less distinct, if any one were suddenly to become much more intense,
the rest would fade in proportion, so as scarcely to be felt. A
thousand faint sounds murmur around us, which are instantly hushed by
any loud noise. If, when we are looking at the glittering firmament of
suns in a winter night, any one of those distant orbs were to become as
radiant as our own sun, which is itself but the star of our planetary
system, there can be no question, that, like our sun on its rising, it
would quench with its brilliancy, all those little glimmering lights,
which would still shine on us, indeed, as before, but would shine on us
without being perceived. It may be regarded, then, as another general
law of the mind, that when many sensations coexist of equal intensity,
the effect of the _increased_ intensity of _one_ is a _diminished_
intensity of those which coexist with it.
Let us now, for the application of these remarks, consider, what it
is which takes place in attention, when many objects are together
acting on our senses, and we attend, perhaps, only to a single
sensation. As a mere description of the process, I cannot use a
happier exemplification, than that which Condillac has given us in his
_Logique_.
Let us imagine a castle, which commands, from its elevation, an
extensive view of a domain, rich with all the beauties of nature
and art. It is night when we arrive at it. The next morning our
window-shutters open at the moment when the sun has just risen above
the horizon,--and close again the very moment after.
Though the whole sweep of country was shewn to us _but for an instant_,
we must have seen every object which it comprehends within the sphere
of our vision. In a second or a third instant we could have received
only the same impressions which we received at first; consequently,
though the window had not been closed again, we should have continued
to see but what we saw before.
This first instant, however, though it unquestionably shewed us all
the scene, gave us no real knowledge of it; and, when the windows were
closed again, there is not one of us who could have ventured to give
even the slightest description of it,--a sufficient proof, that we may
have seen many objects, and yet have learned nothing.
At length the shutters are opened again, to remain open while the sun
is above the horizon; and we see once more what we saw at first. Even
now, however, if, in a sort of ecstacy, we were to continue to see
at _once_, as in the first instant, all this multitude of different
objects, we should know as little of them when the night arrived, as we
knew when the window shutters were closed again after the very moment
of their opening.
To have a knowledge of the scene, then, it is not sufficient to behold
it _all at once_, so as to comprehend it in a single gaze; we must
consider it in _detail_, and pass successively from object to object.
This is what Nature has taught us all. If she has given us the power
of seeing many objects at once, she has given us also the faculty of
looking but at one,--that is to say, of directing our eyes on one only
of the multitude; and it is to this faculty,--which is a result of our
organization, says Condillac,--that we owe all the knowledge which we
acquire from sight.
The faculty is common to us all: and yet, if afterwards we were to talk
of the landscape which we had _all_ seen, it would be very evident,
that our knowledge of it would not be exactly the same. By some of us,
a picture might be given of it with tolerable exactness, in which there
would be many objects such as they were, and many, certainly, which had
very little resemblance to the parts of the landscape which we wished
to describe. The picture which _others_ might give, would probably be
so confused, that it would be quite impossible to recognize the scene
in the description, and yet all had seen the same objects, and nothing
but the same objects. The only difference is, that some of us had
wandered from object to object irregularly, and that others had looked
at them in a certain order.
Now, what is this order? Nature points it out to us herself. It is the
very order in which she presents to us objects. There are some which
are more striking than others, and which, of themselves, almost call to
us to look at them; they are the _predominant objects_, around which
the others seem to arrange themselves. It is to them, accordingly, that
we give our _first_ attention; and when we have remarked their relative
situations, the others gradually fill up the intervals.
We begin, then, with the principal objects; we observe them in
succession; we compare them, to judge of their relative positions.
When these are ascertained, we observe the objects that fill up the
intervals, comparing each with the principal object, till we have fixed
the positions of all.
When this process of successive, but regular observation, is
accomplished, we know all the objects and their situations, and can
embrace them with a single glance. Their order, in our mind, is no
longer an order of mere succession; it is _simultaneous_. It is that in
which they exist, and we see it at once distinctly.
The comprehensive knowledge thus acquired, we owe to the mere skill
with which we have directed our eyes from object to object. The
knowledge has been acquired in parts successively; but, when acquired,
it is present at once to our mind, in the same manner, as the objects
which it retraces to us, are all present to the single glance of the
eye that beholds them.
The description which I have now given you, very nearly after the words
of Condillac, is, I think, a very faithful representation of a process
of which we must all repeatedly have been conscious. It seems to me
however, faithful as it is, as a mere description, to leave the great
difficulty unexplained, and even unremarked. We see a multitude of
objects, and we have one complex indistinct feeling. We wish to know
the scene more accurately, and in consequence of this wish, though the
objects themselves continue as before, we no longer seem to view them
all, but only one, or a few; and the few, which we now see, we see more
distinctly. Such I conceive to be the process; but the difference is,
that though we seem to view only a few objects, and these much more
distinctly, the field of the eye still comprehends a wide expanse, the
light from which scarcely affects us, while the light from other parts
of it, though not more brilliant, produces in us distinct perception.
It is vain for Condillac to say, that it is in consequence of a faculty
which we have of directing our eyes on one subject, a faculty which is
the result of our organization, and which is common to all mankind;
for, in the first place, if this direction of our eyes, of which he
speaks, on a single object, be meant, in its strict sense, of the
eye itself, which we direct, it is not true that we have any such
faculty. We cannot direct our eyes so as not to comprehend equally
in our field of vision, many objects beside that single object which
is supposed to have fixed our attention; and if, by the direction of
our eyes, be meant the exclusive or limited perception by our mind
itself, there remains the difficulty,--how it happens, that while light
from innumerable objects falls on our retina as before, it no longer
produces any distinct vision relatively to the objects from which it
comes,--while light certainly not more brilliant, from other objects,
produces vision much more distinct than before. Let us consider this
difficulty which, in truth, constitutes the principal phenomenon of
attention, a little more fully.
When Condillac speaks of the faculty of the mind, by which he supposes
it capable of directing the eye, exclusively, on certain objects, he
must speak of that only, of which we are conscious, previously to the
more distinct perception of those objects, as certain parts of the
scene.
What is it, then, of which we are conscious, between the indistinct
perception of the wide scene, and the distinct perception of parts of
the scene?
In the first place, there is a general desire of knowing the scene
more accurately. This is the primary feeling of the process of
attention. But this primary feeling is soon succeeded by others.
Indistinct as the whole complex scene may be, some parts of it more
brilliant, or more striking in general character, are less indistinct
than others. There are a few _more prominent parts_, as Condillac says,
around which the rest are indistinctly arranged.
With some _one_ of these, then, as in itself more impressive and
attractive, we begin; our general desire of knowing the whole scene
having been followed by a wish to know this principal part more
accurately.
The next step is to prevent the eye itself from wandering, that no new
objects may distract it, and that there may be as little confusion
as possible of the rays from different objects, on that part of the
retina, on which the rays fell from the particular object which we
wish to consider. We fix our eyes, therefore, and our whole body, as
steadily as we can, by the muscles subservient to these purposes.
So far, unquestionably, no new faculty is exercised. We have merely
_the desire_ of knowing the scene before us,--the selection of some
prominent object, or rather the mere perception of it, as peculiarly
prominent,--the desire of knowing it particularly,--and the contraction
of a few muscles, in obedience to our volition.
No sooner, however, has all this taken place, than instantly, or almost
instantly, and without our consciousness of any new and peculiar state
of mind intervening in the process, the landscape becomes to our vision
altogether different. Certain parts only, those parts which we wished
to know particularly, are seen by us; the remaining parts seem almost
to have vanished. It is as if every thing before had been but the
doubtful colouring of enchantment, which had disappeared, and left to
us the few prominent realities on which we gaze; or rather, it is as if
some instant enchantment, obedient to our wishes, had dissolved every
reality besides, and brought closer to our sight the few objects which
we desired to see.
Still, however, all of which we are truly conscious, as preceding
immediately the change of appearance in the scene, is the mere desire,
of which I have spoken, combined certainly with expectation of that
more distinct vision which follows. There may be a combination of
feelings, but no new and peculiar feeling, either as simple, or
coexisting with other feelings,--no indication, in short, of the
exercise of _new power_.
Even though we should be incapable, therefore, of understanding how
the desire should have this effect, it would not be the less true,
that the desire of knowing accurately a particular object in a group,
is instantly,--or, at least, instantly after some organic change which
may probably be necessary,--followed by a more vivid and distinct
perception of the particular object, and a comparative faintness and
indistinctness of the other objects that coexist with it; and that what
we call attention is nothing more.
Are the comparative distinctness and indistinctness, however, a result
which we had no reason to expect? or are they not rather what might,
in some degree at least, have been expected, from our knowledge of the
few physical facts with respect to our co-existing sensations, which
I have already pointed out to you, and from the circumstance which we
are next to consider? We have seen, in the observations already made
by us, that many co-existing perceptions are indistinct, and that when
_one_ becomes more vivid, the others become still fainter. All that is
necessary, therefore, is to discover some cause of increased vividness
of that one to which we are said to attend.
If we can discover any reason why _this_ should become more vivid,
the comparative indistinctness of the other parts of the scene may be
considered as following of course.
Such a cause exists, unquestionably, in that feeling of desire, without
which there can be no attention. To attend, is to have a desire of
knowing that to which we attend, and attention without desire is a
verbal contradiction,--an inconsistency, at least, as great as if we
were said to desire to know without any desire of knowing, or to be
attentive without attention.
When we attend, then, to any part of a complex group of sensations,
there is always an emotion of desire, however slight the emotion may
be, connected exclusively with that particular part of the group to
which we attend; and whatever effect our emotions produce on the
complex feelings that accompany them, we may expect to be produced, in
some greater or less degree, by the desire in the complex process which
we term attention.
The effect which our expectation might anticipate, is the very effect
that is truly found to take place,--an increased liveliness of that
part of the complex group, to which alone the desire relates.
That it is the nature of our _emotions_ of every sort, to render
_more vivid_ all the mental affections with which they are peculiarly
combined, as if their own vivacity were in some measure divided
with these, every one who has felt any strong emotion, must have
experienced. The eye has, as it were, a double quickness, to perceive
what we love or hate, what we hope or fear. Other objects may be seen
slightly; but these, if seen at all, become instantly permanent, and
cannot appear to us without impressing their presence, as it were, in
stronger feeling on our senses and our soul.
Such is the effect of emotion, when combined even with sensations that
are of themselves, by their own nature, vivid; and mark, therefore,
less strikingly, the increase of vividness received. The vivifying
effect, however, is still more remarkable, by its relative proportion,
when the feelings with which the emotion is combined, are in themselves
peculiarly faint, as in the case of mere memory or imagination. The
object of any of our emotions, thus merely conceived by us, becomes, in
many cases, so vivid, as to render even our accompanying perceptions
comparatively faint. The mental absence of _lovers_, for example, is
proverbial; and what is thus termed in popular language _absence_, is
nothing more than the greater vividness of some mere conception, or
other internal feeling, than of any, or all of the external objects
present at the time, which have no peculiar relation to the prevailing
emotion.
“The darkened sun
Loses his light; The rosy-bosom'd Spring
To weeping Fancy pines; and yon bright arch
Contracted, bends into a dusky vault.
All nature fades, extinct; and she alone,
Heard, felt, and seen, possesses every thought,
Fills every sense, and pants in every vein.
Books are but formal dulness,--tedious friends,
And sad amid the social band he sits
Lonely and unattentive. From his tongue
The unfinished period falls; while, borne away
On swelling thought, his wafted spirit flies
To the vain bosom of his distant Fair;
And leaves the semblance of a lover, fix'd
In melancholy site, with head declined
And love-dejected eyes.”[131]
What brighter colours the fears of _superstition_ give to the dim
objects perceived in twilight, the inhabitants of the village who have
to pass the churchyard at any late hour, and the little students of
ballad lore, who have carried with them, from the nursery, many tales
which they almost tremble to remember, know well. And in the second
sight of this northern part of the island, there can be no doubt, that
the objects which the seers conceive themselves to behold, truly are
more vivid, as conceptions, than, but for the superstition and the
melancholy character of the natives, which harmonize with the objects
of this gloomy foresight, they would have been; and that it is in
consequence of this brightening effect of the emotion, as concurring
with the dim and shadowy objects which the vapoury atmosphere of our
lakes and vallies presents, that fancy, relatively to the individual,
becomes a temporary reality. The _gifted eye_, which has once believed
itself favoured with such a view of the future, will, of course, ever
after have a _quicker foresight_, and more frequent revelations; its
own wilder emotion communicating still more vivid forms and colours to
the objects which it dimly perceives.
On this subject, however, I need not seek any additional illustration.
I may fairly suppose you to admit, as a general physical law of the
Phenomena of Mind, that the influence of every emotion is to render
_more vivid_ the perception or conception of its object.
I must remark, however, that when the emotion is _very violent_, as in
the violence of any of our fiercer passions, though it still renders
every object, with which it harmonizes, more vivid and prominent, it
mingles with them some degree of its own confusion of feeling. It
magnifies and distorts; and what it renders brighter, it does not
therefore render more distinct.
“The flame of passion, through the straggling soul
Deep-kindled, shews across that sudden blaze
The object of his rapture, vast of size,
With fiercer colours and a night of shade.”[132]
The species of desire which we are considering, however, is not of this
fierce and tempestuous kind.
Emotions of a calmer species have the _vivifying_ effect, without the
_indistinctness_; and precisely of this degree is that desire which
constitutes attention as coexisting with the sensations, or other
feelings to which we are said to attend.
We have found, then, in the desire which accompanies attention, or
rather which chiefly constitutes it, the cause of that increased
intensity which we sought.
When all the various objects of a scene are of themselves equally,
or nearly equally, interesting or indifferent to us, the union of
_desire_, with any particular perception of the group, might be
supposed, _a priori_, to render this perception in some degree more
vivid than it was before. It is not necessary that this difference of
vividness should take place _wholly_, or even be very striking, in the
first instant; for, by becoming in the first instant even slightly
more vivid, it acquires additional colouring and prominence, so as
to increase that interest, which led us originally to select it for
our first minute observation, and thus to brighten it more and more
progressively. Indeed, when we reflect on our consciousness during what
is called _an effort of attention_, we feel that some such progress as
this really takes place, the object becoming gradually more distinct
while we gaze, till at length it requires a sort of effort to turn
away to the other coexisting objects, and to renew with them the same
process.
Attention, then, is not a simple mental state, but a process, or a
combination of feelings. It is not the result of any peculiar power of
the mind, but of those mere laws of perception, by which the increased
vividness of one sensation produces a corresponding faintness of others
coexisting with it, and of that law of our emotions, by which they
communicate greater intensity to every perception, or other feeling,
with which they coexist and harmonize.
FOOTNOTES:
[131] Thomson's Seasons--Spring, v. 1006-1021.
[132] Pleasures of Imagination, Book II. v. 137-140.
LECTURE XXXII.
ON THE EXTERNAL AFFECTIONS OF MIND COMBINED WITH DESIRE, CONTINUED.--ON
THE INTERNAL AFFECTIONS OF MIND.--CLASSIFICATION OF THEM.
In my last Lecture, Gentlemen, I concluded my sketch of the different
hypotheses of philosophers with respect to perception, with an
account of that Pre-established Harmony, by which Leibnitz, excluding
all reciprocal agency of mind and matter, endeavoured to account
for the uniform coincidence of our mental feelings with our bodily
movements,--an hypothesis which, though it does not seem to have
gained many followers out of Germany, produced the most enthusiastic
admiration in the country of its author. I may remark by the way,--as
a very striking example of the strange mixture of seemingly opposite
qualities, which we frequently find in the character of nations,--that,
while the country, of which I speak, has met with ridicule,--most
unjust in degree, as national ridicule always is,--for the heaviness
of its laborious erudition, it must be allowed to surpass all other
countries in the passionate enthusiasm of its philosophy, which,
particularly in metaphysics, from the reign of Leibnitz to the more
recent worship paid to the transcendentalism of Kant, seems scarcely
to have admitted of any calm approbation, or to have known any other
inquirers than violent partisans and violent foes.
After my remarks on this hypothesis, which closed my view of our
external affections of mind, as they exist simply, I next proceeded to
consider them, as they exist, combined with desire, in that state of
the mind, which is termed _attention_,--a state which has been supposed
to indicate a peculiar intellectual power, but which, I endeavoured to
shew you, admits of being analyzed into other more general principles.
It is to our consciousness, of course, that we must refer for the
truth of any such analysis; and the process which it reveals to us,
in attention, seems, I think, to justify the analysis which I made,
indicating a combination of simpler feelings, but not any new and
distinct species of feeling, to be referred to a peculiar faculty.
We see many objects together, and we see them indistinctly. We wish
to know them more accurately,--and we are aware, that this knowledge
can be acquired only in detail. We select some one more prominent
object, from the rest,--or rather, without any selection on our part,
this object excites, in a higher degree, our desire of observing
it particularly, merely by being more prominent, or, in some other
respect, more interesting than the rest. To observe it particularly, we
fix our body, and our eyes,--for it is a case of vision which I have
taken for an example,--as steadily as possible, that the light from the
same points of the object may continue to fall on the same points of
the retina. Together with our wish, we have an expectation, the natural
effect of uniform past experience, that the object will now be more
distinctly perceived by us; and, in accordance with this expectation,
when the process, which I have described, is completed, the object,
as if it knew our very wish, and hastened to gratify it, does become
more distinct; and, in proportion as it becomes thus more vivid, the
other objects of the group become gradually fainter, till at length
they are scarcely felt to be present. Such, without the intervention
of any new and peculiar state of mind, is the mental process, as far
as we are conscious of it; and, if this be the process, there is no
reason to infer in it the operation of any power of the mind different
from those which are exercised in other cases. The general capacities
of perception, and desire, and expectation, and voluntary command of
certain muscles, which, on every view of the phenomena of attention,
we must allow the mind to possess, are, of themselves, sufficient to
explain the phenomena, and preclude, therefore, any further reference.
The brightening of the objects to which we attend, that is to say, of
the objects which have interested us, and which we feel a _desire_ of
knowing, and the consequent fading of the other coexisting objects, I
explained, by the well known influence, not of desire merely, but of
all our emotions, in rendering more vivid those objects of perception
or fancy, with which they harmonize; and I illustrated this influence
by various examples.