Chapter XVIII: Part II (7)

I select, then, as an example, the latest utterance of Lipps on the impression produced by a Doric column, citing only those points which seem to meet our purpose. He speaks first of the mechanical method of regarding the column and then continues: “But another element follows this naturally. Mechanical events external to us are not the only things in the world. There are events lying nearer to us in every sense of the word since they take place within us; and these are similar or analogous to the external events. Moreover, we have the disposition to regard similar things from the same point of view, and this point of view is determined preferably by the nearest object. Therefore we compare what happens externally with what happens in or to ourselves and judge of it according to the analogy of our own experience.” After remarking that such a method of observation is implied in such expressions as “strength,” “aspiration,” etc., as applied to a column, Lipps goes on: “Our satisfaction is not of the general kind which applies to the universal idea of strength, effort, activity. Every mechanical event has its special character or its special manner of fulfilment. This may be easier, more untrammelled, or more difficult, and requiring the overcoming of more serious obstacles; it may require greater or less expenditure of ‘force.’ All this reminds us of our own inner processes and evokes those, not indeed identical in character, but analogous. It presents to us an image of similar effort on our own part, and with it the peculiar personal sensations which accompany the act. The mechanical event which seems to fulfil itself ‘with ease’ incites us to an equally simple and expeditious act; the violent expenditure of vigorous mechanical energy, to an exertion of our own will power, to which is added the feeling of lightness and freedom proper to a self-originated act, and in other cases the not less agreeable feeling of our own strength.” Omitting what intervenes I add the conclusion of the treatise: “From the conditions indicated there results not, indeed, the entire æsthetic impression produced by a Doric column, but a considerable part of it. The vigorous curves and spring of such a pillar afford me joy by reminding me of those qualities in myself and of the pleasure I derive from seeing them in another. I sympathize with the column’s manner of holding itself and attribute to it qualities of life because I recognise in it proportions and other relations agreeable to me. Thus all enjoyment of form, and indeed all æsthetic enjoyment whatsoever, resolves itself into an agreeable feeling of sympathy.”[601]

Here we encounter the difficulty mentioned above. It is evident from these extracts that this is a case of successive associations. We are “reminded” of similar subjective processes, and the “idea” of similar acts of our own is “evoked,” be they facile or strenuous. But successive associations are not available as an element in æsthetic enjoyment, as Lipps[602] goes on to say: “Moreover, all this takes place without reflection. Just as we do not first see the pillar and subsequently work out its mechanical interpretation, so the second, personal interpretation, can not be said to follow the other. The being of the column, as I perceive it, is necessitated by mechanical causes which themselves appear to me to be from the standpoint of human action.”[603] Then we have not a true image of our own deeds before us; we are not actually “reminded,” for the process is one of simultaneous fusion, in which the consequences of earlier experience unite with sense-perception to effect a direct harmony. From this direct blending at the instant of perception we see why, to the observer, the pillar seems to hold itself “as I do when I brace myself and stand up straight.”

Assuming that this simple presentation of the psychology of inner sympathy furnishes the elements of an explanation, still, in my opinion, the state of æsthetic enjoyment is not yet sufficiently accounted for. The fusion processes described form part of a general psychological fact, and it is impossible to complete an act of apperception without such synthesis. The question must be answered as to how æsthetic perception is differentiated as a particular satisfaction from general apperception; and the answer brings us directly to the idea of play. Take thunder, for example. On the ground of the synthetic process, its roar makes, universally and naturally, the impression of a mighty voice raised in anger. The child has that impression when it frightens him; so has the savage man when he regards it with religious awe. But neither feeling is on that account æsthetic; that comes only when the hearer enjoys the emotional effect of the phenomenon as such, rendered possible by the process of fusion; when he has an independent, self-centred pleasure in this result—that is to say, when he plays. The same remarks apply to the column. It is self-evident that we can not think of its upward spring without calling in our earlier experiences, but it seems to me to be just as apparent that in æsthetic perception the impression is intentionally lingered over only for the sake of its pleasure-giving qualities, i. e., playfully.

Further, I think it is certain that there is in the play of æsthetic enjoyment a condition of consciousness analogous to that underlying a special class of plays—namely, the experimental. The force of this analogy has impelled various students of various lands, independently of one another, to this common goal. It is, of course, only a relationship of conditions of consciousness, not genuine identity; but we may affirm this much—namely, that inner sympathy is at least as closely connected with dramatic imitation as the latter is with plastic imitation. If the dramatic begins with a mere motor reaction, which tends more and more to identify itself with self-transference into the condition of another being, then inner imitation appears as but a further step toward spiritualizing the imitative impulse. When, therefore, I designate æsthetic sympathy as a play of inner imitation I believe I have correctly characterized the psychic attitude of æsthetic enjoyment as far as it is based on the fusion processes.

But I must go a step further. So far we have had in mind only past acts and their effects as the psychological precedent of such sympathy, and herein lies, in my opinion, the inadequacy of the whole associative method. The sympathy of an æsthetic nature possesses such warmth and intimacy, and such progressive force, that the effects of former experience, however indispensable, are not sufficient, as Volkelt, Dilthey, Th. Ziegler, and A. Biese have justly remarked. Mere echoes of the past can not bring about what I understand as the play of inner imitation. On the strength of my experience I hold fast to inner imitation as an actuality, and one connected with motor processes, which bring it into much closer touch with external imitation than the foregoing dissertation would indicate. I have intentionally made use of the qualifications “in my opinion,” “in my experience,” etc. For, theoretically at least, I must admit the possibility that persons may exist for whom æsthetic enjoyment does not get beyond the stage here indicated. All that follows relates to those only in whose æsthetic pleasures motor accompaniments are apparent, whether subjects of consciousness or inaccessible to the self-examiner.

In attempting to develop the main points of this fuller conception of inner imitation, I first take up the analogy between the child’s dramatic imitation and æsthetic sympathy.[604] The child playing with a doll raises the lifeless thing temporarily to the place of a symbol of life. He lends the doll his own-soul whenever he answers a question for it; he lends to it his feelings, conceptions, and aspirations; he gives to it the pretence of mobility by posing it in a manner that implies movement, or by his simple fiat when he asserts that it has nodded, or beckoned, or opened its mouth. Here the resemblance to æsthetic sympathy is already strong, and is still further augmented by the use of the child’s own body as the instrument of his mimic play. His attitudes and positions are then symbolic. The boy who with the paltry aid of a paper helmet and a stick to stride can identify himself with the cavalry officer whom he imitates has the soul of a fighter. And he can extend this power of symbolic imitation to inanimate things as well; kneeling with his hands on the floor, he is a bench which easily turns into a locomotive as soon as forward motion and the puffing sound suggest it. We have here illustrated the power of illusion to convert a mere symbol into the thing symbolized, entering fully into the pretence and yet not confusing itself with reality, just as in æsthetic sympathy. Thus imitation proves itself to be the author of the symbol.

This external imitation proclaims the inner. What, then, constitutes the difference between the two, and how are we to define inner imitation in the fuller sense in which it is used here? We have seen that external imitation is at the same time inner sympathy, and the external bodily movements are chiefly directed toward furtherance of this and of the transference of self which accompanies it. But how is it when external visible imitative movements are wanting? Is inner sympathy to be conceived of as merely a brain process in which only the recollection of past movements, attitudes, etc., is blended with sense perception? By no means. There is still activity, and that in the common sense of the word as it relates to motor processes. It is manifested in various movements whose imitative character may not be perceptible to others. In this instantaneous perception of the movements actually in progress I find the central fact with which blend, on the one hand, imitation of past experiences, and on the other the perceptions of sense.

Inquiry concerning the complex movements of inner imitation is not yet past its opening stages, but so much seems to be established—namely, that by it are called forth movement and postural sensations (especially those of equilibrium), light muscular innervation, together with visual and respiratory movement, all of which are of great importance. Movements of the eyes have been given special attention by R. Vischer,[605] sensations of rest by Couturat.[606] Wundt has made eye movements of general psychological interest, and S. Stricker[607] has attempted to do the same for the muscular sensations called forth by the central impulses (at the present stage, including principally tactile sensations of the skin, as well as muscular and joint sensations). Intensely interesting is the article by Vernon Lee and Anstruther-Thomson on beauty and its contrary,[608] which quotes a number of observers who, as much from practice as from the possession of exceptional gifts, far transcend the limits attained by the average man in self-observation. Couturat and Stricker advance the idea that such movement processes, so far as they depend on mild muscular contraction, are due to the imitative impulse.

Before adducing some examples, I must venture on one more observation. It is not, of course, to be assumed that such external movements are necessarily genuine copies of sense-perceptions. In the psychological treatment of eye movements, for example, sufficient caution has not been exercised, and consequently a false standard has arisen, transcending the facts. Here we shall find a comparison with external dramatic imitation play of great value, bearing in mind that the result of the latter is a symbol, not a counterpart. When a boy has to cut off his comrade’s head in dramatic play, a very soft blow with a stick is sufficient to indicate execution with the sword of justice, and in the same way and degree the movement of which we are speaking may be symbolic. Suppose a man fancying a huge spiral imprinted on the wall in front of him. If he remembers the motor processes he can reproduce them at will; little movements of the eyes, little tensions of the neck muscles and in the throat, together with breathing movements, are useful and (at least in my own case) even indispensable, and yet there is no really spiral motion—the symbol is sufficient.[609]

I now present a few examples. First, as regards the optical perception of movement. “When I am in good physical condition,” says Stricker, “and take my stand at some distance from an exercise ground so that I can watch the company with ease but not catch the word of command, I feel certain muscular sensations quite as strongly as if I stood under the command and attempted to follow it. When the troop marches, I keep time with them in the sensations of my lower limbs; when they go through the arm exercise, I have quite intense muscular feelings in my upper arm; when they turn, I feel the same in my back.” (B) The following passage shows that the same individual can experience also other symbolic sensations of movement: “From the exercise ground I went to the theatre to see the gymnasts, and first watched one using a springboard. At the moment when he leaped from it I had a distinct sensation in my chest, and the feeling, too, of motion in the muscles of my eyes.”[610] In poetic art inner imitation of movements must also be given due weight.[611] Lessing’s requirements for a poet depend largely on this, for on its subjective side poetic enjoyment is connected with memory pictures, and movement is conspicuous in these.[612]

All this is true in a higher degree of the enjoyment of musical movement. Herder said once: “The passionate part of our nature (τὸ θυμικόν) rises and falls, it throbs or glides softly. Now it sweeps us along, now holds us back; it is now weak, now strong; its own movement, its step, as it were, varies with every modulation, with every strong accent and vanishes as the tone varies. Music strikes a chord in our innermost nature.”[613] In all this we find not only the effect of association, but actual motor processes in our own bodies, which extend from the rhythmical movements, visible for others, to the most delicate (and invisible) associations in the inner part of our body. The process which I tried to characterize in the section on hearing-play is with me connected with breathing movements and tensions of the throat and mouth muscles, and is thus symbolic in both directions. Those who play much on some instrument commonly find that with them the tension is of those muscles which they most use—this is apt to be especially the case in recalling a remembered melody. We must avoid a too free assumption of “internal song,” as well as of throat movements. Baldwin says,[614] “I am able with the greatest ease to hold aloud an ā sound at ć, say, and at the same time cause a whole tune—say Yankee Doodle—to run its course ‘in my ear.’” I, too, can do this, though not with ease; the remembered tune is literally “in the head”—that is to say, I have the sensations of movement which represent this melody clearly in my mind, where they are difficult to locate, but are actual sensations, not mere memories. I can observe this process to better advantage by holding my breath and drumming on the table, hearing a melody in the rhythmic movement. These instances, however, do not clear up the undeniable contrast between an acoustic and a motor melody, particularly as in the first, motor accompaniments are entirely wanting. This is probably the case in a much higher degree for æsthetic enjoyment than for mere recollection.

I pass finally to the consideration of the æsthetic impression of objects at rest, giving first two examples from the article already cited, by Vernon Lee and Anstruther-Thomson, who seem to stand aside altogether from the conflict raging among our own students of æsthetics and psychology at present devoting themselves to this subject. They are more under the influence of the Lange-James sensation theory, in the pursuance of which they have little in common with the theory of symbolism as advanced here, and do not even make use of the term inner imitation. Yet the fact of it leads them to the expression “to mime” in attempting to characterize æsthetic perception. Their observations undoubtedly transcend the normal (particularly in motor types), and in some instances practice comes to the aid of natural endowment, while auto-suggestion occasionally plays a part. These extreme cases, however, may serve to call the reader’s attention to the normal conditions, which are not so obvious.

The first example relates to the inspection of a jar. “Here is a jar equally common in antiquity and in modern peasant ware. Looking at this jar one has a specific sense of a whole. One’s bodily sensations are extraordinarily composed, balanced, correlated in their diversity. To begin with, the feet press on the ground, while the eyes fix the base of the jar. Then one accompanies the _lift up_, so to speak, of the body of the jar by a _lift up_ of one’s own body; and one accompanies by a slight sense of downward pressure of the head the downward pressure of the widened rim on the jar’s top. Meanwhile, the jar’s equal sides bring both lungs into equal play; the curve outward of the jar’s two sides is simultaneously followed by an inspiration as the eyes move up to the jar’s widest point. Then expiration begins, and the lungs seem closely to collapse as the curve inward is followed by the eyes, till, the narrow part of the neck being reached, the ocular following of the widened-out top provokes a short inspiration. Moreover, the shape of the jar provokes movement of balance, the left curve a shifting on to the left foot, and _vice versa_. A complete and equally distributed set of bodily adjustments has accompanied the ocular side of the jar; this totality of movements and harmony of movements in ourselves answers to the intellectual fact, of finding that the jar is a harmonious whole.”[615]

Now an example of the influence of attention in the observation of plastic form: “We can not satisfactorily focus a stooping figure like the Medicean Venus if we stand before it bolt upright and with tense muscles, nor a very erect and braced figure like the Apoxyomenos if we stand before it humped up and with slackened muscles. In such cases the statue seems to evade our eye, and it is impossible to realize its form thoroughly; whereas, when we adjust our muscles in imitation of the tenseness or slackness of the statue’s attitude, the statue immediately becomes a reality to us.”[616]

It is easy to turn such passages into ridicule (and there are some much stranger in the article), but the fact is that they are only extreme expressions of actual elements in all the motor forms of æsthetic enjoyment. But the authors have not grasped the fact of symbolism, and they stress too much the sensations of movement, just as Sergi, for example, has done in his Dolera e Piacere. When the scholar in Riehl’s Burg Neideck, on his first sight of an extended plain, had the feeling of being himself widened out, this effect was in all probability due to sensations produced by breathing movements. Yet this is not in itself the whole satisfaction, but rather a mere motor symbol which satisfies the imitative impulse, just as the external suggestion is responded to by dramatic imitation, or the little motions of the body in the phantastic visions of the dream.

To answer the question of how this play of inner imitation originates, it must be borne in mind that voluntary external imitation must always be preceded by a stadium of adjustment (or “Einstellung”). So it is especially in childhood, where this prodromal stage is often of long duration. And what are here the objects of the child’s imitation?—sounds, gestures, attitudes. Now sounds, gestures, and attitudes are also the very objects of _inner_ imitation in æsthetic pleasure.

In concluding, we are confronted by the question whether this faculty of inner imitation belongs exclusively to a special group of individuals—namely, the distinctly motor type. If this is so, then a very important part of the æsthetic satisfaction is confined to a fraction of the human race. One hesitates to affirm that we of the motor type labour under the disadvantage of taking intense pleasure in a state which is lacking in physical resonance, so to speak; and yet, if this is the case, we still can boast that fusion with past processes which after all leaves the plus sign in our favour. I am convinced, however, that no such sharp distinction of types is warranted by the facts, the difference being as a rule one of quantity or degree of individual endowment. Ability to observe such movements in one’s self is no criterion. There may be individuals with very strong inner imitative movements who are unable to separate the motor element from the _tout ensemble_. To illustrate the difficulty: A man who glances suddenly to the right imparts to surrounding objects an apparent motion to the left (this may help to account for the “fluidity of form”), yet to many it is impossible to get a clear perception of this, even under the most favourable conditions. In the same way there are probably many who deserve to be reckoned with the motors in æsthetic enjoyment who are yet unable to make their own movements a matter of observation.

IV. SOCIAL PLAYS

Much discrimination is required in the attempt to single out a special group of social plays proper to our subject. I am, however, well aware that it is an essential feature in any system of play, and that Baldwin is quite right when he says in his valuable preface to The Play of Animals, “Finally, I should like to suggest that a possible category of ‘Social Plays’ might be added to Groos’s classification.” The great difficulty is that it is well-nigh impossible to make separate observations on them as a distinct class, for as a rule the social impulse furnishes the incentive to the special games which we have considered. To take a familiar example: Society chat is a social play _par excellence_, and yet the indulgence in this element of it appeals to consciousness as but a vague and undefined satisfaction compared with the influence of the impulses to combat and to courtship. For this reason the present section must be of a somewhat different character from the foregoing ones. It must be theoretic, and thus form a connecting link with the second part of the book.

In the sphere of social play we still find ourselves in close touch with imitation. Though Tarde’s formula, “La société c’est l’imitation,” has the one-sidedness characteristic of an epigram, it is an unquestionable fact that this impulse is of fundamental significance in the origination and preservation of social conditions. Uniformity of conduct and sentiment, without which social co-operation would be impossible, is preserved mainly by imitation, and, what is more, by its involuntary form, as illustrated in the infectiousness of such simple acts as coughing and gaping. But, before going into this, I must emphasize some phases of the social impulse which are not identical with imitation, and whose value to play is easily demonstrated.

It may be recalled that in our inquiry into the origin of the imitative impulse the question was raised whether its resemblance to instinct might not be explained by its relation to the genuine instincts of race affinity and the production of calls and warning cries. The physical and mental association common to men and gregarious animals seems to me to depend largely on these two relatively simple instincts, those of physical association and communication. Both are extremely important for the establishment of the family, and the view that the social factor has nothing to do with the family is, in my opinion, far too extreme. Ants and bees may serve them for illustrations, but in the life of herds and tribes the primal relation between mother and child seems to me the starting point from which the need of _association_ and _communication_ has extended.[617]

Our inquiry then will proceed from need of bodily association or the herding instinct as a starting point. However this impulse may have developed phylogenetically, ontogenetically the child’s associative needs are at first satisfied by the family, and almost entirely by the mother; he is, as a rule, relatively late in turning his attention to a social sphere. “Before the third or fourth year,” says Madame Necker de Saussure, with some exaggeration, “the child is happy only with his elders. His needs, his pleasures, and the certainty with which he counts on our protection are all in our keeping. Other children interest him for a time, but soon tire him, and their little tempers excite his own. In his inability to cope with such situations he turns again to the grown people.”[618] Although this is put too strongly,[619] its essential truth is well known; indeed, Curtmann and Flashar for that very reason deprecate the extension of the child’s social circle at too early an age, and Franz Kübel says, in Süddeutschen Schulboten (1875): “Because the life of an eremite, be he scholar, æsthetic, or what not, is a mistake, why should all of life necessarily be social? Why should the bud be forced to open too early? Why should the sphere of individual life be so soon widened to take in love for all? It seems to me indisputable that the early education of a child should be carried on in the family circle, and also that there is a dangerous tendency to arouse social impulses too early.”[620] Indeed, we must admit that experimentation can not have its due effect if the child is introduced too early to a wider circle, and that the strong stimulus of social life tends to overshadow and interfere with the development of family life when allowed to exert its full force on the very young. Just as with children who are kept too much at home, overweening family feeling interferes with their progress in society and hampers them through life, so, on the other hand, too much society weakens the parental relation. There should be a certain equilibrium of influence, as in all other departments of culture, to supply the most favourable conditions in the struggle for existence.

Returning from this digression, we remark first that there can be no doubt of the value of social games in preparing incipient men and women for later life. “Le società infantile,” says Colozza, “sono società di guoco.”[621] The demand for identification with some social group finds its satisfaction in this way, and this satisfaction rests, as we have seen, on the broad foundation underlying other instincts, especially those relating to combativeness. I merely mention the direct effect of the impulse for association, the agreeable consciousness of being “in the swim.” Among animals this feeling is manifested rather as a reaction from the annoyance of separation from the herd, yet the gregarious animal pasturing with its kind or carrying food to them may be filled with a cheering sense of security such as we experience when established in a cosy corner at the club. Be that as it may, the child at any rate, as soon as it is old enough to make the acquaintance of other children, is filled with eager desire to be wherever his comrades are assembled for whatever purpose. I need only hint at his rage and despair when he sees through a window that the “other fellows” are collecting, while he for some reason can not go out.

These early manifestations of the social instinct are too simple to require much illustration. We all recognise them, and they are frequently displayed by adults as well. Holidays spent in simple playful indulgence of the gregarious instinct are of the greatest value for the collective social life of mankind. Here as elsewhere the practice theory is applicable to adults, as two extremely diverse instances will illustrate most satisfactorily. One is the difficulty of keeping up religious community life when the festival character is allowed to lapse; even when there remains enough association of the votaries themselves to constitute a gratification of the associative impulse, yet the abandonment of holiday festivities undoubtedly has a marked effect. The tamer a religious observance becomes the larger the proportions of lukewarm adherents. Many sects have a clear perception of this, and it accounts for the fact that some of them employ methods not far removed from the practices of savages. This brings us to the second instance—namely, the importance of festive gatherings to savage peoples. If our owners, our own peasantry, scattered in families through the rural districts, are in danger of losing their social feelings when deprived of religious or secular festivals, the necessity is yet much greater with primitive men. Apart from warfare, this is about their only means of association as tribes or clans. It is valuable, too, in connection with and preparatory to their fights. Among the Weddas of Ceylon, who “have not yet acquired the art of war,” and are very undeveloped socially, we find only feeble suggestions of the festival. From our noble cathedrals, our concert halls and theatres, and other places of amusement, converging lines lead directly back to the festal huts of savages. From these, however, women are as a rule strictly excluded.

Finally, I remark that a playful motive is often discernible in the formation of the multifarious clubs for the advancement of some worthy object in this age of abounding culture. We all know persons for whom an absorbing interest in the ostensible object of the club would be out of the question but for the good company. The mere fact of being one of a group is satisfaction enough to the gregarious instinct, and the playfulness of this condition can scarcely be questioned.

Turning now to the wider social impulses to which these simple manifestations are related, we must first notice the voluntary subordination of the individual which is so essential a feature. In the relation of parent and child there could hardly be any training, and certainly no such thing as education, without this element. After dwelling on the child’s spirit of opposition, Sully gives in his Studies in Childhood the contrary picture in a series of incidents designed to show that there is yet in the childish soul something “on the side of law,” and goes on to remark that “it is worth while asking whether, if the child were naturally disposed to look on authority as something wholly hostile, he would get morally trained at all.”[622] While this is true, still the contrary, rebellious spirit is developed by the parental relation, and we may see voluntary subordination much better illustrated by going on the street with the child and noticing his behaviour with his playmates. The blind obedience accorded the leader of a little band is calculated to fill parents and teachers with envy. Here the social impulse is supreme in the demand for association and classification which governs and directs society. The same relation exists among animals between the herd and its leader, and no orderly association of men could exist without it. As simple compulsion is not enough with children, so with adults discipline is insufficient. The leader’s command must be met by an inward disposition to obey in the interests of the whole. The heads of political parties who thunder invectives against the “slaves” and “dumb cattle” in other parties are yet considerably disconcerted when their own followers display too little of the disposition for subordination.

The common fighting plays of children markedly exhibit this voluntary submission to a leader, less known, I think, in regulation games than in the many contests which a crowd of children will naturally fall into when a few belligerent spirits are present; when there is a trick to be played on schoolmates or janitor, an orchard to plunder, some unpopular person to annoy by breaking his windows or otherwise damaging his property—in these escapades the leader’s word has absolute authority, and the most docile children will commit deeds in blind obedience which fill their parents with amazement and horror. The influence of example is a factor not to be overlooked, but it is not by any means all; more influential still is the _esprit de corps_ after the plot is once hatched. Formerly, when children were given more freedom in this direction, schoolboy leagues were of great importance, but even now their associations for contest play a weighty part in youthful life; there they learn to see how common peril strengthens the bond of union and enjoins submission to the leader. It is an illustration in miniature of the influence of war on the evolution of society.

This leads to the observation that play is instrumental in teaching children submission to law as well as to a leader. Thus H. Schiller says very truly of gymnastic exercises: “They promote not only presence of mind, dexterity, skill, and readiness, but furnish as well valuable training for society. Law and limitation are here self-imposed by the players, and he finds them again in the bounds which he strives to transcend.”[623] Since gymnastic and belligerent games afford exercise chiefly to males, we trace here an interesting distinction between the sexes. It seems that those manifestations of the social impulse relating to subordination are not pursued by women so energetically nor in the same way as with men. Woman is the guardian of good form, but as a rule she will not subordinate herself to rigorous law. I think any customs agent will bear me out in this statement from his observation of the behaviour of travellers. This probably results from a difference in the instinctive equipment of the sexes; fighting impulses, which are strongly developed in the males, further the social ones by reason of their imperative requirement of association. This is apparent in the exercises referred to by Schiller, and is materially advanced by the practice which play affords. The success of American women in their movement for emancipation is largely furthered by their participation with men in various sports and the consequent better development of their social capacities.

I conclude these remarks on voluntary subordination with some reference to the origin of punishment. It is commonly referred to the principle of vengeance, but, though feelings of personal grievance and revenge may be closely involved in its origin and development, they can not entirely account for the institution of punishment. Even the play of children clearly distinguishes between personal revenge and social chastisement. The infraction of the unwritten laws of our familiar games arouses a spontaneous and general sentiment against the offender which does indeed resemble the demand for vengeance, but stresses more the idea of social injury. What urges to the chastisement of the liar, the coward, and the betrayer is a righteous indignation which results from outraged social feelings, and the desire to expel the offender from the group. This was apparent in the early tribes from which all civilized peoples have developed. Justice is as old as social humanity, and if it can be derived at all from personal revenge this could have been possible only as far as offences between man and man were regarded as offences against the community as a whole.

Social sympathy next demands our attention as connected with the demand for association, and for the sake of brevity I include in the term not merely the inward sentiment, but also the _émotion tendre_ and the readiness to lend a helping hand to other members of the same group. It is perhaps best defined by the expression “good fellowship,” which is everywhere current. Play has a significant part in it as well with children as with adults. I introduced a passage in The Play of Animals on the actions of some young foxes who amused themselves playing together until some occasion arose for strife. Then, one of them being bitten so that blood flowed, the others fell upon and devoured him; and I then remarked that “the good comradeship of young animals is first of all a play comradeship. It exists in play when aside from the conditions of the play there is little sympathetic feeling.” This is to a great degree applicable to humanity as well. Apart from relations of actual friendship which are deeper than simple comradeship, we find among individuals very little genuine interest and kindliness. It is only when people are members of the same social group that they learn to regard one another with the friendly feeling which is necessary for effective association. Social sympathy is apt to be but a wider egoism, and the identification of the individual I with the social whole a slightly more circuitous route to self-advancement. When party lines are obliterated the interest subsides, as many have discovered who counted on personal friendship as a result of social sympathy. Further consideration of the value of this comradeship, however, shows it to be indispensable to the formation and maintenance of society, and that the school in which it is developed is furnished by play. Children scarcely manifest it in any other connection; as they grow older they may form friendships independently of their common play, but as a rule their comradeship is that of play. With adults the case is not very different, for even when they associate for a serious purpose banquets and other playful features are considered indispensable for strengthening the bond. These festivities, it is true, have their root in the common need for amusement, but their practical value consists in the impetus they give to social sympathy, and their indirect furtherance of effective association.

As the associative impulse which we have made our starting point primarily promotes external connections, but is attended with various far-reaching consequences, and finally results in the demand for communication, so this last, from serving first the narrow unit of the family, brings about the inner spiritual union of the social group. The chief means which serves this impulse of humanity is language.[624] Although this communication does serve a practical purpose from its very inception, there are still many playful manifestations of it. Compayré offers an observation which may be regarded as a prelingual illustration of this. It records a sort of dialogue between a child, still unable to speak, and his elder brother. “Pendant quelques minutes c’est une alternance ininterrompue, là de mots et de phrases nettement articulés, ici de petits cris confus.”[625] Older children, too, often show the same thing in their play with dolls and other toys as well as toward persons and animals. We sometimes sigh for a limit to the unmeaning gabble which the child apparently enjoys for its own sake.

Similar observations have been made on adults, though here as with children it is difficult to draw the line between play and earnest. So far as the object is to instruct others or make a good impression and thus improve one’s own social standing, the act is serious, but it oftener wears the aspect of merely playful self-exhibition. And, finally, when an unimportant piece of news is passed about and talked over “just for something to say,” we have an instance of pure playfulness, since a satisfaction of the social impulse is sought without serious aim and purely for its own sake. The teas and Kaffeeklätzchen so affected by women are of a similar character. Without attempting to analyze too closely the style of conversation prevailing on such occasions, we venture to say that a universal desire for expression is conspicuous. This is certainly the fact in the social gatherings of men and of society in general. Ordinary society chat is a social play.

There are other phases of conversational intercourse, however, which are more germane to our present purpose, such, for example, as the invention of special forms of speech which are selections from tentative efforts by the process of exclusion. The great social importance of a common language thus finds expression in play. Reference has already been made to the fact that children coin words—that is, they make use of sounds independently discovered by experimentation. Sometimes several children will construct a sort of secret language in this way. The remarkable case referred to by H. Hale of a pair of devoted twins who did not learn first the language spoken around them, but one all their own, in which they conversed with ease and fluency, is not, however, an instance in point, since there was evidently no play about it. Yet children do form such a secret system sometimes in play. Colonel Higginson mentions two girls about thirteen years old who made a language for their own amusement. They wrote about two hundred words of it in a book. Thus “Bojiwassis” denoted the half-anxious, half-resolute feeling that precedes taking a leap, and “Spygri” the pride in having accomplished it. “Pippadolify” expressed the stiff manner of walking of the young officers in Washington.[626] This well illustrates childish versatility in word coinage. Von Martius, Peschel, and others attribute the rapid transformations in the language of savages to the influence of children, whose faulty reproduction of words learned from their parents is adopted by the latter.[627] Also original creations arise in the intercourse of parent and child. We have already spoken of the imitative sounds that come into a language in this way, and childish experimentation may be equally influential. “Papa” and “mamma” are evidences that this is sometimes true, and many other words may have had a similar origin.

But, turning again to our subject proper, we find that the tendency of a social group to distinguish itself by its manner of speaking is widespread among adults.[628] It can not always be called playful, however, as some serious aim is often had in view, as in the code of criminals and the passwords of secret societies, but the technicalities of special callings and professions are often clearly playful, and are especially affected by the newcomer who is impressed with the advantages of belonging to the set. With what zeal does the newly initiated sportsman set himself to learn the vocabulary of the chase! With what unction does the freshman repeat the latest student’s slang! Conan Doyle, in his Rodney Stone, has given us an admirable picture of the affected speech of the English dandy at the beginning of the nineteenth century, and the euphuism of Shakespeare’s time is another instance. Pleasure and pride in belonging to a certain class or set are often manifested in such peculiarities.

But impulse for communication may assume other forms, as in the cases when we found it of so great value in courtship under the form of self-exhibition. And it has also, as Baldwin[629] points out, a more general social significance. While our personal peculiarities are first brought out in our intercourse with others, we at once become conscious, on the other hand, of an impulse to display them in order to gain influence. Satisfaction with one’s own achievements is attained only when these have gained social recognition. Self-exhibition plays an important part, too, in the pleasure we derive from collective games. The rivalry which we have studied from the standpoint of the fighting instinct takes a more pacific form, as the pleasure of finding one’s importance testified to by imitation on the part of others. This is not mere exultation in victory over others, but takes higher ground, since the sense of superiority which it engenders is dependent on their support.

When the display of one’s excellences thus transcends verbal expression it results from the highest forms of social intercourse, from that devotion of time and energy to society which constitutes the vocation of the social leader. It is the very opposite to that voluntary subordination to a leader of which we have spoken, and yet true social leadership also is founded on just such subordination. The aspirant for its honours must so merge himself in the society that its aggrandizement shall mean his own—a signal proof of the force of the social impulse. Whether the task is great or small, the ruling of an empire or the leadership of a club, the principle is the same, and consequently the social plays of children are enlightening. Even here, forceful, active, inventive natures quickly attain the mastery and the difference is apparent between the merely violent, who think only of their own advancement, and the born leader who makes the interests of society his own, who is ready to answer for the crowd, and is found in the front line in times of danger and will suffer no injustice to any of his following. Such leadership is possible only where there is the capacity for identifying his own will and conviction with those of the rest, thus effectuating the groups’ subordination. The “magnetism” of those who succeed as leaders depends on the presence and force of this faculty; they must have not mere strength of will, but the kind of will adapted for fusion with the common will for the attainment of its social ends.

In concluding these observations on the associative principle, I must notice the social side of artistic activity. It may be said in general that artistic production fulfils an important function in giving universal pleasure. H. Rutgers Marshall tries to establish the existence of “the blind instinct to produce art works.”[630] The attempt, however, to analyze the social tendencies operative in the creative artist will disclose the two last-mentioned forms of the communication impulse. The artist longs to set forth with all his power that which fills his soul, and to make objective representation of it for his own benefit and that of others, and at the same time win, by this unfolding of his nature, influence over the souls of others—giving that he may gain. This motive is not equally strong in all art, yet to a certain degree Richepin’s passionate words apply to any such work: “C’est tout moi qui ruissela dans ce livre.... Voici mon sang et ma chair, bois et mange!” and every great artist strives for mastery over the emotions of others. The genius may, it is true, create only for himself or a choice few, or when his work is finished he may conceive a distaste for it or not concern himself at all about it, yet on the whole it can not be denied that the controlling motive (half conscious, it may be) is the desire to gain mastery by means of his art. Gildemeister rightly says: “Publicity is the breath of art. Dilettantism may be confined to the studio or the salon, art must speak to the people.”[631] Since it is directly through these social aims, however, that æsthetic production diverges from play, we need not linger on the subject.

We now take up the last of the social influences which we had to consider, the powerful agency of imitation, and more especially such involuntary imitation as is manifested in the infectiousness of coughing, gaping, etc. Its influence is universal. Espinas, Souriau, Tarde, Sighele, Le Bon, and others have treated the problem of such mass suggestion, and Baldwin contributes a valuable chapter full of critical acumen on the Theory of Mob Action, in his Social and Ethical Interpretations. To introduce the subject I give two examples, one from animal psychology, the other from anthropology, illustrating the extreme phenomena of mass suggestion. Hudson gives us the following: “This was on the southern pampas at a place called Gualicho, where I had ridden for an hour before sunset over a marshy plain where there was still much standing water in rushy pools, though it was at the height of the dry season. This whole plain was covered with an endless flock of chakars, not in close order, but scattered about in pairs and small groups. In this desolate spot I found a small rancho, inhabited by a gaucho and his family, and I spent the night with them. About nine o’clock we were eating our supper in the rancho when suddenly the entire multitude of birds covering the marsh for miles around burst forth into a tremendous evening song. It is impossible to describe the effect of this mighty rush of sound.... One peculiarity was that in this mighty noise, which sounded louder than the sea thundering on a rocky coast, I seemed to be able to distinguish hundreds, even thousands, of individual voices. Forgetting my supper, I sat motionless and overcome with astonishment while the air and even the frail rancho seemed to be trembling in that tempest of sound. When it ceased, my host remarked with a smile: ‘We are accustomed to this, señor; every evening we have this concert.’ It is well worth the ride of a hundred miles to hear this demonstration.”[632] Mediæval dancing may furnish an example from human life. At Freiburg in Switzerland, in 1346, before the castle of Graf Greyerz, a dance was practised which began with simple movements. They gathered strength, however, like an avalanche, and spread through the entire country. Uhland has made this dance the subject of a poem, which may be paraphrased as follows:

“The youngest maiden, slender as a stalk of maize,
Seized the count’s hand and drew him in the ring.
They danced through the village, where file succeeded file,
They danced across the meadows, they danced through the wood,
To where, far across the mountains, the silvery sounds rang out.”

_Marrentanz._

These, as I have said, are extreme manifestations of mass suggestion, and should not be given too much weight in explaining social development. “The loss of identity and social continence,” says Baldwin, “on the part of the individual, when he is carried away by a popular movement, is well struck off by the common saying that he has ‘lost his head.’ This is true; but then he regains his head and is ashamed that he lost it. His normal place in society is determined by the events of that part of his life in which he keeps his head. And the same is true of the events in the life of the social group as a whole.”[633] Yet these forms of suggestion which border on the pathological are but exaggerations of social qualities indispensable to the race. Had we not the inborn impulse to imitate movements which sweep through a mob, great occasions would never find us ready with great actions. The magic power of mass suggestion is the indispensable complement of the social leader’s talents, and consequently is closely related to our familiar voluntary subordination. Tarde even regards obedience as a special case of imitation, and to strengthen his position reminds us that command begins with example. With monkeys, horses, dogs, etc., the leader sets the example by performing the particular act, and the others imitate him.[634] Yet I am quite confident that voluntary subordination is not identical with imitation. Even with animals the leader is the strongest, most skilful, and generally the most intelligent of the herd, and obedience appears as imitation perhaps, but not of the ordinary kind; rather of one who by means of the force of his individuality compels subjection through fear, respect, and love, or the compounding of these. The need of the weak to lean on the strong does indeed lead to imitation, but is not identical with it.

Moreover, it seems to me that an explanation of mass suggestion can not be arrived at by means of the imitative impulse without the assumption that voluntary subordination works with it; that blending of fear, respect, and attraction is not necessarily confined to a single leader, but may be directed to the whole group, and, indeed, without such a sentiment the leader’s influence would be much crippled. Those whose minds are made up not to go with the herd (the partisans of another faction, for instance) will display little imitative inclination so long, at least, as this determination is clearly defined. But when the personality of the leader and the imposing and alluring aspects of the mass combine their effects, the imitative impulse assumes its full force. The result is quite similar to that obtained in hypnosis, with which it is often compared, and in the manifestations of which, in spite of the important rôle played by imitation, voluntary subordination is indispensable for the operation of suggestion.

If now we inquire as to how these processes take effect in play, we find the practice theory applicable to adults in a greater degree even than to children; for we are at once confronted by the importance of festivals as mentioned above and again impressing itself upon us here. For the further division of our subject I distinguish between general acts and general inner imitation, in the former of which motor and in the latter emotional suggestion is conspicuous.