double consciousness,--objective and subjective. In the objective
consciousness, we are affected with the qualities named magnitude,
distance, form, colour, &c.; these are called object properties,
properties of the external and extended universe. In the subject
consciousness, we are alive to states of pleasure or of pain, which
may go along with the other. We do not usually exist in both modes
at one instant; we pass out of one into the other. Now the word
Sensation covers both, although, to the object consciousness,
"Perception" is more strictly applicable; and in contrast to
Perception, Sensation would mean the subjective consciousness, the
moments when we relapse from the object attitude and become
subjective or self-conscious, or alive to pleasure and pain. When
the mind is in the object phase, it is neutral or indifferent as
respects enjoyment.
3. In Sensation, a distinction may be drawn between the present
effect upon the mind, or the impression that would arise if the
outward agent had operated for the first time, and the total of the
past impressions of the same agent, which by its repetition are
recalled to fuse with the present effect. The present view of the
moon reinstates the sum total of the previous views held by memory,
and is not what we should experience if we saw the moon for the
first time. Now, if the recall of the previous impressions, or of
the joint and iterated idea, be considered an addition made by the
Intellect, being dependent on the retentive power of the mind,
Sensation, as opposed to Intellect, would mean the force of the
present impression and nothing more; or the difference between the
{67} vividness of reality, and the inferior vividness of
recollection. What we can retain when we shut our eyes would
represent the force of our intelligence; the additional intensity
when we resume our gaze, would represent the power of sensation or
the actual experience.
This distinction suggests an important remark as to the whole nature
of Sensation, namely, that there can hardly be such a thing as pure
Sensation, meaning Sensation without any admixture of the Intellect.
We may attribute this purity to the earliest impressions made upon
the mind, but not to anything known in the experience of the adult.
This mixture of Intellect with Sense is not confined to
Retentiveness; the other intellectual functions, Discrimination and
perception of Agreement, are inseparable from the exercise of the
senses. We cannot have a sensation without a feeling of difference;
warmth is a transition from cold, and a conscious discrimination of
the two facts. So, whenever we repeat a sensation, we have the
consciousness of the repetition, or agreement. Were not these modes
of consciousness present, we should have no sensation, indeed no
consciousness. There is thus no hard line between sense and
intellect. The question as to the origin of our Ideas in Sense is
not a real question, until we explain what we mean by Sense, and
make allowance for this unavoidable participation of Intellect in
sensation.
4. Sensation is commonly used to employ the whole of our primary
feelings and susceptibilities, as opposed to the Emotions which are
secondary or derived. It thus confounds together two different sides
of our susceptibility, the active and the passive; the feelings
arising in connection with our exertion of inward force or energy,
and those arising under impressions from external things. Both are
primary states of consciousness; they are alike dependent on
modifications of our sensitive tissues. But, between the two, there
is a contrast, wide, deep, and fundamental, completely missed by the
older Psychologists, to the detriment of their handling of such
vital questions as the origin of knowledge, and the perception of a
material world. The name Sensation, pointing immediately to {68} the
operation of the five senses, gave the slip to the feelings of
energy, or brought them in partially and inadequately. Yet it is the
only name we have for the primary susceptibilities of the organism
including both movement and passive sensibility.--_B._]
[Editor's footnote 24: A question which, as far as I know, has been
passed over by psychologists, but which ought not to be left
unanswered, is this: Can we have ideas of ideas? We have sensations,
and we have copies of these sensations, called ideas of them: can we
also have copies of these copies, constituting a second order of
ideas, two removes instead of one from sensation?
Every one will admit that we can think of a thought. We remember
ourselves remembering, or imagine ourselves remembering, an object
or an event, just as we remember or imagine ourselves seeing one.
But in the case of a simple idea of sensation, _i.e._ the idea or
remembrance of a single undivided sensation, there seems nothing to
distinguish the idea of the idea, from the idea of the sensation
itself. When I imagine myself thinking of the colour of snow, I am
not aware of any difference, even in degree of intensity, between
the image then present to my mind of the white colour, and the image
present when I imagine myself to be seeing the colour.
The case, however, is somewhat different with those combinations of
simple ideas which have never been presented to my mind otherwise
than as ideas. I have an idea of Pericles; but it is derived only
from the testimony of history: the real Pericles never was present
to my senses. I have an idea of Hamlet, and of Falstaff;
combinations which, though made up of ideas of sensation, never
existed at all in the world of sense; they never were anything more
than ideas in any mind. Yet, having had these combinations of ideas
presented to me through the words of Shakespeare, I have formed what
is properly an idea not of an outward object, but of an idea in
Shakespeare's mind; and I may communicate my idea to others, whose
idea will then be an idea of an idea in my mind. My idea of
Pericles, or my idea of any person now alive whom I have never seen,
differs from these in the circumstance that I {69} am persuaded that
a real object corresponding to the idea does now, or did once, exist
in the world of sensation: but as I did not derive my idea from the
object, but from some other person's words, my idea is not a copy of
the original, but a copy (more or less imperfect) of some other
person's copy: it is an idea of an idea.
Although, however, the complex idea I have of an object which never
was presented to my senses, is rightly described as an idea of an
idea; my remembrance of a complex idea which I have had before, does
not seem to me to differ from the remembered idea as an idea differs
from a sensation. There is a distinction between my visual idea of
Mont Blanc and the actual sight of the mountain, which I do not find
between my remembrance of Falstaff and the original impression from
which it was derived. My present thought of Falstaff seems to me not
a copy but a repetition of the original idea; a repetition which may
be dimmed by distance, or which may, on the contrary, be heightened
by intermediate processes of thought; may have lost some of its
features by lapse of time, and may have acquired others by reference
to the original sources; but which resembles the first impression
not as the thought of an object resembles the sight of it, but as a
second or third sight of an object resembles the first. This
question will meet us again in the psychological examination of
Memory, the theory of which is in no small degree dependent upon
it.--_Ed._]
{70} CHAPTER III.
THE ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS.
"To have a clear view of the phenomena of the mind, as mere
affections or states of it, existing successively, and in a certain
series, which we are able, therefore, to predict, in consequence of
our knowledge of the past, is, I conceive, to have made the most
important acquisition which the intellectual inquirer can make."
_Brown_, _Lectures_, i. 544.
THOUGHT succeeds thought; idea follows idea, incessantly. If our
senses are awake, we are continually receiving sensations, of the
eye, the ear, the touch, and so forth; but not sensations alone.
After sensations, ideas are perpetually excited of sensations
formerly received; after those ideas, other ideas: and during the
whole of our lives, a series of those two states of consciousness,
called sensations, and ideas, is constantly going on. I see a horse:
that is a sensation. Immediately I think of his master: that is an
idea. The idea of his master makes me think of his office; he is a
minister of state: that is another idea. The idea of a minister of
state makes me think of public affairs; and I am led into a train of
political ideas; when I am summoned to dinner. This is a new
sensation, followed by the idea of dinner, and of the company with
whom I am to partake it. The sight of the company and of the food
are other {71} sensations; these suggest ideas without end; other
sensations perpetually intervene, suggesting other ideas: and so the
process goes on.
In contemplating this train of feelings, of which our lives consist,
it first of all strikes the contemplator, as of importance to
ascertain, whether they occur casually and irregularly, or according
to a certain order.
With respect to the SENSATIONS, it is obvious enough that they
occur, according to the order established among what we call the
objects of nature, whatever those objects are; to ascertain more and
more of which order is the business of physical philosophy in all
its branches.
Of the order established among the objects of nature, by which we
mean the objects of our senses, two remarkable cases are all which
here we are called upon to notice; the SYNCHRONOUS ORDER, and the
SUCCESSIVE ORDER. The synchronous order, or order of simultaneous
existence, is the order in space; the successive order, or order of
antecedent and consequent existence, is the order in time. Thus the
various objects in my room, the chairs, the tables, the books, have
the synchronous order, or order in space. The falling of the spark,
and the explosion of the gunpowder, have the successive order, or
order in time.
According to this order, in the objects of sense, there is a
synchronous, and a successive, order of our sensations. I have
SYNCHRONICALLY, or at the same instant, the sight of a great variety
of objects; touch of all the objects with which my body is in
contact; hearing of all the sounds which are reaching my ears;
smelling of all the smells which are reaching my {72} nostrils; taste
of the apple which I am eating; the sensation of resistance both
from the apple which is in my mouth, and the ground on which I
stand; with the sensation of motion from the act of walking. I have
SUCCESSIVELY the sight of the flash from the mortar fired at a
distance, the hearing of the report, the sight of the bomb, and of
its motion in the air, the sight of its fall, the sight and hearing
of its explosion, and lastly, the sight of all the effects of that
explosion.[25]
[Bain's footnote 25: There is here raised the interesting and
important question, how far are we able to entertain synchronous
sensations; in other words, whether or not we can be cognisant of a
plurality of sensations at the same instant of time. There are
various circumstances tending to obscure this point; the chief being
the extreme rapidity of our mental transitions.
It is requisite to view the question from two sides, the side of
sensation and the side of action. On the first, the appearances are
more in favour of plurality; on the second, more in favour of unity.
As regards Sensation, we are incessantly solicited by a variety of
agencies, outward and inward. We may be roused into consciousness,
through the eye, through the ear, through the touch, through the
taste, through the smell, through the organic sensibilities; and all
this at the same time with the rise of emotions or ideas through
purely mental causes. Nay more; even under a single sense, we may
have a plurality of distinguishable impressions. Sight is the
greatest example. Hearing is little inferior; witness the complexity
of a band of music, and the tumult of a stormy sea. In Touch,
likewise, we may have a plurality of distinguishable feelings of
contact over the body.
The point to be considered, then, is, how many of these
multitudinous effects, strictly synchronous in their occurrence, are
capable of operating synchronously, either in directing the
thoughts, or in impressing the memory. How many of them are able to
work the smallest assignable change upon the consciousness? To all
appearance, more than one at a time.
Consider first the two senses most concerned in developing (out of
muscular feeling as the basis) the notion of Space or Extension;
that is, Touch and Sight. It will be enough to comment upon Sight.
The eye, as is known, takes in a wide prospect; the retinas of the
two eyes combined can embrace a large fraction of the surrounding
visible sphere. Now, the attention at any one moment is confined to
a limited portion: the precise limits are not here considered; there
being a complication of action with sensation proper, which will be
adverted to afterwards. But, notwithstanding this confinement of the
attention, there is a consciousness of the whole visible expanse; as
is proved in the case of any sudden change at any part; the
attention is then instantly diverted to that part. We might say that
there is, at every moment, a ramified area of sensibility, at its
maximum in the centre--the line of direction of the eyes, and
decreasing to the extremity or circumference of the visible expanse.
To one gazing at the heavens, the flash of a meteor would be felt
throughout the whole area of visibility; while it would be more
certain in its effect, the nearer it was to the line of perfect
vision, which is the place of special attention. A faint
corruscation arising near the circumference might pass unheeded.
Next as to the sense of Hearing. Peculiar difficulties attend the
explanation of this sense. There is only one main line of access to
the inner ear, where the nerves are distributed, namely, the solid
chain of bones of the middle ear; and that line can hardly be
supposed capable of conveying at the same instant a plurality of
different series of vibrations. Yet we fancy that we hear a
concurring plurality of sounds. Of what avail would be a band of a
hundred performers if there were no power of taking in simultaneous
pulses of sound? There is, however, an absence of accurate
investigation of this point; no one has endeavoured to ascertain how
much of the complex effect is due to the rapid transitions of the
ear from one sound to another, how much to the concurrence of
several series of pulses in one augmented series, and how much to
the composition of successive effects in the ear into a synchronous
whole in the emotional wave, or general excitement of the brain. It
will be found, by any careful observer, that in listening to a band,
we are really occupied with very few of the sounds at the same
instant of time; we perform a number of rapid movements of the
attention from one to another; while, at each moment, we are under
an influence remaining from the recently occurring beats, to which
we are not now giving our full attention.
Touch is exactly parallel to Sight, and need not be dwelt upon. In
Smell, and in Taste, we may have a plurality of distinguishable
effects at one moment: we often experience complex odours and
tastes. The above remarks will apply to these. The undoubted
tendency of the mind is to single out, for attention, the separate
constituents by turns, and to pass with rapidity from one to
another; while it is also true that the individual effects that are
for the moment seemingly neglected, still exercise an influence on
the consciousness; which would be decisively shown (as in the case
of sight) on any occasion of their suddenly increasing in force, or
suddenly vanishing. Also, in their state of having fallen out of
attention, they still leave an influence to modify the present
sensation, the effect of their being attended to in the previous
instant. Until we can measure the rapidity of those transitions of
the attention, we are not in a position to affirm absolutely the
power of double, triple, or multiple attention, although to all
practical intents such a power is possessed.
It is certain that the mind is every moment actuated and determined
by a plurality of influences, impressions, considerations, thoughts.
Almost every act of the will is a resultant of many motives. Our
thoughts seldom spring up at the instance of a simple link of
association; although it may happen that some one link is sufficing
and overpowering, and therefore governs the recall; yet there are
almost always others aiding or checking the particular
resuscitation. Nevertheless, such complication of antecedents is not
inconsistent with the theory of very rapid transitions of attention,
there being a certain persisting influence from each separate act.
There would, however, be a greater theoretical simplicity, as well
as a less appearance of straining a point, if we could suppose that
the several conspiring agencies unite in a strictly synchronous
whole.
Let us next view the question from the side of Activity. Here the
circumstance that would most decisively limit the power of
attention, and impose an absolute unity (qualified by rapidity of
transition) is the singleness of the muscular executive. No one
organ can perform two movements at the same instant. Plurality can
arise only by the separate organs performing separate actions.
In such a case as playing on the pianoforte, there is a very
complicated series of muscular exertions. The eyes are occupied with
the printed music; both hands are exerted, and every finger performs
a separate note; the foot also may be brought into action. At the
same time, the ear has to be on the alert. The plurality is here
very great; yet it seems much greater than it is. For, at the stage
when such a performance is possible, there is a great amount of
acquirement; many synchronous groupings have been made by long
repetition, so as to dispense with attending to the several acts in
separation. The real attention is concentrated on one, or on a very
few acts; so few that it is not impossible for them to be commanded
by the mere rapidity of transition from one to another. The
performer need not attend to the notes of the music, and to the
action of the fingers at the same absolute instant of time.
It is in the case of commencing some act entirely new to us, that
the limitation of the muscular executive is most apparent. In
learning the first elements of any accomplishment by imitating a
master, the whole attention is concentrated on single movements; at
one instant on the master, and the next instant on the act of
imitating; the only synchronous addition to this last being the
remaining trace of the impression of the model. If the act is
complicated, and requires concurring movements of different organs,
the attention, at the outset, must be given to one at a time; the
conjunction of independent movements is not a primitive, but an
acquired power. Previous to acquired groupings, the restriction of
the attention to one movement is the rule.
Let us now consider the senses as compounded of passive sensation
and movement. The eye, for example, is a moving organ under the
command of the will; both eyes being moved in one indivisible
volition. Visual attention consists sometimes in moving the eyes to
and fro, at other times, in fixing them in one immoveable attitude.
We have seen that so far as the optical sensibility is concerned,
there is at each instant an effective impression of a wide area,
although of very unequal distinctness. The impressions derived from
the movements of the eye are much more limited. At the same absolute
instant of time, we can scan only a very small portion; say the
outline of some isolated form, or the trace of an isolated movement.
We can run rapidly round the circumference of a round body, or
along the edge of a cubical block. In looking at a tree, we perform
a series of muscular sweeps, scarcely including, at one time, more
than a single outline course. No doubt our optical sensibility is
receiving, in a faint way, a complicated superficies; yet the ocular
sweep, on which we depend for our ideas of form, can hardly be
supposed to take more than one line at the same instant. The
rapidity of transition is very great; but there is a conscious
transition when we wish to combine the impression of a circle
inscribed in a square.--_B._]
{73} Among the objects which I have thus observed synchronically, or
successively; that is, from which I {74} have had synchronical or
successive sensations; there are some which I have so observed
frequently; others {75} which I have so observed not frequently: in
other words, of my sensations some have been frequently {76}
synchronical, others not frequently; some frequently successive,
others not frequently. Thus, my sight of {77} roast beef, and my
taste of roast beef, have been frequently SYNCHRONICAL; my smell of
a rose, and my sight and touch of a rose, have been frequently
synchronical; my sight of a stone, and my sensations of its
hardness, and weight, have been frequently synchronical. Others of
my sensations have not been frequently synchronical: my sight of a
lion, and the hearing of his roar; my sight of a knife, and its
stabbing a man. My sight of the flash of lightning, and my hearing
of the thunder, have been often SUCCESSIVE; the pain of cold, and
the pleasure of heat, have been often successive; the sight of a
trumpet, and the sound of a trumpet, have been often successive. On
the other hand, my sight of hemlock, and my taste of hemlock, have
not been often successive: and so on.
It so happens, that, of the objects from which we derive the
greatest part of our sensations, most of those which are observed
synchronically, are frequently observed synchronically; most of
those which are observed successively, are frequently observed
successively. In other words, most of our synchronical sensations,
have been frequently synchronical; most of our successive
sensations, have been frequently successive. Thus, most of our
synchronical sensations are derived from the objects around us, the
objects which we have the most frequent occasion to hear and see;
the members of our family; the furniture of our houses; our food;
the instruments of {78} our occupations or amusements. In like
manner, of those sensations which we have had in succession, we have
had the greatest number repeatedly in succession; the sight of fire,
and its warmth; the touch of snow, and its cold; the sight of food,
and its taste.
Thus much with regard to the order of SENSATIONS; next with regard
to the order of IDEAS.
As ideas are not derived from objects, we should not expect their
order to be derived from the order of objects; but as they are
derived from sensations, we might by analogy expect, that they would
derive their order from that of the sensations; and this to a great
extent is the case.
Our ideas spring up, or exist, in the order in which the sensations
existed, of which they are the copies.
This is the general law of the "Association of Ideas"; by which
term, let it be remembered, nothing is here meant to be expressed,
but the order of occurrence.
In this law, the following things are to be carefully observed.
1. Of those sensations which occurred synchronically, the ideas also
spring up synchronically. I have seen a violin, and heard the tones
of the violin, synchronically. If I think of the tones of the
violin, the visible appearance of the violin at the same time occurs
to me. I have seen the sun, and the sky in which it is placed,
synchronically. If I think of the one, I think of the other at the
same time.
One of the cases of synchronical sensation, which deserves the most
particular attention, is, that of the several sensations derived
from one and the same {79} object; a stone, for example, a flower, a
table, a chair, a horse, a man.
From a stone I have had, synchronically, the sensation of colour,
the sensation of hardness, the sensations of shape, and size, the
sensation of weight. When the idea of one of these sensations
occurs, the ideas of all of them occur.[26] They exist in my mind
synchronically; and their synchronical existence is called the idea
of the stone; which, it is thus plain, is not a single idea, but a
number of ideas in a particular state of combination.
[Bain's footnote 26: This must be qualified by the fact that the
same individual sensation may be found in many groupings, and
therefore may not bring up any one aggregate or concrete object in
particular. The colour, white, is seen in conjunction with many
different shapes, magnitudes, and weight; consequently it does not
suggest a specific shape or magnitude. In such a case, the recall
may be very various according to circumstances; some individual may
have a greater prominence than the rest, and be singled out on that
ground; two or three may be brought to view; or a still greater
number may be revived.
This is an important limitation of the working of the associating
principle. An individual thing is not restored, as a matter of
course, unless the link of connexion points to it alone; as is often
effected by a plurality of bonds. Thus a musical air is not
suggested until as many notes are heard as to distinguish it from
every other known air.--_B._]
Thus, again, I have smelt a rose, and looked at, and handled a rose,
synchronically; accordingly the name rose suggests to me all those
ideas synchronically; and this combination of those simple ideas is
called my idea of the rose.
My idea of an animal is still more complex. The {80} word thrush,
for example, not only suggests an idea of a particular colour and
shape, and size, but of song, and flight, and nestling, and eggs,
and callow young, and others.
My idea of a man is the most complex of all; including not only
colour, and shape, and voice, but the whole class of events in which
I have observed him either the agent or the patient.
2. As the ideas of the sensations which occurred synchronically,
rise synchronically, so the ideas of the sensations which occurred
successively, rise successively.
Of this important case of association, or of the successive order of
our ideas, many remarkable instances might be adduced. Of these none
seems better adapted to the learner than the repetition of any
passage, or words; the Lord's Prayer, for example, committed to
memory. In learning the passage, we repeat it; that is, we pronounce
the words, in successive order, from the beginning to the end. The
order of the sensations is successive. When we proceed to repeat the
passage, the ideas of the words also rise in succession, the
preceding always suggesting the succeeding, and no other. _Our_
suggests _Father_, _Father_ suggests _which_, _which_ suggests
_art_; and so on, to the end. How remarkably this is the case, any
one may convince himself, by trying to repeat backwards, even a
passage with which he is as familiar as the Lord's Prayer. The case
is the same with numbers. A man can go on with the numbers in the
progressive order, one, two, three, &c. scarcely thinking of his
act; and though it is possible for him to repeat them backward,
because he is accustomed {81} to subtraction of numbers, he cannot
do so without an effort.
Of witnesses in courts of justice it has been remarked, that
eye-witnesses, and ear-witnesses, always tell their story in the
chronological order; in other words, the ideas occur to them in the
order in which the sensations occurred; on the other hand, that
witnesses, who are inventing, rarely adhere to the chronological
order.
3. A far greater number of our sensations are received in the
successive, than in the synchronical order. Of our ideas, also, the
number is infinitely greater that rise in the successive than the
synchronical order.
4. In the successive order of ideas, that which precedes, is
sometimes called the suggesting, that which succeeds, the suggested
idea; not that any power is supposed to reside in the antecedent
over the consequent; suggesting, and suggested, mean only antecedent
and consequent, with the additional idea, that such order is not
casual, but, to a certain degree, permanent.
5. Of the antecedent and consequent feelings, or the suggesting, and
suggested; the antecedent may be either sensations or ideas; the
consequent are always ideas. An idea may be excited either by a
sensation or an idea. The sight of the dog of my friend is a
sensation, and it excites the idea of my friend. The idea of
Professor Dugald Stewart delivering a lecture, recals the idea of
the delight with which I heard him; that, the idea of the studies in
which it engaged me; that, the trains of thought which succeeded;
and each epoch of my mental history, the succeeding one, till the
present moment; in which I am endeavouring to present to others what
appears to me valuable among {82} the innumerable ideas of which
this lengthened train has been composed.
6. As there are degrees in sensation, and degrees in ideas; for one
sensation is more vivid than another sensation, one idea more vivid
than another idea; so there are degrees in association. One
association, we say, is stronger than another: First, when it is
more permanent than another: Secondly, when it is performed with
more certainty: Thirdly, when it is performed with more facility.
It is well known, that some associations are very transient, others
very permanent. The case which we formerly mentioned, that of
repeating words committed to memory, affords an apt illustration. In
some cases, we can perform the repetition, when a few hours, or a
few days have elapsed; but not after a longer period. In others, we
can perform it after the lapse of many years. There are few children
in whose minds some association has not been formed between darkness
and ghosts. In some this association is soon dissolved; in some it
continues for life.[27]
[Bain's footnote 27: The difference between transient and permanent
recollections turns entirely upon the strength of the association.
There is not one specific mode of association suited to temporary
recollection and another to permanent; the permanent contains the
temporary, as the greater does the less. The reason why a feebler
association will suffice for temporary purposes, is that a recent
impression still retains something of the hold of a present reality.
The chords struck during the actual presence have not ceased to
vibrate. It is difficult to estimate with precision the influence of
recency; we know it to be very considerable. A thing distinctly
remembered for a few hours will be forgotten, or else held as a mere
fragment, at the end of a month; while anything that persists for
two or three months may be considered as independent of the power of
recency, and may last for years.--_B._]
In some cases the association takes place with less, in some with
greater certainty. Thus, in repeating words, I am not sure that I
shall not commit mistakes, if they are imperfectly got; and I may at
one {83} trial repeat them right, at another wrong: I am sure of
always repeating those correctly, which I have got perfectly. Thus,
in my native language, the association between the name and the
thing is certain; in a language with which I am imperfectly
acquainted, not certain. In expressing myself in my own language,
the idea of the thing suggests the idea of the name with certainty.
In speaking a language with which I am imperfectly acquainted, the
idea of the thing does not with certainty suggest the idea of the
name; at one time it may, at another not.
That ideas are associated in some cases with more, in some with less
facility, is strikingly illustrated by the same instance, of a
language with which we are well, and a language with which we are
imperfectly, acquainted. In speaking our own language, we are not
conscious of any effort; the associations between the words and the
ideas appear spontaneous. In endeavouring to speak a language with
which we are imperfectly acquainted, we are sensible of a painful
effort: the associations between the words and ideas being not
ready, or immediate.
7. The causes of strength in association seem all to be resolvable
into two; the vividness of the associated feelings; and the
frequency of the association.
In general, we convey not a very precise meaning, {84} when we speak
of the vividness of sensations and ideas. We may be understood when
we say that, generally speaking, the sensation is more vivid than
the idea; or the primary, than the secondary feeling; though in
dreams, and in delirium, ideas are mistaken for sensations. But when
we say that one sensation is more vivid than another, there is much
more uncertainty. We can distinguish those sensations which are
pleasurable, and those which are painful, from such as are not so;
and when we call the pleasurable and painful more vivid, than those
which are not so, we speak intelligibly. We can also distinguish
degrees of pleasure, and of pain; and when we call the sensation of
the higher degree more vivid than the sensation of the lower degree,
we may again be considered as expressing a meaning tolerably
precise.
In calling one IDEA more vivid than another, if we confine the
appellation to the ideas of such SENSATIONS as may with precision be
called more or less vivid; the sensations of pleasure and pain, in
their various degrees, compared with sensations which we do not call
either pleasurable or painful; our language will still have a
certain degree of precision. But what is the meaning which I annex
to my words, when I say, that my idea of the taste of the pine-apple
which I tasted yesterday is vivid; my idea of the taste of the
foreign fruit which I never tasted but once in early life, is not
vivid? If I mean that I can more certainly distinguish the more
recent, than the more distant sensation, there is still some
precision in my language; because it seems true of all my senses,
that if I compare a distant sensation with a present, I am less sure
of its being or not being a repetition of the same, than {85} if I
compare a recent sensation with a present one. Thus, if I yesterday
had a smell of a very peculiar kind, and compare it with a present
smell, I can judge more accurately of the agreement or disagreement
of the two sensations, than if I compared the present with one much
more remote. The same is the case with colours, with sounds, with
feelings of touch, and of resistance. It is therefore sufficiently
certain, that the idea of the more recent sensation affords the
means of a more accurate comparison, generally, than the idea of the
more remote sensation. And thus we have three cases of vividness, of
which we can speak with some precision: the case of sensations, as
compared with ideas; the case of pleasurable and painful sensations,
and their ideas, as compared with those which are not pleasurable or
painful; and the case of the more recent, compared with the more
remote.[28]
[Editor's footnote 28: If it be admitted that in the three cases
here specified the word vividness, as applied to our impressions,
has a definite meaning, it seems to follow that this meaning may be
extended in the way of analogy, to other cases than these. There
are, for example, sensations which differ from some other sensations
like fainter feelings of the same kind, in much the same manner as
the idea of a sensation differs from the sensation itself: and we
may, by extension, call these sensations less vivid. Again, one idea
may differ from another idea in the same sort of way in which the
idea of a sensation had long ago differs from that of a similar
sensation received recently: that is, it is a more faded copy--its
colours and its outlines are more effaced: this idea may fairly be
said to be less vivid than the other.
The author himself, a few pages farther on, speaks of some complex
ideas as being more "obscure" than others, merely on account of
their greater complexity. Obscurity, indeed, in this case, means a
different quality from the absence of vividness, but a quality fully
as indefinite.
Mr. Bain, whose view of the subject will be found further on, draws
a fundamental distinction (already indicated in a former note)
between the attributes which belong to a sensation regarded in an
intellectual point of view, as a portion of our knowledge, and those
which belong to the element of Feeling contained in it; Feeling
being here taken in the narrower acceptation of the word, that in
which Feeling is opposed to Intellect or Thought. To sensations in
their intellectual aspect Mr. Bain considers the term vividness to
be inapplicable: they can only be distinct or indistinct. He
reserves the word vividness to express the degree of intensity of
the sensation, considered in what may be called its emotional
aspect, whether of pleasure, of pain, or of mere excitement.
Whether we accept this restriction or not, it is in any case
certain, that the property of producing a strong and durable
association without the aid of repetition, belongs principally to
our pleasures and pains. The more intense the pain or pleasure, the
more promptly and powerfully does it associate itself with its
accompanying circumstances, even with those which are only
accidentally present. In the cases mentioned in the text, a single
occurrence of the painful sensation is sufficient to produce an
association, which neither time can wear out nor
counter-associations dissolve, between the idea of the pain and the
ideas of the sensations which casually accompanied it in that one
instance, however intrinsically indifferent these may be.--_Ed._]
{86} That the association of two ideas, but for once, does, in some
cases, give them a very strong connection, is within the sphere of
every man's experience. The most remarkable cases are probably those
of pain and pleasure. Some persons who have experienced a very
painful surgical operation, can never afterwards bear the sight of
the operator, however strong the {87} gratitude which they may
actually feel towards him. The meaning is, that the sight of the
operator, by a strong association, calls up so vividly the idea of
the pain of the operation, that it is itself a pain. The spot on
which a tender maiden parted with her lover, when he embarked on the
voyage from which he never returned, cannot afterwards be seen by
her without an agony of grief.
These cases, also, furnish an apt illustration of the superiority
which the sensation possesses over the idea, as an associating
cause. Though the sight of the surgeon, the sight of the place,
would awaken the ideas which we have described, the mere thought of
them might be attended with no peculiar effect. Those persons who
have the association of frightful objects with darkness, and who are
transported with terrors when placed in the dark, can still think of
darkness without any emotion.
The same cases furnish an illustration of the effect of recency on
the strength of association. The sight, of the affecting spot by the
maiden, of the surgeon by the patient, would certainly produce a
more intense emotion, after a short, than after a long interval.
With most persons, time would weaken, and at last dissolve, the
association.
So much with regard to vividness, as a cause of strong associations.
Next, we have to consider frequency or repetition; which is the most
remarkable and important cause of the strength of our associations.
Of any two sensations, frequently perceived together, the ideas are
associated. Thus, at least, in the minds of Englishmen, the idea of
a soldier, and the idea of a red coat are associated; the idea of a
{88} clergyman, and the idea of a black coat; the idea of a quaker,
and of a broad-brimmed hat; the idea of a woman and the idea of
petticoats. A peculiar taste suggests the idea of an apple; a
peculiar smell the idea of a rose. If I have heard a particular air
frequently sung by a particular person, the hearing of the air
suggests the idea of the person.
The most remarkable exemplification of the effect of degrees of
frequency, in producing degrees of strength in the associations, is
to be found in the cases in which the association is purposely and
studiously contracted; the cases in which we learn something; the
use of words, for example.
Every child learns the language which is spoken by those around him.
He also learns it by degrees. He learns first the names of the most
familiar objects; and among familiar objects, the names of those
which he most frequently has occasion to name; himself, his nurse,
his food, his playthings.
A sound heard once in conjunction with another sensation; the word
mamma, for example, with the sight of a woman, would produce no
greater effect on the child, than the conjunction of any other
sensation, which once exists and is gone for ever. But if the word
mamma is frequently pronounced, in conjunction with the sight of a
particular woman, the sound will by degrees become associated with
the sight; and as the pronouncing of the name will call up the idea
of the woman, so the sight of the woman will call up the idea of the
name.
The process becomes very perceptible to us, when, at years of
reflection, we proceed to learn a dead or foreign language. At the
first lesson, we are told, or {89} we see in the dictionary, the
meaning of perhaps twenty words. But it is not joining the word and
its meaning once, that will make the word suggest its meaning to us
another time. We repeat the two in conjunction, till we think the
meaning so well associated with the word, that whenever the word
occurs to us, the meaning will occur along with it. We are often
deceived in this anticipation; and finding that the meaning is not
suggested by the word, we have to renew the process of repetition,
and this, perhaps, again, and again. By force of repetition the
meaning is associated, at last, with every word of the language, and
so perfectly, that the one never occurs to us without the other.
Learning to play on a musical instrument is another remarkable
illustration of the effect of repetition in strengthening
associations, in rendering those sequences, which, at first, are
slow, and difficult, afterwards, rapid, and easy. At first, the
learner, after thinking of each successive note, as it stands in his
book, has each time to look out with care for the key or the string
which he is to touch, and the finger he is to touch it with, and is
every moment committing mistakes. Repetition is well known to be the
only means of overcoming these difficulties. As the repetition goes
on, the sight of the note, or even the idea of the note, becomes
associated with the place of the key or the string; and that of the
key or the string with the proper finger. The association for a time
is imperfect, but at last becomes so strong, that it is performed
with the greatest rapidity, without an effort, and almost without
consciousness.
In few cases is the strength of association, derived {90} from
repetition, more worthy of attention, than in performing arithmetic.
All men, whose practice is not great, find the addition of a long
column of numbers, tedious, and the accuracy of the operation, by no
means certain. Till a man has had considerable practice, there are
few acts of the mind more toilsome. The reason is, that the names of
the numbers, which correspond to the different steps, do not readily
occur; that is, are not strongly associated with the names which
precede them. Thus, 7 added to 5, make 12; but the antecedent, 7
added to 5, is not strongly associated with the consequent 12, in
the mind of the learner, and he has to wait and search till the name
occurs. Thus, again, 12 and 7 make 19; 19 and 8 make 27, and so on
to any amount; but if the practice of the performer has been small,
the association in each instance is imperfect, and the process
irksome and slow. Practice, however; that is, frequency of
repetition; makes the association between each of these antecedents
and its proper consequent so perfect, that no sooner is the one
conceived than the other is conceived, and an expert arithmetician
can tell the amount of a long column of figures, with a rapidity,
which seems almost miraculous to the man whose faculty of numeration
is of the ordinary standard.
8. Where two or more ideas have been often repeated together, and
the association has become very strong, they sometimes spring up in
such close combination as not to be distinguishable. Some cases of
sensation are analogous. For example; when a wheel, on the seven
parts of which the seven prismatic colours are respectively painted,
is made to revolve rapidly, it appears not of seven colours, but of
one {91} uniform colour, white. By the rapidity of the succession,
the several sensations cease to be distinguishable; they run, as it
were, together, and a new sensation, compounded of all the seven,
but apparently a simple one, is the result. Ideas, also, which have
been so often conjoined, that whenever one exists in the mind, the
others immediately exist along with it, seem to run into one
another, to coalesce, as it were, and out of many to form one idea;
which idea, however in reality complex, appears to be no less
simple, than any one of those of which it is compounded.
The word gold, for example, or the word iron, appears to express as
simple an idea, as the word colour, or the word sound. Yet it is
immediately seen, that the idea of each of those metals is made up
of the separate ideas of several sensations; colour, hardness,
extension, weight. Those ideas, however, present themselves in such
intimate union, that they are constantly spoken of as one, not many.
We say, our idea of iron, our idea of gold; and it is only with an
effort that reflecting men perform the decomposition.
The idea expressed by the term weight, appears so perfectly simple,
that he is a good metaphysician, who can trace its composition. Yet
it involves, of course, the idea of resistance, which we have shewn
above to be compounded, and to involve the feeling attendant upon
the contraction of muscles; and the feeling or feelings, denominated
Will; it involves the idea, not of resistance simply, but of
resistance in a particular direction; the idea of direction,
therefore, is included in it, and in that are involved the ideas of
extension, and of place and motion, some of the most complicated
phenomena of the human mind.
{92} The ideas of hardness and extension have been so uniformly
regarded as simple, that the greatest metaphysicians have set them
down as the copies of simple sensations of touch. Hartley and
Darwin, were, I believe, the first who thought of assigning to them
a different origin.
We call a thing hard, because it resists compression, or separation
of parts; that is, because to compress it, or separate it into
parts, what we call muscular force is required. The idea, then, of
muscular action, and of all the feelings which go to it, are
involved in the idea of hardness.
The idea of extension is derived from the muscular feelings in what
we call the motion of parts of our own bodies; as for example, the
hands. I move my hand along a line; I have certain sensations; on
account of these sensations, I call the line long, or extended. The
idea of lines in the direction of length, breadth, and thickness,
constitutes the general idea of extension. In the idea of extension,
there are included three of the most complex of our ideas; motion;
time, which is included in motion; and space, which is included in
direction. We are not yet prepared to explain the simple ideas which
compose the very complex ideas, of motion, space, and time; it is
enough at present to have shewn, that in the idea of extension,
which appears so very simple, a great number of ideas are
nevertheless included; and that this is a case of that combination
of ideas in the higher degrees of association, in which the simple
ideas are so intimately blended, as to have the appearance, not of a
complex, but of a simple idea.
It is to this great law of association, that we trace {93} the
formation of our ideas of what we call external objects; that is,
the ideas of a certain number of sensations, received together so
frequently that they coalesce as it were, and are spoken of under
the idea of unity. Hence, what we call the idea of a tree, the idea
of a stone, the idea of a horse, the idea of a man.
In using the names, tree, horse, man, the names of what I call
objects, I am referring, and can be referring, only to my own
sensations; in fact, therefore, only naming a certain number of
sensations, regarded as in a particular state of combination; that
is, concomitance. Particular sensations of sight, of touch, of the
muscles, are the sensations, to the ideas of which, colour,
extension, roughness, hardness, smoothness, taste, smell, so
coalescing as to appear one idea, I give the name, idea of a tree.
To this case of high association, this blending together of many
ideas, in so close a combination that they appear not many ideas,
but one idea, we owe, as I shall afterwards more fully explain, the
power of classification, and all the advantages of language. It is
obviously, therefore, of the greatest moment, that this important
phenomenon should be well understood.
9. Some ideas are by frequency and strength of association so
closely combined, that they cannot be separated. If one exists, the
other exists along with it, in spite of whatever effort we make to
disjoin them.
For example; it is not in our power to think of colour, without
thinking of extension; or of solidity, without figure. We have seen
colour constantly in combination with extension, spread, as it were,
upon a {94} surface. We have never seen it except in this
connection. Colour and extension have been invariably conjoined. The
idea of colour, therefore, uniformly comes into the mind, bringing
that of extension along with it; and so close is the association,
that it is not in our power to dissolve it. We cannot, if we will,
think of colour, but in combination with extension. The one idea
calls up the other, and retains it, so long as the other is
retained.
This great law of our nature is illustrated in a manner equally
striking, by the connection between the ideas of solidity and
figure. We never have the sensations from which the idea of solidity
is derived, but in conjunction with the sensations whence the idea
of figure is derived. If we handle any thing solid, it is always
either round, square, or of some other form. The ideas correspond
with the sensations. If the idea of solidity rises, that of figure
rises along with it. The idea of figure which rises, is, of course,
more obscure than that of extension; because, figures being
innumerable, the general idea is exceedingly complex, and hence, of
necessity, obscure. But, such as it is, the idea of figure is always
present when that of solidity is present; nor can we, by any effort,
think of the one without thinking of the other at the same time.
Of all the cases of this important law of association, there is none
more extraordinary than what some philosophers have called, the
acquired perceptions of sight.
When I lift my eyes from the paper on which I am writing, I see the
chairs, and tables, and walls of my room, each of its proper shape,
and at its proper {95} distance. I see, from my window, trees, and
meadows, and horses, and oxen, and distant hills. I see each of its
proper size, of its proper form, and at its proper distance; and
these particulars appear as immediate informations of the eye, as
the colours which I see by means of it.
Yet, philosophy has ascertained, that we derive nothing from the eye
whatever, but sensations of colour; that the idea of extension, in
which size, and form, and distance are included, is derived from
sensations, not in the eye, but in the muscular part of our frame.
How, then, is it, that we receive accurate information, by the eye,
of size, and shape, and distance? By association merely.[29]
[Bain's footnote 29: We derive through the eye (1) sensations of
light in its various degrees, and of colours and their shades; (2)
visible form and visible magnitude, together with their changes; and
also visible movements. The second group of feelings depends on the
movements of the eyes; and they are feelings of activity, or of
muscular expenditure. We have, besides, a certain internal muscular
sensibility to the alterations of the eye ball in adjusting for
distance--_B._]
The colours upon a body are different, according to its figure, its
distance, and its size. But the sensations of colour, and what we
may here, for brevity, call the sensations *of extension, of figure,
of distance, have been so often united, felt in conjunction, that
the sensation of the colour is never experienced without raising the
ideas of the extension, the figure, the distance, in such intimate
union with it, that they not only cannot be separated, but are
actually supposed to be seen. The sight, as it is called, of figure,
or {96} distance, appearing, as it does, a simple sensation, is in
reality a complex state of consciousness; a sequence, in which the
antecedent, a sensation of colour, and the consequent, a number of
ideas, are so closely combined by association, that they appear not
one idea, but one sensation.
Some persons, by the folly of those about them, in early life, have
formed associations between the sound of thunder, and danger to
their lives. They are accordingly in a state of agitation during a
thunder storm. The sound of the thunder calls up the idea of danger,
and no effort they can make, no reasoning they can use with
themselves, to show how small the chance that they will be harmed,
empowers them to dissolve the spell, to break the association, and
deliver themselves from the tormenting idea, while the sensation or
the expectation of it remains.
Another very familiar illustration may be adduced. Some persons have
what is called an antipathy to a spider, a toad, or a rat. These
feelings generally originate in some early fright. The idea of
danger has been on some occasion so intensely excited along with the
touch or sight of the animal, and hence the association so strongly
formed, that it cannot be dissolved. The sensation, in spite of
them, excites the idea, and produces the uneasiness which the idea
imports.
The following of one idea after another idea, or after a sensation,
so certainly that we cannot prevent the combination, nor avoid
having the _consequent_ feeling as often as we have the
_antecedent_, is a law of association, the operation of which we
shall afterwards find to be extensive, and bearing a principal part
in {97} some of the most important phenomena of the human mind.
As there are some ideas so intimately blended by association, that
it is not in our power to separate them; there seem to be others,
which it is not in our power to combine. Dr. Brown, in exposing some
errors of his predecessors, with respect to the acquired perceptions
of sight, observes: "I cannot blend my notions of the two surfaces,
a plane, and a convex, as one surface, both plane and convex, more
than I can think of a whole which is less than a fraction of itself,
or a square of which the sides are not equal." The case, here,
appears to be, that a strong association excludes whatever is
opposite to it. I cannot associate the two ideas of assafoetida,
and the taste of sugar. Why? Because the idea of assafoetida is so
strongly associated with the idea of another taste, that the idea of
that other taste rises in combination with the idea of
assafoetida, and of course the idea of sugar does not rise. I have
one idea associated with the word pain. Why can I not associate
pleasure with the word pain? Because another indissoluble
association springs up, and excludes it. This is, therefore, only a
case of indissoluble association; but one of much importance, as we
shall find when we come to the exposition of some of the more
complicated of our mental phenomena.[30]
[Editor's footnote 30: Some further elucidation seems needful of
what is here said, in so summary a manner, respecting ideas which it
is not in our power to combine: an inability which it is essential
to the analysis of some of the more complex phenomena of mind that
we should understand the meaning of. The explanation is indicated,
but hardly more than indicated, in the text.
It seems to follow from the universal law of association, that any
idea could be associated with any other idea, if the corresponding
sensations, or even the ideas themselves, were presented in
juxtaposition with sufficient frequency. If, therefore, there are
ideas which cannot be associated with each other, it must be because
there is something that prevents this juxtaposition. Two conditions
hence appear to be required, to render ideas incapable of
combination. First, the sensations must be incapable of being had
together. If we cannot associate the taste of assafoetida with the
taste of sugar, it is implied, that we cannot have the taste of
assafoetida along with the taste of sugar. If we could, a
sufficient experience would enable us to associate the ideas. Here,
therefore, is one necessary condition of the impossibility of
associating certain ideas with one another. But this condition,
though necessary, is not sufficient. We are but too capable of
associating ideas together though the corresponding external facts
are really incompatible. In the case of many errors, prejudices, and
superstitions, two ideas are so closely and obstinately associated,
that the man cannot, at least for the time, help believing that the
association represents a real coexistence or sequence between
outward facts, though such coexistence or sequence may contradict a
positive law of the physical world. There is therefore a further
condition required to render two ideas unassociable, and this is,
that one of them shall be already associated with some idea which
excludes the other. Thus far the analysis is carried in the author's
text. But the question remains, what ideas exclude one another? On
careful consideration I can only find one case of such exclusion:
when one of the ideas either contains, or raises up by association,
the idea of the absence of the other. I am aware of no case of
absolute incompatibility of thought or of imagination, except
between the presence of something and its absence; between an
affirmative and the corresponding negative. If an idea irresistibly
raises up the idea of the absence of a certain sensation, it cannot
become associated with the idea of that sensation; for it is
impossible to combine together in the same mental representation,
the presence of a sensation and its absence.
We are not yet, however, at the end of the difficulty; for it may be
objected, that the idea of the absence of anything is the idea of a
negation, of a nullity; and the idea of nothing must itself be
nothing--no idea at all. This objection has imposed upon more than
one metaphysician; but the solution of the paradox is very simple.
The idea of the presence of a sensation is the idea of the sensation
itself along with certain accompanying circumstances: the idea of
the absence of the sensation is the idea of the same accompanying
circumstances without the sensation. For example: my idea of a body
is the idea of a feeling of resistance, accompanying a certain
muscular action of my own, say of my hand; my idea of no body, in
other words, of empty space, is the idea of the same or a similar
muscular action of my own, not attended by any feeling of
resistance. Neither of these is an idea of a mere negation; both are
positive mental representations: but inasmuch as one of them
includes the negation of something positive which is an actual part
of the other, they are mutually incompatible: and any idea which is
so associated with one of them as to recall it instantly and
irresistibly, is incapable of being associated with the other.
The instance cited by the author from Dr. Brown, is a good
illustration of the law. We can associate the ideas of a plane and
of a convex surface as two surfaces side by side; but we cannot fuse
the two mental images into one, and represent to ourselves the very
same series of points giving us the sensations we receive from a
plane surface and those we receive from a convex surface both at
once. That this cannot but be so, is a corollary from the elementary
law of association. Not only has no instance ever occurred in our
experience of a surface which gave us at the same moment both these
sets of sensations; but whenever in our experience a surface
originally plane, came to give us the sensations we receive from a
convex surface (as for instance when we bend a flat sheet of paper),
it, at the very same moment, ceased to be, or to appear, a plane.
The commencement of the one set of sensations has always been
simultaneous with the cessation of the other set, and this
experience, not being affected by any change of circumstances, has
the constancy and invariability of a law of nature. It forms a
correspondingly strong association; and we become unable to have an
idea of either set of sensations, those of planeness or those of
convexity, without having the idea of the disappearance of the other
set, if they existed previously. I believe it will be found that all
the mental incompatibilities, the impossibilities of thought, of
which so much is made by a certain class of metaphysicians, can be
accounted for in a similar manner.--_Ed._]
{98} 10. It not unfrequently happens in our associated feelings,
that the antecedent is of no importance {99} farther than as it
introduces the consequent. In these cases, the consequent absorbs
all the attention, {100} and the antecedent is instantly forgotten.
Of this a very intelligible illustration is afforded by what happens
in ordinary discourse. A friend arrives from a distant country, and
brings me the first intelligence of the last illness, the last
words, the last acts, and death of my son. The sound of the voice,
the articulation of every word, makes its sensation in my ear; but
it is to the ideas that my attention flies. It is my son that is
before me, suffering, acting, speaking, dying. The words which have
introduced the ideas, and kindled the affections, have been as
little heeded, as the respiration which has been accelerated, while
the ideas were received.
It is important in respect to this case of association {101} to
remark, that there are large classes of our sensations, such as many
of those in the alimentary duct, and many in the nervous and
vascular systems, which serve, as antecedents, to introduce ideas,
as consequents; but as the consequents are far more interesting than
themselves, and immediately absorb the attention, the antecedents
are habitually overlooked; and though they exercise, by the trains
which they introduce, a great influence on our happiness or misery,
they themselves are generally wholly unknown.
That there are connections between our ideas and certain states of
the internal organs, is proved by many familiar instances. Thus,
anxiety, in most people, disorders the digestion. It is no wonder,
then, that the internal feelings which accompany indigestion, should
excite the ideas which prevail in a state of anxiety. Fear, in most
people, accelerates, in a remarkable manner, the vermicular motion
of the intestines. There is an association, therefore, between
certain states of the intestines, and terrible ideas; and this is
sufficiently confirmed by the horrible dreams to which men are
subject from indigestion; and the hypochondria, more or less
afflicting, which almost always accompanies certain morbid states of
the digestive organs. The grateful food which excites pleasurable
sensations in the mouth, continues them in the stomach; and, as
pleasures excite ideas of their causes, and these of similar causes,
and causes excite ideas of their effects, and so on, trains of
pleasurable ideas take their origin from pleasurable sensations in
the stomach. Uneasy sensations in the stomach, produce analogous
effects. Disagreeable sensations are {102} associated with
disagreeable circumstances: a train is introduced, in which, one
painful idea following another, combinations, to the last degree
afflictive, are sometimes introduced, and the sufferer is
altogether overwhelmed by dismal associations.[31] [32]
[Bain's footnote 31: There is more than association in the case here
supposed. Fear, anxiety, and painful emotions generally, cause
disorder in the digestive and other vital functions, as a part of
their nature. Every mental state can be proved to have its
counterpart physical state; joy, sorrow, fear, are each embodied in
a distinct group of physical effects in the nervous system, the
muscular movements, and the organic processes. The physical side of
agreeable emotions, as a rule, is a heightened tone of the purely
animal functions. The physical side of fear is a complicated series
of effects, one of them being the depression of the organic
processes, digestion among the rest. In this respect, however, it
more or less resembles severe pain, sorrow, shame, remorse, and
other states, characterised by the general phrase "depressing
passions;" the depression being both mental and physical.
The reciprocal agency described in the text, whereby the painful
sensations of indigestion induce fear, is not dependent on the
association of ideas, but on the deep connections of the emotional
states with one another, through their physical accompaniments. A
painful feeling of indigestion has much in common with states of
depression due to mental causes, as, for example, the shock of a
misfortune, fear, sorrow, and the like. From this alliance it
favours the ideas of depressing states. It does more; it directly
reduces that vigorous tone of the system, which is the support of
the courageous and sanguine disposition; and hence, surrenders the
mind an easy prey to any chance incentive of alarm or
anxiety.--_B._]
[Editor's footnote 32: The law of association laid down in this
section ranks among the principal of what may be termed the laws of
Obliviscence. It is one of the widest in its action, and most
important in its consequences of all the laws of the mind; and the
merit of the author, in the large use he makes of it is very great,
as, though it is the key that unlocks many of the more mysterious
phenomena of the mind, it is among the least familiar of the mental
laws, and is not only overlooked by the great majority of
psychologists, but some, otherwise of merit, seem unable to see and
understand the law after any quantity of explanation.
The first, however, of the examples by which the author illustrates
this law, is not marked by his usual felicity. Its shortcomings are
pointed out by Mr. Bain in the preceding note. The internal feelings
(says the author) which accompany indigestion, introduce trains of
ideas (as in the case of horrible dreams, and of hypochondria) which
are acutely painful, and may embitter the whole existence, while the
sensations themselves, being comparatively of little interest, are
unheeded and forgotten. It is true that the sensations in the
alimentary canal, directly produced by indigestion, though (as every
one knows) in some cases intense, are in others so slight as not to
fix the attention, and yet may be followed by melancholy trains of
thought, the connection of which with the state of the digestion may
be entirely unobserved: but by far the most probable supposition
appears to be, that these painful trains are not excited by the
sensations, but that they and the sensations are joint or successive
effects of a common organic cause. It is difficult to comprehend how
these obscure sensations can excite the distressing trains of ideas
by the laws of association; for what opportunity have these
sensations usually had of becoming associated, either synchronously
or successively, with those ideas? The explanation, in the text, of
this difficulty, seems surprisingly insufficient. Anxiety, in most
people, disorders the digestion; and consequently, according to the
author, the sensations of indigestion excite the ideas which prevail
in a state of anxiety. If that were the true explanation, the only
persons with whom indigestion would depress the spirits, would be
those who had suffered previous depression of spirits, sufficient in
duration and intensity to disorder the digestion, and to keep it
disordered long enough to effect a close and inseparable cohesion
between even very slight sensations of indigestion and painful ideas
excited by other causes. Surely this is not the fact. The theory has
a true application in the case of the confirmed hypochondriac. When
the sensations have been repeatedly experienced along with the
melancholy trains of thought, a direct association is likely to grow
up between the two; and when this has been effected, the first touch
of the sensations may bring back in full measure the miserable
mental state which had coexisted with them, thus increasing not only
the frequency of its recurrence, but, by the conjunction of two
exciting causes, the intensity of the misery. But the origin of the
state must be looked for elsewhere, and is probably to be sought in
physiology.
The other example in the text seems still less relevant. Fear tends
to accelerate the peristaltic motion, therefore there is a
connection between certain states of the intestines and terrible
ideas. To make this available for the author's purpose, the
consequence of the connection ought to be, that acceleration of the
peristaltic motion excites ideas of terror. But does it? The state
of indigestion characteristic of hypochondria is not looseness of
the bowels, but is commonly attended with the exact opposite. The
author's usual acuteness of discernment seems to have been, in these
cases, blunted by an unwillingness to admit the possibility that
ideas as well as sensations may be directly affected by material
conditions. But if, as he admits, ideas have a direct action on our
bodily organs, a _prima facie_ case is made out for the localization
of our ideas, equally with our sensations, in some part of our
bodily system; and there is at least no antecedent presumption
against the supposition that the action may be reciprocal--that as
ideas sometimes derange the organic functions, so derangements of
organic functions may sometimes modify the trains of our ideas by
their own physical action on the brain and nerves, and not through
the associations connected with the sensations they excite.--_Ed._]
{103} In illustration of the fact, that sensations and ideas, which
are essential to some of the most important {104} operations of our
minds, serve only as antecedents to more important consequents, and
are themselves so {105} habitually overlooked, that their existence
is unknown, we may recur to the remarkable case which we have just
explained, of the ideas introduced by the sensations of sight. The
minute gradations of colour, which accompany varieties of extension,
figure, and distance, are insignificant. The figure, the size, the
distance, themselves, on the other hand, are matters of the greatest
importance. The first having introduced the last, their work is
done. The consequents remain the sole objects of attention, the
antecedents are forgotten; in the present instance, not completely;
in other instances, so completely, that they cannot be
recognised.[33] [34]
[Bain's footnote 33: Perhaps the most remarkable case of sensations
overlooked on their own account, and considered only as a means of
suggesting something else, is the visual, or retinal, magnitude of
objects seen by the eye. This is probably the most delicate
sensibility within the compass of the mind; and yet we habitually
disregard it for all things near us, and use it solely for
perceiving real magnitude as estimated by our locomotive and other
members. The visual magnitude of a table, or other article in a
room, is never thought of for itself; although incessantly
fluctuating we never think of the fluctuations; we pass from these
to the one constant perception, named the true or real magnitude. It
is only for remote objects, as the sun and moon, the clouds, the
distant hills, that the retinal magnitude abides with us in its own
proper character. In looking down a vista, we may also be aroused to
the feeling of retinal magnitude. For perspective drawing, it is
necessary that we should arrest the strong tendency to pass from the
visible, to the real, forms and dimensions of things.--_B._]
[Editor's footnote 34: The reader, it may be hoped, is now familiar
with the important psychological fact, so powerfully grasped and so
discerningly employed by Hartley and the author of the
Analysis,--that when, through the frequent repetition of a series of
sensations, the corresponding train of ideas rushes through the mind
with extreme rapidity, some of the links are apt to disappear from
consciousness as completely as if they had never formed part of the
series. It has been a subject of dispute among philosophers which of
three things takes place in this case. Do the lost ideas pass
through the mind without consciousness? Do they pass consciously
through the mind and are they then instantly forgotten? Or do they
never come into the mind at all, being, as it were, overleaped and
pressed out by the rush of the subsequent ideas?
It would seem, at first sight, that the first and third suppositions
involve impossibilities, and that the second, therefore, is the only
one which we are at liberty to adopt. As regards the first, it may
be said--How can we have a feeling without feeling it, in other
words, without being conscious of it? With regard to the third, how,
it may be asked, can any link of the chain have been altogether
absent, through the pressure of the subsequent links? The subsequent
ideas are only there because called up by it, and would not have
arisen at all unless it had arisen first, however short a time it
may have lasted. These arguments seem strong, but are not so strong
as they seem.
In favour of the first supposition, that feelings may be
unconsciously present, various facts and arguments are adduced by
Sir William Hamilton in his Lectures; but I think I have shewn in
another work, that the arguments are inconclusive, and the facts
equally reconcilable with the second of the three hypotheses. That a
feeling should not be felt appears to me a contradiction both in
words and in nature. But, though a feeling cannot exist without
being felt, the organic state which is the antecedent of it may
exist, and the feeling itself not follow. This happens, either if
the organic state is not of sufficient duration, or if an organic
state stronger than itself, and conflicting with it, is affecting us
at the same moment. I hope to be excused for quoting what I have
said elsewhere on this subject (Examination of Sir William
Hamilton's Philosophy, ch. 15).
"In the case, for instance, of a soldier who receives a wound in
battle, but in the excitement of the moment is not aware of the
fact, it is difficult not to believe that if the wound had been
accompanied by the usual sensation, so vivid a feeling would have
forced itself to be attended to and remembered. The supposition
which seems most probable is, that the nerves of the particular part
were affected as they would have been by the same cause in any other
circumstances, but that, the nervous centres being intensely
occupied with other impressions, the affection of the local nerves
did not reach them, and no sensation was excited. In like manner, if
we admit (what physiology is rendering more and more probable) that
our mental feelings, as well as our sensations, have for their
physical antecedents particular states of the nerves; it may well be
believed that the apparently suppressed links in a chain of
association, those which Sir William Hamilton considers as latent,
really are so; that they are not, even momentarily, felt; the chain
of causation being continued only physically, by one organic state
of the nerves succeeding another so rapidly that the state of mental
consciousness appropriate to each is not produced. We have only to
suppose, either that a nervous modification of too short duration
does not produce any sensation or mental feeling at all, or that the
rapid succession of different nervous modifications makes the
feelings produced by them interfere with each other, and become
confounded in one mass. The former of these suppositions is
extremely probable, while of the truth of the latter we have
positive proof. An example of it is the experiment which Sir W.
Hamilton quoted from Mr. Mill, and which had been noticed before
either of them by Hartley. It is known that the seven prismatic
colours, combined in certain proportions, produce the white light of
the solar ray. Now, if the seven colours are painted on spaces
bearing the same proportion to one another as in the solar spectrum,
and the coloured surface so produced is passed rapidly before the
eyes, as by the turning of a wheel, the whole is seen as white. The
physiological explanation of this phenomenon may be deduced from
another common experiment. If a lighted torch, or a bar heated to
luminousness, is waved rapidly before the eye, the appearance
produced is that of a ribbon of light; which is universally
understood to prove that the visual sensation persists for a certain
short time after its cause has ceased. Now, if this happens with a
single colour, it will happen with a series of colours: and if the
wheel on which the prismatic colours have been painted, is turned
with the same rapidity with which the torch was waved, each of the
seven sensations of colour will last long enough to be
contemporaneous with all the others, and they will naturally produce
by their combination the same colour as if they had, from the
beginning, been excited simultaneously. If anything similar to this
obtains in our consciousness generally (and that it obtains in many
cases of consciousness there can be no doubt) it will follow that
whenever the organic modifications of our nervous fibres succeed one
another at an interval shorter than the duration of the sensations
or other feelings corresponding to them, those sensations or
feelings will, so to speak, overlap one another, and becoming
simultaneous instead of successive, will blend into a state of
feeling, probably as unlike the elements out of which it is
engendered, as the colour white is unlike the prismatic colours. And
this may be the source of many of those states of internal or mental
feeling which we cannot distinctly refer to a prototype in
experience, our experience only supplying the elements from which,
by this kind of mental chemistry, they are composed. The elementary
feelings may then be said to be latently present, or to be present
but not in consciousness. The truth, however, is that the feelings
themselves are not present, consciously or latently, but that the
nervous modifications which are their usual antecedents have been
present, while the consequents have been frustrated, and another
consequent has been produced instead."
In this modified form, therefore, the first of the three hypotheses
may possibly be true. Let us now consider the third, that of the
entire elision of some of the ideas which form the associated train.
This supposition seemed to be inadmissible, because the loss of any
link would, it was supposed, cause the chain itself to break off at
that point. To make the hypothesis possible, it is only, however,
necessary to suppose, that, while the association is acquiring the
promptitude and rapidity which it ultimately attains, each of the
successive ideas abides for a brief interval in our consciousness
after it has already called up the idea which is to succeed it. Each
idea in the series, though introduced, not by synchronous, but by
successive association, is thus, during a part of its continuance,
synchronous with the idea which introduced it: and as the rapidity
of the suggestions increases by still further repetition, an idea
may become synchronous with another which was originally not even
contiguous to it, but separated from it by an intervening link; or
may come into immediate instead of mediate sequence with such an
idea. When either of these states of things has continued for some
time, a direct association of the synchronous or of the successive
kind will be generated between two ideas which are not proximate
links in the chain; A will acquire a direct power of exciting C,
independently of the intervening idea B. If, then, B is much less
interesting than C, and especially if B is of no importance at all
in itself, but only by exciting C, and has therefore nothing to make
the mind dwell on it after C has been reached, the association of A
with C is likely to become stronger than that of A with B: C will be
habitually excited directly by A; as the mind runs off to the
further ideas suggested by C, B will cease to be excited at all; and
the train of association, like a stream which breaking though its
bank cuts off a bend in its course, will thenceforth flow in the
direct line AC, omitting B. This supposition accounts more plausibly
than either of the others for the truly wonderful rapidity of
thought, since it does not make so large a demand as the other
theories on our ability to believe that a prodigious number of
different ideas can successively rush through the mind in an instant
too short for measurement.
The result is, that all the three theories of this mental process
seem to be quite possible; and it is not unlikely that each of them
may be the real process in some cases, either in different persons,
or in the same persons under different circumstances. I can only
remit the question to future psychologists, who may be able to
contrive crucial experiments for deciding among these various
possibilities.--_Ed._]
{106} 11. Mr. Hume, and after him other philosophers, have said that
our ideas are associated according to {107} three principles;
Contiguity in time and place, Causation, and Resemblance. The
Contiguity in time and {108} place, must mean, that of the
sensations; and so far it is affirmed, that the order of the ideas
follows that {109} of the sensations. Contiguity of two sensations
in time, means the successive order. Contiguity of two {110}
sensations in place, means the synchronous order. We have explained
the mode in which ideas are associated, in the synchronous, as well
as the successive order, and have traced the principle of contiguity
to its proper source.
Causation, the second of Mr. Hume's principles, is the same with
contiguity in time, or the order of succession. Causation is only a
name for the order established between an antecedent and a
consequent; that is, the established or constant antecedence of the
one, {111} and consequence of the other. Resemblance only remains,
as an alleged principle of association, and it is necessary to
inquire whether it is included in the laws which have been above
expounded. I believe it will be found that we are accustomed to see
like things together. When we see a tree, we generally see more
trees than one; when we see an ox, we generally see more oxen than
one; a sheep, more sheep than one; a man, more men than one. From
this observation, I think, we may refer resemblance to the law of
frequency, of which it seems to form only a particular case.[35]
[Editor's footnote 35: The reason assigned by the author for
considering association by resemblance as a case of association by
contiguity, is perhaps the least successful attempt at a
generalisation and simplification of the laws of mental phenomena,
to be found in the work. It ought to be remembered that the author,
as the text shows, attached little importance to it. And perhaps,
not thinking it important, he passed it over with a less amount of
patient thought than he usually bestowed on his analyses.
Objects, he thinks, remind us of other objects resembling them,
because we are accustomed to see like things together. But we are
also accustomed to see like things separate. When two combinations
incompatible with one another are both realised in familiar
experience, it requires a very great preponderance of experience on
one side to determine the association specially to either. We are
also much accustomed to see unlike things together; I do not mean
things contrasted, but simply unlike. Unlikeness, therefore, not
amounting to contrast, ought to be as much a cause of association as
likeness. Besides, the fact that when we see (for instance) a sheep,
we usually see more sheep than one, may cause us, when we think of a
sheep, to think of an entire flock; but it does not explain why,
when we see a sheep with a black mark on its forehead, we are
reminded of a sheep with a similar mark, formerly seen, though we
never saw two such sheep together. It does not explain why a
portrait makes us think of the original, or why a stranger whom we
see for the first time reminds us of a person of similar appearance
whom we saw many years ago. The law by which an object reminds us of
similar objects which we have been used to see along with it, must
be a different law from that by which it reminds us of similar
objects which we have not been used to see along with it. But it is
the same law by which it reminds us of dissimilar objects which we
have been used to see along with it. The sight of a sheep, if it
reminds us of a flock of sheep, probably by the same law of
contiguity, reminds us of a meadow; but it must be by some other law
that it reminds us of a single sheep previously seen, and of the
occasion on which we saw that single sheep.
The attempt to resolve association by resemblance into association
by contiguity must perforce be unsuccessful, inasmuch as there never
could have been association by contiguity without a previous
association by resemblance. Why does a sensation received this
instant remind me of sensations which I formerly had (as we commonly
say), along with it? I never had them along with this very
sensation. I never had this sensation until now, and can never have
it again. I had the former sensations in conjunction not with it,
but with a sensation exactly like it. And my present sensation could
not remind me of those former sensations unlike itself, unless by
first reminding me of the sensation like itself, which really did
coexist with them. There is thus a law of association anterior to,
and presupposed by, the law of contiguity: namely, that a sensation
tends to recall what is called the idea of itself, that is, the
remembrance of a sensation like itself, if such has previously been
experienced. This is implied in what we call _recognising_ a
sensation, as one which has been felt before; more correctly, as
undistinguishably resembling one which has been felt before. The law
in question was scientifically enunciated, and included, I believe
for the first time, in the list of Laws of Association, by Sir
William Hamilton, in one of the Dissertations appended to his
edition of Reid: but the fact itself is recognised by the author of
the Analysis, in various passages of his work; more especially in
the second section of the fourteenth chapter. There is, therefore, a
suggestion by resemblance--a calling up of the idea of a past
sensation by a present sensation like it--which not only does not
depend on association by contiguity, but is itself the foundation
which association by contiguity requires for its support.
When it is admitted that simple sensations remind us of one another
by direct resemblance, many of the complex cases of suggestion by
resemblance may be analysed into this elementary case of association
by resemblance, combined with an association by contiguity. A
flower, for instance, may remind us of a former flower resembling
it, because the present flower exhibits to us certain qualities,
that is, excites in us certain sensations, resembling and recalling
to our remembrance those we had from the former flower, and these
recall the entire image of the flower by the law of association by
contiguity. But this explanation, though it serves for many cases of
complex phenomena suggesting one another by resemblance, does not
suffice for all. For, the resemblance of complex facts often
consists, not solely, or principally, in likeness between the simple
sensations, but far more in likeness of the manner of their
combination, and it is often by this, rather than by the single
features, that they recall one another. After we had seen, and well
observed, a single triangle, when we afterwards saw a second there
can be little doubt that it would at once remind us of the first by
mere resemblance. But the suggestion would not depend on the sides
or on the angles, any or all of them; for we might have seen such
sides and such angles uncombined, or combined into some other
figure. The resemblance by which one triangle recalls the idea of
another is not resemblance in the parts, but principally and
emphatically in the manner in which the parts are put together. I am
unable to see any mode in which this case of suggestion can be
accounted for by contiguity; any mode, at least, which would fit all
cases of the kind.--_Ed._]
{112} Mr. Hume makes contrast a principle of association, but not a
separate one, as he thinks it is compounded {113} of Resemblance and
Causation. It is not necessary for us to show that this is an
unsatisfactory account {114} of contrast. It is only necessary to
observe, that, as a case of association, it is not distinct from
those which we have above explained.
A dwarf suggests the idea of a giant. How? We call a dwarf a dwarf,
because he departs from a certain standard. We call a giant a giant,
because he departs from the same standard. This is a case,
therefore, of resemblance, that is, of frequency.
Pain is said to make us think of pleasure; and this is considered a
case of association by contrast. There is no doubt that pain makes
us think of relief from it; because they have been conjoined, and
the great vividness of the sensations makes the association strong.
Relief from pain is a species of pleasure; and one pleasure leads to
think of another, from the resemblance. This is a compound case,
therefore, of vividness and frequency. All other cases of contrast,
I believe, may be expounded in a similar manner.
I have not thought it necessary to be tedious in expounding the
observations which I have thus stated; for whether the reader
supposes that resemblance is, or is not, an original principle of
association, will not affect our future investigations.
12. Not only do simple ideas, by strong association, run together,
and form complex ideas: but a {115} complex idea, when the simple
ideas which compose it have become so consolidated that it always
appears as one, is capable of entering into combinations with other
ideas, both simple and complex. Thus two complex ideas may be united
together, by a strong association, and coalesce into one, in the
same manner as two or more simple ideas coalesce into one. This
union of two complex ideas into one, Dr. Hartley has called a duplex
idea.[37] Two also of these duplex, or doubly compounded ideas, may
unite into one; and these again into other compounds, without end.
It is hardly necessary to mention, that as two complex ideas unite
to form a duplex one, not only two, but more than two may so unite;
and what he calls a duplex idea may be compounded of two, three,
four, or any number of complex ideas.
[Editor's footnote 37: I have been unable to trace in Hartley the
expression here ascribed to him. In every passage that I can
discover, the name he gives to a combination of two or more complex
ideas is that of a _decomplex_ idea.--_Ed._]
Some of the most familiar objects with which we are acquainted
furnish instances of these unions of complex and duplex ideas.
Brick is one complex idea, mortar is another complex idea; these
ideas, with ideas of position and quantity, compose my idea of a
wall. My idea of a plank is a complex idea, my idea of a rafter is a
complex idea, my idea of a nail is a complex idea. These, united
with the same ideas of position and quantity, compose my duplex idea
of a floor. In the same manner my complex idea of glass, and wood,
and others, compose my duplex idea of a window; and {116} these
duplex ideas, united together, compose my idea of a house, which is
made up of various duplex ideas. How many complex, or duplex ideas,
are all united in the idea of furniture? How many more in the idea
of merchandize? How many more in the idea called Every Thing?[38]
[39]
[Bain's footnote 38: This chapter raises questions of the most
fundamental kind relating to our intellectual constitution. The
Association of Ideas, comprehensively viewed, involves everything
connected with the mental persistence and reproduction of ideas;
being offered as adequate to explain the operations named Memory,
Reason, and Imagination.
_Conditions of the Growth of Association, or of the Retentiveness of
the Mind_.--A practical, as well as a theoretical, interest attaches
to the precise statement of the conditions or circumstances that
regulate the growth of our associations, in other words our mental
culture generally. All agree in the efficacy of the two conditions
mentioned in the text; the vividness of the feelings associated, and
the frequency of the association, that is repetition or practice. It
is well remarked, however, that the phrase "vividness of the
sensations or ideas" does not convey a very precise meaning. The
proper attribute of a sensation, or an idea, considered as an
_intellectual_ element, is greater or less distinctness; when an
object seen or remembered is seen or remembered distinctly and
fully, and without any unusual labour or effort, there is nothing
more to be desired, so far as concerns our intelligence. If,
however, the object is accompanied with _feeling_--with pleasure or
pain--a new element is introduced, to which other epithets are
applicable. A feeling is more or less strong or intense; and the
addition of an intense feeling to an intellectual conception is a
sum, combining both sets of attributes--distinctness and adequacy in
the conception, and intensity in the feeling. An object whose
perception or conception is thus accompanied with the animation of
strong feeling, is called lively, or vivid; {117} in the absence of
feeling, these epithets are unsuitable. Hence, the associating
stimulus expressed by "vividness" is better expressed by the
"strength of the feelings." Any strong feeling impresses on the mind
whatever is the object of it, or is in any way mixed up with it. We
remember by preference the things that have given us either pleasure
or pain; and the effect may be produced by mere excitement although
neither pleasurable nor painful; the influence of a surprise being a
case in point. Our _interest_ in a thing is but another name for the
pleasure that it gives us; and to inspire interest is to aid the
memory. Hamilton's Law of Preference refers to this source; and
appears to exclude, or not to recognise, the efficacy of feelings
not pleasurable, namely, such as are either painful or neutral. The
comprehensive law should include all the feelings, although there
are specific characters attaching to the influence of each of the
three modes. Pleasure is the most effectual in stamping the memory,
as it is the most powerful in detaining the attention and the
thoughts. Pain has a conflicting operation; as affecting the will,
it repels the object; but as mere excitement it retains it; we
cannot forget what is disagreeable, merely because we wish to forget
it. The stimulant of pain, as applied in education, is an indirect
pleasure. It is not intended to make the subject of the lesson
disagreeable, but to render painful all diversions from that towards
other subjects; so that comparatively the most pleasing course to a
pupil may be to abide by the task prescribed.
The influence of the Feelings upon Retentiveness is not throughout
in proportion to their degree, whether they are pleasurable,
painful, or neutral. We have to introduce a modifying circumstance
into the case, namely, that great strength of feeling absorbs the
forces of the system, and diminishes the power available for
cementing an intellectual association. A strong feeling once
aroused, while inflaming the attention upon whatever is bound up
with it, necessarily engages us with itself. The plastic process of
fixing a train or aggregate of ideas has but a share of the energies
awakened under feeling.
It is possible also to stimulate attention, and thereby to {118}
quicken memory, without the excitement of the feelings, as in pure
voluntary attention. For although the will, in the last resort, is
stimulated by an end (which must involve the feelings), yet we may
be strongly moved without being under the excitement of the feelings
that enter into the final end. Our volitions may be energetic,
without the presence of strong emotions, notwithstanding that, apart
from our possessing such emotions, we should not be strongly moved
to action. Thus, a difference is made between the influence of the
feelings and the influence of the will; both being powers to impress
the memory.
The two considerations now advanced, namely, the want of strict
concomitance between strength of feeling and the stimulus to memory,
and the operation of the will in the abeyance of present feeling,
make it desirable to find some other mode of stating the element or
condition that qualifies the influence of Frequency or Repetition,
in the growth of memory and association. Perhaps the best mode of
singling out the operative circumstance is to describe it as
"Concentration of Mind;" the devotion of the mental forces to the
thing to be done or remembered--the withdrawal of power from other
exercises, to expend it on the exercise in hand. Every circumstance
that at once rouses the mental and nervous energies, and keeps them
fixed upon any subject of study or the practice of any art, is a
circumstance in aid of acquisition. No fact more comprehensive, more
exactly in point, can be assigned than the one now stated. What
remains is to apply it in the detail, or to point out the occasions
and conditions that favour, and those that obstruct, the
concentration of the mental energy. It is under this view that we
can best appreciate the efficacy of pleasure (interest in the
subject), of pain, of mere excitement, and of voluntary attention.
We can also see, as an obvious corollary, the advantage of having
the mind unoccupied, or disengaged for the work, and the
disadvantage of being diverted, or distracted by other objects.
Fear, care, anxiety, are hostile to culture by lowering the tone or
energy of the mind; while what power is left concentrates itself
upon the subject matter of the anxious feeling. On the other hand,
general vigour of the {119} system, good health, easy circumstances,
are all in favour of mental improvement, provided the force thus
made available can be reserved and devoted to that end.
Thus the two leading conditions of the plastic process are Frequency
of Repetition, and Mental Concentration. For practical purposes,
these are all that we need to consider, at least as regards the same
individual. We have no art or device for training either body or
mind but what is comprised under one or other of these heads. There
are methods of superseding the labour of new acquirement, by
adapting existing acquirements to new cases; but no means can be
assigned for the original construction of adhesive links, apart from
these two circumstances.
Still, in a large and exhaustive view of the Retentive power of the
mind, we should not omit to allow for the differences between one
mind and another in respect of Natural Aptitude for acquiring. When
two persons engaged in the same lesson, for equal periods of time,
and with about equal concentration of mind, make very unequal
progress, we must admit a difference in natural or constitutional
plasticity on that particular subject. Sometimes we find
extraordinary progress made in acquisition generally; the same
person excelling in languages, in sciences, in practical arts, and
in fine arts. More commonly, however, we find an aptitude for some
subject in particular, combined with deficiency in other things. One
person has great mechanical acquirements, another lingual, and so
on.
The first case is sufficiently common to justify the assumption of
degrees of acquisitive or plastic aptitude on the whole, or a
variety in the cerebral endowment corresponding to the adhesion of
trains of actions and ideas that have been more or less frequently
brought together. If the differences among human beings are not so
broad as to make this apparent, we may refer to the differences
between the lower animals and man. The animals have the power of
acquiring, but so limited is that power in comparison with human
beings, that people have often doubted its existence.
{120} The second case, the inequality of the same person's progress
in different subjects, may be looked at in another way. We may view
it as incident to the better or worse quality, for all purposes, of
the special organs concerned. Thus to take musical acquisition. This
is commonly attributed to a good ear, meaning a delicate sense of
musical notes, as shown in their nice discrimination. Discriminating
is a different function from remembering; yet, we can only doubt
that the fact of being able to discriminate acutely is accompanied
by the power of remembering or retaining the impressions of the
sense. The superiority of endowment that shows itself in the one
function, embraces also the other. Hence we are entitled to say that
the special retentiveness for any one subject, or department of
training, varies with the local endowment involved: which is not to
maintain an identical proposition, for the local endowment may be
held as tested by delicacy of discrimination, a distinct fact from
memory. Thus, a delicate sense of shades of colour would entail a
good visual memory for spectacle; a delicate ear for articulation
would indicate a memory for shades and varieties of pronunciation,
thereby counting as a part of the verbal memory. So, delicate
discrimination in the tactile muscles would be followed by rapid
acquirements in manipulative or manual art.
_The Ultimate Analysis of the Laws of Association_.--It is easy to
reduce all the laws ever assigned, as governing the reproduction of
our ideas, to three, Contiguity, Similarity, and Contrast. It is
open to question whether these can be resolved any farther. The
author has endeavoured to reduce Similarity to Contiguity, but his
reasons show that he had not deeply considered the workings of
similarity. Hamilton's criticisms on the attempt (Reid, p. 914) are
just and irrefragable. By far the most important examples of the
working of similarity are such as, by their very nature, preclude a
former contiguity: as, for example, Franklin's identification of
Electricity and lightning.
There is, nevertheless, a considerable degree of subtlety in the
relationship of the two principles. There may be good reasons {121}
for treating them as distinct, but in their working they are
inextricably combined. There can be no contiguity without
similarity, and no similarity without contiguity. When, looking at a
river, we pronounce its name, we are properly said to exemplify
contiguity; the river and the name by frequent association are so
united that each recalls the other. But mark the steps of the
recall. What is strictly present to our view is the impression made
by the river while we gaze on it. It is necessary that this
impression should, by virtue of similarity or identity, re-instate
the previous impression of the river, to which the previous
impression of the name was contiguous. If one could suppose failure
in the re-instatement of the former idea of the river, under the new
presentation, there would be no opportunity given to the contiguous
bond to come into operation. In that accumulation of the impressions
of contiguous ideas, ending at last in a firm association, there
must be a process of similarity to the extent of reviving the sum of
the past at the instance of the present. This is a case of
similarity that we give little heed to, because it is sure and
unfailing; we concern ourselves more with what is liable to
uncertainty, the acquired strength of the contiguous adhesion. Yet
it strictly comes under the case of reproduction through similarity.
Consider again, what may be called a case of Similarity proper, as
when a portrait recalls the original. The sensuous effects possessed
in common by the portrait and by its subject bring about a
restoration of the idea of the subject, in spite of certain
differences or discrepancies. The interest of this case is owing to
the fact that a partial likeness, a likeness in unlikeness, will
often reproduce a past idea; thus enabling us to assemble in the
mind a number of things differing in some respects because they
agree in other respects. This is not identifying a thing with
itself, viewed at a former time, but assimilating one thing with
other things placed far asunder in nature, and having many features
of difference.
Let us try and express the consecutive steps of this case of
reproduction. The thing now present to the mind has certain {122}
peculiarities in common with one or more things formerly present; as
when, in a portrait, the outline and colouring resembles a subject
original. These sensible effects make alive the previous recurrence
of them, or put us in the cerebral and mental attitude formerly
experienced by the corresponding effects of the resembling object.
We are aware, by the liveliness of our impression, that we have gone
in upon an old track; we have the peculiar consciousness called the
consciousness of Identity or Agreement. This is one step, but not
the whole. In order that the complete restoration may be effected,
the features of community must be in such firm contiguous alliance
with the features of difference--the _special_ part of the previous
subject that the one shall reinstate the idea of the other. The
points common to a present portrait and a past original must be so
strongly coherent with the remaining features of the original, that
the one cannot be awakened without the other following. Here, then,
in the very heart of Similarity, is an indispensable bond of
Contiguity; showing that it is not possible for either process to be
accomplished in separation from the other. The mutual coherence of
parts, now described as essential to reproduction, may be too weak
for the purpose, and the recovering stroke of similarity will in
that case fail.
It might, therefore, be supposed that Similarity is, after all, but
a mode of Contiguity, namely, the contiguity or association of the
different features or parts of a complex whole. The inference is too
hasty. Because contiguity is a part of the fact of the restoration
of similars, it is not the entire fact. There is a distinct and
characteristic step preceding the play of this mutual coherence of
the parts of the thing to be recovered. The striking into the former
track of the agreeing part of the new and the old, is a mental
movement by itself, which the other follows, but does not do away
with. The effect above described, as the consciousness of agreement
or identity, the flash of a felt similarity, is real and distinct.
We are conscious of it by itself; there are occasions when we have
it without the other, that is to say, without the full
re-instatement of the former {123} object in its entireness. We
often aware of an identity without being able to say what is the
thing identified; as when a portrait gives us the impression that we
have seen the original, without enabling us to say who the original
is. We have been affected by the stroke of identity or similarity;
but the restoration fails from the feebleness of the contiguous
adherence of the parts of the object identified. There is thus a
genuine effect of the nature of pure similarity, or resemblance, and
a mode of consciousness accompanying that effect; but there is not
the full energy of reproduction without a concurring bond of pure
contiguity. A portrait may fail to give us the consciousness of
having ever seen the original. On the supposition that we have seen
the original, this would be a failure of pure similarity.
Thus in every act of reproducing a past mental experience, there is
a complication, involving both contiguity proper and similarity
proper. When the similarity amounts to identity, as when a new
impression of a thing puts us in the track of the old impressions of
the same thing, the effect is so sure, so obvious, so easily arrived
at, that we do not need to think of it, to make a question of it. It
does not prevent us from regarding the operation of recalling a name
when we see the thing, or recalling a thing when we hear the name,
as pure contiguity. The strength of the coherence may be deficient,
and the restoration may fail on this account; it can never fail on
account of insufficient similarity. No inconvenience will arise from
speaking of this case as if it were Contiguity and nothing else.
The situation of Similarity in Diversity is quite distinct. The
diversity obstructs the operation of similarity; we cannot be sure
that the new shall put us on the track of the old. It is always a
question whether such similarities shall be felt at all; whether we
shall experience the flash, the peculiar consciousness, of agreement
in difference. It is a farther question, whether the internal
coherence of the thing identified is enough to restore it in
completeness. This last step may be allowed to be a case of proper
contiguity; while the flash of identity struck between a present and
a past, never coupled in the {124} mind before, is an effect _sui
generis_, and not resolvable into any mode or incident of
contiguity.
The circumstances of this identifying stroke are so numerous and
far-reaching as to demand a special exemplification. Some of the
broadest distinctions of intellectual character can be grounded on
the distinctive aptitudes of the mind for Contiguity and for
Similarity.
Learning, Acquisition, Memory, Habit, all designate the plastic
adherence of contiguous impressions. The processes of
Classification, Reasoning, Imagination, and the Inventive faculty
generally, depend upon the identifying stroke of likeness in
unlikeness. Some forms of intellectual strength, as a whole, are
best represented by a highly energetic Adhesiveness; distinction as
a learner, a follower of routine, turns upon this power. Other, and
higher, forms of intelligence depend upon far-reaching strokes of
similarity; the identification of likeness shrouded in diversity,
expresses much of the genius of the poet, the philosopher, the man
of practice.
There remains the consideration of Contrast, as a link of
association. It is easy to show that both Contiguity and Similarity
may enter into the association of contrasts. All contrasts that we
are interested in are habitually coupled in language, as light and
dark, heat and cold, up and down, life and death. Again contrasts
suppose a common genus, that is a generic similarity; at least until
we ascend to the highest contrast of all, the subject mind, and the
object or extended world. Cold and Hot are grades of the common
attribute called Temperature. As these links of contiguity and
similarity are present, and of considerable strength, they
practically lead to the mutual suggestion of contrasting things.
Still, we cannot overlook the deeper circumstance that in contrast
there is _relation_, and therefore mutual implication, so that the
two members must always be virtually present, although they are not
equally attended to. Heat has no meaning, no existence, but as a
change from cold; the north implicates the south. We have two modes
of regarding these relationships, which are distinguished by
language, as if we {125} could abstract the one side from the other;
that is, we think of heat apart from cold, and of the north apart
from the south. But if one side is present, both must be present,
and nothing is wanted but a motive, to make us reverse the
conception, and bring into prominence the side that was in abeyance,
cold instead of heat, south instead of north.
This view of Contrast is variously expressed by Hamilton. (Reid,
Note D * * *).
Contrast, therefore, as an associating link, would draw from three
sources, Relativity, Contiguity, and Similarity. It would also be
heightened, in many instances, by the presence of strong feelings or
emotions, as in the contemplation of startling changes, and the
vicissitudes of things. Being one of the effects habitually
introduced in Art and in Oratory, we are more than ordinarily
impressed by the things so made use of--infancy beside old age,
squalor following on splendour, abasement succeeding to elevation.
The associating principle of Contrast cannot be put forward as a
basis of distinction in intellectual character. There is no such a
thing as a special aptitude for Contrasts. There may be, in certain
minds given to emotion, a fondness for the impressive or emotional
contrasts; but there is no intellectual gift, subsisting apart from
other powers and rising and falling independently, for the mutual
recall of contrasting qualities. Whenever we feel a difference we
make a contrast; the two differing things, are contrasting things,
and are both known in one indivisible act of thought. To be unable
to bring up the contrast of a subject present to the view, is not to
know the subject; we cannot possess intelligently the conception of
"up," and be oblivious to, or incapable of remembering, "down."
Forgetfulness in this department is not the snapping of a link, as
in Contiguity, or the dulness that cannot reach a similitude; it is
the entire blank of conception or knowledge. The north pole of a
magnet cannot be in the view, and the south pole in oblivion.--_B._]
[Editor's footnote 39: The author and Mr. Bain agree in rejecting
Contrast as an independent principle of association. I think they
might {126} have gone further, and denied it even as a derivative
one. All the cases considered as examples of it seem to me to depend
on something else. I greatly doubt if the sight or thought of a
dwarf has intrinsically any tendency to recall the idea of a giant.
Things certainly do remind us of their own absence, because (as
pointed out by Mr. Bain) we are only conscious of their presence by
comparison with their absence; and for a further reason, arising out
of the former, viz. that, in our practical judgments, we are led to
think of the case of their presence and the case of their absence by
one and the same act of thought, having commonly to choose between
the two. But it does not seem to me that things have any special
tendency to remind us of their positive opposites. Black does not
remind us of white more than of red or green. If light reminds us of
darkness, it is because darkness is the mere negation, or absence,
of light. The case of heat and cold is more complex. The sensation
of heat recalls to us the absence of that sensation: if the
sensation amounts to pain, it calls up the idea of relief from it;
that is, of its absence, associated by contiguity with the pleasant
feeling which accompanies the change. But cold is not the mere
absence of heat; it is itself a positive sensation. If heat suggests
to us the idea of the sensation of cold, it is not because of the
contrast, but because the close connection which exists between the
outward conditions of both, and the consequent identity of the means
we employ for regulating them, cause the thought of cold and that of
heat to be frequently presented to us in contiguity.--_Ed._]
{127} CHAPTER IV.
NAMING.
"I endeavour, as much as I can, to deliver myself from those
fallacies which we are apt to put upon ourselves, by taking words
for things. It helps not our ignorance to feign a knowledge where we
have none, by making a noise with sounds without clear and distinct
significations. Names made at pleasure, neither alter the nature of
things, nor make us understand them, but as they are signs of, and
stand for, determined ideas."--_Locke, Hum. Und._ b. ii. ch. 13, §
18.
WE have now surveyed the more simple and obvious phenomena of the
human mind. We have seen, first, that we have SENSATIONS; secondly,
that we have IDEAS, the copies of those sensations; thirdly, that
those ideas are sometimes SIMPLE, the copies of one sensation;
sometimes COMPLEX, the copies of several sensations so combined as
to appear not several ideas, but one idea; and, fourthly, that we
have TRAINS of those ideas, or one succeeding another without end.
These are simple facts of our nature, attested by experience; and my
chief object in fixing upon them the attention of the reader has
been, to convey to him that accurate and steady conception of them,
which is requisite for the successful prosecution of the subsequent
inquiries.
{128} After delineating the simple and elementary states of
consciousness, it follows, in order, that we should endeavour to
show what is contained in those that are complex. But in all the
more complicated cases of human consciousness something of the
process of Naming is involved. These cases, of course, cannot be
unfolded, till the artifice of Naming is made known. This,
therefore, is necessarily an intermediate inquiry; and one to which
it is necessary that we should devote a particular degree of
attention.
There are two purposes, both of great importance, for which marks of
our ideas, and sensations; or signs by which they may be denoted;
are necessary. One of these purposes is, That we maybe able to make
known to others what passes within us. The other is, That we may
secure to ourselves the knowledge of what at any preceding time has
passed in our minds.
The sensations and ideas of one man are hidden from all other men;
unless they have recourse to some expedient for disclosing them. We
cannot convey to another man our sensations and ideas directly. Our
means of intercourse with other men are through their senses
exclusively. We must therefore choose some SENSIBLE OBJECTS, as
SIGNS of our inward feelings. If two men agree, that each shall use
a certain sensible sign, when one of them means to make known to the
other that he has a certain sensation, or idea, they, in this, and
in no other way, can communicate a knowledge of those feelings to
one another.
Almost all the advantages, which man possesses above the inferior
animals, arise from his power of acting in combination with his
fellows; and of accomplishing, by the united efforts of numbers,
what could {129} not be accomplished by the detached efforts of
individuals. Without the power of communicating to one another their
sensations and ideas, this co-operation would be impossible. The
importance, therefore, of the invention of signs, or marks, by which
alone that communication can be effected, is obvious.
Among sensible objects, those alone which are addressed to the
senses of seeing and hearing have sufficient precision and variety
to be adapted to this end. The language of Action, as it has been
called, that is, certain gesticulations and motions, has very
generally, especially among rude people, whose spoken language is
scanty, been found in use to indicate certain states, generally
complicated states, of mind. But, for precision, variety, and
rapidity, the flexibility of the voice presented such obvious
advantages, not to mention that visible signs must be altogether
useless in the dark, that sounds, among all the varieties of our
species, have been assumed as the principal medium by which their
sensations and ideas were made known to one another.