We see, then, that the peripheral impressions are necessary to bring about the several partial movements in this case of acquired serial activity, although these impressions have long ceased to become conscious whenever the act is done.