MENTAL PROCESSES IN MAN.
I have already drawn attention to the fact that the primary end and
object of the reception of the influences (_stimuli_) of the external
world, or environment, is to enable the organism to answer or respond to
these special modes of influence, or stimuli. In other words, their
purpose is to set agoing certain activities. Now, in the unicellular
organism, where both the reception and the response are effected by one
and the same cell, the activities are for the most part simple, though
even among these protozoa there are some which show no little complexity
of response. Where, however, the organism is composed of a number of
cells, in which a differentiation of structure and a specialization of
function have been effected, certain cells are set apart as
_recipients_, while other cells are set apart to respond
(_respondents_). There is thus the necessity of a channel of
communication between the two. Hence yet other cells (_transmitters_),
arranged end to end, form a line of connection and communication between
the group of receiving cells and the group of responding cells, and
constitute what we term a _nerve_. That which is transmitted may still
be called a stimulus, each cell being stimulated in turn by its
neighbour. Thus a stimulus must be first received and then transmitted.
But little observation is required to convince us of the fact that, in
the higher creatures, a very simple stimulus may give rise to a very
complex response. A light pin-prick will cause a vigorous leap in a
healthy frog--a leap that involves a most intricate, accurate, and
complex co-ordination of muscular activities. And anatomical
investigation shows us that in such creatures there is always, in the
course of the channel of communication or transmission, a group of
closely connected cells, which play the part of co-ordinants. In the
vertebrate animals these co-ordinants are collected in the brain and
spinal cord. In the insects, crustaceans, and worms they are arranged in
a knotted chain running close to the under surface of the body. To this
central nervous system, as it is called, nerves (afferent nerves) run
inwards from the recipient organs. From it nerves (efferent nerves) run
outwards to the organs of response. And in it the transmitted stimuli,
brought in by the afferent nerves, are modified, through intervention of
the co-ordinants, into stimuli carried out by the efferent nerves. A
simple stimulus may create a great commotion among the co-ordinants of
the central nervous system, and give rise to many and complex stimuli
going out to the muscles and other organs of response. How this is
effected is one of the many wonders of the animal mechanism. We believe
that the connection and co-ordinations have gradually been established
during a long process of development and evolution, reaching back far
into the past. How, we can at present scarcely guess.
We must picture to ourselves, then, in the animal organism, a multitude
of nerve-fibres running inwards from all the end-organs of the special
senses, from the muscles, and from the internal organs, and all
converging on the central nervous system. And we must picture to
ourselves a multitude of nerve-fibres passing outwards from the central
system, and diverging to supply the muscles, glands, and other organs
which are to respond to the stimulation from without. We must picture
the fibres coming from or going to related parts or organs collecting
together to form nerves and nerve-trunks, which are, however, only
bundles of isolated nerve-fibres. And, lastly, we must picture the
central nerve-system itself co-ordinating and organizing the stimuli
brought into it by afferent nerves, from the organs of special sense,
and handing over the resultants by efferent nerves to the organs of
special activities. So far we have purely physiological effects, many of
which occur with surprising accuracy and precision when an organism is
in a state of unconsciousness. Place your finger in the palm of a
sleeping child, and the fingers will close over it without the child
awaking to consciousness. If, in a frog, the brain of which has been
extirpated, the side be touched with a drop of acid, the leg of that
side will be drawn up, and the foot will be used to wipe away the acid.
And if that leg be held and prevented from reaching the side, the other
leg will be brought round so as to try and bring the foot within reach
of the irritated spot. The actions are, however, in all probability,
purely physiological, and are performed in complete absence of
consciousness.
* * * * *
When we turn from the physiological to the psychological aspect of the
question, we enter a new world, the world of consciousness, wherein the
impressions received by the recipient organs (no longer regarded as mere
stimuli, but as the elements of consciousness) are co-ordinated and
organized, and are built up into those sensations and perceptions
through which the objects of the external world take origin and shape.
It is with this process that we have now to deal; and we will deal with
it first in man.
The first fact to notice is that, apart from sense-stimuli received and
exciting consciousness, we have also the revival of past impressions.
This revival is the germ of memory. What exactly is the physical basis
of memory, how the effects of stimuli in consciousness come to be
registered, we do not know. It is clearly a matter that falls under the
general law of persistence; but in what organic manner we are largely
ignorant. Still, there can be no question of the fact that, quite apart
from impressions due to immediate influences of the environment _now_
acting on our recipient organs, we have also revivals of bygone
influences of the environment--shadows or after-images of previous modes
of influence. Without this process of registration and revival, stimuli
could never give rise to sensations and perceptions such as we know
them. Without it experience would be impossible.
We may say, then, that impressions (resulting from stimuli) and their
revival in memory are the bricks of the house of knowledge; and these
are built up through experience into what we call the world of things
around us. There may be and is a certain amount of mortar, supplied by
the builder, in addition to the elementary bricks. But without the
bricks no house of knowledge could be built. Let us now examine the
bricks and the building.
From what we have already learnt in the chapter on "The Senses of
Animals," it is clear that the impressions and their revivals in memory
have differences in quality. Here, on the very threshold of the subject,
we must pause. They have differences of quality. But in consciousness
these differences must be distinguished. And this involves their
recognition and discrimination, presupposing, therefore, a corresponding
faculty, however simple, on the part of the recipient. Without cognition
and recognition (twin sisters, born in the same hour) we can never get
beyond mere impressions; which may, indeed, be differentiated
physically, as different stimuli due to diverse action of the
environment, but are psychically undifferentiated. This recognition and
discrimination is thus the primary activity of the recipient mind. Here
is already some of the mortar supplied by the builder. Memory is
absolutely essential to the process. The sense-impression of external
origin gives rise to an impression of similarity or dissimilarity, which
is part of the internal reaction to the external stimulus. Thus
impressions are raised to the level of _sensations_. A sensation is an
impression that has been discriminated from others, and recognized as
being of such and such a nature. The impressions of the sense-organs as
we know them are thus not mere impressions, but impressions raised to
the level of sensations, in so far as they are recognized and
discriminated.
Let us now glance at some of the differences in quality recognized in
sensation. First, we have the broadly distinguished groups of touches
and pressures, temperature-sensations, tastes, smells, sounds, sights,
muscular sensations, and organic sensations from internal parts of the
body. And then, within each of these groups, there are the more or less
delicate and distinct shades of quality, well exemplified in vision by
the different colour-sensations, in hearing by notes of different pitch,
and in smell by the varieties of scents and odours. Many of those
sensations, moreover, which are apparently simple, are in reality
compound. There are differences of quality in the note A as sounded on a
violin, a piano, and a flute; and these differences are due to different
admixtures of overtones, which fuse with the fundamental tone and alter
its timbre. So, too, with vision. The sensation given by a white disc is
a compound sensation, due to waves of different period, which separately
would give sensations of colour. Sensations, then, differ in quality.
They also differ in quantity or intensity. This needs little
illustration. As evening falls, the sight-sensations derived from the
surrounding objects grow more and more feeble. They may remain the same
in quality, but the quantity or intensity gradually diminishes. So, too,
in music, the pianos and fortes give us differences in intensity of
sound-sensations.
Sensations also differ in duration. The stimulation may be either
prolonged or instantaneous. Two or more sensations may, moreover, be
simultaneous or successive. Just as they may be either similar or
different in quality and in intensity, so they may be either
simultaneous or successive in time. Simultaneous sensations are best
exemplified in vision and through touch; successive sensations are given
most clearly by the sense of hearing, through which we recognize a
sequence of sounds.
And then, again, sensations not only differ in time, but they seem also
to differ in place. A sensation of touch may be referred to different
parts of the body--the hand, the foot, or the forehead. But here we open
up an important question--Where do we feel a sensation, such as, for
example, that of pressure on the skin? Common sense answers, without
hesitation, that we feel it at the particular part of the body which is
affected by the external stimulus. I feel the pen with which I write
with my finger-tips. And common sense is perfectly right from its own
point of view. But it is a well-known fact that a person whose leg has
been amputated experiences at times tickling and uneasiness in the
absent member. This is due to irritation of the nerve-ends in the stump
of the limb. But the sensations are referred outwards to the normal
source of origin of impressions, the effects of which were carried
inwards by the nerve affected. We shall have to consider hereafter the
nature of the relation between physiological and psychological
processes--the connection of mind and body. Assuming for the present
that psychical processes have a physical basis in physiological
processes, the fact given above and others of like implication seem to
show that the sensation has for its physiological basis some
nerve-change in the central nervous system--in us, no doubt, in the
brain. Of course, it must be remembered that the sensation, as felt, is
a mental fact (using the word "mental" in its broadest sense, as
belonging to the psychical as opposed to the physiological series). But
it would seem that the physiological accompaniment of this mental fact
is some nerve-change in the brain. This nerve-change is caused by a
stimulus having its origin in the end-organ of the afferent nerve, and
we naturally refer the impression outwards to the place of its source of
origin under ordinary and normal conditions. In other words, we
_localize_ it. That is what common sense means when it says that we feel
pressure at the finger-tips.
To account for this process of localization, it is supposed that every
sensation, apart from its special quality as a touch, a taste, or a
smell, has a more or less defined spatial quality, or local sign,
dependent upon the part of the body to which the stimulus is applied.
These local signs have, doubtless, in the long run, been established by
experience--if under this term we may include a more or less unconscious
process, the outcome of evolution. But they are so rapidly established
in the individual, that we are forced to conclude that we inherit very
highly developed aptitudes for localization.
The refinement of localization is very different in the different
senses. In smell and taste there seems no more than a general
localization in the organ affected--the nose or the mouth. In hearing
there is not much more, unless we regard the discrimination of pitch as
a mode of localization. In touch (and temperature) the refinement is
much higher, but it varies with the part of the body affected.
If the back be touched by two points less than two inches and a third
apart, the sensation will be that of a single point; the finger-tips,
however, can distinguish two points separated by less than one-tenth of
an inch; and the tip of the tongue is still more refined in its power of
discrimination, distinguishing as two, points separated by less than the
twenty-fifth part of an inch. So that the tongue is about sixty times as
refined in its discrimination as the skin of the back. Moreover, the
delicacy of localization may be cultivated, so that in some cases the
refinement may, by practice, be doubled.
When we come to sight, the refinement of localization reaches its
maximum, the local signs in the retina showing the highest stage of
differentiation, the distance on the retina between two points
distinguishable by local signs being, according to Helmholtz, not much
more than 1/6000 of an inch (.0044 millimetre), which nearly corresponds
with the space between two cones in the yellow spot.
We must remember that the presentations of sense are in all cases given
in a stippled form, that is, by the stimulation of a number of separate
and distinct points. In vision the stippling is very fine, owing to the
minute size and close setting of the retinal cones. In the case of
hearing, the stippling, if we may so extend the use of this term, is
also very fine, as is shown by the fact that musicians can, according to
Weber, distinguish notes separated in the scale of sounds by only
one-sixtieth part of a musical tone. In touch the stippling is
comparatively coarse. But in all cases there is a stippling; and yet
from these stippled sensations the mind in all cases elaborates a
continuum. The visual image is continuous, notwithstanding the retinal
stippling and the existence of the blind spot. When we lay our hands on
a smooth table we fill in the interstices between the sensational
points, and feel the surface as continuous. In all cases out of the
stippled sense-stimuli we form a continuum.
The next thing that we have to note is that it is not so much the
sensation itself, as that which gives origin to it, that we habitually
refer outwards to the recipient end of the afferent fibre. In referring
a sensation of touch to a certain part of the skin, it is of something
touching us that we seem to be immediately conscious. We refer the
stimulus to an object in the external world, which we localize, and
which we believe to have given rise to the sensation.
This, however, is more clearly seen in the case of vision. When we look
through the window and see an object such as a house before us, we do
not habitually localize the sensation in a certain part of the retina,
but we refer the object to a particular position more or less distant in
the world around us. This projection of the object outwards in a right
line from the eyes is really a marvellous process, though the wonder of
it is lost in its familiarity. It is the outcome of the experience of
hundreds of generations. And the experience is not gained through vision
alone, but through this in combination with other senses and activities.
We see an object, but we have to go to it before we can touch it. It is
not in contact with us, but distant from us. Its outness and distance is
a matter of what is termed the geometry of the senses; and this geometry
has been elaborated through many generations of organized beings, from
data given by sight, touch, and the muscular sense. It is true that I
can now estimate the distance of the house without going to it; but my
eyes go to it, and I can feel them go. The panes of my window are
separated by iron bars. As I look from them to the distant house and
back to them again, I can feel my eyes going from one to the other. The
lens of the eye is adjusted for near or far distance by the action of a
ciliary muscle, through which its anterior surface can be flattened,
returning again by its own elasticity to the more convex form when the
muscle ceases to act. Each eye, moreover, is moved in its orbit by six
eye-muscles, and in normal vision the two eyes act as one organ. For
near distances they converge; for far distances there is less
convergence. Through the muscular sense, which is here extraordinarily
delicate, we can feel the amount of accommodation and convergence; and
thus we can feel the eyes going to or coming from a near and a distant
object. Of course, we are aided in judging or estimating distances by
the apparent size of the object when the real size is known, by the
clearness of its outlines in a slightly hazy atmosphere, and so forth.
But apart from such judgments, it would probably be impossible to
perceive that an object is near or distant in the absence of muscles of
accommodation and convergence affording the data of the muscular sense.
Not only the distance of two objects from the eye, but their distance
apart, can be measured by the aid of the muscular sense as we move the
eyes from one to the other. And in us this is so delicate that,
according to Weber, a distinct muscular sensation is attached to a
displacement of a sensitive point of the yellow spot through less than
1/6000 of an inch.
Now, if it be true that the consciousness aroused by objects around us,
through sensation, is an accompaniment of certain physiological changes
in the brain, it is clear that the localization of their points of
origin in special parts of the skin, and the outward projection of the
objects exciting vision, is an act of the mind quite distinct from the
mere passive response in consciousness which we call an impression, and
more complex than that mental activity which, through discrimination and
recognition, converts the bare impression into a sensation. It is, in
fact, part of that mental process which is called _perception_.[FP]
Sensation has nothing to do with the objects around us as such; it is by
perception that we are aware of their existence. Let us now follow the
process of perception a little further, always remembering that it
involves certain activities of the mind.
These activities are too often ignored. We often speak of the senses as
the avenues of knowledge, and John Bunyan, likening the soul to a
citadel, spoke of the five gateways of knowledge, Eye-gate, Ear-gate,
Mouth-gate, Smell-gate, and Feel-gate. Hence arises a vague notion that
through the eye-gate, for example, a sort of picture of the external
object somehow enters the mind. And this idea is no doubt fostered by
the fact that an inverted image of the object is formed on the retina,
though how the inverted image is turned right way up again in passing
into the mind bothers some people not a little.[FQ]
A much closer analogy is this: Something stands without and knocks at
the doorway of sense, and from the nature of the knocks we learn
somewhat concerning that which knocks. In other words, at the
bidding of certain stimuli from without we construct that mental
product which we call the object of sense. It is of these mental
constructions--"_constructs_"[FR] I will call them for convenience--that
I have now to speak.
In a fruiterer's shop on the opposite side of a street I see an orange.
That is to say, certain cones of the retina of my eye are stimulated by
light-waves of a yellow quality, and at the bidding of these stimuli I
construct the object which I call an orange. That object is distant,
roundish, yellow, resisting and yet somewhat soft, with a peculiar
smell, and possessed of a taste of its own. Now, it is obvious that I
cannot see all these qualities of the orange, as we call them. I
construct the object on reception of certain light-waves which are
focussed on the retina of my eye. If I go to the orange, however, I can
test the correctness of my construct by the senses of touch, smell, and
taste. But what led me to construct an object with these qualities?
Experience has taught me that these qualities are grouped together in
special ways in an orange. I constructed that particular object through
what is termed the principle of association. I have learnt that these
qualities are grouped together in certain relations to each other, and
when I actually receive sight-stimuli of a certain quality, grouped in
certain ways, they immediately call up the memories of the associated
qualities. That which is actually received is a mere suggestion, the
rest is suggested in memory through association. The object might be
suggested through other senses. I come into a dining-room after dessert,
and the object is suggested through smell. Or my little son says, "Open
your mouth and shut your eyes, and see what the fairies will send you;"
and an orange is suggested by taste. In all these cases the object is
constructed at the bidding of certain sensations, which suggest to my
mind the associated qualities. The object is a _construct_.
And here let us notice that we ascribe the form, the resistance, the
taste, the smell, to the object. We do not say or think,
"Sight-sensations inform me that there is something which I call an
orange, and which is capable of exciting in me sensations of touch,
taste, and smell;" but we say, "There is an orange, which _has_ such and
such a taste, smell, and feel." In other words, we refer these
sensations, related in certain ways, outwards to the object, and name
them qualities of the object that we see. But remember, that we do not
necessarily or normally say or think anything about it. We just
inevitably construct the object, what we build in to the construct
depending upon association through experience.
At this stage, perhaps, Common Sense steps in, and, shaking his head,
says, with characteristic bluntness, "Nonsense; you'll never persuade me
that the things I see and feel around me are nothing but fictions of my
own mind. I don't construct them, as you call it; there they are for me
to see and feel and taste if I will." Now, Common Sense is a sturdy,
hard-headed individual, with whom I desire to keep on friendly terms.
And I therefore hasten to explain that I most fully agree with every
word that he says. The orange that I see before me is not a mere fiction
of my mind. I can, if I will, take it up, feel it, smell it, and taste
it. If it will satisfy Common Sense, I will say that it is the idea of
the orange that I construct. Only I think that Common Sense, who has a
horror of roundabout and indirect statements, will not like my saying,
"I am receiving certain visual sensations related in certain ways, which
lead me to construct an idea of an orange." He will prefer my saying
simply, "I see an orange." Since what he wants me to call our ideas of
things answer point for point to the things as they actually exist for
us human-folk, it is not only more satisfactory but more correct to
merge the two in one, and speak directly and simply of the object. The
object is a thing I construct. That it is real may be proved by
submitting it to the test of all the senses that I have.
And what do I mean by "real"? I mean that what it is for me it is also
for you and any other normally constituted human being. This is, in
truth, the only common-sense criterion of objective reality. Some people
are colour-blind, and tell us that a rose is not red, but green. We
reply that it is really red, but that, through a defect of sight, they
cannot distinguish its redness. Here we take the normal human being as a
standard for objective reality. For him the rose is red. And this is the
only practical criterion that we have. This, however, does not satisfy
some people, who think that the objects around them have the same
reality, independent of man, that they have for us human-folk.
Annihilate, they say, every human being--nay, all life--and the objects
will remain as they are, and retain the same reality. Yes, the same
reality; which means that if just one fortunate fellow escaped
annihilation, he would find them all just as they were. And this nobody
doubts. Nevertheless, it is (to me, at least) inconceivable that things
independently of us are what they appear to us. Think of what we learnt
about the sensations. They all arose in stimulations of the end-organs
of special sense. Thence the explosive waves of change passed inwards to
the brain, and somewhere therein gave rise to mental products. These
mental products, the accompaniments of nerve-changes, can in no sense be
like the outside something which gave rise to them. They are symbols of
that outside something. And it is these symbols that we build up into
objects. Hence I said that it is not only more satisfactory and
convenient, but more correct, to speak directly of the object as
constructed, and not our idea of the object. The mental product _is_ the
object for us, not only for me, but for you and all normal human beings,
since the object is the same for all of us. And hence, also, I said that
the analogy of gateways, through which pictures of objects gain access
to the mind, was false and misleading, and that a truer analogy is that
something stands without and knocks at the doorway of sense, and that
from the nature of the knocks we learn somewhat concerning that which
knocks. The person inside can never open the door to see what manner of
thing it is which knocks. But he can build up a most cunning symbolism
of knocks which shall suffice for all practical purposes. In other
words, the object-world, symbolic though it is, which you and I and the
rest of us construct at the bidding of something without us (the
existence of which I assume), is amply sufficient for all our practical
needs, and constitutes the only practical reality for human-folk.
I am well aware that there are many people who cannot bring themselves
to believe in, or even to listen without impatience to, the view that
the world we see around us is a world of phenomena. It is absurd, they
say, to tell us that yonder tulip, as an object, is in any sense
dependent on our perception of it. There it is, and there it would have
been had man never been created. Can one conceive that the new species
of fossil, which was only yesterday disentombed from the strata in which
it has lain buried for long ages, is dependent on man's observation for
its qualities as an object? To say that it was "constructed" by the
lucky geologist who was fortunate enough first to set eyes on it is
sheer nonsense. Its shelly substance protected a bivalve mollusc
millions of years before man appeared upon the earth. When we see the
orange in the fruiterer's shop, the sight of it merely reminds us of its
other qualities--its taste, its smell, its weight, and the rest, which
are essentially its own, and no endowments of ours--nowise bestowed upon
it by us.
I have no hope of convincing, and not much desire to convince, one who
thus objects. I would merely ask him how and when he stepped outside his
own consciousness to ascertain that these things are so. Does he believe
that consciousness is an accompaniment of certain nervous processes in
the grey cortex of the brain? If so, let him tell us how these conscious
accompaniments resemble (not merely symbolize, but _resemble_) tulips
and oranges and fossil molluscs. If not, let him propound his new theory
of consciousness.
Let it not be supposed that I am denying the existence, and the richly
diversified existence, of the external world. We are fully justified, I
think, in believing that, corresponding to the diversity of mental
symbolism, there is a rich diversity of external existence. But its
nature I hold that we can never know. The objects that we see are the
joint products of two factors--the external existence and the percipient
mind. We cannot eliminate the latter factor so as to see what the
external factor is like without it. Those who, like Professor
Mivart,[FS] say that we can eliminate the percipient factor, and that
the external world without it is just the same as it is with it, are
content to reduce the human mind, in the matter of perception, to the
level of a piece of looking-glass.
There are some people who seek to get behind phenomena by an appeal to
evolution. It will not do nowadays, they say, to make the human mind a
starting-point in these considerations; for the human mind is the
product of evolution, and throughout that evolution has been step by
step moulded to the external world. The external world has, therefore,
the prior existence, and to it our perceptions have to conform. All this
is quite true; but it is beside the point. Mind has, throughout the
process of evolution, been moulded to the external world; our
perceptions do conform to outside existences. But they conform, not in
exact resemblance, but in mental symbolism. They do not copy, but they
correspond to, external existences. It is just because, throughout the
long ages of evolution, mind has lived and worked in this symbolic world
that common sense is unable to shake off the conviction that this is the
only possible world, and exists as such independently of mental
processes. The world of phenomena _is_ the world in which we, as
conscious beings, live and move. No one denies it. But it is none the
less a symbolic world; none the less a world which mind has constructed
in the sense that it is an inalienable factor in its being.
Each of us, when we perceive an object, repeats and summarizes the
constructive process which it has been the end of mental evolution to
compass. Hence it is that, at the bidding of a simple impression,
percepts or constructs take origin and shape in the mind. In taking
possession of this faculty in the early years of life, we are entering
upon a rich ancestral heritage. But if what I have been urging has
truth, what we call objects are human constructs, and cannot by any
manipulation be converted into anything else.
I will now take another and more complex case of construction, which
will bring out some other facts about what I have termed "constructs." I
hear in the street a piercing howl, which suggests a dog in pain. Rising
from my seat and going to the window, I see a white terrier with a black
patch over the left eye limping down the road on three legs. Now, what
was the nature of the construct framed at the bidding of the piercing
howl? A dog in pain. But what dog? The nature of the howl suggested a
small dog; but there was nothing further to particularize him. The
construct was, therefore, exceedingly vague and ill defined, and was not
rendered definite and particular till I went to the window, and saw that
it was a white terrier with a black patch over the eye. The howl,
moreover, suggested certain activities of the dog. The construct was not
merely a passive, inanimate object, like the orange, but an object
capable of performing, and actually performing, certain actions. Here,
again, we can only say that it is through experience that special
activities are associated with certain objects. Just as the construct
orange is capable of exciting sensations of taste, so the construct dog
is capable of doing certain things and performing certain actions, that
is, of affecting us in certain further ways.
But, further, the howl suggested a dog in pain. No amount of sensations
entering into any manner of relations could give me that element of the
construct. I can neither see, touch, taste, smell, nor hear pain in
another being. Pain is entirely subjective and known only to the
sufferer. But I have been a sufferer. I have experienced pain and
pleasure. And just as my experiences, individual and ancestral, lead me
to project into inanimate objects certain qualities, the products of my
sensations, so do my experiences, individual and ancestral, lead me to
project into certain animals feelings analogous to those I have myself
experienced. This is sometimes described as an inference. But if we call
this an inference, then we must, I think, call the taste, smell, and
feel of the orange I see before me inferences. In both cases the
inference, if we so call it, enters at once into the immediate
construct.
And when I went to the window and saw the dog limping down the street, I
saw also a small boy, with arm drawn back, in the act of throwing a
stone. In other words, I saw the objects in the scene before me standing
in certain relations to each other. I concluded that the boy had thrown
a stone at the dog and was about to throw another. In other words, I saw
the scene before me as part of a sequence of events.
One more example I will give to bring out another and important feature
in the mental process. Strolling before breakfast in early spring in my
friend's garden, there is borne to me on the morning air a whiff of
violet fragrance. Not only does this lead me to construct violets, but
it reminds me of a scene in my childhood with which the scent of these
flowers was closely associated. Not only is the object constructed, but
a scene with which their fragrant odour has been associated is
_reconstructed_ in memory. The violets are immediate constructs or
presentations of sense; the remembered scene is a _reconstruct_ or
representation in memory. So, too, when I heard a piercing howl in the
street, the dog I constructed was a vague presentation of sense; but the
street in which I instinctively placed him was a reconstruct or
representation in memory. The difference between a construct or
presentation of sense, and a reconstruct or representation in memory, is
that the former is directly suggested through the immediate action of
some quality or activity of the object, while the latter is indirectly
suggested through some intermediate agency.
Before proceeding further, let us review the conclusions we have thus
far reached. Through the action of certain surroundings on our sensitive
organization, we receive certain impressions, and among these
impressions and others revived in memory we recognize certain
similarities or differences in quality, in intensity, in order of
sequence, and in source of origin. The sensations which thus originate
are mental facts in no sense resembling their causes, but representing
them in mental symbolism. The consciousness of similarity or difference
is no part of the impression, but a further mental fact arising out of
the impression, and with it giving origin to sensation. It deals with
the relation of impressions among each other and to the recipient. It
involves recognition and discrimination. Its basis is laid in memory.
The sensations are instantly localized, referred to objects, and
projected outwards, mainly through the instrumentality of the muscular
sense. The mental symbolism is thus built into the objects around us,
and constructs are formed. But into the tissue of these constructs are
woven, not only the sensations immediately received, but much that is
only suggested through association as the outcome of past experience,
individual and ancestral. The constructs and their associated
reconstructs are thus endowed with qualities which have practical
reality, since they are not for me only, but for you and for mankind.
They are, therefore, in a sense independent of _me_, but nowise
independent of _man_.[FT]
Some of the constructs are endowed with activities, and some with
feelings akin to our own. Finally, in the field of vision which we
construct or reconstruct, the objects are seen to stand in relationship
to each other, and the scene as a whole is perceived to be part of an
orderly sequence of events.
We have already got a long way beyond the impressions with which we
started; and yet, if I may trust my own experience, such construction as
I have described is direct and immediate. A child of four or five would
not only construct as much, but might not improbably go a long way
further, and say, "Naughty boy to throw a stone at poor doggie!" It is,
I say, direct and immediate, and it implies a wonderful amount of mental
activity. Some people seem to imagine that in the simpler forms of
perception, as when I see an orange on the table, the mind is as passive
as the sensitive plate in a photographer's camera. This surely is not
so. It is a false and shallow psychology which teaches it. Just as a
light pin-prick may set agoing complex physical activities in the frog,
so may comparatively simple visual sensations give rise to complex
mental activities in construction and reconstruction. It is to emphasize
this mental activity that I have persistently used the terms "construct"
and "construction." And I wish to emphasize it still further by saying
that without the active and constructive mind no such process of
construction or reconstruction is possible or (I speak for myself)
conceivable. We might just as well suppose that the frog could leap away
on stimulation of a pin-prick in the absence of its complex bodily
organization, as that sensation could give rise to construction and
reconstruction in the absence of a highly organized mind.
We have seen that when a howl suggested the construct dog, that
construct was vague and undefined; but when I went to the window and saw
the terrier, the construct became particularized and defined. This seems
to me the normal order of development: first the vague, general, and
indefinite; then the particular, special, and defined. That which is
immediately suggested at the bidding of sensations received is always
more or less general; it only becomes specialized on further examination
physical or mental--first a dog or an orange; then this dog or this
orange. The more unfamiliar the object, the more vague and indefinite
the construct. The more familiar the object, and the further our
examination of it is carried, the more particular and defined the
construct. I would, therefore, mark two stages in the process of
construction: first, the formation of constructs by immediate
association, more or less vague, indefinite, and ill defined; and,
secondly, the definition of constructs by examination, by which they are
rendered more definite, particular, and special, and supplemented by
intelligent inferences.
I need not stay here to point out the immense importance of this process
of defining and particularizing constructs, or the length to which it
may be carried; nor need I pause to indicate how, through memory and
association, representative or reconstructive elements crowd in to link
or weave the constructs into more or less vivid and brilliant scenes.
But I have next to notice that out of this intelligent examination
arises a new, distinct mental process, _the analysis of constructs_.
This process involves the paying of special attention to certain
qualities of objects, to the intentional exclusion of other qualities.
When I cease to examine an orange as a construct, and pay attention to
its colour or its taste to the exclusion of other properties, with the
purpose of comparing this colour or taste with other colours and tastes,
I am making a step in analysis. So, too, when I consider the form of an
orange for the purpose of comparing it with the form of the earth, I am
making a step in analysis. And, again, when I consider the howl of the
dog with the object of comparing it with other sounds, I am making a
step in analysis. We may call the process by which we select a certain
quality, and consider it by itself to the neglect of other qualities,
_isolation_, and the products of the process we may term _isolates_.[FU]
This process could not be initiated till a large body of constructive
and reconstructive experience had been gained. But once initiated, there
is no end to the process. We pick to pieces all the phenomena of nature,
all the qualities and relationships of objects, the activities and
functions of animals, the mental phenomena of which we are conscious in
ourselves. We isolate the qualities, relationships, feelings; and we
name the isolates we obtain. Hence arises all our science, all our
higher thought. In the terms which we apply to our isolates consists the
richness of our language.
We _name_ the isolates; that is, we apply to each an arbitrary symbol to
stand for the isolated quality or relation. All words (except the
obviously onomatopoetic, such as "bow-wow," "cuckoo," etc.) are
arbitrary symbols associated with objects, or qualities, or relations,
or other phenomena. And abstract names of isolates are, so to speak, the
pegs on which we hang the qualities we have separated by analysis and
isolation, while class-names are pegs upon which we can hang a group of
similars reached by the process of isolation; for all classing and
grouping of objects, or qualities, or relations involves, so far as the
process is a conscious one, the principle of analysis. In classing
objects, we group them in reference to certain characters which they
have in common, disregarding certain other characters in which they
differ. We group together, for example, sights, or sounds, or smells,
and distinguish them from each other and from tastes and touches. And
then we go further, and class all these together as sensations having
certain characteristics in common whereby they are distinguished from
perceptions of relation and so forth.
Perhaps it may be objected that classification comes much earlier in the
mental process than I am now putting it. It may be said that the
recognition of a sensation as a touch, or a smell, or a sound involves a
classification of sensations in these categories, and that the simple
perception of an orange involves the placing of the object in this class
of bodies. And, undoubtedly, we have here the germs of the process.
Sensation and perception give us the materials for classification; the
perception of similarity and difference gives us the _sine quâ non_ of
the process. Nevertheless, although there may be an earlier unconscious
grouping of phenomena, it is only when the mind is specially directed to
these materials, with the object of grouping them according to their
similarities, that we can speak of classification proper--conscious and
intentional classification, as opposed to unconscious grouping. And this
involves the intentional selection of the points of similarity, and
discarding or neglecting the points of difference. It involves the
process of analysis or isolation. There is a vast difference between the
perceptual recognition of objects as similar, and conceptual
classification on grounds of similarity. Just as the recognition of a
sensation as now and not then, or here and not there, or as due to
something outside us, gives us the germs from which, on ultimate
analysis, our ideas of time, space, and causation are reached; so does
the recognition of these sensations as of this kind and not that give us
the germ from which, on analysis, the process of classification may
arise. True, conscious, scientific classification is late in
development.
And here let us notice that the conclusions we have reached in this
chapter are the outcome of analysis and classification. The sensations
with which we started are isolates. In considering their quality,
intensity, sequence, we were isolating and classifying these special
modes of their existence. Localization and outward projection involved
isolation. We simply see the orange before us. To understand and explain
how we come to see it as we do see it involves a somewhat subtle
analysis. We perceive it to be yellow, round, resistant; and then,
isolating these qualities, we reach conceptions of yellowness,
roundness, and resistance, quite apart from oranges. Throughout our
description the terms we used were very largely terms denoting
classified isolates.
Lastly, having enormously increased our knowledge by this process of
isolation, we proceed to build in the knowledge thus gained to the
structure of our constructs. This is the third and last stage in
construction. The first stage is the formation of indefinite constructs
by immediate association; the second is the definition of constructs by
examination; and the third is the completion of constructs by synthesis.
And the further this process of analysis and isolation is carried, the
more we are, so to speak, floated off from the immediate objects of
sense into the higher regions of abstract thought. Furthermore, by
recombining our isolates in new modes and under new relations, we reach
the splendid results of constructive imagination.
In the brief description which I have now given of our mental processes,
I have for the most part avoided certain terms which are current in the
science of psychology. It will be well here to say a few words
concerning these words and their use. The process of _sensation_ is
sometimes defined as the mere reception of a sense-stimulus. But it is
more convenient, and more in accordance with common usage, to call the
simple result of a stimulus an impression, and to apply the term
"sensation" to the discrimination and recognition of the impressions as
of such and such a quality. Sensation, then, is the reception and
discrimination of impressions which result from certain modes of
influence (stimuli) brought to bear on our organization. Viewed in this
way, therefore, even sensation involves a distinct reaction of the mind;
it implies the first stage of mental activity. But when the sensations
are given objective significance, when they suggest the existence of an
object-world without us, they enter the field of _perception_. Here the
discriminated sense-impression is, to use the words of Mr. Sully,
"supplemented by an accompaniment or escort of revived sensations, the
whole aggregate of actual and revived sensations being solidified or
integrated into the form of a _percept_; that is, an apparently
immediate apprehension or cognition of an object now present in a
particular locality or region of space."[FV] Throughout the whole
process of the formation of constructs by immediate association, and
their definition by examination, we were dealing with perception and
percepts. But when we reach the stage when particular qualities were
isolated, then we enter the field of _conception_. The isolates are
_concepts_. Class-names, reached through processes involving isolation,
stand for concepts. And completed constructions, involving synthesis of
the results of analysis, contain conceptual elements. The word
"concept," however, is used in different senses by different authors.
Mr. Sully says,[FW] for example, "A concept, otherwise called a general
notion, or a general idea, is the representation in our minds answering
to a general name, such as 'soldier,' 'man,' 'animal.'... Thus the
concept 'soldier' is connected in my mind with the representations of
various individual soldiers known to me. When I use the word 'soldier,'
... what is in my mind is a kind of composite image formed by the fusion
or coalescence of many images of single objects, in which individual
differences are blurred, and only the common features stand out
distinctly.... This may be called a typical or generic image." But
Noiré, quoted by Professor Max Müller,[FX] taking another illustration,
says, "All trees hitherto seen by me leave in my imagination a mixed
image, a kind of ideal presentation of a tree. Quite different from this
is my concept, which is never an image." I follow Noiré; and I hold that
the image, in so far as it is an image, whether simple or composite,[FY]
is a percept; but that, in so far as there enter into the idea of the
soldier or the tree elements which have been isolated by analysis, just
in so far does the word "soldier" or "tree" stand for a concept. How far
a word stands for a percept, and how far there enter conceptual
elements, depends to a large extent on the level of intelligence of the
hearer. The moment educated and intellectual folk begin to think about
their words, or the objects for which they stand, conceptual elements
are sure to crowd in.
There is one more feature of these mental processes in man, and that by
no means the least important, that remains for brief consideration. I
began by saying that the primary end and object of the reception of the
influences of the external world, or environment, is to enable the
organism to answer to them in activity. We saw that the sight of an
orange suggests, through association, its taste; and that the validity
of the association could be verified by going to the orange and tasting
it. We saw, too, that when I heard a dog howl in the street, and, going
to the window, saw a small boy with a stone in his hand, I concluded
that he was going to throw it at the dog. What I wish now to elicit is
that out of perceptions through association there arise certain
expectations, and that the activities of organisms are moulded in
accordance with these expectations.
It is clear that these expectations or anticipations belong partly to
the presentative or constructive order, and partly to the reconstructive
or representative order. They are in some cases directly suggested by
the presentations of sense; they are also built up out of
representations which have become associated with the constructs in
memory and through experience. But what we have here especially to
notice about them is that, in the latter case, they involve more or less
distinctly the element which we, in the language of our developed
thought, call causation. There is a sequence of events, and the
perception of certain of these gives rise, through association and
experience, to an expectation of certain succeeding phenomena.
Expectations are, therefore, the outcome of the linked nature of
phenomena. And when we come eventually to think about the phenomena, and
how they are linked together into a chain (successional) or web
(coexistent), we reach the conception of causation as the connecting
thread. In early stages of the mental process, such a conception does
not emerge. Nevertheless, the phenomena are perceived as linked or
woven. And the mental process by which we pass from any perceived event
or existence to other preceding, concomitant, or subsequent events or
existences linked or woven with it in the chain or web of phenomena, we
call _inference_.[FZ] When, for example, I find a footprint in the sand,
I infer that a man has passed that way; and when the clouds are heaped
up heavy and black, I infer that a storm is about to burst upon us.
Concerning inference, of which I shall have more to say in the next
chapter, I have now to note that it is of two kinds: first, perceptual
inference, or inference from direct experience; secondly, conceptual
inference, or inference based on experience, but reached through the
exercise of the reasoning faculties. The latter involves the process of
analysis or isolation; the former does not. There is a marked difference
between the two. Perceptual inferences are the outcome of practical
experience, but do not go beyond such practical experience. Conceptual
inferences are also based on experience, but they predict occurrences
never before experienced. Perceptual inferences, again, deal with
matters practically; but conceptual thought explains them.
The expectation of a storm when the thunder-clouds are heavy is a case
of perceptual inference. It is the outcome of a long-established
association, and is not reached by a process of reasoning involving an
analysis of the phenomena. But if, though the sky is clear, a west wind
and a rapidly falling barometer lead me to predict rain, the inference
is conceptual, and gained by me or for me by a process of reasoning; for
the barometer was the outcome of the analysis of phenomena. In the mind
of the rough sailor-lad, however, the fall of the mercury and the
succeeding storm may be connected by mere perceptual inference, the
phenomena being simply associated together. If, however, there is any
attempt at explanation, correct or incorrect, there is so far a
conceptual element. In a little fishing-village on our south coast, a
benevolent lady presented the fishermen with a Fitzroy barometer. I
happened shortly after to remark to one of the men that the summer had
been unusually stormy. "Yes, sir," he said, "it has. But then, you see,
the weather hasn't no chance against that new glass." Here there was an
attempted explanation of the phenomena. The falling glass was conceived
as somehow causing bad weather.
It is hard to draw the line between perceptual and conceptual
inferences, or rather to say, in this or that case, to which class the
inference belongs, because man, through language, lives in a conceptual
atmosphere. Moreover, the same result may, in different cases, be
reached by perceptual or by conceptual inference. A child who had seen a
great number of ascending balloons might, on seeing a balloon, expect it
to ascend by a perceptual inference; but a man, knowing that the balloon
was full of a gas lighter than air, might expect it to ascend through
the exercise of conceptual inference. And just as in adult civilized
life our constructs have more and more conceptual elements built into
them, so do our inferences become more and more reasoned. It is probable
that in an adult Englishman every inference has a larger or smaller dose
of the conceptual element.
With the development of language we state our inferences in the form of
propositions, and call them judgments. "Every proposition," says Mr.
Sully,[GA] "is made up of two principal parts: (1) the subject, or the
name of that about which something is asserted; (2) the predicate, or
the name of that which is asserted. Thus, when we affirm, 'This knife is
blunt,' we affirm or predicate the fact of being blunt of a certain
subject, namely, 'this knife.' Similarly, when we say, 'Air corrodes,'
we assert or predicate the power of corroding of the subject 'air.'" The
proposition always involves conceptual elements; for the predicate of a
proposition is always an abstract idea or general notion.
Propositions so formed may then become links in a chain of reasoning.
"To reason is," says Mr. Sully,[GB] "to pass from a certain judgment or
certain judgments to a new one." And so passing on from judgment to
judgment, we may ascend to the higher levels of abstract thought.
According to Mr. Sully's definition, therefore, we start from a judgment
or judgments in the process of reasoning. The formation of a judgment
(conceptual inference) is, however, the first step in a continuous
process; and I propose, under this term, "reason,"[GC] to include this
first step also. The formation of a conceptual inference I regard as the
first stage of reason. Any mental process involving conceptual inference
I shall call _rational_.
In contradistinction to this, I shall use the term "intelligence" for
the processes by which perceptual inferences are reached. An intelligent
act is an act performed as the outcome of merely perceptual inference. A
rational act is the outcome of an inference which contains a conceptual
element.
NOTES
[FP] I use this term in a broad sense, as the process involved in the
formation of what I shall term _constructs_.
[FQ] And I may add it is not an easy matter to explain to those who
have not considered such questions. It is a matter of the
correlation of the testimony of the sense-organs. A boy stands
before me. I go to him and touch him, and pass my hands downwards
from head to foot. Then I stand a little way off and look at him.
His image on my retina is inverted. But as I run my eye over him I
direct my eye downwards to his feet and upwards to his head. I am
not conscious that the stimuli are running _upwards_ along the
retinal image. Thus my eye-muscles and my other muscular and
tactile sensations seem to tell me that he is one way upwards. The
image on my retina tells me, though I am not conscious of the
fact, that he is the other way upwards. But he cannot be both! The
testimony of one sense has to give way. One standard or the other
has to be adopted. Practically that of touch and the muscular
sensations is unconsciously selected, and sight-sensations are
habitually interpreted in terms of this standard. So long as the
two are sufficiently accurately correlated, the practical
requirements of the case are met. And it is well known that it is
not difficult, with a little practice, to establish a new
correlation. This is indeed done every day by the microscopist,
for whom the images are all reversed by his instrument. He very
soon learns, however, that to move the object, as seen, to the
left, he must push it to the right. A new correlation is rapidly
and correctly established.
[FR] I use this term because the word "percept" is used in different
senses by different writers, e.g. by Mr. Mivart and Mr. Romanes.
[FS] "Let the perception be considered to be made up of x + y; x being
the ego, or self, and y the object. The mind has the power of
supplying its own - x, and so we get (through the imagination of
the mind and the object) x + y - x, or y pure and simple" (Mivart,
"On Truth," p. 135). Mr. Mivart devotes a whole section of this
work to the defence of ordinary common-sense realism. The above
assertion seems to contain the essence of his teaching in the
matter.
[FT] If it be said that the object does exist independently of man,
though not in the phenomenal guise under which we know it, I would
reply--Not so; for it is to the existence _under this phenomenal
guise_ that we apply the word "object." In philosophical language,
the existence, stripped of its phenomenal aspect, is called the
_Ding an sich_. Its essential character is its independence of
man; and hence its unknowability.
[FU] I avoid, for the present, the use of the terms "abstraction" and
"abstract idea" because they are employed in different senses by
different authors.
[FV] "Outlines of Psychology," p. 153.
[FW] Ibid. p. 339.
[FX] "Science of Thought," p. 453.
[FY] For compound or generic ideas "not consciously fixed and signed by
means of an abstract name," Mr. Romanes ("Mental Evolution in
Man," p. 36) has suggested the term "recept." In the photographic
psychology which he adopts, the percept is an individual and
particular photograph, the recept a generalized or composite
photograph. "The word 'recept,'" he says, "is seen to be
appropriate to the class of ideas in question, because, in
receiving such ideas, the mind is passive." This, it will be
observed, is in opposition to the teaching of this chapter, in
which the activity of the mind in perception has been insisted on.
Mr. Romanes's recepts answer in part to what I have termed
_constructs_, which, as we have seen, are, as a rule, from the
first general rather than particular, and in part to concepts
reached through analysis. Mr. Romanes, for example, speaks of
ideas of principles (e.g. the principle of the screw) and ideas of
qualities (e.g. good-for-eating and not-good-for-eating) as
recepts (p. 60). On the other hand, Mr. Mivart ("The Origin of
Human Reason," p. 59; see also his work "On Truth") terms such
generic affections "sensuous universals." It may be well to append
Mr. Romanes's and Mr. Mivart's tabular statements.
_Mr. Romanes._
{ General, abstract, or notional = Concepts.
IDEAS { Complex, compound, or mixed = Recepts, or generic ideas.
{ Simple, particular, or concrete = Memories of percepts.
_Mr. Mivart._
{ General or true universals = Concepts.
IDEAS { Particular or individual = Percepts.
{ Groups of actual experiences }
SENSITIVE { combined with sensuous } = Sensuous universals,
COGNITIVE { reminiscences } or recepts.
AFFECTIONS { Groups of simply juxtaposed } = Sense-perceptions,
{ actual experiences } or sencepts.
In Mr. Mivart's terminology, the representations of the lower group
are "mental images" or "phantasmata." The term "consciousness" is by
him restricted to the higher region of ideas, the term
"consentience" being applied to the faculty by which cognitive
affections are felt, unified, and grouped without consciousness.
_There is a difference in kind_, according to Mr. Mivart, between
"consentience" and "consciousness;" and the former could therefore
never develop into the latter, nor the latter be evolved from the
former. For this reason (because of the philosophy it is intended
to carry with it) I shall not employ the word "consentience,"
which would otherwise be a useful term.
[FZ] We do not speak of the filling in the complement of a percept (the
construction of the object at the bidding of a simple impression)
as a matter of conscious inference. I do not consciously _infer_
that yonder moss-rose is scented. Scent is an integral part of the
construct. From the appearance of the rose, I may, however, infer
that a rose-chafer has disturbed its petals. The complement of the
percept, if inferred at all, is unconsciously inferred.
[GA] "Outlines of Psychology," p. 392.
[GB] "Outlines of Psychology," p. 414.
[GC] Mr. Romanes adopts a different use of the terms "reason" and
"rational," to which allusion will be made in the next chapter.