Psychological Issues: Selected Papers of Robert S. Woodworth

Table of contents :
FOREWORD
CONTENTS
I. AUTOBIOGRAPHY
SYSTEMATIC PROBLEMS
II. THE CAUSE OF A VOLUNTARY MOVEMENT
III. JUDGMENTS OF MAGNITUDE BY COMPARISON WITH A MENTAL STANDARD
IV. IMAGELESS THOUGHT
V. NON-SENSORY COMPONENTS OF SENSE PERCEPTION
VI. THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF RELATION
VII. A REVISION OF IMAGELESS THOUGHT
VIII. FOUR VARIETIES OF BEHAVIORISM
IX. A JUSTIFICATION OF THE CONCEPT OF INSTINCT
X. GESTALT PSYCHOLOGY AND THE CONCEPT OF REACTION STAGES
XI. SITUATION-AND-GOAL SET
ABNORMAL PSYCHOLOGY
XII. NOTE ON THE RAPIDITY OF DREAMS
XIII. PSYCHIATRY AND EXPERIMENTAL PSYCHOLOGY
XIV. HOW THE PSYCHOLOGICAL MECHANISM WORKS
XV. SOME CRITICISMS OF THE FREUDIAN PSYCHOLOGY
Differential Psychology
XVI. RACIAL DIFFERENCES IN MENTAL TRAITS
XVII. THE PUZZLE OF COLOR VOCABULARIES
XVIII. ON FACTORS CONTRIBUTING TO A LOW SCIENTIFIC PRODUCTIVITY IN AMERICA
XIX. COMBINING THE RESULTS OF SEVERAL TESTS: A STUDY IN STATISTICAL METHOD
Motor Phenomena
XX. ON THE VOLUNTARY CONTROL OF THE FORCE OF MOVEMENT
XXI. MAXIMAL CONTRACTION, "STAIRCASE" CONTRACTION, REFRACTORY PERIOD, AND COMPENSATORY PAUSE OF THE HEART
Educational Psychology
XXII. THE INFLUENCE OF IMPROVEMENT IN ONE MENTAL FUNCTION UPON THE EFFICIENCY OF OTHER FUNCTIONS
XXIII. PRESENT-DAY METHODS OF TEACHING PHILOSOPHY
XXIV. PSYCHOLOGY IN THE COLLEGE COURSE
XXV. THE TEACHING OF PSYCHOLOGY
BIBLIOGRAPHY
INDEX

Citation preview

PSYCHOLOGICAL

ISSUES

PSYCHOLOGICAL SELECTED

PAPERS

ISSUES OF

ROBERT S. W O O D W O R T H P R O F E S S O R OF P S Y C H O L O G Y COLUMBIA

WITH

A

BIBLIOGRAPHY

OF HIS

NEW

TORK:

COLUMBIA

UNIVERSITY

WRITINGS

MORNINGSIDE

UNIVERSITY

1939

HEIGHTS

PRESS

COPYRIGHT 1 9 3 g BY

C O L U M B I A U N I V E R S I T Y PRESS, NEW Y O R K Foreign Aoents: O X F O R D U N I V E R S I T Y PRESS, Humphrey Milford, Amen House, London, E.C. 4, England, and B. I. Building, Nicol Road, Bombay, India; M A R U Z E N C O M P A N Y , Ltd., 6 Nihonbashi, Tori-Nichome, Tokyo, Japan M A N U F A C T U R E D IN T H E UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

T H I S V O L U M E IS P R E S E N T E D T O R O B E R T S. W O O D W O R T H ON T H E OCCASION OF HIS SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY BY H I S C O L L E A G U E S IN COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY

FOREWORD ON OCTOBER 17, 1939, Professor Robert Sessions Woodworth achieved three score and ten. As a student in 1898-99 and as a teacher since 1903, he has been actively associated with the Department of Psychology of Columbia University. His colleagues in the department with which he has so long been identified wished to celebrate this milestone. They desired, however, to do this without distracting him unduly from the scholarly activities that characteristically preoccupy him. Without his knowledge or consent, and with the gracious encouragement of Columbia University, they have, through a small executive committee, prepared this commemorative volume. It is a collection of some of Professor Woodworth's own most distinctive contributions. They have appeared in numerous places; they reflect the variety and much of the character of his work in the field of psychology, both in earlier and in more recent years. It is believed that the many hundreds of students who have known him in his lectures, seminars, and laboratory will appreciate the rescue, in a single volume, of these representative papers from their scattered sources. No endeavor has been made to include ail of Professor Woodworth's articles—the volume would not hold them. Nor have the separate books and monographs that have appeared under his authorship been drawn on. Nothing has been included from the many numbers of the Archives oj Psychology to which, as editor, he has made significant unsigned contributions to American psychology. Nor have the papers been in any way revised; they appear here in their original form, and without abbreviation. A complete bibliography of his writings to date has been prepared and forms a part of the volume. There is included Professor Woodworth's autobiography (first published in A History oj Psychology in Autobiography, 1932) a document showing remarkable insight into the manifold ingredients of a mature personality. The frontispiece is a photograph of the portrait painted by Carle J. Blenner and presented to the University in 1936.

viii

FOREWORD

It has been a great pleasure to Professor Woodworth's colleagues at Columbia thus to share in a small way in the extension and perpetuation of the issues of his scientific work, during the most stirring half-century of the history of psychology. In thus celebrating the significance of his writings in that field up to the date of his seventieth birthday, they join with his many students and other friends in all parts of the world in wishing for psychology many more years of fruitful contribution from the versatile hand that first penned these psychological issues. New

York

May

i,

City

1939

COMMITTEE OF COLLEAGUES COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY

CONTENTS R O B E R T S. W O O DW O R T H

Frontispiece

From a painting by Carle J. Blenner FOREWORD

Vii

I. AUTOBIOGRAPHY

I

Systematic Problems II. THE CAUSE OF A V O L U N T A R Y MOVEMENT

2Q

III. JUDGMENTS OF MAGNITUDE B Y COMPARISON WITH A MENTAL STANDARD

61

I V . IMAGELESS T H O U G H T

72

V . NON-SENSORY COMPONENTS OF SENSE PERCEPTION

80

VI. THE CONSCIOUSNESS OF RELATION

89

VII. A REVISION OF IMAGELESS THOUGHT

IO3

VIII. FOUR VARIETIES OF BEHAVIORISM

I 28

I X . A JUSTIFICATION OF THE CONCEPT OF INSTINCT

136

X . GESTALT P S Y C H O L O G Y AND THE CONCEPT OF REACTION STAGES

141

X I . SITUATION-AND-GOAL SET

149

Abnormal Psychology XII. NOTE ON T H E R A P I D I T Y OF DREAMS

163

XIII. P S Y C H I A T R Y AND EXPERIMENTAL PSYCHOLOGY

166

XIV. HOW THE PSYCHOLOGICAL MECHANISM WORKS

I 77

X V . SOME CRITICISMS OF THE FREUDIAN PSYCHOLOGY

192

Differential Psychology XVI. R A C I A L DIFFERENCES IN MENTAL TRAITS

215

XVII. THE P U Z Z L E OF COLOR VOCABULARIES

238

X

CONTENTS

X V n i . ON F A C T O R S C O N T R I B U T I N G TO A L O W

SCIENTIFIC

P R O D U C T I V I T Y IN A M E R I C A

249

X I X . COMBINING T H E R E S U L T S OF S E V E R A L T E S T S : A S T U D Y IN S T A T I S T I C A L METHOD

257

Motor Phenomena X X . ON T H E

VOLUNTARY

CONTROL

OF T H E

FORCE

OF

MOVEMENT

287

XXI. MAXIMAL CONTRACTION, " S T A I R C A S E " CONTRACTION, R E F R A C T O R Y PERIOD, AND

COMPENSATORY

P A U S E OF T H E H E A R T

296

Educational Psychology X X I I . T H E I N F L U E N C E OF I M P R O V E M E N T IN ONE M E N T A L FUNCTION

UPON

THE

EFFICIENCY

OF

OTHER

FUNCTIONS

535

X X I I I . P R E S E N T - D A Y METHODS OF T E A C H I N G P H I L O S O P H Y

370

X X I V . P S Y C H O L O G Y IN T H E C O L L E G E COURSE

378

X X V . T H E T E A C H I N G OF P S Y C H O L O G Y

385

BIBLIOGRAPHY

397

INDEX

41 I

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

I

»

»

AUTOBIOGRAPHY1 T o BEGIN WITH, it would seem appropriate for a psychologist called upon for his own story to treat his case as he would that of a problem child, by examining his antecedents and early environment with the object of revealing the causes that have made him what he is. Without attempting quite as much as that, I may at least disclose the fact that I grew up for the most part in New England and that all my ancestors for generations were New Englanders, though my genealogically minded relatives have never succeeded in tracing any of them back to the Mayflower. All the male ancestors seem to have been farmers, except for my father's father who was a school teacher, and for my father himself who was a Congregational minister and whose work took him to many churches in Connecticut, Massachusetts, Ohio, and Iowa. An ardent student of his Hebrew, Greek, and theology, he also read widely on other serious topics, and possessed a library that was awe-inspiring to me as a youngster, though I confess that I found little in it to read. Absorbed in his study and the weekly writing of his sermons, intensely and rather sternly religious, he permitted himself little relaxation with his children, except for afternoon drives about his country parish, when one or another of us was often delighted to accompany him. As I grew up during his mellowing later years, I became less and less afraid of him. He was aged fifty-five when I was born and died when I was twenty. My mother was thirty-two when I was born, and she was my father's third wife. Her immediate family were successful farmers who took some part in public life in Massachusetts. She was one of the early graduates of Mount Holyoke Seminary (now College), and herself soon became the "founder" or first principal of a similar seminary in Ohio for young women, now Lake Erie College. She, then, was a teacher, and I might be said to have followed in her 1

Reprinted from A History of Psychology in Autobiography, Clark University Press,

1932» II. 359-8°-

4

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

\

steps, since the subjects she taught included especially mathematics and "mental philosophy." I was the oldest of her three sons. T h a t so important question, where I came in the family, is not so easily answered, since I had four older half-brothers and sisters, two of whom were near enough my own age to be living at home, as young man and young woman, while I was a child. I can remember squabbling with this older sister, though not on fully equal terms. There was a more equal rivalry with the own brother three years younger than I. For five years, from the time I was twelve, while attending high school in a Boston suburb, I spent most of the time in the family of my oldest half-sister, who, with her husband, became like a second pair of parents to me, and whose three daughters were much like younger sisters. So you would probably diagnose me as an oldest child—Alfred Adler says it shows plainly in my "style of life." I was not free from timidity and feeling of inferiority, nor from a certain bumptiousness that broke forth at long intervals. T h e "Oedipus complex," as far as I can discern, was represented in my case only by resistance to adult authority. Anything like mother-fixation does not ring true to me, thinking of my own childhood. M y mother, while completely self-sacrificing and devoted to her children, was not sentimental nor coddling. As far as I can remember, my attitude toward parents and older brothers and sisters was rather independent, though not exactly courageous. T o judge from my own case, recent emphasis on the "family situation," as all-important in the child's development, is overdone. M y environment was the neighborhood rather than the home. In the Connecticut village where I lived from six to twelve years of age—after being born in Massachusetts and living most of the first six years in Iowa—and in the Boston suburb of my early 'teens, my competitions were with children outside the home more than with my sister, brothers, or nieces. The boys and girls I played with, the neighborhood bully who made me eat dirt, the men who would talk with me while doing their outdoor work, certainly deserve mention along with my own family as environmental factors. Our gang carried its playful, and sometimes only half-lawful, activities all over the village and out into the surrounding country, and the breaches of home discipline for which my mother had occasionally

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

5

to snip my ears or my father to apply the birch consisted usually in my outstaying my leave when off with the gang. Always, from the age of six or seven, I had a chum, I had " a girl," I had a group of friends, whose doings loom larger in my memory than what went on within the four walls of home. So when I read case studies of children, in which the members of the family, along perhaps with the teachers, are made to appear as the only factors of importance, the picture seems unreal to me, or at least atypical. Fortunately, however, I have not been asked to trace my development as a human being, but only as a psychologist. My earliest aspiration, as far as I know, was to be an astronomer. Later, at about the age of fourteen, I had very serious intentions of going back to the land and becoming a farmer—not so far "back" at that, since I lived in a rural community and was accustomed to some varieties of farm work. On graduating from the high school, I made a definite request of my parents to be allowed to attempt a career in music, of which I have always been very fond, but was easily persuaded to go on to college and delay decision on that matter. By the time I finished college, the music had dropped out of sight, except as an avocation, and I was committed to a scholarly career of some sort. Meanwhile, my parents' hope was all along that I should enter the ministry, but their pressure was very gentle, and when my own choice settled upon some form of teaching, there was no family opposition. In fact, I was so enthusiastic a student that my future seemed marked out for me. But how and when did I come to fix upon psychology? That is a long story, and rather obscure. I remember meeting a word in my youthful reading which I pronounced "pizzicology," but I had no more idea what it meant than do many students today who elect a first course in our subject. Along through my teens, I was much of a Bible student, my interests being somewhat theoretical and quasitheological; and I vaguely anticipated a study called philosophy, which should deal thoroughly with such matters, and in which I hoped to shine. I also remember Bacon's Essays as a favorite reading during those years, and I even wrote an essay or two of my own in the Baconian manner, seeking to set down wisdom in matters of the mind and of human conduct. I will quote a passage or two from Bacon to indicate my earliest models, and the sort of thing I

6

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

hoped to do. O n e may say that already while in the preparatory school I aspired to be an armchair psychologist. In glancing over Bacon's Essays just now, I recognize some passages which impressed me in those early days: This communicating of a man's self to a friend works two contrary effects, for it redoubleth joys, and cutteth griefs in halfs; for there is no man that imparteth his joys to his friend but he enjoyeth the more, and no man that imparteth his griefs to his friend, but he grieveth the less. Let not a man force a habit on himself with a perpetual continuance, but with some intermission, for both the pause reinforceth the new onset, and if a man that is not perfect be ever in practice, he shall as well practice his errors as his abilities, and induce one habit of both, and there is no means to help this but by seasonable intermission. The invention of young men is more lively than that of old, and imaginations stream into their minds better, and, as it were, more divinely. . . . Young men are fitter to invent than to judge, fitter for execution than for counsel, and fitter for new projects than for settled business; for the experience of age, in things that fall within the compass of it, directeth them, but in new things abuseth them. Reading maketh a full man, conference a ready man, and writing an exact man. Meanwhile my actual study in the high school and well on into college was concentrated upon the classics and mathematics, with some history, a little modern literature, and very little science. At that time in Amherst College the philosophy course, which included psychology, was deferred to senior year. It was taught by Charles E. Garman, a splendid and remarkable man, regarded by nearly all his students as the best teacher they ever had. I looked forward to this course as the consummation of all things, and managed to secure an introduction to Garman during junior year. With his usual responsiveness to student needs, he inquired as to my preparation for philosophy, and was dismayed at the little science I h a d studied, for how, he asked, could I grasp philosophy without some acquaintance with scientific ways of thought? He advised me to do as much reading in science as I could during the coming summer vacation, and went to the college library with me to select a list of books which I might read by myself with some profit. There is no doubt that that interview was an eye opener to me, and a turning

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

7

point in my career, for thenceforth I regarded science as the general field of my efforts. Such sciences as I could still work into my college course I elected, but I regarded the philosophy course as the main thing. This course, which extended through our senior year with an average of over six hours a week, started with psychology, and was called psychology throughout by the students. Garman used the psychology which he introduced rather as a means than as an end, choosing dramatic topics like hypnotism to catch the student's interest and lead into philosophical and ethical problems. In September, 1890, when I entered this course, James' Principles had not yet appeared, and there was probably no book in existence that would be recognized today as a textbook in psychology—not in English anyway. Our nearest approach to a psychological text was Carpenter's Mental Physiology, a book dating from about 1870, yet not so bad, as I see now on reexamination. Such topics as the modus operandi of sensation, perception, memory, and imagination, aroused my interest, but the whole course, which gripped me with all force, was a continuous push toward the solution of fundamental philosophical problems. Garman insisted on our entertaining the most radical hypotheses, thinking them through, weighing the evidence, and coming to terms with each view before we passed on. Like Descartes, and in part with him, we passed through the valley of the shadow of universal doubt, and emerged with what we believed to be an indubitable positive philosophy, though I must admit that I was personally less sure of this positive philosophy than I was that somewhere in this field lay my work. Psychology and philosophy were not clearly distinguished in my mind. As a sample of the type of psychology that I then knew, let me quote a passage from one of the original pamphlets which Garman used with excellent effect in his effort to meet his students exacdy on their own ground as he found it to lie from day to day. Everywhere we are correcting and rearranging sense phenomena according to our code. What does not square with this we call illusion.. . . Then, again, as to the order of phenomena. Just keep a "day-book" and record your mental pictures exacdy as experienced and note the inextricable confusion. Here is a sample: Sitting in my study during a summer evening I am startled by a brilliant flash of lightning; item No. 1. Some one cries

8

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

out in fear; No. 2. Doorbell rings. A book agent enters and insists on showing me a new atlas. Just as I am looking at the chart giving the ocean currents I hear a heavy clap of thunder; items 3, 4, and 5. Next the rain falls in torrents. M y telephone rings and I talk with my friends who tell me that their house was struck. The railroad train whisdes. Then comes a gust of wind that is a veritable hurricane. Conversation follows about the storm. Book agent presses his claims for further examination of maps and I am soon in China studying the position of Russia. Storm subsides— other flashes of lightning—telephone again rings—more thunder—other callers come. I retire and dream of China. Here are numerous items badly confused. In the morning I go to my classes. In the afternoon I take a drive and find a bridge up and a tree shattered. Here are a few phenomena, but there are a multitude that I have not recorded. No two days is there the same sequence, yet somehow all this confusion causes me no trouble, for from the "day-book" I post a ledger and connect events not as they appeared but as they really happened. Then I make the lightning the antecedent, not of the coming of the book agent, but of the thunder and the riven tree. T h e loss of the bridge was the sequence, not of my drive, but of the storm the night before. Not in the day-book of sense, but in the ledger of common sense or judgment is there order. [Eliza Miner Garman, Letters, Lectures and Addresses of Charles Edward Garman, 1909, pp. 213-14.] O n g r a d u a t i n g f r o m college in 1891, I thus had some a c q u a i n t a n c e w i t h a philosophical type of psychology, and a definite slant t o w a r d that subject. Y e t it was twelve years more before I was definitely c o m m i t t e d to a career in psychology. A t the outset I w a s advised to t e a c h for a while, rather than continue to " a b s o r b . " I t a u g h t m a t h e m a t i c s a n d science for two years in a secondary school, and m a t h e m a t i c s for t w o years m o r e in a college. D u r i n g these last t w o years I d e v o t e d myself assiduously to m a t h e m a t i c a l study, a n d , w h e n I b r o k e off teaching to repair to a university, it took m e several m o n t h s to decide whether to continue in m a t h e matics or to swing b a c k to psychology. But, d u r i n g these f o u r years of teaching, I had been subjected to t w o i m p o r t a n t influences toward psychology. T h e s e influences w e r e W i l l i a m J a m e s a n d G . Stanley H a l l . I possessed myself of J a m e s ' Principles soon after its publication and was m u c h stimulated b y it. H a l l ' s c o n c e p t i o n of a university as the h o m e of u n t r a m m e l e d study and research h a d roused m y enthusiasm as a senior in college a n d c o n t r i b u t e d t o w a r d m y choice of an a c a d e m i c career; and some years later I h e a r d h i m lecture and was m u c h taken b y his w a y of

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

9

saying, "We now know," or "We are just finding out." I seemed to glimpse the frontier of scientific discovery, and, on returning to my room, I inscribed a card with the motto, I N V E S T I G A T I O N , and suspended it by my desk. Though my "investigations" for the time being were mathematical and not psychological, the influence was felt a year later, when, on entering Harvard, I decided to quit mathematics for psychology and philosophy, the two not being clearly distinguished in my mind, any more than they were in the organization of the university. My first two years at Harvard were divided almost equally between philosophy and psychology, and my principal teachers were James and Royce, to each of whom I was much devoted, while each of them was kindness itself to me. With James I studied general and abnormal psychology. Munsterberg was back in Germany for these two years, and I did not come into contact with him, but his place in the laboratory was taken by Delabarre, with Lough as assistant, and from them I had my first lessons in psychological experiment. Several of the subjects on which I worked and wrote for Royce and James have continued to interest me. The perception of time was one of these, on which, however, I have never published, though I have had students working on this problem. Another subject was "Thought and Language." I was challenged by the dictum of Max Miiller, one of the folk-psychologists or philological psychologists, to the effect that there was no thought without language, and that the science of thought should be based upon the science of language. My own experience did not bear this out, since I often had difficulty in finding the words required to express my meaning, and since, in geometrical thinking, which had been one of my favorite pursuits, I was sure that I thought in terms of diagrams and gestures rather than in words. In fact, to think clearly in geometry I had to get away from words. Max Miiller had said that counting would be a crucial case, and had asserted that counting could not be done except in words; but I found by experiment that I could count by rhythmical groupings and could group the groups and so work up to over 100, converting the rhythmical result afterward into ordinary numbers. I have returned to this subject a number of times, as in considering the curious discrepancy

10

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

between colors as seen and colors as named, and again as incidental to the work on imageless thought; and recent attempts to revive and modernize the old theory that training consists in speaking have always found me skeptical, mostly because my own experience convinces me that there are other modes of thought besides the verbal, and that these other modes are more direct and incisive. This study of thought and language was begun as a term paper in Royce's course on logic. James, in his abnormal psychology—a course in which he was at his best, and in which he became well known to his students through the visits to institutions on which he piloted us—James set me to work on dreams. Besides consulting the literature, I recorded many of my own dreams and made certain experiments on the speed of continued association and revery in waking conditions, as a check on the often asserted extraordinary speed of dreams. I found the speed sufficient in waking revery to account for all the instances of rapid dreaming that had seemed so remarkable. I also was led by my readings and records to a hypothesis on the cause of dreams that I have often wished I had published, as it has a certain resemblance, along with a difference, to Freud's conceptions which were published a few years later. Ives Delage had pointed out that we do not dream of matters that fully occupy us during the day, but of something else. I thought I could see that we dreamed about matters that had been opened up but interrupted or checked during the day. Any desire or interest aroused during the day, but prevented from reaching its goal, was likely to recur in dreams and be brought to some sort of conclusion that was satisfactory in the dream, while activities that had probably taken much more time and energy during the day, but had been carried through to completion, were conspicuous by their absence from the dream. But the wishes "fulfilled" in the dream, according to my idea, were of any sort—sometimes mere curiosity— and the suppression of them which had occurred during the day might be the result of external interruption as well as of moral censorship. Other problems which took hold of me during those student days and which have continued to exercise me are those of motivation and of the mind-body relation. I remember saying to Thorndike,

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

II

my fellow student, whose sane positivism was a very salutary influence for a somewhat speculative individual like myself, that I was going to try and develop "motivology"; and he agreed that it was worth doing. Always searching for some fruitful attack on this problem, I was naturally much interested in the works of Freud and McDougall a little later; and I have taken one or two shots at the problem myself, but have to agree that the desired science of motives is still very embryonic. As to the mind-body relation, it was not till some years later that I reached any solution that satisfied me. I reached the end of my second year at Harvard without definite commitment to either philosophy or psychology. In philosophy, I had passed through a stage of absorption in the pantheism of India—the " T h a t art thou" philosophy—but Bradley's Appearance and Reality had about convinced me of the relativity of all human modes of thought, so that no positive system of philosophy could claim any absolute validity. But still I was much interested in ethics and especially in logic—as taught by Santayana and by Royce—and was quite willing to continue working at them. But need for a decision arose when James secured for me the opportunity of a year in the physiological laboratory and recommended it strongly if I were going on with psychology. I consulted Royce on the matter, and he quite agreed that it might be better for me to choose psychology! And so, in 1897, I turned from philosophy, half expecting to continue some effort in it, but discovering, as time went on, that psychology was amply sufficient occupation, and that philosophy would be an undesirable distraction. T h e path of psychology at that time led between mountains, down through a valley that seemed to open out below into fertile country; but there were alluring trails up the mountains into which one was likely to stray with such satisfaction as to lose interest in the arable land below. Nowadays, psychology has emerged upon the plain, and the mountains are more distant and less enticing. But the choice of psychology meant physiology in the first instance, and five of my next six years were spent in physiology, the final decision for psychology not being reached till the end of that time. T h e physiologists with whom I studied and taught were Bowditch and Porter of Harvard, Graham Lusk of New York,

12

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

Schafer of Edinburgh, and Sherrington, then at Liverpool. M y physiological studies were on the heart, stomach movements, carbohydrate metabolism, electrical conductivity of nerve, cerebral localization, and reflex action. Of my fellow students during this period, I specially remember Cannon at Harvard, and his early studies of stomach movement by aid of the X-rays, in the course of which he was led to study visceral processes as related to emotion and thus to establish an important link between physiology and psychology. But meanwhile one of these years had been devoted strictly to psychology, and during that year at Columbia I was working with Cattell, whom I count as the chief of all my teachers in giving shape to my psychological thought and work. His emphasis on quantitative experiments of the objective type, and his interest in tests for individual differences, were powerful influences with me. During this same year I studied anthropometry and statistical methods with Boas, and gained from him and also from Farrand some appreciation of the value of anthropology to a psychologist. M y experimental work during this year was on the control of muscular movement, a topic on which I continued to experiment at intervals for some years. Soon afterwards, while teaching physiology, I collaborated with Thorndike in studying the question of transfer of training, and this also is a subject to which I have returned again and again. A t the beginning of 1903, then, I was Sherrington's assistant at Liverpool, and much minded to make my psychology contribute to a career in brain physiology, rather than vice versa. Sherrington, to whom I owe very much, was willing that I should remain with him and develop my experimental psychology and brain physiology together. Just at this juncture, Cattell called me back to Columbia to work at experimental and physiological psychology, and careful consideration indicated that this was, after all, the line for which I was best prepared. Never was a finer chief than Cattell, alike in personal, departmental, and strictly scientific matters. So, fully twelve years from college graduation, after studying mathematics, philosophy, and physiology, I finally settled down to psychology as a member of the staff of Columbia University, and there I have steadily remained, aside from certain summers and leaves of ab-

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

13

sence. One of the latter, in 1912, I spent in Kulpe's laboratory at Bonn. Though I was over forty years old at that time, I like to count Kulpe among my fathers in psychology. In returning from England in 1903, to enter the Columbia Psychological Department, I was fortunately able to bring with me a young wife, and we soon became part of a small group of congenial young couples in the University. For years we lived in the "Montrose colony" in the woods nearly forty miles up the river, with the Thorndikes, the Woodbridges, the Keppels, the BagsterCollinses, and others later, and our four healthy, lively youngsters grew up in a group of twenty children. Though I never attempted any systematic psychological study of my children, I had my eyes psychologically open in watching them, and have certainly learned much from them. As they have grown up, I have not made any effort to steer them toward academic careers—in spite of my own great satisfaction with such a career—and they have tended toward the business field. For a period of years, I had considerable land to play with, and actually did get "back to the land" rather intensively, in the way of gardening, wood-chopping, and roadmaking, heartily enjoying this outdoor work and perhaps spending too much time on it. Always delighted with the wobds, the mountains, the plains, the sea, I have been in later years quite an enthusiastic motorist, enjoying both the driving itself and the trips and scenery. Sometimes I have wished that I had gone into geology or anthropology, so as to have a professional excuse for faring afield. I have never succeeded in solving the problem of finding time for outdoor interests, family interests, musical interests, general reading interests, university, and departmental interests— all of which have been very genuine interests in my case—and still concentrating on what always remains my main interest, psychological research. Even within the confines of psychology there is a wide field to wander in. M y lectures have varied in topic from year to year. Aside from the general introductory course, in which I have taken a hand from time to time, my stand-bys have been experimental and physiological psychology. But for many years I lectured on abnormal psychology, and for another long series of years on social psychology. At one time or another I have lectured on tests,

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AUTOBIOGRAPHY

statistics, the "problems and methods" of psychology, its theory, history, and applications. Special topics on which I have repeatedly held seminars include movement, vision, memory, thinking, and my old hobby, motivation. Of late years, however, I have limited my courses to experimental psychology and to a survey of contemporary schools and debated questions. From the beginning the research activities of the staff and students have centered in the "Seminar"—Cattell's Seminar, as it was at first. Here each candidate for the doctor's degree presented his research plans, his progress from time to time, and finally the outcome of his work, for consideration by fellow students as well as professors. Cattell's criticism could be keen as well as kindly. He was skeptical of any result that did not come out with a small "probable error," and with work which did not take account of what had been achieved by previous investigators. I remember one student whose seminar report seemed to indicate both sloppy work and poor perspective, and who disappeared altogether from our midst directly afterwards. In the selection of dissertation topics, Cattell followed a plan which may have been arrived at by antithesis, from that of his master, Wundt. Cattell expected the student to make the first move. The student was expected to have a problem on which he desired to experiment, and if a workable plan of attack could be mapped out, he was told to go ahead and to depend largely on his own initiative. I have followed Cattell in this respect, but the plan has certain disadvantages with a large group of students, many of whom desire above all things to get away from the "conventional" and, if possible, to discover something about "personality." I have given some sort of advice and guidance to students working on a great variety of problems. Of recent years, with a larger staff to divide the field, and with the attitude taken by the University (as represented especially by Dean Woodbridge) and by Poffenberger as executive head of the department, that each professor should have his own research interests to which the student must adjust himself, the scattering of effort has mostly disappeared. But the scattering of effort has not been entirely the fault of the students. There seem to be many interesting problems in psychology, and from time to time new ones have been added to the list

AUTOBIOGRAPHY

>5

of my active interests. I have mentioned the thinking process, time perception, transfer of training, motor control, and motivation, as topics which interested me in my days of apprenticeship; and these have reappeared time and again in the work of my students. The study of motor control led over into an examination of the question as to whether or not kinesthetic images were essential as the immediate antecedents of voluntary movements. In this study I departed from the custom of our group and used the introspective method, feeling half ashamed of myself for doing so; but the agreement of different subjects seemed to justify the method, and I continued to use it for an examination of images in perception and thinking, and thus was led into the "imageless-thought" controversy. This was in 1906-8. I recently found in my files an old memorandum with the heading, "Hammering at the images," which projected several additional ways in which an attack could be made on the false prominence of the image in psychological theory. However futile the imageless-thought discussion may now appear, it played a part in relegating images to the relatively minor position that they occupy in present psychological theory. I was far from doubting the existence of images, for I have abundant auditory images myself—of speech, of music, of noises—and I have not the least reason to question the testimony of psychological colleagues who speak with similar certainty of visual images in their own cases. The bald statement, sometimes heard of recent years, that images do not exist, strikes me as simply vaporing; while the statements that they are muscular movements, or sensations with present peripheral stimuli, are hypotheses worth entertaining, but far from established and with the balance of probability against them, in my opinion. At any rate, the processes that we have called images really occur in abundance; of that there can be no doubt; but the point of the imageless-thought contention was, and is, that these imaginal processes are often almost if not quite absent just when thought is proceeding actively, and that therefore there must be thinking processes which are not imaginal processes. I still believe that this finding is genuine and of importance in dynamic and physiological psychology. But the question of images in thinking is only a small part of the

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AUTOBIOGRAPHY

whole problem; and I like to believe that the series of studies of thinking that have issued from time to time from our laboratory have contributed bits toward the understanding of this fascinating performance. It is a rather elusive sort of performance, and, though introspection shows us much about it, the great need is to find objective methods for studying it in the laboratory. Promising leads are to be found in the memory experiment and in the transfer experiment. Memory can be aided by seeing relations in the material to be learned, as G. E. Miiller has abundantly shown; and, consequendy, it would seem, an aided memory experiment should afford an objective means of studying relational thinking. Again, problem solution, depending as it certainly does on the utilization of past experience, demands the transfer of what has been learned into the novel situation. It is pardy for this reason that memory and transfer experiments have continued to appeal to me and have appeared frequently in the output of the laboratory. Motivation has always seemed to me a field of study worthy to be placed alongside of performance. That is, we need to know not only what the individual can do and how he does it, but also what induces him to do one thing rather than another and to put so much energy into what he does. We need a study of motivation in order to understand the selectivity of behavior and its varying energy. In my books I have sought repeatedly for a formula that should bring motives right down into the midst of performance instead of leaving them to float in a transcendental sphere. The main object of such a formula, provisionally, is to set free the conscience of the hardheaded experimentalist of any qualms he might otherwise feel in entering this subject. Here, again, a survey of the studies that have come out of our laboratory yields the comforting thought that, though I have not personally conducted many researches, I have probably played some part in an advisory capacity. My interest in psychophysics was stimulated in the first instance by my master, Cattell. Certainly the psychophysical methods present themselves as a challenge for further inventiveness, as well as for patient standardization. When I have assembled the results now available for generalization, I have been dismayed by their divergence of methods and consequent lack of comparability. At this point, psychology comes into much-to-be-desired relations with

AUTOBIOGRAPHY such advanced sciences as physics, chemistry, and astronomy, and should certainly be eager to do its share in bringing the subject into some kind of order. This interest also has borne some fruit in the research of the laboratory. A t intervals my old mathematical interest has reasserted itself, and I have spent happy days endeavoring to work out some useful statistical device or making statistical computations and graphs. With the accomplished mathematicians who are now marching in the psychological procession, I have naturally fallen far behind the band, but without losing the thrill of it. At various times, from 1904 on, I have tried my hand at the devising and perfecting of tests, the chief work of this sort being the joint product of Wells and myself, the Association Tests of 1911. The "Psychoneurotic Inventory," or "Personal Data Sheet," was another effort. There have been many student researches in the field of tests that I have supervised more or less closely. Of late, in the division of labor within the Department, I have ceased to concern myself actively with tests, though I will admit that I still have in the back of my mind one or two schemes for tests that I should like to work out. With all this sad array of scattered interests, I hope I shall receive credit for not dabbling to any appreciable extent in animal psychology, which is, in fact, a branch of psychology in whose general significance I most heartily believe and in which I should have liked to be myself a worker. The same can be said of child psychology. I have done what I could, as opportunity offered, to push forward these lines of research. The story would not be complete without reference to activities that have taken me outside the University—and the University, it should be said, has been generous in lending its men to worthy scientific or public enterprises. T h e first such enterprise in which I took part was the World's Fair at Saint Louis in 1904. Having provided for the assembling of representatives of many different races, the Fair also made provision for anthropometric and psychometric study of these samples, and I had direct charge of this wore, with Frank G . Bruner for my chief assistant. We examined aboat eleven hundred individuals, making the standard physical measurements of the anthropologist, and also testing muscular

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strength, speed and accuracy, vision and hearing, and intelligence as well as we could with form boards and other simple performance tests that we devised. When the Fair was over, we prompdy worked over our data, and reported some of the results at scientific meetings. Bruner published the results of the auditory tests as his dissertation, and I gave a general summary of our results and their bearing on the question of racial differences in mental traits. Further than that, the results have never been published, not from any doubt on our part as to their value, but partly because of the unlimited number of fascinating correlations which still remained to be worked out, partly because of the expense of publication, and partly, I am afraid, from a certain inertia or indifference to publication on my part. Once I have worked out the results, and perhaps reported them at a meeting, I feel satisfied. There are a number of other studies which I have brought to some sort of conclusion but never published except in the reports of meetings where I have presented them. One such paper, read in 1905, demonstrated to my own satisfaction that vision during eye movements was just about what would be expected from the retinal stimulation received, and thus afforded no ground for assuming any special inhibitory effect of the eye movement upon visual sensation; but I did not publish this paper, because I found that most of my confreres needed no elaborate convincing of this proposition. Another paper developed a statistical method of measuring rank order correlation which had certain advantages over the method in use; but as it had also certain disadvantages and was not received with any show of enthusiasm, I let it drop. In other instances, I do not have so good an excuse for letting my work go unpublished. When the war reached America, my strong inclination was to respond to the call for psychologists in the Army testing service, but conditions seemed to demand that I be the one to stay at home and carry on some semblance of psychological instruction in the University. The American Psychological Association entrusted me with the duty of seeking a test for emotional stability. The experience of other armies had shown that liability to "shell shock" or war neurosis was a handicap almost as serious as low intelligence. After considering other possible emotion tests, I concluded that the

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19

best immediate lead lay in the early symptoms of neurotic tendency which the neurologists and psychiatrists were finding in the case histories of neurotic subjects. Collecting hundreds of such symptoms from reported case histories, I threw them into the form of a questionnaire which could be applied to a group of subjects at a time, the single questions to be answered Yes or No. I tried this questionnaire on normal groups, and eliminated questions, or so-called symptoms, which were reported so frequently by the normal subjects that they could scarcely have any diagnostic value. The abridged questionnaire was tried on a thousand recruits in one of the camps, and on small groups of diagnosed abnormal subjects, and the results worked u p again and submitted to a conference assembled by the Surgeon General to advise him as to the military use of the questionnaire. The decision was to give the device a trial as part of the psychological examining procedure in one of the camps. Soon afterwards the war came to a close, leaving the question unsettled as to whether or not the questionnaire would really assist in discovering the recruits who were specially susceptible to psychoneurosis. The idea was to use the quantitative score of unfavorable responses as a first indicator, to be followed u p by individual examination at the psychiatrists' hands. At all stages of this work on the "Personal Data Sheet," I had valuable collaboration—that of Poffenberger in preparing the first draft, before he went into the Army, and that of Boring in securing the results from the Army samples. Hollingworth used the questionnaire on "shell shock" cases invalided home, with interesting results. Since the war, quite a number of psychologists have used the questionnaire or modified forms of it, and, though the results have never been striking, it still seems to have possibilities of usefulness. Since the war, I have had the honor of participating in the activities of the National Research Council and also of the Social Science Research Council, and it has certainly been a liberal education to come thus into contact with leaders in the sister sciences, and with problems which call for the cooperation of workers from different disciplines. From the year that I spent at the National Research Council, I remember with special satisfaction my association with the committees on the "psychology of the highway" and on "child development," both of which undertakings are still going on, as,

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indeed, there is every reason why they should. It came rather as a surprise to the psychologists, when the social science group invited our Association to participate in their Research Council; but I have found this group entirely hospitable to psychology and hopeful of advantage to social science from association with psychology. There is no doubt in my mind that psychology is properly both a biological and a social science, and the logical meeting place of those two groups of sciences. Of all the organized groups that I have learned to love, none is dearer than the American Psychological Association, whose annual meetings I have attended with but few exceptions since 1898. Outsiders sitting in our meetings sometimes get the impression of mutual hostility within our group, but I am sure that is a false impression. My own impression is one of fundamental solidarity, along with the freedom of discussion that comes from direct handling of the subject matter. If I were listing the honors that have fallen to me, I should place first that of being elected President of the Association. Of my books, the earliest was a monographic analysis of the literature on movement and the perception of movement. There was a small book on personal (not mental) hygiene, emanating from my years as a physiologist. Next in time came a much more extensive piece of work, the collaboration with Ladd in the revision of his Elements of Physiological Psychology. In the revision, Ladd took care of the more philosophical parts of the work, and I was responsible for nerve anatomy and physiology and for experimental psychology. Dynamic Psychology was a reaction to Titchener, Watson, and McDougall, and sought for a position that should be independent and yet have room for all genuine psychological efforts. It sought also to show that the study of motivation had a proper place in psychology, no matter how positivistic the science should be. More recently I have written and rewritten an elementary textbook, and, like many other textbook writers in our science, have tried to make this a scientific contribution by clarifying my own ideas, keeping abreast of developments, and interrelating the several topics. A survey of the contemporary schools now completes the list, but I am laboring hopefully, with many interruptions, at a general book on experimental psychology, which should soon be finished, since it was started fifteen years ago! My object is here to

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21

digest the literature on as many topics as possible in experimental psychology, weighing the evidence and effecting some measure of synthesis of the established findings. Though my ideal all along has been "investigation," and though I have been busy all along with research in an advisory capacity, I have done comparatively litde investigation on my own account. Probably my bent is more toward weighing evidence and "seeing straight" than toward active enterprise. I should have liked to be a discoverer, so that anyone asking, " W h a t did Woodworth do?" would be promptly answered, "Why, he was the man who found o u t " this or that. It is likely that many other psychologists have the same feeling of disillusionment. It seems as if real discoveries, on a par with those in some of the other sciences, simply were not made in psychology. As I diagnose the situation, we started thirty or forty or fifty years ago with a background of philosophical problems. These have gradually disappeared from our view, because they were not genuine psychological problems, and we are left with what seems to be a multitude of rather disconnected problems, none of them appearing as very fundamental. We are, then, passing through the stage of becoming acquainted with our subject matter in detail and for its own sake, and there is no telling when or where discoveries of really fundamental significance may be made— probably where we least expect them. My bogey men—the men who most irritated me, and from whose domination I was most anxious to keep free—were those who assumed to prescribe in advance what type of results a psychologist must find, and within what limits he must remain. Miinsterberg was such a one, with his assertion that a scientific psychology could never envisage real life. Titchener was such a one, in insisting that all the genuine findings of psychology must consist of sensations. Watson was such a one, when he announced that introspection must not be employed, and that only motor (and glandular) activities must be discovered. I always rebelled at any such epistemological table of commandments. The desirable principles, so it seems to me, are those that free the investigator, rather than those that restrict him. My thinking on the mind-body problem has been guided, latterly at least, by some such desire for freedom. I must have entered my first psy-

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chology course, as an undergraduate, with some half-formed spiritualistic conception, for I remember the shocked resistance with which I first encountered the notion that thought was in any degree dependent on the brain. Carpenter's evidence regarding the effect on thinking of fever, old age, and blows on the head, reminding me as they did of some experiences of my own, converted me to his interactionist view, which seemed at the time very radical and gave me a feeling of daring freedom from my older theological views. Reading Lotze in the years immediately following, and Paulsen and Hoffding while a student at Harvard, about shifted me over to the parallelist position. I was impressed by Hoffding's words in a book which J a m e s placed in our hands: What we in our inner experience become conscious of as thought, feeling and resolution, is thus represented in the material world by certain material processes of the brain, which as such are subject to the law of the conservation of energy. . . . It is as though the same thing were said in two languages. . . . Here this hypothesis interests us as the most natural determination of the relation between physiology and psychology. These two sciences de?l with the same matter seen from two different sides, and there can no more be dispute between them, than between the observer of the convex and the concave side of a curve (to make use of a simile employed by Fechner). Every phenomenon of consciousness gives occasion for a twofold inquiry. Now the psychical, now the physical, side of the phenomenon is most accessible to us. [H. Hoffding, Outlines of Psychology, Trans, by Mary E. Lowndes. London, 1893, PP- 65, 69.] J a m e s , in his lecture, joined battle with this view, supporting interaction. When I asked him, after class, if he did not think that parallelism was a good guide for the investigator, leading him to the full cultivation of his own specialty, J a m e s replied that precisely that was what parallelism was not good for, since the line of scientific progress led, the rather, by way of tracing the interaction of mental and physical. I was left with a question in my mind, rather than a conclusion. Parallelism seemed to have the neater logic, but to suffer from an atmosphere of unreality. As my work in the next few years took me into both psychology and physiology, the problem remained a very genuine one for me. I came to see, to my own satisfaction at least, that the parallelism that we know is really a parallelism of sciences. It is not a parallelism of different processes, but one of

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different scientific descriptions of the same process. By 1908, I had reached a view of the matter that still appears sound. The parallelism is not necessarily between the psychical and physical, but may and does occur whenever different sciences set themselves to the description of the same natural process. The different sciences will employ different techniques, and, in particular, one science will go into finer detail than the other, even as one map goes into more detail than another map of the same country. While the detailed map certainly includes much that does not appear in the comprehensive map of a larger area, it has to leave to the latter the presentation of the broad geographical relationships. Thus the same real object can be given description at two (or more) different "levels" or magnifications. The same parallelism appears between gross and microscopic anatomy, between organ physiology and cellular physiology, between geology and the physics and chemistry of the minute processes that enter into the broad geological processes. Let' me take a more concrete example. Cellular physiology reveals something of the "fundamental" or "underlying" processes that go on in the heart muscle; but, if we want to understand the heart as a pump, we must study its action in another, less minute way. Both approaches are needed, and neither makes the other superfluous. In the same way, the psychologist describing a conditioned reflex in terms of stimulus and response, and the physiologist describing it, as far as possible, in terms of nerve currents, and so forth, are describing the same identical process, the physiologist in more detail, the psychologist with more breadth. The chemist would demand still finer analysis than the physiologist gives, and the sociologist might wish to include the conditioning of the individual in a still broader view than is taken by the psychologist. Parallelism, then, is not necessarily psychophysical, but occurs whenever a more detailed and a more comprehensive description of the same thing or process are undertaken. It may be urged that the difference between a brain process and a conscious process or experience of the subject is a more radical difference than those we have brought forward. It may seem that the psychical and the physical are so absolutely unlike that they cannot possibly be the same identical process differently described.

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I used to think so, but have concluded that I had no real reason for thinking so. Without arguing the case here, I will merely point to the undoubted fact that the experience of hearing a tone, for example, belongs to a whole process, while a physiological description would certainly go into detail. If a subject under suitable acoustic stimulation reports hearing a tone, and a physiologist inspecting his brain reports certain detailed processes as occurring, there is no longer any doubt in my mind that these detailed processes are parts of the identical total process which the subject himself reports. I should be inclined to urge that this "levels of description" theory is not quite the same as the two-language or double-aspect theory with which it started. The theory to which I have become attached ( i ) is not limited to the psychophysical situation, (2) is not limited to just two aspects, and (3) purports to give some account of what the difference is between the several aspects, viz., a difference in degree of breadth (or of detail) of observation and description. The value of the theory, to me, is that it keeps all of psychology, introspective and behavioristic, within the bounds of natural science. The hearing of a tone is no less an event in the stream of natural events than the movement of the arm, or than the physiological processes into which either of these total processes may be analyzed. The theory has a similar value in saving for psychology (and for the social sciences as well) a place to fill in the general framework of natural science. Once and again I have heard it predicted that psychology would pass away in proportion as physiology developed. The finer analysis of physiology would make the coarser psychological descriptions superfluous. Psychology, it seemed, had no ultimates of its own, and could be completely resolved into either physiology or thin air. The analogy with cellular and organ physiology comes to our rescue here, showing that the finer analysis cannot do the work of the coarser. As to "ultimates," I look at the matter this way. No matter how completely you describe the cells composing the heart and their activities, you need to take account of the structure of the whole heart in order to tell how the organ behaves. The total structure is

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an ultimate in describing the action of the organ. Let me add a geometrical illustration. A ring composed of two concentric circles seems merely a derived form, and all its properties can be deduced from the properties of the circle. Yes—granted the definition of the ring, as composed of two concentric circles with specified radii. This structure of the ring must be given; it is an ultimate, not to be deduced from the geometry of the circle. For psychology, the ultimates are not the electron and proton, but the individual and the fundamental types of activity determined by the organization of the individual and by the situations in which he is placed. Such general considerations cannot be expected to serve the investigator as a guide, but they may free him from inhibitions and from a sense of futility. If I were advising a young investigator, from the standpoint of my forty years of psychology, I might point out this or that promising topic for study, but I should be more likely to tell him that the whole field was still new and open before him. He need not despise what has already been done, for it affords a much better first-hand acquaintance with the field for investigation than was available forty years ago. But many incisive discoveries remain to be made. For getting on the trail of what will prove to be important and fundamental, there is no sure rule to be given; but the experience of investigators in many fields does seem to show that persistent following up of what is queer and out of line with accepted beliefs often leads to significant discoveries. What we seem to need in psychology is surprises; and by following up a small surprise one may find a greater one beyond. Or one may not —such are the chances of the game.

SYSTEMATIC

PROBLEMS

II

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THE CAUSE

OF A VOLUNTARY

MOVEMENT1

THE most mysterious and important fact of mental life is perhaps the power possessed by ideas to produce bodily movements, and through them to take a hand in the course of physical nature. Empirical psychology, to which the present paper aims to contribute, need not balk at the mystery of the connection of physical and psychical events, and need offer no further excuse than a practical convenience, amounting almost to necessity in the description of experimental results, for adopting interactionist terms, and frankly speaking of the mental cause of voluntary movement. T h e question to be attacked is: W h a t exactly is the cause of such a movement? W h a t is the " c u e " that calls it out? What is the immediate conscious antecedent of the innervation of the muscles; or since there may be present in the complexity of a mental state various elements, some of which are possibly of no importance in the determination of the movement, what is the really effective factor in the consciousness immediately preceding a movement, that gives it its motor power? A purely schematic psychology finds a ready answer to this question. Voluntary movement, it would say, is clearly movement that is foreseen and intended. There must therefore be in the mind an idea of the movement, and as such an idea could result only from previous experience of the movement, it will consist of reproduced sensations, sensations originally produced by the movement. Therefore the cue of a voluntary movement consists of a sensorial image of the movement. Now among the sensations produced by a movement there are some, caused by the stimulation of the eye, ear, and other sense organs not located in the moving members—such as are well called by James remote sensations—which are not constant and invariable results of the movement. T h e eyes may be closed or turned away, the ears may be filled with the din of other things. The resident sensations on the contrary—those "muscular" and 1 Reprinted from Studies in Philosophy and Psychology by Former Students of Charles Edward Garman, 1906, pp. 351-92.



THE CAUSE OF A VOLUNTARY

MOVEMENT

cutaneous sensations which originate in the moving member—are constant for a given movement. It is therefore these kinesthetic sensations which give us direct and unequivocal knowledge of our movements, and it is the images of this sort of sensations which constitute the ideas of movement. To will a movement is to will the realization of such kinesthetic ideas. The cue of a voluntary movement is a thought of how the movement is going to feel. The energizing of this kinesthetic image by the exertion of an act of will may or may not be regarded as an additional necessity, according to the psychologist's general view regarding the essence of will. The idea of a movement must at any rate be there for the will to work on. T h e kinesthetic image is the distinguishing mark, the determinant, of the coming movement. Besides the logical consistency of this scheme, it has the advantage—if this be a genuine advantage—of making the effect appear like the cause. The motor effect is prefigured in the consciousness that gives rise to it, and voluntary movement is thus made to seem a process of realization of ideas. It is "natural" to suppose that if any idea is to have the power to produce a movement, it should be the idea of the movement. Accordingly we find that voluntary movement is ordinarily interpreted according to this scheme. Some qualification is felt by most authors to be necessary, in the direction of diminishing the great importance assigned to kinesthetic imagery. It is recognized that the thought of how the movement is going to feel cannot always be detected as present by introspection, and it is inferred that other ideas of a movement or of its results can be substituted, by association, for the kinesthetic image; but the latter remains the typical and primitive cue to voluntary movement. Among recent writers, this scheme of the mechanism of voluntary movement is perhaps most fully presented by William MacDougall, from whom the following quotations are made: 2 The kind of idea that tends to issue most directly in action is the idea of a movement, the kinaesthetic idea. The process of voluntarily combining a number of simpler movements or positions of parts of the body into a novel more complex movement or attitude is well illustrated in the learning of many games, especially well perhaps in learning golf and rowing. The beginner on the golf-links "addresses" the ball, coached by an expert. The expert commands a 1 Physiological Psychology (1905), pp. 151, 152, 163.

THE

CAUSE OF A VOLUNTARY

MOVEMENT

31

readjustment of this and that limb, of the trunk and head, until the proper attitude is struck, and it is the learner's task to combine the kinaesthetic impressions which this attitude yields to a single percept that can be produced on future occasions. Frequent repetition of such a series of movements under similar conditions results in their becoming what is called secondarily automatic; 1.1. the person who frequently repeats such a series of movements, which, as we have seen, can only be acquired, and at first can only be executed, by direction of the attention to their kinaesthetic effects, becomes capable of executing them while his attention is otherwise occupied. Few writers would go as far as MacDougall in the emphasis of kinesthetic imagery. But then few have attempted so seriously to explain how ideas are connected with movement. He follows Munk and Bastian in regarding the motor area of the cortex as properly a sensory area, receiving kinesthetic impressions. As this is, however, the area from which most of the motor nerve fibers issue from the hemispheres, the almost inevitable conclusion was that kinesthetic feelings are the last conscious process that can precede the motor innervation. Recent work in physiology tends to discredit the view of Munk and Bastian, and to show that the kinesthetic area, though near the motor, is not identical with it. There is therefore no physiological necessity that kinesthetic imagery should intervene between any idea and its motor effects. Most authors content themselves with rather general statements concerning this matter. Wundt's formula is that voluntary movement, considered as a phenomenon of consciousness, "consists simply in the apperception of an idea of movement."* For Miinsterberg an idea of the result to be gained is an essential factor in voluntary action, but the anticipating idea need by no means contain the same elements as the actual perception of the accomplished result. Abbreviating symbols, images from other senses, conceptual determinations can be substituted, provided only the same objective change is thought of.4 James, as is commonly the case, gives a description more faithful to the sum total of facts than other authors, and it is difficult to do justice to his teaching in a brief quotation like the following: 6 ' Grundziige der Physiologischen Psychologit, 5th ed. (1903), I I , 307. 4 Grundziige der Psychologit, I, 365. 4 Principles of Psychology (1890), I I , 5 1 8 , 519. Sec further quotations in Dr. Burnett's paper, following this.

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CAUSE

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There can be no doubt whatever that the mental cue may be either an image of the resident or of the remote kind. Although, at the outset of our learning a movement, it would seem that the resident feelings must come strongly before consciousness, later this need not be the case. The rule, in fact, would seem to be that they tend to lapse more and more from consciousness, and that the more practiced we become in a movement, the more "remote" do the ideas become which form its mental cue. What we are interested in is what sticks in our consciousness; everything else we get rid of as quickly as we can. Our resident feelings of movement have no substantive interest for us at all, as a rule. What interest us are the ends which the movement is to attain. W e find, then, in c u r r e n t psychological literature a broader a n d a n a r r o w e r conception of the mechanism of voluntary movement. According to the n a r r o w e r view, the mental content directly concerned in causing the movement is always a kinesthetic image, a picture in " m u s c u l a r " a n d perhaps also tactile terms of how the m o v e m e n t is going to feel; other ideas operate to cause movement only by first, t h r o u g h association, calling u p the kinesthetic image. T h e only qualification m a d e is that the kinesthetic imagery need n o t always c o m e to the focus of consciousness, and that, with freq u e n t repetition, it m a y decrease in obtrusiveness so as finally to be scarcely detectable by introspection. T h e broader conception is that a n y sort of image of the results to be gained by the m o v e m e n t m a y become associated with the movement and constitute its only cue. T h e kinesthetic image is of special importance in the process of learning a new m o v e m e n t , or, more generally, whenever a movem e n t is difficult of execution. Yet it has no special prerogative; any sort of image of the results of a movement m a y be as directly associated with m o v e m e n t , a n d have as inherent motive power, as the kinesthetic idea. T h e experimental observations which I a m about to report have convinced m e t h a t neither the narrower nor the broader of these conceptions is correct. T h e narrower conception is the more glaringly false: neither in the execution of a familiar movement nor in learning a new one is the kinesthetic image of that movement entitled to r a n k as the sole direct excitant of the motor activity. But I a m inclined to go f u r t h e r a n d deny that any form of sensorial image of the m o v e m e n t or of its outcome need be present in consciousness in t h e m o m e n t just preceding the innervation. Imagery,

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kinesthetic, tactile, visual, auditory, may or may not be present at the launching, of a voluntary movement; when present, it seems, in many persons, at least, to be incidental rather than essential to the process. The material on which these statements are based consists of two sets of experiments, one on practice in gaining voluntary control of an unfamiliar movement, and one on the execution of a familiar movement. The practice experiments have already been reported, but will be referred to briefly below. The observations on the willing of familiar movements are purely introspective in nature, a fact which I regret as I recognize the rather treacherous character of unchecked introspection. Some of the pitfalls have probably been avoided by making the introspections under simple conditions, recording them at once, and having a considerable number of observers. These experiments were simple in character. The "subject" was required to make a given movement with some preliminary hesitation, and to note the condition of mind that preceded the movement. He was to note particularly what imagery appeared; and in case of motor images he was asked to compare them with the sensations resulting immediately afterwards from the actual movement. Care was then taken to avoid as far as possible any confusion of centrally produced images with sensations of peripheral origin. The movement was required to be hesitant, in the belief that imagery would thus be more apt to crop up; prompt movements were, however, also made, and were, in fact, preceded by less imagery than the hesitant movement. Some of the movements made, such as opening the mouth, wagging the jaw, winking, opening the closed eyes, flexing or separating the fingers, and flexing the foot, were "free" in the sense that motion was not communicated to any external object; in other cases, some instrument, such as scissors, forceps, or the dynamometer, was manipulated. Sometimes a choice of movements was allowed: the hand was to touch any part of the body; or it was to touch any object in the seen foreground; or the fingers were to be either flexed or extended; or a reaction to a sound was to be made with either hand or either foot. The subjects were young adults, two women, and eleven men. All but one man and one woman were persons of considerable

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psychological training; the two exceptions were known, from previous tests, to possess good powers of introspective observation. As might be expected, the subjects differed greatly in the sort and amount of imagery which they experienced. Some had motor images in advance of most of the movements tried; others had none. Some commonly has visual images, some never. Some had auditory images in preparation for speaking a word, some motor, some visual in addition to motor. Touch, pain, temperature, and semicircularcanal imagery cropped out occasionally. Verbal imagery, naming the act to be performed or the object to be moved or touched, was not infrequent. Some subjects did not anticipate movements in imagery of any sort, but attended to sensations of the initial position and of the beginning of the movement. Some subjects, in preparing to make a movement, actually made a start or set the muscles in such a way as to be all ready to move, and the sensations of these incipient movements and preparatory adjustments were all they could detect of a sensorial nature prior to the movement. Scarcely any person had the same sort of imagery for all the movements studied. It may be well to introduce in outline the observations of the individual subjects; they are males except when it is otherwise stated. 1. Psychologist, who habitually has visual, auditory, and kinesthetic imagery: No visual imagery appeared during these experiments; kinesthetic imagery was the rule, and it constituted a fairly accurate and adequate premonition of the sensations that resulted a moment later from the actual movement. This subject has apparently more adequate motor imagery than any of the other persons examined; it was not completely adequate, however, as often the image represented a slow smooth movement, while the actual movement that ensued felt sudden or jerky; and there were other divergencies. In mentally preparing to squeeze a dynamometer, he had no kinesthetic imagery, but pictured the cutaneous pressure and pain that would result from the movement. In reaction experiments, in which he has had much practice, he had little imagery of any sort. 2. Psychologist, with imagery of all kinds; the visual, auditory, and kinesthetic being about on a par: No visual imagery came up spontaneously, even in manipulating external objects. Motor imagery appeared in most cases, but was usually vague and different from the actual sensations of the ensuing movement. It was often a feeling of the preliminary adjustment for the movement rather than of the movement in progress or of

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the final position, and may therefore have been a sense perception rather than a representation. In the case of a rather unfamiliar movement, however, there appeared a clear motor image, "even clearer than the actual sensations of the movement," and fairly adequate. In one or two cases there was no imagery that could be detected. 3. Psychologist; his strongest imagery is visual, then, in order, auditory, gustatory and olfactory, kinesthetic: Visual imagery was more common than motor; sometimes there was neither. In some cases where visual imagery might seem a priori to be most likely to occur—as in manipulating a tool—only kinesthetic images were present; and in other cases, such as wagging the jaw, in which kinesthetic imagery would be expected rather than visual, it was the visual that actually appeared. 4. Psychologist, strongly visual in type, in speech visual and kinesthetic: Almost every sort of movement was presaged by visual imagery of the result of the movement. Even in wrestling, in which he is expert, he anticipates each move by a visual picture of the position into which he means to land his antagonist; sometimes a series of successive moves is thus visually pictured out beforehand. Similarly, in tennis, each stroke at the ball is preceded by a visual picture of the attempt of the opponent to return it. There was no motor imagery that could be certainly differentiated from sensations of the initial position and adjustment. 5. Woman, of no psychological training, with good visual and auditory imagery: There was no clear kinesthetic imagery, except when a special effort was made to get it, and then the actual movement felt quite different from the anticipatory image. Frequently the sensations of the initial position or of the preliminary adjustment of the member, or of the external object to be moved were present instead of images. Visual imagery was sometimes present in preparing for a movement that was to affect external objects. Auditory imagery was the preliminary to speaking or singing. Verbal imagery, the name of the member or object concerned, or some statement such as " I am going to move it from here to there," was common. In many cases no imagery at all was detected. 6. Woman, psychologist, having in general very little imagery of any sort: Kinesthetic imagery appeared in preparing to grip the dynamometer, but in no other instance. There was occasionally a visual image of the result; once there were tactile and temperature images. Usually little could be detected as preliminary to the movement except sensations of the present condition, a tingling or a tension in the part to be moved. 7. Psychologist, of pronounced visual type: On receiving directions to make a certain movement, he had a visual image of the movement or of some result; if the movement was held back for a little, this imagery cleared away and did not reappear just before actual movement. Once a cutaneous or kinesthetic image appeared; sometimes no image at all appeared; sometimes sensations were all that could be detected.

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8. Psychologist, possessing visual, kinesthetic, auditory, and tactile imagery, the visual being most pronounced: Kinesthetic imagery rarely appeared in anticipation of the movement, and when there it only partially resembled the feeling of the actual movement. A sort of spatial imagery, neither definitely visual nor definitely motor, was present in preparing to move a certain member or object. Verbal imagery occurred. Sensations of the preliminary condition were prominent. 9. Laboratory mechanic, with some experience as subject in psychological experiments, possessing visual, motor, and some auditory imagery: Visual imagery occurred at times; for instance, as he was hesitating about looking at a house a vivid image of the house appeared. Verbal imagery was somewhat more frequent; tactile and temperature imagery appeared in one experiment. In most cases, all that was noted was the sensations of the initial position or of a slight premature commencement of the movement. 10. Teacher of philosophy, with psychological training; of the auditorymotor type of imagery: Motor imagery occurred but rarely; visual somewhat more frequently. There was little of any kind throughout the experiments. Sensations from the part to be moved were the prominent content of consciousness. 11. Student of philosophy and psychology: He found it possible to picture the intended movement in either visual or kinesthetic terms, rather more successfully in visual than in kinesthetic, since the sensations of the movement when it was made were, to the subject, rather surprisingly different from the kinesthetic anticipation. Except by effort directed to this end, he had neither visual nor kinesthetic imagery of the movement about to be produced. 12. T h e writer, having little but auditory and a sort of spatial imagery, which latter is neither distincdy visual nor distinctly motor: No kinesthetic imagery of movements about to be made occurred except as the result of effort, and then it did not resemble the sensations of the movement when made; nor any visual except in one case; spatial more frequent; auditory present whenever there was any association between the movement and the production of sound. In preparing to make a movement, the subject's attention is directed to the sensations now coming from the part to be affected. 13. Psychologist, possessing little imagery, the auditory being most prominent: Imagery of any kind scarcely occurred at all except as the result of effort to get it. Kinesthetic imagery so got was not like the sensations of the actual movement. T h e sensations of the preliminary condition of affairs were sometimes the object of attention. M y o b s e r v a t i o n s are not a d a p t e d to statistical t r e a t m e n t . T h e s t u d y d o e s n o t p u r p o r t to be a census, but a r o u g h survey of the sorts of facts t h a t o c c u r . T h e d i f f e r e n t subjects d i d not m a k e e q u a l

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numbers of observations, nor was care taken to have the movements chosen a fair sample, statistically, of the voluntary motor activity of daily life. Hence no great importance is attached to the following figures: Out of 128 single introspections of the conscious preliminaries of voluntary movement: 27 gave kinesthetic imagery; 27 gave visual imagery; 17 gave imagery of other kinds; 30 gave only peripheral sensations; 27 gave an absence from the "field of attention" of all sensorial elements whether external impressions or images. Some sort of imagery therefore occurred in 71 cases, or 55 percent. Kinesthetic imagery occurred in 27 cases, or 21 percent. The kinesthetic imagery was adequate in 11 cases, or 9 percent. Nearly one-half of the cases showed no imagery; the kinesthetic image was observed in only one-fifth of the cases, and only half of these showed adequate images, i. e., images which were fair representations of the actual sensations of the movement. The inadequacy of the kinesthetic image often consisted in insufficiency, as it did not represent the movement with any completeness; frequently, too, the image represented a much slower or smoother movement than the one which actually followed; occasionally the difference was the opposite of this. Quite generally, the sensations of the actual movement, when attended to, surprised the subject by their contrast with the anticipatory image. Familiar movements, such as opening the mouth, winking the eyes, or closing the fist, do not feel by any means as one imagines they will feel. The adequacy or inadequacy of images is a point of importance in judging how much of a real causal function the image has in the production of movement. It has, of course, long been recognized that we have no image which conveys to our intelligence any conception of the neural and muscular mechanism by which the movement is executed; but it may be replied to this that the sensations of a movement could not be expected to teach anatomy; so long as they give an unequivocal sign of the movement, they furnish all that is required for recognizing it; and so long as the central re-

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production of such sensations—the kinesthetic image—gives an unequivocal sign of a given movement, it does enough to determine the movement. But w h e n it is found that this kinesthetic sign is neither unequivocal nor accurate, that it pictures a slow movement w h e n a rapid one results, and in general that its contrast with the peripheral sensations of actual movement is more in evidence than its resemblance to them, grave doubt begins to be thrown upon the view that the kinesthetic image is the sufficient sign and cue of the movement. If we plan to make a certain movement, picturing to ourselves how it is going to feel, and then make it, w e usually find that it does not feel as we had anticipated, and yet we k n o w that w e have m a d e the movement we intended. Such a state of affairs would be impossible if the intention to make a certain movement were equivalent to the intention to make a movement w h i c h should feel like a certain kinesthetic image. T h e kinesthetic imagery of m a n y and probably of nearly all persons is incapable of the minute gradations which those persons can introduce into their voluntary movements.' Adding to this the yet more significant fact that in most cases no kinesthetic imagery is detected, I think it safe to conclude that the kinesthetic image is not the exclusive, nor even the typical cue to voluntary movement. T o insist that such an image " m u s t b e " there, although not observed, is mere schematism. L e a v i n g aside for the present the still more striking facts, derived from the introspective observations, that no imagery of any sort appears in a large share of the cases, and that where it does appear it is quite inadequate as a representation of the movement and of its results, I wish first to follow u p the kinesthetic image and adduce several further considerations that go to show its relative unimportance in the initiation of voluntary movement. A distinction w h i c h needs making, and which when made clears matters u p a good deal, is that between kinesthetic images of movements about to be m a d e and kinesthetic and other resident sensations of the member that is about to move. Introspectively it is hard, at least at first, to distinguish between them. Some of my subjects noticed feelings of the member that was to move, feelings regarding • Cf. Kulpe's observation« on the general lack of fine differences in imagery, (1893), pp. 186, 187.

der Psychologic

Grundriss

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which they could not be sure whether they were of central or peripheral origin. In some instances slight preliminary movements of the part actually occurred, as I observed by closely watching the subject. Other persons, on the other hand, were clear in their own minds that they were attending to actual sensations of the initial position or preliminary adjustment of the member. The difficulty of distinguishing kinesthetic images and sensations furnishes a clue to the explanation of the fact which is sometimes brought forward as a definite proof of the close relation between the idea of a movement, as cause, and the execution of the movement, as effect. It is said that we cannot picture a bodily movement without experiencing a strong impulse to make that movement. The following is a partial explanation. The introspective results have shown that it is perfectly possible to think of a movement—to identify it in thought—without experiencing any kinesthetic image of it. Suppose that in such a case the effort is made to picture out how the movement will feel; the natural tendency is, since the movement is at our command, to make it and to find out how it feels. When the statement is made, " I cannot picture to myself the movement of my arm without making the movement, or at least starting to make it," the fact may be not the motor potency of the picture of the movement, but the inability to get the picture without making the movement. Some persons do, without doubt, have good powers of kinesthetic imagery, but most persons seem to be rather deficient in it as compared with visual imagery: they scarcely need it, since they can always in simple cases supply the lack by making the actual movements. Most so-called motor imagery, as I am convinced by questioning those who report experiencing it, is spurious, consisting in reality of peripherally excited sensations of movement; and its much-vaunted motor efficacy I believe to be nothing more than the movements produced in the effort to get the feeling of a movement, by persons who are unable to arouse the image. In that close association between the feeling of a movement and the movement itself, which has been so much emphasized in arguing for the motor efficacy of kinesthetic imagery, the movement is the cause and the supposed image the effect. The cause of the movement must be sought in quite a different quarter. The most obdurate schematist would, I think, be convinced by



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gathering observations from a number of individuals that kinesthetic images were not the invariable antecedent of voluntary movement, nor even the usual antecedent. He might, however, still be disposed to insist on their importance in the process of learning a new movement. T h e kinesthetic image might be the natural antecedent of the movement, with which any other idea which was to issue in movement must first become associated. As the association became firmly fixed, and as attention was more and more directed to the remote consequences of the movement, the intermediate link in the chain of association might very probably cease to come clearly to consciousness. T o determine whether the kinesthetic image has this primordial importance, it is necessary to conduct experiments on the acquisition of control over unfamiliar movements. T h e most important work in this direction is that of Bair,7 who taught several persons to move their ears at will; he recorded the movements by suitable apparatus, and at the same time determined as far as possible by what process the voluntary control was established. One important fact which he discovered was that familiarity with the feeling of the ear in motion, afforded by repeatedly exciting by electricity the muscle that moves it, was not of itself sufficient to give a person the power to make the movement at will. This familiarity is just what would be required according to the scheme outlined by MacDougall. It is true that the electrical excitation of the muscle was of some help, since persons who had this preliminary passive exercise learned the movement a little more rapidly than other persons; but this difference is sufficiently explained by the greater certainty with which such persons would recognize the right movement when by good luck they made it themselves in the midst of their unsuccessful attempts. A prompt recognition of success is a prime necessity in learning any performance. Bair also found that in the first stage of control over the ear movements other muscles contracted along with the muscle of the ear. Further practice was necessary to isolate the movement of the ear from the other movements with which it was associated. Success was not to be attained by voluntarily inhibiting the other movements; the thought of inhibiting them but caused them to T

Psychological Review (1901), V I I I , 474.

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occur with all the greater strength; what succeeded was the concentrating of attention on the ear, and dropping the other movements out of thought. The important point for our present purpose is that motion of a part followed thought of that part—not necessarily thought of the movement of the part, since thought of preventing its motion was equally effective. In similar though less extensive experiments which I made on myself, and which have already been reported,8 the effect was made to isolate the extension and flexion of the great toe from that of the other toes. The establishment of complete voluntary control was a very gradual process. The first successes came by accident, as far as consciousness could tell. As in Bair's experiments, attention had to be concentrated on the one toe that was to be moved, since the thought of the others and the attempt to prevent their motion was a good means of insuring that they did move. I had in mind specially the question of kinesthetic imagery, but was unable to detect any in the first successes or at all. Attention was directed to the toe itself, to the sensations arising in it, rather than to any mental image of its movement. It seems to be true that attention to the sensations coming from any member is one form of the cue of voluntary movement of the member. I infer from the results of Bair, combined with my own, that even in first getting control over a particular movement, at least in the case of adults, the kinesthetic image of that movement is neither a necessary nor a sufficient condition. Observations on the imagery of young children first learning to control their movements are of necessity indirect, yet some suggestive facts have been established. The child is equipped by nature with a large store of definite reactions, defensive, locomotory, nutritional, vocal, ocular, facial, as well as with what seem more random movements of the arms and legs. These reactions necessarily occur first without the child's foreknowledge or intention; but having thus occurred they enter into the developing system of his thoughts and desires; they become associated with other things; and this is the process by which the child acquires control of his motor inheritance. The question is whether the first associations are formed between the movements and the feelings and images of • Lt Mouvement (1903), p. 330.

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them, whether the child's first desire for a movement is the desire to feel it again. Kirkpatrick* reports an instructive instance of a little girl who had not started to walk at the age of seventeen months. One day a pair of cuffs which her father had laid on a table interested her, and, creeping to the table, she pulled herself up by one of its legs, reached for a cuff with one hand, and put it on her other wrist, thus standing alone for the first time. Next she put on the other cuff, and after gazing for a moment in admiration at her new ornaments, walked across the room with an expression of great satisfaction on her face. When the cuffs were taken from her she would walk no more; to facilitate her progress, therefore, a pair was given her; she required them only a couple of days, at the end of which she walked at will. Trettien 10 has collected a number of similar instances in which children began to walk suddenly, making their first steps while their attention was completely absorbed by some interesting object, and entirely losing their balance if their attention was attracted to what they were doing. It must, of course, be admitted that these cases are exceptional in the suddenness with which the walking instinct blossomed out; when the process is more gradual, the child being perhaps worried along by his elders, it is hard to say what may be in his mind. But it is reasonably clear from the wellobserved case of Kirkpatrick that kinesthetic imagery is not always the first thing to be associated with movement. The little girl did not attend to the sensations of her movements; she was not engaged, as MacDougall puts it, in obtaining a unified percept of the complex kinesthetic sensations which the walking aroused; her desire was not centered on feeling those sensations again; she did not first associate the movement with the thought of how it felt; she associated it with those cuffs. They were the original cue. The baby kicking and throwing his arms around apparently derives pleasure from so doing, and it is hard to see what experience he can derive from the action except the resident sensations. But with the first appearance of definite control the center of his ininterest passes elsewhere. About the first movement that he learns to perform at will is putting his hand in his mouth. Dexter 11 ob• Psychological Review, VI (1899), 475. American Journal of Psychology, X I (1 goo), r.

a

11

Educational Review, XXIII (1909), 8t.

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served carefully the progress made by an infant in acquiring control over this coordination. As he was throwing his arms in all directions, he accidentally put his hand into his mouth; he seemed to be pleased and to try to do it again. The next day he succeeded three times, and in a fortnight he had the movement completely under control. Now it is clearly impossible to suppose that the kinesthetic impressions coming from the arm when it took the path to the mouth were so different from those caused by its other movements, and so much more pleasurable, as to be the cause for the selection of this particular movement. It was the sensations at the mouth that gave pleasure, and which, rather than the kinesthetic sensations, became associated with the motor innervation. In general it is probably safe to say that when any particular one among the child's random movements of his arms and hands becomes of such interest as to be selected and reduced to voluntary control, the interest has arisen, not from any peculiarity in the kinesthetic sensations of that movement, but from some other result. It is this result which attracts the child's attention and becomes the cue for the production of the movement. In the case of certain movements, there is what amounts to a demonstration, derived from brain physiology, that they result and always have resulted from visual or auditory and not from kinesthetic cues. The clearest case is the movements of the eyeballs. These can be elicited, in experiments on the brains of monkeys, by excitation of three distinct portions of the cortex—the motor area, the visual area, and the auditory area. The visual area is that which is connected with the retina by sensory nerve fibers, and the destruction of which causes blindness in man or animals. The auditory area is connected with the ear, and its destruction causes deafness. Specialization exists within the visual area, each part of the field of view being represented in a particular spot within the area; and stimulation of this spot causes the eyes to turn toward the corresponding part of the field of view so as to bring it into distinct vision. This motor action of the visual cortex is thus that by which we turn our eyes to look at any object seen in indirect vision. It might still be thought that the visual area acted on the eye muscles through the medium of a kinesthetic area and of the motor area, were it not for abundant evidence, both anatomical and

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physiological, that the eye movements elicited by stimulation of the visual cortex are quite independent of the motor area. Anatomically, it is known that descending fibers connect the visual area with the anterior corpora quadrigemina, the coordinating center for eye movements, and physiologically it is found that 11 the same movements of the eye are aroused by stimulation of the visual area, even after the motor area has been destroyed. Thus it is certain that turning the eyes to look at anything is the direct result of visual stimulation, and not, even at first, dependent upon a kinesthetic intermediary. The same line of reasoning applies equally to the turning of the eyes toward a source of sound, since it is found that this movement occurs on stimulation of the auditory area, even after the motor and visual areas are destroyed. The turning of the head, too, which is apt to accompany turning of the eyes in response to either visual or auditory stimulation, results directly from the excitation of the visual and auditory areas, without the motor area, and without the possibility of a kinesthetic intermediary. Control over the vocal organs is probably acquired normally through hearing. No such close physiological reasoning is possible here as in relation to eye movements, but we have at least the fact that a child understands spoken words before he begins to talk, showing that speech is primarily an auditory matter with him; and we have the further fact that he readily imitates spoken sounds, showing a close and organized connection between the "wordhearing center" and the motor speech center. Having thus attempted to show that in special cases the voluntary control over bodily movements is not acquired by means of kinesthetic imagery, I wish now to bring forward two general considerations of great importance in deciding on the role played by the kinesthetic image both in the acquisition and in the familiar execution of voluntary movement. The first consideration harks back to the distinction drawn between the kinesthetic sensations representing the present condition of the member about to be moved, and the kinesthetic image of the impending movement. The latter is probably of very little functional importance, but the kinesthetic sensations are extremely u E. A. Schafer, International Monthly Journal 0/ Anatomy and Physiology, V (1888); Text Book of Physiology (1900), II, 751.

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important. Their importance is shown by the results that follow when they are lacking. Loss of coordination and sometimes even inability or unwillingness to move the anesthetic member are the results. This is abundantly shown both by physiological experiments on animals and by observations on pathological loss of sensation in man. The sensations of initial position of a member are an essential factor in determining its movements, since the movement will differ according to the initial position. T h e same sensory stimulus that arouses flexion when a limb is extended may arouse extension when it is flexed. T h e sensations coming in from the member as it moves are also an essential factor in coordinating the further progress of the movement. If they are lacking the result may be a wavering motion, as seen in monkeys whose limbs have been rendered anesthetic by cutting the sensory nerve fibers;1* an excess of motion as seen in locomotor ataxia; 14 or a deficiency of motion, a premature stopping, as seen in hysterical anesthesia.14 T h e kinesthetic sensations on which the coordination of movement so largely depends need not indeed come to the focus of attention; their effects are in large measure reflex, yet they may become the object of attention in deliberately preparing for a movement. T h e resident sensations of a member at rest in any position are a factor in determining its movement out of that position; the kinesthetic sensations of a member in motion are a factor in determining the further progress or the arrest of the movement. In walking, the sensations of the right leg's step are a factor in eliciting the ensuing step of the left leg; in alternately flexing and extending the forearm, the sensations of flexion are a factor in calling out the ensuing extension, and the sensations of extension help to elicit the following flexion; in breathing, the sensations of inspiration cause expiration and the sensations of expiration cause inspiration. Why should not the corresponding images have the same motor tendencies? But this is just the opposite of what is claimed for them. The image of flexion is supposed to cause flexion, not extension. The image of an inspiratory movement is supposed to cause an in" Sherrington, Proceedings of the Royal Society oj London, L V I I (1895), 481. 14 H. E. Hering, Archiv fiir experimentelle Pathologie und Pharmakologie, X X X V I I I (1897), 278. " Gley and Mariliier, Revue philosophique, X X I I I (1887), 441; Cremer, Ueber dat Schätzen von Distanzen bei Bewegung von Arm und Hand (Würzburg, 1887), p. 33.

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spiratory movement, whereas the corresponding sensation causes expiration. T h e image of a step with the right foot is supposed to cause that foot to step, instead of the other. The image of the beginning of a movement is supposed to cause the beginning of the movement, instead of causing a later stage in the movement, as the corresponding sensation would do; and the image of the later part of the movement is supposed to cause that later part to occur, whereas the corresponding sensation would cause the movement to stop. It is impossible that the sensation of any movement or part of a movement should act directly to cause a repetition of the same movement or part; for no such repetition can occur until another and a contrary movement has intervened. It is certainly unreasonable to assign to an image a motor effect contrary to that exerted by the sensation which it reproduces or represents. As the sensation of a given movement can never have been the motor cue to a repetition of that movement, but always to some other movement, it is hardly conceivable that the image should have the power assigned to it of calling out the movement which it represents. If, on the other hand, the image has a motor tendency like that of the corresponding sensation, it is of no consequence whatever; for since the image would represent the member in a situation differing from its actual one and would call for a movement out of that unreal situation, it would be calling for a movement that could not be executed at the moment. My conclusion is that genuine motor imagery, so far as it occurs, has very little motor effect. Although the preceding facts and considerations, if they are accepted as valid, dispose effectually of the scheme which assigns an essential r61e to the kinesthetic image in the initiation of voluntary movement, yet in order to state the case completely, there is still another general fact that must be adduced. T h e fact is somewhat overstated by saying that there is no such thing as voluntary bodily movement. T h e emphasis is on bodily. There is such a thing, b u t it is a rarity, seldom occurring in practical life. Instances of it are found in "free" gymnastics, in the tricks children love to play with their fingers, and in such movements as psychologists make when they are exemplifying to themselves the process of voluntary movement. In these cases the bodily movement is willed for its own sake;

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there is no resulting motion of external things. Even here the interest seldom lies in the resident sensations, it is more apt to be centered in the visual appearance of the movement. But the great majority of purposive movements are executed for the sake of some effect they produce beyond the mere movement. Sometimes the desired effect is the removal of an unpleasant cutaneous sensation or the production of some other intrabodily change, but most often it is the movement of an external object, or of the body in relation to an external object. It would be much truer to speak of our voluntary movement of physical objects than to speak of voluntary bodily movements. If I wish to cut a stick, my intention is not that of making certain back and forth movements of my arm, while simultaneously holding the fingers pressed tightly toward each other; my intention is to cut that stick. When I voluntarily start to walk, my intention is not that of alternately moving my legs in a certain manner; my will is directed toward reaching a certain place. I am unable to describe with any approach to accuracy what movements my arms or legs are to make; but I am able to state exactly what result I design to accomplish. It may conceivably be different with the infant, but this is not probable. It is not likely that he first acquires control over his movements, which he then applies in manipulating objects, so that at a certain stage of his development he would know what movements of his limbs he wished to execute, but not what changes in objects were to be accomplished thereby. His movements become organized with reference to situations and to definite things as the focal points of situations; instinct itself, with which he starts, is so organized; his motor development is a process of getting control of the things around him rather than of learning and applying his own possibilities in the way of bodily movement. It would be impossible to account for his motor performances without reference to the size, shape, weight, distance, and direction of the things he deals with. Both by instinct and by the force of experience, his movements are coordinated with reference to these properties of physical objects. It is not so much a "supply of ideas of the various movements that are possible" as a knowledge of the various effects that can be produced, that is "the first prerequisite of the voluntary life." 1 * " Cf. James, Principles oj Psychology, II, 488.

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T h e kinesthetic image must be given up, as the special and invariable, or the usual, or even as a possible cue of voluntary movement. T h a t it is not the invariable or usual cue is simply the observed fact; that it can hardly provide either the direct causal antecedent of the represented movement or the means by which movements are identified and associated, is indicated in the first case by the contradiction which would ensue between the function of the image and that of the kinesthetic sensations of which it is the image; and in the second case by our fundamental tendency to perceive and conceive movements as changes affected in things rather than as mere motions of the body and limbs. So far, our discussion would seem to land us in some such position as the following. Not indeed the kinesthetic image, but some image representing the result of a movement, is the mental cue of voluntary action. T h e image may be visual, auditory, tactile, or belong to any sense whatever; so long as it represents the end to be reached, it may come, by associations formed during the production of the movement, to have the power of putting the movement into play. Unfortunately, the facts reported near the beginning of this paper drive us at once from this second position. In a large proportion of cases, no image whatever could be detected by my subjects as occurring in anticipation of a movement. Individuals differ, some having visual images frequently, if not regularly, as they are preparing to move, and some seldom having images of any kind. Where imagery is lacking, peripheral sensations are sometimes present in the field of attention, but after these cases are subtracted, there still remain a good share of the whole number—about onefifth in my observations—in which no sensorial content could be detected. The first reaction of a psychologist to the statement of this result is apt to take the form of insisting that there clearly must have been present some image of the movement or of its result, otherwise the movement was not voluntary, since it could not have been foreshadowed in consciousness. How could a particular movement be determined upon, unless there was present some image representing and identifying the movement? In spite of the feeling that there "must b e " an image present, it is worth while finding out whether

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there actually is always one there. There is not. T h e only escape from this conclusion is by assuming careless introspection on the part of my subjects; but most of them were trained in introspection. In m y own case, I am perfectly certain that no sensorial image appears in anticipation of most of my movements. I have tried again and again to detect it, and it is seldom that I can find any. How is a m a n who has almost none but auditory imagery to obtain images of most of his movements? Speech movements, when hesitant, writing movements, always, are with me preceded by auditory imagery of the words, letters, or syllables about to be produced; the movements of the fingers on the piano, if hesitant, are preceded by auditory images of the notes to be struck; drumming with the fingers on a table is accompanied by imaged notes, which, however, do not precede the finger movements, but are timed to synchronize with them as if the fingers were making the sounds. In most other movements, there is no imagery. If I open a penknife, I have no preliminary imagery of the feeling of opening it or of its appearance with the blade open. If I start to walk into the next room, I have no preliminary feeling of a rhythmical motion of my legs, nor preliminary vision of the next room. I do have in some cases what was called in the individual reports above a sort of spatial imagery, if it may be called imagery, which has no definite sensory character: in planning to go to another room or building, or to move an object, I think of their position with reference to my body and feel that I could look or point toward them. Such being my own experience, I am inclined to give entire credence to the statements of my subjects, when they report no image of the desired result to be present as a preliminary to movement. "Of course," they sometimes said, " I know what I am going to do, but I have no visual, nor auditory, nor motor, nor tactile, nor olfactory, nor gustatory image of it." This may be "impossible" from a certain psychological point of view, but it is certainly a fact. There follow a number of instances from the reports of the subjects mentioned earlier in the paper, instances in which the image either was absent, or presented certain peculiarities that need to be considered in forming a conception of the function of the image in voluntary movement. It should, perhaps, be definitely stated that no suggestion was made to the subjects, other than that implied



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in my asking them to describe the condition of mind that immediately preceded the voluntary movement, and particularly to note the kinesthetic and other images present. Subject i. The condition preparatory to opening the eyes was described as "absolutely blank." The subject was required to select, at a preparatory signal, which hand or foot he would move in reacting to an immediately following sound, and afterwards was asked to describe the imagery present at the time of decision. In four cases he reported images of different sorts, in two other cases he reported: " I determined to react with the right foot, that was all"; "blank, automatic." Subject 2. The condition preparatory to gripping the dynamometer with all his force was thus described: on the first and second trials, " I do not know what was there"; after repeated trials, " T h e only feeling that I was able to pick out was a feeling of flexion of the fingers and hand, tactile and motor in character. There is a sort of feeling of vacancy of the arm, a lack of anything that was definite; an 'all over' readiness is about all I can call it." Subject 3. Preparatory to winking the eye: " N o image." Bending the finger at the first joint only: " I just have the idea of bending the finger; it is hard to tell of what the image consists." Hitting at a mark on the blackboard with a piece of chalk: " I t is hard to analyze. One element that stands out is the visual image of seeing myself hit it, the picture of the hand as it will be when it reaches the mark. The actual appearance of the mark is present only in the background of consciousness, being taken for granted. Just at the moment when the act is set off, the mind seems to be practically blank." Subject 4. Opening the mouth: "It's a pretty hard thing to say." After several trials: " I t seems to me that I have a very vague image of my mouth as it would look, when open, in a mirror; that is when I try to get an image, but I don't know that I ever noticed it before." Subject 5. Moving either forefinger, at will, to the nose: " I was not thinking of the nose, nor of anything much. I had a sort of feeling that the hand chosen had to do something, a feeling of getting ready in the hand. There was no visual nor kinesthetic image of the movement." Subject 6. Hitting at a dot on paper with a pencil: " I am more interested in the objective dot than in anything in myself." Subject 7. Opening the mouth widely: " O n hearing the words 'open the mouth,' I had a distinct image of a peculiar clogging sensation near the ear that occurs when the mouth is open widely. Just before opening the mouth, there is not a single distinct thing." Wagging the jaw from side to side: " A s soon as the words were spoken, I had a beautiful visual image, but in preparing to do it myself, I did not get anything."

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Gripping the dynamometer: After the first trial, "There was nothing that could be detected. I was so much interested in getting the strongest possible contraction that I did not notice the image"; after the second trial, "Sensations from the scalp"; after the third trial, "Sensations from the region of the diaphragm, representing a preliminary stage in the process"; after further trials, "First of all, I have mixed and vague visual images, before actually getting to business. This is some seconds before the movement. Then the whole thing disappears, and there is nothing left that I can discover, except the complex of feelings which result from the motor process itself." Subject 8. Reacting to sound by a movement of either hand or of either foot, the choice being made at a preparatory signal: On reacting with the left hand, " I am perfecdy certain of this, that I thought of the position of the hand as being to the left of me, that is, I did when I chose this hand to move, not when I moved; when the sound came, I was so prepared for that particular movement that it went off of itself." Subject 9. Flexing the foot: " I don't know how it feels beforehand. When I think of doing it, the parts seem all of a tremble ready to do it." Picking up a small object with a pair of forceps: " I t is hard to notice anything, except that you naturally have the impulse to squeeze the thing and to lift it." Subject 10. Opening the closed eyes: " I can detect no change at all in consciousness until the movement takes place. I was thinking neither of the objects that were about to be seen nor of the feeling of the eyes. I did think of the objects in front during the time that my eyes were closed, but not just at the moment of willing to open them." Gripping the dynamometer, the subject's first experience with this instrument: On the first trial, " A visual image of the hand moving, the thumb going over toward the finger"; on repetition, " I cannot detect anything; the first change I feel is the movement itself." Touching with the right forefinger any spot on the surface of the body, the spot to be selected by the subject: " I find it a litde complex. In deliberating which of the knees to touch, I had visual images of them both, but at the moment of determination, I could not have told from consciousness what I was going to do. There was nothing in consciousness that determined the selection. I find I can pass the hand from one point to another without having any image of the part to be touched; nor am I conscious of sensations coming from the part in advance of the movement. Visual images are usually present, but do not seem to intensify just before the movement, nor do they disappear with the execution of the movement." Touching the nose with either forefinger at the subject's choice: " I f a visual image of either hand comes suddenly to mind, I tend to move that hand; but if I inhibit the movement at the moment, the image continues, and no change in it seems to occur immediately preceding the movement."

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Subject i i . Opening a pair of scissors: "I can detect no visual image of the scissors opening, nor any kinesthetic image of the thumb and finger; yet I am perfectly conscious of what I want to do; a notion of the whole thing to be accomplished seems to be felt in the ends of the scissor blades." Moving a small object from one place to another: "When I make an effort to do so, I can picture myself moving it, but it requires an effort to do this, and the image is not at all like the natural feeling of anticipation. There is no visual image of the object in the place to which it is to be moved." Gripping the dynamometer: "There is no preliminary feeling of tension, and no observable kinesthetic or visual image." Subject 12. This subject's observations have been partly outlined above, in the main text. In the experiments with choice, his attention was directed to the sensations of the member to be moved, when the choice was between members, and to the point to be reached, when the choice was between points. In touching objects before him while the eyes were shut, the attention was directed to the points in space where the objects were situated ("spatial imagery"). Subject 13. Opening the mouth: "I could not detect any preliminary imagery." Wagging the jaw at a signal: "I had a visual image of the movement beforehand, but when the signal came, it seemed as if there was nothing in mind except that the movement occurred." Should it be attempted to destroy the force of these negative instances by arguing that an image may after all have been present in consciousness, but not in the field of attention, it is hard, of course, to disprove such an assumption, but if true it does not remove the difficulty that confronts us. T h e intention to do a particular act may be clearly attended to without any image lying in the field of attention; the image cannot, therefore, be the identifying mark of the act toward which attention is directed. It might also be suggested that verbal imagery supplied the place of other forms in persons who lack the latter. Verbal imagery does indeed sometimes, perhaps often, appear, but in some persons, at least, is very often absent. Verbal imagery would suffer from inadequacy, since we can make many movements and do many things which we cannot designate unequivocally in words. In the instances in which verbal imagery was reported by my subjects, it was sometimes ludicrously inadequate as a distinguishing mark of the movement that was thought of. " I am going to move the thing from here to there" might apply to a thousand movements; the

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words cannot possibly have been the determinant of the particular movement made. The same criticism on the score of inadequacy can be applied to other than verbal imagery. Earlier in this paper it was applied to many instances of kinesthetic imagery; most of these, in the light of further criticisms, seemed likely not to be images but sensations, and should therefore be added to the other cases in which no image was present. This question of the adequacy or inadequacy of the image, when one is present, demands careful attention if we are seriously looking for a mental cue which shall be the real cause or determinant of the movement. Not that it is fondly hoped to discover in the cause any inner necessity of the effect; but at least the cause must unequivocally identify its particular effect. I intend to do a certain act; my intention is particularized; if whatever imagery may be present is less particular than my intention and than the act which results, then the image is not the adequate cue of the act. Sensations are indeed always present as contributory factors in determining the act. They represent the existing situation with reference to which the act is performed, and the act is determined by the existing situation as well as by the intention. The intention, broadly speaking, includes the present situation as its background, but the focus of the intention is the thought of the change which it is desired to effect in the situation. In particular, the kinesthetic sensations of the present position of the member to be moved are contributing factors in determining the movement, though they are not usually in the field of attention. Qualified in this way, our criterion of adequacy will be that the image of an act to be accomplished, added to the sensations which represent the existing situation, must be definite enough to determine the movement which is intended. T o recur a moment to the case of verbal imagery: If with my eyes open I say " I will move this object from here to there," sensations serve to particularize the general terms "this object," "here," and "there," so that what is intended is adequately represented by the verbal imagery plus the sensations. If now I close my eyes, and execute again the same act, accompanied by the same verbal imagery, I need something more to particularize the general terms. If I have no visual, kinesthetic, nor tactile image to

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add to my verbal imagery, the intention remains unparticularized by sensorial contents. Visual imagery must be of a high order of definiteness—of a higher order than most persons lay claim to—in order to serve as the specifying agent in determining the act. No doubt some persons possess visual imagery sufficiently faithful in details to portray exactly what the act is to be, or at least—which is all that adequacy requires—to distinguish it from all other acts that can be distinguished in intention and execution. In such persons, and in such cases as their visual image attains this degree of definiteness, it seems capable of functioning as the adequate cue of the act; but in other cases not. And these other cases, apparently, form the great majority of voluntary acts. The visual image is open to yet further suspicion; for not all of the essential features of an act can be portrayed in visual terms. T h e force to be exerted by the movement cannot be so portrayed. Adequacy, as above defined, does not indeed require that all the details of the act shall be represented, but only enough to distinguish the result attained from all others that might have been intended and successfully achieved. But there is often, if not always, implicit in the result as desired a certain degree of ease or difficulty of performance. T h e intention to lift a heavy object differs from that of lifting a light one. T o represent this, kinesthetic imagery would be required, but is not usually present. In aiming to produce a good tone on the violin or in singing, a high grade of auditory imagery would be required to represent unequivocally the desired result. A man may know that he has succeeded in such attempts without having been able beforehand to get an adequate auditory image of the tone aimed at. T o represent unequivocally all the results that a man is able to accomplish at will would require imagery belonging to various senses, and each of a high grade of definiteness. Not many persons, it is safe to say, can adequately image all the ends which they strive for and attain. The instance of speech is here very much in point. One who has vivid auditory imagery, in voluntarily preparing to utter a certain word, is apt to hear the word internally with sufficient definiteness to distinguish it from all other words. But persons of other types of

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imagery do not testify to such an experience." Some of them say that they feel the word in their throat—probably another instance of actual movement, rather than of genuine kinesthetic imagery 1 *— and others that they see either the whole word or some part of it. In many such cases the image is not definite enough to identify the word. A person may know what he is going to say without having any adequate image of it. Even the person of good auditory imagery, though he mentally hears the word he is about to say when his intention is definitely to speak that word, does not have a stream of auditory imagery running along ahead of his spoken words in connected discourse. Here it would be right to say of the spoken words, as was said before of movements of the arms and legs, that it is not they that are voluntary, but some result which they serve to bring about, in this case the expressing of a thought. Can an adequate sensorial image be formed of a judgment or of a concept—an image that shall unequivocally identify that particular thought among all other thoughts that the individual is capable of expressing? A positive answer would certainly not be maintained without difficulty. Even the thought of a physical object is not commonly reducible to sensorial terms. The size of an object, for example, is not judged simply by its present appearance, but very largely by reference to previous experience of objects; yet no image of the previous experiences is ordinarily present in consciousness during the act of judging the size of an object. Brain physiology affords no support to the view that all mental contents must be sensorial in character. Only a small part of the cortex is sensory in function. The great "association areas," though their functions are not made out in detail, are certainly not sensory nor motor. It is quite true that sensorial content is more obtrusive and has more "body" than perceptual or conceptual content, and also is more easily describable to other persons; yet not all the contents of consciousness are sensorial. When I, a poor visualizer, run over a list of names of my former students and try to recall each individual, identifying this one and 17 Compare a study of the imagery of silent reading by W. B. Secor, in American Journal of Psychology, X I (1900), 225-36. u Compare the demonstrations of actual articulation, during silent speech, by Hansen and Lehman, Philosophische Studien, X I (1895), 471-530; and by H. S. Curtis, American Journal of Psychology, X I (1900), 237-39; also by Secor, op. cit.

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that one, hesitating over a name and finally saying, " Y e s , that was the man, I recall him n o w " — i n all this there is scarcely a trace of visual imagery, and though as a means of bringing the absent before me and getting a feeling of their nearness the experience would be quite unsatisfactory, yet its lack of clear imagery does not make it vague in the least; it supplies information which can be utilized in writing to the individual, and even in recognizing and naming him on sight. All this is very much in line with the insistence by J times in " T h e Stream of T h o u g h t " on the importance of nonsensorial elements in consciousness—feelings of relation, of tendency, and of meaning. James treats these non-sensorial states as "transitive," not as possible resting points for thought, and here his view is capable of extension; for if a thing is not fully represented nor even identified by the image of it, while yet the thought is focused on the thing, the image is not the substantive element in the thought. As regards the real point and definition of the thought, the image is, in many cases at least, a by-product. Appearing in some persons and not in others, who all alike, nevertheless, think of the thing with equal definiteness and act in the same way and with the same particularization of intention toward it, the image cannot be taken as the real object of thought. From this point of view, it is not specially mysterious that the sensorial image should often be absent from the state of mind preparatory to voluntary action. T h e cue of the act is the thought, not the image. T h e most definite feature of the thought is the cause of the definiteness of the act. If it be allowed that there is much mental content that is not reducible to sensorial imagery, and that some of this content usually lies at the focus of attention, constituting the real point and meaning of the thought, no reason remains for supposing that there "must b e " a sensorial image of the act which shall function as the cue of the movement. Brief mention should be made of a subject lying beyond the scope of this inquiry which has already been experimentally worked out and has yielded a result exactly parallel to that reached here. T h e two results fortify each other, and together form a better basis for a positive theory than either alone would afford. T h e processes of recognition and of comparison used formerly to be described by a scheme similar to that of the mechanism of voluntary movement

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that was sketched at the beginning of this paper. Recognition was supposed to result from the emergence of a memory image of some past experience of the recognized object. Comparison of a past with a present sensation was supposed to result from the persistence or recurrence of an image of the past sensation, which could mentally be placed side by side with the present sensation, and their likeness or difference read off. Kiilpe 1 ' opened a new line of thought by insisting that though some recognitions and comparisons might be of this type, which he called "mediate," there was another type, the "immediate," in which no image of the earlier experience emerged. Here again psychologists were inclined to object that there "must be" an image, otherwise there would be no basis for recognition or comparison. Experimental observations, however, have abundandy shown that both processes often occur without making use of memory images.10 Images do often appear, but after the recognition more often than before it, and when the comparison is hesitating and uncertain, rather than when it is prompt and sure. Here, as in the case of voluntary movement, imagery seems to be a by-product, an epiphenomenon, rather than a causal factor in the process.11 The discussion so far has led us to two negations: we have rejected first the kinesthetic image, and second any image at all, as the adequate determinant of voluntary movement. But there is still a third and more radical negation to which we are forced by the introspective evidence. Not only is the image inadequate, but the very thought, the field of attention just prior to the movement, is often inadequate as a distinguishing mark of the movement. It would not serve to identify the act among all the acts that can be intended and executed. The intention is not always present, and is seldom fully present, in the field of attention at the moment just preceding the innervation of the movement. If we refer again to our introspective results, we find that the state of mind just preceding the movement was described in some 19 Grundriss der Psychologie (1893), pp. 177, 212. » Gamble and Calkins, ^eitschri/lfur Psychologic, X X X I I (1903), 177-99; X X X I I I , 161-70; Schumann, ibid., X V I I (1898), 119; X X X (1902), 241, 321; Whipple, American Journal oj Psychology, X I I (1901), 409-57; X I I I (1902), 219-68; Bentley, ibid., X I (1899), 1-48. » Cf. James, Principles, I, 472, "The image, per se, the nucleus, is functionally the least important part of the thought."

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cases as almost blank. A clear consciousness of the act to be performed had been present just before, but as the act was delayed, the consciousness was reduced to a feeling of readiness, until something happened to actualize the movement that was already determined and prepared. One person thus described the consciousness preparatory to hitting at a mark: the thought of the mark quickly retreated to the background of consciousness, and was thereafter "taken for granted"; next the thought of the hand hitting the mark came to the focus of attention, but in its turn retreated, leaving a rather blank condition of simple readiness. Another subject reported that in moving the hand to any one, at will, of a number of objects, the thought of the chosen object was uppermost in mind just preceding the movement, the hand being taken for granted; if, on the contrary, the object was constant but either hand selected at will, attention was directed to the hand, the object being taken for granted. Such cases show that the whole determination of an act need not take place in one act of attention, and that the act may still remain determined, though attention to it has waned. In short, the nervous system may become set or adjusted for a certain act, and remain so for a time without the continuance of clear consciousness of the act; or the system may be so set as partially to determine the act, the complete determination being effected in a subsequent moment. This is probably always the case to a large extent. The whole situation, as far as it is known, results in a certain adjustment of the nervous system, so that, for example, acts that would be performed while we are alone are not performed or thought of in public. Each sort of situation produces a corresponding set of the nervous system, and is thus a partial determinant of all the acts that are performed within that situation. The conception of a set or adjustment, or temporary "disposition" of the nervous system is founded not only on facts like the preceding, but on more minute and exact information regarding nervous action. We know that nervous pathways differ in their conductivity, some offering more resistance to the passage of nerve currents than others, and all being subject to influences which alter their resistance from one moment to another, and thus alter the direction which shall be taken by the nerve currents and the mental and motor result. One of the influences which decreases the resistance of

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a nerve pathway is previous activity of that pathway: repeated activity gives rise to a permanent lowering of the resistance and thus to a habit. Aside from permanent sets of this sort, immediately preceding activity of a given pathway induces a temporary reduction of the resistance, a temporary set, which makes it easier to do a thing a second time just after it has once been done. There are still other ways of producing a temporary set within the nervous system: on account of the convergence of different pathways, a current coming from one source may facilitate the passage, and reinforce the effect, of a current coming from quite another part of the system; or, on the contrary, one current may set a pathway against another, so as to inhibit its effect. There are thus good physiological grounds for asserting that activity of any part of the nervous system holds over for a while and produces a temporary set having a definite tendency; and that the activities of various parts may converge upon a single point in the system and produce a joint result. A movement is thus in part previously determined and may also be the joint product of several partial determinants. When a man confronted by a novel situation observes this and that feature of it in turn, each new perception leaves behind in the nervous system a temporary adjustment to the feature observed, until the whole situation becomes—not clearly mirrored in any one moment of his consciousness—but dynamically represented by the sum or resultant of these partial adjustments. If he then thinks of some change that he can make in the situation and decides to make it, the definiteness of his intention is not contained wholly in the field of attention at that moment, but depends upon the total neural set and so on the total situation. The intention to act adds a new partial adjustment to the existing sum of adjustments. If the execution of the act is suspended, the set of the system persists for a time, or, if it dissolves, may be reconstituted without repetition of the gradual process by which it was first made, and very little fresh consciousness is needed to put the act into effect. The complete determinant of a voluntary motor act—that which specifies exactly what act it shall be—is nothing less than the total set of the nervous system at the moment. The set is determined partly by factors of long standing, instincts and habits, partly by the sensations of the moment, partly by recent perceptions of the

6o

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situation and by other thoughts lately present in consciousness; at the moment, however, these factors, though they contribute essentially to the set of the system, are for the most part present in consciousness only as a background or "fringe" if at all, while the attention is occupied by the thought of some particular change to be effected in the situation. T h e thought may be clothed in sensorial images—rags and tatters, or gorgeous raiment—but these are, after all, only clothes, and a naked thought can perfectly well perform its function of starting the motor machinery in action and determining the point and object of its application.

Ill

»

»

JUDGMENTS WITH

OF MAGNITUDE

A MENTAL

BY

COMPARISON

STANDARD1

presents the results of an experimental study of judgments of magnitude. The special aim was to discover the relation between the accuracy of these judgments and the amount judged when the basis of judgment was a mental standard. The judgments, that is, were such as one makes in ordinary life when one estimates the weight of a package as so many pounds, or the length of a table as so many inches. The bulk of psychologists' investigations of the accuracy of our judgments of magnitudes has sought quantitative estimates of the amount of physical difference required in various cases to bring about a judgment of difference. Moreover, the treatment of the results has been generally carried out with the intention of discovering quanta of sensation. The idea of an arithmetic of sensation units has often pervaded such studies to the exclusion of other real issues. It has been supposed that our judgments of difference in the intensity or the magnitude of two stimuli are the direct consequences of the presence in one case of an added quantum of sensation. If a subject choosing a weight as equal to a weight just lifted, made an average error of one-twentieth the amount, it has been supposed that he did so because the addition of a physical difference of less than that failed to give him any or a sufficient quantum of sensation. Fullerton and Cattell have shown the superficiality of this view.2 If we look at our judgments of difference, we find that they may be based on a feeling of shock or tension felt in passing from one stimulus to another or on a similar shock of difference felt in passing from the associates called up by one to the associates called up by another. We may judge two lines to be unequal by the direct passage from one to the other, or we may have learned to call one twenty and the other twenty-one centimeters and may judge by T H I S PAPER

1

With Dr. Edward Thorndikc. Reprinted from the Psychological Review, V I I (1900), 344-55* The Perception of Small Differences, 189a.

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the comparison of the t w o v e r b a l associates. T h e conditio sine qua non of discrimination w o u l d seem to be the ability of the neural processes caused b y the t w o stimuli to f o r m connections with neural processes differing e n o u g h to give rise to a conscious j u d g m e n t . If b y associative connections the original processes c a n serve as excitants to more and m o r e differing brain processes, it makes n o odds w h e t h e r per se they could give rise to a j u d g m e n t of difference or not. A n d if such neural connections h a v e been formed, the consciousness originally attending the first links m a y decrease or vanish w i t h o u t altering the success of the j u d g m e n t . Attention m a y shift entirely f r o m the b a r e sensation given. Feelings of its intensity o r m a g n i t u d e m a y play a very small part in the final j u d g m e n t . L e t us now take the case of a j u d g m e n t , not of difference or e q u a l ity between t w o stimuli, b o t h readily accessible, b u t of m a g n i t u d e in terms of some fixed unit not present to sense a t the time. T h e r e is here no occasion for the feeling of direct sensory shock. A c c o r d ingly, such j u d g m e n t s give us the means of determining the process of discrimination in a case w h e r e it is due to the associations. T h e m e n t a l process that occurs is this; one lifts a weight or looks a t a line or an area or makes a pull or looks at an illuminated area a n d feels " I t is 260 grams, or 140 m m . , or one candle p o w e r , " as the case m a y be. T h i s feeling m a y seem satisfactory, or one m a y feel, in addition, " N o ! that is p r o b a b l y too m u c h or too little; it is so a n d s o . " T h e r e is no conscious comparison w i t h anything. Y o u r j u d g m e n t of the m a g n i t u d e of the stimulus is like your j u d g m e n t as to w h e t h e r a certain object is a dog, horse, or w h a t not. T h e only difference is that y o u h a v e a series of possibilities instead of a few alternatives. O f course, y o u m a y never reach a perfect association b e t w e e n the sense impression of the stimulus and the image of the w o r d s denoting its true m a g n i t u d e , but m a y j u d g e within a limit of error. It seemed w o r t h while to study the accuracy of such j u d g m e n t s because of their commonness in practical mental life, because of the possible value of getting at the facts on which W e b e r ' s l a w w a s based and b y w h i c h it has since been disproved, f r o m a new point of view, and because the naturalness of such j u d g m e n t s m a y m a k e t h e m better suited for individual tests than the artificial j u d g m e n t s necessary in tests b y the methods of least noticeable difference and

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63

right and wrong cases. A number of minor points were brought out by the experiments which throw some light on the mental processes involved. The method used (unless a special statement is made) was to guess at the length, or size, or weight of certain test weights, lines, and areas, then to note the true magnitude and record the error. The weights, lines, and areas used were intended to be indistinguishable in any other way than by their magnitudes. Precautions were taken which prevented the subject from knowing by the order of succession, or by the record he kept, which magnitude to expect or not to expect. Judgments of Weight A series of test weights ranging from 200 to 500 grams by steps of 5 grams was used with subjects H. and W. H. Each weight was, in the course of the experiment, lifted by H. 10 times, making 600

H.

I 1 200 225

I I I I I I I I I 1 250 279 300 32S 390 379 400 429 490 479

Figure i Judgments of Weights. Subject, H. The Ordinate* Represent the Average Error in Grains. The Figures along the Abscissa Represent the Magnitude Judged, e.g., 200Equals 200 to 220 Inclusive.

determinations in all. Before starting on the series, the subject was given a practice period of 100 determinations, in order that the first few weights lifted in the test series might not be at a disadvantage.

JUDGMENTS

64

OF

MAGNITUDE

The 3 1 0 and 335-gram weights were omitted in this experiment. Grouping each 50 judgments together and taking the average of the errors and plotting the curve, we have the result shown in Figure 1. Both constant and variable errors are included. The shape of the curve is due partly to the fact that judgments at the extremes are freed from certain possibilities of error, but partly

^—" ^

. . - - - - - " " 1 1 — - — - V n r . Error

:

— - — l A * Error

H. I

I

350-500

200-350

Figure 2 Judgments of Weights. Subject, H. Comparison of the Two Halves of the Series

to unknown influences on the subject. He did not consciously judge by comparison with the extremes, as one might suppose. In Figure 2 are shown (1) the average error and the variable error* for weights 200 to 350 and 350 to 500, (2) the error as it should be according to Weber's law, and (3) the error as it should be according to the law of the combination of errors (the error increasing as the square root of the magnitude). W. H., after a practice period of 50 determinations, judged the * In general, in these experiments, the constant error is negligible or affects large and small magnitudes alike. No account is taken of it in this report except where its presence might cause an apparent inaccuracy, in large judgments and not in small or vice versa. The tendency in H. to overestimation of weights helped him with the heavier weights. We can discount this help roughly by grouping all his errors in judgments of weights from a00 to 350 grams, treating them as one series and finding the variable error, and then doing likewise with the errors of the judgments of weights from 355 to 500.

JUDGMENTS

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65

series of weights, making three judgments of each. Figure 3 represents the average of his errors for the first ten weights, second ten, etc. Figure 4 represents (1) his average error and variable error, for weights 200-350 a n d 350-500, (2) the error as it should be according to Weber's law, and (3) the error as it should be according to the law of the combination of errors.

10

W.H.

I

200

I

ESO

I

300

I

3QO

'

400

'

490

Figure 3 Judgments of Weights. Subject, W.H. T h e Ordinate* Represent the Average Error in Grams.

Subjects W. and 7*. were tested with a series of weights ranging from 40 to 120 grams by steps of 5 grams. W. estimated each weight 50 times, and 7*. estimated each weight 100 times. Figure 5 shows the relative inaccuracy of the judgments, the heights representing the average error, including the constant as well as variable error. No essential difference appears in a curve plotted from the variable errors alone. Obviously there is here no correspondence whatever with Weber's law. T h e dotted line shows the error according to the law of the combination of errors. Subject 7*. was tested later with a series running from 420 to 500 by steps of 5 grams, 10 determinations being made with each weight. T h e average error of this series is compared with that of the first 10 determinations of the weights from 40 to 120 in Figure 6.

66

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MAGNITUDE

Nothing definite can be said about the comparison, however, as the error is so large in comparison with the extent of the series. These experiments with lifted weights are unanimous in showing

v

1*

Var. Error -A* Error

H.

1 400-350

I 350-900

Figure 4 Judgment! of Weights. Subject, W.H. Comparison of the Two Halves of the Series.

no agreement whatever with Weber's law, and also in showing, if taken roughly, a less rapid increase of inaccuracy than is in accordance with the law of the combination of errors. Probably in a

40 45 50 55 60 0

70 75 80 85 90 95 100 105 110 115 120

Figure 5 Judgments of Weights. Subjects, W. and T. The Ordinates Represent the Average Error in Grams.

new variety of experimentation like this some disturbing factors entered which the writers failed to note. However, we think these are slight.

JUDGMENTS

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67

MAGNITUDE Judgments of Length

The apparatus for testing the accuracy of judgments of length consisted of a series of slips of paper of the same sort and equal width, of lengths of from 100 to 300 mm ., varying by steps of 2 mm. There were two of each length. Subjects H. and T. were tested in

/ ~

/

/

/

/

/

/w«b«r

/

I 40-120

I 420-500 Figure 6

Judgments of Weights. Subject, T. Comparison of Series 40-120 with Series 420-500.

the same manner as with weights. Figure 7 presents the results of the experiments. The curve was plotted from the average errors of the estimates of lengths 100 to 118, 120 to 138, and so forth. H. had the knowledge of lengths due to having made the apparatus and the practice of 1 o estimates. T. had the practice of 20 estimates. H. judged directly from the gross length. 7*. consciously marked off 100 or 200 mm. with his eye and judged the remainder. As before, there is no approach to coincidence with the inaccuracy demanded by Weber's law.

JUDGMENTS

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OF

MAGNITUDE

Judgments of Area

T h e judgments of area were made with the following apparatus: a series of parallelograms ranging from i o to 140 and 190 to 280 sq. cm., varying each from the next by one sq. cm. Their propor-

I

l

1

I

1

1

1

1

1

100

120

140

160

180

200

220

240

260

1 280

Figure 7 Judgments of Length. Subjects, H. and 7*. The Ordinates Represent the Average Error in Millimeters. The Dotted Lines Are Curves of the Error as It Would Be if It Followed the V Law. The Continuous Line Is for T.'s Error, the Dash Line for H.'s.

tions were almost the same (no one of them could possibly be distinguished by its shape). For example, the dimensions of those from 137 to 175 sq. cm. were i5*9-'33H i 5 - ' 5 x 9-375 13x9.2 15.2 x 9.41 15.1x9.2+ 15.2x9.475 15.IX 9.275 15.2x9.54 x 9-3i T h e error in area due to error in measuring and cutting them was tested roughly by superimposing, remeasuring, and weighing them. It was always less than 0.1 sq. cm. in those from 10 to 140 sq. cm. and always less than 0.2 sq. cm. in those from 190 to 280 sq. cm. A s in the other experiments, the subject picked out an area at random, judged its size, looked to see the real size, and recorded his error.

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69

After a practice period of 50 judgments W. made estimates of the areas from 20 to 140 and 200 to 280 sq. cm. In all, 10 estimates of each were made. The work covered several days, but as elsewhere no one size was favored by practice, freshness, or special effort. Figure 8 shows JV.'s average error for areas 20-24, 25-29, 30-34,

Figure 8 Judgments of Area. Subject, W. The Ordinate* Represent His Average Errors in Square Centimeters.

and so forth. The dotted line represents what the error should be in accordance with the law of the combination of errors. Leaving out of account the increased accuracy at the ends of the series, the actual errors follow the theoretical law fairly closely. There is evidently no agreement at all with Weber's law.

Figure 9 Judgments of Area. Subject, H. The Ordinates Represent His Average Error in Square Centimeters.

Five estimates of each were made. Figure 9 shows his average error for areas 10-14, 15-19, 20-24, etc. T. was tested with a number of smaller series, one at a time. Ten estimates of each area were made. Figure 10 shows his average error for each area. The series were the following and were given

JUDGMENTS



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MAGNITUDE

in this order: 20-60, 240-280, 6 1 - 1 0 0 , 1 0 1 - 1 4 0 , 200-239. These records are interesting, in that they show no rise within any series, no marked rise save between 1 0 1 - 1 4 0 and 200-239. The slow in-

100

61-62

101

130

V

200

T. 280

240

Figure 10 Judgments of Area. Subject, T . T h e Ordinates Represent His Average Error in Square Centimeters.

crease from 60 to 140 in the case of H. is paralleled here. The marked and extended increase in accuracy at the ends shown in the longer series is not found here. Figure 11 shows Ts errors when averaged for each ten successive areas. It seems fair to conclude from these experiments as a whole

JUDGMENTS

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MAGNITUDE



( 1 ) that the absence of any correspondence with Weber's law observed by Fullerton and Cattell in judgments of direct comparison holds true of judgments of comparison with a mental standard. No

20 40 60 80 100 120130

200 220 240 270

Figure 11 Judgments of Area. Subject, T. A Condensation of Figure 10.

subject in any of the experiments showed anything like any such increase of inaccuracy as Weber's law implies. Besides this, (2) the experiments show that in such judgments as we ordinarily make in life there are many factors besides the magnitude of the thing judged which affect the accuracy of the judgment, otherwise the form of a curve would not vary so much with different subjects.

IV

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IM AGELESS

THOUGHT1

be hard to find a better proof of individual differences than is afforded by the answers of people to the question whether thought can go on without sensorial images. Some will see nothing absurd in the notion and will be inclined to believe that it corresponds to the facts; others will answer with a decided afirmative; while others will regard the questioner as joking or as badly muddled. T h e y can not imagine what you are talking about; thought without images seems to them an absolute absurdity; at most they will concede that perhaps you think in that way, but as for them they are sure they never do so. The same differences appear in the literature. While some authors, Stout,' Binet, 1 and recently Bühler, 4 boldly assert the existence of imageless thought, and while Watt, 6 Messer' and others have no qualms in recording cases in which introspection failed to reveal imagery, on the other hand, Angell, 7 for one, has repeatedly attacked the notion of imageless thought with such vigor as to make clear the existence of a powerful opposition to its introduction into psychology—an introduction which would go far to complete the important reform in descriptive psychology begun by Galton with his discovery of the almost complete absence of visual imagery from the experience of I T WOULD

1 Reprinted from the Journal of Philosophy, Psychology and Scientific Methods, III (1906), 701-8. 1Analytic Psychology (1896), I, 78-96. 'L'Étude expérimentale de l'intelligence (1903), 81-108. 4 Bühler's work is as yet accessible only in the very brief report of his paper before the second Kongress für experimentellen Psychologie, contained in the Archiv für die gesammte Psychologie, V I I I (1906), 239. As his observations and conclusions are almost identical with mine, I quote here a portion of this report: " E r zeigte an der Hand seiner Vereuchsprotocolle, dass alle Vorstellungen, auch die Wortvorstellungen, für den V e r l a u f wirklich complizierter Denktätigkeit nur ein Aczidens bedeuten, das wegfallen könne, ohne dass die Bestimmtheit, Richtigkeit und Fruchtbarkeit des Denkens dadurch wesentlich geschädigt wird. . . . Diese qualitativ nicht weiter zu beschreibenden, aber vollkommen eindeutig gewissen Wissensgebieten zugeordneten psychischen Zustände, die man nach Binet's Terminologie auch Gedanken nennen könne, seien die Elemente des Denkens." 1Archiv

für die gesammte Psychologie, I V (1905), especially 316-20. 'Ibid., V I I I (1906), 1-224. ''Philosophical Review, V I (1897), 646-51; this journal, V o l . I I I , No. 23.

IMAGELESS

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many persons, and continued by James with his emphasis on the non-sensorial feelings of relation, tendency, and meaning, and by Külpe with his insistence on the inaccuracy of images and on their absence from certain types of recognitive and discriminative processes. In a recent study* of the "Cause of a Voluntary Movement," I found, from introspections made under experimental conditions, that in many cases the imagery present in consciousness did not exhaust the content of consciousness. Sometimes the subject, though clearly aware of the movement he was about to make, denied that he had any visual, kinesthetic, verbal, or other image of it. His thought of the movement was perfectly definite and " f o c a l , " whereas whatever imagery may have been present at the moment was so "marginal" and vague as to escape detection. A n d where imagery was present, it was often so inadequate to identify the movement, which was actually identified by thought, as to be certainly incidental and not essential to the process. I was thus led to make the statement that imagery, when present, was but the clothing of the thought, and that a naked thought was fully capable of doing the work. Professor Angelí, in reviewing 9 my article, has sharply criticized the notion of a naked or imageless thought, speaking of it as " a logical abstraction finding no real psychological basis in a careful examination of consciousness," and as "based on a radically erroneous identification of the meaning, or cognitively dynamic, aspect of all thoughts, with a distinct psychic entity." Imageless thought, whatever else may be urged against it, is not a logical abstraction. It is an apparent fact of introspection. Its opponents, rather than its supporters, appeal to logical deduction in defense of their position; for whereas its supporters point to the concrete instances of its occurrence, its opponents urge that there must be in such instances some carelessness of observation, for thought simply cannot go on without images. A universal negative, such as Angell's statement that "there is no mental state wholly devoid of all sensuous content," is much more likely to owe its acceptance to logical deduction than is a particular affirmative, such 8 In Studies in Philosophy and Psychology, by Former Students of Charles Edward Garman (1906), pp. 351-92. * This journal, loc. cit.

1MAGELESS

74

THOUGHT

as the statement that cases of imageless thought have been observed. Perhaps the universal negative is deduced from the fact of the continuous stimulation of the sense organs, and means simply that in view of this fact sensuous content can hardly be absent from any moment of conscious life. If this were the point of Professor Angell's criticism, there would be no serious difference between us. I should, indeed, insist that such sensory content does not always lie in the field of attention, and that at times it is so marginal as to elude introspection. But principally I should insist that something else does often lie in the field of attention, that, in short, there is non-sensuous content, and that in many cases it is descriptively as well as dynamically the most important component of thought. This, as I understand it, the opponents of imageless thought do not admit. Professor Angell writes in his Psychology: "The content of our thought is so far at least as concerns the knowledge process, always made up of imagery." The existence of non-sensuous content is the real bone of contention. How shall we attempt to come to agreement? The direct method would be to do as we would in a case of sensation. We should place ourselves in the same situation and observe the consciousness that results. In view of individual differences in imagery, this method is not likely to lead to complete agreement, but it should at least be given a fair trial. An indirect method is to examine the imagery and other sensorial content of a thought and notice whether it gives a sufficient account of the thought as experienced. For applying the direct method, the essential thing is to catch one's self at a moment of active thought, and observe what content is there. According to my experience, the more effective the thinking process is at any moment, the more likely is imageless thought to be detected, provided only one introspects, which is not apt to be the case at such moments. An actual experiment is usually necessary. The experimenter sets some problem, which the subject is to solve promptly. 10 As soon as the solution is reached—or even before —the experimenter interrupts the further course of the subject's thought, and calls for a description of the process of seeking and finding the solution. The introspection may be made more reliable by calling for answers to very definite questions, as: Any visual pic10

See Binet, Watt, Messer, op. cit.

IM AGELESS

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75

ture? Any words heard? Any feeling of bodily movement? T h e question should be varied in successive trials, as the constant cidling for one sort of imagery may cause attention to be set beforehand in its direction—a very good way of stimulating it. What should be stimulated is the solution of the problem, and the latter should therefore be hard enough to call for real thought. When it is too easy, the answer may come almost automatically, and consciousness seem blank, save for the sound of the words employed. 11 As samples of the problems that have been so far used with some success may be cited the finding of a word having the opposite meaning to that of a given word, finding the genus of which a species is named; or answering such questions as: Which is more delightful, the smell of a rose or its appearance? W h o was the greatest patriot of Hungary? What is the difference between similarity and congruity? Should a man be allowed to marry his widow's sister? With some subjects, almost any problem will serve to arouse imageless thought, while with others some skirmishing is necessary, and with one I have not as yet got a single clearly positive case. A few instances may be cited. First, one from a subject who usually, perhaps four-fifths of the time, reports visual or verbal imagery at moments of effective thinking. T o the question, W h a t substances are more costly than gold? she answered promptly, " D i a monds," and reported as follows: " I had no visual image of the diamond; the thought of diamonds was there before the sound of the word. You don't think of the words you are going to say before you say them. It is the same way in conversation: you know what you want to say, but the words come so quickly that you don't have a chance to think of them before you say them." Next an instance—the best I have so far—from a subject whose imagery is very exuberant and who is almost or quite never without some. In answering the question, Is it ever right to imprison an innocent man? he had visual imagery of the inside and outside of prisons, and "very dim imagery of what innocence and guilt involved, with perhaps some images of books on the subject that I have read." The following instances are from my own introspection. I introduce them for two reasons: because of my meager imagery and 11

See Marbe, Experimentell-psychologische Untersuchungen über das Urteil, Leipzig,

1901.

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bccause, since becoming interested in the problem, I have sought to catch myself at the moments of most effective thought, and have succeeded a number of times, with always the same result—clear consciousness of a particular thought, and no images. I quote from my notes made at the time: " I was trying the experiment of naming, in response to a seen word, a coordinate concept, i. e., one subsumed under the same higher concept. On seeing noble, I thought of grand, but was impressed with the fact that this was not a good response, as the two words were simply synonyms. Next read origin and responded automatically with development, being, however, clear of the appropriateness of this response, though having no image of the 'higher concept.' Next read vicinity and responded first with neighborhood, but was immediately conscious that this again was merely a synonym; I was not, however, conscious of the word 'synonym' nor of any other imagery. I caught this moment of consciousness on the wing and am sure of its content. T h e consciousness of synonymousness and of its inappropriateness was clearly present, without any detectable image." Another instance from my own notes: "While reading, I heard some one playing on the piano a piece which I felt at once to be familiar, but which I did not at first identify. My first attempt at identification was felt to be wrong, and immediately afterward I identified it properly and with confidence. In doing so I thought of the first part of the piece (it was Chopin's funeral march, and the part being played when it caught my attention was the trio). Resting satisfied with my identification, I was about to turn to other things, when it occurred to me to ask whether, in identifying the piece, I had had its name present in the form of verbal imagery, and I found that I certainly had not; in fact, it required a moment's further thought to recall the sound of the composer's name and the name of the piece. Nor, in locating the trio as a trio and thinking of the character of the march proper, did I have an auditory image of the march. I regard the example as a good one, since the thought was perfectly overt, conscious, and definite, though it not only began but was completed without any image." Another instance occurred while I was reading a psychological book in a foreign language. In a certain sentence occurred a word which was entirely unfamiliar, and which did not by its form sug-

IMAGELESS

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77

gest its meaning. O n rereading the sentence, however, I suddenly saw the meaning from the context; yet no English or other equivalent suggested itself till distinctly later. In general, I may add, my visual imagery is practically nil; auditory imagery alone is detectable, being strong and usually present, in the form of speech or music or both together. Yet the speech often halts; the words lag behind the thought, and the phrases are left incomplete by the turning of thought to something else. When thought is slow, repetitious, automatic, the verbal imagery is prominent; I then think in words. But at moments when thought is really effective, when some new insight is gained, the words are absent, though they soon come tagging after. It would not be fair to call these moments pale and featureless; they are precisely the moments when a thought presents itself most definitely for what it is. Nor would it be quite fair to call them transitive; though brief, they are the real high lights of consciousness. It seems impossible to describe these facts without admitting the existence of other than sensorial contents of consciousness. I would suggest that in addition to sensorial elements, thought contains elements which are wholly irreducible to sensory terms. Each such element is sui generis, being nothing else than the particular feeling of the thought in question. Each is a quality, as red and sweet are qualities; not syntheses of sensory qualities, but simply and purely the qualities of particular thoughts. They are not to be elevated, as "activities," into another dimension of existence; they lie in the plane of content. There is a specific and unanalyzable conscious quale for every individual and general notion, for every judgment and supposition. These qualities recur in the same sense as red and other sensory qualities recur. For those who do not get positive results by the direct method of looking for these non-sensorial elements of thought, there still remains the indirect method, which examines whether the imagery present in a thought is an adequate account of the contents of the thought as felt. I can only briefly indicate the line of the argument. The imagery detected is often vague when the thought is definite; marginal when the thought is focal; or irrelevant. Therefore there is something present besides the image. Verbal imagery, as mere sound or feeling of vocal movement, clearly cannot exhaust the feeling of a thought, for only by conventional association have the

78

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images any connection with particular thoughts; unless the associates are present the words are empty. Words attended to as sounds are different from words understood. Not only are they "dynamically" different; they feel differently. Yet it will be admitted that in many persons no further image need be present. Visual imagery, when present, is often irrelevant. T h e following is a comparatively mild case of irrelevance. The subject who in my experiments has so far never given a case of imageless thought was asked: Is Christian Science better as a religion or as a means of healing? He reported visual images of Christian Science churches and of the outside of a book on the subject which he had read; also auditory images of the words "suggestion" and of his answer, "Religion, because less harm." These images have more the appearance of sparks struck off by thought in its progress than of thought itself. Either the thought was unconscious, or else something more was present in consciousness. The common escape of the sensationalist from this dilemma is to appeal to the "meaning" of the image, which is sharply distinguished from the conscious content. Two thoughts may be alike in content but differ in meaning, as when the same verbal or visual image " m a n " means now an individual and again the species. This is surely a subterfuge, since the meaning that is referred to is conscious meaning. As Bradley has said: 12 " I t is not wholly true that 'ideas are not what they mean,' for if their meaning is not psychical fact, I should like to know how and where it exists." T o call meaning the "cognitively dynamic aspect of all thoughts" is no less a subterfuge; for meaning is not an external aspect, visible only to an outside observer, but a felt aspect. Is not everything that is felt a psychic entity? And if, besides the sensory content, another "aspect" is felt, is there not other than sensory content? Meanings enter into the associative network on the same plane as images. An image may call up a meaning, and a meaning may equally well call up an image. The two classes of mental contents differ in quality, as red differs from cold, or anger from middle C; they may also differ in importance for the purposes of a given thought; otherwise, it is hard to see any essential psychological difference between them. u Appearance and Reality (1893), p. 51.

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M e a n i n g is not simply " a n aspect of all thoughts"; we d o not " m e a n " in general, b u t have in each case a particular meaning. W h e n two thoughts have the same imagery but differ in meaning, to appeal to an aspect of all thoughts does not help in explaining their differences. It is not so m u c h the common properties of all thoughts as the peculiarities of single thoughts that cannot be described in terms of sensuous imagery. M e a n i n g is often treated as a mere relation between an image and the object to which it refers. T h e meaning is regarded as inhering in or attached to the image; a n d a meaning without some image would be a relation without one of its terms, and therefore an absurdity. This conception of meaning is certainly derived f r o m logical construction or analogy, and not from introspective analysis. M e a n ing is not felt as the relation between an image and an object, but as the thought of the object. W h e n I think of C u b a and have the verbal image of the n a m e present, my meaning is not felt as a relation between the verbal image and the island; I m e a n the island itself. If the meaning is defined as the relation between the image and the object, the thought of the object remains still to be taken into account. T h e thought of the object is not the image, for the image m a y change while the same object is thought of; nor is it a mere relation. It is as substantial an element of thought as the image, a n d there is no absurdity in the notion that it may be present alone. So far f r o m leading to the view that images plus sensations exhaust the content of a thought, or serve as the bearer of the meaning, the introspective results tend to show that they are often associative byplay. Since individuals differ in the vividness and readiness of their imagery, we should expect that thought would clothe itself in sensuous form in some persons m u c h more than in others. Individuals with sluggish imagery have the better chance of observing thought without images, and so of becoming directly aware of the existence of non-sensorial elements of thought. It is scarcely probable that individuals differ so markedly as that one thinks in terms of meanings while another thinks in images. It is more likely that all think in terms of meanings, but that in consequence of differences in the excitability of the sensorial elements, some have a more continuous and vivid byplay of imagery t h a n others.

V

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NON-SENSORY SENSE

COMPONENTS

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equivocal staircase figure, if looked at for some time, appears successively as the upper side and as the lower side of a flight of stairs, and perhaps in other ways which need not here be considered. The figure appears to change its character, having now what we may call the upper-side quality and again the under-side quality. Or, we may equally well say, it arouses in the observer sometimes an upper-side consciousness and sometimes an under-side consciousness, for the two qualities, so far from being only marginally present, dominate the field, and the transition from one to the other is striking and at first surprising. The two qualities are markedly •different, even antagonistic; and it is a very pretty puzzle to discover in what their difference consists. The difference might after all reside in the visual sensations, for though the figure remains the same, certain fixation points are more favorable for arousing the upper-side appearance, and others for arousing the under-side appearance. The experiments of several observers2 have, however, shown that difference of fixation point is not essential for producing the difference in appearance. Either quality may, with practice, be got with any fixation point, on or off the figure; and the change from one quality to the other may occur in examining the after-image of the figure, a condition which guarantees that no shifting of the retinal image shall occur. Moreover, a fresh observer, who usually gets first the upper-side quality, lets his eyes roam freely over the figure without changing its appearance. We are thus driven from the position that the difference between the two qualities is one of visual sensation. Exactly the same retinal picture may give rise to either percept.

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Read at the fifteenth annual meeting of the American Psychological Association, Dec. 29, 1906. Reprinted from the Journal oj Philosophy Psychology and Scientific Methods, I V (1907), 169-76. 1 W. MacDougail, Mind (1906), X V , 330 £f., Wallin, Illusions oj Reversible Perspective (1905), p. 262; Burmester, ^eitschrijtfur Psychologit, X L I (1906), 325.

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Another source of sensation has to be considered; for eye movements often occur during examination of the figure. Is it a difference in the feeling of the eyeballs that distinguishes the upper from the lower side of the stairs? Such a view is made difficult by the facts already cited. There is no indissoluble association between any particular eye movement and the upper-side or under-side quality. Beginners often move their eyes in every way over the figure without losing their first mode of perception; and practiced observers are able to get the same appearance with either of two opposite movements. When an eye movement is felt, it seems to follow rather than precede the change in quality; and it is felt as something of an entirely different nature from the change in the appearance of the figure. We are left, then, not only with an equivocal figure, but with an equivocal mass of sensations. The same sensations give rise to two diverse percepts. The difference between the two states of consciousness must, then, according to a widely accepted view, be a difference of images. There must be two images or sets of images, one appropriate to the upper side of stairs, and the other to the under side; and either set of images is necessary and sufficient to give the corresponding appearance. It seemed worth while to inquire into the actual presence of these images, and the unanimity of response was surprising. Persons who, on being examined as to the state of mind occurring just before a voluntary movement or during the solution of an intellectual problem, reported a varying richness of imagery, agreed in the case of the staircase figure in reporting none. They were asked as to the presence of visual, verbal, and kinesthetic imagery, but answered with remarkable confidence that there was none.* The absence of visual imagery was especially noteworthy. One would expect that the bare outline of the figure would be filled in with imagery of real stairs, but my subjects agreed that they saw nothing but the figure; they saw the lines in the staircase form. The imagemongers are ready with a reply to this sort of ex' Sometimes there were feelings in the eyes regarding which some subjects could not decide whether they were images or sensations; and in some such cases I was unable to see any movement of their eyes. These feelings were subjectively like the feelings of accommodation, and were more probably sensations than images.

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amination of their hypothesis. T h e image was there after all, they will say; it was simply so vague and marginal as to escape introspective notice. But the difference between the upper-side and the under-side qualities in consciousness is clear-cut, striking, absorbing; there is nothing vague about it, nothing marginal. You cannot analyze these sharply distinguished qualities into a mass of sensation which is common to both, and differing accretions of imagery which are too slight and vague to be noticed. Something more is there. This something more is nothing else than the quality of the upper side of stairs, or of the lower side. M y subjects refused to analyze it further, and the attempts to reduce it to sensory terms have failed. It is perhaps unanalyzable, though it may no doubt be classified with other qualities on the basis of felt likeness and difference. It may be called, with Ehrenfels, a form quality; in consideration, however, of the distinction between it and purely sensory qualities, I should prefer calling it a percept quality. It is a nonsensorial component of sense perception. T o advance abruptly from this special case to a general statement, I would advocate the view that every percept has a quality of its o w n — a felt quality—which cannot usually be analyzed into sensory qualities or syntheses of such. I will not attempt a classification of percept qualities, for such a classification, in truly psychological terms, can come only as the result of much painstaking work; and it appears to me that the progress of fruitful study of the non-sensory Junctions—which all must admit to exist—has been delayed by the conviction that, descriptively at least, you can do nothing with a percept or thought except to point out its sensory components. I will, however, call attention to a few more instances in which other than sensory qualities are to be easily found. First the dot figure, employed in the experiments of William MacDougall and of Benussi. A number of dots arranged either regularly or irregularly on a plain background do not always look the same. T h e observer passes from one grouping of them to another, in a way that recalls the changes in the staircase figure. A good figure for some purposes consists of a central dot, surrounded by six others in the form of a regular hexagon. This figure can be seen in a large variety of ways, while the fixation point remains on the central dot. T h e same changes of grouping can be produced in

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the after-image of the figure, which shows, as before, that visual sensations do not determine the changes. Eye movements are very apt to be felt, but are often, at least, subsequent to the change in grouping, and therefore not its cause nor constitutive of the essential differences between the group qualities. Imagery is usually undetected. In short, the same argument holds as was applied to the case of the staircase figure: the groupings are not describable in sensory or motor terms, but are non-sensory qualities. Analogous sense material in the auditory sphere is furnished by a uniformly spaced series of equal sounds. Such a series is often heard in rhythmic form, and the same series may be heard in different rhythms. For example, a series of seven sounds may be heard either in 3/4 rhythm or in 6/8 rhythm. These differences are not contained in the stimulus, which is equivocal. Nor are they necessarily represented by imagery. T h e only question is whether they are not presented by the movements of beating time which are apt to accompany the consciousness of rhythm. There are two objections to interpreting the differences in rhythmic consciousness as differences in movement. First, a record of the movements shows that they are so timed as to synchronize with the sounds which they emphasize; they are not, therefore, reflex effects of these sounds, but must be effects of the consciousness of the rhythmic form; they presuppose this consciousness, and do not constitute it. A n d second, the recorded movements are often so irregular in accents and pauses that the feeling of them could not possibly constitute the well-organized feeling of rhythm. It would often be impossible to tell from the recorded movements which of the two rhythmic forms was being got. T h e rhythms are percept qualities. It is a commonplace in psychology that the visual perception of size and distance calls for more than the sensations of the moment. T h e imagery hypothesis will have it that in perceiving an object at different distances as of the same size, we picture it as it would look at a certain standard distance, or reproduce the sensations of handling it; such images are, however, not reported by the subjects whom I have examined. In perceiving distance the imagery hypothesis speaks of images of oneself walking to the object; and I suppose that in comparing the distances of two objects one is supposed

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to have vague images of oneself walking in turn to each of them. Such images, if present, «ire truly vague, whereas the perception of distance is clear. T h e truth is that the appropriate size qualities and distance qualities are clapped on to the sense presentation without the intermediary of sensorial imagery. Another sort of percept qualities would be the thing qualities. A clanging noise, let us reasonably suppose, sounds in our ears as we sit here, and is immediately perceived as the ringing of a street-car bell. The consciousness of the thing, car, is something more than the heard noise. Some of us may experience, in addition, the visual image of a car, others may hear the word car, others may feel as if they were running to escape from a car. Others will experience none of these forms of imagery, and yet will be clearly conscious that it is a car bell they hear. If a musical instrument is held up before you, some will immediately hear its peculiar note; but more will not, and yet will perceive the thing as a definite kind of musical instrument. The thing quality is probably present alike in all our minds. It is interesting to note in what straits the imagery hypothesis lands us, in the light of individual differences in imagery. You, let us say, on hearing the clanging noise, see a car; your neighbor hears the word car. As the visual and auditory images have no internal likeness, your perceptions are entirely unlike save for the clanging noise. Yet in some way you agree; and may live together for years, agreeing in all sorts of perceptions, with never a suspicion that you have nothing in common but the pure sensory data—so far as even these are common. Percept qualities appear to be numerous. Each thing perceived, each size and shape distinguished, probably we should add each relation observed, has its own felt quality, which is not one of the qualities of sensation. T h e attempt to describe percept qualities as syntheses of sensory qualities is hypothetical in the second degree. T h e presence of the required images is hypothetical; and no less hypothetical is the power of the images, if present, by combining with the sensation to produce a percept. They might fuse, no doubt! But is the feeling-together of clanging noise and visual picture fully equivalent to the perception of a ringing car bell? Were the two not felt as attributes of one thing, their mere simultaneous presence in consciousness would not give the percept which is

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actually experienced. The thing quality must be present if we are to have the consciousness of a thing or of properties of a thing. A certain air of mysticism, pervading our percept qualities and indeed the whole doctrine of imageless thought, will perhaps be dispelled by the introduction of a conception which is well fitted to take the place of that synthesis. I call this conception that of mental reactions. A percept is not a synthesis of sensation and image; it is a reaction to the sensation. It is not a motor reaction, but a mental reaction. In the broadest definition, a mental reaction is a mental effect of some, often conscious, cause. Thought A calls u p thought B; A is the stimulus, B the response or reaction. In the case of the staircase figure, the sight of the lines is the stimulus, the thought of the upper side or of the under side of stairs is the response. This conception certainly seems obvious and trite enough. But its implications are worth considering. The response, though aroused by the stimulus, is a new event, not to be resolved into terms of the qualities of the stimulus. No one attempts to describe a motor reaction in terms of the stimulus that arouses it; the pupillary reflex cannot be described in terms of the brightness of light, nor the scratch reflex as a synthesis of sensations of itching. The motor reaction is a new event, causally dependent on the stimulus, but having its own identity, its own peculiar quality. So a mental reaction has its own identity, its own peculiar quality. A certain mass of sensations, itself aroused by the light reflected from a printed page, suggests a word. The word consciousness is a new event, not describable in terms of the sensations that aroused it. Nor is it describable in terms of auditory imagery, in case this should also be aroused; for auditory sensations would themselves be but the stimulus to the mental reaction of hearing a word. The word qualities, aroused by hearing or reading, are qualities in their own right; not sense qualities, nor syntheses of such but percept qualities. Nihil est in intellectu quod non prius in sensu. As a psychological doctrine this is false; the content of thought includes qualities not included in sensation. Nor is it true with the qualification, nisi intellectus ipse, for it is not simply an activity nor a universal form of thought that is added to sensation. There is not one additional quality, but many, corresponding to the multiplicity of percepts

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and thoughts. As well might one say, Nihil est in motu quod non prius in sensu, or qualify this merely with nisi motus ipse. It is true in both cases that the reaction, whether motor or mental, is ultimately dependent on sensation as its exciting cause; and this fact, from the point of view of the criticism of knowledge, is perhaps as significant as the literal truth of the old maxim would be. But psychologically it makes a great difference whether we say that all consciousness is sensory, or whether we simply say that all forms of thought are primarily responses to sensation. The former statement is entirely inadequate to the facts of psychology; the latter has at least great biological probability. The concept of a mental reaction is indeed essentially biological; and the doctrine of percept qualities, and of non-sensorial components of thought in general, appears specially natural and probable in the light of brain physiology. The mere fact that the sensory centers cover so small a portion of the cortex is suggestive. It may be that the non-sensory areas contribute no new qualities of consciousness for the good reason that they are unconscious; and to this view so acute a sensationalist as William MacDougall 4 is logically driven. There is no a priori impossibility in such a view—nothing is impossible—but there is surely no such strong probability about it as to fortify the sensationalistic doctrine. Much more likely it seems that consciousness attends the activity of the non-sensory areas, and that such consciousness is non-sensory. But we have more than this general balance of probability in our favor. All the definite knowledge we possess of brain physiology goes to show that the principle of the mental reaction is sound—that, by means of association fibers, the sensory areas excite other areas and these in turn others, tending finally, no doubt, but by no means always directly, toward the motor area; and that with each new reaction new qualities of consciousness arise. Our definite knowledge comes mostly from the study of the aphasias and similar losses of function. We know, for example, a visual area in the neighborhood of the calcarine fissure, destruction of which causes blindness. We know also that the destruction of some of the neighboring areas causes not loss of visual sensation, but loss of the power to perceive printed words. It is not the pure sen' Physiological Psychology, p. 9a.

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sory appearance that is lost, nor is it solely the associated sound of the words—an association which, as we know from normal experience, is not necessary in reading—nor again the associated feeling of the spoken words. It is not exactly the comprehension of the meaning of the words, for the patient may be intellectually sound; 4 it is simply the quality of seen words. Similar statements can be made regarding word-deafness. T h e indications are certainly that the retinal excitation first arouses the activity of the visual sensory area. This is the first of a chain of cerebral reactions, the visual area arousing the near-by word-perceiving area, and this in turn probably other areas whose function is the understanding of the word and the providing of related ideas. Each of these reactions is a new cerebral event and is apparently attended by a new mental event; the wordblind individual has lost not only a function, but he has lost certain forms of consciousness that normally go with reading. Cases of object-blindness and of music-deafness show that other reactions besides the linguistic are carried out in a similar way. T h e perception of an object through sight depends not only on the visual area, and not on the associated activity of other sensory areas, such as might reproduce other sensations derived from the same object—and not, it should be added, on the activity of the motor area—but on the activity of a special area, the function of which is simply to perceive a certain sort of object. Though each perception area is primarily excited from a corresponding sensory area, there is good reason to believe that it can later be aroused from other parts of the brain. Dr. Marshall, in a recent article,' has presented with much force a view closely related to that of this paper. The lack of vividness and sensory incisiveness which characterizes an image is due, he urges, to the fact that in the correlated brain activity, not the sensory centers are active, but closely connected centers that were at first aroused by the sensory centers. There is much in the experience of persons with poor imagery to support this view. One may think of three shades of red, ' This statement should now be made with some reservation, in view of the current discussion of aphasia, begun by Marie. But it remains true that word-blindness does not involve inability to have certain meanings or concepts, but only the inability to have these aroused through reading. « Mind, N . S., X V (1906), 61-62.

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and afterwards pick them out from a miscellaneous lot of colors, and yet have had nothing like a reproduced sensory experience of the reds, nor necessarily any names for them. A large number of similar facts, which will probably well repay investigation, seem to show that the content of reflective thought, even where it is concerned with physical objects, consists more essentially of percept qualities than of sensory qualities.

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T w o POINTS of method long since impressed me in the psychology of Professor James: on the one hand his recognition of the great variety of experience and consequent distrust of easy simplifications and unifications—a lack of undue veneration for the law of parsimony—and on the other hand his whole-hearted acceptance of the physiological point of view. It is, then, quite in the spirit of a pupil that I have urged the need of giving up a purely sensationalistic psychology, as neither adequate to the variety of mental facts, nor consonant with the probable functions of the brain. There are facts of consciousness which do not readily fit-into a sensationalistic classification. They are not sensations as we ordinarily use the term, and they are not images if images are described in terms of sensation. Some persons, though not all, are able to detect, in their thinking, moments bare of recognizable imagery, containing no sensations of interest—moments, nevertheless, of mental alertness and of keen consciousness. In answering Galton's questions regarding the breakfast table, they affirm that they think of the various items without anything like a sensible picture of them. In voluntary action, they say that, though they know perfectly well what act they are about to perform, they do not represent it in visual, kinesthetic, verbal, or other sensory terms. In solving problems, they declare that the solution first appears in a non-sensory form, which, however, is clearly conscious. Even in sense perception, many persons find that the thing as it is momentarily sensed is but the sign of the thing as it is thought of, while nevertheless the thing as thought of does not appear in consciousness with any sensory qualities but those which are presented at the moment. As all students of imagery from Galton down have found, the persons who make these statements are often men of high intelligence and scientific training, sometimes they are psychologists with special 1 Reprinted from Essays Philosophical and Psychological in Honor of William James, by his colleagues at Columbia University, New York (1908), pp. 485-507.



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training in self-observation. Their observations cannot be swept aside as untrustworthy. It is ultraparsimonious for the psychologist to try to keep house without these facts. T h e y should be admitted in a generous spirit and allowed the independent standing in our classification which they seem to demand. T h e r e is no demand, emanating from the facts themselves, that they be classed as sensations; they are not observed as sensory complexes. It is only because our scheme of classification is not generous enough, because our zeal for parsimony is excessive, that we insist they must be sensations or sensory images in disguise. Physiologically, the argument is as follows: we cannot pretend that all the functions of the brain are sensory, concerned exclusively with the reception of stimuli or with the reproduction of activities appropriate to the rcccption of stimuli. If you pass in review the functions that are evidenced by our thought and behavior, you cannot reduce them all to sensation. If you consider the known localization of functions, you find only a small part of the brain devoted to the senses. If you consider the findings of brain pathology, you conclude that not all loss of function is describable as loss of sensation. N o w , though it would be bad logic to infer consciousness from brain function, the physiological evidence of non-sensory functions gives additional weight and significance to the introspective evidence of non-sensory consciousness. A m o n g the functions w h i c h appear in h u m a n thought and behavior, though not as yet revealed by brain physiology, is that of reaction to the relations of things. I leave aside for the moment the question of whether there is any special consciousness of relation, and ask only whether we become adjusted to relations, and whether this sort of adjustment is anything different from adjustment to sense stimuli. T h e question admits of but one answer. Certainly we react to relations of size and shape, of distance and direction, of before and after in time, of likeness and difference, and many others. Let two objects be before our eyes: without any change in our sensation of them, we react now to one relation, now to another, of the many which hold between them. T h e adjustment to any particular relation is something additional to the perception of the objects. T h e failure to become adjusted to any one of them is

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not a defect in the reception of the stimulus. The change in adjustment from one relation to another is not a change in the mode of receiving the stimulus. Dropping now into terminology that implies consciousness, I say that given the same sense-presentation, we may successively observe numerous relations within it. Looking at the pictures on the wall, we notice, first, that one is larger than another, then that it is more nearly square, that it is farther to the right, nearer, done in brighter colors, more pleasing. We pass from one of these relations to another, losing consciousness of one as we gain consciousness of another. All the while the sense presentation remains constant, nor are we conscious, usually, of additions and subtractions of imagery. What, then, is the change in consciousness which occurs when a relation appears or disappears? Words may appear and disappear, different movements may be made; but these reactions seem often to follow the first perception of the relation. The most straightforward description of the changes in consciousness is that a feeling of relation comes and goes. If there be such a thing as a feeling of relation corresponding to the adjustment to the relation, the change in consciousness offers no peculiar difficulty to description. To get a little first-hand information regarding the adjustment to relations and the accompanying consciousness, I have employed a simple form of experiment, in which a relation is presented by means of two terms between which it holds, and a third term is given to which a fourth is to be found such that it bears the same relation to the third as the second bears to the first. In other words, the problem is one in the "rule of three," extended to other than numerical relations, a : b :: c : x; find x. In one form of this experiment the terms were cards of two colors (red and green), of two shades, of three shapes (squares, rectangles twice as long as wide, and rectangles four times as long as wide), and of two sizes (the squares being of 6 and 3 cm. sides). With this material laid out before the subject, a pair could be chosen to present any one of a considerable number of relations, simple and compound. The pair might be alike in all respects; the problem was then the simple one of finding a fourth term exactly like the third. Or, the second term might have the same color as the first, but a darker shade, the same height as the first but only half its width.

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The first pair were placed side by side, and the third term below the first; the subject, if an adult, was asked "to find a fourth card which should have the same relation to the third as the second had to the first." Adults readily perceived relations presented in this way, though not always so accurately as was intended; they often though not always named the relation. The experiment was of more interest when tried on children; so far I have tried it on one boy of three and a half years. Laying two cards side by side, I said, "We will put these two together," and, placing a third below the first, asked, "Which card will go with this one then?" If the child failed to find the proper card quickly, I picked it out for him, saying, "You see these two go together just as the first two go together." Then I placed a fifth card below the first and third, and asked him to find its mate. It was not hard to interest the child in this game, nor to make him understand the rules of the game. T o the simpler relations he reacted quickly and surely; to the more complex with some hesitation and error, but, unless the relation was very complicated, he perceived it at least roughly. He was clearly not acting at random; and he was clearly matching according to the relation presented, and not according to the character of the individual terms. He reacted successfully to relations for which he had no names. It was clear that he was able to detach a relation from one pair of terms and transfer it to another, and that the transfer was not always accomplished by aid of the name of the relation. The experiment was tried in another form with adults, for the purpose of gaining introspective evidence of the manner in which the relation was present in consciousness during this process of transfer from one pair of terms to another. The problem took again the form, a : b :: c : x, this form being chosen because it does not supply, ready-made, any name or other means of holding the relation in mind. The relations employed were a varied assortment, of which the following are examples: London : England :: Paris : ? Mice : cats :: worms : ? Eyes : face :: a lake : ? The hand : the fist :: a nation : ? A church organ : a banjo :: Hamlet : ?

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From such experiments I received the following kinds of testimony as to the feelings aroused: 1. When the relation is easy to grasp and the missing term readily found, very little consciousness appears. "There was nothing in my mind," said one of my subjects, "except that I wanted to answer your question right." The answer comes immediately on hearing the three given terms; as in the case, " A boy : a man :: a girl : ?" 2. When there is more difficulty, the relation sometimes receives a name before the answer is found. In seeking a fourth term for the trio: "Jimmie : James :: Bessie : ?" the word "nickname" appeared in consciousness. 3. Sometimes the relation is pictured in some form of imagery. In solving the problem, "Uncle : aunt :: bull : ?" one subject had a visual image of sexual relations. In solving the problem, "Yellow : blue :: violet : ?" one subject got a schematic image of the color circle, and a sort of motor image of drawing a diameter across from the violet to the yellow-green. 4. Sometimes the subject reported that he felt the relation, but did not name it nor have an image of it, as in the case, "Bravery : courage :: good humor : ?" In this form of exercise, the relation is suggested by means of two terms between which it holds, plus a third term which serves to indicate which of the possible relations between the first two terms is chosen. The relation must now be detached from the first pair of terms and transferred to another case. In the process of transfer, the relation sometimes does not exist at all in consciousness. Sometimes it has a name or image as its vehicle—an image which is applicable alike to the case from which the transfer is made and to the case to which the transfer is made. Sometimes, however, and very often indeed, the transfer is accomplished without such a vehicle, though the relation remains in consciousness. The feeling of relation appears then as an "imageless thought," and seems as substantial a component of consciousness as are the feelings of the terms. It has as good a right to an independent standing in psychological classification as any other feeling. T o allow any independence to relations will perhaps seem a very radical step, since they are agreed, in logic, to have no standing or

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substance apart from their terms. T h e terms might perhaps exist without the relation, but the relation without the terms—never! This form of criticism, though no doubt serviceable in logic, is distinctly inapplicable to psychology. J u s t as the axiom, " T h e whole is equal to the sum of its parts," useful in mathematics, cannot be carried over into psychology in the form, " T h e feeling of the whole is equal to the sum of the feelings of the parts," so the logical axiom that a relation is nothing without its terms should not be psychologically misinterpreted to mean that a feeling of relation is nothing without the feelings of its terms. T h e feeling of a relation m a y exist without the feeling of any pair of terms, as when we seek a pair of terms which shall stand in a given relation—for example, that of great dissimilarity—or as when, having the relation and one term given, we seek for the missing term. Adjustment to a relation is not included in the adjustment of its terms, nor is consciousness of a relation included in the consciousness of the terms. T h e relation m a y be detached in thought from its terms, even as a quality may be detached from a thing. Such detachment is necessary for thought to progress, since what is observed in one case is to be applied to another. Feelings of relationship have a present standing in psychology mostly in their evanescent or transitive form. On hearing them spoken of, one is reminded first of all of the " S t r e a m of T h o u g h t , " and of the convincing w a y in which they are there used to exemplify those transitions in thought which, though dynamically important, are so fleeting as almost to elude observation. But I do not understand the author of the " S t r e a m of T h o u g h t " to assert that feelings of relation must always be evanescent. We do not speak of " a feeling of of," " a feeling of but," because the feelings expressed by these words are of so transitional a character that they will not stand still to be made the resting place for thought. But we do speak of feelings of possession and of opposition. T h a t is to say, the same relations which are sometimes felt in so transitive a way that only a preposition or conjunction can express the feeling, may also be felt strongly and substantively, dwelt on, and made the subjects of discourse. Corresponding to prepositions and other relative parts of speech can usually be found nouns, adjectives, and verbs which are used to express the same relations when they become the topic of thought.

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Prepositions themselves often receive an emphasis which indicates that the feelings which they express are the emphatic parts of consciousness: "With or without," "Before or behind time," " H e that is not for me is against me." There are other relations which have no relative parts of speech to express them in the quick and transitive form, and which are often the topic of thought; superiority and inferiority, likeness and difference, order and disorder, cost and value, cheapness, economy, propriety, and aptitude are examples. Some of these have prepositions now in course of formation. A relation which has become familiar and which has frequendy to be recognized and acted upon, tends, like any other subject of thought, to be felt in a cursory and transitional way, and so to demand something like a preposition for its expression. Things and qualities, as well as relations may be thought of in a transitional way, especially when they are very familiar; but some of the relations are perhaps more familiar than any thing or quality. Few things or qualities are so common, or at least so commonly dealt with, as the relations of near and far, more or less, mine and thine. So practiced do we become in dealing with them that we slide over them with little hesitation; yet perhaps there is none of them but can be made the object of prolonged scrutiny. The lack of unity in a relation, its two-endedness from the point of view of logic, creates no genuine difficulty in psychology. Because a relation is bifurcated it does not follow that the feeling of it is any less a unit than any other feeling. The reaction to a bifurcated stimulus may be as simple and single as other reactions. If, in putting together a machine, we observe two parts which fit together, our reaction to this relation is a unit. The reaction need not preserve the complexity of the stimulus; and what is thus true of motor reactions applies equally well to central adjustments. The adjustment to a relation is a unit, and the feeling of a relation has none of the heart-rending complexity and self-disruptiveness which so troubles the student of metaphysics. In terms of brain action: a complex stimulus, affecting many and diverse parts of the brain, may, through them, and as the combined result of their activity, bring into action some one part or little organ; and the action of this organ, once aroused, is as simple as the action of an organ that is aroused by a simple stimulus. There

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is no law that a complex cause produces a complex effect, or that a simple cause produces a simple effect; instead, composition and resolution of forces are so common as to be almost the rule. In the nervous system, we have abundant evidence of the convergence and divergence of stimuli; one organ may be excited by the joint influence of several organs, and several organs may be simultaneously excited by the branching influence of one organ. A relation, however complex its manner of presentation, may arouse a single organ to activity. It does this, sooner or later in its progress through the brain, as is evidenced by the unity of the motor response when, for example, we name the relation that holds between two presented terms. The unity perhaps does not arise until the motor parts of the brain are reached; but it seems much more probable, in view of the large areas of the cortex which are available for operations intervening between sensation and movement, as well as of the pathological evidence that such operations are localized and have organs of their own; in view, further, of the fact that we become adjusted to perceived relations without any evidence of corresponding motor response at the moment of adjustment; and in view of the feelings of relation—in view of all these facts it seems most probable that the unity of adjustment to relations, groups, and other complex stimuli is a function, not of the motor areas, but of parts of the large region which goes by the name of the "association areas." If there are organs or foci in the cortex, the activity of which constitutes an adjustment to a presented relation, there seems no reason why there should not be corresponding feelings, nor why these feelings should not have the general characteristics of other feelings —for example, why they should not be as simple as other feelings. And introspection seems to show that they are as simple as other feelings. No matter how complicated a relation may be when analyzed logically or represented by a diagram, it can be treated in thought as a unit, and be felt as a unit. Relations may become the terms between which other relations are observed, and these higher relations may again serve as terms. Were there no unity in a relation, did it mean nothing for us apart from concrete terms which must be pictured, this superposition of relations upon relations would soon result in an enormous complexity of consciousness; whereas, in fact, consciousness may be as clean and bold in its de-

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sign as when it is dealing with a few elementary sense qualities. The mind of the mathematician, when he has reached the later propositions of a theory, and is dealing with what turn out on analysis to be relations of relations of relations, is not the spider's web of feelings of relation that analysis would lead us to expect. Without being mathematical, one still often has occasion to deal with relations of a high order. My land, let us suppose, has a boundary with very unequal sides and angles; my neighbor's plot is more nearly regular. This inequality in the regularity of plots is characteristic of our village, but is absent from a neighboring village. This difference between villages is much more characteristic of this part of the country than of certain others. The diversity of the country in this respect is in marked contrast with its uniformity in certain other respects. It thus becomes hard to say how far an observation made in one part of the country gives a fair sample of the country as a whole; and this condition of affairs, which is much more pronounced here than in many other countries, is at times perplexing to a foreign observer. If the reader will draw a diagram of the skyscraper of relations which makes up the "condition of affairs" which perplexes the foreign observer, he will agree that nothing corresponding to this analytic scheme congested his mind when he thought the final sentence. On the contrary, his consciousness may have been as simple at the end of the course of thought as at the beginning. A relation may be of any order or power, and still have in consciousness a felt quality which is equally simple, no matter what the order of the relation. The feelings of relations are in fact of the same order as feelings of sensory qualities. Each feeling of relation is a simple quality. Some hesitation will be felt about admitting feelings of relation to a scientific standing, for the reason that they are so essentially private; it seems impossible that we can ever come to agreement regarding them. As to the feelings of the terms, when these are sensible objects, it seems that we can experience them in common and so come to a reasonable degree of agreement. But if there be any consciousness additional to that of the terms, it would seem that we could never arrive at a common understanding and a generally accepted description. The difficulty is, however, not quite correctly stated. We do not know, indeed, that my feeling of a certain rela-

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tion is like yours, we have no means of placing the two side by side and comparing them. But this difficulty is not peculiar to the feelings of relation, but holds of all feelings, of all qualities of conscious experience. We do not know that my feeling of red is of like quality with your feeling of red. We can come to no agreement regarding the sensory qualities. What we do agree on is that red is the color of such and such objects—that is, that these objects are alike in color—we agree that red occurs also in a certain part of the spectrum and corresponds to light of low refrangibility; we agree that it is more like orange than yellow, that it is intermediate between orange and purple, that it is very different from blue-green, and is complementary to it. In other words, we agree on the relations of red—both its time and space relations and its relations of likeness and difference. We also agree, or disagree, as to its agreeableness, but this again can be defined only in relation to the effect on us of other stimuli. But as to its own peculiar quality, neither agreement nor disagreement can be reached. What we agree or disagree on are exclusively relations, never qualities of feeling. Thus the feelings of relation suffer from no peculiar difficulty in connection with the social sanctions of science. When we wish to experience the same sensory quality, we let ourselves be affected by the same stimulus; and we apply this method also when we wish to experience a relation in common. To give a child a knowledge of red as we know it, we place before him a red ball, a red coat, a red toy, trying to make the common quality prominent, and contrasting it with the blue color of other things. Similarly, to make him acquainted with our notion of such a relation as half, we show him half an apple, half an orange, half a glass of water; and these we contrast with whole things and with fractions larger and smaller than a half. Red, we tell him, is what is there now, and what is different from blue; a half, too, is what is there now, and what is different from a whole or a quarter. We do not pretend to communicate to him the "what," but only its relations. So again, if we attempt to take scientific account of mental imagery, we begin, as Galton did, by putting different persons in the same situation. "Think of your breakfast-table. Can you see it before your mind's eye? How does it compare with the actual

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sensory presence, in vividness of color, in distinctness of outline, in size, in position?" I recently heard a group of psychologists threshing out this matter of imagery, and there was agreement between several of them that the image, as they experienced it, was not readily comparable with sensation in regard to vividness and distinctness. Their images, if they should be called such, seemed quite a different sort of thing from sensation. Their thoughts of objects had a one-to-one correspondence with the objects, they were definite in identifying them, and they were workable; but they were incommensurable with sensations. These men were clearly talking throughout in terms of relations—the relations of the thought of objects to the sensations of objects and to the dealing with objects. They did not attempt to compare their actual feelings, save as the quality of the feeling was indicated by the relations in which it stood. T h e same procedure can be followed in comparing our feelings of relations. When, for example, I testify that the feeling which I have in attending to a certain relation is sharply distinguished from sensory experience, and that it has as much simplicity as any other fact of consciousness, you can place yourself in the same situation, and see whether you agree with me. When, therefore, we are enjoined to reduce Jill conscious facts to sensation, on the ground that we cannot possibly come to scientific agreement in any other than sensory terms, those of us who smart under the epistemological whip, and wish we could be free to find what we find, may take comfort in the reflection that the same kind of agreement is possible regarding non-sensory feelings, should such be found, as regarding sensations. In both cases the agreement concerns the relations of the feelings, not their intimate qualities. This exclusive attention to relations is not peculiar to psychology, but is characteristic of all science. Science deals with relations, not with qualities. We conceive quality as inherent in a thing, relation as transcending the thing. T h e clearest example of quality is found in consciousness. A given bit of consciousness is just as it is; its quality is immediately and exhaustively given in its isolated existence. No more quality is imported into it by comparing it with anything outside itself. In point of quality, it is as it is experienced. In point of relation, however, it is not as it is experienced. It has numerous relations of cause and effect, of likeness and difference, of

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truth and value, which can be discovered later, but are not known to itself. What is thus experientially seen to be true of bits of consciousness is conceived as true also of external things. A physical thing is thought of as having a quality of its own. 1 The quality is immanent in the thing. A relation, on the contrary, passes beyond the thing; it seems to have no self-subsistence, and thus lays itself open to the destructive criticism which has been leveled at it for its lack of independence. But the same characteristic makes it a means of knowledge. To get knowledge, thought must move. Quality affords no vehicle to carry it; relation bears it onward. Hence science deals with relations. A quality is to science the sign of a problem; it is an unexplored country. Exploration dissolves the quality into relations; it gives us a map, which has, indeed, a quality of its own, but not the quality of the country; but the relations in the map are relations of the country. As we pass from a naive to a scientific conception of anything, we leave qualities behind and come to know relations. We first think of hardness, for example, as a quality residing in certain things; but soon we see that a definition of hardness can be made only by observing the relations of these things to other things. Not satisfied, we try to penetrate into the thing and see why it has these relations; we come then to conceive of hardness as a mutual relation between the particles of the thing, thus substituting inner relations for outer in our definition of the quality. The terms of a relation are for scientific thought unanalyzed residues; so far as they retain any quality, they simply mark the limit to which science has progressed. That qualities are resolvable into relations is an essential postulate of the scientific attitude, for as long as a quality remains simply a quality, no description nor explanation, no classification nor analysis, has occurred. Qualities are not explanatory nor dynamic in any way; they stay at home and are essentially private. They can be con' The quality of a thing is to be distinguished from its qualities. Its quality, or perhaps better its character, is imperfectly represented by the sum of its qualities, imperfectly because its quality covers the concomitance of the particular qualities and their mutual relations. The qualities of an orange are its size, shape, weight, color, smell, taste, structure, its origin and history, its use and destiny, its cost, its esthetic value, its standing in psychology as the classic example of a thing. The quality or character of the orange includes all of these with their mutual dependencies, and the unity of the whole thing.

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templated but not treated discursively. They have esthetic but not scientific or practical value. T h a t every quality is decomposable into relations is rather a postulate than an axiom; on the other hand, it seems almost axiomatic that every relation constitutes a quality. Two terms in relation form a group or whole, and the relation constitutes a quality of the whole. If a husband and wife are antagonistic, this relation between them constitutes a quality of the family. The quality is an inarticulate form of the same fact which is given articulately in the relation. The quality of an object, as felt by us, need not tally with the quality of the object itself. As felt by us, the quality is our own, and private as qualities always are. We conceive the quality of the object as likewise private to it. There seems to be no cogent reason why the felt quality in us should be a copy of the quality of the object. It is otherwise with relations, which we believe, at any rate, to be objective. No error is introduced into our thought if qualities of our experience do not agree with the qualities of objects, while if the relations perceived do not tally with the relations of the object, we are in error. A relation transcends the thought that thinks it. But it is not the feeling of the relation that is transcendent, for this feeling, like other qualities, is private. It is hard to believe, when we perceive one thing as larger than another, or in any way related to it, that the relation perceived does not hold objectively; but the peculiar feeling which we experience in perceiving the relation need not have any existence apart from the feeling itself. Space as a "form of perception," if by this is meant a felt quality, may very well be purely subjective, though spatial relations are objective. It is easier to be an idealist in regard to qualities than in regard to relations. In all this I speak as a psychologist, I hope, rather than as a metaphysician. Trying to think yourself into the idealistic attitude I regard as a psychological experiment; and with me the experiment succeeds pretty well as far as concerns the sensory and conceived qualities of objects, but not at all as concerns their relations. The feeling of a relation is itself a quality. What has been said of the scientific value of relations—and what might similarly be said of their practical utility—does not apply to the feelings of relation.

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The utility of the feelings of relation is by no means evident. The utility of adjusting ourselves to relations is evident enough, but of what use is the particular feeling that we have in the process of adjustment? The use of any consciousness is hard to make out; but, granted that consciousness is useful in a general way, of what use are its special nuances? I cannot fall back on the argument from utility in supporting my view that feelings of relation exist as independent facts of consciousness; and this may seem a decided weakness in the position. But I should answer that we see the utility of the particular qualities of sensation as little as that of the feelings of relation. That red objects should look different from green ones is useful, but what is the utility of that particular quality, red? Any other quality of feeling—save perhaps pleasure and pain— would serve as well, provided it presented the same relations of time and place, likeness and difference. It is, then, relations, or adjustment to relations, and not the feelings of relations, that carry thought forward. Introspection reveals no more agency in this sort of feeling than in others. We cannot couple together a train of judgments by the feelings of relation existing between their terms. We cannot by examining the feelings find out anything about the subject-matter to which they refer. For example, while mathematics seems to deal with something inward rather than with physical objects, yet it is by no means an introspective study. By studying the feelings of the relations which form his subject-matter, no mathematician would make progress in his analysis. He is dealing with relations, not with the feelings of them. It is not, then, by inference from their supposed effects or utility, but only by direct acquaintance with the feelings themselves, that the knowledge of their existence is reached.

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I was led by some experiments on voluntary movement to conclude that an act might be thought of without any representative or symbolic image, and further study led me to extend this conclusion to other thoughts. My attention was soon called, in a review of this work by Angell, to previous discussions of the same question, connected with Stout's assertion that there was nothing psychologically absurd in the conception of imageless thought. Looking into the contemporary experimental literature, I then made the acquaintance of Binet and of Watt, Biihler and others of the Kiilpe school, and my own work soon fell into insignificance beside these extensive and many-sided contributions. Even the merit of independent confirmation was not specially important in this case, since such confirmation was forthcoming even from those who, like Wundt, were not at all in sympathy with the conclusions of the imageless-thought party. It appeared that imageless thought, the mere gross fact of observation, had come to stay, and that the only question was what to do with it. Some psychologists have assigned great importance to this fact as a demonstration of nonsensory content, while others have avoided so revolutionary a conclusion by explaining the fact away through one interpretation or another; others again have accepted the fact but minimized its importance, treating it as a mere limiting case; and some, while accepting the gross fact, have doubted that it would stand the test of more refined introspection. Meanwhile, my own views have been maturing as the result of continued thought and experiment, and the time is perhaps favorable for resuming the offensive, and endeavoring to uncover the weaknesses of the negative interpretations, and for offering a conception of the matter which may possibly appear superior to those hitherto presented, or at least worthy of some consideration. Of the interpretations of imageless thought which explain the S E V E R A L YEARS AGO

1 Address of the President before the American Psychological Association, Philadelphia, Dec., 1914. Reprinted from the Psychological Review, X X I I (1915), 1-27.

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fact away without allowing it to modify existing systems of psychology, the most important is that of Wundt. It will be recalled that the method employed by the Kulpe school in studying the thought processes was drastically criticized by Wundt, who objected to their experiments as being experiments in appearance only, and held that real thinking could not be done to order in the laboratory. He himself preferred to rely on incidental introspections during spontaneous thought, and in fact reports such observations of his own.* In such self-observations [he writes], it became perfectly clear to me that the thought was not formed during the process of its verbal expression, but was present as a whole in consciousness before the first word was reached. At first none of the verbal or other images, which subsequently appeared in running through the thought and giving it expression, was present in the focus of consciousness, but these parts of the thought appeared successively as the thought was allowed to develop. With only this fact in mind, he admits, one might easily be led to regard the thought as a unit with a distinctive elementary character. But quite a different conclusion is reached when other facts are also taken into account, that of the narrowness of the field of attention, that of the existence of dim content in the background of consciousness, and that of the "total feeling," itself a unit, though generated by a complex of images. A thought, in Wundt's view, is essentially a complex of images, but these parts of the thought are too numerous to be present together in the field of attention. They are present at first only in the background and are not introspectively visible; but as the thought is dwelt upon and expressed, its constituent images come successively into view. What then was the apparently unitary thought with which the process started? This, explains Wundt, was a "total feeling," generated by the complex of images in the background, and itself occupying for an instant the center of the stage. It is obvious that such a position is almost inexpugnably intrenched. T h e extremely hypothetical nature of the ground renders a direct attack hopeless. So much as this may be ventured, that, if the words expressing a thought are really its constituent parts, it is curious that the same thought can be thought in different words, ' Psyckologische Studien, III (1907), 349.

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and even in different languages, and still more curious that the words to fit the thought are not always at hand. Apparently, the same complex may be composed of different elements, and may exist with some of its elements lacking. Further, it is curious to reflect that these verbal images in the background must somehow be present simultaneously and yet in proper sequence, since otherwise they might compose quite a different thought or no thought at all. But the principal doubt to be raised concerns the "total feeling." This unitary feeling, present without observable images, and "adequate to the thought," would almost meet the demands of the opposing party, except for Wundt's insistence on its being a feeling, to the neglect of its noetic character. Certainly it is not a feeling, in any strict sense, that straightway finds expression in a statement of fact. Wundt's analysis leaves out of account the core of the whole experience, namely, the fact or supposition which was subsequently expressed in a sentence, but which was definitely and clearly present in mind in advance of the words. Several writers have called attention to the presence of vague or apparently irrelevant imagery in moments that would otherwise appear imageless. The presence of kinesthetic sensations, habitually unattended to, has also been shown in many cases, and thus we have become wary of asserting that a given moment is really devoid of sensory content. Of course, no one has ever supposed that bodily sensation could be absent from the background of any conscious state, but it has been thought possible to distinguish between irrelevant content and content related to the topic of thought. We must, however, recognize the probability that apparently irrelevant sensations and images sometimes enter into the web of thinking. Especially has the attempt been made, with some success, to extend the James-Lange theory of emotions to cover the so-called "conscious attitudes"; and some would even extend it to cover the imageless awareness of definite facts, contending that every thought has its own peculiar motor expression, and that the sensations generated by the movement furnish the conscious content of the thought; but no one, as far as I know, has found empirical support for this extreme view. It is worth remarking that the presence of images and sensations in many or most moments of thinking does not disconcert the sup-

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porter of imageless thought. H e is perfectly willing to admit that such content is often or even usually present; and the only real importance of a few well-attested instances of thought without such content is that they furnish him his most direct evidence of the existence of other content. His main contention is that other content exists, and that it is the most essential and characteristic of all. But some psychologists, while admitting the occasional occurrence of imageless thought, deny its evidential importance. It is merely the limiting case, they say, in a continuous gradation from thought in clear images, down through thought in medium and dim images, to thought in images at or near the zero mark. T h e most attractive form of this interpretation is that which sees in the graded series the progressive automatization of a thought through practice. W h e n the thought is novel, it comes with abundant sensory content, but as it grows familiar and habitual it becomes less sensuous, that is to say, less conscious, until, just as it is about to become automatic and unconscious, it still shows a feeble spark of conscious life; and this feeble spark is pounced upon by the imageless thoughter and rashly heralded forth as proof of some unrecognized species of conscious experience. In reality, imageless thought is imageless because it is all but unconscious. This genetic interpretation has been presented with most force by Titchener* and by Book. 4 T h e undoubted attractiveness of this conception comes from its following so neatly from the law of practice, and its deficiencies arise from its taking account of only one side of the practice effect. T h e r e is much in practice besides the tendency toward automatism. Seldom does the course of training consist of repeating time after time the same performance, only with increasing smoothness and speed. Usually the process begins with varied and tentative reactions, and advances by selection and elimination. Moreover, new forms of reaction, made possible by the progress in facility, make their appearance in the course of training. Thus the perfected act omits elements present at the start and contains elements not present at the start, and may be an entirely different means of reaching the same result. If, therefore, the first thinking on a given topic is fraught with imagery, while the practiced thought on the same ' "Experimental Psychology of the Thought Processes" (1909), pp. 173, 183, 187. 4 Psychological Review, X V I I (igio), 381.

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topic is bare of images, it does not in the least follow that the imageless thought is a condensation of the imaginal. It may be a more economical substitute. T h e imagery present at the start may have been due to a diffusion of excess energy such as is common in unpracticed acts, or it may have furnished a roundabout way of dealing with the problem and have given place with practice to the more direct attack represented by the imageless thought. Practice experiments give little ground for believing that a series of part acts, by simply becoming very easy and swift, blend together into a total act in which the parts are lost to sight. Rather has it been found true that the more inclusive acts, such as dealing with words and phrases as units, in typewriting and telegraphy, arise suddenly as new forms of action, in the progress of training, and themselves make possible a great increase in the speed of the partial or lower-order acts. T h e partial acts do not blend to produce the inclusive act, but the latter is hit upon and causes the former to blend. Attention deserts the parts, which thus become automatic; but attention still remains keenly alive, being directed to the more inclusive acts. These higher acts are real units, and not mere blends; they are clearly conscious and yet not in imaginal form; indeed, they seem the very type of an imageless thought. Observations of new ideas, at their first appearance in an individual, would be of interest in relation to the interpretation of imageless thought as exclusively old and well-drilled thought. In the hope of gathering such observations, I have sought to catch myself at moments when some new idea germinated in my mind. Unfortunately, opportunities have not presented themselves with the frequency that could be desired; but, in the few instances that I have collected, the experience could be described as the drawing of some new meaning in things, sometimes with scrappy verbal and visual images, sometimes with none that were observable. When they occurred, the images were promptly forgotten, though the thought was firmly impressed on memory. So far from accepting the view that imageless thought is automatized thought, I should be inclined to believe that a new thought is characteristically imageless, and that it attaches itself secondarily to a word or other convenient symbol, and is more apt to occur with an image when it is somewhat familiar than when it is new.

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Still another interpretation of imageless thought, or of the observations that purport to reveal it, presents a serious obstacle to our progress. Frequently such statements as these are contained in the subject's retrospective report: " I thought of such and such an object," or " I thought that such and such was the case," this being the extent of the subject's description of his experience, except for the purely negative statement that no images were present. T h e objection has been raised by Durr, 6 von Aster,® and Titchener 7 that in such reports the subject is not playing the game. H e has fallen from psychological description into the common-sense habit of telling what he has been thinking about. H e has committed the K u n d g a b e or expression error: instead of describing his thoughts, he is expressing them. H e has committed the stimulus or object error, and, instead of describing consciousness, is mentioning the objects with which consciousness was concerned. Confronted with this objection, the subject is apt to reply that he has done his best, that what was present in his mind was precisely the fact or object mentioned, and that if he is forbidden to refer to the object, all he can do is to hold his peace. T h o u g h this reply fails to satisfy the critic, there is something to say in the subject's behalf. Suppose, for the sake of argument, that the specific thought content exists: how would you propose to describe it? Y o u offer the subject his choice of sensory terms, but these he rejects as not fitting the case. If, then, you exclude reference to objects, you have nothing further to offer him beyond a few vague and negative terms, such as "imageless," "peculiar, and unanalyzable state." In fine, the objection has force only on the assumption that the state should be described in sensory terms, and that non-sensory content is nonexistent. It prejudges the case. It is curious that the presence of the stimulus error in reports of images is not treated with a similar seriousness. Seldom in the literature will you find an image really described. Instead of an analysis of the visual picture as composed of colors and shadings in a certain spatial arrangement, instead of an analysis of the auditory image as consisting of a sequence of elementary sounds, you read of " a visual image of a Massachusetts town," or of " a n auditory image • Ziitschrift Jitr Psychologie, XLIX (1908), 313-40. 7 Op. cit., p. 147. • Ibid., pp. 56-107.

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of the experimenter saying 'subordinate concept.' " If it is committing the stimulus error to report a "thought o f ' such and such an object, it is equally committing it to report an "image o f ' the object. A strictly descriptive regimen would require the subject, one would think, to exclude all reference to the object in the one case as in the other. Yet consider the situation of an observer who is forbidden to refer to the object in describing his images. He would have to confine his report to such statements as " a bright, somewhat variegated spot against a dark ground," omitting to state that this was an image of his friend's face. Yet, if the image, whether faint or vivid, schematic or detailed, was for him, at the moment, an image of his friend's face, can he properly describe the consciousness of that moment without reference to his friend? No question of the logic of meaning is here involved, but a mere question of fact: Was or was not a reference to the object present in the momentary consciousness; and, if so, can the state be described without reference to the object? The same question arises when we have a presented object instead of an image. I hear a noise from the street and say, "There is a horse galloping past." This is a common-sense reaction which makes no pretense of describing consciousness. But suppose I do attempt to describe consciousness. It is then, perhaps, in order for me to tell exactly what auditory sensations I had. If I do this as well as possible, and find nothing further, such as an image, to report—have I then, with my inventory of auditory sensations, fully accomplished my task of describing consciousness? It would seem not, if I actually was conscious of a galloping horse, while my report makes no mention of this object. It is all very well to warn me of the stimulus error if I show a tendency to go beyond my momentary experience and tell something about the horse which may be objectively a fact but was not present in my mind at the moment; but if I stick closely to the momentary experience, reference to the object is quite in order and in fact indispensable; for, as a matter of fact, reference to the object was probably the most prominent part of the experience. This is equally true in the case of an image, and I must conclude that an observer is perfectly justified in reporting an "image of his friend's face," and that he could not omit

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this reference to the object without badly mutilating the experience. If so, the observer who reports the "thought of such and such an object" is equally within his rights. He may have omitted something which a complete description should include, but he has, in all probability, reported the most prominent datum of his momentary consciousness. One further important objection to the doctrine of imageless thought is contained in the teaching of such men as James, Ebbinghaus, and Dewey. In speaking of non-sensory content, we have neglected to define sensation, or, worse yet, we have, according to these authors, fallen into the error of excluding relations, forms, patterns, meanings from our concept of sensation, and then being badly put to it to explain how they get into perception and thought. It is impossible, we are told, to draw a line in sense perception between what is sensation and what is perception; and there is therefore no excuse for speaking of non-sensory content in sense perception, nor for speaking of such content as present in thinking, unless wc are ready to make the improbable assertion that positive content is vouchsafed us, when withdrawn from the world of sense, that can never be experienced in the presence of physical objects. Instead of attempting to meet this objection directly, I propose to go on with a positive interpretation of imageless thought, in the hope that it may avoid the difficulty, and ultimately find a legitimate ground for the distinction between sensory and non-sensory. To reach a positive interpretation that shall have any real significance, it is essential to turn away from the isolated fact thus far considered, and seek other facts which may be brought into relation to it. A hint as to the most profitable direction in which to seek for related facts is afforded by the following consideration. Thought deals largely with data derived from past experience. New ideas may certainly be generated in the process of thinking, but in very large measure the content of thought is provided by memory; and it is usually this memory content which appears in the imageless form. It may then be profitable to bring our rather extensive knowledge of memory into relation with the phenomenon of imageless thought; and it is in that direction that I propose to search. On examining the way in which recalled facts present themselves,

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we are at once struck by something that broadens the outlook considerably. It is not only in thinking, properly so called, that facts come to mind without images, but in the most commonplace acts of memory. I recall, without visual, verbal or other observable images, what I have in my pockets, where I left my umbrella, whether my neighbor is at home today. This imageless recall is with some individuals quite the rule. T h e facts are clearly enough present in mind, but if there be any image it is so excessively dim as to elude detection. Such imageless recall is indicated, though perhaps not fully demonstrated by some of Galton's results; and Miss Martin has recently 8 given a clear demonstration of the existence of memory content that is "unanschaulich." In imageless thought, then, the imagelessness has nothing particular to do with the thinking process; and we are permitted to drop, with some relief, the elevated tone that has sometimes seemed appropriate to the topic. Thought is imageless because its data are recalled in an imageless form, and not because it does not thrive in a sensory atmosphere. Much effective thinking occurs in the physical presence of its object. T h e use of the word "thoughts" to denote non-sensory content is unfortunate, for the words "thought" and "thinking" customarily denote a certain mental function or group of functions, and cannot easily be restricted to any particular sort of content. T h e best word would be one that suggested recall rather than thinking; but I am not at present prepared to suggest a suitable nomenclature. 9 • Zcitschrijt JUT Psychologie, 1912, pp. 65, 417-90. • Unless the following suggestion can be seriously entertained. It has long appeared to me that we psychologists were on the wrong track in our selection of technical terms. Our custom is to choose some term of common usage that may convey to the uninitiated a suggestion of the technical meaning newly attached to it. The trouble is that the untechnical usage continues alongside of the technical and tends to cause confusion; until finally psychologists are driven to exclude the untechnical use from their discourse, and thus lose a very convenient tool of expression. It is nothing less than a scandal, for example, that the word "feeling" should have been so refined in usage that the psychologist can no longer speak of a "feeling of hesitation," and scarcely of a "feeling of familiarity," without an apology and the dread of being misunderstood by his colleagues. The older sciences, with their greater need for an extensive technical vocabulary, have gone to work in quite a different way. They either take unfamiliar Greek and Latin words and derivatives, or they set apart some propter name to serve the special purpose. Thus they have their watts and volts and ohms and amperes, terms regarding the meaning of which no one need ever be in doubt. Such terms are much better than "thoughts," or than "Bewusstseinslagen," with its doubtful translation of "conscious attitudes." I would propose, accordingly, to follow the lead of physics and chemistry;

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What, then, is it, in general, that is recalled? An old standard answer is that we recall our past experiences. Objection has several times within the last two decades been raised to this answer; but the following line of criticism is perhaps new. In experiments on testimony, or on "incidental memory," the subject is found to be incapable of recalling much that has been before his eyes, and even within the general scope of his attention. If he could call back his original experience, it would seem that he could give the testimony required of him. A specially instructive experiment, for our present purpose, is that of Thorndike, 10 who asked his subjects to call up an image of a certain scene, as of the front of a familiar building, and then, after they had estimated the vividness of their images, asked them specific questions, as to the number of pillars in the façade and similar details. He found a marked inability to answer the specific questions, even on the part of individuals with very lifelike images; and, in fact, there was little or no correspondence between vividness of image and correctness of report on details. I have frequendy repeated this experiment with the same results. I have never found an individual able to read off the number of pillars from his image. Only those could tell the number who had at some time counted them; and other subjects protested that it was not fair to expect them to find the number of pillars in the image, when they had never counted them in the original. All this seemed highly suggestive. It suggested that only that was recalled which had been noted in the original experience; and that even vivid images, described as being fully equal to the actual experience, were in fact something quite different. I was thus prompted to undertake an examination of images and other content of recall, in order to see how far they could be described as revivals of past experiences, and how far they consisted of facts noted in the past. I set myself to recall events from my past life, and in other cases to recall persons, buildings, towns, and such and since Bewusstseinslagen were first reported and defined in the work of Mar be and his associates, I would suggest calling them "marbs," the term to be defined for all time by reference to the original description by Marbe. Similarly, since the "thoughts" were gradually brought to light by the school of which Kulpe was the guilding spirit, I would suggest calling them "kulps," defining this term similarly by reference to the original works. These terms are certainly beautifully compact and euphonious, and those who can bring themselves to use them will find them very convenient. u Journal oj Philosophy, 1907, pp. 4, 324.

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specific facts as the exact colors of postage stamps, the quality of a friend's voice, the shapes, tastes, and odors of a great variety ofobjects. What I got was sometimes to be called an image and sometimes not; but in all cases, with a few doubtful exceptions, it consisted of facts previously noted. When I say "facts," I do not mean verbal statements of facts, but a direct consciousness of some thing, quality, relation, action—of something which I had observed in the original experience. I did not get back experiences as concrete totals, but only facts which I had discriminated out of those totals. In the original experiences, those facts had had a concrete setting or background; but this setting was not recalled. The facts were recalled in isolation. Often, indeed, a rudimentary setting was present, consisting of either a personal reference, or a spatial reference, or both. By "personal reference" is meant that the fact was recalled as my own experience, or that the relation of the fact to me, or my attitude to it, was recalled along with the fact. By "spatial reference" is meant that an object was recalled as being to the right or left, or in a certain town, or in a certain direction from my position at the time of recall. Spatial reference was more frequendy present than personal. Neither was universally present; and, aside from them, no setting was recalled. It frequently happened that several facts derived from the same experience, or from different experiences, were recalled almost or quite simultaneously, so that the recall was richer than would be suggested by the expression, "isolated fact." Nevertheless, all of these facts had been previously noted, and they did not bring their concrete setting back with them. As an example of my results, I will cite the recall of a colleague speaking in faculty meeting. What I got was a certain quality of voice and precise manner of enunciating, rather different from the conversational tone of this individual. There were no words nor particular vowel or consonantal sounds present in recall, but simply the quality of the voice and enunciation. I got also the fact that the speaker was speaking as chairman of a committee, and something of the rather critical attitude of the faculty toward him, these facts being recalled in the "imageless" way. Besides, I got a spatial reference, in that the speaker was located in a certain position with respect to my position in the meeting; and a vague per-

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sonal reference amounting to an attitude of support or well-wishing. Beyond this, nothing. No visual background of faces or furniture, no auditory background of words spoken, no somesthetic background of myself sitting. Among the facts thus recalled in relative isolation and without concrete setting were the following: Of persons: shape of head or of nose; breadth of face; color of eye; curliness of hair; blotchiness of complexion; facial expression; tone of voice; trick of gesture; "smoothness" of manner; social position; ability; industry; relation to myself, as being friendly or unfriendly, a superior or a dependent, agreeable, a bore, or as having been seen recently or long ago. Of buildings: location, size, color, material, architectural style. Of towns: location, general topography, old or new style, abundance of shade, holiday atmosphere, quietness, association with certain events. These facts run the gamut from simple to complex, and from sensory to abstrusely relational. They are so varied as to indicate that any observed fact can be recalled in isolation. Among the striking instances of isolation were recall of the color of an object without its shape, of its shape without its color, of its gloss or shading without either color or shape. T h e following interpretation seems scarcely more than a restatement of these results. An actual situation presents an almost unlimited variety of facts or features, of which an observer notes a few, the rest remaining undiscriminated in the background and giving the concrete setting of the features noted. Later, he may "remember" the situation, but this is not to reinstate it in its original multiplicity and continuity. H e recalls the features which he observed, or some of them, but not the great mass of material which remained in the background. Lacking this setting or background, he is not in a position to make any fresh observations in recall, and thus arises the weakness of incidental memory. If generalized to cover all cases in all individuals, this statement does indeed go beyond the evidence at hand. But if the possibility of an occasional recall of the concrete setting is left open, and the assertion simply made that an observed fact is often recalled with-

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out its original setting, this conclusion, though modest, is sufficient to furnish a positive interpretation of imageless recall. Were it true that a recalled fact always brought with it its original setting, then, indeed, all recall would involve sensory imagery. But if a fact is recalled in isolation, it depends on the nature of the fact whether the recall would be called imaginal or imageless. If the fact lay, as it were, on the sensory surface of things, such as color or tone, its recall would usually be spoken of as an image. If the fact lay below the sensory surface, as the fact that a speaker was exaggerating, or speaking as chairman of a committee, an isolated recall of this fact would be unhesitatingly pronounced imageless, unless, to be sure, it were accompanied by a verbal or symbolic image derived, perhaps, from another source than the original setting of the fact. The definitely imaginal and the definitely imageless are the extremes of a series, between which lie many intermediate facts difficult to place in either class. The expression of a face, the composition of a painting, the style of a building or piece of music, recalled in an isolated way, are difficult to classify. If you set yourself to discover what are the objects of your attention in a sensory experience, you will usually find that the actual sensations are less prominent than the things signified by them. You are more conscious of the horse galloping past than of the actual noises that you hear. When, therefore, you later recall hearing a horse gallop past, it is not surprising that the thing signified should be recalled more distinctly than the noises; and you are left in doubt whether to class the recall as an image or not. This is a type of numerous cases. An observed feature of a situation often lies partly "on the sensory surface" and partly below, and the observer does not take separate note of the sign and of the thing signified, but perceives them together as a single fact. His recall of the fact may then partake both of the sign and of the thing signified, though the sensory flavor is usually weakened in recall. The distinction between imaginal and imageless, between sensory and nonsensory, is not perfectly sharp, and appears, from our present point of view, to be of minor significance, the main principle being the isolated recall of observed facts. I ought really to rest content with the conservative statements that precede, and leave imageless recall as an incident to the occa-

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sional, or frequent, recall in isolation of previously noted facts. But in the interests of a more clean-cut theory, I am tempted to more radical and general statements. I propose to strike out boldly and formulate a theory, hoping that, whether acceptable or not, it may prove a stimulus to thought and perhaps to experiment. T h e first step toward this theory is to generalize the conclusion derived from observations already cited, and to offer the hypothesis that all recall is of facts previously noted, freed from the concrete setting in which they occurred when noted. This generalization I hold to be correct for my own case, and, though the testimony of many individuals regarding their imagery is on its face in flat contradiction with mine, the objective test of incidental memory seems to show that there is something radically wrong with their testimony. M y generalization has the advantage of squaring with the facts of recall as objectively tested, and the only difficulty is to exexplain away the introspective reports of images "fully equivalent to actual experience," and of "living over the past as if it were present." Without pretending to do full justice to this testimony, I must for the present content myself with a few remarks. Undoubtedly a person may become deeply absorbed in a remembered experience, because of its great interest for him. Now his present interest is probably the same as that which dominated him in the original experience and led him to observe and react to certain features. If, his interest reviving, he gets back these features and reactions, he has the essentials of the original experience from his own point of view, and satisfactorily lives it over again, even without the concrete background, the absence of which, in his absorption, he would not notice, any more than he noted its presence in the original experience. As to the vivid image, said to be "in all respects equivalent to the actual scene," we undoubtedly have, in such a case, a revival of personal attitude and emotional value, which alone are enough to create a strong atmosphere of reality. We must also recognize that what an artist might call the general effect of a scene is as much a fact to be observed as any other. T h e features which can be analyzed out of a situation are not exclusively details, but include broad effects and syntheses and anything that can be the object of atten-

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tion. If now you recall the emotional value and general effect of a scene, along with some of the colors and other previously noted details, you perhaps have enough to make you testify, rashly, that your image is in all respects equivalent to the actual scene. A test of incidental memory would soon convince you that the "equivalence" is an illusion. It is also true that a person may observe a scene in such detail as to recall a great number of its features; and he might express the wealth of his recollection by asserting that he revived the entire experience; but, so long as what he recalls is what he previously observed, he offers no exception to the rule that has been formulated. We have not yet by any means exhausted the relevant information to be derived from studies of memory. Evidently we should be much helped in any study of recall by having at hand a report of the process by which what is now recalled was originally learned. We should be helped in our present inquiry by knowing whether "impressing a thing on the memory" consists in simply standing before the thing and letting it "soak in," or whether it consists in reacting to the thing by observing its characteristic features. It may be said at once that studies of memorizing give little sign of a purely receptive attitude on the part of the learner, and much evidence of a reactive and analytical attitude. Meumann emphasized the importance of the "will to learn." A subject might attentively examine a list of nonsense syllables, and yet make little progress in memorizing it unless his will to learn were excited. Now the "will" can scarcely be conceived as acting without means or tools; and its tools consist of various specific reactions to the matter set for memorizing, the reactions varying with the material and with the test of memory that is to be met. Some of these reactions may properly be called motor; here would be classed the rhythm, accents, pauses, and vocal inflections that are read into the list by the learner. But in large measure the reactions are of the perceptual sort, and consist in observing positions, relations, patterns, meanings, in the matter to be learned. The recent studies of Miiller throw all these factors into clear relief. Memorizing is very largely a process of observation, of noting those features of the material that will serve to hold it together in the desired way. Some of these features, such as patterns and relations and the nearer-lying meanings, are, as it

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were, found in the material itself; while other features, the more far-fetched meanings and associative aids, are imported from without; but this distinction is only one of degree. The reactions made in learning, it should once more be said, are specific, and adapted not only to the material learned but also to the kind of memory test that is anticipated. If the subject expects to recite a list of words or syllables throughout, he observes positions, sequences, patterns, and relations that will serve to bind the whole list together. If he expects simply to respond to each of the oddnumbered words in the list by giving the following word, as in the method of paired associates, he takes each pair as a unit, and observes characteristics of the pair that bind it together, but neglects the sequence of pairs. If he expects to be called upon to recognize the individual words of the list, he fixes his attention on them singly, observing in each, as fax as possible, some character that may serve to impress it. There is no one uniform process of learning, and the will to learn cannot be conceived as a general force or agency. What we find in memorizing is a host of specific reactions, largely of the perceptual sort. I may be permitted to cite the results of a little experiment designed to test this matter. I read a list of twenty pairs of unrelated words to a group of sixteen adult subjects, instructing them beforehand to learn the pairs so as to be able to respond with the second of each pair when the first should be given as stimulus. But, after reading the list three times, I told them that they should, if possible, give also the first word of the following pair on getting the second word of the preceding pair as stimulus. I then read the first word of the list, waited five seconds for the subject to recall and write the second word; then read this second word, and waited the same time for them to recall and write the the third word, namely, the first word of the second pair; and so on through the list. The results were most definite: the second members of the pairs were correctly recalled in 74 percent of all the cases, but the first members were recalled in only 7 percent of the cases. The subjects reported that this great difference was apparently due to the fact that they had examined each pair with the object of finding some character or meaning in it; whereas they had neglected the sequence of pairs as being of no moment.

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This result is instructive in several ways. It indicates, first, that the will to learn operates not by favoring a general receptive or memorizing attitude, but by leading to specific reactions of the observational type. It serves, next, to fortify the results of other experiments on "incidental memory." Here the objection cannot be raised that the incidental matter that is not recalled was never attended to; for the first words of the pairs were attended to as well as the second. The experiment also shows the unsatisfactory character of Ward's conception of the process of learning. H e has said that associations are formed by the movement of attention from one to the other of the terms associated. But here attention moved from the first to the second member of a pair, and thence to the first member of the next pair; yet the first movement seems to have established a strong association, and the second, comparatively speaking, none. Evidently something much more specific than a mere movement of attention has been in play. The members of a pair are associated by the sequence, connection, or meaning that is found in the pair. Finally, this experiment serves to strengthen doubts that have often been raised, especially by the work on incidental memory, regarding the adequacy of contiguity in experience as an associating force. Here the contiguity between the members of a pair was scarcely greater, in matter of time, than that between successive pairs; yet the association within pairs was strong, and that between successive pairs almost negligible. Since the associations within pairs gave ten times as good a score as those between pairs, we may perhaps say that mere contiguity does not contribute more than one-tenth of the whole associating force; the remaining nine-tenths being contributed by the noting of suitable features in the material. Even the small fraction thus left to contiguity does not necessarily belong to it; for it is not improbable that the sequence and relation of successive pairs were sometimes observed. In fact, of the few correct recalls of first members, practically all occurred at the beginning or end of the list of twenty pairs; and it is quite likely that, in these favored positions, attention was occasionally directed to such incidental matters as the sequence of pairs or their positions in the list. Except at the ends of the list, the score for first members was only one-eighty-fifth as good as that for second members of the pairs; and this fraction, rather than one-

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tenth, probably represents the proportion of the total associative force that should be assigned to mere contiguity; though even this is a doubtful concession. It may be considered superfluous bravery in me to challenge the doctrine of association by contiguity, in addition to all the other enemies already on my hands; but, in reality, I have this doctrine on my hands at any rate. For if contiguity in a momentary experience is a strong and sufficient associative force, then any item that is later recalled will in turn recall its contiguous items and redintegrate the whole experience or a large part of it, and my hypothesis that what is recalled is observed facts without their setting would become untenable. Now association by contiguity has played a worthy and important part in the development of psychology, and its attempt to absorb into itself all other laws of association has, in my opinion, been a success. Things become associated only when they are contiguous in experience. T h a t is to say that contiguity is a necessary condition of association. But is it a sufficient condition? There is little in the experimental work on memory to indicate that it is sufficient, and much to indicate that it is not usually depended on to accomplish results. The things to be connected must be together, in order to arouse the reaction connecting them; but, unless they arouse some such reaction, they do not become connected, except it be very weakly. The reaction may be described in a general way as a reaction to the two things together; it is perhaps sometimes a purely motor reaction, but most often, I believe, is rather to be called a perceptual reaction, consisting in the observation of some relation between the two things, or some character of the whole composed of the two taken together. In any case, the reaction is specific; and it is this specific reaction, rather than any general factor like contiguity, or the movement of attention, or the will to learn, that does the work of association. To judge from the memory experiments, then, what is recalled is what has been noted—not past experiences in their totality, but definite reactions which occurred in those experiences. This conclusion is perhaps even more clearly indicated by experiments in the learning of nonsense drawings than in the more usual work with linguistic materials. An instructive experiment is that

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of J u d d and Cowling, 11 who exposed a rather simple drawing for successive periods of ten seconds, requiring the subject to reproduce it as well as possible after each exposure. The results, both objective and introspective, showed that the subject usually got first the general character and shape of the figure, and, continuing his analysis, noted one fact after another, until a sufficient number of facts was known to make a satisfactory reproduction possible. There was no evidence of an inner reproduction of the entire sensory experience, from which the subject might read off such information as he required. In a somewhat similar experiment, T . V. Moore 12 called for the learning of a series of simple drawings. He supposed at the outset that a group of figures would be memorized by visual imagery, but experience taught him that there was another factor that was a powerful aid to memory. This was " a more or less complete analysis of the figures, an analysis which it is utterly unnecessary for the subject to put into words." It consisted in noting the parts and composition of the figures and their resemblances to familiar objects. He then undertook to compare the efficiency of memorizing by visualization with analysis excluded, and by analysis without visualization; and found a uniform superiority of the analytic method over the visualizing. But he also found that it was impossible to exclude analysis altogether. "Associations crop up spontaneously," he writes, "and one simply cannot exclude all analysis of the figure. . . . It is much easier to memorize by analysis to the exclusion of imagery than vice versa." He believed, however, that learning by visualization, i. e., by forming an image which should be a "more or less perfect replica" of the visual sensation, was a real process. Under the circumstances, it was evidently impossible for him to prove this; for if analysis occurred spontaneously—and one has only to look at a drawing to realize how inevitable it is to note either details or broader characteristics —and if also analysis was a more powerful memorizing agency than visualization, it remains possible that all the learning was accomplished by analysis. The reality of the strictly visualizing or photographic process of learning is, I believe, still open to doubt. It is 11

"Studies in Perceptual Development," Psychological Review Monograph, 34

(1907). 349-69u

The Process of Abstraction, "University of California Publications in Psychology," I (1910), 139-53.

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certainly impossible to avoid perceptual reactions, and to assume the purely receptive attitude of a photographic plate. Miss Fernald's data on the memorization of pictures" show that even good visualizers depend largely, at least, on specific observations of the features which were later remembered; and her results in the recitation of letter-squares in changed orders 14 showed that even the best visualizers among her subjects were unable to do what it had been supposed was the prerogative of a visualizer to do, namely, "see the whole set of letters at once and simply read them o f f " in the changed order. She does not doubt the existence of persons able to accomplish this feat, but believes that they must be rare. This matter of visualization evidently requires further study, but the possibility is still open that even the best visualizer does not carry away a photograph of the scene, or replica of his visual sensation, but an image which amounts to a synthesis of specific observations, including observations of broad effects and observations of parts and their relations. But it is time that I brought my theory out of hiding and placed it squarely before you. I call it, for lack of a better name, the mentid reaction theory, or perhaps the preceptual reaction theory. Its basic idea is that a percept is an inner reaction to sensation. I call it a mental reaction to distinguish it from the motor reaction which several psychologists have put forward as being important in attention, perception, association, and the like; for it appears to me that these suggestions, while on the right track in insisting that reaction is dynamically important, have mistaken the locus of the reaction, and so are unable to account for the conscious content that appears in these mental activities. This mental reaction is not, however, of the nature of an associated sensation, appearing as an image, as if the visual sensation of an orange, to give the percept orange, must reproduce the sensations of handling or tasting the orange. Nor, on the other hand, is the perceptual reaction an emphasis or pattern or meaning residing in the given sensations. It is something new, not present in the sensations, but, theoretically, as distinct from them as the motor reaction is. It adds new content which cannot be analyzed into elementar)' sensations; so that the sensory elements, which are often held to supply, along with the " P s y c h o l . Review Monograph, 58 (1913), 81

ff.

M

Ibid., p. 71.

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feelings, all the substance of consciousness, in reality furnish but a fraction of it, and probably a small fraction. Each perceptual reaction is specific, and contributes specific content. In recall, it is these perceptual reactions that are revived, and not sensation; and therefore the content of recall is never, in the strictest sense, sensory. Nevertheless, as was said before, some percepts lie, as it were, nearer to sensation than others, so that the distinction between an image and an imageless recall, while not perfectly sharp, is still legitimate. It is possible that this theory may appear not so radical after all, and not worth the expenditure of so much breath; for all will perhaps admit that a percept is, in some sense, a reaction. It is therefore my duty to show that the theory is worse than it seems, and this I shall attempt to do in the case of patterns, or Gestaltqualitaten. It has long been known that the same pattern (for example, a melody) can sometimes be found in different sensory complexes, and it is also true that different patterns can be found in the same sensory complex, as in the case of the dot figure. A rather difficult problem is thus raised, for one would think that the compound would be determined by the elements. But the real crux of the difficulty is to get some conception of a pattern or of a compound, to show what is meant by the togetherness or grouping of the elements. There are three theories that attempt to solve this puzzle: that of synthesis; that of systasis, or mere togetherness; and that of synergy, which is none other than the mental reaction theory. T h e synthesis theory brings in the subject or ego to put the elements together; the systasis theory rejects this deus ex machina, and says that the elements merely are together, or get together, and so constitute the compound or pattern; the synergy theory holds that the elements act together, as stimuli, to arouse a further reaction which is the pattern. T h e synthetic theory occupies a weak position, since, unless the systatic theory succeeds in showing what is meant by the elements being together, there is no advantage in saying that something puts them so. Now it is difficult to understand what can be meant by the elements being together or getting together so as to produce the group and pattern. If the group included the whole momentary content of consciousness, we could say that being together meant simply

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simultaneously present, and speak of the pattern as a character of the whole conscious moment. But the group does not include the whole of consciousness, but—as in the case of three dots among a larger number, seen for an instant as a triangle—may occupy but a small part of the conscious field. The pattern is not the pattern of consciousness, but a pattern within consciousness. Nor will it help matters much to substitute for consciousness the field of attention; for the extent of a group may be either greater or smaller than that of this field; and, besides, a familiar pattern, such as a melody or arrangement of lines or dots, may come to consciousness quite outside the field of attention. Apperception, then, in the Wundtian sense, does not explain groups and patterns nor give them any intelligible meaning. But if we lay aside apperception and try to describe groups and patterns in terms of their constituent elements, we are in no better case. What is it that changes when the pattern changes, the elements remaining constant in quality, intensity, and spatial position? This question is as serious for the synthetic theory as for the systatic. The synergy theory cuts the Gordian knot by admitting at once that there is no change in the elements. In fact, there is no real grouping or pattern of the elements; they neither get together nor are put together by some higher agency; but some of them simply act together, as a complex of stimuli, to arouse a perceptual reaction which constitutes the grouping and pattern. The pattern is numerically distinct from the elements, as a motor reaction is distinct from the complex of stimuli that arouses it. What pattern shall be aroused at any moment depends on the readiness of different perceptual reactions to be aroused, and thus on such factors as frequency and recency of past exercise, fatigue, and present interest and control. In short, the synergy theory proposes to extend to patterns, and to all percepts, the same explanation that is accepted for such admittedly mental reactions as the sequence of one idea after another. No one doubts that one idea may represent a stimulus for the arousal of another idea, nor denies that the aroused idea is numerically distinct from the stimulus idea and adds new content to it. It is the same with sensation and perception, except that the reaction is usually very prompt and the perceptual content intimately fused with the sensational. The fusion is so complete that the pattern seems to lie right in or among the

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dots, as the galloping horse of an earlier illustration seemed to be actually heard in the series of noises. But now, finally, I suspect that the party, which allowed me to proceed some time ago without coming to terms with their demand for a definition of sensation, will no longer be restrained. They will insist on taking the floor and addressing you as follows: " T h e speaker is certainly right in calling a percept a reaction; that is too obvious a fact to need discussion. But we ask, A reaction to what? And our answer is, T o the physical stimulus. This 'sensation' that the speaker has interpolated between the physical stimulus and the percept is pure gratuitous assumption. There is no warrant for it in introspection, for he himself admits that the sensation and the percept content are intimately fused. We regret that he has fallen into this obsolescent way of speaking, and would suggest that, in reviewing his remarks, you use the blue pencil of the censor wherever the word 'sensation' occurs." This objection is almost too serious to be dealt with in brief. I should freely admit that sensation and percept cannot be distinguished by direct introspection. Yet there are introspective facts that make the distinction appear legitimate. When we hear the galloping horse, we are not only aware of the horse, but we are able to state that we hear him. It is not quite correct to say that we get only the meaning, for we know also the sense by which we get the meaning. So, again, when we have changing percepts of the same stimulus, as in the case of the dot figure, the change of pattern does not amount to a complete change of the figure, but there is a constant substratum underlying the changes; and it seems appropriate to speak of this as sensation. In recall, even the best images lack something when compared with actual sensory experience. They lack body and incisiveness; and it appears probable that this lack is nothing more nor less than a lack of sensation, or, in other words, that the real sensory process is not resuscitated in the image. But the concept of sensation might never have arisen in a purely introspective psychology. At bottom it is a physiological or psychophysical concept. Sensation is that conscious content which is in closest relation to the physical stimulus. It is the primary response to the stimulus, and may be followed by secondary responses. Neurology gives good ground for such a distinction, in tracing the

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sensory nerves to certain limited areas of the cotex, and finding the rest of the cortex to be only indirectly connected with the sense organs. Destruction of the cortical receiving station for any sense abolishes all conscious use of that sense, while destruction of neighboring areas, without making a person blind, for example, abolishes his power of reading, or his power of recognizing seen objects, or his power of orienting himself in visual space. Such perceptions are apparendy secondary reactions, while the primary reaction, corresponding to the activity of the receiving station, is precisely that which distinguishes a person who is word-blind and object-blind, from one who is totally blind. Here is a person who sees without perceiving, and here is one who does not see at all. T h e difference I would like to call sensation. Sensation, accordingly, would be the consciousness attending the activity of the sensory receiving stations of the brain, while percept-content would be the consciousness attending the activity of neighboring areas. Besides these secondary reactions, there are undoubtedly tertiary and further reactions, less and less directly connected with the incoming sensory impulses. They need not have a sharply limited localization in the cortex, yet they must be neurologically distinct, and it may well be that every distinct cerebral reaction is attended by its peculiar conscious content. I know of no reason in neurology or psychology for supposing that the elements of conscious content are contributed solely by the sensory receiving centers. According to this theory, the sensation aroused by a physical stimulus must precede the secondary or perceptual reaction; but the interval need not be supposed to exceed a hundredth of a second, and could not be introspectively detected. T h e fusion of the primary and secondary reactions in consciousness is a fact which I cannot attempt to explain, since fusion is one of the fundamental peculiarities of consciousness, as contrasted with its cerebral correlates. But I may perhaps make the whole conception a little more tangible by reverting to the similitude of photography. A certain photographer found himself without sensitive plates, though with his camera, in the presence of a scene which he much desired to preserve. H e therefore focused on the ground glass at the back of his instrument, and, stretching transparent paper over the glass, traced some of the outlines of the optical image. He thus

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created patterns, which lay really in his drawing and not in the optical image, but which were blended with the image as long as the image remained. He preserved his tracing, and found it to differ from a photograph in containing only the facts to which he had definitely reacted. In this parable, the optical image is sensation, which is gone forever when the physical stimulus ceases. The tracing is perception, which may be preserved, though subject to decay. But the fusion of the two, depending in the case of the camera on the presence of the photographer's eye, is in the case of sensation and perception more deep-seated and inexplicable. Finally, the photographer was more restricted than is the process of perception, since he could trace only outlines and shadings and perhaps colors, and could not commit to his drawing the more remote relations and meanings which can be perceived, and, being later recalled, furnish the content of "imageless thought."

VIII

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WITH APOLOGIES, I shall present this paper in the rather personal form w h i c h it first assumed in my own thinking. I a m often asked by m y students, and occasionally by brother psychologists, how I stand on the matter of behaviorism. Some have said to me, " Y o u certainly are a behaviorist, ¿ire you not?" and others, " Y o u certainly are not a behaviorist, are y o u ? " It was in the effort to answer such inquiries that the present line of thought arose. In 1899, I wrote as follows: Wc cannot tell from introspection what guides our movements. . . . We have to rely on a quantitative determination of the degree of accuracy obtained under different conditions. Here we have a method of psychology which does not depend upon introspection. And it seems undeniable that this method ought to be applied in as many fields as possible. It has already been applied in memory and in some problems of perception. Give the "subject" some difficult task to perform under certain conditions from which he cannot escape (much as in a game); then vary the conditions, and measure and compare the success of his efforts.2 W a s that behaviorism? It certainly announced a program of objective, nonintrospective investigation in psychology. Not having been followed u p aggressively, it has no importance in the history of the matter. It was rescued from oblivion only by the keen eye of Titchener, w h o seized upon it as a recrudescence of an early and, as he j u d g e d , an unpsychological plan of attack. Titchener wrote in 1905: Not a novel method, surely. Not a method whose previous application has been restricted to "memory and some problems of perception." Rather, the method of the earlier work on the "time sense"; the method of the earlier work upon reaction time; the method which, in the domain of Fechnerian psychophysics, has led—among other lamentable results— to the distinction of Weber's and Merkel's laws. The old, bad method of arguing out a psychology on the basis of psychophysical determinations.1 1 R e a d at the Madison meeting of the American Psychological Association, Dec., 1923. Reprinted from the Psychological Review, X X X I (1924), 257-64. * Accuracy of Voluntary Movement, p. 25. 1 Experimental Psychology, Quantitative, Instructor's Manual, p. 367.

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Titchener puts the matter in its true perspective. So far from experimental psychology having begun as a purely introspective enterprise and needing young upstarts to force it into objective channels, it made its beginning with nonintrospective studies of reaction time, psychophysics, and memory, and, about 1900, through the efforts of Muller, Kiilpe, Titchener, and others, was just beginning to take shape as a genuinely introspective science. Since that date, introspective psychology has been busy perfecting its technique, and has achieved some rather striking successes in the fields of sensation, memory, and thinking. Meanwhile, the objective method in psychology, while indeed an " o l d " method, has not yet been cast out as a " b a d " method, but has been fully as much used as the introspective methods. T h e true state of the case was best formulated by Cattell, when he said, in 1904: There is no conflict between introspective analysis and objective experiment—on the contrary, they should and do continually cooperate. But the rather widespread notion that there is no psychology apart from introspection is refuted by the brute argument of accomplished fact. It seems to me that most of the research work that has been done by me or in my laboratory is nearly as independent of introspection as work in physics or zoology.4 Was that behaviorism? So inclusive and tolerant a view does not deserve to be called an "ism" of any sort, but rather an envisagement of the actual fact, psychology. However, though objective observation has always bulked large in psychology, there was little excitement over it, and litde attention was paid to its bearing on the general definition of psychology until Watson, a few years later, began to proclaim in no uncertain tones: Psychology as the behaviorist views it is a purely objective experimental branch of natural science. Its theoretical goal is the prediction and control of behavior. Introspection forms no essential part of its methods, nor is the scientific value of its data dependent upon the readiness with which they lend themselves to interpretation in terms of consciousness. The behaviorist attempts to get a unitary scheme of animal response. He recognizes no dividing line between man and brute. The behavior of man, with all of its 4 Popular

Science Monthly, L X (1904), 176-86.

'3°

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refinement and complexity, forms only a part of his total field of investigation.1 There can be no doubt that this is genuine behaviorism. Historically, this is where the term originated. As the outstanding fact in Watson's pronouncement is his rejection of introspection, behaviorism of this genuine and authentic sort has sometimes, in later accounts, been referred to as "methodological behaviorism." I do not believe, however, that such a characterization does justice to Watsonian behaviorism. As a methodology, behaviorism is almost purely negative. It stresses objective methods, which were already in active use, but at first it made no attempt to introduce new objective methods. A little later, to be sure, it proposed to introduce the conditioned-reflex method; but, though the conditioned reflex has proved a very interesting phenomenon, the conditioned-reflex method, thus far, has scarcely gained a foothold, at least in human experimentation. It appears to be more tricky and less controllable than the equally objective verbal-response method, which had long been employed. Methodological behaviorism offers nothing that is characteristic on the positive side. O n the negative side, behaviorism at first seemed to reject introspection, root and branch, and its platform seemed to be summed u p in one plank, "Introspection be b a n n e d ! " A little later, we note a partial relaxation from this negative attitude. Probably injustice to sense physiology, introspection was readmitted under the guise of the "verbal report method." Now a verbal response is as objective a fact as any other response, and as open to the observation of the experimenter; but a verbzil report means a report by the subject of some observation made by him, and presumably made by him because he was in a better position to make it than the experimenter. Verbal report, then, is in no way different from introspection. But behaviorism, as it had rejected introspection without any detailed critique, without any examination of its peculiar difficulties and of the precautions devised by introspectionists to meet these difficulties, so also readmitted introspection, as "verbal report," without any attempt to improve the method or to keep it u p to its maximum reliability. In short, the behavioristic treatment of 1

Psychological Review, 1913; and Behavior, 1914, p. 1.

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introspection has throughout been decidedly amateurish, and represents no real contribution to the science. No, behaviorism was not, is not, essentially a methodology. It had something much more novel and characteristic to offer. Behaviorism is a program, rather than a methodology. Taking its start among students of animal behavior, and chafing under the assumption of the introspectionists that such a study must be mere byplay in psychology, it proposed to take behavior study as fundamental. It proposed to take the animal experiment as the model for experiments on human beings. It proposed to treat animal psychology as general psychology, and to regard human psychology as a special branch. It proposed to derive its fundamental concepts from animal behavior, keeping them free of connotations derived from the more specialized human psychology, and especially free of connotations derived from introspection. This program promised plain sailing in muscular and glandular responses, and, through the medium of linguistic movements, seemed to open u p into the thought processes. Sensation and perception were difficult to approach from this angle; and the behaviorists have taken the rather absurd tack of ignoring and even seeking to deny the reality of sensory and perceptual phenomena. Aside from this obvious weakness, there is something essentially sound about the behaviorist program. It seems reasonable to look for our fundamental concepts in the simplest forms of life, and on them as a basis to build up a system of secondary concepts applicable to the more complex forms. Now there is no inherent connection between this behavioristic program and methodological objectivism. Certainly the behaviorist must stress the objective method, but he might perfectly well admit introspection in some parts of human psychology. On the other hand, one might be a thoroughgoing objectivist without taking any special interest in the behaviorist program, as we see in the case of the worker with mental tests. Behavior study, behavior concepts, laws of behavior, control of behavior—such is the essential program of behaviorism. But certain additional projects are sometimes put forward as parts of this program, and the question arises whether they are inherently bound up with behavior psychology in the strict sense.

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Watson, from the standpoint of the student of behavior as such, has repeatedly denied that behavior psychology is identical with physiology. In studying behavior, we take the organism as a whole, or at least are not concerned with the minute analysis of its functions that is proper to physiology. In particular, the behaviorist is not concerned with the details of the nervous system; he avoids making a fetish of the nervous system. Rather surprising, then, is the insistence by some leading behaviorists upon a neuromechanistic interpretation of all things psychological as the goal of behaviorism. Behavior study is not directly a study of neural mechanisms, behavior concepts are not directly neuromechanistic concepts. That there is no inherent connection between this type of behaviorism and the main type is clear from several facts: 1. One may be a behaviorist without attachment to the neuromechanistic project. Watson is an example. 2. One may be an introspectionist and still believe in neuromechanistic interpretation. Titchener is an example. 8 In fact, belief in a complete neural and organic mechanism for all mental life has been rather common among those who have defined psychology as the science of consciousness. They may have regarded themselves as parallelists, but we could transform them into naive monists without changing their status as psychologists—the questions of monism and dualism, parallelism and interactionism, being, as I conceive, wholly irrelevant in the science of psychology. 3. Lashley 7 has endeavored, with considerable success, to show that neuromechanistic interpretation can take full account of all that is well established in introspective psychology. That is equivalent to showing that there is no necessary antagonism between introspective psychology and this type of behaviorism, and that therefore there is no inherent connection between this type of behaviorism and objectivism. 4. T h e lack of opposition between introspection and mechanistic interpretation comes out clearly in the concrete work of Helmholtz. In his theory of hearing, Helmholtz was making a definite attempt to furnish a mechanistic interpretation of introspective data, such •Sec, for example, his Beginner's Psychology (1918), pp. 1 7 - 1 8 . ''Psychological Review, X X X (1923), 237-72, 329-53.

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*33

as overtones and difference tones. He was endeavoring to reach a conception of the mechanism of the cochlea that should square with these introspective facts. This instance is typical of the labors of sense physiology. Thus it appears that the neuromechanistic project is not distinctively behavioristic. The same can be said of another project that also is highly commendable in itself. The word "behavior," in common parlance, suggests socially and personally important conduct, and when behaviorists include the study of such conduct in their program, the first impression is that such "behavior study" belongs logically in behaviorism and nowhere else. The psychoanalysts are an instance to the contrary, being concerned above all things with conduct in this sense, but not being averse to introspective methods in their study of the individual, not being impressed at all with the psychological importance of animal behavior, and not being in the least inclined to a neuromechanistic interpretation. MacDougall is another instance in point.* There is, of course, no reason why behaviorists should not study social behavior, but on the other hand there is no reason why other psychologists should keep their hands off. The several projects announced as belonging to the behaviorist program are not mutually inconsistent, but neither are they mutually coherent. In order to be a behaviorist, must one endorse all these projects, any one of them, or some particular one at least? Does one qualify as a behaviorist simply by using and stressing objective methods, or must one also stress the fundamental importance of animal behavior as the source of the concepts of psychology? Is it enough to be a student of personality and social conduct, or must one be working toward a neuromechanistic interpretation? If it is a mistake to tie up one form of behaviorism with another, it is equally unnecessary to tie up behaviorism with any special hypothesis, such as that of the linguistic nature of all thought. This view of thought has been held in the past by many who could not otherwise qualify as behaviorists, and Washburn has pointed out9 * Sec his recent article, "Purposive or Mechanical Psychology," Psychological Review, X X X (1923), 273-88. •Psychological Review, X X I X (igas), n o .

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that it is the introspective evidence of inner speech during thinking, rather than any existing objective record of speech movements, that has really given rise to the linguistic conception of thought. O n the other side, it is perfectly possible to construct a nonlinguistic conception of thought that shall have the earmarks of behaviorism. Let us suppose, what to my mind is probable, that the simplest and earliest thinking is not linguistic in the least, but consists in adjustments of the individual to situations of novelty and difficulty—practical adjustments, not linguistic nor symbolic in any way. O n the motor side, they should be looked for, not in the larynx, but in the hands and other organs of practical response. As thinking becomes more abstract and less closely bound to an actually present situation, these practical motor adjustments persist in some degree, and constitute the framework of all thought responses. With the development of speech in the individual, numerous linkages are formed between the practical and the linguistic responses, yet this does not mean an identity of the thought adjustments proper with the linguistic responses, since often an individual handles a situation intelligently without being able to tell in words what he has done or what he plans to do. Such a conception, whether more true or not than the linguistic conception of thought, would square equally well with the behaviorist's general predilections. It would certainly be a mistake to use the linguistic conception of thought as a touchstone in deciding whether or not to call any one a behaviorist. Behaviorism does not stand or fall with any special hypothesis which behaviorists happen to like. Behaviorism, as an "ism," appears to be a sort of rationalization of certain research projects that lie (or lay) outside of the conventional field of psychological work. It appears as a theoretical justification for certain lines of work which were really entered upon because, taken for themselves, and quite apart from any philosophical justification, they promised to bear good scientific fruit. In reality, the behaviorists, as individual investigators, require no such theoretical justification. They are amply justified by their works. Animal psychology is justified apart from behaviorism; physiological psychology is justified apart from behaviorism; the behavior study of infants is justified by its works, quite apart from

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any behavioristic theory. O n e would be proud to be the author of any one of numerous investigations made by behaviorists. O n e need not be a behaviorist to admire them. O n e need not have been a behaviorist to have made them. In short, if I am asked whether I a m a behaviorist, I have to reply that I do not know, and do not much care. If I am, it is because I believe in the several projects put forward by behaviorists. If I a m not, it is partly because I also believe in other projects which behaviorists seem to avoid, and partly because I cannot see any one big thing, to be called "behaviorism"—any one great inclusive enterprise binding together the various projects of the behaviorist into any more intimate union than they enjoy from being, each and severally, promising lines of work in psychology.

IX

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A JUSTIFICATION OF

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INSTINCT1

I ASK YOU to think of me as rising to speak on a motion before the house. It has been moved, and seconded, that the word instinct be expunged from our scientific vocabulary, and that the whole concept of instinct g o with it. T h e word is slippery, and the concept is alleged to be superfluous, misleading, and out of conformity with the facts. T h e objectionable concept, as I understand it, envisages a complex, serial performance of m u c h regularity, provided as an integrated whole b y the native constitution of the individual. T h e notion of horme or impulse need not be included in the definition, since, whether or not it is always present in instinct, it is equally present in m a n y learned performances. In opposing this proposal, I realize that I run the risk of appearing unprogressive. Progress in psychology has so often consisted in laying aside traditional views and concepts, that the safest course for any of us w h o wishes to keep near the van of the procession is to climb aboard the elimination band wagon whenever and wherever it appears. In the present instance, however, the proposed elimination is either too radical or else not radical enough. Instinct fills a necessary place in a certain system of concepts, and needs to be kept unless the whole system is let go. T h e considerations advanced in favor of eliminating instinct, while valuable in themselves, are largely irrelevant to the question. It is urged that the notion of instinct, or inherited behavior, is superfluous because all that is inherited reduces to structure. T h e boomerang, as Watson points out, 2 is not thought of as having an instinct to return to the thrower, but simply as having a structure that makes the return inevitable. This objection ought to rule out 1 Read at the Philadelphia meeting of the American Psychological Association, Dec. 28, 1926. Slightly modified. Reprinted from the Journal of Abnormal and Social Psychology, X X I I (1927), 3-7. 1Behaviorism (1925), p. 84.

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reflex along with instinct—and habit as well, since what is retained in habit reduces to structure. Certainly behavior can be inherited or retained only by way of structure (living structure, to be sure); but if we are to speak of behavior at all, we need behavior concepts. T h e fact that behavior depends on structure need not deter us from using concepts based on the facts of behavior, rather than on the often unknown facts of structure. Another consideration, advanced by Dunlap* and by Carmichael, 4 stresses the impossibility of segregating native from acquired behavior. From the moment of fertilization on, all development involves the interplay of the organism and its environment. Change the environment, and you change the course of development, perhaps so radically as to produce an adult organism not possessing some of the so-called native traits of the species. O n the other hand, the native factor operates in every acquisition of a habit. These considerations are certainly important in their place, and cannot be evaluated in a paragraph. I may simply say that they are either irrelevant to our present theme, or else commit us to a much more radical step than is now proposed, since they would force us to desist from speaking of acquired behavior as well as of native. Again, it is urged by Perrin and Klein,* among other considerations, that an instinct is analyzable into simpler performances, reflexes, and "physiological" processes, and that therefore we ought, scientifically, to speak of the components and not of the complex performance. The same reasoning would forbid us to employ the concept of habit, meaning an acquired complex performance, as it would likewise forbid the chemist to speak of his acids and salts or of any but elementary chemical substances. O f course we need concepts for behavior compounds, provided only the compounds are definite and regular enough to admit of definition. The sociologists and anthropologists urge upon our attention, as an objection to instinct, what is better described as an objection to the "criterion of universality" usually put forward as a means of identifying an instinct. Psychologists are prone to omit mentioning social transmission as a source of uniform behavior. Behavior uni* Journal oj Philosophy, X I X (1922), 91-94. * Journal of Abnormal and Social Psychology, X X (1925), 245-60. * Psychology, Its Methods and Principles (1926), pp. 123-26.

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formities may be handed down by way of the germ plasm, as in the case of reflexes, or by way of the social environment, as in the case of a language. Mere uniformity, even though amounting to universality within a species, is no proof of a native trait. The ontogenesis of the trait furnishes the only real criterion. But we need not give up the concept of instinct just because we have heedlessly admitted a false criterion, which, in practice, we have not followed blindly—for recent psychologists, certainly, have not asserted that such universal culture traits as language, or the use of fire, are human instincts. The only objection to the general concept of instinct that is wholly relevant is that of Allport* and others, to the effect that this concept does not correspond to any facts of behavior, since the serial integration of the reflexes into any complex performance is always the result of learning. All complex behavior patterns, it is asserted, are habit complexes, so that instincts, if carefully defined, simply do not exist, at least in man. Here we have a question of fact, and the known facts are still fragmentary; but such evidence as we have seems sufficient to demonstrate the existence of a few instincts at least. Let us consider nutritive behavior. The series of processes starts with metabolism, depleting the food stuffs in the body fluids. This depleted chemical state facilitates general motor activity, and in particular facilitates stomach contractions, which excite local receptors, give rise to the hunger sensation, and still further facilitate general activity. In many animals, this facilitation affects the mouth and its ancillary organs to a special degree—whether the same is true of the newborn human child has not been scientifically determined. At any rate, it is significant that the nipple between the infant's lips, during this hungry state, immediately concentrates the infant's activity upon the mouth region, with sucking and, in regular sequence, swallowing, gastric secretion and peristalsis, opening of the pylorus, intestinal secretion and peristalsis, and absorption of the digested food into the body fluids. This nutritive behavior sequence cannot possibly be described as a habit complex, a learned integration of reflexes. For one thing, it is not composed entirely of reflexes, but includes also metabolic processes, hormone action, and so-called random movements, which • Social Psychology (1934), p. 43.

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are so called because they are too variable to fit under the strict physiological conception of a reflex. Also, the orderly sequence of the component processes is certainly not acquired by "conditioning" or by trial and error; for it is a sequence which, though not exercised before birth, makes its appearance promptly after birth. The orderly sequence, taken as a whole, is not in this instance integrated by the nervous system, but depends on the mouthgullet-stomach-intestine sequence in the structure of the alimentary tract, on the chemical characteristics of metabolism, and on the differing responsiveness of different neural and peripheral organs to various hormones, as well as on the location of receptors and on their neural connections. It is not necessary to suppose that there is any one nerve center presiding over the whole serial performance. Yet the integration is intra-organic, the orderly sequence is a characteristic of the organism and not of the environment. One link in the chain, indeed, the getting of food to the lips, depends on accidents of the environment, and is a loose link and subject to modification through learning. Yet it would be absurd, after some modification of this link, to speak of the whole chain as a habit complex. Even after the adult has regularized his hours and places of eating, his choice of foods, and his table manners, it would be absurd to speak of nutritive behavior as the "habit of nutrition," since the sequence of processes, taken as a whole, remains as instinctive as ever. What is so clear in the case of hungry behavior is probably true also of thirsty behavior, of sleepy behavior, of sex behavior, and in other instances—perhaps even of fighting, though here, as often, it is unfortunate that the name given to the instinct applies primarily to the adult and greatly modified condition of the behavior complex. When we can trace out a genetic continuity from the early and native to the adult form of a given type of performance, and when the real core of the performance remains the same through all modifications, then we can properly speak of an instinct. Unmodified instincts of any great complexity will probably not be found in the human adult; and only careful ontogenetic study will show how wide the scope of instinct, unmodified or modified, may be. So far from being a sedative to research—and this is another of the objections that has been raised against instinct—the concept

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of instinct is sure to be in the future, as it has been in the past, the incentive to painstaking study of the developing individual. In the last analysis, the difficulty with scrapping instinct is that instinct does not stand alone. It is one of a system of interrelated and contrasting concepts, among which reflex, emotion, and habit are the most important. If we eliminate instinct but keep the alternative concepts, we force our descriptions of behavior into an incomplete and insufficient set of molds. We take the edge off of the concept of a reflex. We introduce the false connotation of "mere habit" into our account of modified instinctive behavior. We lose sight of the continuity of individual development. We make a breach between human and animal psychology. We may be driven to the absurd extreme of denying to biological heredity any important part in the life of the human adult. Either keep instinct, I should say, or else let the whole outfit go. Clear the decks of all these old concepts, and take a fresh start with the concrete actualities of behavior. Until we are ready to try this radical experiment—which after all, might prove worth trying—we had better keep instinct, if only as a foil to habit. Without the concept of instinct to hold it in check, the concept of habit is bound to lead us very far astray.

X

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GESTALT

PSYCHOLOGY

OF REACTION

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STAGES1

MY REAL OBJECT in the present paper is, I am afraid, to glorify the stimulus-response psychology, or that variety of it which appeals to me and which has room for "mental reactions." The view that all processes within the organism are responses to stimuli may appear so platitudinous as to be poindess. I should like to show that this view has teeth. I would have it try its teeth on the Gestalt psychology-—not, indeed, on the concrete experiments and working program of the Gestalt psychologists, which are certainly well worth while, but upon their system, with its generalizations and exclusions. Let me start by outlining the view that appeals to me. When an external stimulus impinges on the organism and elicits a motor response, there is undoubtedly a series of intraorganic processes intervening between stimulus and movement, sometimes a relatively short series, as in reflex action, and sometimes a long series, as in the skillful handling of a complex situation indicated by the stimulus. These intervening processes do not form a simple chain, but they can be schematically represented as a series of stages. Now the relation of each stage in the total process to that which just precedes it is the relation of response to stimulus. Each stage is aroused by the preceding stage and in turn arouses the stage which follows. T h e later stage is not a continuation, or development, or organization, or readjustment of the preceding stage, but a fresh activity involving, no doubt, fresh neural or muscular mechanisms. Some of the stages of the total reaction may be called "mental," which does not imply in the least that they are transcendental and incapable of description in terms of neural and muscular activity, or even, conceivably, in terms of the motions of electrons and protons, but simply that it is more profitable, for the present, at least, to describe them in such terms as "recognition of an object," "thought of another object," or 1 Reprinted from the American Journal of Psychology, Washburn Volume, X X X I X (1927), 62-69.

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"desire for a certain result." These mental events are responses to what precedes them in the total reactive process, and they are also the exciting causes of what follow them. They are reactions. They take time; undoubtedly each has a latency or reaction time, for each is the activity of a different mechanism. Each adds something new to the total reaction. Each stage has characteristics of its own, and is different from the preceding stages, just as muscular contraction is different from the activity of sense organs. The object of this conception of reaction stages is not in the least to minimize the enormous neural complexity of the whole process, but to point out that the total reaction is not a continuous flow of energy through the organism, but the awakening to activity successively of different parts of the organism, each part being awakened to its own type of activity, though all these activities have this in common, that they are responses to stimuli reaching them from other parts of the organism, or from the environment. A typical, fairly direct total reaction includes the following stages, following in order upon the external stimulus: sensation, perception, intention, muscular contraction, movement of limbs and of external objects manipulated. The last stage is not a reaction in the strict sense, since it involves no new activity of living cells, but it is an essential stage in the whole process, and deserves mention on the same plane as the external stimulus. Now I wish to set up four men of straw, in order, by contrast, to make the features of the reaction-stage theory more clean-cut and attractive. I fully admit them to be men of straw, though I believe the caricatures will be easily recognized. These four are the sensationist, the perceptionist, the intentionist, and the motorist. Each of these psychologists is so fascinated with a single reaction stage that he seeks to interpret the whole reaction in terms of that one stage. For the sensationist, perception and intention are compoundings of sensation, while muscular contraction lies outside of the field of psychology. The stage of sensation provides all the elements, and the later stages consist of different aggregations and emphases of these elements. The questions to be asked regarding any percept or intention concern the elementary sensations of which it is composed, and the relative clearness or prominence of each in the compound. The sensationist can point with legitimate pride to many excellent

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'43

studies of the senses and of the sensory data on which various perceptions are based. The perceptionist denies the sensationist's multiplicity of elements, and looks with disfavor on the whole program of analytic study. Surveying the field from the base line of perception, he sees everywhere things, events, wholes, with form and meaning, not to be resolved into constituent parts. In place of analysis, he proposes a program of investigation into the conditions favorable or unfavorable to the recognition of patterned wholes. Intention he regards as the drift of perceived patterns toward greater symmetry or more stable equilibrium. Even motor learning is essentially this same perceptual process. The intentionist sees everywhere conation, desire, wish-fulfillment. The play of motives is omnipresent in life, and nothing else seems worthy of consideration. There is nothing mechanical in behavior, but always wishful doing. The only thing worth studying is what the individual wants, and how his different wants interfere with one another. The organism is a bundle, or system, of desires, which infallibly reach their goals, except for the interference of other desires. The organism has, in fact, no machinery to be considered, but only driving forces. The motorist is so impressed with the importance and objectivity of the motor response that he denies the importance, or even the existence, of sensation, perception, and intention. If there are stages in the process leading from external stimulus to muscular contraction, they are simply stages in the motor response. The organism has no characteristics save those of movement (and of glandular activity), and will be fully understood when the characteristics of motor response have been sufficiently examined. Now each of these men of straw represents a fruitful line of psychological investigation, but for that very reason each system of psychology is obviously false. It is absurd that psychologists generally should be expected to choose between such one-sided and fanatical systems. What is needed is a system that shall have a logical place for every sort of scientific psychological work, and the framework of such a comprehensive system seems to be provided by the concept of reaction stages. The concept of stages of reaction is certainly not new. It is prob-

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ably the view of most psychologists, though not all would look with any special favor on the particular list of stages given above. It is almost certainly the view of physiologists, who speak of a muscle fiber as excited by its motor nerve fiber, of the dendrites of one neurone as being excited by the axon terminals of another neurone, and so forth. Each structure has its own type of activity, and at any moment is in possession of a certain amount of immediately disposable energy which, according to the all-or-none law, it consumes completely in the single response. The physiological concepts of stimulus threshold, of summation of stimuli, of latent time, and of refractory period, are all bound up with the general notion of response to stimulus. The most active opponents of the stimulus-response psychology at present are the Gestalt psychologists, caricatured above as the "perceptionists." This group, in their general theory, seem to ignore the all-or-none law, intraorganic thresholds, synapse resistance, and everything that bespeaks that relative discontinuity which is implied in the notion of stimulus and response. They wish to think of the physiological mechanism as a complete continuum, similar to a network of charged wires. This system, being at a given moment at equilibrium within itself and with the environment, is disturbed by an intercurrent force, whereupon a shifting of internal tensions occurs till a new equilibrium is reached. Possibly this conception can be harmonized with accepted physiological laws, though it certainly appears inconsistent with them. The Gestalt conception seems specially inadequate to deal with the effects of a plurality of stimuli. Consider first the case of two simultaneous stimuli. Let two bright lights suddenly appear in the field of view, one to the right and one to the left of the present fixation point. If either light were alone, "equilibrium" would be reestablished by a turning of the eyes toward that light. Since both lights act at once, the principle of continuum of forces would require us to conclude that the two effects would balance each other according to the parallelogram of forces, so that the eyes would remain staring straight forward, or come to rest at some intermediate position, according to the relative intensity of the two lights. Nothing of the sort occurs, however, but the eyes fixate one or the other of the two lights, and later, very likely, shift to the other.

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This principle of alternative responses, or of reciprocal inhibition, is illustrated also in spinal reflexes, in binocular rivalry, in the staircase and other ambiguous figures, in selective attention and selective motor response, and is absolutely characteristic of the behavior of the organism. Plurality of simultaneous stimuli is universal, and selective response is equally universal. The physiological Gestalt theory simply does not take care of this line of facts. Succession of stimuli is almost equally universal. Before equilibrium could be reestablished after the first stimulus, it would be disturbed again by the second, and then immediately by the third, so that no equilibrium could be reached, and behavior would have to be an uncertain teetering to and fro, with no definite reactions of any sort. What really happens is an overlapping in time of the responses to successive stimuli. The first stimulus starts a response process on its way through a series of stages; the second stimulus, supervening before the motor response to the first is reached, starts another response process on its way; and so on. In repetitive work, the successive responses, being much alike, succeed each other much like a series of waves; and overlapping them simply means that at any time there is more than one wave progressing through the organism from sense organ to muscle. In other cases, the response to the first (or any) stimulus may be delayed in its completion by passing through several central stages before it reaches the muscles; and then the response wave to the second stimulus reaches the centers while they are still responding to the first stimulus; and thus the two responses influence each other. Complications of this sort may occur to any extent without disturbing the general scheme of reaction stages. Overlapping has been best demonstrated in linguistic processes, such as receiving telegraphic messages,2 typing from copy,* and reading. 4 First a bit of material is vaguely sensed, then more clearly it is "organized" in the light of the context, the motor response is planned, and finally executed in detail. There may be a span of six, * W. L. Bryan and N. Harter, "Studies on the Telegraphic Language: T h e Acquisition of a Hierarchy of Habits, Psychological Review, V I (1899), 346-75. * W. F. Book, " T h e Psychology of Skill with Special Reference to Its Acquisition in Typewriting," University of Montana Publications, 1908, pp. 1 - 1 8 8 . 4 F. M . Hamilton, " T h e Perceptible Factors in Reading," Archives of Psychology, X V n (1907), no. 9.

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eight, or ten words between the receiving eyes or ears and the executing hands or voice. Now the incoming telegraphic clicks do not simply fall into a cistern, to emerge as finger movements some moments later. Something is being done to them at every instant during this interval. T h e y are fed into a machine which performs a series of operations and turns out a finished product at the other end—only there is no material passing through the machine, but only a series of responses. Now a cross section of the organism's activity at any instant would cut across several total reactions, one at its earliest stage, another a little further advanced, another nearly completed. One might be sectioned at the state of sensation, the one before it at the stage of perception, the one before that at the stage of intention. If we then described the organism's activity as seen in cross section, disregarding the fact that wc had cut across several response waves, we could say that the organism's activity showed the multiplicity of elements characteristic of sensation, the configuration characteristic of perception, and the forward-striving characteristic of intention; and it would depend on the bias of the individual observer which of these characteristics he stressed. Something very much of this kind has happened in introspective observation and has led to the divergent assertions of the different schools. T h e sensationist can say that, no matter what state (cross section) we examine, we shall always find sensory elements present. The configurationist retorts that, no matter what state we examine, we always find configuration, and never elements devoid of pattern. T h e Gestalt psychologists have probably proved their case, to the extent of demonstrating that perception (as well as intention and thinking) involves configuration, and that the configuration is not to be described as the aggregation of elements. But they are not content. They wish to show that there is no unfigured activity of the organism. Therefore they deny the reality of sensation, as an unfigured stage in the total response. T h e doctrine of sensation, which the Gestalt psychology rejects, and which I should accept, runs about as follows. The sense organs are composed of receptor units, which are pretty well insulated one from another, so that the activity of each is for the most part unaffected by the activity of the others. Further, the nerve paths lead-

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ing to the sensory centers from the various receptor units are insulated from one another, so that the receptors are projected point for point upon the receiving sensory centers, and what these centers receive consists of discrete stimuli from the various receptor units. So far, there is multiplicity, but no unity, no figure and ground. Configuration begins from this point on, and amounts to a reaction of other structures to the convergent multiplicity of stimuli provided by the sensory apparatus. The configurationists could accept this doctrine, and still retain all the psychological configuration there is. But they wish to rule out the unfigured stage altogether. So, going outside the organism, they point to the existence of real, dynamic, physical configurations, such as the network of electrified wires already mentioned. Another good example would be a ball rolling on the ground, since the motion of every particle in the ball is determined by the motion of the whole ball. Finding configuration to exist outside the organism, they suggest that it passes by some continuous flux into the organism, so that there need be no unfigured stage in the organism's response. Now it can be shown that physical Gestalt is neither necessary nor sufficient to insure perceived Gestalt. The "phi-phenomenon" is an instance of perceived Gestalt without any physical Gestalt. The apparent movement in the motion pictures is another example, since there is no physical motion on the screen. The constellations which we so readily see in the sky are not astronomical systems, but simply aggregations of luminous points that happen to lie in nearly the same direction from the earth. On the other hand, the solar system, which is a physical Gestalt, is not readily perceived as such, but the conception of its dynamic unity has to be built up by piecing together discrete facts. The rolling ball we do readily see as a unitary process, but we do not see, and entirely overlook, the friction of the ball on the ground, which is essential to the physical Gestalt, as without it the ball would not roll. It would seem, then, that the presence of physical Gestalten in the environment is irrelevant to the perception of Gestalt, and that we are still free to believe in an unfigured sensory stage in the total response of the organism. What is meant by calling the sensory stage unfigured can be

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understood from an analogy. Suppose the central weather bureau desires to get a picture of the barometric condition of the country at a given time. It calls upon its observers, at scattered stations, to report the barometric pressure at their respective stations. These several reports, assembled in the central office, make possible the construction of a pressure map, which shows the whole state of pressure. This map is a Gestalt, clearly enough. But the observers who supplied the data for the map were isolated one from the other. In fact, it was essential to the true picture that each barometer, and each report to headquarters, should be independent of the rest. Now the receptor units are the organism's sensitive instruments, and it is essential that each respond truly to the stimulus affecting it alone. From the time of J a m e s we have heard that sensory analysis is an artificial type of experiment, and that it does not really analyze the complex percept that it sets out to analyze, but simply demonstrates that one can, with practice, get another experience from the same stimulus. This is about what the Gestalt psychologists say, in objecting to the sensationist's type of work. Yet one cannot dismiss such achievements as Helmholtz's analysis of a clang into fundamental and overtones as mere laboratory "stunts." What Helmholtz did was to sort out the elements in the unfigured sensory stage of the total response. He did not analyze the clang, if by clang we mean the total quality of a complex tone. In general, sensory analysis is not an analysis of percepts, intentions, or other figured stages of response, but an analysis of the sensory stage of response. It is important, nevertheless, in the study of perception, because it reveals the data on which the percept is based, or, we may say, the immediate stimuli to which the percept is a response.

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N o SYSTEM of psychology can be accepted as adequate if it fails to do justice to two very obvious facts, which may be roughly designated as the space-span and the time-span of behavior. Their genuineness is attested by introspective as well as objective data. The idea intended by the catchword "space-span" is more fully expressed by saying that the organism deals with external objects and events. Dealing with objects is certainly characteristic of man and the higher animals, whose behavior is nicely adjusted to the size, shape, distance, color, weight, and other physical characteristics of the objects. With visual presentation they recognize the same size at different distances, the same shape at different angles, the same physical color under different illuminations; and man at least can recognize hardness, roughness, heaviness, and other physical characteristics through the tactual and kinesthetic senses. We hear "the water running," smell "the fumes from the furnace," feel in our head "the elevator starting or stopping." It is very difficult by introspection to detect the cues of these various objective facts. Binocular disparity, so valuable a cue of distance, is almost unobservable in ordinary vision. The binaural time difference (0.03 ms.), which can serve as a cue that the source of sound is slightly to the right or left of the median plane, is far too small to be observed on its own account. Stimulus characteristics which cannot be directly observed may thus serve as excellent cues of objective facts. Both perception and motor behavior often correspond better with the objective facts than with the stimuli received. In the reception and utilization of a stimulus other factors besides that particular stimulus must be operating, and their locus of operation must be in the brain rather than in the sense organs. Without attempting to evaluate the contribution of experience to the perception of size, distance, shape or color, we simply stress the point that the central factor operates in the process of perception itself and not in superadded higher processes. 1

Reprinted from the American Journal of Psychology, L (1937), 130-40.

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Consider for a moment the perception of object color. A white object is seen as white, even when it stands in a moderate shadow. Its albedo, the ratio of reflected to incident light, may be 80 percent, and this albedo is perceived as such, though roughly. If A=albedo, M = intensity of illumination, and S = intensity of the reflected light which reaches the eye, we have the equation, A = S / M . What the observer does, in effect, is to find A when S and M are given. He solves the equation in some direct, non-mathematical way. S is directly given, and M is given by cues of illumination, especially by the depth of the shadow. Let us assume, what is probable, that perception of the situation in general, including the illumination and the shadow, has a slight priority in time over perception of the shaded object; then we can say that the observer is adjusted to M when he receives S. He receives S into a mechanism already adjusted to M, and therefore the equation is solved in the very process of reception and A is directly perceived. There need be nothing mysterious in this notion of a central adjustment for illumination. The iris adjusts itself to the total illumination and so is a factor in determining the amount of light received by the retina from any given object. The retina adapts itself to light and dark. These peripheral adjustments have been shown to be inadequate to account for the facts of color constancy, and there must be some important adjustment further back in the optic path. In the same way we can write an equation connecting the size of an object, its distance from the eye, and the size of the retinal image or stimulus. If the observer is adjusted to the spatial situation in general, including the distance of the object, then retinal size will directly mean objective size. The fact that these "constancies" are never perfect can mean either or both of two things. The adjustments are imperfect, or there is a sensory impression corresponding directly to the retinal stimulus and not affected by the cerebral adjustment to the objective situation. A white under good illumination may look no whiter or only a little whiter than when seen in shadow, yet it does not look the same. In a good light it gives a stronger or more insistent impression. I will not attempt here to compare this conception of illumination set with the somewhat similar concepts used by Katz, Gelb,

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Thouless, Kardos, and Koffka in explaining the facts of color constancy. There are many other examples, such as the different ways in which the alarm clock is heard when one is awake or asleep, which show the dependence of perception upon one's adjustment to the situation. I am more concerned to show that the same general concept can be fruitfully applied in the field of action and learning, where the time span of behavior creates the theoretical difficulty. Behavior as a continuous process should, of course, be describable in time units as short as you choose, a second or a millisecond, and what goes on in any millisecond must be the result of the forces, internal and external, acting at just that time. For psychological purposes, we are more apt to attempt a description in terms of stimulus-response units. Such a description is likely to become excessively schematic. For example, how shall we break up the horse's walking into a succession of steps? The fore leg and hind leg steps overlap in time and this overlap shows that there is some unity persisting for longer than a single step. The eye-voice span in reading aloud affords a well-recorded example of overlapping processes in a behavior sequence.* The eyes keep several words ahead of the voice, a variable number, about four or five words on the average in a good reader. The vocal response of pronouncing a word follows the foveal stimulus received from that word by an interval of one or two seconds, which is three to six times the reaction time in reading single familiar words. While one word is being pronounced another word is being seen and intervening words are going through the mill. No real sequence of stimulus-response units can be analyzed out of this behavior; the time-span greatly exceeds that of a single reaction and is evidently determined by a central factor. By holding his voice back in this way, the reader secures more continuity, better phrasing and expression, than if he responded to each word separately with his normal reaction time. Much simpler two-phase movements, like striking a blow with a hammer, show a smoothness which is very different from a sequence of two separate movements. For a many-phase movement, observe the flight of a bird from a tree to a bit of food on the ground. He * G. T. Buswell, "An Experimental Study of the Eye-Voice Span in Reading," University oj Chicago, Suppl. Educational Monograph, X V I I (igao), 1-105.

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hops off, makes a number of strokes of the wings, and passes smoothly into braking with his wings, extending his legs and landing. There is a consistent and persistent steer throughout the performance. If we wish to describe these polyphasic movements as sequences of stimulus-response units we can probably do so, but only on condition that we recognize a persistent steer set up by the original stimulus and continuing till the end of the act. This inner steer can be called a goal set or goal-adjustment. Just as the concept of situation-set including adjustment to illumination and distance is useful in explaining the perception of objects out there as distinguished from stimuli received, so in describing motor behavior, the notion of goal set is a conceptual means of taking care of the time-span. The goal need be nothing more distant than the outcome of a two-phase movement. Goal seeking in its lowest terms is the following of a consistent temporal pattern under the control of a persisting set. Situation set and goal set are presumably not separate, especially in the more primitive types of behavior. The situation for which one is adjusted usually includes a goal, since the organism is active and engaged in behavior having a time-span greater than that of a simple reaction. If we conceive of an undifferentiated situationand-goal-set, we avoid the apparent anthropomorphism of attributing rudimentary cognition and goal seeking to animals. The cognition implied in situation-set is not separated from doing, and the goal seeking does not imply ideational anticipation of the goal since the goal is right there in the presented situation. I will not pause to defend the notion of set in general; it has a long and honorable history. I do not see that set is a non-operational and unmanageable concept in the laboratory. Instructions, situations, and goal-objects presented, and skilled treatment of the subjects can be depended on to arouse and maintain the necessary internal adjustment. A set is a type of implicit response to complexes of stimuli from the environment. The words "set" and "adjustment" are not exactly appropriate since set carries a false suggestion of rigidity and adjustment a false suggestion of quietude. In reality these sets are semifluid, and are revised from moment to moment in conformity with environmental changes. Adjustment to the environment is a readiness for action. Situation-and-goal set is an activity in progress.

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T h e utility of this concept can be given a preliminary test by applying it in different fields of psychology and noting whether it introduces clarity into already known results. M y own first use of the concept was in 1906, when I was engaged in an introspective study of the immediate antecedents of a voluntary movement. 1 It was, in a sense, a study of the delayed reaction. A short delay was introduced between the decision to make a certain movement and the execution of that movement. Either the subject was told what movement to make or he was given his choice between two or more. H e was to report his "condition of m i n d " in the short interval of delay. There were two types of reports which seemed trustworthy as well as instructive. Both types are included in the report of one subject on his preparation to hit at a mark. First the chosen mark became focal and then retreated to the background, to be succeeded by thought of the chosen hand; this in turn retreated to the background, leaving a rather blank condition of readiness, and the actual movement emerged out of this blank condition. T h e two points of interest are: (1) that the act was specified in a series of perceptions or thoughts, the partial specifications holding over after once being made; and (2) that the act once specified by these perceptions or thoughts remained specified during a blank period immediately preceding the movement. In discussing these reports, I said: The nervous system may become set or adjusted for a certain act, and remain so for a time without the continuance of clear consciousness of the act. . . . The whole situation, as far as it is known, results in a certain adjustment of the nervous system, so that, for example, acts that would be performed while we are alone are not performed or thought of in public. Each sort of situation produces a corresponding set of the nervous system, and is thus a partial determinant of all the acts that are performed within that situation. When a man confronted by a novel situation observes this and that feature of it in turn, each new perception leaves behind in the nervous system a temporary adjustment to the feature observed, until the whole situation becomes—not clearly mirrored in any one moment of consciousness—but dynamically represented by the sum or resultant of these partial adjustments. If he then thinks of some change that he can make in the situation and decides to make it, . . . the intention to act adds a new partial adjustment to the existing sum of adjustments. • R. S. Woodworth, " T h e Cause of a Voluntary Movement," Studies in Philosophy and Psychology by Former Students oj Charles Edward Gorman (1906), pp. 389 ff.

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In revising the above statement today, I should want to say that the partial adjustments resulting from perception of features of the situation are not simply added together but are built into a preexisting framework of adjustment to the total situation. This adjustment is vague and general at first, and becomes more definite and specific as features of the situation are perceived. In the well-known experiments on delayed reaction, goal set is often visible in the persistent posture of the animal during the interval of delay. When the animal is able to move about during the interval and still go promptly to the right door or container, we have to suppose some kind of superposture which amounts to a situation-and-goal set. W e need not suppose that this set is ideational nor symbolic. It need not in any degree resemble a map which the animal can carry away and consult elsewhere. It may be completely bound to the presented situation. The set is not to be conceived as a sort of replica; it is not representative, though it corresponds to the situation more or less closely. It is only half of a functional unit, the other half being the actual situation. It is analogous to a resonator tuned to a certain pitch but emitting no sound unless vibrations of the correct frequency strike it. It cannot be identical with Koffka's "behavioral environment," 4 though there is some similarity between the two. For behavioral environment seems to be representative. Koffka says that in exploration it is the behavioral environment that is explored. One can not conceive the situation set as being explored. It incorporates the results of exploration in a dynamic but not a pictorial form. T h e situation set, at first a bare framework, is filled in by exploration, including tentative manipulation by which mechanical characteristics of objects are revealed, such as weight, hardness, flexibility. The characters of objects, the make-up of the situation and the happenings that occur there become known, though this 'knowing' is nonideational and wholly bound to the presented situation. Troland's conception of the retroflex is of great value in understanding both exploratory and goal-seeking behavior. 6 T h e efferent nerve current to the muscles is immediately followed by afferent 4 5

Kurt Koffka, Principles of Gestalt Psychology (1935), pp. 27, 37. L. T . Troland, The Fundamentáis of Human Motivation (1928), pp. 215 ff.

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currents, both from the kinesthetic end organs and also in most cases from distance receptors, since most movements produce perceptible external effects. A behavior segment never terminates in a movement but always in sensory impulses resulting from the movement. Introspectively it is clear that we are almost never interested in the movement itself, as distinguished from the sensations of the movement and especially from the visible or otherwise discernible external consequences of the movement. Muscular contraction in itself is almost never a goal. The human subject is object-directed in his movements as well as in the reception of stimuli. The retroflex therefore consists not simply of sensory impressions but of objective facts perceived. In goal-directed movements the retroflex affords a check on their success or failure. It shows whether one has hit the mark at which the stone was aimed. The terminus ad quem of such a bit of behavior is obviously not the muscular contractions in the arm but the perceived objective results. Exploratory behavior is equally object-directed. A certain spot, within a place to which one is already adjusted in a general way, attracts the eyes, a saccadic movement gives foveal vision of that spot and reveals some character of the spot which is added as a detail to the situation set. Suppose the subject to be a rat, and let the spot be revealed as a hole: he thrusts his snout into it (tentative manipulation)and is blocked; the hole takes on a negative character, it is not a way out, and this negative character of the spot is incorporated into the situation set. Is it anthropomorphic to credit the rat, inveterate explorer that he is, with an object-directed attitude toward the situation explored? Certainly it would be more anthropomorphic to credit him with a stimulus-directed attitude such as human beings acquire only by training in analysis of sensory complexes. It takes a trained artist to detect the stimulus-colors in a scene, whereas the child, the monkey, and even the fish respond correctly to the color of objects. In lifting a weight it is difficult to detect the sensory cues from skin, joints, and muscles, but it is easy to observe the weight of the object. A psychologically unsophisticated rat would almost surely be object-directed. Since we know from the rat's behavior that he explores a locality and becomes adapted to it, it seems safe to assume that his exploration makes him acquainted with the place, his ac-

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quaintance being of the non-ideational type which we designate as situation set. If we are allowed to assume that the animal is object-directed and that exploration builds u p in him a practical acquaintance with the presented situation, we shall find that many phenomena of animal learning fall readily into line. The "latent learning" which occurs when a rat runs a maze with no reward in the food box is readily understood as place learning. I will not review the evidence for place learning which I have summarized elsewhere.6 Maze learning is chiefly place learning. Once the character of each alley has been discovered and sufficiently drilled into the situation set, suitable locomotion follows as a matter of course. Flooding the maze or laming the animal may necessitate a change in the form of locomotion from running to swimming or rolling, but the right path is still followed. In the problem box something more than place has to be learned; some mechanical device has to be manipulated and the character of this device must be discovered by trial manipulations. What is learned is not a particular muscular response to certain stimuli, but the character of a certain object. The door button becomes a thing to turn, or the downhanging string a thing to pull, with claws or teeth, it does not matter which. The law of effect gives some difficulty when the assumption is that a direct connection is formed or strengthened between a given stimulus and a certain motor response, as between the sight of the door button and some specific movement. Since the stimulusresponse connection operates before the effect becomes manifest, how can the latter work back on the former? Thorndike has indeed shown that this apparent backward working is physiologically conceivable, but the matter becomes simpler if we assume that the animal is object-directed. While exploring the cage the animal spies the door button; he claws at it and it moves. The fundamental problem in learning lies right here. Does the animal thus learn that the button is movable? I assume that this simple behavior sequence —seeing button, clawing it, and getting the retroflex of button moving—-yields a momentary acquaintance with that object, an acquaintance which may be strengthened by repetition. If so much as this is granted, the door-opening character of the button can be • R . S. Woodworth, Psychology, 3d ed. (1934), pp. 326-8.

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discovered by further manipulation. T h e character of goodness attaches for the animal not to his movements in manipulating the button but to the button as an object. There is no difficulty in finding situation-and-goal set in the conditioned-reflex experiment. Adjustment to the laboratory, to the harness, to the experiment, must first be secured. The animal must have explored enough to reach that state of "alert quiet" which Liddell and his coworkers find necessary for the success of the experiment. 7 A metronome begins to tick; unless it is straight in front the animal turns his head and localizes the sound as something objective in the room. When it has ticked a few seconds, and probably before the animal's attention to it has quieted down, a shock supervenes, delivered by an electrode attached to the animal's foreleg. This being the first shock received, the response is violent and continued, but when the episode is over the animal resumes his alert quiet. After several repetitions of the same stimulus-pair, agitation starts at the sound of the metronome; the two stimuli and their responses have become integrated into a single behavior pattern and are included in its time-span. As the shock is, after all, not very dreadful and as it cannot be escaped, the whole behavior may become (though not in all animals) much more matter-of-fact, and we then witness a very definite temporal pattern of behavior. At the sound of the metronome, the animal raises head and ears, stiffens, half flexes the leg which is to receive the shock, receives the shock, and flexes the leg completely, then replaces the leg on the floor and visibly relaxes. The animal has developed a definite adjustment to the metronome-shock sequence; he has built into his total situation set a specific adjustment to this feature of the situation; he has learned the "character" of that metronome. If, now, an extinction experiment follows, the metronome ticking as before but the shock being omitted, the behavior pattern fades out with repeated trials. T h e situation has changed in one important particular and the animal has readjusted himself. The metronome has acquired the new character of not being followed by a shock. Our assumption can, it would seem, be subjected to experi7 H. S. Liddell, W. T . James, and O . D. Anderson, " T h e Comparative Physiology of the Conditioned Motor Reflex," Comparative Psychology Monograph, 11 (1934), no. 51, 1-89.

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mental test in this case of the conditioned response. If the animal is object-directed, exceptionally quick conditioning should be obtained if the metronome sound (or buzz or tone) were emitted by the electrode itself. W e can also predict that "sensory generalization" could be readily obtained across modalities, if for example a sound and a light were emitted by the same object; and "differentiation" between two such stimuli should be difficult to establish. Many interesting questions concerning this whole conception must be deferred for some future occasion. Ideation we can define as dealing with objects not present or situations not present. Since the details of a situation need not all be presented at the same instant (as shown by the delayed response) we can readily believe that a situation set can be reinstated by relatively few cues. W e could probably find transitional cases between sets that are rigidly bound to the presented situation and those which are revived in the absence of the situation by verbal cues. T h e origin of situation set in the life history of the individual is a matter for investigation. Our assumption is that the object-directed attitude is a fundamental bent of the individual and that it is the main function of the cerebrum. T h e existence of an external world does not have to be forced upon the child; he is a naive realist from the start. One of the first characteristics of the world which the child explores is the gravitational, and it is interesting to reflect that the fundamental up-down dimension must be for him, in view of his manifold positions, environmental and not intraorganic. Adults think of their head as up, feet as down, but this is not characteristically true of the child, who is beginning his acquaintance with the world. T h e child does not "project" the up-down dimension from his organism into the world, but finds it in his relations with the environment. The concept of situation-and-goal set lends itself to the study of maladjustment and disorientation. The individual is not an unbiased registering instrument, and his adjustment may be more in tune with his own drives, preferences, and goals than with the objective situation. No system of psychology, as far as I know, has made explicit use of the concept of situation set. It has seemed absurd to bring the external world into a psychological system except as the source of

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stimuli and the catchall of responses. My contention is that the environment must be brought into the center of the system, as a cerebral or organismic set, in order to describe, let alone explain, behavior and thought. Existing systems have not succeeded in their descriptions except by tacitly assuming an object-directed attitude in the subject, even when they ruled this attitude out of their systems. Titchener's judgment in the matter is well known: " I t is natural and customary to think, not of mental processes, but of the things and events about us,—while it is, as I believe, absolutely necessary to get rid of things, and to think only of the mental processes, if we are to have a science of psychology." 8 He trained his observers to report only "content" or "process," and not meaning and objective reference. But the observers found it difficult to give a coherent report of their thought processes without telling what they had thought about. Titchener therefore made a concession: meanings might be reported, provided they were sharply distinguished from content.' From a very different angle, certainly, Hunter also formally discards the environment: "Nowhere does the anthroponomist study the subject's environment except as a possible source of stimuli for the subject's behavior." 10 Yet practically all descriptions of behavior are couched in terms of objects and what the subject does with them. Is this type of description adopted simply to avoid the pedantic circumlocution of referring continually to the detailed stimuli and muscular contractions, or is there not a tacit and inevitable assumption that the animal is dealing with the environment? It might seem that situation set would be an acceptable concept to the Gestalt psychology; but it is really inconsistent with emphasis on the fundamental rôle of the stimulus-pattern or of organization in the visual field. The common man as he looks about is not interested in configurations but in objects, not in the visual field but in the objective field. We scarcely realize how little stability or practical significance inheres in the stimulus-pattern. Let us permit • E. B. Titchener, Lectures on the Expérimental Psychology oj the Thought-Processes (190g), pp. 145 if. •Titchener, "Description vs. Statement of Meaning," this journal, X X I I I (1912), 165-82. 10 W. S. Hunter, Anthroponomy and Psychology, Psychologies oj 1930 (1930), p. 297.

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our observer to remove his head from the chin rest and to move freely about the room; or let the observer be a child on a visit, playing in a strange yard. As he inspects the interesting objects from various angles, and runs all around the yard, his visual pattern is changing from moment to moment. The succession of his visual fields would make a surprising motion picture. But this continual flux does not confuse the observer. He soon knows the location of the important objects and is quite at home. What he has built u p is certainly not a stable visual configuration; it is a set for the objective situation. A fundamental principle of Gestalt psychology, as I understand, is that organization in a sensory field is only secondarily controlled by central factors; fundamentally it is impressed upon the field by the stimulus pattern. A situation set, however, is already present whenever any stimulus-pattern is received. The stimulus-pattern must fit into the framework provided by the situation set, though it may, to be sure, cause that set to be revised. The central objectdirected factor is primary. The foregoing discussion is offered as a contribution to a movement in progress. Many psychologists have expressed somewhat the same ideas in different form. I hesitate to make a hasty list of them for fear of omitting some who should certainly be included.

ABNORMAL

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attain in dreams an altogether exceptional rapidity? Common opinion answers, yes, and appeals, for scientific support, to the records of such remarkable dreams as that of "Maury guillotine." M. Victor Egger, however, in the Revue philosophique for July, 1895 (pp. 40-46), subjects the evidence to searching criticism, and opposes the common opinion. He also hints at a method for investigating the question experimentally. Following this suggestion, though somewhat altering the method, I have obtained definite evidence for M. Egger's position and against the common belief. The method is simply this: to time trains of association during normal waking conditions, count the number of scenes in such trains, and, when they are recollections, recall the time taken by the original experiences. The procedure is so simple as hardly to need description. The subject was told to begin at a signal and let his thoughts reel off as fast as they would. Sometimes he was stopped after 5 or 20 or 30 seconds, and sometimes allowed to keep on until he felt the thoughts come slowly. Immediately, he reviewed the images which had just passed through his mind, and made a mark, on a piece of paper, for each image. The "images," not always visual, were required to have such a degree of separateness from the preceding and following as to be counted as separate stages of the associative process. After making this count, the subject generally went on to record his reverie in detail. The conditions of the experiment approximate closely to those of a dream recalled on waking. The main difference is that in the experiment the flow of imagination is less spontaneous, and probably, therefore, somewhat slower than in either a dream or a perfectly spontaneous reverie. For the purpose in hand there is no need of averages or of a large number of experiments. It is sufficient to find, without looking far, frequent instances of associations rapid enough to duplicate the DOES

1

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Reprinted from the Psychological Review, I V (1897), 524-26.

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wonders of the famous dreams. Of the ten students on whom I experimented, one, a rather heavy, deliberate sort of man, required about 3 seconds for an image. Few, however, required more than half that time, and when the train of imagination was but 5 seconds long the time required for an image sank as low as 0.6, 0.3 or 0.25 seconds. Now Maury's dream, as recorded, contained not more than 16 images, and these closely grouped into 4 scenes. So much may easily be imagined by a man awake, in 3 or 4 seconds; and Maury's dream may have taken as much time as that. T o the objection that in dreams we certainly do live over again long series of events in a very short time, I would reply that, except for the illusion of reality in dreams, the same thing occurs in waking reveries. M y slowest subject reviewed, in 11 o seconds, a trip which occuped 2Yi, days, recalling 35 distinct and complete scenes. Another reviewed, in 37.5 seconds, a drive of 3 hours, recalling 19 images. Another reviewed very thoroughly a 2-weeks' canoe trip, in 82 seconds, by means of 72 images. Another reviewed, in 29.5 seconds, 2 trips among the mountains, one occupying 4 hours, the other 20 hours. This last recollection was described as extremely full and vivid, and as comprising, around each of the 45 images, "many others of varying intensity which seem to be simultaneous." This same subject recalled, in 5 seconds, 20 images from an evening out. Still another saw, in 5 seconds, a 9-scene panorama of a trip from Boston to Detroit. Add to any of these the illusion present in a dream, and you have all that is necessary for "living over again," in a few moments, large segments of past experience. I will transcribe the record of one of these experiments. I started by looking at my table cover. Some round spots on this made me think of flecks of foam on the sea; that called up a marine painting which I had recently seen; next I had before me in rapid succession 3 scenes from a rowing trip taken last summer, 5 scenes from a bicycle ride on the adjacent shore, and 3 scenes from the railroad journey thence to Boston. That reminded me of a friend whom I met on the train; and next I saw myself leaving the Boston station, loaded down with baggage, and accompanied by my friend. Soon we separated, I taking one of his cards. I then thought of some visiting cards which I had ordered and expected by mail, then of a check I had just received, of going off and spending this money,

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of going to Europe, of climbing the Alps. Next I seemed to be swimming across the ocean; in the middle I met a good-sized codfish, which sported with me, and finally proceeded to swallow me. I passed right through the fish's body, coming out at the tip of his tail. Grabbing him by the tail, I swung him around in the air and slapped him against the water. Flames now rose around me, generating a gas which wafted me high into the sky; there I flopped over a few times and then, diving back into the water, penetrated deeper and deeper, straight through the earth, till I emerged in the Chinese sea. There on the grassy shore stood a row of gaily dressed Chinamen, who began a lively dance, but soon changed to a row of Chinese lanterns, bobbing in the wind. At this point I consulted my watch, and found that the whole had taken 56 seconds. As there are but 39 images, the series is not nearly so rapid as some of those of my other subjects. Add the illusion of objective reality, and we have here the conditions of a dream of "marvellous rapidity." "Last night," the dreamer would report, " I had a dream in which, besides minor incidents, I took a 4-hours' row, a 3-hours' ride, a 5-hours' journey by rail, a voyage abroad and tramp among the Alps, a swim halfway across the ocean, a flying trip to heaven and a diving trip in the other direction, ending on the shores of China." And all this in 56 seconds!

XIII

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PSYCHOLOGY1 and psychiatry have grown up in relative isolation from each other. Medicine, "the mother of the sciences," was less intimately connected with the birth and early life of psychology than with the origin of most of the other sciences. The study of the mind was first undertaken in systematic form by the philosophers, and this association remained for many centuries a controlling one in the history of psychology. Even at the present day, the question whether psychology should more properly affiliate with philosophy or with the natural sciences is regarded as a fit subject for discussion, and opposing views on it are expressed by eminent psychologists. Students of other sciences are sometimes inclined to deny the right of psychology to call itself a natural science, and for two reasons. On the side of method, there is still much that is current in psychological books and discussions that appears to the student of empirical science quite strange and foreign in tone. And on the side of results, doubt is expressed whether psychology really has anything to teach which common sense and common observation have not sufficiently acquainted us with. Psychology seems sometimes to be engaged in an "elaboration of the obvious," in stating familiar facts in obscure phraseology, or at the best in putting together familiar facts into systematic shape, without adding to the store of facts. Whatever may be the proper abstract definition of a science, in the concrete we demand that a science which we are to study shall do more than classify and label facts that we already know; we require it to teach us something new; and on the practical side we wish it to guide our action where common sense is inadequate to meet the situation. These requirements are abundantly met by the physical, the natural and the medical sciences; in comparison with these, psychology, the PSYCHOLOGY

1 Annual address before the American Medico-Psychological Association, at its sixty-second annual meeting, Boston, June i a - 1 5 , 1906. Reprinted from the Ameruan Journal ojInsanity, L X I I I (1906), »7-37.

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daughter of philosophy, certainly has some difficulty in making clear its title to a place among the sisterhood of the sciences. But psychology has had a new birth; and medicine, if not its new mother, may at least be called its grandmother, since it is to the physiologists that the new line of development is principally due. Beginning in a small way early in the last century, progressing slowly for several decades, then spreading out with great rapidity, this new, or physiological, or experimental psychology—though its professors often backslide into the old unregenerate ways, even as physicians, too, often betray a leaning toward philosophical speculation, to little profit—on the whole has shown a sincere purpose to search for new facts, and to develop adequate empirical methods for establishing them. Many of the results so far achieved are neither startling nor specially illuminating, yet material is gradually being accumulated that deserves the attention of whoever has to deal seriously with the workings of the human mind. Accordingly, we see that the day of applied psychology is beginning, and that, in spite of pessimism in high places, investigators are finding it possible to apply the results and especially the methods of experimental psychology to the solution of important problems in education, law, and even business. Though isolated from each other, psychology and psychiatry have not been without interest in each other's results; it must be feared, however, that the knowledge each has had of the other has often been indirect and vague. Thus far, it appears that psychiatry has had the worst of the bargain, that she has given much more than she has received in exhange. The clinical observation of mental defects and abnormalities has thrown a great deal of light on normal psychology. The most definite information that we have received from you is perhaps the delimitation of certain mental functions by means of those cases in which the brain defect can also be demonstrated, as in aphasia and psychical blindness and deafness. The order of dissolution of the mental powers in such a disease as paresis is suggestive to us of their order of rank in normal life. Morbid states of exaltation and depression, with the incompetency that attends them, help us to formulate the conditions of efficient intellectual work. Delusions, phobias, fixed ideas—these seem to the psycholo-

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gist to be supplied by nature in lieu of some magic microscope which should magnify the scarcely perceptible details of mental life into such proportions that they could not be overlooked. And so one might continue cataloging the indebtedness of psychology to psychiatry, and run up a long list of items of information which you have supplied, and which we, so far as we have known and understood them, have found of value, and oftentimes of very great value, in analyzing the performances of the mind, and in pointing the way to further discovery. On the other side, alienists have not been neglectful of the teachings of psychology, though it may be feared that they have frequendy found them rather barren of practical applications, and even rather lacking in suggestions for the scientific description and explanation of mental abnormalities. Psychology might be a help in furnishing names and modes of expression, but, for real insight into the workings of the deranged mind, it has perhaps appeared to offer little that could not be gained by an attentive observer who had never bothered his head with psychological books. This was almost necessarily the case so long as psychology based all its statements on common observation. To get special results special methods are needed. To increase the stock of facts beyond what common observation could reveal, psychology had to develop methods that were finer than those of common observation. This she has done to a considerable extent, and is doing more and more. While she is as yet in no position to point with swelling pride to her achievements, she may fairly claim that she has accomplished enough to be of some service; and may fairly ask to have her stock of goods reexamined by the psychiatrist, in the hope that he will find there something of use to himself. As an illustration of the change wrought by experimental methods, I may mention the application of psychology to certain legal problems. The criminal lawyer has to be a practical psychologist, yet the study of psychological textbooks has not proved of great assistance to him. He knew men from his own observation, though he might not express himself in the technical terms of the psychologists. But some one thought to apply the methods of experimental psychology to such problems as the reliability of the testimony of eyewitnesses, and unearthed such a degree of unreliability as surprised the lawyers.

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The results of these and similar experiments that have been made were such as to demand very careful consideration from the legal profession. Common observation is not a thoroughly reliable guide. There are, of course, facts so patent as to require no special precautions for their detection. But the further the experimental psychologist carries his researches, the more skeptical he becomes of the value of common views and easily accepted doctrines regarding the mind. The trouble is not, indeed, wholly one of observation; the tendency to supplement what we can see by what we imagine to be there, to speculate where we cannot prove, is perhaps ineradicable in human nature, and specially in psychology on account of its long-standing association with philosophy. There are current in psychology numerous well-appearing theories which, when looked into, are found not to rest on experimental observation, but on a few superficial statements of fact, eked out by a vast amount of logical construction. All such are properly subject to suspicion, and the more beautiful and self-consistent the logical construction, the more suspicious they are, because they are so much the less likely to owe their acceptance to agreement with fact. The experimental psychologist holds that we shall never know much about the mind until we take the trouble to find it out, and that the trouble will consist in controlling the conditions under which observations are made and in using sufficiently fine methods of observation. As an example of a doctrine which owes its currency to superficial observation, and which, nevertheless, has been used extensively in the explanation of mental phenomena, we may take the view that the brain is very liable to fatigue. Common observation seemed to show that fatigue comes on very quickly in mental work, and this apparent fact has done duty in many psychological explanations. "Constant errors" in sense perception, shiftings and fluctuations of attention, changes in the efficiency of mental work, have been regarded as sufficiently accounted for by appealing to mental fatigue. The brain was supposed to fatigue so much more rapidly than the muscles that what was apparently muscular fatigue has been explained as more probably brain fatigue. It was even suggested that the nervous system, by its capacity for quick fatigue, served to protect the muscles from overwork, much as a fuse in an

PSYCHIATRY AND PSYCHOLOGY electric circuit, by burning out easily, protects the more valuable apparatus in the circuit from excessive currents that would damage them. There was a certain amount of inconclusive experimental observation behind this view, but for the most part it owed its acceptance to the common observation that people, or rather many people, grow tired quickly of mental work, and feel that they must stop. Experimental tests in prolonged mental work have, however, revealed a surprising degree of resistance to fatigue. A series of reaction-time tests, continued all day and on into the evening, failed to show any marked decrease in speed. Memory tests, continued without break for five solid hours, showed a steady improvement throughout. School children have been found as successful in sharp mental tests at the close of school in the afternoon as they were at the opening of school in the morning. College students, so far from being mentally incapacitated by the hard mental labor of a threehour examination, have actually done better in all sorts of mental tests after the examination than before it. More thorough study of the fatigue of the neuromuscular apparatus has shown that this fatigue is certainly in large part, and perhaps entirely, muscular. If muscular exertion is as far as possible excluded, as when the movements are required to be not forceful, but accurate, they can be repeated hundreds and thousands of times with no pause for rest, and without showing any marked degree of fatigue. In all probability, the central nervous system, like the peripheral nerves, so far from being quickly worked out, is capable of an enormous amount of continued activity without serious loss of functional power. How, then, are we to explain away the common observation of quick fatigue in brain work? Experiment shows pretty conclusively that this familiar form of fatigue is a sensory or emotional affair, a feeling of fatigue, not a true fatigue in the sense of incapacity. In case of the fatigue that appears early in muscular exertion, at a time when the muscles are still demonstrably in good condition for work, the fatigue is really composed of unpleasant sensations that come in from the active members. The tendency of these sensations is to make us stop the activity that is causing them; but if we resist this tendency, and continue the muscular effort, we find that we are not incapacitated after all; we can still keep on, almost if not quite as well as before, in spite of the sensations of fatigue, which indeed usually

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disappear with the further continuance of the muscular activity. Similar remarks apply to the fatigue that is apt to come on early in ment£il work; it is composed partly of ennui—a mere emotion— partly of tendencies to do something more agreeable to the natural man, partly of sensations of strain arising from the eyes, neck, and various parts of the body, which dislike being held fixed in a cramped position. Let the mental worker resist this medley of incentives to stop work, let him determine to stick to it for a while longer, and he will usually find that his brain is still in good working order, that the feeling of fatigue passes away, and very likely that his best work is done after rather than before the time when his feelings told him he was played out. I have dwelt on the matter of fatigue partly because these results from normal persons may be of some interest to the psychiatrist for comparison with the conditions that obtain in abnormal brains, and partly as an illustration of the value and necessity of experimental methods for determining the real facts, even in the most familiar situations of life. The main suggestion which, as it seems to me, experimental psychology has to offer to psychiatry is contained in just this demonstration of the insufficiency of common observation and the treacherous nature of logical schemes of mental function which rest only on common observation for their empirical basis. If this is true in normal psychology, it appears almost certain that it will prove true for abnormal psychology as well. The psychiatrist is, to be sure, concerned primarily with divergencies from the normal, many of which are so obtrusive as to require no special devices for their detection. That the paranoiac is deluded, the maniac excited, the hysteric unstable and suggestible, that certain patients suffer from hallucinations, or from amnesia, or from confusion, the common methods of observation sufficiently show. Moreover, experimental methods cannot supplant and make unnecessary the methods of clinical observation that have gradually been developed in the experience of alienists. Just so, in the general practice of medicine, the thermometer, the test tube and the microscope have not supplanted the less special methods of clinical observation. But just as recent progress in medicine is largely due to the introduction of special methods from the sciences that have developed them, so it would seem that the path of progress in psychiatry, in so far as it

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lies in the direction of the differentiation of mental symptoms and in the understanding of the mental condition of the patient, will probably run parallel to the path of progress in psychology, the path of experiment. It must be true—I believe you will agree that it is true—in psychiatry as well as in psychology, that observation unaided by the special methods of experiment is often uncertain and fallacious; it is incapable of giving exact information regarding the mental condition and intellectual capabilities of the patient. It furnishes rough information, which is often but not always sufficient, and is sometimes misleading. The maniacal condition appears to be one of accelerated mental and motor activity; but tests have shown that this appearance of speed is deceptive, and that the maniac should be called slow rather than fast in his thoughts and movements. Similar tests have shown that the condition of alcoholic intoxication, which seems to make a man preternaturally prompt and fertile in the production of ideas, is at bottom a condition in which the process of association is slower than normal, and in which the stock of ideas is impoverished rather than enriched. To take another sort of case, idiots appear to constitute a class by themselves, a subspecies of the race, but tests seem to prove that they are, after all, not separable by any sharp line from normal individuals, that there is no typical idiot standing at the center of a "distribution curve" of idiots, but that they are simply those members of the race who differ in the most extreme degree from the normal type. There are probably numerous other instances, some of theoretical and some of practical importance, in which the current descriptions of mental abnormalities would be changed by the application of experimental methods. On the other hand, there will be many cases where experiment will not make any radical changc in the descriptions now current, but will simply make them more precise. Sometimes unaided observation hits the truth and sometimes not; since it is usually impossible to say, in advance of the application of refined methods, where they will greatly change our conceptions, and where not, it is best to try them wherever possible, and meanwhile maintain a healthy degree of skepticism regarding descriptions that have not as yet been submitted to the most rigorous tests. It would, of course, be foolish to speak as if the use of experimental methods would at once resolve all doubts throughout the

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complicated field of mental abnormalities with which you have to deal. Your experience would make you reject at once any such exaggeration of the powers of experiment. You have found that experimentalists sometimes disagree, and that the results of even careful experimental work sometimes need revision. Experiment is no magic key to unlock the mysteries of the unknown; it is no royal road to learning. There is nothing supernatural about it; it is simply a human means of delving after the facts, and it must be used by beings hampered by human shortsightedness and inefficiency. Everything depends upon the man who uses it. He must have insight and adaptability and a saving measure of common sense. He must also have training. The path of psychological experiment is beset with pitfalls. With many of these we psychologists have bebecome familiar by bitter experience, and it would be a great pity if our experience should not be a warning to those who shall experimentally study the insane. Here certainly it seems that psychology is in a position to be of service to psychiatry. The methods of investigation which have been invented, tested, and sifted in psychological laboratories, and the precautions which have been found necessary in order to get reliable results, should be placed at the disposal of the experimental investigator in the hospital for the insane. These things cannot ordinarily be learned from books, they need to be handed on personally from one man to another; from which it follows that the experimental investigator in psychiatry should be trained in the psychological laboratory as well as in the hospital. The breadth of the training required makes it likely that the number of workers in this field will long remain small; but it is a work for experts, and a few really qualified men will accomplish more good than a host of dilettantists whose results are either meaningless or poorly established. The proposal to utilize the methods of experimental psychology in the study of insanity is not entirely new, though it is recent. Enough has already been done to show that this is, indeed, a fruitful line of development. It would be instructive to summarize the results already achieved, did not their number and variety already make it impossible to do so within a small space. The study of sensations, for which the methods of psychology are particularly well developed, has thus far not proved so productive as studies in

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certain other lines, though valuable results have come from examination of the narrowness of the field of vision, and of the inertia of the retina as shown in the non-perception of flicker, in hysteric and psychopathic cases. Motor studies have so far been more productive than sensory. Tracings of involuntary movements and tremors have proved instructive; records of the force and speed of voluntary movement, of the reaction time, and of fatigue are still more promising. Qualitative analysis of the association of ideas has yielded results that add precision to the symptomatology of certain diseases. The speed of association has also been measured, and with interesting results. Studies of memory and the power of memorizing have made it possible to give a more exact account of the progress and decline of amnesia in the polyneuritic psychosis. Simple tests of mental efficiency, such as adding, have proved of considerable use. Practice experiments have shown that it is possible to improve the condition of certain patients by the use of systematic courses of mental training. Enough, at least, has been accomplished to make the outlook bright for any institution or qualified man who will undertake to promote the science by the use of these methods. It would be presumptuous in an outsider to attempt to tell you where your science is specially in need of advancement: inasmuch, however, as this address is largely a plea for the recognition and application of experimental psychology by students of psychiatry, I may be pardoned if I attempt to outline somewhat further the directions in which our methods may reasonably be expected to prove of service. The prime service will be on the scientific side, in making possible a more exact description of mental symptoms and of the mental condition and degree of efficiency of different patients and in different types of derangement. In this connection, the possibility of quantitative studies deserves special emphasis. It is often urged that a science becomes a science only when it is able to express its facts and laws in measures and numbers; and psychology has sometimes been reproached for its inability to make quantitative statements. The progress of recent times has, however, shown that it is possible to reduce some of the facts of mental life to quantitative form. One of the most revolutionary discoveries of modern psychology is that individuals differ in every respect, even in functions

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which the older psychology had assumed to be constant for all normal human beings. Moreover, it has been found possible to measure the differences between individuals in various mental powers, and thus has arisen the quantitative study of individual psychology, child psychology, sex psychology, race psychology, and animal psychology. The extension of this line of work to the insane, already begun, seems sure to increase the definiteness of our knowledge about them and to place the symptomatology of insanity, to some extent, upon a quantitative basis. The use of quantitative methods is likely to afford more exact information regarding the progress of the disease, and we may expect that, in time, curves of the change in mental symptoms, similar to the temperature curve, will be drawn and very likely prove useful for purposes of prognosis. In some cases it may prove possible to try the tests before the appearance of actual insanity, and thus to discover minor symptoms that could be used in early diagnosis, just as it has been found possible in tabes to detect the deficiency of muscular sensibility by methods of quantitative psychology in cases where it could not be detected by the usual modes of clinical examination. In the same way, it may be found possible, and has, indeed, been found possible in certain cases, by quantitative methods to follow the further course of the disease after cure was, to ordinary observation, fairly completed. Psychological experiments, the object of which does not readily appear to the patient, may easily be adapted to detect cases of simulation. It may be hoped, too, that in course of time the difficulties of differential diagnosis may be diminished by the minute study of the mental condition in different types of insanity. The power of diagnosis seems to be in large measure a gift, born in a man, not to be acquired in its completeness by study, nor transmitted from master to pupil. The introduction of special methods into medicine has tended to place reliable means of diagnosis in the hands of those who are less gifted by nature in this direction, and we may hope by the introduction of similar methods into psychiatry, that, while the great diagnostician will never be supplanted, yet identification of the disease may become more nearly a matter of routine. One cannot tell beforehand how much may be accomplished in

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these different ways by the attempt to utilize psychological experiment in psychiatry. It is seldom that an investigator can be sure beforehand of the value and significance of his results. But we have good precedents for expecting results from such a combination of two sciences. Within our own time, the combination of physics and chemistry, in the investigations of a certain few men, has had enormous results, has established practically a new science, which has reacted most beneficially on the two sciences from which it sprang. Even so we may reasonably expect that the cross-fertilization of psychology by psychiatry and of psychiatry by psychology will result in a vigorous offshoot, a credit to our two sciences, a bond which shall replace their former isolation, and a source of great enlightenment to both.

XIV

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THE STUDENT of psychotherapy requires from psychology first of all, is something as to the way in which mental acts or events, such as ideas, beliefs, desires, emotions, and acts of will, operate on bodily functions to their benefit or injury. T w o broad general facts may at once be stated. First, the influence of mental acts on the body is not an exceptional freak of nature, but quite the rule, and quite in accordance with the position of mind in the animal economy. Second, the mechanism by which these effects of mind on body are carried out is not itself mental, but physiological. Perhaps a third fact should be added without delay: you could not tell, from observing a mental event, what bodily consequences it would have, nor could you tell, from observing a bodily change, from what sort of mental event it resulted. T h a t is to say, you could not tell, without previous observation of the connection of particular mental processes with particular bodily effects. Let us take up these points in more detail. That the influence of our thoughts and feelings on our bodily processes is common enough can easily be shown by examples. First, what are called the voluntary muscles—those of the limbs, neck, face, tongue, and larynx—are, to a great extent, the servants of the mind. They are, indeed, capable of reflexes, with which the mind has little to do; but usually their action is connected more or less closely with what is going on in consciousness. W e are so much accustomed to this high degree of dependence of a part of our bodily functions on mental processes that we think little of it; it seems, from long use, almost self-evident. W e are more interested in what seem the mysterious influences of the mind on circulation, digestion, and other internal processes. These functions are not ordinarily subject to our wills, but they are none the less constantly influenced by our mental states. Here, for example, is a man sitting contentedly after a meal, his muscles relaxed, his heart beating along regularly, his stomach, if we could see it, going through a WHAT

1

Reprinted from Psychotherapy, I (1909), 68-84.

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rhythmical series of movements which churn the food and mix it with the gastric juice as it oozes out from the stomach wall—all in all, a picture of normal bodily function, which is decidedly favored by the contentment of his mind. Of a sudden, he springs u p in evident excitement, his heart, after stopping for a few seconds, beats rapidly and violently, the blood rushes to his face, perspiration breaks out on his skin, his stomach stops churning the food and supplying juices for its digestion—in a word, his internal functions are generally upset, and all because something has reminded him of an important engagement to which he ought to be attending at this very moment. Such an experience illustrates each of the three propositions laid down above; for it shows how wide a bodily effect may result from a mental cause, and certainly we could not tell that this cause would have this effect, or that this effect would result from such a cause, except by empirically observing their connection. Moreover, it is clear in this example that the mental part of the process extends only a little way; the thought of the missed engagement is a mental fact, but all the operation of this mental event on the bodily organs lies outside the realm of consciousness, and is purely physiological, except, indeed, as the m a n receives sensations from his flushed face, throbbing heart, and disturbed digestion, and is disagreeably affected by them. T h e bodily effects are carried out by a physiological mechanism; and it is because the mind, the psychological mechanism, is all of a piece with the physiological mechanism, that it has these influences on bodily organs. In low forms of animals we see very little evidence of what we should call mind. These animals may be conscious, or they may not; as to that we have absolutely no way of deciding. But they show in their actions little or no sign of memory and learning by experience, still less of reasoning. In attempting to understand the mental mechanism and the part it plays, it is well to start with these low forms, and pass u p the scale, noting when and how the mental traits appear. All living things have the power of reaction; they move in response to stimuli affecting them, they react to the situations that confront them. T h e lowest forms have but a small variety of reactions, though all have at least two; some stimuli they approach and others they move away from.

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Growth of Menial Traits in the Lower Forms of Animal Life; "Varied Reactions" and Learning by Experience Most, even of the lowest forms, show a variety of movements of escape. Thus some little aquatic animals, which remain most of the time attached to a stone, will, if a noxious substance is introduced into the water near them, bend away from it, but if the noxious substance still stays by them, they will let go of their stone and swim away. This principle of "varied reaction," which has been brought out most clearly by Jennings in his studies of the lowest animals, is of fundamental importance in understanding the development of mind. These lowest forms show very little aftereffect of such experience, except for a short time before the experience has, as it were, cooled off. They later show no signs of having learned or retained anything from the experience. Higher animals, such as the fish or the chick, show different degrees of learning by experience. T h e cat, which was studied by Thorndike in his pioneer work on animal learning, will, if put into a cage through the bars of which it can see the food on the outside, go through a great variety of reactions in its efforts to escape. It tries to push its way between the bars, it bites, claws, and shakes anything loose within its reach. T h e cage is so arranged that one of these varied movements, such as pulling a string that hangs in the cage, opens the door and lets the cat out to get its food. If the animal is replaced in the cage, an observer would judge at first that it had learned nothing from its previous experience, for it goes through the same range of movements, and gets out again by accident. But as the experiment is repeated time after time, one can see that some process of selection is going on, for the variety of reactions becomes gradually less, the useless movements slowly disappear, until finally selection is complete, and only the one movement that succeeds is made. T h e process has been slow, but the final result is a complete mastery of that particular situation. If we look back over the process, we see no evidence that the cat at any stage gained an insight into the conditions of success; nor has there been any sign of pausing to reflect. There is no sign of any mental process intervening between the stimulus and the motor reaction. T h e animal has gone at it in a blind, impulsive way; yet

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it has somehow learned; and this blind method of learning is indeed the fundamental method, on which the more intelligent methods are based. This method is called "learning by trial and error"; it might also be called learning by gradual selection from varied reactions. Man's

Addition to the Process of Reaction; Reflection and Intelligent

Reaction

A m a n placed in a novel situation shows the same tendencies as the animal. H e tends, first of all, to do something, to react. If his first reaction is unsuccessful, he tries again, putting in more force, or changing his point of attack. H e makes varied reactions. When one of these succeeds, he is very apt not to notice exactly how success came, and he m a y have to attack the same situation, when it recurs, as blindly as at first. H e may, indeed, in some cases, depend as completely as the animal on the gradual selection of the successful reaction. But we also often observe, in man, a mental process intervening between the sight of the novel situation and the motor reaction. H e is reminded of some other situation formerly met with, and reacts in the light of it. H e makes some guess as to how to reach success, and tries out his guess. He forms a plan of action and acts accordingly. H e m a y get a real insight into the situation, and act from the start with assurance of success. There are several things to be noted about this intelligent mode of reaction. First, it depends on past experience. Facts previously noted are called up and used as suggestions for present reactions. Second, it depends on discrimination, or picking out of the total situation certain features which jure important for the purpose in hand. Third, it calls for a temporary suppression of the tendency to motor reaction. This is difficult, since it runs counter to the strong impulse to be doing something, but it is necessary in order to give time for ideas to come up and suggest promising reactions. T h e attitude of reflection is quite opposed to the attitude of varied motor reaction. As to the effects of this mental way of grappling with a situation, we should notice that when a man plans out his reactions before executing them, he has a much better chance of observing and remembering which were successful and which

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failures, so that a single success is often enough to teach him how to react. This method of learning by ideas is therefore a speedier method than that of trial and error. But there is another fact to be remarked; for by noting features of a situation in the light of former experience, one comes to have a conception of the situation, an idea of it which may be brought to mind on some future occasion, in another situation having some similarity with the present. Probably it is in this way that ideas take their rise. Influence of Mind Over Body in Accordance with the Laws of All Animal Life; the Task of the Psychotherapist Mind, then, does not develop in isolation, and apart from bodily needs. It is not a luxury, but comes in to enable the animal to react more suitably. Though reflection and deliberation require the temporary suspension of motor reaction, they lead finally back to movement. If they did not, mind would have no biological importance. The influence of mind over body is therefore not to be regarded as something extraordinary and surprising, but as regular and essential. Mental processes are superimposed, like loops, upon the simpler reactions: they tap the simple reaction on its sensory side and lead back into it on the motor side. It is indeed the movements of the limbs, head, mouth, and larynx with which the mental processes are most obviously connected; the mind has to do chiefly with what has been called the life of relation with external things. The inner, vital functions get on more by themselves, without mental supervision or interference; and it is a fault of some persons to try to manage these functions too much by thinking about them. Such a course leads easily to hypochondria and imaginary ailments. It is better usually to take little thought about the internal functions of the body, except in the way of providing proper external conditions for them, such as good food, proper exercise, and fresh air. Yet it is by no means true that what goes on in the mind has no influence on these internal functions. We have noted above one or two instances to the contrary. It is especially true in regard to the internal functions of the body that you can not tell what influence a mental state or act will have on them, except by empirical observation. Sometimes a contrary

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view has been expressed. It has been said that our movements were expressions of our ideas, in the sense that the body acted out what the mind had first rehearsed in imagination. And, indeed, you will find that when you mentally rehearse a movement of the hand or mouth or eyelid, you tend to make that movement immediately. But this is not the whole truth. There are many other thoughts that lead directly to movements of these and other parts of the body. You move your lips and tongue, not only when you think of moving them, but when you think of something to say. You run, not only when you think of running, but also when you think of danger behind, or something to be overtaken ahead. Some thoughts lead instinctively to certain movements, and some thoughts lead to certain movements because an individual has formed the habit of acting in that way when he has those thoughts. Without knowing these instincts and these habits, we could not by any means tell what movement to expect from a given thought or feeling. As was said before, this is particularly true of the internal effects of mental conditions. We do know, to be sure, that worry and mental idleness have a bad effect on the bodily functions, and that a cheerful frame of mind and interesting work have a good effect. So much we know from common experience. But there are many more detailed and specific effects of the mind on the body which we do not know without careful study. T h e task of the psychotherapist is thus twofold—to discover the bodily effects of various mental conditions, and to discover how to arouse the favorable states of mind and how to drive out the unfavorable. Since individuals are by no means all alike in these matters, the psychotherapist has need of a generous measure of the power of sympathetic observation. Thought and Action; Danger of Lack of Action

T h e relation of thought to motor performance is interestingly brought out by considering the common debating-society antithesis between " m e n of thought" and " m e n of action." There is no fundamental opposition between the two, since thought tends to lead to motor action. T h e engineer and the physician are typical examples of men of practical activity whose action is governed by

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thought. Yet there is a partial or temporary antagonism between thought and action, since motor activity is held back to give time for thought. The reflective person feels that it is useless to act till consideration has shown the best thing to do. There are many persons who go too far in the reflective attitude, not that they think too much, but that they get too much into the habit of suspending decisive motor action. They become so enamored of the inner life of reflection that they may have a real dislike for decisions and actions. Emotion, like thought, leads in the perfectly normal man to action; but here again some persons form the habit of leading a life of emotion, often of what seems very noble emotion, without ever performing the good deeds which the emotions would naturally lead to. Professor William James has called attention to the demoralizing effect that such an absorption in mere emotion has on the character. Now in individuals of the neurasthenic type, this weakening of the active side of mental life may run into genuine disease. A condition of abulia, or lack of will power, may result, a condition in which all joy in action has departed, a condition in which the individual may think and ruminate indefinitely without ever reaching a decision which he is willing to put into action, a condition in which he is full of emotions but never does anything. Such a condition unfits him for his business or for any useful activity. The fundamental tendency toward motor activity is so strong that it appears even in these cases; only, instead of useful activities, directed by thought, we find various forms of low-grade and automatic movement, often monotonously repeated, and always useless or worse than useless. Such an individual needs training in intelligent behavior, in action directed by thought; he needs, as Professor Janet has said in his great work on Psychasthenia, a reeducation of the will, and he usually also needs the guidance of a director in whom he has confidence, and who can aid him in coming to decisions and beginning actions. Dr. De Fleury, in his interesting book, Medicine and the Mind, has emphasized the value to such individuals of great regularity in habits of work. It is not uncommon for persons of high intellectual gifts to suffer from a milder form of this trouble, but

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many such, by intelligent regulation of their habits of work, have still been able to accomplish quite remarkable results. Too many good intellects, however, remain sterile, from lack of motor impulsion. They may even fail to think their thought through to a satisfactory conclusion, but ruminate in a vague and rambling manner. 2 The firm intention to act in accordance with thought is the strongest stimulus to thought, for ideas that are to be put to the test of action must be well-considered and accurate. T o keep in touch with action is one of the surest guarantees of mental health. Inner Working of the Mental Mechanism; Fusion In endeavoring to penetrate, as far as may be, into the inner workings of the mental mechanism, we have need of three keys, or guiding ideas, expressed by the words, fusion, discrimination, and association. Fusion is the primary blended condition of sensations and feelings from various sources, discrimination is the partial breaking up of this blend by separating out some of its components, while the tendencies left behind by previous experience are summed up in the law of association. Experience comes to us blended; mental work is necessary to break it up into its elements. Fusion is easy, discrimination hard. At any given moment, a vast number of sensory impressions are simultaneously made upon us. The eyes furnish a multitude of * "The more a life of thought and feeling grows up independent of the action of the will, there will also rise a relaxation and enervation, such as was ctilled in the Middle Ages, acedia, a melancholy making the mind heavy and hindering action. In modern times this description of feeling has certainly not become rare, and where opposition is met with, it readily leads to the striking of a parley. Some natures more than others are disposed to introspection and self-reflection. For example, instead of finding pleasure in working at a definite task, they worry over the question whether the solution of the problem would really make them happier. Stuart Mill had to pass through a crisis of this sort in his youth, and drew the conclusion that, 'those only are happy who have their minds fixed on some object other than their own happiness. . . . The only chance is to treat, not happiness, but some end external to it, as the purpose of life.' . . . It is originally in the proper interest of the will and of action that an interval should be established between the first rise of the motive and the resolve. . . . During this interval the motives may be tried one with another, so that the innermost nature of the mind may determine the action. This play of possibility may, however, exercise a power, alluring or distressing over the mind, so as to absorb it without letting it come to a resolution and action. " I t is, therefore, needful to turn back from the world of possibilities, to that circumscribed by circumstances. This limitation and narrowness calls for a resignation. T o will is to bind ourselves to something quite definite." Holding, Outlines of Psychology (1902), pp. 335-3 8 -

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patches of light, shade, and color; the ears are affected by a variety of sounds; the senses of taste and smell may be undergoing stimulation, and there are many impressions coming from the skin, joints, muscles, and internal organs. The adult, after all his years of training in noticing sense impressions, can separate out each of these elements as they are mentioned; but the child undoubtedly has to learn to do this, and the adult ordinarily does it only to a limited extent. Most of the impressions which are simultaneously made upon us are felt as a blended total, not having in consciousness distinct parts corresponding to the separate causes that have produced them. T h a t special training is needed to enable us to break up a blended total into its parts is well illustrated by the difficulty of holding apart the sense of taste and smell. We are accustomed to speak of a great number of tastes; but psychology assures us that there are but four: sweet, sour, bitter, and salty, with possibility of two more. T o convince us of the truth of this position, it is necessary only to prevent the circulation of air and vapors through the nose by pinching the sides of the nose together, and to have some one introduce into the mouth coffee or quinine, which then cannot be distinguished, or apple or onion pulp, which also taste alike. It turns out that the numerous so-called tastes are in reality fusions of taste and smell, fusions which we have never learned to break up. A chord in music affords another example, for special training is needed before we can analyze it into the separate notes of which it is composed. A melody affords a similar example, for it by no means seems to us a mere succession of distinct sounds, but rather a blended whole, in which any given note, such as "middle C , " has a different value and a different effect on us, according to the notes that precede and follow it. A chord is an example of the fusion of simultaneous impressions; a melody, of that of successive impressions. Another example of the latter is found in the sight of a moving body, such as a person walking. Till the invention of instantaneous photography, we had no notion of the curious positions assumed by a person in the act of taking a step; and even now it is hard to believe that we continually see people in these positions. If a series of instantaneous photographs is taken in rapid succession, and these views shown in like rapid succession, we see a 'moving

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picture," in which we cannot easily distinguish the separate views. What is objectively a series of discrete facts becomes in our consciousness a blend. Discrimination Necessary to Intelligent Action T h e state of fusion is easy and comfortable, and has an esthetic value, but it is intellectually bad, because it does not represent facts as they are; and it leads to many illusions and errors of judgment. Intellectual growth in the individual, intellectual progress in society, consists in partially breaking up the fused mass, by singling out one or another item for attention. T h e intelligent method of reacting to a situation, and of learning to master it, which was spoken of on an earlier page, requires some degree of analysis of the situation, some singling out of features that may offer a point of attack. Discrimination is necessary for intelligent action, and leads to the development of exact ideas. Discrimination itself results, probably, from two causes, natural interests and previous experience. The baby, among all the sights that assail his eyes, is inter ested in bright objects, moving objects, sharp contours. These are singled out from the mass of sensory impressions, and give him his start toward a knowledge of definite things. In the youth, at a certain age of his development, there germinates an interest in the opposite sex, and this interest leads him to observe many details long present to his senses, but never before perceived. Among more intellectual interests may be mentioned those in likeness and contrasts, and in cause and effect. New interests are constantly being generated, during the period of mental growth, by association with interests already existing—but here we begin to trench on the influence of past experience. The importance of past experience in the development of discrimination is seen at its simplest in the case of a man confronted by a puzzling situation. If he has ever experienced a situation similar in any respect to the present, he is apt to be reminded of that past experience, or, even if he does not clearly recall his previous experience, he is apt to see the new situation in the light of the past, which means that the feature of the present situation which resembles the past is likely to become prominent and thus be discrimi-

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nated from the total present. W h e n many situations, or, let us say more simply, when m a n y things, differing in all other respects, have one property in common, this property is likely to be shaken loose, so that one becomes clearly aware of it. T h u s the child who is shown all kinds of things that are alike in color, comes to single out the quality of color and to form a definite conception of it. Especially is this true if some one supplies him with a name for it, to fix it in his mind. Names are means by which discriminations and conceptions, laboriously acquired by one individual, are made easier for those that come after him. Discrimination would not progress far were it not for the accumulated effect of past experience. Association T h e influence of previous experience in directing the course of thought can well be observed, if one notes down the thoughts that pass through the mind for a minute and then asks why this idea should have followed that. It will often be found that the ideas which now come close together have been present together in some previous experience. T h u s the odor of a flower may lead to the thought of a place where the flower was once smelt, the thought of the place m a y lead to the thought of a person met there, the thought of the person may lead to the recalling of his name. W h e n two items are experienced together, as the appearance of a person and his name, their simultaneous presence breeds some kind of association between them in the brain, the exact physiology of which is unknown, though attractive hypotheses have been offered in explanation. This is called "association by contiguity." T h e more attentively the two items have been considered, the more closely they have been thought of in relation with each other, and the more vivid the whole experience has been, so much the more strongly is the association impressed. T h e association left behind by a single experience may be too weak to be effective later, as is seen in the fact that a single reading of a poem will not usually store it in memory. But the single experience has not been without effect; something has been retained and, if the experience is often repeated, the effects of the different experiences are added together, till finally the association is strong enough to be operative. Fre-

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quency of repetition leads to the formation of a mental habit, which may become so strong that the passage from one idea to its associate is prompt and almost inevitable. T h e adult is almost compelled to think as he has been accustomed—a fact which has both its good and its bad sides. A weak association can be strengthened by a fresh experience of the connected facts, in which the two are simultaneously presented, while the observer remains almost passive; but it ismore strengthened by actively using the association as it already exists, by depending on it to lead from one fact to the other. A weak association dies away if it is not strengthened by exercise or reenforced by repeated experience; and even a strong association, though it may persist for years in a dormant state, becomes less prompt and ready for use, and may be wholly unusable until revivified by fresh experience. Many facts we retain for a few seconds, comparatively few for an hour or a day, still fewer become permanent acquisitions. The more recently an association has been formed or exercised, the more likely it is to be effective in directing the course of thought. T h e main law of association by contiguity, with its subsidiary laws of frequency, recency, and so forth, which have been briefly stated, expresses the fundamental fact of the influence of past experience on the present course of thought. It not only controls the sequence of ideas in idle daydreaming, but also the productive use of imagination in inventing a machine, or the plot of a story, or the composition of a painting or piece of music. Equally does it control hard mental work, calculation, planning, reasoning. It needs, however, to be qualified by two additional statements. First, it is not always easy to recall the exact experience in which two items were associated, though we now find that one calls up the other; nor is it always easy to pick out the real items between which the association holds. We see, for example, a strange face and are reminded of the face of some friend. We have never seen this stranger together with our friend; these two cannot be the items that have previously been associated. We feel that there is something " a b o u t " the stranger that suggests the friend, but exactly what that something is we cannot make out. We feel a subtle resemblance, but we cannot

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discriminate the point of resemblance. Discrimination is here, as always, difficult. This form of association is often called "association by similarity," and it is of great importance, not only in the higher flights of imagination, but in the development of clear ideas on scientific or practical matters. It opens the way for detecting the common element that makes two things alike and so leads to new discriminations and new conceptions. Two or More Associative Tendencies May Act Together T h e second qualification that needs to be made to the simple law of association by contiguity is to the effect that two or more associative tendencies may act together in directing the course of thought. Thought is not always a single chain of ideas, A calling u p B, B calling u p C, and so on. Often the lines of association converge, A and B acting jointly to call up some other idea which neither A nor B, acting alone, would be likely to call up. For example, you ask a child the name of an object which you show him; he cannot quite remember the name. T h e n you help him by pronouncing the first sound of the name, and the child gets the whole name. T h e sight of the object was not sufficient of itself to call up the name; the sound of the first part of the name is not enough by itself, since many names begin with the same sound; but, acting together, the two associative tendencies are effective. This sort of thing is seen in all speaking, for the stream of words is partly directed by the ideas to be expressed and partly by the lingo of the words themselves. In reading or in listening to another person speak, the idea that arises in us with each new phrase is determined partly by the phrase itself and partly by the ideas that have just been called u p in the listener's mind by the preceding sentences. All serious thinking depends on this compound association. The man who is thinking in a businesslike way has some definite object in view; he wishes to recall a fact, or to balance his accounts, or to find the solution to some problem that confronts him. His object in view is a controlling influence in his thought and, if its influence is strong enough, it prevents mind wandering and holds the thoughts to one line. The purpose is part cause in directing the course of purposive thinking, but it is clearly not the entire

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cause, for desiring the solution of a problem is not the same as getting it. Other associative tendencies must cooperate. Effective thinking calls for good team work, and that is one reason why it is so difficult; another reason is that it makes demands on that highly energetic and strenuous function, discrimination. Emotions, as well as purposes and other ideas, control the course of thought by combining their influence with that of associative tendencies left behind by past experience. If a man is elated, everything suggests to him cheerful thoughts; if depressed, quite the opposite. He who is fiercely resentful at another sees wrong in his every action; he who is in a panic of fear derives assurance from no number of reassuring circumstances. You cannot argue with anyone who is under the stress of strong emotion; his mind is not open, it is not free to move along the lines of association into which you would direct it, but is rigidly constrained within a certain narrow groove. If, however, you wish to convince him of something in the line of his emotion, you have chosen an easy task. Just as one thought is linked to another by virtue of past association between them, so the thought of an object is linked to a sense stimulus which has in the past been connected with that object, and the sense stimulus means for us that object; that is, we perceive the object when the sense stimulus affects us. Perception depends on association. The same is true of movement and other bodily effects of ideas. How Mind Influences Mind in Psychotherapy Since psychotherapy depends on the influence of one mind over another, it will be proper, in closing, to notice how this influence is exerted. The general principle is that you work on another's mind only by making it work. It works according to its own private mechanism. You cannot introduce ideas bodily into it—aside from telepathy, which at best is exceptional and not to be depended on as a practical means of influencing other minds. The best you can do is to provide proper stimuli and leave the rest to the individual's interests and ready-formed associations. Even in hypnotism, where the superficial appearance is certainly that one mind is directly controlled by another, the fact seems to be that one mind

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is drowsy, receptive, and uncritical, and that the other presents certain stimuli which lead on to ideas which are readily suggested by the stimuli used, but which would be rejected as absurd, if the subject were awake and critical. T h e m a n who knows how to influence another, understands how to set that other's mind going. H e knows how to work through the other's emotions, interests, and habits of thought—all of which have a powerful influence on the course of thought. H e knows the value of frequent repetition in forming new habits of thinking and the power of intense experiences to lead to the same result. H e utilizes one associative tendency to reenforce or counteract another. H e has the perception to see when his subject's mind is ready for a further step. He arranges situations so as to lead to the discrimination of something new and important for his purpose. In short, he has the insight, tact, and skill to apply to the living mind of another person the laws of discrimination and of association which have been rather abstractly set forth in the preceding pages.

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PSYCHOLOGY1 A SUFFICIENT JUSTIFICATION for the psychologist stating his reaction to the psychoanalytic movement, even though he possesses no expert knowledge of the neuroses, is afforded by the Freudian endeavor to go behind the practice and formulate a psychology which shall be true of normal as well as abnormal conditions. This makes the writings of Freud and his followers (and competitors) of decided interest to psychologists, who have made themselves, I think it can be said, fairly well acquainted with the teachings of the school, and have found there considerable that is stimulating and suggestive. A number of psychologists, as Holt, Watson, Wells, and Lay, have espoused the Freudian teaching to a greater or less extent, though usually with considerable independence of judgment. T h e majority, however, while keeping silence in the journals, are probably to be counted as skeptics. For myself I am very skeptical. I admit that a good deal of stimulus can be derived from the work of the psychoanalysts toward a study of neglected topics in psychology; and I rather expect that many germs of truth will, in the course of time, be found in the teachings of this school; but their methods, considered as means of demonstrating psychological facts, seem to me excessively rough and ready, and their conclusions one-sided and exaggerated. T h e psychoanalysts have a handy rejoinder to any who enter the lists against them. Having "complexes" of our own, they say, which we would not willingly admit and which acceptance of Freud's point of view would compel us to admit, we develop "resistances" against that doctrine. In a special way, we are prejudiced against it and are thus not equitable judges. Now this might be true and still not be a sufficient reason for disregarding the evidence we may bring forward. As a psychologist, I probably do have a certain prejudice against the Freudians, since they have been very con1

Reprinted from the Journal of Abnormal Psychology, X I I (1917), 174-94.

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temptuous of our modest efforts to throw some light on the intricate processes of mental activity and development, disregarding what we may have found that would bear on their problems, characterizing our efforts as barren and superficial, and even going so far as to accuse us—since we must often admit ourselves unable to explain a mental occurrence except in a summary way—of holding that such occurrences are events without a cause. In short, they treat us rather shabbily, and I am willing to admit a certain feeling of irritation against them. This, however, need not throw me out of court if I ask to be heard, not as an expert whose conclusions are to be accepted as finzil, but, if you will, as an attorney presenting one side of a case. T h e attorney is presumed to be biased, but if he sticks to evidence and legitimate argument, his presentation of the case has to be met by the other side. His personality may be as full of complexes as you please, but all that is irrelevant. T h e question is, whether the evidence can be rebutted; I am making bold to present it, in part because of a feeling that the case against Freud ought to appear in print along with the voluminous literature in his favor, and in part in the hope that the psychoanalysts may think it worth their while to consider this evidence and perhaps, in so doing, be led to emendations or additions to their doctrine that may make it more acceptable to the psychologist. I do not, of course, expect very much in this direction from the brief and sketchy presentation here to be made; and, in fact, I expect much more from the internal diversification of view that is beginning to appear within the company of those who are or have been pupils of Freud. When one lays everything to "libido" and another everything to the "masculine protest," it may soon be recognized that both of these factors, and probably several others, are operative in producing abnormal, and also normal, mental results. Meanwhile, there is no reason why the psychologist should not also do his bit toward clarifying the situation. T h e first concern of the psychologist, confronted with the numerous assertions put forward by the Freudian school, is with the methods employed to reach these conclusions. We inquire whether the methods are reliable. We are not concerned so much with methods of treatment as with methods of discovering facts and reaching psychological conclusions. T h e methods are primarily designed

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to analyze the individual, and there seem to be two of them, fundamentally, one in which the subject himself furnishes the analysis under the guidance of the psychoanalyst, and the other in which the psychoanalyst works with comparatively little contribution from the subject, by the aid of fixed symbols. T h e first-mentioned method was also the first to be employed by Freud. It starts from an element of a dream, or from a lapse, or from a "complex indicator" in the free association test; it proceeds by requiring the subject to let his mind move freely from the starting point, without self-criticism or reserve; and it terminates, for the moment, when the subject, in the course of this free movement of thought, hits upon a "complex." Now so far as the object in view is to bring the complex to light, this is all well and good, for if the subject recognizes and acknowledges the complex, once he is reminded of it, it makes no difference how he has come to it. But the psychoanalyst is not contented with simply drawing the conclusion that the subject has the discovered complex. He goes on to two other assertions. H e concludes, first, that arriving at the complex by starting with the dream or complex indicator means that the complex was at the bottom of the dream or complex indicator. If the subject has stumbled over a certain word in the free association test, and then, on letting his mind move freely from this word as a starting point, has come more or less directly upon a certain complex, then the stirring of that complex was the cause of stumbling in the original test. Or, if the subject has dreamed of a person A, and on letting his mind move freely from the thought of A comes more or less directly to think of a significant person B, then A in the dream was really a representative of B. By such reasoning, ostensibly, the conclusions are reached that dreams have a hidden meaning very different from their manifest content, and that lapses and hesitations in the process of thinking or acting are due to the stirring of submerged complexes. Now what is the logic of this inference? Can the psychoanalyst seriously uphold the proposition that, whenever the thought of A has come into my mind, if I then let my mind move freely from A and reach B (sooner or later), B must have been operative in making me think of A in the first place? And how does he know

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when to stop in the series of thoughts starting from A, in order to get the particular idea or wish that was unconsciously at the bottom of thinking of A? He stops, in practice, when he finds a significant complex. Well and good, if his object is the practical one of discovering complexes. But if his object is to discover what led to the thought of A (or to hesitating on A), then what determines him to stop just when the complex is reached, and not before or after? It can only be, as far as I can see, from a preconceived notion that some complex is at the bottom of the original thought or lapse. But, if so, the Freudian psychology is not, after all, founded on the analyses obtained, but upon preconceived notions, or, perhaps it would be better to say, on the attractiveness of the conclusions reached. In other words, the doctrine of the significance of dreams, lapses, and other complex indicators is not based on the evidence, but upon a certain inherent attractiveness of the doctrine. The statement is often made that Freud by no means approached the matters he examined with any preconceived notions, and that his doctrine grew up in his experience; and this may well be true; yet the doctrine may not have been scientifically derived from the evidence which he brings forward, but may have been a "happy thought" which occurred to him in connection with the cases he met and so gripped him as to make evidence, for him, quite a secondary matter. That something like this is true of his followers is clear from the confident way in which they approach new problems, sure in advance that their conceptions will furnish the key, and eager to be satisfied with even the vaguest sort of evidence. But there is more to be said regarding the proposition that if A has occurred in the process of thinking, then B, reached from A as the starting point of a free movement of thought, is to be presumed to have been a factor in the original production of A. Freud somewhere says that it would be impossible for A to lead to B unless B had been operative in the production of A. This seems to turn things topsy-turvy, since what A arouses is conceived as arousing A. It is contrary to the general fact that shifts of thought are the rule, so that you tend to get quite away from the context of your starting point in the course of a reverie or other free associative process. And it is contrary to the fact of multiple possibilities of associative reaction. Thought may jump hither or yon; it is far removed from

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the fixed linkage of stimulus and response characteristic of the simple reflexes. Undoubtedly there are cases where thought hovers about a given point, instead of passing off to something else; but shifting of the topic is so characteristic of uncontrolled thinking as to make it utterly impossible to accept the fundamental proposition on which the Freudian conclusions as to latent content of dreams, and so forth, are supposed to be based. If it were possible to get to the complexes only by starting with the dream or complex indicator, then, indeed, some special connection could be believed to exist between them; but, as a matter of fact, you can take a perfectly arbitrary starting point, such as a word occurring in the course of smooth-running waking thought, and, proceeding according to Freud's instructions, reach a complex just the same. Something of this sort has been noticed by Freudians, but they do not seem to have observed that this fact deprives their conclusions as to dreams and complex indicators of all force. If the complex is held to have produced the dream or complex indicator because, on starting with the latter, the former is reached, by the same logic we must conclude that the complex operates in the production of the most smooth-running of waking thoughts; and then the distinctions between lapses and smooth-running thinking, and between dreams and waking thought, vanish into thin air and with them a large share of the whole Freudian psychology. I said that two conclusions were drawn from the analyses, beside the straightforward one that the subject had such and such complexes, discovered by the free movement of thought from a complex indicator or dream element. T h e first assertion, already examined, was that the complex was the underlying cause of the dream or complex indicator. The second concerns the nature of the complexes usually discovered and therefore concluded to be the dominant type of complex existing in individuals, whether neurotic or sound. As the procedure already described usually brings the subject to a sexual complex, the prevailing type of complexes is concluded to be sexual. This conclusion would be justified if the movement of thought, which we have hitherto assumed to be free, were really as free as at first appears. Psychological experimenters (as Messer and Koffka) have frequently observed that it is very difficult to secure a really free association. Though the subject is

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instructed to let his mind move with perfect freedom from a given word in any direction, he inadvertently specializes his task, or falls into a definite "mental set," so that his reactions have a more uniform character than would be true were the movement of his thought wholly uncontrolled. The control is not as rigid as in "controlled association," and is likely to shift in the course of a series of associations; but such a thing as absolutely unguided movement of thought is very unusual. Some interest gets at least temporarily in control, and acts as a rudder to the course of thinking. It is rather strange that the Freudian, so insistent in the main on underlying trends and wishes, should assume that the subject is really passive in the process of the analysis, and should omit to inquire what sort of tendency or control may be exerted on the movement of thought. If we ourselves ask this question, we notice that the psychoanalyst instructs his subject to be passive and uncritical, and to give expression to every thought that comes up, no matter how trivial or embarrassing it may be. The subject is warned time and time again that he must keep back nothing if he wishes the treatment to succeed. It is easy to see that such instructions tend to arouse a definite set of mind toward that which is private and embarrassing; and this easily suggests the sexual. Certainly one cannot be in the hands of a Freudian for long without becoming aware that sexual matters are of special interest and concern, and thus, if at all responsive, getting a strong mental set in that direction. But this state of affairs shows the analysis in an entirely different light. The finding is no longer that, with a passive attitude and uncontrolled movement of thought, sex complexes are predominantly brought to light, but that when the subject is more or less subdy influenced to direct his thoughts toward the sexual, he comes upon sexual complexes. The existence of sex complexes is thus demonstrated well enough, but not their preponderance. If a psychoanalyst of different convictions should more or less subtly convey the impression that the important things to look for were in the line of self-assertion, or in the line of competition in the struggle for existence and social standing, or in the line of anger and irritation, he would certainly lead his subjects to find complexes of these types. There is no doubt that complexes of «ill these types, including the sexual, exist—though whether or not they are "unconscious" in the

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Freudian sense is another question which I shall not attempt to answer here—but as to the relative frequency and importance of the different types we have as yet no clear indications—certainly not from the work of the Freudians. T h e conclusion regarding the first method of psychoanalysis is that, though well adapted for the discovery of sex complexes, it will by no means bear the weight of the general psychological conclusions that have been made to rest upon it. The second method may be called that of fixed symbolism. When an element of a dream has been decided to be the representative of something other than itself, it can be called a symbol of that other thing. Originally, Freud asserted strongly that such symbols must necessarily be an individual matter, so that what was signified by a given symbol could be determined for an individual only by analysis of that individual. Later, however, following the lead of some of his pupils, he has come to believe that certain objects are fixed symbols for certain other objects or conditions, and that it is no longer necessary to establish the significance of certain dream elements by the "free movement of thought" described above, their significance being known at once from the table of equivalents derived from previous psychoanalytic experience. For example, the snake is always a male phallic symbol, a garden a symbol for the female genitals, and stairs a symbol for coitus. These and other similar fixed symbols are said to hold good for all dreams of all persons, and also for folklore, myth, and poetry, and for reverie and much or all of everyday thinking—certainly for any episode in thinking or acting that appears "symptomatic" of a complex. These are very broad assertions, and we are nowhere presented with anything like an adequate basis of recorded facts from which such generalizations could be derived. One suspects a statistical error here, namely, the "error of sampling." One suspects that a few striking cases, in which a given symbolism held good, have made so much impression on minds predisposed to accept this sort of thing, that the conclusion suggested has been incontinendy generalized, without much pains to look for possible negative cases or much question whether the positive cases from which the conclusion was derived are a fair sampling of all cases and sufficient in number to guard against error in generalization. It will not help the psychoanalyst, in com-

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bating this criticism, to decry statistics and congratulate himself that he works by no such mechanical method; for just as soon as he takes a few cases as representative of all, his abhorrence of statistics will not protect him from the statistical error of unfair or insufficient sampling. The doctrine of fixed symbolism is inherently so improbable as to demand very thorough demonstration. An object becomes the symbol of another by virtue of being associated with it in a person's experience, as is the case with words, mathematical symbols, and so forth; or else by virtue of some similarity between the symbol and the thing signified. Symbols of the first class are certainly dependent on individual experience. If I have never learned Chinese, the Chinese character for " m a n " is not, for me, a symbol for man. Symbolism depending on the similarity between two objects can often be appreciated without previous association between the two, as we see in the literary use of metaphors. But where the point of similarity is somewhat obscure, it may never be noticed by an individual, and the symbolic value of one object as representative of the other may accordingly never be actualized in him. For example, the similarity of the capital V to the number five, the V representing the hand held in a certain position, and the hand representing the number five, is so indirect and unobtrusive that it would scarcely make the one a symbol for the other except to an individual who had been taught to associate them. The snake, having many different characteristics, can be looked at from many different points of view, and only in one of its many aspects is it a phallic symbol. He who has been accustomed to note others of its characteristics will find it a natural symbol for sinuousness, or slyness, or wisdom, or danger, and find considerable difficulty in seeing the particular characteristic that has made it a phallic symbol to the initiated. The "garden" is, in the experience of one child, an ornamental plot about the house, with grass and shrubs that require little cultivation, while to another it means the vegetable garden, not ornamental but useful, and requiring much cultivation. One child is told to "go and play in the garden," and the other is warned "not to play in the garden." Evidently the garden will have a different symbolic value to these two children, and it is improbable that either of them will readily catch the point

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of the Freudian symbolism. Similar remarks can be made regarding the staircase and other supposedly fixed symbols. Symbolism is of necessity an individual matter, dependent on particular associations established, or on those characteristics of complex things which have become impressed on the individual. This is not to deny in the least that the social environment is influential both in establishing arbitrary associations in the individual's mind, and in calling his attention to certain characteristics of complex objects and to certain similarities; and in both ways controlling, to a large extent, the symbolism of the individual; but, after all, the symbolism depends on individual experience, and whether or not a given object is for an individual the symbol of another can only be determined by study of that individual. Besides, the particular symbolism of snake, garden, staircase, and so forth, is by no means instilled into the child by his social environment. My conclusion is that fixed symbolism, whether or not it may be useful as a device for abridging the labor of psychoanalysis and still getting at the sought-for complexes, is worthless as a method of scientific psychology, and cannot support the conclusions that are based on it. One further point of method needs to be examined. Since the Freudians have so much to say about the child, and make infantilism a corner stone of their system, one must ask by what methods they reach their knowledge of the child. Only to a slight degree do they base their conclusions on direct observation of children. Practically the whole body of their evidence is derived from the reminiscences of adults, and of a selected class of adults, neurotic subjects who have been psychoanalyzed. Certainly this sort of evidence has doubtful value. The matter is even worse when we consider the earliest years of childhood, to which the memory of the adult does not reach back. From what source is derived the knowledge of the sexual and incestuous tendencies of babies? Not, as far as the record shows, from direct study of babies, nor from the reminiscences of adults, but apparently from something akin to "fixed symbolism," along with such knowledge of babies as every one may be supposed to possess. But I submit that, in order to qualify as an expert on child psychology, the psychoanalyst should show a more direct and concrete hold of the actualities of child life

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than is indicated by the following citations from a book which I happen to have recently read. If we were to watch a three months old baby playing on the floor we would notice that it picked up the objects within reach and pretty generally thrust them immediately into its mouth. This is done at first indifferently with such objects as a rubber ball on the one hand or with the baby's foot on the other.2 The child learns, as soon as it can learn anything, that fecal matter is considered dirty and the bowel movements in the diaper are frequently denominated a "mess." 1 The vagueness of knowledge of the time relations of events in the baby's development, revealed by these quotations, is astounding in the representative of a school that professes to know so much about children—and the time relations are essential to the author's argument in both the above passages. If the psychoanalyst finds it necessary to refer so much to the child, he should know his child; and if he finds insufficient information in the books on child psychology—as I can readily understand may be the case—he should make direct studies of children, or, perhaps, collaborate with the psychologist in the direct observation of children. The trouble with all the psychoanalytic methods is their indirectness. Except that they get at certain complexes, they never furnish a direct view of the facts which they suppose to exist and on which they base their psychology. Even though the methods of the Freudian psychology are thus faulty, the doctrine might still be essentially sound, being based not on the evidence brought forward, but on great acumen in detecting the real state of affairs. It may be well to take the system as it stands, without regard to the manner in which it has come into existence, and examine, first, whether it is internally coherent. In the main, it certainly gives the impression of being so; yet there are one or two respects in which it seems to contradict itself. One inconsistency makes its appearance when we compare the affective tone of the dream with that of the neurotic symptom. The dream is regarded as the equivalent of the neurotic symptom, to the extent at least that both are expressions of suppressed tenden1 White, Mechanisms of Character Formation: An Introduction to Psychoanalysis, N e w York (1916), p. 180. • Ibid., p. 200.

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cies. T h e apparently disproportionate emotion in the neurotic's manner of dealing with trivial matters is explained by saying that the emotion has a genuine and adequate motive. It has simply become secondarily attached to these trivial matters; the really significant ideas have been suppressed, but the emotion remains behind and appears in connection with ideas that have a symbolic significance. Now the dream is regarded as very closely analogous to the neurotic symptom, being itself a symbolic fulfillment of suppressed wishes. If this conception of the dream were sound, we should expect to find the dream heavily charged with emotion; dreams should be like neurotic symptoms in this respect. As a matter of fact, the dream is rather remarkable for its comparative shallowness of emotion. T h e dreamer is interested in what he is dreaming about, but is not deeply moved (except, of course, in the nightmare). It is very curious, if the dream is actually a working out of unconscious tendencies strongly charged with emotion, that its emotional tone should be so mild and superficial. This could easily be understood if the dream were what it seems to be, a relatively superficial play of fancies, but not if it is as deeply motived as Freud supposes it to be. W e are confronted by a dilemma: if the suppression of a desire leaves its "affect" free to appear in consciousness attached to a symbol, then the neurotic symptom is explained, but the dream is not; while if the affect is subdued and kept under along with its tendency, then the dream is understandable, but not the neurotic symptom. There is difficulty in explaining both phenomena by the same mechanism. Another internal inconsistency in the Freudian psychology is connected with the "censor." T h e censor, the force that suppresses tendencies into the unconscious, is certainly essential to the whole system; but whence comes the censor with this tremendous power? He appears in the drama as a veritable deus ex machina, not indeed setting everything right at the end, but initiating the conflict on which the plot hinges. Sometimes the censor is represented as a social compulsion, sometimes as executing the mandates of one's own struggle for higher things. But, in any case, the censor has power enough to dominate the situation almost completely in normal waking life, in spite of the fact that the tendencies which he represses are so extraordinarily strong and pervasive that all

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activity is attributed to them; that " m a n sexualizes everything"; that myth, folklore, religion, and even invention, according to Jung, are due to the energizing of these tendencies; that " w e now k n o w , " as several psychoanalysts have in substance said on different occasions, " t h a t man's great activities are driven not by the superficial conscious motives, but by something much more powerful and significant, working in the unconscious." But why are these tendencies unconscious? Because they are suppressed. A n d w h a t keeps them suppressed? T h e censor; in other words, tendencies opposed to those that are suppressed. T h e suppressing tendencies must be stronger than the suppressed; but where these dominating tendencies, personified by the censor, come from and how they manage to suppress the all-powerful and all-motivating unconscious tendencies, remains obscure. These inconsistencies weaken the internal structure of the Freudian system. It loses its cohesion and falls apart into a number of components, some of which may be true and valid, though not all can be. Space will not allow consideration in detail of the various components making up the Freudian body of doctrine. There is scarcely a page in the writings of the school that does not contain assertions that arouse the suspicion of the psychologist. T h e ground of his suspicion is usually about the same; the exceptional is assumed by the psychoanalyst to be the regular thing, and the fascinating is preferred to the more sober view, so that in the end a highly distorted picture of mental processes and dynamics results. T h e psychologist's own conceptions, founded on simple cases experimentally studied, are much less fascinating but are probably the truth for the simple cases; and there is more hope of understanding the complicated cases by working out from the simple than by resorting to poetical conceptions for which no genuine evidence is presented. T a k e the dream for example. T h e invalidity of Freud's evidence for the symbolic significance of dreams has been referred to above. There is actually no evidence that dreams in general have a "latent content," or are the fulfillment of deep-seated and ordinarily repressed wishes. Undoubtedly some dreams may be fairly interpreted in this w a y ; but then there are so many dreams, and most of them yield a Freudian interpretation only by forced and very in-

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direct procedure. Meanwhile, why should the dream require such deep motivation? Granted that, as was said before, reverie and relatively uncontrolled thinking are almost always steered by some interest, and that the dream is interesting to the dreamer at the time —this means that some interest is gratified by the dream-reverie, but it does not require anything deep-seated or extremely powerful in the way of a motive force. Why should a powerful motive force be required to make us dream? T h e associative mechanisms are easy-running—this is one of the most obvious and certain facts in psychology, and it is a fact which the Freudian school seems resolutely to ignore. If the mechanisms that give us the "manifest content" of dreams, or of reveries, are easy-running, then sufficient motive power for them is provided by the relatively superficial interests that appear on the face of things. Twenty years ago, before Freud's work on dreams appeared, I approached the subject as a student of the late Professor James; and I was rather impressed by the view of Ives Delage, which had a certain analogy to that later developed by Freud. Delage held that an object would not be dreamed about if it had been dealt with to satiety on the previous day; only those tendencies operate in the dream that are not satisfied in the daily life. At that time I recorded many of my own dreams and found quite a number in which some train of thought or action, started during the day but broken off, was carried further, whereas thoughts or actions that had been brought to their conclusions and dismissed did not appear. In one case I dreamed of getting a clear view of the name on a street car that I had tried vainly to make out during the preceding day. Here we have a relatively superficial interest, though a genuine interest, since my curiosity had been aroused to know whither a certain line of cars led; and it is quite probable, on the face of it, that this unsatisfied curiosity caused the reappearance of the street car in the dream. T h e question is, whether we must assume deeper-lying, powerful though suppressed tendencies, in addition to those that are clearly at work; and the only reason for any such assumption would be the conviction, apparently entertained by the Freudians, that the mechanism of thinking, imagining, and remembering is stiff and ponderous, only to be driven by the big forces of life.

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An easy-running mechanism is subject to interference from slight disturbing causes; and therefore it is no more necessary to invoke deep-lying motives to explain lapses and complex indicators than to explain the occurrence of dreams. Undoubtedly some cases of hesitation or forgotten names, and so forth, may be due to the stirring of sleeping complexes; but we have the best sort of evidence that interferences result from much more superficial factors. In a variety of experiments, interference is produced by associating two responses separately to the same stimulus, the result being that the alternative responses interfere with each other and cause hesitations, false responses, and irritation, quite similar to what is seen in the "complex indicator." This reveals one elementary cause of interference, and another is brought to light in the "color naming test." Here we have five colors repeated many times in irregular order, and the task is to name the colors, one after another, as rapidly as possible. The five names are absolutely familiar; but in spite of this and in spite of naming them rapidly and correctly most of the time, momentary periods of confusion occur in the course of the test, with hesitation, false responses, confused utterance, and irritation. The interference here seems due to "perseveration" of the five names so recently and repeatedly spoken. Being all in a condition of readiness or easy excitability, they are likely to get in each other's way, and make the subject say "blue" for yellow, or "grack" for green or black. Another source of confusion is the anticipation of one reaction while another is in progress, with the result that the two are combined into a nonsense reaction; and another similar factor is the reacting to one thing when you intend to react to another, the two things being both present at once. Then there are the natural tendency toward economy of effort, leading often to "cutting corners," and the opposite tendency, when excited or worried, toward excess of energy and haste. Lapses of the tongue, or of the fingers in typewriting, are in general readily explained by one or another of these simple mechanisms. Having, then, these elementary facts as a basis, the psychologist prefers to build up from them toward an explanation of the more difficult cases, rather than to start with intricate cases involving emotional disturbance and attempt to assimilate the simple cases to them.

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As to forgotten names, Freud brings forward a few striking though doubtful instances, and hastily concludes that all temporary inability to recall a fairly familiar name is the result of interference by a submerged complex. He fails to appreciate the great frequency and commonplaceness of this form of lapse. If you start out systematically to recall the names of a large number of familiar persons or towns, and note carefully all the cases where you are impeded or get false names, you will probably accumulate quite a collection of cases in a few minutes. Sometimes there is but a momentary hesitation, or an instantaneous transition from the false name first suggested to the true name; sometimes the period of groping is more or less prolonged; and sometimes you are quite unable to get the right name without giving up for a time and starting afresh after an interval. When study is devoted to the false names called up while awaiting the right name, they are found usually to present some degree of similarity to the right name. They are specially likely to preserve the rhythm and other general characters of the right name, as well as the initial sound. These findings make it probable that names are not retained as isolated facts, but rather in rough and ready classes. O n first hearing a new name, we assimilate it to names already known, and when later we try to recall it, we are likely to get one of the names to which we have assimilated it instead of the exact name we want. In other words, our recall may be approximate instead of exact. Now when we have got thus on the wrong track to some extent, in our search for a name, we have blocked the path to the right name by the recency value of the false names just brought to mind. In view of all of the facts, it is both unnecessary and impossible to extend Freud's interpretation of the forgotten name to cover all the cases; and it seems better to start with the simpler and clearer cases and work out from them toward the more complex, rather than attempt to go the reverse way. T h e Freudian procedure is more "fascinating," just as animism is at first more fascinating than the mechanistic conception of nature; but the mechanistic conception "gets somewhere," and is likely to have this advantage in psychology as well as in physics. Just a word on "suppression," one of the most important conceptions in the whole Freudian collection. Here again what is

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striking and exceptional is extended to cover simpler cases. T h e question is as to what becomes of tendencies that are not permitted to work themselves out in action. The only possibility recognized by Freud is that the tendency is suppressed into the unconscious, where it remains dammed up, likely to break out in unexpected ways. This I believe to occur sometimes (except that I reserve judgment as to the "unconscious") both with sex tendencies and with others, such as those to anger. But it is not the only thing that can happen. The setting aside of tendencies to action is something that occurs almost at every moment of the day, for there are always a plurality of stimuli calling for reaction, and a selection must always occur. But most of the tendencies thus nipped in the bud simply disappear. And, in the case of strong tendencies that are not exactly nipped in the bud but take hold of us for a while, it is still possible to depress and weaken them, and by repetition of this treatment so train them to a subordinate position that they may become like rudimentary or atrophied organs, with no practical effect on behavior or feeling. Thus the esthetic strivings of youth often become atrophied, and thus an attraction toward one of the opposite sex may become so weakened as to evoke only a momentary regret or even a smile when later it comes momentarily to mind. Then there is the "libido"; and so much has been made of this and so much poor psychology spun about it that a volume would be required for an adequate and detailed criticism. The same procedure on the part of the Freudians is visible here, as in the matters already discussed. T h e y choose a very special motive force, choosing it because it is interesting and "fascinating," and attempt to assimilate all the motive forces of human activity to it—instead of starting, as a psychology of human motives should, with the more commonplace curiosity-manipulation-play-random movement source of activity, so dominant in children, so much depended on in education as the source of motives for serious work, and so influential throughout life as the driving force in the details of work and play, however much the main direction of affairs may be taken over by the more distinct motives of self-defense, economic and social aggrandizement, competition, social interest, parental devotion, and sex. T h e sex impulse is quite clearly a specialized motive, and not at all suited to be taken as the type of all motives. The

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" s u b l i m a t i o n " of " l i b i d o , " b y w h i c h it becomes the motive force for a n y activity w h a t e v e r , I believe to be mostly a fiction. W h a t happens w h e n genuine libido is aroused is either that it has its o w n w a y or, if not, that it acts as a disturbance of any other activity that is attempted. I n e n d e a v o r i n g to distract himself from it or to resist it, indeed, the subject m a y get some other motive powerfully aroused a n d so b e c o m e very active in something quite different from the natural outlet of libido. B u t this does not m e a n that the m o t i v e force for this second activity is the libido drained into another channel, a n y more than y o u r resistance to one w h o shoulders y o u aside means that y o u r motive in resisting is his motive in pushing drained into a new c h a n n e l ; or, to take a better example, any m o r e than y o u r intensified application to y o u r book w h e n you hear distracting noises f r o m the athletic field, and your resulting complete absorption in the book, m e a n s that y o u r interest in European history is a derivative of y o u r interest in football. A plurality of m o tives exists within the individual, and there is no known reason for regarding t h e m all as "transformations of the l i b i d o . " T h e F r e u d i a n psychology, here as elsewhere, becomes distorted b y taking a striki n g and extreme case as the type of all others. It w o u l d be interesting, as a sort of reductio ad absurdum of the F r e u d i a n system, to submit it itself to psychoanalysis, and interpret it in a c c o r d a n c e w i t h F r e u d i a n principles. W h e n w e consider the F r e u d i a n psychology from the psyc h o a n a l y t i c point of v i e w , w e r e a c h the conclusion that the d r i v i n g force behind the invention of this system is " l i b i d o , " that it is itself a sublimation of that tendency. If, as J u n g asserts, the invention of agriculture and the m e c h a n i c a l arts, as well as of m y t h and religion, is d u e to the driving force of the sex i n s t i n c t — a n d in particular of the incestuous t e n d e n c y — t h e n we m a y certainly conclude that the inventions of the Freudians themselves, being so m u c h more obviously related to sex, are driven b y the same force. T h e element of sublimation, perhaps not obtrusive at first glance, is nevertheless strongly present in the mental activity that has g o n e into the d e v e l o p m e n t of the system. N o t only on the side of its authors, but also on the side of the readers of F r e u d i a n literature, the element of sex gratification is the main factor in the spread of the m o v e m e n t . T h e books owe their

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interest principally to the sex element. I say this on the basis, largely, of introspection. I have devoured many of these writings greedily, and am perfectly aware that my interest has been largely of this sort, even though I probably have more interest in the other elements present than the majority of non-psychological readers would have. The literature of the school is, any one must admit, extraordinarily monotonous when considered from a purely objective standpoint—though this is less true of Freud's own writings than of most others in the collection. T h e same mode of approach leading always to the same predictable result—a series of riddles, every one of them having the same answer—how can such writings hold the reader's interest? But they do, or many of them do. Now I ask what, according to Freudian conceptions, must be the spring of this interest? Could it, by any chance, be the sex interest of the reader that is here tapped? Is there anything in the writings that could awaken this interest? It would not need, according to the Freudians, to be anything overtly sexual—is there anything that could be regarded as at least symbolically sexual in these writings? T h e Freudian must certainly answer "Yes" and conclude that in all probability the driving force in the reader's attention is "libido." If we pass from the doctrines and writings to the practice of psychoanalysis, we find a similar probability, still according to the Freudian point of view. T h e psychoanalytic seance is a sort of coitus sublimatus (sometimes homosexual), both on the physician's part and on that of the patient. As far as concerns the patient, this has already been pointed out by Freudians in their discussion of "transference." On the side of the physician, it must be remarked that he is called upon more than other men to hold sex impulses in check, his professional duties giving much occasion for stimulation, while his professional code and his undoubted fidelity to it restrain him from satisfaction. Perhaps the neurologist has more occasion than most other physicians to exercise constant censorship over himself. Now the Freudian conceptions and manner of treatment make every patient interesting and give a form of satisfaction to the suppressed sex trends; and this is evidently—according to Freudian principles—the reason why so large a number of neurologists have adopted these conceptions and methods. In short, according to the Freudian line of interpretation, the

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case of Freudian is perfectly clear. It was the sex impulse (perhaps in some obscure way incestuous) that impelled Freud to the creation of the system; it is sex interest that causes the books of the school to be read and to appeal to the reader; it is the sex interest that leads a practitioner to adopt the psychoanalytic treatment and that sustains him throughout the laborious process of analysis; and it is sex interest on the part of the patient that insures his cooperation and brings the relief that he sometimes derives from his association with the psychoanalyst. Though perhaps not all of Freud's followers would have the poise to accept these deductions from their fundamental tenets, I have a suspicion that Freud himself would not shrink from this statement of the case. He would probably hold, and in this I should wholly agree with him, that no moral condemnation is involved. T h e sex impulse is not to be labeled ignoble or unclean—though, like other instinctive tendencies, and perhaps more than most others, it needs management and may secondarily acquire unclean associations—and the activities and products resulting from it are to be judged on their own merit. If sex interest on the part of the analyst and of the patient furnishes the driving force for the process of treatment, this does not deprive the results of whatever value they may have when judged on their merits. The theory is to be judged on its merits as a theory, and the practice according to the value of its results. But I do insist that this analysis constitutes a reductio ad absurdum of the Freudian theory. For if the above were anything more than a one-sided conception of the system, and if no independent and corrective motives such as scientific curiosity or zeal for the welfare of neurotic patients entered in, then the whole system would have no more authority or scientific value than any other libidinous rhapsody. I hasten to admit that I believe it to possess more value than that, for it does without doubt contain the elements of scientific curiosity and zeal for curative results, along with a large dose of libido. It is not void of scientific value, but so obsessed is it with a few elements in the complex human personality that it gives us a narrow and one-sided psychology, utterly lacking in perspective. Nor can the success of the treatment—regarding which 1 do not pretend to judge—be used as weighty evidence in favor of the

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theory. The "pragmatic argument" will not work in this case. We have a number of other treatments, all more or less successful in treating neurotic cases, and each one purporting to be based on a different theory. If the psychoanalytic treatment could be rigidly deduced from the Freudian theory and from no other known theory, or even if the practice had originated as a deduction from the theory, this argument would have weight. As a matter of history, however, the treatment grew u p first, and the theory was then developed as a sort of rationalization of the treatment. T h e theory is extended far beyond the needs of the practitioner. The psychology of the Freudians, and also their views on history, mythology, and the world in general are not essential to the practice, but are to be regarded as products of the decorative art.

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ONE OF the most agreeable and satisfying experiences afforded by intellectual pursuits comes from the discovery of a cleancut distinction between things which are superficially much alike. The esthetic value of such distinctions may even outweigh their intellectual value and lead to sharp lines and antitheses where the only difference that exists is one of degree. A favorite opportunity for this form of intellectual exercise and indulgence is afforded by the observation of groups of men. The type of man composing each group—that is what we should like to find; and we hear much of the "typical" scientist, the typical business man, the typical Englishman or Frenchman, the typical southerner, the typical Bostonian. The type of any group stands as a sort of ideal within the group, and, more or less caricatured, as the butt of the wit of other groups. There is one peculiar fact about these types: you may have to search long for an individual who can be taken as a fair example. And when you have at last found the typical individual, you may be led to ask by what right he stands as the type of the group, if he is a rarity amidst it. If we would scientifically determine the facts regarding a group of men, we should, no doubt, proceed to examine all the individuals in the group, or at least a fair and honest representation of them. The first fact that meets us when we proceed in this way is that the individuals differ from one another, so that no one can really be selected as representing the whole number. We do find, indeed, when we measure the stature or any other bodily fact, or when we test any native mental capacity, that the members of a natural group are disposed about an average, many of them lying near the average, and few lying far above or far below it; and we thus have the average as a scientific fact regarding the group. But the average does not generally coincide with the type, as previously conceived, 1 Address of the vice-president and chairman of Section H—Anthropology and Psychology—of the American Association for the Advancement of Science, Boston, 1909. Reprinted from Science, X X X I ( 1 9 1 0 ) , 1 7 1 - 8 6 .

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nor do the averages of different groups differ so much as the socalled types differ. Moreover, the average is itself very inadequate, since it does not indicate the amount of variation that exists within the g r o u p — a n d this is one of the most important facts to be borne in mind in understanding any collection of individuals. It is specially important in comparing different groups of men, since the range of variation within either group is usually much greater than the difference between the averages of the groups. T h e groups overlap to such an extent that the majority of the individuals composing either group might perfectly well belong to the other. N o doubt statements like this will be readily accepted as far as concerns the different nations belonging to the same race. O n e could not seriously doubt that the nations of Europe, though they might differ slightly on the average, would so much overlap one another that, cxccpt for language and superficial mannerisms, the great majority of the members of one nation might be exchanged with a majority from another nation without altering the characteristics of either. But when we extend our view to all the peoples of the earth, the case would at first appear quite changed. Certainly whites and Negroes do not overlap, to any extent, in color of skin, nor Negroes and Chinamen in kinkiness of hair, nor Indians and Pygmies in stature. Such specialization of traits is, however, the exception. Whites and Negroes, though differing markedly in complexion and hair, overlap very extensively in almost every other trait, as, for example, in stature. Even in brain weight, which would seem a trait of great importance in relation to intelligence and civilization, the overlapping is much more impressive than the difference; since while the brain of Negroes averages perhaps 2 ounces lighter than the brain of Europeans, the range of variation within either race amounts to 25 ounces. O u r inveterate love for types and sharp distinctions is apt to stay with us even after we have become scientific, and vitiate our use of statistics to such an extent that the average becomes a stumblingblock, rather than an aid to knowledge. W e desire, for example, to compare the brain weights of whites and of Negroes. W e weigh the brains of a sufficient number of each race—or let us at least assume the number to be sufficient. When our measurements are all obtained and spread before us, they convey to the unaided eye no

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clear idea of a racial difference, so much do they overlap. If they should become jumbled together, we should never be able to separate the Negroes from the whites by aid of brain weight. But now we cast u p the average of each group, and find them to differ; and though the difference is small, we straightway seize on it as the important result, and announce that the Negro has a smaller brain than the white. W e go a step further, and class the white as a large-brained race, the Negro as a small-brained. Such transforming of differences of degree into differences of kind, and making antitheses between overlapping groups, partakes not a little of the ludicrous. W e seem to be confronted by a dilemma; for the group as a whole is too unwieldy to grasp, while the average, though convenient, is treacherous. W h a t we should like is some picture or measure of the distribution of a given trait throughout the members of a group; and, fortunately, such measures and pictures can be had. Convenient and compact measures of variability are afforded by the science of statistics, and are of no less importance than the average. But still better, because closer to the actual facts, are graphic or tabular pictures of the distribution of the trait, showing the frequency with which it occurs in each degree. T h e distribution of a trait is for some purposes more important than the average. Let us suppose, for instance, that two groups were the same in their average mental ability, but that one group showed little variation, all of its members being much alike and of nearly the average intelligence, while the other group showed great variability, ranging between the extremes of idiocy and genius. It is evident that the two groups, though equal on the average, would be very unequal in dealing with a situation which demanded great mental ability. O n e master mind could supply ideas for the guidance of the group, and his value would far outweigh the load of simpletons which the group must carry. If groups of men differ in average intelligence, this difference would have an influence on their effectiveness in mental work, and so, no doubt, on their advance in civilization. If groups differ in variability, this would probably have a still greater influence. There is one respect in which groups certainly do differ. T h e y differ in size, and size is an important consideration, even from a purely

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biological point of view. T h e more numerous the individuals born into a group, the greater the absolute number of gifted individuals to be expected; and in some respects it is the absolute rather than the relative number of able men that counts. Besides this, the larger the group, the greater the chance of its producing a truly effective genius, just as, in the experiments of Burbank and other breeders, a vast number of plants are grown, in order to increase the chance of sports occurring. One further consideration of this partly biological, partly statistical, nature should be brought forward before passing from preliminary remarks to the consideration of actual data. When the individuals composing a group are measured or tested in several traits, it is found that those who rank high in one trait do not always rank high in others. On the whole, there is more correspondence than opposition; an individual who ranks well in one trait is rather apt to rank well in others. T h e correlation, as we say, is positive, but it is far from perfect. The individuals most gifted in war are not altogether the same individuals who are ablest in government, nor in art nor literature, nor in mechanical invention. This fact is not only of importance in reaching a just conception of a group, but it should be considered in comparing different groups. The circumstances surrounding a group call for certain special abilities, and bring to the fore the individuals possessing these abilities, leaving in comparative obscurity those gifted in other directions. J u d g ing the group largely by its prominent individuals, we get the impression that the group is gifted in certain lines, and deficient in others. A nation whose circumstances call for industrial expansion and the exploitation of natural resources gives prominence to those of its members who are successful in these pursuits, and leaves in obscurity many who have native capacity for military leadership. Should war come to such a community, time and bitter experience are often necessary before the leadership can be transferred from the previously eminent men to those obscure and often despised individuals who are capable of doing best service in the new direction. This lack of perfect correlation between various abilities makes it difficult to judge of the capacity of a group of men by casual observation; and we must accordingly discount largely the appearance of specialization of mental traits in different peoples.

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All in all, the discovery of true inherent differences between races and peoples is an intricate task, and if we now turn to the psychologist to conduct an examination of different groups, and to inform us regarding their mental differences, we must not allow him to present a hasty conclusion. His tests must be varied and thorough before we can accept his results as a serious contribution to this difficult subject. The psychologist may as well admit at once that he has little to offer; for, though the "psychology of peoples" has become a familiar phrase, and though books have been written on the subject, actual experimental work has so far been very limited in quantity. O n e thing the psychologist can assert with no fear of error. Starting from the various mental processes which are recognized in his textbooks, he can assert that each of these processes is within the capabilities of every group of mankind. All have the same senses, the same instincts and emotions. All can remember the past, and imagine objects not present to sense. All discriminate, compare, reason, and invent. In all, one impulse can inhibit another and a distant end can be pursued to the neglect of present incitations. Statements to the contrary, denying to the savage powers of reasoning, or abstraction, or inhibition, or foresight, can be dismissed at once. If the savage differs in these respects from the civilized man, the difference is one of degree, and consistent with considerable overlapping of savage and civilized individuals. T h e difference of degree calls for quantitative tests. But besides the traditional classification of mental powers, there is another of perhaps greater importance in studying differences between men. O n e individual differs from another not so much in power of memory, nor of reasoning, nor of attention, nor of will, as in the sort of material to which he successfully applies these processes. One gives his attention readily to mathematics; he remembers mathematics easily; he reasons well on mathematical subjects; his will is strong in excluding distracting impulses when he is in pursuit of a mathematical goal. H e may show none of these powers, in a high degree, in relation to music, or business, or social life; whereas another, totally inefficient in mathematics, may show equal powers of mind in another subject. The capacity to handle a given sort of subject matter is in part determined by native endowment, but is very re-

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sponsive to training, and therefore is hard to test, because only individuals with equal training in any subject can be fairly tested and compared as to their native capacity to handle that subject. Thus it becomes hard to contrive a test for musical or mathematical or mechanical endowment which could fairly be applied to races having diverse trainings in these lines. This difficulty, moreover, infects our tests for such general powers as memory or reasoning, for a test has to deal with some sort of material, and success in passing the test depends on the familiarity of the material as well as on the power of mind which we design to test. We may suppose, indeed, that all of our tests, founded as they are on material which is familiar to us, will be more or less unfair to peoples of very different cultures and modes of life. The results of our tests need to be discounted somewhat—exactly how much we cannot say—in favor of the primitive peoples tested. We are now, it would seem, sufficiently intrenched in precautions and criticisms to admit the psychologist to our councils, and hear the results of his tests. First, as to the senses. The point of special interest here is as to whether the statements of many travelers, ascribing to the "savage" extraordinary powers of vision, hearing, and smell, can be substantiated by exact tests. The common opinion, based on such reports, is, or has been, that savages are gifted with sensory powers quite beyond anything of which the European is capable; though Spencer explains that this is a cause of inferiority rather than the reverse, because the savage is thus led to rely wholly on his keen senses, and to devote his whole attention to sense impressions, to the neglect and atrophy of his intellectual powers. Ranke, however, on testing natives of Brazil, a race notable for its feats of vision, found that their ability to discern the position of a letter or similar character at a distance, though good, was not remarkable, but fell within the range of European powers. The steppe-dwelling Kalmuks, also renowned for distant vision, being able to detect the dust of a herd of cattle at a greater distance with the naked eye than a European could with a telescope, have also been examined; and their acuity was indeed found to be very high, averaging considerably above that of Europeans; yet only one or 2 out of the 40 individuals tested exceeded the European record, while the great majority fell within

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the range of good European eyes. Much the same result has been obtained from Arabs, Egyptians, and quite a variety of peoples. Among the most reliable results are those of Rivers on a wholly unselected Papuan population. He found no very exceptional individual among 1 1 5 tested, yet the average was somewhat better than that of Europeans. I had myself, through the kindness of Dr. McGee, the opportunity of testing individuals from quite a variety of races at the Saint Louis Fair in 1904, and my results agree closely with those already cited, though I did not find any cases of very exceptional powers among about 300 individuals. There were a number who exceeded the best of the 200 whites whom I also tested under the same conditions, but none who exceeded or equaled the record of a few individuals who have been found in the German army. Indians and Filipinos ranked highest, averaging about 10 percent better than whites, when all individuals of really defective vision were excluded. The amount of overlapping is indicated by stating that 65-75 percent of Indians and Filipinos exceeded the average for whites. It did not seem possible, however, to assert anything like a correspondence between eyesight and the degree of primitiveness or backwardness of a people; since, for instance, the Negritos of the Philippine Islands, though much more primitive than the Malayan Filipinos in their mode of life, and, indeed, the most primitive group so far tested, were inferior to the Filipinos, and, in fact, as far as could be judged from the small number examined, no whit superior to whites. Nor does it seem possible, from results hitherto reported, to believe in a close correspondence between keen sight and dark skin, though it is true that pigment is important in several ways to the eye, and that therefore, as Rivers has suggested, the amount of pigmentation might be a factor in vision. But it does not seem to be specially the darkest races that show the keenest vision. We may, perhaps, conclude that eyesight is a function which varies somewhat in efficiency with difference of race, though with much overlapping. No doubt, however, the results, as they stand, need some qualification. On the one hand, inclusion of individuals with myopia and similar defects would lower the average of Europeans considerably more than that of most other races; so that the actual condition of eyesight differs more than the results show. On the other hand, it would not be fair to include

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nearsighted individuals, if what we wish to discover is native differences between peoples; for the different prevalence of myopia is certainly due to the differing uses to which the eye is put. And this matter of use may have considerable influence on the individuals not classed as nearsighted, and so admitted to the comparison. Rivers has made an observation in connection with the test for eyesight, which I a m able to confirm, and which is, perhaps, of much importance. He found that when the letter or character used in his test, the position of which had to be recognized at the greatest possible distance, was removed from him beyond the distance at which he felt that he could judge it, he could still guess it right nearly every time, though without confidence. By such guessing, one's record in this test can be bettered considerably; and careful study enables one to see the slight and blurred indications of position which form the basis of the guessing. Now it may well be that the occupations of civilized life breed a habit of dependence on clear vision, whereas the life of those who must frequently recognize objects at a great distance breeds reliance on slight indications, and so creates a favorable attitude for the test of eyesight. When this possibility is taken in connection with the deterioration of many European eyes from abuse, and in connection with the observed overlapping of all groups tested, the conclusion is not improbable that, after all, the races are essentially equal in keenness of vision. Even if small differences do exist, it is fairly certain that the wonderful feats of distant vision ascribed to savages are due to practice in interpreting slight indications of familiar objects. Both Rivers and Ranke, on testing some of the very individuals whose feats of keen sight seemed almost miraculous, found that, as tested, they had excellent but not extraordinary vision. A little acquaintance with sailors on shipboard is enough to dispel the illusion that such feats are beyond the powers of the white man. T h e hearing of savages enjoys a reputation, among travelers, similar to that of their sight; but there can be little doubt that the cause is the same. In fact, the tests which have so far been made tend to show that the hearing of whites is superior. Such was the result of Myers on the Papuans, and of Bruner in his extensive series of measurements made at the Saint Louis Fair. O n l y 15 percent of 137 Filipinos tested did as well as the average of whites;

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other groups made a somewhat better showing, but all seemed inferior, on the average, to whites. In spite of the experimental results, there is, perhaps, reason to doubt that the hearing of whites is essentially and natively much superior to that of other races. Civilized life protects the ear from some forms of injury to which it is exposed in more primitive conditions; and, then, the question of cleanliness must be considered in regard to the meatus. Besides, the ear is known to be highly susceptible of training in the perception of particular sorts of sound—as overtones and difference tones —and it is likely enough that the watch ticks and similar clicks used in the tests are not equally within the repertory of all peoples. M u c h the same can be said regarding keenness of smell. O n account of the high olfactory powers of dogs and some other lower animals, it has often seemed natural and proper that this sense should be highly developed among savages; and feats of primitive folk have been reported quite analogous to those already referred to under sight and hearing. No doubt here again special interests and training are responsible, since what few tests have been made tend to show no higher acuity of smell among Negroes and Papuans than among Europeans. T h e sense of touch has been little examined. McDougall found among the Papuans a number with extremely fine powers of discrimination by the skin. The difference between two points and one could be told by these individuals, even when the two points were brought very close together; on the average, the Papuans tested excelled Europeans considerably in this test. O n the other hand, Indians and Filipinos, and a few Africans and Ainu, tested in the same manner, seem not to differ perceptibly from whites. T h e pain sense is a matter of some interest, because of the fortitude or stolidity displayed by some races toward physical sufferingIt may be, and has been conjectured, that the sense for pain is blunt in these races, as it is known to be in some individuals who have allowed themselves to be burned without flinching and have performed other feats of fortitude. T h e pain sense is tested by applying gradually increasing pressure to some portion of the skin, and requiring the person tested to indicate when he first begins to feel pain. Now, as a matter of fact, the results of McDougall's tests on the Papuans, and those of Dr. Bruner and myself on Indians,

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Filipinos, Africans, and Ainu, are in close agreement on this point. Greater pressure on the skin is needed to produce pain in each of these races than in whites. This is the average result, but in this test the distribution of the cases is specially important. Though most whites feel pain at or about a certain small pressure, there is quite a respectable minority who give no sign till much higher pressures are reached, their results corresponding very closely to those of the majority of Indians. And similarly, a minority of Indians feel pain at much lower pressures than the bulk of their fellows, falling into the ranks of the white man. In each group the distribution is bimodal, or aggregated about two points instead of one; but whites are principally aggregated about the lower center, and Indians and other races about the higher center. Introspection comes to our aid in explaining this anomaly, for it shows that there is some difficulty in telling just when the pressure becomes painful. If one is satisfied with slight discomfort, a moderate pressure will be enough; but if a sharp twinge is demanded, the pressure must be considerably increased. Most whites, under the conditions of the test, are satisfied with slight discomfort, while my impression in watching the Indians was that they were waiting to be really hurt. T h e racial difference would accordingly be one in the conception of pain, or in understanding the test, rather than in the pain sense. On the whole, the keenness of the senses seems to be about on a par in the various races of mankind. Differences exist among the members of any race, and it is not improbable that differences exist between the averages of certain groups, especially when these are small, isolated, and much inbred. Rivers has, in fact, found such small groups differing considerably from whites in the color sense. One such group showed no cases of our common color blindness or red-green blindness, while another group showed an unusually large percentage of color-blind individuals. In the larger groups, the percentage of the color-blind is, very likely, about constant, though the existing records tend to show a somewhat lower proportion among Mongolians than among whites. Very large numbers of individuals need, however, to be tested in order to determine such a proportion closely; even among Europeans, the proportion cannot yet be regarded as finally established. One thing is definitely shown by the tests that have been m a d e for color blind-

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ness in various races: no race, however primitive, has been discovered in which red-green blindness was the universal or general condition; and this is a fact of some interest in connection with the physiology of color vision, for it seems probable that red-green blindness, since it is not by any means a diseased condition, represents a reversion to a more primitive state of the color sense. If this is so, no race of men remains in the primitive stages of the evolution of the color sense; the development of a color sense, substantially to the condition which we have it, was probably a prehuman achievement. In the actual history of the discussion of the color sense in various races, quite a different view of the evolution has been prominent. It was Gladstone who first, as an enthusiastic student of Homer, was struck by the poverty of color names in ancient literature, and who suggested that the Greeks of the Homeric age had a very imperfectly developed eye for color. He was especially impressed by the application of the same color name to blue and to gray and dark objects. Geiger, adhering to the same sort of philological evidence, broadened its scope by pointing out the absence of a name for blue in other ancient literatures. It is indeed curious that the sky, which is mentioned hundreds of times in the Vedas and the Old Testament, is never referred to as blue. The oldest literatures show a similar absence of names for green. Geiger found that names for black, white, and red were the oldest, and that names for yellow, green, and blue have appeared in that order. He concluded that the history of language afforded an insight into the evolution of the color sense, and that accordingly the first color to be sensed was red, the others following in the same order in which they occur in the spectrum. Magnus found that many languages at the present day were in the same condition as that shown in the ancient Greek, Hebrew, and Sanscrit. Very many, perhaps the majority, have no specific name for blue, and a large proportion have likewise none for green. A smaller number are without a name for yellow, while nearly all have a name for red. It seemed that the backward races of today had just reached the stage, in the matter of color sensation, which was attained by other races some thousands of years ago. The underlying assumptions of this argument are interesting— the notion that the list of sensations experienced by a people must

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find expression in its vocabulary; and the conception of certain peoples now living as really primitive. Fortunately, Magnus submitted this theory to the test of facts, by supplying travelers and traders with sets of colors, by which various peoples were tested, first, as to their ability to name the colors in their own languages, and second, as to their power to recognize and distinguish the colors. T h e results of this inquiry were that names were often lacking for blue and green, but that every people was able to perceive the whole gamut of colors known to the European. This was a severe blow alike to the philological line of argument and to the ready assumption that early stages of evolution were to be found represented in the backward peoples of today. Accepting the facts as they stood, M a g n u s still felt that there must be some physiological or sensory reason for the curious lack of certain color names in many languages; and he therefore suggested that blue and green might be less vividly presented by the senses of many tribes, and that, being duller to their eyes than to Europeans, these colors did not win their way into the language. The theory was, however, practically defunct for many years till Rivers recently took it up, as the result of tests on several dark-skinned peoples. His test called for the detection of very faint tints of the various colors, and the result was that, as compared with two score educated English whom he also tested, these peoples were somewhat deficient in the detection of faint tints of blue—and also of yellow—but not of red. One group, indeed, was superior to the English in red. T h e results made it seem probable to Rivers that blue was indeed a somewhat less vivid color to dark-skinned races than to Europeans, and he suggested that pigmentation, rather than primitiveness, might be the important factor in producing this difference. A blue-absorbing pigment is always present in the retina, and the amount of it might very well be greater in generally pigmented races. T h e suggestion is worth putting to a further test; but, meanwhile, the difference obtained by Rivers in sensitiveness to blue needs to be received with some caution, since the Europeans on whose color sense he relies for comparison were rather few in number, educated, and remarkably variable among themselves. We were able, at Saint Louis, to try on representatives of a number of races a difficult color-matching test, so different, indeed, from that of Rivers that

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our results cannot be used as a direct check on his; with the result that all other races were inferior to whites in their general success in color matching, but that no special deficiency appeared in the blues. We also could find no correlation between ill success in this test and the degree of pigmentation. On the whole, the color sense is probably very much the same all over the world. That linguistic evidence is a very treacherous guide to the sensory powers of a people is well seen in the case of smell. Certainly many odors are vivid enough, yet we have no specific odor names. Only a psychologist would require a complete vocabulary of sensations; practical needs lead the development of language in quite other directions. When we turn from the senses to other functions, the information which the psychologist has to offer becomes even more scanty. Some interest attaches to tests of the speed of simple mental and motor performances, since, though the mental process is very simple, some indication may be afforded of the speed of brain action. The reaction-time test has been measured on representatives of a few races, with the general result that the time consumed is about the same in widely different groups. The familiar "tapping test," which measures the rate at which the brain can at will discharge a series of impulses to the same muscle, was tried at Saint Louis on a wide variety of folk, without disclosing marked differences between groups. The differences were somewhat greater when the movement, besides being rapid, had to be accurate in aim. The Eskimos excelled all others in this latter test, while the poorest record was made by the Patagonians and the Cocopa Indians—which groups were, however, represented by only a few individuals. The Filipinos, who were very fully represented, seemed undeniably superior to whites in this test, though, of course, with plenty of overlapping. The degree of right-handedness has been asserted to vary in different races, and the favoring of one hand has been interpreted as conducive to specialization and so to civilization. We were, however, unable to detect any marked difference in the degree of right-handedness in different races, as tested by the comparative strength, quickness, or accuracy of the two hands. The Negritos, the lowest race examined, had the same degree of right-handedness as Filipinos, or Indians, or whites.

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W e are probably justified in inferring from the results cited that the sensory and motor processes and the elementary brain activities, though differing in degree from one individual to another, are about the same from one race to another. Equitable tests of the distinctly intellectual processes are hard to devise, since much depends on the familiarity of the material used. Few tests of this nature have as yet been attempted on different races. There are a number of illusions and constant errors of judgment which are well known in the psychological laboratory, and which seem to depend, not on peculiarities of the sense organs, but on quirks and twists in the process of judgment. A few of these have been made the matter of comparative tests, with the result that peoples of widely different cultures are subject to the same errors, and in about the same degree. There is an illusion which occurs when an object, which looks heavier than it is, is lifted by the hand; it then feels, not only lighter than it looks, but even lighter than it really is. T h e contrast between the look and the feel of the thing plays havoc with the judgment. Women are, on the average, more subject to this illusion than men. T h e amount of this illusion has been measured in several peoples, and found to be, with one or two exceptions, about the same in all. Certain visual illusions, in which the apparent length or direction of a line is greatly altered by the neighborhood of other lines, have similarly been found present in all races tested, and to about the same degree. As far as they go, these results tend to show that simple sorts of judgment, being subject to the same disturbances, proceed in the same manner among various peoples; so that the similarity of the races in mental processes extends at least one step beyond sensation. T h e mere fact that members of the inferior races are suitable subjects for psychological tests and experiments is of some value in appraising their mentality. Rivers and his collaborators approached the natives of Torres Straits with some misgivings, fearing that they would not possess the necessary powers of sustained concentration. Elaborate introspections, indeed, they did not secure from these people, but, in any experiment that called for straightforward observation, they found them admirable subjects for the psychologist. Locating the blind spot, and other observations with in-

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direct vision, which are usually accounted a strain on the attention, were successfully performed. If tests are put in such form as to appeal to the interests of the primitive man, he can be relied on for sustained attention. Statements sometimes met with to the effect that such and such a tribe is deficient in powers of attention, because, when the visitor began to quiz them on matters of linguistics, and so forth, they complained of headache and ran away, sound a bit naive. M u c h the same observations could be reported by college professors regarding the natives gathered in their class rooms. A good test for intelligence would be much appreciated by the comparative psychologist, since, in spite of equal standing in such rudimentary matters as the senses and bodily movement, attention, and the simpler sorts of judgment, it might still be that great differences in mental efficiency existed between different groups of men. Probably no single test could do justice to so complex a trait as intelligence. Two important features of intelligent action are quickness in seizing the key to a novel situation; and firmness in limiting activity to the right direction, and suppressing acts which are obviously useless for the purpose in hand. A simple test which calls for these qualities is the so-called "form test." There are a number of blocks of different shapes, and a board with holes to match the blocks. T h e blocks and board are placed before a person, and he is told to put the blocks in the holes in the shortest possible time. The key to the situation is here the matching of blocks and holes by their shape; and the part of intelligence is to hold firmly to this obvious necessity, wasting no time in trying to force a round block into a square hole. T h e demand on intelligence certainly seems slight enough; and the test would probably not differentiate between a Newton and you or me; but it does suffice to catch the feeble-minded, the young child, or the chimpanzee, as any of these is likely to fail altogether, or at least to waste much time in random moves and vain efforts. This test was tried on representatives of several races, and considerable differences appeared. As between whites, Indians, Eskimos, Ainus, Filipinos, and Singhalese, the average differences were small, and much overlapping occurred. As between these groups, however, and the Igorot and Negrito from the Philippines and a few reputed Pygmies from the Congo, the average differences were great, and the overlapping was small.

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Another rather similar test for intelligence, which was tried on some of these groups, gave them the same relative rank. The results of the test agreed closely with the general impression left on the minds of the experimenters by considerable association with the people tested. And, finally, the relative size of the cranium, as indicated roughly by the product of its three external dimensions, agreed closely in these groups with their appearance of intelligence and with their standing in the form test. If the results could be taken at their face value, they would indicate differences of intelligence between races, giving such groups as the Pygmy and Negrito a low station, as compared with most of mankind. The fairness of the test is not, however, beyond question; it may have been of a more unfamiliar sort to these wild hunting folk than to more settled groups. This crumb is, at any rate, about all the testing psychologist has yet to offer on the question of racial differences in intelligence. In the absence of first-hand study of the mental powers of different races, folk psychology resorts to a comparison of their civilizations and achievements. This is the method by which we habitually compare the intelligence of individuals, judging capacity by performance, the tree by its fruits; and such judgments, though subject to occasional error, are probably in the main reliable. Why should we not extend the method to the comparison of groups, and say that a group possessing a high civilization has probably a high average intelligence, while a wild savage race is mentally poorly endowed? The first difficulty in employing the method is to obtain a just estimate of the cultures to be compared. First impressions regarding alien folk, derived from the reports of travelers, are usually wide of the mark. Only the patient and prolonged labors of the ethnologist can inform us as to what a tribe does and thinks; and where such studies have been made, it is found that a backward culture, such as that of the natives of Australia, has much more substance, and affords much wider scope for mental activity, than the early reports indicated. T h e difficulty of inferring the mental endowment of a group from its stage of culture is well brought out by applying this method to the comparison of different epochs in the history of a nation. German culture today is much advanced from the days of Caesar; shall we infer that the mental endowment of the Germans

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has advanced in like measure? Biologically, the interval, measured in generations, is not long, and from all biological considerations it is improbable that any advance in mental endowment has occurred. T h e difference in material civilization does not mean that the German of today is, on the average, gifted with more native inventiveness or business ability than his ancestors sixty generations ago. T h e difference in the arts and sciences does not mean that the German of today is naturally more studious, or scientific, or musical. T h e more setded condition of society does not imply greater native capacity for industry or government. The disappearance of old superstitions does not imply that later generations were born without the tendencies to superstition which characterized their fathers. We are still not many generations removed from witchcraft, curses, magic, and the like savage beliefs and practices, and we cannot reasonably believe our recent forefathers to have been naturally more savage than we are. When, for psychological purposes, we compare the culture of Europe with that of Africa, wc should not leave out of account the Children's Crusade, or the Inquisition, or the Wars of the Roses. And if we attempt to use the state of civilization as a measure of racial intelligence, we must somehow adapt the method so that it shall give the same results, whether earlier or later stages in the culture of a group be taken as the basis for study. In reality, the civilization possessed by a generation cannot be used as a measure of the intelligence of that generation any more than an individual's property can be taken as a measure of his business ability. T h e greatest part of the civilization of a generation is bequeathed to it, and only the increase which it produces can be laid to its credit. If we could compare the rate of progress in different groups, this might serve as a measure of intelligence; and certainly some peoples are more progressive than others. Before adopting such a test, we should understand the mechanism of progress— a matter which belongs only in part to psychology. Progress depends first of all on human inventiveness—so much will probably be allowed. Under the head of inventions should be included not only mechanical devices, but works of art and government, business enterprises, and changes in custom, so far as any of these demand originality in their producers. Science and all in-

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crease in knowledge should also be included, since the process of discovery differs b u t little from the process of invention. In both, the essential mental act seems to be a bringing together of things that are found apart, or a pulling apart of what occurs together. In fact, both of these processes, the combining or associating, and the analytic or discriminating, go on together, since we see something new in a thing w h e n we are reminded by it of something else and different. T h e r e is a suggestion of the accidental in all invention, since it depends on "happening to notice something," or "happening to be reminded of something." Y o u cannot be sure that a person will make a discovery, even when you supply him with the elements which would combine to produce it. Oftentimes, in reading the history of scientific progress, one is surprised that a certain discovery was not made by some man who had apparently everything before him to lead to it. Invention is of the nature of a spontaneous variation, and this accidental character is very important in understanding the mechanism of progress. O n the other hand, since one cannot be reminded of things entirely unknown, invention depends on previously acquired knowledge, and the inventiveness of an individual must take a direction prepared for him by the social group among which he lives. A large share of the inventiveness of the Australian natives seems to be directed into the channels of magic and ceremony. T h e finished product of one mind's inventiveness becomes raw material for another, and invention of all sorts is distinctly a cooperative enterprise. Invention is said to be mothered by necessity; and the proverb is no doubt true in the main, though curiosity and experimentation belong among the play instincts. But, in any case, the necessity must not be too dire, for some degree of leisure is demanded if anything novel is to be thought of, and rapid progress is possible only when individuals can be allowed to accumulate the special knowledge which may serve as the raw material for their inventive activity. Divisions of labor, guilds, universities, legislatures, investigating commissions, permanent research bureaus—each of which is, genetically, a series of inventions—are dependent for their existence on a certain degree of leisure, while they in turn provide more leisure and opportunity for further advance. T h e y are inventions

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which accelerate the progress of invention. There are thus many factors besides the intellectual endowment of a generation which go to determine the progress which it shall make. The spur of necessity, the opportunity afforded by leisure, the existing stock of knowledge and inventions, and the factor of apparent accident or luck have all to be considered. A still further factor is the size of the group, which is deserving of renewed attention. Not only does a large group afford more opportunity for division of labor and special institutions for research, but the biological consideration already mentioned should be emphasized. The contributions to progress of the average man are small, the inventions of moment arising in the brains of a small fraction of the group. A large group provides a greater number of inventive minds, and it is rather the absolute number of such than their proportion to the whole population that determines the progress of invention within a group. The "group" needs to be redefined from the point of view of invention. If knowledge and inventions pass back and forth between two nations or races, the inventive minds of both are brought into cooperation, and the group is by so much enlarged. From the point of view of progress, however, the question is not simply how many inventive minds are brought into cooperation, but how free and rapid the communication is between them. At the present time, a discovery originating anywhere in Europe or its colonies is quickly known by specialists in all parts, and may promptly fructify the mind of a distant investigator, leading to a fresh advance. The invention of printing and of rapid means of communication must be credited with a large share of the rapid progress which has been made by the last few generations. Much also must be credited to the invention of steam power, which has vastly multiplied the size of the European group, in an economic sense, and set free many minds of ability for productive thinking. The very idea of the advancement of science and invention as an end to be striven for is to be classed as an invention, and a rather recent one; and it, too, is an accelerator. Such considerations provide at least a partial explanation of the different rates of progress in different generations and among different races. Whether they explain everything could perhaps only be determined by a drastic experiment, which it will do no harm to

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imagine, though the question will never be settled in this convincing way. Let two or more habitats, isolated from each other and from the rest of the world, and as nearly as possible alike, be chosen, and peopled by two equal groups of children, selected from some highly civilized nation, and so selected as to represent fairly the distribution of mental and physical traits among that nation. For every individual in the first group, let there be a practically identical individual in the second. Let these groups of children be introduced into their new homes in infancy, and, by some quasi-miraculous means, let them be all preserved to maturity, and then let them, and their descendants, be left entirely to their own devices, without fire, or a language, or other modern improvements. T o watch such a spectacle from afar would be thrilling, if not too pitiful. We can readily grant that the infant communities would begin at the very zero of civilization, and that their progress, for many generations, would seem excessively slow. But the real point of the experiment is to inquire whether these two equal groups, alike in numbers, in heredity and in environment, would remain alike, and progress a t equal rates. Probably they would not. We must allow for a large element of chance in the mating of males and females within each group, and consequently for changes and inequalities in the distribution and correlation of traits—changes which need not alter the average of either group. We must allow for spontaneous variation in the offspring, another accidental factor by virtue of which a really inventive and effective individual, or conjunction of such, would almost certainly arise in one group earlier than in the other, and give the advance of one group an impetus which might be felt through many generations, and carry this group far ahead of the other. And we must allow also for the accidental factor in invention. Even though the genius of one group was paired by an equal genius in the other, it is improbable that both would invent the same things. One might invent a hunting implement, and the other a fishing implement; and by this accident the direction of development might be settled for each group. If we closed the experiment after a thousand generations, we should probably find two peoples of different languages, different customs, and cultures

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divergent in many respects. T h e supposed result may be taken as an assertion of the importance of accident in determining the destiny of peoples. Obscure causes are no doubt at work beneath the accidents, but we cannot trace them, nor reasonably state them in terms of racial superiority and inferiority. It would seem that size of groups, and accidental factors, exert so much influence on the rate of advance in civilization that differences of culture could possibly be explained without supposing the mental endowments of the races to differ. Whether the existing races of men do or do not differ in such a trait as inventiveness is another and more difficult problem, the settlement of which must be left to time and educational experiments. The experiments must be continued for several generations, in order to equate social traditions. Regarding the Negroes of the south, I am informed by a gentleman who has spent twenty years in educating them that a distinct advance is perceptible during this period, especially among the children of educated parents. These have more educational ambition, enter school earlier, and have less to unlearn. The educational experiment, as far as it has gone, thus shows that much time will be needed before a clear result is reached. Meanwhile, it may be allowed to add one more general consideration by asking whether causes of a biological nature can be seen to be at work in human history, such as would differentiate the races intellectually, and, in particular, such as to raise up, in some part of the world, a race superior to the stock from which it sprang. Natural selection has been suggested as such a cause. Life in the tropics, it has been said, is too easy to demand much inventiveness or forethought, but a migration to colder regions, where the b a n a n a does not grow, would make mental activity imperative, and select those individuals who were able to respond, so producing a superior race. There is a difficulty here, since we should expect natural selection to begin by lopping off the most poorly endowed fraction of the population, with the result, finally, that the lower range of intelligence would disappear from the higher races. The lowest grade of intelligence in Europe should accordingly be higher than the lowest grade in Africa. But this is probably not the case; the range of intelligence reaches as low in one as in the other. T h e

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distributions of intelligence in the two also overlap to quite an extent. Extensive experiment has shown that Africans can maintain existence in the temperate zone. Sexual selection, or, more properly, mating customs, furnish a more promising factor. If a tendency could be detected in any population for the most intelligent members to mate with each other, the result would be, not, indeed, a raising of the average intelligence, since the less intelligent would also mate with each other, but an increase of the variability, and greater chance of the birth of very superior individuals. A caste system might operate in this way, since the founders of aristocratic families probably won admission to the caste partly by virtue of intelligence, and their descendants would tend, by heredity, to exceed the average intelligence of the population. Marriage confined to the caste would thus tend to mate superior individuals with each other, and might, in the course of generations, raise the upper limit of intelligence. Customs of mating within one's rank obtain among the aristocracy and royalty of Europe, and may have been a factor in increasing the number of superior intelligences. But too much cannot be attributed to this factor, since the selection has been by classes, and not by individuals. Royalty, while marrying within its rank, has not usually chosen the most gifted individual available. Its selection has been relatively inefficient from the standpoint of royal eugenics. Certainly the upper reach of European intelligence has not been the result of breeding by castes; for, though royalty has indeed produced a disproportionate number of high intelligences, equally able individuals have, as a matter of fact, risen from humble birth. Moreover, marriage in all parts of the world is largely governed byconsiderations of family standing and wealth, so that the same sort of influence toward variability is everywhere operative. The concept of the dead level of intelligence, which is sometimes supposed to obtain among backward races, is not borne out by psychological tests, since individual differences are abundantly found among all races, and, indeed, the variability of different groups seems, from these tests, to be about on a par. Selection by migration is also to be considered. When individuals leave their group and go to a new country, it would seem that those

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who emigrate must differ, on the average, from those who remain behind. An adventurous and enterprising spirit, perhaps, would be characteristic of the emigrants, and so of the new people which they helped to form. O n the other hand, the ne'er-do-well and the criminal might also be induced to emigrate. The selective influence of migration would not be all in one direction, and the net result could not easily be predicted. Since we are now witnessing, though little comprehending, this process of migration as it contributes to form a people of the future, information regarding the kind of selective influence exerted by migration would have a practical value. Wisdom would dictate that the nation which is in process of formation should exert some selective influence on its own account, but, from all the facts in hand, the part of wisdom would be to select the best individuals available from every source, rather than, trusting to the illusory appearance of great racial differences in mental and moral traits, to make the selection in terms of races or nations.

XVII THE

» » PUZZLE

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IT WAS Gladstone 2 w h o first, in 1858, called attention to the rather extraordinary vagueness of early color nomenclature. Collating from the Iliad and Odyssey the passages which referred to color, he found such uncertainty and inconsistency in the application of color names as to lead him to deny to the Greeks of Homeric times any clear notions of color whatever. " I conclude," he says, " t h a t the organ of color and its impressions were but partially developed a m o n g the Greeks of the heroic a g e . " T h i s hypothesis of Gladstone was made more precise and given a definite evolutionary character by Geiger,* who, extending the study to many ancient literatures, found them all defective in the same respect; they all showed a lack of any clear term for blue, and the oldest of them had also none for green. Speaking of the Vedas, Geiger says: 4 These hymns, consisting of more than 10,000 lines, are nearly all filled with descriptions of the sky. Scarcely any subject is more frequently mentioned; the variety of hues which the sun and dawn display in it, day and night, clouds and lightnings, the atmosphere and the ether, all these are with inexhaustible abundance exhibited to us again and again in all their magnificence; only the fact that the sky is blue could never have been gathered from these poems by any one who did not already know it himself. . . . The Bible, in which, as is equally well known, the sky or heaven plays no less a part, seeing that it occurs in the very first verse, and in upwards of 430 other passages besides . . . yet finds no opportunity either of mentioning the blue color. The color green is met with in antiquity one stage farther back than the blue. . . . The ten books of Rigveda hymns, though they frequently mention the earth, no more bestow on it the epithet green than on the heavens that of blue. In the very earliest literary remains, according to Geiger, there is Reprinted from the Psychological Bulletin, V I I (1910), 325-34. Studies on Homer and the Homeric Age, I I I , 457-99. ' Contributions to the History oj the Development 0/ the Human Race, trans, by D . Asher, London, 1880. * Ibid., pp. 50-61. 1 1

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not even a name for pure yellow, though there is one for golden or reddish yellow; red appears more firmly intrenched than yellow. And, by aid of etymology, the author believes it possible to go back of even the earliest literature, and "arrive at a still earlier stage, when the notions of black and red coalesce in the vague conception of something colored." Following his general doctrine that the development of the human mind can be traced by aid of the history of language, Geiger concludes that in an early stage of human development, only a vague sense of indefinite color existed; that red first took on the character of a definite sensation, and that the other colors followed in the order of the spectrum. T h e views of Geiger were warmly espoused by Magnus, 6 who, besides attempting to trace a gradual evolution in the use of color names in Greek literature, took the important step of examining, on a wide scale, both the color vocabularies and the color sense of existing primitive peoples. As a result of a questionnaire, with a set of colors to be named and distinguished, sent out to traders and missionaries, Magnus discovered that most primitive tribes possessed a color nomenclature which was incomplete in about the same way as that of Homer or of the Vedas. But he also found that the limits of color vision were the same among these tribes as among Europeans. They could see and distinguish all the colors from red to violet, though usually they did not possess names for them all. This discrepancy between color vision and the color vocabulary was in itself an important discovery, since it betrayed the weak foundation of the philological method. This same discrepancy, however, was not only a discovery, but also a problem. Why should color nomenclature not be fairly adequate to the development of the color sense, and why should it be so much further advanced among some peoples than among others? In particular, the uniform character of the deficiency constituted a problem. Magnus was able to establish definite laws governing the growth of color vocabularies. Color nomenclature begins, almost always, with red, and spreads to the other colors in spectral order, usually however skipping transitional colors such as ' Die geschichtliche Entwicklung des Farbensinnes, Farbensinn der Naturvölker, Jena, 1880.

Leipzig, 1877;

Untersuchungen über Jen

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VOCABULARIES

orange, blue-green and violet. Practically every language has a name for red; nearly all have a name for yellow; but comparatively few have a conventional word for green, and still fewer have one for blue. Neighboring colors, especially green and blue, are sometimes called by the same name. Where a name for blue is absent, a blue, or at least a saturated blue, is very commonly called by the name which seems primarily to designate black or dark or dull. These results of Magnus' inquiry, which have been generally confirmed by later observations, certainly set a pretty problem in folk psychology. T h e observations of Rivers, on both the color vocabulary and the color sense of several primitive groups, are probably the most accurate and important which we possess. He has examined four peoples by a constant method: the Egyptian peasants, 4 the Papuans of Torres Straits, 7 the Uralis and Sholagas of India, 8 and the Todas of Southern India;' and also a number of whites (English) for purposes of comparison. A m o n g the natives of Torres Straits he found four stages in the development of a color vocabulary represented in different islands. Some of these stages he has also found exemplified in Egypt and India. " I n the lowest there appears only to be a definite term for red apart from white and black; in the next stage there are definite terms for red and yellow, and an indefinite term for green; in the next stage there are definite terms for red, yellow and green, and a term for blue has been borrowed from another language; while in the highest stage there are terms for both green and blue, but these tend to be confused with one another." This highest stage differs but slightly from that of popular language in Europe. T o complete this account of the different stages of color nomenclature, it should be added that some languages have no conventional color names at all. Some American Indian languages show this peculiarity; 10 the color of any presented object will be said to be like that of some other object, and such comparisons are often • Journal 0/ the Anthropological Institute, X X X I (1901), 239. Reports of the Cambridge Anthropological Expedition to Torres Straits, V I (1901), 48. 8 Bulletin, Madras Government Museum, V (1903), 3. • British Journal oj Psychology, I (1905), 326. This articlc contains a brief summary of all his results on color sense; see also his article in the Popular Science Monthly, L I X (1901). 7

48. 10

So I am informed by Professor F. Boas.

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very accurately made; but there is an absence of fixed usage as to what objects shall constitute the standards for comparison, so that color language remains in a fluid state. Rivers observed much the same fact in the naming of certain colors by the natives of Torres Straits. Probably we shall be right in recognizing several stages in the establishment of a color name: in the first stage comparisons are fluid and there is no fixed usage; in a later stage usage centers about some one comparison, so that all objects having a certain (approximate) color are said to have the color of one particular object; in a later stage, as described by Wundt, 11 the name becomes abstract in the sense that the object is no longer thought of when its name is used as the designation of a color; and later still the name may chance to become obsolete as applied to the object and remain exclusively as the name of the color. Obsolescence of the original usage of the name is probably a purely incidental feature, but is of interest, when it occurs, as showing antiquity of the color meaning. Fixity of usage depends, probably, on frequency; where the need for designating a certain color, or range of colors, is infrequent, the fluid condition of color designation will be adequate, and no occasion will arise for stereotyping the name or for dissociating its color meaning from its reference to a particular object. It is evident that growing fixity of usage by no means indicates a finer sensitivity to differences in color, since each stereotyped color name covers a considerable range of discriminable colors. For this reason the original fluid method of color designation persists alongside of the fixed usage, and is employed especially by those who need to designate colors more precisely than is accomplished by the use of the convential names. Another fact which has not hitherto been introduced into the discussion of color vocabularies concerns the richness of European languages in names for different parts of the spectrum. The fact is that the English language, for example, is much richer in abstract names for the colors toward the red end of the spectrum than for colors toward the violet end. The following list includes all the color names which I have been able to find in modern English, in which the color reference is thoroughly dissociated, in common usage, from reference to any specific object. 11

V'olkerpsychologie,

I (1900), Th. 2, 512-15.

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For the reds and yellows and their various shades: red, ruddy, rubicund, russet, roan, auburn, carmine, crimson, scarlet, brown, bay, sorrel, dun, yellow, tawny, sallow, lurid. (To these might be added buff, maroon, vermilion, and perhaps such words as magenta since the objects to which these names primarily refer are not known by most persons who use the names.) For the greens, blues, and violets: green, verdant, blue, azure, purple, livid. T o the fact that names for red and yellow develop first in the history of a language should therefore be added the fact that they predominate in the European languages. 12 It is further to be noted that many of the names for shades of red and yellow are applied mostly to men and animals. Apparently there is some special demand for names of animal colors. Magnus reports that the Kaffirs have over thirty words and expressions to designate the colors and markings of cattle; and regarding another people of herdsmen, the Ovaherero or D a m a r a of Southwest Africa, his informant makes the following suggestive statement:" Colors that coincide with those of cows, sheep and goats, they name without difficulty; but whatever is not a color of cattle, particularly blue and green, they cannot name, although they can distinguish them from the other colors, and when necessary use foreign words to designate them. . . . Those who have not come into contact with foreign culture and foreign names cannot name green and blue, and think it highly amusing that there should be names for these colors. It would, indeed, be ridiculous to have names for colors simply because the colors were distinguishable. With these facts of color language before us, we may turn to the problem of explanation. A t the outset, it is clear that no such view as that of Geiger can longer be entertained. T h e absence of a name for a sensory quality does not point to the absence of the quality. T h e 11 This same predominance of red and yellow appears in the Greek and Latin languages. (Sec W. Schultz, Das Farberumpfindungssystem der HeUenen. Leipzig (1904), pp. 83, 95.) The Greek was superior to English in possessing well-marked names for yellowish green (xXwpA*) and for a more bluish green (rpitrtrot). It also, apparently, employed several names for blue, distinguishing light from dark blue; but the exact usage b here difficult to determine. Auayow was apparently applied both to deep blue and to dark gray objects, and this is one of the "confusions" which have led repeatedly to the conclusion that the Greeks were deficient in the color sense.

u

Magnus, Farbetuinn der Naturvrilker, p. 9.

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case of smell is particularly convincing, for certainly many odors axe vivid experiences, likely to attract the attention and be relatively isolated from a total sensory complex, and often they are practically significant; and yet there is an almost complete absence of abstract odor names from all languages. Taste nomenclature, though better defined than that of smell, presents some striking incongruences with taste sensation, as has been shown by Myers 14 and b y Chamberlain. 1 ' M a n y languages do not possess four words to correspond to the four tastes (which, it can hardly be doubted, are the property of all races of men), and even where the language is complete in this regard, common usage often employs one taste word to refer to substances of discrete tastes. In its most rudimentary condition, a taste vocabulary consists simply of words for welltasting and ill-tasting; and in more developed languages this affective basis of taste nomenclature is still visible. Sweet and mildly saline are often called by one name; and sour and bitter by one name. Even Scotch villagers, examined by Myers, described a weak solution of quinine as having " a sort of sour" or a "sort of salty" taste. It is the exception, rather than the rule, when any sensation, either elementary or complex, receives a special name. Magnus, as the result of his inquiry, was forced to abandon the doctrine of a close correspondence between color sense and the color vocabulary; but it still seemed to him impossible to explain the deficiency of names for green and blue without assuming some underlying sensory defect; and he is inclined to the view that these sensations, though present in primitive folk, were perhaps of recent development and certainly less vivid and impressive than to European eyes. Their lack of vividness, he supposed, was the cause of their remaining nameless. This more moderate form of the Gladstone-Geiger hypothesis, though practically obsolete for two decades, has come into renewed prominence through the support of Rivers. Though this author admits the existence of other factors in the development of color language, he regards a lack of vividness of the sensation of blue as of great importance. This conclusion seems to him to be indicated by the results of his measurements of the sensitiveness of different 14 15

" T h e Taste-Names of Primitive Peoples," British Journal of Psychology, I (1904), 1 1 7 . "Primitive Taste Words," American Journal of Psychology, X I V (1903), 146.

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peoples to colors. His measurements determined the faintest tint of red, yellow, and blue which could be recognized and named. His results on four primitive peoples, as compared with the English, show average thresholds for the five groups which are in fairly close agreement, with the following exceptions. T h e English have a much lower threshold for yellow and for blue than any of the more primitive groups; and one of his primitive groups (the Murray Islanders) show a much lower threshold for red than the English or any of the remaining groups. T h e only one of these differences which is emphasized by Rivers is the greater sensitiveness of the English for blue. This seems to him of importance as showing that the absence of a name for blue is actually associated with a certain degree of insensitiveness for this color. T h e low threshold of the English for yellow does not impress him as significant, and yet, though it is less marked than their low threshold for blue, it cannot be explained by the probable error of his observations, but is, on the contrary, rather striking. It creates some difficulty in the way of using the facts in explaining color nomenclature, since the name for yellow is present, though the sensitiveness to that color is comparatively blunt. A more serious difficulty with Rivers' results is that so much depends on the group of forty-one educated Englishmen whose average gives the basis for comparison. T h e individuals in this group differed greatly from one another in sensitiveness to the colors. Rivers ascribes this variability, in case of red, to the probable presence in the group of some individuals with a tendency to red-green blindness—though demonstrably color-blind individuals were of course excluded—and in the case of blue, to the possibility that some of his Englishmen helped out sensation by inference, calling a glass blue when they did not detect either of the two more easily recognized colors. It is possible, accordingly, that the English threshold for red is too high, and for blue too low, to compare fairly with the thresholds of the primitive groups; and, if so, the corrected result would read simply that the English were able to recognize and name fainter tints than the other races tested. Such a result might well be due to a better adaptation of the educated subjects to the conditions pf the test,

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and to their greater habituation to analyzing and naming pale colors. 14 Rivers himself accepts the low sensitivity of his primitive groups to blue as a well-established fact, and offers alternative explanations for it. O n e of his suggestions is new and deserves careful attention. The Murray Islander [he says] differs from the Englishman in two important respects; he is more primitive and he is more pigmented, and his insensitiveness to blue may be either a function of his primitiveness or of his pigmentation. In other words, it is possible that his insensitiveness may depend on the lack of development of some physiological substance or mechanism, which acts as the basis of the sensation blue in ourselves, or it may only depend on the fact that the retina of the Papuan is more strongly pigmented than that of the European. There is some reason to think that this latter factor is the more important. We know that the macula lutea in the retina, which contains the region of most distinct vision, is pigmented, and that as a consequence of the reddish-yellow color of its pigment, blue and green rays are more strongly absorbed than red and yellow; we have reason to believe further that the macula of dark races is more pigmented than that of ourselves. The consequence would be that, in dark races, blue and green would be more strongly absorbed, and consequently there would be a certain degree of insensitiveness to these colors, as compared with red and yellow.17 This suggestion regarding retinal pigmentation is the more deserving of attention since Lindsay Johnson 18 has reported his ophthalmoscopic examinations of the fundus oculi in various races, and shown that the color of it ranges from orange-red in fair-haired Europeans to dark chocolate in the Negro. W h a t effect these differences in pigmentation should have on color vision, however, remains to be worked out. Meanwhile, this suggestion by no means contains a full explanation of the peculiar order of growth of color vocabularies, since this order has apparently been the same in light-skinned as in dark-skinned races. Even the Welsh language " That this statement represents the true state of the case, I am strongly inclined to believe, on the basis of tests of several more or less primitive peoples made by Dr. Bruner and myself at the Saint Louis Exposition. Publication of the full results of our work has been unduly delayed; and I will simply state that our test called for fine discrimination of color tones, instead of the recognition of pale tints, and is therefore, in strictness, not comparable with that of Rivers. At the same time, we found, clearly enough, that all the primitive peoples were inferior to white Americans in this test, but that the inferiority was no more marked in the blues than in the reds and yellows. Some of these primitive people, however, possess no names for green and blue. " Popular Science Monthly, L I X (1901), 52. 18 Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society oj London, series B, C X C I V (1901), 1.

COLOR

246

VOCABULARIES

of today, according to Rivers, has no word for b l u e . " T h e late appearance of names for green and blue is too widespread a phenomenon to be explained in terms of racial differences. Now, finally, to make an attempt at a positive explanation of the puzzle of color vocabularies. T h e matter now appears to me—after several years of consideration—rather simple and devoid of psychological interest, except perhaps from its bearing on the methods of folk psychology. W e may fairly assume, with Wundt, 20 that abstract color names are of relatively late introduction into any language, and that they developed out of names for colored objects; so that the question is primarily regarding that hardening and dissociation of linguistic usage of which mention was previously made. W h a t requires explanation is rather the development of this fixity of usage than its absence; some need for it must be pointed out, and this need, must undoubtedly, include frequency of reference to the color. It is further evident that the color implication of the name of an object would never be dissociated from the whole connotation of the name, if there existed no other object of similar color, to which there was frequent need to refer. A color name can scarcely develop except where there are a variety of objects of the same general color. A further necessity is brought into view by considering the function of color in practical and primitive life. T h e color of an object is not a practically important character, except as a ready means, and often the readiest means, of identifying the object and distinguishing it from its background. It is where color serves as the mark of an important object, or condition of an object, that a color name would be most likely to develop. But a color name need not always develop even in these circumstances, for practical tendencies lead us to pass quickly from a sign to the thing signified, and to speak of the thing signified rather than of the sign. W e speak of a gray patch in the sky as a cloud, of a red spot on the skin as blood; we speak of a berry as ripe rather than red, or a knife as rusty rather than brown, of meat as well done or underdone rather than brown or red. In such cases the color is the mark by which the condition of the thing is known, but what is named is the condition rather than the mark. Such considerations make clear the lack of a need for color names, " Op. cit.,

p. 48.

»

Loc. at.

COLOR

VOCABULARIES

247

and account for the widespread poverty of languages in such names. They also help to explain why red and yellow are so much more generously supplied with names than green and blue. Green and blue, in nature, are predominantly background colors, while red and yellow are usually the colors of small objects contrasting with the background and recognized most readily by their color. More than this, red and yellow are the usual colors of such important objects as ripe fruits, domestic animals, wild animals to be hunted or avoided, blood and flesh. It is as animal colors, and particularly as mammalian colors, that red and yellow, with their darker shades, are most important to primitive man; and it would be hard to point out any equal importance of green and blue. Particularly in distinguishing cattle from one another, for purposes of barter, or for many other purposes of the herdsman, is it necessary to use the color as a mark, and to designate an individual by its color. If cows had affected the blues and greens, the history of color vocabularies would probably have been quite different. It is also true21 that the most accessible and most used pigments are red and yellow, and the use of pigments might easily give rise to a variety of objects alike save in color and needing to be designated by reference to their color. Probably the exact history of names for red and yellow has been different in different tribes. Needs for the names of red and yellow are thus not far to seek, but the case is different with green and blue. It would be hard to show wherein primitive man suffers inconvenience from lack of names for green and blue. He needs, indeed, to observe and speak of the difference between growing and ripe or dead vegetation, but names for ripe and unripe, fresh and dried, living and dead, supply this need admirably, and have the advantage of sticking close to the inner conditions indicated by the color signs. Similarly, primitive man needs to observe and speak of the difference between a blue and a gray sky, but weather names supply this need. We ourselves abandon our color names when speaking of the sky in a practical connection. We are unlikely to refer to it as deep blue, or grayish blue, or mottled blue and gray, or uniformly gray, when what we mean is that it is clear, hazy, fair, or overcast. So long as vegetation and the sky are the only objects in which the colors 11

Cf. Rivers, Popular Science Monthly, L I X (1901), 56.

248

COLOR

VOCABULARIES

green and blue are of practical importance, no motive can be assigned for the use of special names for these colors. And it is hard to think of other objects of these colors—especially of blue—which are important in primitive conditions. With the introduction of green and blue paints and dyes, these colors become important marks in distinguishing household objects; and it is probably owing to the use of pigments that names for green and blue have become stereotyped in European languages.

XVIII » » ON FACTORS SCIENTIFIC

CONTRIBUTING PRODUCTIVITY

TO A LOW IN

AMERICA1

A F E W MONTHS AGO I offered some criticisms on a paper by Professor Gunn which appeared in SCIENCE for October 28, 1910, under the caption, "American Educational Defects." My criticisms were directed chiefly to the method adopted by Professor Gunn, and he has very properly retorted that I should not make too much of the matter of method unless I am prepared to dissent from the practical outcome of his study. Now so far as this outcome was to the effect that the level of scientific and scholarly productivity in this country is unsatisfactory by comparison with that in certain European countries, I am not prepared to dissent. I do indeed believe that Professor Gunn's picture is overdrawn, when he describes our achievements in pure science as "insignificant," for it is easy to point to achievements of very high grade, even in such branches as mathematical physics and philosophy, while of recent years there has appeared a considerable volume of quite respectable work. Still, I should admit that the work of very high quality has been too small in amount, and that the volume of recent work suffers somewhat in an appraisal of its quality. I should indeed be inclined to make a further reservation on this last point, as far as my own acquaintance with scientific literature goes; for in my own field of experimental psychology, which has hitherto been chiefly cultivated in Germany and in America, I am unable to detect any pronounced superiority of the German work. The Germans do, certainly, manage to give their contributions a more important sound; their articles are more extended, and run out almost indefinitely into discussion and theoretical considerations; but much of this is of little real value, and many an American paper of modest length contains as much of real contribution to knowledge as does its German analogue of a hundred or two hundred pages. However, let us freely admit that, when we con1

Reprinted from Science, N.S., X X X I I I (1911), 374-79.

25°

SCIENTIFIC

PRODUCTIVITY

sider the number of men here who might be expected, from their training and their positions, to be scientific producers, we find the total productivity surprisingly small. There is much to indicate that this is the fact: so numerous are the cases of young men who have produced a creditable doctor's dissertation and obtained a college position in their specialty, but from whom nothing further is heard in the way of original contribution; and so numerous also are the cases of men of proved ability, who, after a few years of activity and after winning a professorship of dignity, allow their output to cease. Good minds and good opportunities appear to be going to waste, and the problem of the causes of this condition is one of the highest importance to those who are interested in the advancement of science. It is a problem which deserves treatment by the most painstaking methods of science; unfortunately, I can make no great claims for my own method, for I have by no means conducted researches on the large scale demanded by the complexity of the problem. I have, however, for a considerable number of years been keenly interested in this particular problem, and am prepared to adduce a certain number of facts, which, as facts, will scarcely be called in question, and which I shall try to show are probably pertinent. I will first adduce my list of facts, in summary form. 1. The economic rewards for scientific production, and punishments for lack of it, have been smaller here than elsewhere. 2. Similarly with other social rewards and punishments. 3. The rapid expansion of our educational system has created a demand which has absorbed the whole supply of even reasonably qualified men. 4. This educational expansion has been but a feature of the general national expansion, and the general demand for men of ability has operated still further to reduce the keenness of academic competition, and so to lower the standard of academic success. 5. This rapid expansion, in the presence of our decentralized form of governmental control and generally fluid condition, has made the business of the educational and scientific promoter one of great importance, has operated to give the greatest economic and social prizes to the promoter, and has caused scientific men to spend

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PRODUCTIVITY

251

their time running errands in the interest of science rather than prosecuting their individual research. 6. T h e educational interest, as distinguished from the strictly scientific, has been strong a m o n g us, and has led to a considerable deflection of effort from the work of science. 1 Lest I should be accused of altogether neglecting principles in m y zeal for facts, I will also mention a few general principles w h i c h c a n properly be employed in reasoning from the a b o v e facts: 1. T h e law of supply and d e m a n d . 2. T h e l a w of the value, as incentives, of rewards a n d punishments. 3. T h e l a w of divided energy, according to w h i c h a m a n c a n n o t do so m u c h in a given line if his time and energy are largely devoted to something else. T h e great fact of rapid expansion is perhaps the most important of all. Since the most obvious feature of this expansion has been that of the economic development of the country a n d of the g r o w t h of industries, the fact is usually hit o f f as commercial expansion, a n d the effort m a d e to deduce all our peculiarities and deficiencies from our commercialism. But the real fact is expansion, not c o m mercialism—expansion in all directions. A necessary result of this expansion, and a result a b u n d a n d y in evidence, is that the d e m a n d 1 There is another probable fact, which I do not include in the list became I am not sure of it, and because it could be determined by suitable inquiry, in advance of which it is best not to guess at the fact. The probability is that our young men do not begin to specialize so early as their scientific brethren in Europe, and if this is a fact, it is probably of great importance. Our own delay in getting the young man fairly launched on his scientific career is partly due to our superstition that the traditional four years of college marks a minimum of time to be devoted to "general culture," after which, only, should specialization begin. Meanwhile, through the raising of the standards for admission to college, the period of specialization has been deferred to about the age of twenty-two. But besides this, it often happens that a man just leaving college and bent on a scholarly career is led to believe that the best step for him next to take is to teach in a secondary school; and thus the age at which he enters on really advanced study is likely to be delayed to twenty-five. From observation of men studying for their doctor's degree, I am convinced that the man who goes straight on from college to the university is usually the one who comes o£f best in his graduate study. The years immediately following the age of twenty are of great value for the ready assimilation of knowledge, and, moreover, the most original period of a man's life is likely to follow close upon these years; and unless he has good command of his specialty by the age of twenty-five or twenty-seven, he is rather unlikely ever to have many original ideas on the subject. I am convinced that specialization, for any young man whose bent toward a scholarly pursuit is sufficiently marked to warrant urging him to undertake it, should not be delayed much beyond the age of twenty.

252

SCIENTIFIC

PRODUCTIVITY

for labor of all kinds, and not least for the labor of intellectually able men, has been great in relation to the supply. The economic reward for intellectual ability has, of course, been much greater in many other lines of work than in the academic, and this has certainly further limited the supply available for scientific pursuits. For example, it has been, and is, difficult to man the laboratory departments of our medical schools, for the reason that the rewards awaiting the successful physician, in practice, have been far in excess of anything he could hope for in research. The financial reward for scientific work is everywhere less than the reward for equal accomplishment in other lines; but here this difference is accentuated. In spite of this fact, scholarly pursuits continue to attract a very considerable number of really able men. The men are attracted in part by the freedom of the academic life, in part by the undoubted prestige attaching to good academic positions, and in largest measure, no doubt, by the work itself. Improvement of the general economic status of university and college teachers is of course greatly to be desired in the interests of broadening the labor market for this highly important sort of work; but that is by no means the key to the whole situation, for we are confronted with an able body of men, men who have proved, in many cases, their ability in original work, but who nevertheless leave much to be desired in the way of productivity. The expansion of our educational system has, if anything, outstripped our commercial expansion. Universities have multiplied and grown enormously, teaching forces have been greatly augmented, and the demand for high-class men to fill academic positions has been ever on the increase. The demand has been large in proportion to the supply, so that every moderately equipped candidate has been assured of a post of some dignity. Promotion has been rapid, as far as it goes. In other words, the labor market for all grades of academic work has been relatively narrow, and there has been an absence of keen competition either for the lower or for the higher positions. This is a necessary result of expansion, and, at any rate, it is a fact. The conditions, as regards competition, are very different in some European countries. A young man there must often serve a long apprenticeship in a very poorly paid position, and can rise out of this difficult situation only by overcoming keen com-

SCIENTIFIC

PRODUCTIVITY

253

petition. O u r rather tame discussions of the work of our colleagues lack the keen note of economic competition which is often heard in European controversy. Here, we feel, there is room enough for all, and on an approximate equality. Here it makes comparatively little difference to a man, economically, whether his scientific work is mediocre or of eminent success. For while the ratio of demand to supply assures him of at least a moderately good position, there is nothing in the way of a very fine position to spur him forward. While mediocre men are better off here than in several other countries, very good men, in purely academic positions, are by no means so well off as elsewhere. In Great Britain, at least, there is a considerable number of professorships the financial value of which, when allowance is made for the different purchasing power of money, is fully the equivalent of eight to twelve thousand dollars. T h e financial value of these posts is well known throughout the kingdom, and, as they are permanent establishments, and are filled, when they fall vacant, in the open market, they act as a very effective stimulus to productivity. They act as a stimulus to a class of men whom it is most of all important to stimulate, and who, in our country, are subject to no such incentive—namely, to the men of greatest ability, who have already proved their power and have already achieved positions as good as any we have here to offer. Not only a high money value, but also great prestige, attaches to some of these chairs, because of the eminent men who have occupied them in the past. We have practically nothing to correspond to them; and this is, I believe, one of the great deficiencies of our system. Nowhere, it would seem, is the punishment for idleness so light as in our academic life; and nowhere is the reward of productive industry so meager. I am far from contending that the mere financial reward is the sole stimulus to scientific production; but these prizes not only bring great financial relief; they are also the seal of success. I might paraphrase what I said a few sentences back by asserting that nowhere else is there such a lack as in our American academic life of the tangible symbols of success and failure in scholarly work. T o punish mediocrity is scarcely within our power during a period of rapid expansion; but to reward proved merit is in our power. Why should not a university, numbering among its pro-

254

SCIENTIFIC

PRODUCTIVITY

fessors some one of the acknowledged leaders in American productive scholarship, simply double or triple his salary, at the same time doing all it can to strengthen his department, and thus secure to itself preeminence in that particular subject among all our universities; insuring, further, a continued preeminence by permanently establishing this distinguished chair and this thoroughly equipped department? It should be possible in this way for a university to attract a large share of the best graduate students in this department, and thus add further to the influence of the chief and to the attractiveness of his position. The combined prestige, influence, and financial desirability of such a position would make it a prize for the competition of the ablest of the younger men. There is no reason why such prizes should not act as effective spurs here as elsewhere. Our effort has been devoted more to raising the general level of compensation and attractiveness of all professorial positions than to the recognition of eminent scholarly and scientific success. Certainly there is abundant need for raising the general level of salaries to keep pace with the changing ratio between money and other commodities. But the reward of eminent merit is a thing apart. Another consequence of rapid expansion, under the decentralized and rather unorganized conditions of our national activity, in which such an interest as the educational must look out for itself, has been the evolution of the organizer, agent, and promoter. The most striking instance is the university president or chancellor. His function has been distinctly that of the promoter; and so important has this function appeared in a period of expansion that the largest rewards, both pecuniary and in the way of social standing and influence, have gone to the presidency, and some of the ablest and most efficient from the professorial ranks have been drafted into administration. Since the duties of the president have been too exacting to allow a continuance of scholarly work, the result has no doubt been a considerable shrinkage in the volume of possible production. Further, ambitious young professors, observing which way the path of distinction led, have often set themselves to prove their ability in administration rather than in scientific production. Administrative opportunity has abounded throughout the educational system, and many who entered the system from love of science or

SCIENTIFIC

PRODUCTIVITY

255

literature have found their attention largely absorbed by matters of management and promotion. Much of this bustling administrative activity has been a necessary result of expansion, but much of it has been due to mere contagion and mutual emulation. The center of competitive activity has been shifted from scholarship to administration. Now all administrative work, however necessary in the circumstances and however ably performed, is but a means to the ends of scholarship and of education; and it seems a pity that so much of the best brains should go to the means and so little be applied directly to the ends in view. The head of a department, instead of entering his laboratory with the thought of his experiment uppermost in his mind, is first of all oppressed by the condition of his desk. When that is cleared up, he hopes to go ahead with his investigation; but the desk occupies him for so large a part of the day that the experiment is deferred till tomorrow. There is a tremendous dissipation of energy among university professors. We are always busy, but seldom get down to business. We are always busy trying to insure that the work of science be done, and leave little time to do the work ourselves. We are so much occupied in contributing to the advancement of science that we are unable to make contributions to science. The attention of our scholars has been deflected by educational as well as administrative interests. I am inclined to regard this, too, as a consequence of expansion. For our higher institutions of learning have expanded in faster ratio than the general population, and this means that we are undertaking to educate many who are not specially suited to a higher education. Since the net has been made finer, we are catching many small fish, and the educational problem is largely concerned with these small fish. Whatever be the explanation, there is no doubt of the fact that our university professors are more occupied in the effort to impart instruction and insure that the student derives some benefit from it than is the case in foreign universities. I have heard it said that whenever a group of European university men get together, they talk science, whereas we talk education. We are greatly concerned about the student, and largely about the poor student. This may be best in the circumstances, and I have no desire to attempt a rough-and-ready solution of so complicated a problem; but simply point out the un-

256

SCI EN T1FIC

PRODUCTIVITY

doubted fact that here is a factor in our comparative lack of scholarly production. W i t h both the administrative and the educational interests so strong among us, we are prone to hover in the outskirts of scholarship, instead of plunging into the heart of it. There is another aspect to the whole matter, for the universities are not the sole repositories and organizers of scholarship. Guilds of scholars have to be considered as a means of exciting to productivity. We have, indeed, few productive scholars outside of the universities, though this is at least partly due to the prestige which university professorships have among us, for it would be easy to name a score of scholars and scientific men who, though of independent means, have sought university connections, in order to have a definite standing in the scholarly world. College loyalty has been a strong force among us, and the attachments of a professor have been mostly to his university, rather than to the fellowship of his particular science. Of recent years, with the organization of national scientific societies, some change has occurred in this respect. It is to guilds of scholars, whether formally organized or not, that we must look for setting the standard of scholarly production. T h e fellowship of scholars can only be a matter of gradual development, and their standards also must grow and cannot be suddenly and artificially raised; but there is plenty of evidence that the standards of our scholarly guilds have been rapidly improving, and they will probably continue to improve. Such guilds possess rewards and punishments of their own, for the standing of a man among his fellows is one of the strongest incentives to action. T h e standards of the guilds must eventually be the standards of the universities; and thus we hold in our own hands, quite apart from the momentary attitude of university authorities, a force capable of raising the level of our own work and that of our successors.

XIX

» »

COMBINING A STUDY

THE RESULTS

IN STATISTICAL

OF SEVERAL

TESTS:

1

METHOD

have been made of the same individuals, it may be desirable to combine the results so as not only to get group averages and coefficients of correlation, but also to show the success of each individual in the series of tests taken as a whole. A prevalent custom, in such cases, is to drop from quantitative to qualitative statements, and to say, for example, that an individual who has done very well in the first test, well in the second, but rather poorly in the third, has on the whole, therefore, done rather well. A somewhat more quantitative statement can be got by ascertaining in what proportion of the tests an individual stands above the average, and a still better plan is to transmute the original measures into an "order of merit" for each test, so as to be able to state, for example, that an individual stood first in one test, fifth in another, and fifteenth in a third, and had accordingly an average rank of seventh. This method (in the hands of Cattell and others) has proved of much value where absolute measures are impracticable; but to transmute absolute measures, already obtained, into an order of merit is to throw away part of the information contained in the measures. What is needed is a method of combining results which shall preserve all the refinement of the original measurements. Such a method exists, and is certainly familiar to statisticians; but it seems to be overlooked in many cases where it would prove of value. What is here attempted is (i) to win favor for the method (credit for its invention being expressly disclaimed); and (2) to work out simplified formulae which can be used for computing correlations, when the method has been employed. The method itself gives each individual's average standing in any number of tests; once this has been found, the additional labor of computing correlations is slight. W H E N S E V E R A L TESTS

1

Reprinted from the Psychological Review, X I X (1912), 97-123.

COMBINING

TESTS

I T h e problem, once more, is as follows: results being at hand from several tests of the same individuals, it is desired to combine t h e m so as to measure the success of each individual in the tests as a whole. 4

T h i s m a y be difficult, either because the

measurements

afforded b y the different tests are incommensurable

(one

being,

perhaps, in terms of time and another in terms of accuracy), or because the average for one test is very different from that for another test. Suppose, for example, that the group average for one test is 10 seconds, and for another test 100 seconds; and suppose that an individual's records in the two are respectively 8 and 70 seconds. H o w shall w e combine his records? If we simply take the average of 8 and 70 seconds, w e obtain a hybrid value w i t h so great a probable error as to m a k e it useless for further deductions. If we express each of his records in terms of the corresponding group averages, as 80 a n d 70 per cent respectively, w e seem, indeed, to avoid most of the spurious unreliability, and w e seem also to find that the individual did better in the first test than in the second. But this procedure is ' Essentially the same problem may arise in other forms. The general problem may be stated as follows: We have several series of measurements, and some principle of correspondence which enables us to connect each measurement in one series with one and only one measurement in each of the other series; and it is desired to combine the corresponding measurements. The writer has met this problem in severed different forms. On one occasion I desired to find the relative difficulty of a number of words as stimuli for the "opposites test." I tried the words on several individuals, obtaining the association time for each word. Now, as some of my subjects were much slower than others, and varied much more from word to word, simply averaging the association times for each word would not do equal justice to all the individuals, but the resulting differences between the words would be determined mostly by the slow, variable individuals. I desired some method of giving each individual, whatever his speed and variability, the same share in determining the average result; and I was finally led to the method described in the text. Again, in studying the work curve for very short periods of activity, I made use of lists of twenty words, the subject being required to respond to each word by a word standing in some assigned logical relation to it, and the time being taken for each single reaction. The subject went through twenty such lists, all different, and I desired to find whether the position of a reaction in the series of twenty affected its speed. But the lists of stimuli were, unavoidably, of unequal difficulty, and the variation within one list was greater than in another. If, then, I simply found the average reaction time for the first words, and so forth and compared these averages, my comparison would not be based equally on all the experiments, but mostly on those that showed the greatest internal variation. What I desired was a means of giving each experiment an equal influence on the toted result; and this was accomplished by the method given in the text.

COMBINING

TESTS

259

not justified, except on the assumption that the variability of a group in different tests is proportional to the group average; for, otherwise, a good share of the group may, in one test, take less than 70 percent of the average time, whereas in another test only an exceptionally good record may be as low as this, so that such a mark as 70 percent of the average may mean very different degrees of proficiency in different tests. Now as a matter of fact, there is no general law that the group variability is proportional to the group average. Thorndike* has shown that no uniform relation holds between the average and the variability, and has brought forward, in particular, cases in which the variability increases more slowly than the average. When the length of a test, consisting of a series of similar reactions, is increased, the variability does not increase as fast as the average, because chance variations in the elementary reactions tend more and more to compensate for one another as their number is increased. But suppose—and this is a point not hitherto made—that not the length of the series of reactions, but the difficulty of the single reactions is increased—then one would expect the variability to increase faster than the average. One would expect adults to differ proportionately more in long division than in easy addition, for all would have kept up some practice in the latter, while in the former some would still be in practice and some entirely out of practice. If, indeed, the difficulty of the test were still further increased—imagine, for example, a test in extracting the cube root—both the variability of the group and the average (as measured by time of performance) would be indefinitely increased because of the presence of some individuals who would fail utterly; and in this case the proportionate variability could not be calculated. But within a moderate range of difficulty of the test, the variability should increase more rapidly than the average time of performance. The following table of results from a series of tests4 tends to favor this conclusion, since, within each class of tests, the easiest have the lowest proportionate variability. Certainly the proportionate variability differs gready from one test to Empirical Studies in the Theory oj Measurements (1907), p. 9. For the tests named in the table, see Woodworth and Wells, "Association Tests," Psychological Review, Monograph Supplement, i g n . T h e number of individuals tested in the above series, thirteen, was too small for final certainty. 5

4

26O

COMBINING

TESTS

another, a n d accordingly any statistical treatment which assumes equal relative variability is inaccurate. Group Average Time per Single Reaction i. Logical relations: Opposites Agent-action Verb-object Part-whole Attribute-substance Supraordinate concept Action-agent Whole-part Subordinate concept 2. Mixed relations 3. Addition, Kraepelin test 4. Constant increment: Add 4 Substract 4. Add 17. . . . 5. Color naming Form naming 6. Substitution 7. Number-group, cancel 3 Number-group, cancel 28

1.23 1.30 1.39 '•53 1 -53 i .54 '•55 1-57 i .84 3.14 1.14 1.36 1.64 3.90 •59 .87 1.60 •79 1.14

a

a Av.

•17 •23 .21 •37 •47 •37 .41 •36 .42 •53 .26 .30 •54 1.18 .10 .18 .21 .06 .10

•14 .18 •'5 •24 •31 .24 .27 •23 •23 •17 •23 .22 •33 •30 •«7 .21 •13 .08 •09

T o return now to the problem of discovering a method of combining the individual's records in several tests: T h e r e is a way of eliminating both of the troublesome quantities—both the absolute value of the average and the absolute measure of variability. Let the average in each case be counted as o, i. e., let the individual's standing be expressed as a deviation above or below the average; a n d further, let the measure of variability be taken as the unit deviation, a n d all deviations be expressed as fractions or multiples of this unit. (For the measure of variability, either the average deviation, or the m e a n square deviation, or the quartile. and so forth, m a y be chosen.) W h a t this method does is to assign each individual's position in the distribution of the group: he stands, namely, above or below the group average, a n d so and so m u c h above or below as compared with the average variation of the group. N o assumption is m a d e by this method as to the ratio between the variability a n d the group average; for the average is taken as o

COMBINING

TESTS

and the variability as i, independently the one of the other. The only assumptions underlying the method are those involved in every use of averages and variabilities, namely, that the average means the same thing in respect to one distribution as in respect to another, and, likewise, that the measure of variability means the same thing in respect to the different distributions. Both of the assumptions are correct if the distributions are of the "normal" type or if all the distributions belong to any one type. Were one distribution normal, another markedly skew, and a third distinctly bimodal, neither the average nor the average deviation would mean quite the same thing in respect to the three, and the method would be illegitimate; but in such a case it is doubtful if the distributions ought properly to be combined at all. Mental tests usually give group distributions not very different from the "normal," though tending, on the whole, to be somewhat skew in such a way that more individuals lie on the good side of the average than on the bad side. The distributions for different tests do not differ much in shape, and no considerable error can be introduced by placing the average always equal to o and the average deviation (or mean square deviation, and so forth) always equal to i.® When the individual's position in each single distribution has thus been determined, his average position in two or more distributions can be got, as well as the variability of his positions. If he stands + 0.8, + 0.4, and — 0.3 in three tests, his average standing is + 0.3, and the average deviation of his position is 0.4. If one asks, "Four-tenths of what?" the answer is that the unit is, throughout, the variability 0/ the group in the single test. The method and its utility will now be illustrated by the results of a set of association tests. Thirteen college and university students (eight men and five women) were examined with nine rather similar * T o repeat: this procedure involves no assumptions that are not involved in the ordinary statistical operations with averages, average deviations and coefficients of correlation. It is simply assumed to be fair to compare the individual with the group average as a standard, and to measure his deviation from the standard in terms of the group variability, and, further, to compare the results so obtained in different tests. If the average means anything that is constant for all the distributions, and if the average deviation means anything that is the same for all the distributions, then the assumptions are justified. It is true, of course, that the method always measures the individual by his relations to the group, and that, for some purposes, absolute and not relative measures are what is required.

262

COMBINING

TESTS

tests, called the "logical relations" tests. The results of each single test were first treated by themselves: the average time of the thirteen subjects was found, and the plus or minus deviation of each individual. The mean square deviation was then found and used as the unit, all the single deviations being divided by it and expressed as percentages of it. The individuals who did better than the average were marked plus and those who did worse than the average were marked minus. In the accompanying table, each vertical column contains the standings of the same individual in the different tests. Fi, Ft, and so forth, are the women, and M\, and so forth, the men. The individuals are arranged, from left to right, in the order of their average proficiency in these tests. Below the single records of each individual is a number in heavy type giving his average standing, and below this, again, is a measure of his variability of standing. (In this table, the mean square deviation, a, has been consistently used as the measure of variability. The relative advantages of this measure and of the average deviation will be discussed later on.) Inspection of the table shows at once that a high positive correlation is to be expected, and it further shows certain facts regarding the individuals which would be lost if only coefficients of correlation were computed. For example, the individual F\ consistently occupies a very high position in all the tests, and the positive correlations are due to this individual's consistency more than to any other individual, though there are a few who are nearly as consistent in occupying a low position, and one or two who are fairly consistent in occupying a middle position. There are, on the other hand, individuals whose standing varies much from test to test. This individual difference in consistency finds an expression in the variability of the individual's standing, a„ the mean square deviation of the individual's standing. In no other way, probably, except by the method here employed, would it be possible to reach a measure of this sort of personal characteristic, though it is a characteristic that impresses the experimenter as he conducts subjects through a series of tests. Of some individuals he would, after experience with them, be greatly surprised to see them do badly; of others he would be surprised to find them doing well; while of still others he would not be surprised at anything. These impressions of the experimenter are confirmed and made exact by the measure here given.

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„ o -CT>o m CO r-ffl mM 1 ' m go ffl oi o^ CT) co i^Oir« 00 - a n i - r^ m CD io lOtfl -iI t^oo r^eo C co m o to oo00s, —r -I—CT. m o« eo r-to o r^ O. CO o oo o o « (0 O 324> 3a5> 33 2 English, color seme and vocabulary, 24211, 244 Environment, adjustment to, 149?. Errors, 64, 65, 66, 67, 69, 70 Eskimos, 227 Ethical doctrines, 373 Ethics, social, 373 Europeans, tests as to senses, 221, 222, 223 Examination, a form of psychological test, 393 Expansion, educational and national, 250, 25iff. Experience, 180, 181, 186, i87f.; learning by, 178, 179 Experimental psychology, 129, 172, 173, 376, 380, 381, 394; class experiment, 392; in America and Germany, 249; quantitative studies, 174, 175; relation to psychiatry, 167-76 Expiration, cause of, 45 Exploratory behavior, 154 Expression error, 108 Eye, adjustment to illumination, 150, 152; color blindness, 224; color vision, 224ÎT., 245; movements, 18, 43, 81, 83; result of stimulation of the, 29; retinal pigmentation, 221, 226, 245; tests as to vision, 22off. Eye-voice span in reading aloud, 151 Facts, 113ff. Farrand, Livingston, 12 Fatigue, 169-71 Feeling, felt quality of percept, 82, 84; of relation, 91, 93, 948"., 101; unitary, 105 ; use of term, 111 n Fernald, Mabel R., 122 Filipinos, 221, 222, 227 Financial remuneration, 250, 252ff. Fleury, Maurice de, Medicine and The Mind, 183 Flexion, sensations and image of, 45 Force, contractile, 310«, 311-14, 327-31 Forgotten names, 206 Form quality, 82 Form test for intelligence, 229 Free association, 194, 195 Freud, Sigmund, 10, 11, 198, 210 Freudian psychology, criticisms, 192-211 ; fixed symbolism, 198; inconsistencies,

415 201; libido, 193, 207(1. ; literature, 208; methods, 193; practice of psychoanalysis, 209; sex, 196, t97, 200, 20710; suppression, 203, 206 Frontispiece, v Fullerton, George S., 61, 71 Function, use of word, 335 Functions involved in transfer of trainin«. 359-69 Fusion, 184-86 Galton, Sir Francis, 72, 111, 89, 98 G arm an, Charles Edward, 6,73«; quoted, 7 Gaskell, W . H „ 322, 325 Geiger, Lazarus, 225, 238, 242, 243 Gelb, Adhémar, 150 Generation, progress of a, 23iff. Genetic psychology, 381 Germans, 221, 230, 249, 370 Gestalt psychology, and the concept of reaction stages, 141-48; analyzed, 144; situation set a concept to, 159 Gladstone, William E., 225, 238, 243 Gley, E., 327, 330 Goal set, 149-60 Great Britain, professorships, 253 Greeks, color sense, 225, 238, 242« Green, name, 225, 238ff. Groupings, as non-sensory qualities, 83 Groups, see Races Group Tests, 257-83 Guilds of scholars, 256 G unn, Sidney, "American Educational Defects," 249 Habit, see Behavior, acquired Hall, G. Stanley, 8 Hearing, tests as to, 222 Heart, cardiac reaction, 296-332 Helmholtz, Hermann, 132, 148 Heredity, 136 Hindu philosophy, 372 History of Psychology in Autobiography, A, (Woodworth), v Hôffding, Harald, quoted, 22, 184» Hofmann, F. B., 300 Hollingworth, H. L., 19 Holt, E. B., 192 Horstmann, E., 28811 Human action, proposed course on, 386 Human nature, students' interest in, 379; observations of, see Psychology Hunter, W . S., quoted, 159

4i6 Hypnotism, 190 Ideas, 29, 1 8 1 ; see also Imagery; Kinesthetic image; Movement, voluntary Ideation, 158 Idiots, 172 Igorot, 229 Illumination, adjustment to, 150, 152 Illusions, 228 Image, 29, 32, 34, 37, 38, 48, 55, 116; adequacy of, 53; central or peripheral origin, 33, 39; kinesthetic, 30, 31, 32, 34) 37 ff -> 53; P 3 1 1 "» thought, 56, 57 Imageless thought, 72-79; controversy, 15; interpretations, 103?.; learning, 117ff.; literature on, 72, 103, 106, 108; memory (recall), 11 off., 116ff.; patterns, I23ff.; revision of, 103-27 Imagery, 37, 57; and sense perception, 81, 83, 84, 87, 89, 99; auditory, 15, 49, 54, 77, 108; incidental to voluntary movement, 2gff.; motor, 39, 46; verbal, 52, 53. 77. 8 1 , 104; visual, 15, 37, 53, 54, 7 7 , 8 1 , 108 Immediate recognitions and comparisons, 57 Improvement, influence of, in mental functions, 335-69; use of word, 335 Incidental memory, 1 1 2 , 114, 1 1 7 , 1 1 9 Indians, 2 2 1 , 224, 227, 240 Individual differences, 174, 257-83 Industry, application of psychology to, 385. 394 Infant, see Child Infant communities, 234 Insanity, study of, see Psychiatry Inspiration, cause of, 45 Instinct, justification of the concept of, 13&-40; see also Behavior Intelligence, distributions of, overlap, 2i6ff.; tests, 229 Intelligent reaction, 180 Intention, 53, 59, 143, 146 Interaction of mental and physical, 22 Interference, 205, 206 Intoxication, alcoholic, 172 Introspection, 73, 128, 129, 133, 387, 389 Invention, 23iff. Iris, see Eye Irritability during diastole, 318-20, 321, 322 Isolation, facts recalled in, 114, 1 1 5 James, William, 11, 22, 29, 73, 89, 110,

INDEX 183; non-sensorial states treated as transitive, 56; Principles 0/ Psychology, 7. 8, 339; quoted, 32; " T h e Stream of T h o u g h t , " 56; Woodworth's teacher, 8,9 James-Lange theory of emotions, 105 J a n e t , Pierre, 183 Jennings, H . S., 179 Johnson, Lindsay, 245 J u d d , Charles H., 121 J u d g m e n t , illusions and errors of, 228; of area, 62, 68-71, 338ff.; of difference, 6 1 ; of length, 67; of magnitude by comparison with a mental standard, 6 1 - 7 1 , 338ff-, 348-59; o f weight, 63-66 J u n g , Carl Gustav, 203, 208 Kaiser, Karl, 3140, 320*1, 323, 326, 327, 332 Kalmuks, vision, 220 K a n t , Immanuel, 373 Kardos, Ludwig, 151 Katz, D., 150 Keppel, F. P., 13 Kinesthetic image, rôle in voluntary movement, 30, 3 1 , 32, 34, 37 ff -> 53. 81 Kinesthetic sensations, 44; distinction between kinesthetic images and, 38, 105; remote and resident, 29, 32, 45 Kirkpatrick, E. A., 42 Klein, D. B., 137 Koffka, K u r t , 151, 196; behavioral environment, 154 Kiilpe, O., 13, 57, 73, 103, 104, 112n, 129 Kundgabe or expression error, 108 Laboratory work, 375, 390, 394 Ladd, George T . , Elements of Physiological Psychology, 20 Lake Erie College, 3 Lange, C., 105 Langendorff, O., 300, 320«, 327, 330, 332 Language, behavior uniformity in, 138; history of, and evolution of color sense, 225ff., 238ff. ; linguistic nature of thought, 9, 133 Lapses, 194, 195, 196, 205, 206 Lashley, K . S., 132 Lay, Wilfred, 192 Learning, by experience, 178, 179; by ideas, 181; latent, 156; memorizing, 117fT.; trial and error, 180; visualization, 121

INDEX L e g a l problems, application of psychology to, 168, 378, 394 Leisure, necessity for, »32 Length, judgments of, 67, 354, 357 Levels of description theory, 24 Libido, 193, 207ff. Liddell, H . S., 157 Linguistic nature, g, 133 Locomotor ataxia, 45 Logic, deductive and inductive, 73, 374 Logical relations tests, 2628°. Lotze, R u d o l f H e r m a n n , 22 L o u g h , J a m e s E., 9 Lowndes, M a r y E., 22 Lusk, G r a h a m , 11 M c D o u g a l l , William, 11, 40, 42, 82, 86, ' 3 3 . 2 2 3 ; quoted, 30 M c G e e , W . J., 221 M c W i l l i a m , J . A . , 297«, 319, 327, 329 Magnitudes, judgments, 6 1 - 7 1 , 338ff.; summary of experiments, 348-59 Magnus, H . , 226, 239, 242, 243 M a m m a l i a n apex preparation, 296, 319 M a n i a c a l condition, 172 M a r b e , K a r l , 112n M a r e y , E . J . , 314, 315, 317, 327 Marshall, Henry Rutgers, 87 Martin, Lillien J a n e , 111 M a t i n g customs, as factor in development of race, 236 Matthews, S. A . , 300, 318, 319, 322, 327 M a u r y , A . , 163, 164 M a z e learning, 156 Meaning and imagery, 78 Measurement of individual differences, 174, 257-83 Mechanism, psychological, see Mental mechanism Mediate recognitions and comparisons, 57 Medicine and psychology, 166, 167, 378, 381, 385. 395 Melancholy, 184» M e m o r y , experiment, 16; in animals, 178; incidental, 112, 114, 1 1 7 , 119; memorizing, 117if., 339; relation to imageless thought, 11 off., 116ff.; see also Recall Men, groups of, see Races Mental and motor performances, 85, 12211, 227 Mental Mental Mental Mental

defects and abnormalities, i67ff. discipline, 335-69 engineering, 382 fatigue, 169-71

4'7 Mental

functions,

interdependence

of,

335-69 Mental hygiene, 388, 394 M e n t a l mechanism, 132, 1 7 7 - 9 1 ; association, 184, 187, 189; discrimination, 180, 184, 186, 189; fusion, 184; influence on body, 177, 181; in lower animal forms, 178, 179; intelligent reaction, 180; mind influence in psychotherapy, 182, 190; reflection, 179, i8of., 183; thought and action, 182, 184/1,* also M i n d ; Psychology; T h i n k i n g ; T h o u g h t Mental philosophy, 374 Mental reaction, defined, 85; stages, 141; theory, 85ff., I22ff. Mental set, 197 Mental standard, judgments of magnitude by comparison with, 6 1 - 7 1 Mental traits, racial differences in, 2 1 5 - 3 7 Messer, A . , 72, 74», 196 Methodological behaviorism, 130 M e u m a n n , E., 117 Migration, selection by, 236 Military use of psychology, 386 Mill, John Stuart, quoted, 184« M i n d , philosophical study of, 375 Mind-body relation, 10, 11 Mongolians, 224 Montrose colony, 13 Moore, T . V . , 121 M o r a l philosophy, 373, 374 Motivation, 10, 16 Motor ability, behavior corresponds with objective facts, 149; speed of processes, 227 Motor imagery, 39, 46 Motor phenomena, 285-332 M o t o r reaction, 85, 122, 179, 180, 181 Motor response, 143 Motor speech center, 44 Movement, voluntary: cause, 29-60; control of force of, 287-95; control over unfamiliar, 33ff., 40; executed for effect, 47; imagery incidental to, 2gff.; in progress, 149-60; partial determinants, 59; rarity of bodily, 46; sensation and (see Kinesthetic sensations); state of mind just preceding, 50, 57, 153; views of psychologists, 30; willing of familiar, 33ff. Muller, G . E., 16 Muller, M a x , 9, 117, 129 M u n k , H . , 31 Munsterberg, H u g o , 9, 21, 31

INDEX

4I8 Muscle, rardiar, 396-333 Muscle sense, 287 Muscular fatigue, 169, 170 Muscular mechanism of movement, 37 Myers, F. W. H., 22a, 243 National Research Council, 19 Nations, see Races Natural philosophy, 374, 375 Natural sciences and psychology, 166, 375 Natural selection, as factor in development of race, 235 Negritos, 2 2 1 , 227, 229, 230 Negroes, 2 1 6 , 235, 245 Nervous system, adjustment of, 58, 153, 170 Neural mechanisms, 37, 62, 132 Neurosis, war, 18 Neurotic tendency, questionnaire on symptoms of, 19; see also Freudian psychology; Psychiatry Nomenclature, color, 225, 238-48; psychological, 111 ; sensory qualities, 242 Nonsense drawings, 120 Non-sensorial elements, see consciousness Norsworthy, Naomi, 336, 339 Nutritive behavior, 138 Object-blindness, 87, 126 Object-directed movements, 155ff. Object error, 108, 109 Objective facts, 149 Objective method, 129, 387 Observation, functions involving, 359-69; inadequacy of common, 168, 169, 171; influence of training, 339 Odor names, 227, 243 Opposite« test, 258» Order of merit in group tests, 257 Organism, 149 Overlapping of groups, 216ff. Pain sense, 223 Papuans, 223 Parallelism, 22 Patagonians. 227 Patterns, 1238". Paulsen, Friedrich, 22 Pearson, K., coefficient of correlation, 264, 265, 273, 278, 282, 309, 3 1 3 Peoples, see Races Perception, 143, 146; areas, 86, 126; correspondence with objective facts, 149; dependence upon adjustment to situa-

tion, 151; non-sensory components of, 80-88; of movement, 2 8 7 C Percept qualities, 82ff. Perceptual reaction theory, 85, i22ff. Performance, capacity judged by, 230 Peripheral sensations, 33, 37ff. Perrin, F. A. C., 137 "Personal Data Sheet," 17, 19 Personal reference, 113 Philanthropy, 378 Philosophy, Hindu, 372; mental, 374; methods of teaching, 370-77; moral, 373. 374; natural, 374, 375; psychology affiliated with, 166, 375, 385, 393, 394; tendencies away from mystical side, 373; Woodworth's interest in, ¿ff., 9 Physics, split off from philosophy, 375 Physiological Gestalt theory, 144 Physiological mechanism, 178 Physiological processes, 137 Physiological psychology, 381 Physiology, Woodworth's study of, 11 Pictures, memorization of, 120, 122 Pigmentation, retinal, 2 2 1 , 226, 245 Pigments, 247, 248 Poffenberger, A. T., 14, 19 Porter, W. T., 11, 296 Portrait, frontispiece, v Practice, 106, 107 President, university, 254 Primitive peoples, color vocabularies and color sense, 225, 239, 240, 243, 245/f.; powers of attention, 229; sensory powers, 220ff. Progress, rate of, as measure of intelligence, 2 3 1 , 233 Promoter, 250, 254 Psychiatry, and experimental psychology, 166-76; observation and experiment, 172; probable results of experimental methods, 174 Psychoanalysis, theory, 192-209; treatment, 209-11; see also Freudian psychology Psychoanalysts, 1 3 3 Psychological mechanism Psychological Psychological Psychological Psychologist, 141 flf. Psychologize,

mechanism,

see

Mental

point of view, 387 research, 382, 389 test, 393 as teacher, 385; Gestalt, 379, 389

INDEX Psychology, affiliation with philosophy or the natural sciences, 166, 375, 385, 393, 394; an empirical and experimental science, 379, 389; immature, 375; introspective and objective methods, 129, 387; mental hygiene depends on, 388; military use of, 386; not a disciplinary study, 38a, 384; of peoples, 319; real discoveries not made in, 21; stimulus-response, 141, 144; teacher, 380; value in mental work, 388; Woodworth's early interest in, 5ff. abnormal, 10, 166-76, 192-211, 381, 395 animal, 131, 381, 395 applied, 381 —.—comparative, 381 differential, 213-83 educational, 333-95 experimental, 129, 167-76, 249, 376, 380, 381, 392, 394 Freudian, 192-211 genetic, 381 Gestalt, 141-48, 159 physiological, 381 popular, 378 sensationalistic, 89 social, 395 Psychology in the college course, 378-84; advanced courses, 381, 394; independent position in curriculum, 385, 394; introductory course, 380, 3850*.; subject-matter, 383; traditional position, 393 Psychology teaching, 374, 376, 385-95; classroom methods, 390; important to center, in psychologist, 385; in Students' Army Corps, 386; primary aim, 387 Psychometric study, 17 Psychoneurosis, questionnaire on symptoms of, 19 " Psychoneurotic Inventory," 17 Psychophysics, 16 Psychotherapy, 177, 182, 190 Pygmies, 229, 230 Qualities, 978". Quantitative studies, 174, 175 Questionnaire on symptoms of neurotic tendency, i g Quickness, measurement of, 359 Races, averages, 215ff. ; differences in

419 color perception, 226; differences in mental traits, 215-37; inferior, as subjects for tests, 228; possibility of raising a superior, 235; size of group as factor, 217,233,235; typical individual, 215?.; variations within groups, 2i6ff., 236 Ranke, K . , 220, 222 Reaction, cardiac, 296-332; delayed, 153; in low forms of animals, 178, 179; in memory experiments, 120, i22ff.; intelligent, 180; sense perception, 85; to relations of things, 90; varied, 179, 180 Reaction stages, Gestalt psychology and the concept of, 141-48 Reaction-time test, 227 Reading aloud, eye-voice span in, 151 Recall, association by contiguity, 119; content, 112, 120; experiments and examination, 112; imageless, h i , 115; imaginai, 115; interference, 206; theory, 116; see also Memory Recognition, 56 Rectangles, influence of training in estimating areas of, 351, 355 Red, name, 225, 2396". Red-green blindness, 224 Reflection, 179, i8of., 183 Reflex, 137, 138; conditioned, 130, 157 Refractory period, 302Î., 314-20 Relation, adjustment to, 90, 91, 95, 102; and terms, 91 ff., 96, 97, 100; consciousness of, 89-102; parts of speech expressing, 95; qualities resolvable into, 100 Religion, tendencies away from spiritual »'de, 373 Remote sensations, 29, 32 Report, verbal, 130 Research, 382, 389 Resident sensations, 29, 32, 45 Response, 141-48, 151, 156, 205; verbal, 130 Retina, see Eye Rewards for scientific production, 250, 252ff.

Rhythmic form, 83 Rhythmical groups, counting by, 9 Right-handedness, 227 Rivers, W . H. R., 221, 222, 224, 226, 228, 240, 241, 243-45 Royalty, high intelligences produced by, 236 Royce, Josiah, 9, 10, 11

420 Saint Louis World's Fair, study of races, 17, 221, 226, 227, 245» Santayana, George, 11 Savages, sensory powers, 22off. Schafer, E . A . , 12 Scholars, guilds, 256; productivity in America, 249-56 Schultz, W . , 242*1 Science, attention to relations, 99; early specialization in, 2 5 m ; productivity in America, 249-56; split off from philosophy, 375 Scientific discovery, logic of, 374 Seashore, C . E., 390 Sensation, 125?., 146; and imageless thought, 74, n o , 122, 125; auditory, 83, 85; central or peripheral origin, 33. 37. 38, 39; fatigue, 170; kinesthetic, 29. 32. 38, 44. 45. 53; multiplicity of elements, 142; muscular, 287; a percept a reaction to, 85; quanta of, 6 1 ; relation of thought to, 851?.; visual, 80, 83 Sensationalistic psychology, 89 Sense organs, 146; result of stimulation, 29 Sense perception, non-sensory components of, 80-88, 90 Senses, tests as to, 22off. Sensorial image, see Image Sensory, distinguished from non-sensory, 74. 77. " 5 . I22> I 2 5 Sensory analysis, 148 Sensory areas, 86f., 126 Sensory impressions, 184 Sensory qualities, vocabulary, 226, 242 Set, situation-and-goal, 149-60 Sex element in Freudian psychology, 196, 197, 200, 207-10 Sexual selection, 236 Shell shock, liability to, 18 Sherrington, C . S., 12 Sight, set Vision Similarity, association by, 189 Situation-and-goal set, 149-60 Size, perception of, 83 Smell, 223; odor names, 227, 243 Social ethics, 373 Social psychology, 395 Social Science Research Council, 19 Sophomore students, inadequate to lecture course, 391 Space-span of behavior, 149?. Spark chronograph, 296 Spatial reference, 113

INDEX Spearman, C . , coefficient of correlation, 264, 273ff., 279 Specialization at early age, 25 m Spectrum, 241 Speech, an auditory matter with child, 44 Speed, measurement of, 359 Spencer, Herbert, 220 Stages, reaction, 141-48 Staircase contraction, 297-302, 329 Staircase figure, 8off., 85 Statistical method in group tests, 257-83 Stimulus, characteristics as cues of objective facts, 149; or object error, 108, 109; response, 141-48, 151, 156, 205; simultaneous and successive stimuli, 145 Stout, G . F., 72, 103 " S t r e a m of T h o u g h t , " 94 Structure, behavior depends on, 136 Students' A r m y Training Corps, course in psychology, 386 Supply and demand in education, 251, 252 Suppression, 203, 206 Symbolism, fixed, 198-200 Synergy theory, 123, 124 Synthesis theory, 123 Systasis theory, 123 T a p p i n g test, 227 Taste, 185, 243; nomenclature, 243 T e a c h e r of psychology, 380 Teaching, application of psychology to, 378, 388; classroom methods, 39off.; increasing emphasis laid on, 375; of philosophy, 370-77; of psychology, 374, 376, 385-95 Technical terms, selection of, 111 n Telepathy, 190 Terms, and relations, 91 ff., 96, 100; feelings of, 97 Testimony, i u f f . , 168 Tests, controlled association, 197; free association, 194, 195; group, 257-83; intelligence, 229; work in field of, 17 T h i n g qualities, 84, 85 Thorndike, Edward L., io, 12, 13, 6in, 112, 156, 179, 259, 335-69, 390 T h o u g h t and thinking, 16; linguistic nature, 9, 133; part of image in, 56, 57«; relation to sensation, 85!!.; use of term, i n ; see also Imageless thought Thouless, R . H . , 151 Time-span of behavior, 149ff.

INDEX Titchener, Edward Bradford, a i , 106, 108, 129, 13a; quoted, 128, 159 Togetherness, 133 Touch, 223 Traits, native, see Behavior, inherited Transcendentalist movement, 370 Transfer of training 16, 335-69 Transitive states, see Consciousness Trettien, A. W . , 4a Trial and error learning, 180 Triangles, influence of training in estimating areas of, 351, 355 Troland, L. T . , conception of retroflex, '54 Typical individual, 2158". Unity taught in Hindu philosophy, 372 Universal negative, 73 Universality, criterion of, 137 Universities, education and science, a5aff. Variable error, 64, 65 Variability, in individual measurements, 257-83 passim; of a trait within a group, 2i6ff. Varied reaction, 179, 180 Vedas, color terms, 225, 238 Verbal imagery, 52, 53, 77, 81, 104 Verbal response and verbal report, 130 Vision, pigmentation a factor in, 221, 226, 245; tests as to, 2aoff. Visual cortex, 43 Visual illusions, 228 Visual imagery, 15, 37, 53, 54, 77, 81, 108 Visualization in learning process, 121 Vivid image, 116 Vocabularies, color, 225, 238-48; sensory qualities, 226, 242 Vocal organs, control acquired through hearing, 44 Vocational guidance, application of psychology to, 394 Voluntary movement, see Movement, voluntary Waking reveries, 163-65 Walther, A., 300 War neurosis, liability to, 18 Ward, J., 119 Washburn, Margaret Floy, 133

421 Watson, John B., a i , 136, 19a; behaviorism, 130, 13a; quoted, 139 Watt, H. J., 7a, 74«, 103 Weber's law, 63-71 passim, 346 Weight, judgments of, 63-66, 353, 357 Wells, F. L., 17, 193, 359« White, William A., quoted, soi Will, 183, 184«; to learn, 1178". Wissler, Clark, 336, 339 Women, subject to illusion, 338 Woodbridge, Frederick James Eugène, >3. ' 4 Wood worth, Robert Sessions, activities outside the University, 17; anthropometric and psychometric study of races, 17, 221, 226, 227, 245»; Autobiography, 3-25; bogey men, a i ; books, 30; "Cause of a Voluntary Movement," 73; choice of psychology, 5, 9; commemorative volume, v; desire for freedom in investigation, 3 i , 35; Dynamic Psychology, 20; education, 6ff.; emotion tests, 18; family situation, 4, 13; A History of Psychology in Autobiography, v; imageless-thought controversy, 15; influences toward psychology, 8; interest in motivation and psychophysics, 16; interest in philosophy, 5ff;. Kûlpe's laboratory, Bonn, 13; lecture topics, 13; mathematical interest, 6, 8, 17; parallelist position, 22; portrait, v; President of American Psychological Association, 20; seminars, 14; work in field of tests, 17; work with National Research Council and Social Science Research Council, 19 and Wells, Association Tests, 17, 259» Word-blindness, 87, 126 Word-deafness, 87 Word-hearing center, 44 Word qualities, 85, 87 Words, observing and marking, 339, 361 ff. World's Fair, Saint Louis, see Saint Louis World War, tests for emotional stability, 18 Wundt, Wilhelm Max, 14, 341, 246; imageless thought, I03ff. Yellow, name, 225, 2398".