LOGIC OF RECEPTS.
We have seen that the great border-land, or _terra media_, lying
between particular ideas and general ideas has been strangely neglected
by psychologists, and we may now be prepared to find that a careful
exploration of this border-land is a matter of the highest importance
for the purposes of our inquiry. I will, therefore, devote the present
chapter to a full consideration of what I have termed generic ideas, or
recepts.
It has already been remarked that, in order to form any of these
generic ideas, the mind does not require to combine _intentionally_
the particular ideas which go to construct it: a recept differs from
a concept in that it is _received_, not _conceived_. The percepts
out of which a recept is composed are of so comparatively _simple_ a
character, are so frequently _repeated_ in observation, and present
among themselves resemblances or analogies so _obvious_, that the
mental images of them run together, as it were, spontaneously, or
in accordance with the primary laws of merely sensuous association,
without requiring any conscious act of comparison. This is a truth
which has been noticed by several previous writers. For instance, I
have in this connection already quoted a passage from M. Taine, and,
if necessary, could quote another, wherein he very aptly likens what
I have called recepts to the unelaborated ore out of which the metal
of a concept is afterwards smelted. And still more to the purpose
is the following passage, which I take from Mr. Sully:—“The more
_concrete_ concepts, or _generic_ images, are formed to a large extent
by a _passive_ process of _assimilation_. The likeness among dogs, for
example, is so great and striking that when a child, already familiar
with one of these animals, sees a second, he recognizes it as identical
with the first in certain obvious respects. The representation of the
first combines with the representation of the second, bringing into
distinct relief the common dog features, more particularly the canine
form. In this way the images of different dogs come to overlap, so to
speak, giving rise to a typical image of dog. Here there is very little
of _active_ direction of the mind from one thing to another in order
to discover where the resemblance lies: _the resemblance forces itself
upon the mind_. When, however, the resemblance is less striking, as in
the case of more abstract concepts, a _distinct operation of active
comparison is involved_.”[26]
Similarly, M. Perez remarks, “the necessity which children are under
of seeing in a detached and scrappy manner in order to see well, makes
them continually practise that kind of abstraction by which we separate
qualities from objects. From those objects which the child has already
distinguished as individual, there come to him at different moments
particularly vivid impressions.... Dominant sensations of this kind, by
their energy or frequency, tend to efface the idea of the objects from
which they proceed, _to separate or abstract themselves_.... The flame
of a candle is not always equally bright or flickering; tactile, sapid,
olfactory, and auditive impressions do not always strike the child’s
sensorium with the same intensity, nor during the same length of time.
This is why the recollections of individual forms, although strongly
graven on their intelligence, lose by degrees their first precision,
so that the idea of a tree, for instance, furnished by direct and
perfectly distinct memories, comes back to the mind in a vague and
indistinct form, which might be taken for a general idea.”[27]
Again, in the opinion of John Stuart Mill, “It is the doctrine of
one of the most fertile thinkers of modern times, Auguste Comte,
that besides the logic of signs, there is a logic of images, and a
logic of feelings. In many of the familiar processes of thought, and
especially in uncultured minds, a visual image serves instead of a
word. Our visual sensations, perhaps only because they are almost
always present along with the impressions of our other senses, have a
facility of becoming associated with them. Hence, the characteristic
visual appearance of an object easily gathers round it, by association,
the ideas of all other peculiarities which have, in frequent
experience, co-existed with that appearance; and, summoning up these
with a strength and certainty far surpassing that of merely casual
associations which it may also raise, it concentrates the attention
on them. This is an image serving for a sign—the logic of images.
The same function may be fulfilled by a feeling. Any strong and
highly interesting feeling, connected with one attribute of a group,
spontaneously classifies all objects according as they possess, or
do not possess, that attribute. We may be tolerably certain that the
things capable of satisfying hunger form a perfectly distinct class in
the mind of any of the more intelligent animals; quite as much as if
they were able to use or understand the word food. We here see in a
strong light the important truth that hardly anything universal can be
affirmed in psychology except the laws of association.”[28]
Furthermore, Mansel tersely conveys the truth which I am endeavouring
to present, thus:—“The mind recognizes the impression which a tree
makes on the retina of the eye: this is presentative consciousness. It
then depicts it. From many such pictures it forms a general notion, and
to that notion it at last appropriates a name.”[29] Almost in identical
language the same distinction is conveyed by Noiré thus:—“All trees
hitherto seen by me may leave in my imagination a mixed image, a kind
of ideal representation of trees. Quite different from this is the
concept, which is never an image.”[30]
And, not to overburden the argument with quotations, I will furnish
but one more, which serves if possible with still greater clearness
to convey exactly what it is that I mean by a recept. Professor
Huxley writes:—“An anatomist who occupies himself intently with the
examination of several specimens of some new kind of animal, in course
of time acquires so vivid a conception of its form and structure, that
the idea may take visible shape and become a sort of waking dream.”[31]
Although the use of the word “conception” here is unfortunate in one
way, I regard it as fortunate in another: it shows how desperate is the
need for the word which I have coined.
The above quotations, then, may be held sufficient to show that the
distinction which I have drawn has not been devised merely to suit my
own purposes. All that I have endeavoured so far to do is to bring
this distinction into greater clearness, by assigning to each of its
parts a separate name. And in doing this I have not assumed that the
two orders of generalization comprised under recepts and concepts are
the same in kind. So far I have left the question open as to whether
a mind which can only attain to recepts differs in degree or in kind
from the intellect which is able to go on to the formation of concepts.
Had I said, with Sully, “When the resemblance is less striking, as in
the case of more abstract concepts, a distinct operation of active
comparison is involved,” I should have been assuming that there is only
a difference of degree between a recept and a concept: designating
both by the same term, and therefore implying that they differ only in
their level of abstraction, I should have assumed that what he calls
the “passive process of assimilation,” whereby an infant or an animal
recognizes an individual man as belonging to a class, is really the
same kind of psychological process as that which is involved “in the
case of more abstract concepts,” where the individual man is designated
by a proper name, while the class to which he belongs is designated
by a common name. Similarly, if I had said, with Thomas Brown, that
in the process of generalization there is, “in the first place, the
perception of two or more objects [percept]; in the second place, the
feeling of their resemblance [recept]; and, lastly, the expression of
this common relative feeling by a name, afterwards used as a general
name [concept];”—if I had spoken thus, I should have virtually begged
the question as to the universal continuity of ideation, both in brutes
and men. Of course this is the conclusion towards which I am working;
but my endeavour in doing so is to proceed in the proof step by step,
without anywhere pre-judging my case. These passages, therefore, I
have quoted merely because they recognize more clearly than others
which I have happened to meet with what I conceive to be the true
psychological classification of ideas; and although, with the exception
of that quoted from Mill, no one of the passages shows that its writer
had before his mind the case of animal intelligence—or perceived the
immense importance of his statements in relation to the question which
we have to consider,—this only renders of more value their independent
testimony to the soundness of my classification.[32]
The question, then, which we have to consider is whether there is a
difference of kind, or only a difference of degree, between a recept
and a concept. This is really the question with which the whole of the
present volume will be concerned, and as its adequate treatment will
necessitate somewhat laborious inquiries in several directions, I will
endeavour to keep the various issues distinct by fully working out each
branch of the subject before entering upon the next.
First of all I will show, by means of illustrations, the highest levels
of ideation that are attained within the domain of recepts; and, in
order to do this, I will adduce my evidence from animals alone, seeing
that here there can be no suspicion—as there might be in the case of
infants—that the logic of recepts is assisted by any nascent growth
of concepts. But, before proceeding to state this evidence, it seems
desirable to say a few words on what I mean by the term just used,
namely, Logic of Recepts.
As argued in my previous work, all mental processes of an adaptive kind
are, in their last resort, processes of classification: they consist in
discriminating between differences and resemblances. An act of simple
perception is an act of noticing resemblances and differences between
the objects of such perception; and, similarly, an act of conception is
the taking together—or the intentional _putting_ together—of ideas
which are recognized as analogous. Hence abstraction has to do with
the abstracting of analogous qualities; reason is ratiocination, or
the comparison of ratios; and thus the highest operations of thought,
like the simplest acts of perception, are concerned with the grouping
or co-ordination of resemblances, previously distinguished from
differences.[33] Consequently, the middle ground of ideation, or the
territory occupied by recepts, is concerned with this same process on
a plane higher than that which is occupied by percepts, though lower
than that which is occupied by concepts. In short, the object or use,
and therefore the method or _logic_, of all ideation is the same. It
is, indeed, customary to restrict the latter term to the higher plane
of ideation, or to that which has to do with concepts. But, as Comte
has shown, there is no reason why, for purposes of special exposition,
this term should not be extended so as to embrace all operations of
the mind, in so far as these are operations of an orderly kind. For
in so far as they are orderly or adaptive—and not merely sentient or
indifferent—such operations all consist, as we have just seen, in
processes of ideal grouping, or _binding together_.[34] And therefore
I see no impropriety in using the word Logic for the special purpose
of emphasizing the fundamental identity of all ideation—so far, that
is, as its method is concerned. I object, however, to the terms “Logic
of Feelings” and “Logic of Signs.” For, on the one hand, “Feelings,”
have to do primarily with the sentient and emotional side of mental
life, as distinguished from the intellectual or ideational. And, on
the other hand, “Signs” are the _expressions_ of ideas; not the ideas
themselves. Hence, whatever method, or meaning, they may present is but
a reflection of the order, or grouping, among the ideas which they are
used to express. The logic, therefore, is neither in the feelings nor
in the signs; but in the ideas. On this account I have substituted for
the above terms what I take to be more accurate designations—namely,
the Logic of Recepts, and the Logic of Concepts.[35]
In the present chapter we have only to consider the logic of recepts,
and, in order to do so efficiently, we may first of all briefly
note that even within the region of percepts we meet with a process
of spontaneous grouping of like with like, which, in turn, leads
us downwards to the purely unconscious or mechanical grouping of
stimuli in the lower nerve-centres. So that, as fully argued out in
my previous work, on its objective face the method has everywhere
been the same: whether in the case of reflex action, of sensation,
perception, reception, conception, or reflection, on the side of the
nervous system, the method of evolution has been uniform: “it has
everywhere consisted in a progressive development of the power of
discriminating between stimuli, joined with the complementary power of
adaptive response.”[36] But although this is a most important truth
to recognize (as it appears to have been implicitly recognized—or,
rather, accidentally implied—by using a variant of the same term to
designate the lowest and the highest members of the above-named series
of faculties), for the purposes of psychological as distinguished from
physiological inquiry, it is convenient to disregard the objective side
of this continuous process, and therefore to take up our analysis at
the place where it is attended by a subjective counterpart—that is, at
Perception.
So much has already been written on what is termed the “unconscious
judgments” or “intuitive judgments” incidental to all our acts of
perception, that I feel it is needless to occupy space by dwelling at
any length upon this subject. The familiar illustration of looking
straight into a polished bowl, and alternately perceiving it as a
bowl and a sphere, is enough to show that here we _do_ have a logic
of feelings: without any act of ideation, but simply in virtue of
an automatic grouping of former percepts, the mind spontaneously
infers—or unconsciously judges—that an object, which _must either_
be a bowl or a sphere, is now one and now the other.[37] From which
we gather that all our visual perceptions are thus of the nature of
automatic inferences, based upon previous correspondencies between them
and perceptions of touch. From which, again, we gather that perceptions
of every kind depend upon previous grouping, whether between those
supplied by the same sense only, or also in combination with those
supplied by other senses.
Now, if this is so well known to be the case with percepts, obviously
it must also be the case with recepts. If we thus find by experiment
that all our perceptions are dependent on sub-conscious co-ordination
wholly automatic, much more may we be prepared to find that the
simplest of our ideas are dependent on spontaneous co-ordinations
almost equally automatic. Accordingly, it requires but a slight
analysis of our ordinary mental processes to prove that all our
simpler ideas are group-arrangements, which have been formed as I say
spontaneously, or without any of that intentionally comparing, sifting,
and combining process which is required in the higher departments of
ideational activity. The comparing, sifting, and combining is here
done, as it were, _for_ the conscious agent; not _by_ him. Recepts
are _received_: it is only concepts that require to be _conceived_.
For a recept is that kind of idea the constituent parts of which—be
they but the memories of percepts, or already more or less elaborated
as recepts—unite spontaneously as soon as they are brought together.
It matters not whether this readiness to unite is due to obvious
similarity, or to frequent repetition: the point is that there is
so strong an _affinity_ between the elementary constituents, that
the compound is formed as a consequence of their mere apposition in
consciousness. If I am crossing a street and hear behind me a sudden
shout, I do not require to wait in order to predicate to myself that
there is probably a hansom cab just about to run me down: a cry of
this kind, and in those circumstances, is so intimately associated
in my mind with its purpose, that the idea which it arouses need not
rise above the level of a recept; and the adaptive movements on my
part which that idea immediately prompts, are performed without any
intelligent reflection. Yet, on the other hand, they are neither reflex
actions nor instinctive actions: they are what may be termed receptual
actions, or actions depending on recepts.
This, of course, is an exceedingly simple illustration, and I have
used it in order to make the further remark that actions depending
on recepts, although they often thus lie near to reflex actions, are
by no means bound to do so. On the contrary, as we shall immediately
find, actions depending on recepts are often so highly “intelligent,”
that in our own case it is impossible to draw the line between them
and actions depending on concepts. That is to say, in our own case
there is a large border-land where introspection is unable to determine
whether adjustive action is due to recepts or to concepts; and hence
it is only in the case of animals that we can be certain as to the
limits of intelligent adjustment which are possible under the operation
of recepts alone. The question therefore, now arises,—How far can
this process of spontaneous or unintentional comparing, sifting, and
combining go without the intentional co-operation of the conscious
agent? To what level of ideation can recepts attain without the aid of
concepts? We have seen in the last chapter that animals display generic
or receptual ideas of Good-for-eating, Not-good-for-eating, &c.; and
we know that in our own case we “instinctively” avoid placing our
hands in a flame, without requiring to formulate any proposition upon
the properties of flame. How far, then, can this kind of unnamed or
non-conceptional ideation extend? Or, in other words, how far can mind
travel without the vehicle of Language? For the reasons already given,
I will answer this question by fastening attention exclusively on the
mind of brutes.
* * * * *
To lead off with a few instances which have been already selected for
substantially the same purpose by Mr. Darwin:—
“Houzeau relates that, while crossing a wide and arid plain in Texas,
his two dogs suffered greatly from thirst, and that between thirty and
forty times they rushed down the hollows to search for water. These
hollows were not valleys, and there were no trees in them, or any other
difference in the vegetation; and as they were absolutely dry, there
could have been no smell of damp earth. The dogs behaved as if they
knew that a dip in the ground offered them the best chance of finding
water, and Houzeau has often witnessed the same behaviour in other
animals.”
I have myself frequently observed this association of ideas between
hollow ground and probability of finding water in the case of
setter-dogs, which require much water while working; and it is evident
that the ideas associated are of a character highly generic.
Further, Mr. Darwin writes:—“I have seen, as I dare say have others,
that when a small object is thrown on the ground beyond the reach of
one of the elephants in the Zoological Gardens, he blows through his
trunk on the ground beyond the object, so that the current reflected on
all sides may drive the object within his reach. Again, a well-known
ethnologist, Mr. Westropp, informs me that he observed in Vienna a bear
deliberately making with his paw a current in some water, which was
close to the bars of his cage, so as to draw a piece of floating bread
within his reach.”[38]
In _Animal Intelligence_ it will be seen that both these observations
are independently confirmed by letters which I have received from
correspondents; so that the facts must be accepted. And they imply a
faculty of forming generic ideas of a high order of complexity. Indeed,
these are not unlike the generic ideas of intelligent water-dogs
with reference to water-currents, which induce the animals to make
allowance for the force of the current by running in the opposite
direction to its flow before entering the water. Dogs accustomed to
tidal rivers, or to swimming in the sea, acquire a still further
generic idea of uncertainty as to the direction of the flow at any
given time; and therefore some of the more intelligent of these dogs
first ascertain the direction in which the tide is running by placing
their fore-paws in the stream, and then proceed to make their allowance
for driftway accordingly.[39]
Lastly, Mr. Darwin writes:—“When I say to my terrier in an eager voice
(and I have made the trial many times), ‘Hi, hi, where is it?’ she at
once takes it as a sign that something is to be hunted, and generally
first looks quickly all around, and then rushes into the nearest
thicket, to scout for any game, but finding nothing, she looks up into
any neighbouring tree for a squirrel. Now, do not these actions clearly
show that she had in her mind a general idea, or concept, that some
animal is to be discovered and hunted?”[40]
From the many instances which I have already given in _Animal
Intelligence_ of the high receptual capabilities of ants, it will here
be sufficient to re-state the following, which is quoted from Mr. Belt,
whose competency as an observer no one can dispute.
“A nest was made near one of our tramways, and to get to the trees the
ants had to cross the rails, over which the waggons were continually
passing and re-passing. Every time they came along a number of ants
were crushed to death. They persevered in crossing for some time, but
at last set to work and tunnelled underneath each rail. One day, when
the waggons were not running, I stopped up the tunnels with stones; but
although great numbers carrying leaves were thus cut off from the nest,
they would not cross the rails, but set to work making fresh tunnels
underneath them.”
These facts cannot be ascribed to “instinct,” seeing that tram-cars
could not have been objects of previous experience to the ancestors
of the ants; and therefore the degree of receptual intelligence, or
“practical inference,” which was displayed is highly remarkable.
Clearly, the insects must have appreciated the nature of these repeated
catastrophes, and correctly reasoned out the only way by which they
could be avoided.
As this is an important branch of my subject, I will add a few more
illustrations drawn from vertebrated animals, beginning with some
from the writings of Leroy, who had more opportunity than most men of
studying the habits of animals in a state of nature.[41]
He says of the wolf:—“When he scents a flock within its fold, memory
recalls to him the impression of the shepherd and his dog, and balances
that of the immediate neighbourhood of the sheep; he measures the
height of the fence, compares it with his own strength, takes into
account the additional difficulty of jumping it when burdened with his
prey, and thence concludes the uselessness of the attempt. Yet he will
seize one of a flock scattered over a field, under the very eyes of the
shepherd, especially if there be a wood near enough to offer him a hope
of shelter. He will resist the most tempting morsel when accompanied
by this alarming accessory [the smell of man]; and even when it is
divested of it, he is long in overcoming his suspicions. In this case
the wolf can only have an abstract idea of danger—the precise nature
of the trap laid for him being unknown.... Several nights are hardly
sufficient to give him confidence. Though the cause of his suspicions
may no longer exist, it is reproduced by memory, and the suspicion is
unremoved. The idea of man is connected with that of an unknown danger,
and makes him distrustful of the fairest appearances.”[42]
Leroy also well observes:—“Animals, like ourselves, are _forced_ to
make abstractions. A dog which has lost his master runs towards a group
of men, by virtue of a general abstract idea, which represents to him
the qualities possessed in common with these men by his master. He then
experiences in succession several less general, but still abstract
ideas of sensation, until he meets the particular sensation which he
seeks.”[43]
Again, with regard to the stag, this author writes:—“He exhausts every
variety and every design of which the action of flight consists. He
has perceived that in thickets, where the passage of his body leaves a
strong trace, the dogs follow him ardently, and without any checks; he
therefore leaves the thicket and plunges into the forests where there
is no underwood, or else skirts the high-road. Sometimes he leaves that
part of the country altogether, and depends wholly on his speed for
escape. But even when out of hearing of the dogs, he knows that they
will soon come up with him; and, instead of giving himself up to false
security, he avails himself of this respite to invent new artifices
to throw them out. He takes a straight course, returns on his steps,
and bounding from the earth many times consecutively, throws out the
sagacity of the dogs.... When hard pressed he will often drop down in
the hope that their ardour will carry them beyond the track, and should
it do so he retraces his steps. Often he seeks the company of others
of his species, and when his friend is sufficiently heated to share
the peril with, he leaves him to his fate and escapes by rapid flight.
Frequently the quarry is thus changed, and this artifice is one the
success of which is most certain.”[44]
“Often (when not being hunted at all), instead of returning home in
confidence and straightway lying down to rest, he will wander round the
spot; he enters the wood, leaves it, goes and returns on his steps
many times. Without having any immediate cause for his uneasiness, he
employs the same artifices which he would have employed to throw out
the dogs, if he were pursued by them. This foresight is an evidence of
remembered facts, and of a series of ideas and suppositions resulting
from those facts.”[45]
It is remarkable enough that an animal should seek to confuse its
trail by such devices, even when it knows that the hounds are actually
in pursuit; but it is still more so when the devices are resorted
to in order to confuse _imaginary_ hounds which may _possibly_ be
on the scent. Perhaps to some persons it may appear that such facts
argue on the part of the animals which exhibit them some powers of
representative thought, or some kind of reflection conducted without
the aid of language. Be it remembered, therefore, I am not maintaining
that they do not: I am merely conceding that the evidence is inadequate
to justify the conclusion that they do; and all I am now concerned with
is to make it certain that in animals there is a _logic_, be it a logic
of recepts only, or likewise what I shall afterwards explain as a logic
of _pre-concepts_.
Again, Leroy says of the fox:—“He smells the iron of the trap, and
this sensation has become so terrible to him, that it prevails over
every other. If he perceives that the snares become more numerous, he
departs to seek a safe neighbourhood. But sometimes, grown bold by a
nearer and oft-repeated examination, and guided by his unerring scent,
he manages, without hurt to himself, to draw the bait adroitly out of
the trap.... If all the outlets of his den are guarded by traps, the
animal scents them, recognizes them, and will suffer the most acute
hunger rather than attempt to pass them. I have known foxes keep their
dens a whole fortnight, and only then make up their minds to come out
because hunger left them no choice but as to the mode of death....
There is nothing he will not attempt in order to save himself. He will
dig till he has worn away his claws to effect his exit by a fresh
opening, and thus not unfrequently escapes the snares of the sportsman.
If a rabbit imprisoned with him gets caught in one of the snares, or if
by any other means one should go off, he infers that the machine has
done its duty, and walks boldly and securely over it.”[46]
Lastly, this author gives the case, which has since been largely
quoted—although its source is seldom given—of crows which it is
desired to shoot upon their nests, in order to destroy birds and eggs
at the same time. The crows will not return to their nests during
daylight, if they see any one waiting to shoot them. If, to lull
suspicion, a hut is made below the rookery and a man conceal himself
in it with a gun, he waits in vain if the bird has ever before been
shot at in a similar manner. “She knows that fire will issue from the
cave into which she saw a man enter.” Leroy then goes on to say:—“To
deceive this suspicious bird, the plan was hit upon of sending two men
into the watch-house, one of whom passed on while the other remained;
but the crow counted and kept her distance. The next day three went,
and again she perceived that only two returned. In fine it was found
necessary to send five or six men to the watch-house in order to put
her out of her calculation.”
Now, as Leroy is not a random writer, and as his life’s work was that
of Ranger at Versailles, we must not lightly set aside this statement
as incredible, more especially as he adds that the “phenomenon is
always to be repeated when the attempt is made,” and so is to be
regarded as “among the very commonest instances of the sagacity of
animals.”[47] If it is once granted that a bird has sagacity enough to
infer that where she has observed two men pass in and only one come
out, therefore the second man remains behind, it is only a matter
of degree how far the differential perception may extend. Of course
it would be absurd to suppose that the bird counts out the men by
any process of notation, but we know that for simple ideas of number
no symbolism in the way of figures is necessary. If we were to see
three men pass into a building and only two come out, we should not
require to calculate 3-2=1; the contrast between the simultaneous
sense-perception of A+B+C, when receptually compared with the
subsequently serial perceptions of A and B, would be sufficient for
the spontaneous inference that C must still be in the building. And
this process would in our own case continue possible up to the point at
which the simultaneous perception was not composed of too many parts to
be afterwards receptually analysed into its constituents.[48]
In this connection also I may state that, with the assistance of
the keeper, I have succeeded in teaching the Chimpanzee now at the
Zoological Gardens to count correctly as far as five. The method
adopted is to ask her for one straw, two straws, three straws, four
straws, or five straws—of course without observing any order in the
succession of such requests. If more than one straw is asked for, the
ape has been taught to hold the others in her mouth until the sum is
completed, so that she may deliver all the straws simultaneously. For
instance, if she is asked for four straws, she successively picks up
three straws and puts them in her mouth: then she picks up the fourth,
and hands over all the four together. This method prevents any possible
error arising from her interpretation of vocal tones, which might well
arise if each straw were asked for separately. Thus there can be no
doubt that the animal is able to distinguish receptually between the
numbers 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, and understands the name for each. Further than
this I have not attempted to take her. I may add that her performance
has been witnessed by the officers of the Zoological Society and also
by other naturalists, who will be satisfied with the accuracy of the
above account. But the ape is capricious, and, unless she happens to be
in a favourable mood at the time, visitors must not be disappointed if
they fail to be entertained by an exhibition of her learning.
The great physiologist Müller and the great philosopher Hegel are
quoted by Mr. Mivart as maintaining, that “to form abstract conceptions
of such operations as of something common to many under the notion of
cause and effect, is a perfect impossibility to them” (animals[49]);
and no doubt many other illustrious names might be quoted in support
of the same statement. But it seems to me that needless obscurity is
imported into this matter, by not considering in what our own idea of
causality consists. It is clear that to attain a _general_ idea of
causality as universal, &c., demands higher powers of abstract thought
than are possessed by any animals, or even by the great majority
of men; but it is no less clear that all men and most animals have
a _generic_ idea of causality, in the sense of expecting uniform
experience under uniform conditions. A cat sees a man knock at the
knocker of a door, and observes that the door is afterwards opened:
remembering this, when she herself wants to get in at that door,
she jumps at the knocker, and waits for the door to be opened.[50]
Now, can it be denied that in this act of inference, or imitation,
or whatever name we choose to call it, the cat perceives such an
association between the knocking and the opening as to feel that
the former as antecedent was in some way required to determine the
latter as consequent? And what is this but such a perception of causal
relation as is shown by a child who blows upon a watch to open the
case—thinking this to be the cause of the opening from the uniform
deception practised by its parent,—or of the savage who plants nails
and gunpowder to make them grow? And endless illustrations of such
a perception of causality might be drawn from the everyday life of
civilized man: indeed, how seldom does any one of us wait to construct
a general proposition about causality in the abstract before we act on
our practical knowledge of it. And that this practical knowledge in
the case of animals enables them to form a generic idea, or recept, of
the _equivalency_ between causes and effects—such that a perceived
equivalency is recognized by them as an _explanation_—would appear to
be rendered evident by the following fact, which I carefully observed
for the express purpose of testing the question. I quote the incident
from an already-published lecture, which was given before the British
Association at Dublin, in 1878.
“I had a setter dog which was greatly afraid of thunder. One day
a number of apples were being shot upon the wooden floor of an
apple-room, and, as each bag of apples was shot, it produced through
the rest of the house a noise resembling that of distant thunder. My
dog became terror-stricken at the sound; but as soon as I brought him
to the apple-room and showed him the true _cause_ of the noise, he
became again buoyant and cheerful as usual.”[51]
The importance of clearly perceiving that animals have a generic,
as distinguished from an abstract, idea of causation—and, indeed,
_must_ have such an idea if they are in any way at all to adjust their
actions to their circumstances—the importance of clearly perceiving
this is, that it carries with it a proof of the logic of recepts being
able to reach generic ideas of _principles_, as well as of objects,
qualities, and actions. In order to prove this important fact still
more unquestionably, I will here quote a passage from the biography
of the cebus which I kept for the express purpose of observing his
intelligence.
“To-day he obtained possession of a hearth-brush, one of the kind which
has the handle screwed into the brush. He soon found the way to unscrew
the handle, and, having done that, he immediately began to try to find
out the way to screw it in again. This he in time accomplished. At
first he put the wrong end of the handle into the hole, but turned it
round and round the right way for screwing. Finding it did not hold,
he turned the other end of the handle, carefully stuck it into the
hole, and began again to turn it the right way. It was, of course, a
very difficult feat for him to perform, for he required both his hands
to hold the handle in the proper position, and to turn it between his
hands in order to screw it in; and the long bristles of the brush
prevented it from remaining steady, or with the right side up. He held
the brush with his hind hands, but even so it was very difficult for
him to get the first turn of the screw to fit into the thread; he
worked at it, however, with the most unwearying perseverance until he
got the first turn of the screw to catch, and he then quickly turned it
round and round until it was screwed up to the end. The most remarkable
thing was that, however often he was disappointed in the beginning, he
never was induced to try turning the handle the wrong way; he always
screwed it from right to left. As soon as he had accomplished his wish,
he unscrewed it again, and then screwed it on again the second time
rather more easily than the first, and so on many times.”
The above is extracted from the diary kept by my sister. I did not
myself witness the progress of this research with the hearth-brush, as
I did so many of the other investigations successfully pursued by that
wonderful animal. But I have a perfect confidence in the accuracy of my
sister’s observation, as well as in the fidelity of her account; and,
moreover, the point with which I am about to be concerned has reference
to what followed subsequently, as to which I had abundant opportunities
for close and repeated observations. For the point is that, after
having thus discovered the mechanical _principle_ of the screw in that
one particular case, the monkey forthwith proceeded to _generalize_, or
to apply his newly gained knowledge to every other case where it was
at all probable that the mechanical principle in question was to be
met with. The consequence was that the animal became a nuisance in the
house by incessantly unscrewing the tops of fire-irons, bell-handles,
&c., &c., which he was by no means careful always to replace. Here,
therefore, I think we have unquestionable evidence of intelligent
recognition of a principle, which in the first instance was discovered
by “the most unwearying perseverance” in the way of experiment, and
afterwards sought for in multitudes of wholly dissimilar objects.[52]
To these numerous facts I will now add one other, which is sufficiently
remarkable to deserve republication for its own sake. I quote the
account from the journal _Science_, in which it appeared anonymously.
But finding on inquiry that the observer was Mr. S. P. Langley, the
well-known astronomer, and being personally assured by him that he is
certain there is no mistake about the observation, I will now give the
latter in his own words.
“The interesting description by Mr. Larkin (_Science_, No. 58) of the
lifting by a spider of a large beetle to its nest, reminds me of quite
another device by which I once saw a minute spider (hardly larger than
the head of a pin) lift a house-fly, which must have been more than
twenty times its weight, through a distance of over a foot. The fly
dangled by a single strand from the cross-bar of a window-sash, and,
when it first caught my attention, was being raised through successive
small distances of something like a tenth of an inch each; the lifts
following each other so fast, that the ascent seemed almost continuous.
It was evident that the weight must have been quite beyond the spider’s
power to stir by a ‘dead lift;’ but his motions were so quick, that
at first it was difficult to see how this apparently impossible task
was being accomplished. I shall have to resort to an illustration to
explain it; for the complexity of the scheme seems to belong less to
what we ordinarily call instinct than to intelligence, and that in a
degree we cannot all boast ourselves.
[Illustration]
“The little spider proceeded as follows:—
“_a b_ is a portion of the window-bar, to which level the fly was to
be lifted, from his original position at F vertically beneath _a_;
the spider’s first act was to descend halfway to the fly (to _d_),
and there fasten one end of an almost invisible thread; his second to
ascend to the bar and run out to _b_, where he made fast the other end,
and hauled on his guy with all his might. Evidently the previously
straight line must yield somewhat in the middle, whatever the weight
of the fly, who was, in fact, thereby brought into position F´, to the
right of the first one and a little higher. Beyond this point, it might
seem, he could not be lifted; but the guy being left fast at _b_, the
spider now went to an intermediate point _c_ directly over his victim’s
new position, and thus spun a new vertical line from _c_, which was
made fast at the bend at _d_´, after which _a d_ was cast off, so that
the fly now hung vertically below _c_, as before below _a_, but a
little higher.”
“The same operation was repeated again and again, a new guy being
occasionally spun, but the spider never descending more than about
halfway down the cord, whose elasticity was in no way involved in the
process. All was done with surprising rapidity. I watched it for some
five minutes (during which the fly was lifted perhaps six inches), and
then was called away.”
* * * * *
Without further burdening the argument with illustrative proof, it
must now be evident that the “ore” out of which concepts are formed
is highly metalliferous: it is not merely a dull earth which bears no
resemblance to the shining substance smelted from it in the furnace
of Language; it is already sparkling to such an extent that we may
well feel there is no need of analysis to show it charged with that
substance in its pure form—that what we see in the ore is the same
kind of material as we take from the melting-pot, and differs from it
only in the degree of its agglomeration. Nevertheless, I will not yet
assume that such is the case. Before we can be perfectly sure that two
things which seem to the eye of common sense so similar are really
the same, we must submit them to a scientific analysis. Even though
it be certain that the one is extracted from the other, there still
remains a possibility that in the melting-pot some further ingredient
may have been added. Human intelligence is undoubtedly derived from
human experience, in the same way as animal intelligence is derived
from animal experience; but this does not prove that the ideation
which we have in common with brutes is not supplemented by ideation of
some other order, or kind. Presently I shall consider the arguments
which are adduced to prove that it has been, and then it will become
apparent that the supplement, if any, must have been added in the
smelting-fire of Language—a fact, be it observed, which is conceded by
all modern writers who deny the genetic continuity of mind in animal
and human intelligence. Thus far, then, I have attempted nothing more
than a preliminary clearing of the ground—first by carefully defining
my terms and impartially explaining the psychology of ideation; next
by indicating the nature of the question which has presently to be
considered; and, lastly, by showing the level to which intelligence
attains under the logic of recepts, without any possibility of
assistance from the logic of concepts.
* * * * *
Only one other topic remains to be dealt with in the present chapter.
We continually find it assumed, and confidently stated as if the
statement did not admit of question, that the simplest or most
primitive order of ideation is that which is concerned only with
particulars, or with special objects of perception. The nascent ideas
of an infant are supposed to crystallize around the nuclei furnished
by individual percepts; the less intelligent animals—if not, indeed,
animals in general—are supposed, as Locke says, to deal “only in
particular ideas, just as they receive them from the senses.” Now, I
fully assent to this, if it is only meant (as I understand Locke to
mean) that infants and animals are not able consciously, intentionally,
or, as he says, “_of themselves_, to compound and make complex ideas.”
In order thus intentionally, or of themselves, to compound their
ideas, they would require to _think_ about their ideas _as_ ideas, or
consciously to set one idea before another as two distinct objects
of thought, _and for the known purpose of composition_. To do this
requires powers of introspective reflection; therefore it is a kind
of mental activity impossible to infants or animals, since it has to
do with concepts as distinguished from recepts. But, as we have now
so fully seen, it does not follow that because ideas cannot be thus
compounded by infants or animals _intentionally_, therefore they
cannot be compounded _at all_. Locke is very clear in recognizing that
animals do “take in and retain together several combinations of simple
ideas to make up a complex idea:” he only denies that animals “do _of
themselves_ ever compound them and make complex ideas.” Thus, Locke
plainly teaches my doctrine of recepts as distinguished from concepts;
and I do not think that any modern psychologist—more especially in
view of the foregoing evidence—will so far dispute this doctrine.
But the point now is that, in my opinion, many psychologists have
gone astray by assuming that the most primitive order of ideation is
concerned only with particulars, or that in chronological order the
memory of percepts precedes the occurrence of recepts. It appears
to me that a very little thought on the one hand, and a very little
observation on the other, is enough to make it certain that so soon as
ideas of any kind begin to be formed at all, they are formed, not only
as memories of particular percepts, but also as rudimentary recepts;
and that in the subsequent development of ideation the genesis of
recepts everywhere proceeds _pari passu_ with that of percepts. I say
that a very little thought is enough to show that this _must_ be so,
while a very little observation is enough to show that it _is_ so.
For, _a priori_, the more unformed the powers of perception, the less
able must they be to take cognizance of particulars. The development
of these powers consists in the ever-increasing efficiency of their
analysis, or _cognition_ of smaller and smaller differences of detail;
and, consequently, of their _recognition_ of these differences in
different combinations. Hence, the feebler the powers of perception,
the more must they occupy themselves with the larger or class
distinctions between objects of sensuous experience, and the less
with the smaller or more individual distinctions. Or, if we like,
what afterwards become class distinctions, are at earlier stages of
ideation the _only_ distinctions; and, therefore, all the same as
what are afterwards individual distinctions. But what follows? Surely
that—be it in the individual or the race—when these originally
individual distinctions begin to grow into class distinctions, they
leave in the mind an indelible impress of their first nativity: they
were the original recepts of memory, and if they are afterwards slowly
differentiated as they slowly become organized into many particular
parts, this does not hinder that throughout the process they never lose
their organic unity: the mind must always continue to recognize that
the parts which it subsequently perceived as successively unfolding
from what at first was known only as a whole, are parts which belong
to that whole—or, in other words, that the more newly observed
particulars are members of what is now perceived as a class. Therefore,
I say, on merely _a priori_ grounds we might banish the gratuitous
statement that the lower the order of ideation the more it is concerned
with particular distinctions, or the less with class distinctions. The
truth must be that the more primitive the recepts the larger are the
class distinctions with which they are concerned—provided, of course,
that this statement is not taken to apply beyond the region of sensuous
perception.
Accordingly we find, as a matter of fact, both in infants and in
animals, that the lower the grade of intelligence, the more is that
intelligence shut up to a perception of class distinctions. “We
pronounce the word _Papa_ before a child in its cradle, at the same
time pointing to his father. After a little, he in turn lisps the word,
and we imagine that he understands it in the same sense that we do, or
that his father’s presence only will recall the word. Not at all. When
another person—that is, one similar in appearance, with a long coat,
a beard, and loud voice—enters the room, he calls him also _Papa_.
The name was individual; he has made it general. In our case it is
applicable to one person only; in his, to a class.... A little boy,
a year old, had travelled a good deal by railway. The engine, with
its hissing sound and smoke, and the great noise of the train, struck
his attention, and the first word he learned to pronounce was _Fefer_
(chemin de fer). Then afterwards, a steam-boat, a coffee-pot with
spirit lamp—everything that hissed or smoked was a _Fefer_.”[53]
“Now, I have quoted such familiar instances from this author because
he adduces them as proof of the statement that here there appears a
delicacy of impression which is special to man.” Without waiting to
inquire whether this statement is justified by the evidence adduced,
or even whether the infant has personally distinguished his father
from among other men at the time when he first calls all men by the
same name; it is enough for my present purposes to observe the single
fact, that when a child is first able to show us the nature of its
ideation by means of speech, it furnishes us with ample evidence that
this ideation is what I have termed generic. The dress, the beard,
and the voice go to form a recept to which all men are perceived to
correspond: the most striking peculiarities of a locomotive are vividly
impressed upon the memory, so that when anything resembling them is
met with elsewhere, it is receptually classified as belonging to an
object of analogous character. Only much later, when the analytic
powers of perception have greatly developed, does the child begin
to draw its distinctions with sufficient “refinement” to perceive
that this classification is too crude—that the resemblances which
most struck its infant imagination were but accidental, and that
they have to be disregarded in favour of less striking resemblances
which were originally altogether unnoticed. But although the process
of classification is thus perpetually undergoing improvement
with advancing intelligence, from the very first it has been
_classification_—although, of course, thus far only within the region
of sensuous perception. And similarly with regard to animals, it is
sufficiently evident from such facts as those already instanced, that
the imagery on which their adaptive action depends is in large measure
generic.
Therefore, without in any way pre-judging the question as to whether
or not there is any radical distinction between a mind thus far gifted
and the conceptual thought of man, I may take it for granted that
the ideation of infants is from the first generic; and hence that
those psychologists are greatly mistaken who thoughtlessly assume
that the formation of class-ideas is a prerogative of more advanced
intelligence. No doubt their view of the matter seems plausible at
first sight, because within the region of conceptual thought we know
that progress is marked by increasing powers of _generalisation_—that
it is the easiest steps which have to do with the cognition of
particulars; the more difficult which have to do with abstractions.
But this is to confuse recepts with concepts, and so to overlook a
distinction between the two orders of generalization which it is of
the first importance to be clear about. A _generic_ idea is generic
because the particular ideas of which it is composed present such
_obvious_ points of resemblance that they spontaneously fuse together
in consciousness; but a _general_ idea is general for precisely the
opposite reason—namely, because the points of resemblance which it
has seized are _obscured_ from immediate perception, and therefore
could never have fused together in consciousness but for the aid of
intentional abstraction, or of the power of a mind knowingly to deal
with its own ideas as ideas. In other words, the kind of classification
with which recepts are concerned is that which lies nearest to the kind
of classification with which all processes of so-called “intuitive
inference” depend—such as mistaking a bowl for a sphere. But the kind
of classification with which concepts are concerned is that which
lies furthest from this purely automatic grouping of perceptions.
Classification there doubtless is in both cases; but the one order is
due to the closeness of resemblances in an act of perception, while in
the other order it is an expression of their remoteness from merely
perceptual associations.
Or, to put the matter in yet another light, if we think it sounds less
paradoxical to speak of the process of classification as everywhere
the same in kind, we must conclude that the groupings of recepts stand
to those of concepts in much the same relation as the groupings of
percepts do to those of recepts. In each case it is the lower order of
grouping which furnishes material for the higher: and the object of
this chapter has been to show, first, that the unintentional grouping
which is distinctive of recepts may be carried to a wonderful pitch
of perfection without any aid from the intentional grouping which is
distinctive of concepts; and, second, that from the very beginning
conscious ideation has been concerned with _grouping_. Not only, or
not even chiefly, has it had to do with the registration in memory
of particular percepts; but much more has it had to do with the
spontaneous sorting of such percepts, with the spontaneous arrangement
of them in ideal (or imagery) systems, and, consequently, with the
_spontaneous reflection in consciousness_ of many among the less
complex _relations_—or the less abstruse _principles_—which have
been uniformly encountered by the mind in its converse with an orderly
world.