OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY “The first impulse, then, to every voluntary act in man, 
that is necessary to preserve the life of the individual, the 
continuance of the species, and the formation of society, seems 
to be as purely instinctive, as any act of an animal. ... It h 
only through a knowledge of physical laws and of his own nature, 
in all its planes, especially in that plane of instinctive impulses 
where activities arise and strive without his bidding, and in spite 
of his will ... it is only through this broad knowledge of self, 
that man can bring every power into service, and make it minister 
to the great work of life which he has made the object of his 
choice.” (P. A. Chadbourne, Lowell Lectures on Instincts in 
Animals and Men, 1871.) OUTLINE 
OF PSYCHOLOGY 
BY 
WILLIAM McDOUGALL 
PROFESSOR OF PSYCHOLOGY IN HARVARD COLLEGE 
CHARLES SClllBNER’S SONS 
NEW YORK 
ATLANTA 
CHICAGO 
SAN FRANCISCO 
BOSTON Copyright, 1923 by 
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 
Printed in the United States of America TO 
THE HONORED MEMORY OF 
WILLIAM JAMES, GREAT PHILOSOPHER, GREAT 
PSYCHOLOGIST, AND GREAT MAN PREFACE 
The time has gone by when any one man could hope to write 
an adequate text-book of psychology. The science has now so 
many branches, so many methods, so many fields of application, 
and such an immense mass of data of observation is now on record, 
that no one man can hope to have the necessary familiarity with 
the whole. But, even when a galaxy of learning and talent shall 
have written the text-book of the future, there will still be need 
for the book which will introduce the student to his science, 
which will aim at giving him at the outset of his studies a profit- 
able line of approach, a fruitful way of thinking of psychological 
problems, and a terminology as little misleading as possible. 
The present volume is designed to render these services. 
The need of such a book is greater in psychology than in any 
other science. In the physical sciences the student needs only to 
refine upon the methods of observation and reasoning which he 
has learned to apply in dealing with the physical world about 
him, regarding all events as links in a mechanical chain of cause 
and effect. Most students have begun, by the time they ap- 
proach psychology, to regard this as the true and only way of 
science. And many of the books on psychology encourage them 
in this belief. Having begun in this way myself, and having 
slowly and painfully extricated myself and found what seems to 
me a much more profitable attitude toward psychological prob- 
lems, I hold that the path of the student may be made smoother 
by setting clearly before him at the outset the alternative routes; 
so that, whichever he may choose to follow, he may at least make 
his choice with his eyes open, and may constantly be aware of 
the alternatives. The two principal alternative routes are (i) 
that of mechanistic science, which interprets all its processes as 
mechanical sequences of cause and effect, and (2) that of the 
sciences of mind, for which purposive striving is a fundamental 
category, which regard the process of proposive striving as 
radically different from mechanical sequence. The aim of this PREFACE 
book is, then, to introduce the student to psychology by this 
second route; and throughout I have kept in the foreground 
the question of the relative merits of the two routes; for this 
is the most important issue before psychologists at the present 
time, the one which divides them most fundamentally. 
The mechanical psychology, naturally and almost inevitably, 
adopts the atomistic or “mosaic” theory of mental process, the 
theory that what in these pages is called thinking is a “stream 
of consciousness” consisting of discrete elements, units, particles, 
or atoms of conscious stuff, commonly called “sensations” or 
“units of feeling,” cohering somehow in clusters. When it seeks 
to explain the clusterings and sequences of these “elements,” it 
does so by imagining each one to be attached in some manner to 
an elementary process in the brain; and it seeks to explain the 
conjunctions and sequences of the elementary brain-processes in 
a purely mechanical fashion, by aid of the laws of the physical 
and chemical sciences. 
This mechanical psychology is decidedly preponderant at the 
present time; and my book therefore is largely a polemic against 
all psychology of this type and on behalf of purposive psy- 
chology. For I am sure that nothing is to be gained by dis- 
guising or slurring over this issue, and that it must be frankly 
faced and resolved before psychology can go forward with the 
harmony and general agreement upon fundamentals which pre- 
vail in the physical sciences. 
The fact and the importance of the issue were most interest- 
ingly illustrated by the work of the two eminent men to whom 
I have the honor to be in some sense the successor in Harvard 
College. Hugo Milnsterberg began as a forceful, brilliant, and 
dogmatic exponent of the mechanical mosaic psychology. But 
more and more, as he became increasingly interested in the 
practical applications of psychology, he recognized the claims of 
the purposive psychology. And, in his later works, he may almost 
be said to appear as a self-made convert to this way of thinking. 
In William James a similar evolution is traceable; less clearly, 
because all of his strictly psychological work was published at 
one period of his development, when he was still trying to bal- 
ance himself upon and to reconcile the two incompatible founda- PREFACE 
tions. His great work, “The Principles of Psychology,” shows 
this divided allegiance in almost every chapter. Where I have 
criticised the mechanistic mosaic psychology, I have usually 
chosen James’s exposition of it, because it is incisive and bril- 
liant. This may give the impression that I disagree with James 
more widely than is actually the case. For there were two 
Jameses—James the physiologist and sensationist psychologist, 
and James the author of the purposive psychology which was 
the root of his pragmatic philosophy. It is only the former 
James with whom I am in wide disagreement, and whom I have 
criticised. 
In spite of this disagreement, I regard the “Principles” as 
perhaps the best book upon which serious students of psychology 
can begin to whet their appetite. To such students I am in- 
clined to say: “ Begin, as I did, by reading James’s ‘Principles’ 
carefully and thoroughly, and then take up this book and see 
if it can help to clarify your thinking and to clear up some of 
the major tangles left by James.” 
As compared with James’s great work, this book is simplified 
by consistent adhesion to a single point of view, that of the 
purposive psychology. But it makes no attempt to conceal the 
difficulties and complexities of psychological study. In the past, 
both descriptions and explanations of mental life have suffered 
much from the natural endeavor of psychologists to simplify 
their expositions. This tendency to simplification is, in fact, 
the root of the mechanistic mosaic psychology, that which de- 
scribes mental process as made up of static elements, “units of 
feeling,” “atoms of sensation,” “particles of mind-dust,” “neu- 
tral entities,” or what not. And this type of psychology is still 
with us, and still predominant. Its latest exponent, Mr. Bert- 
rand Russell, has performed the service of reducing it to the 
lowest level of banality (in his “Analysis of Mind”). Re- 
cently it has begotten upon physiology a most misshapen and 
beggarly dwarf, namely, “behaviorism,” which just now is 
rampant in this country. But fortunately there are signs of a 
better future. 
The work of Henry Head in England, and of Pierre Marie and 
of Bergson in France, has thrown doubt upon the interpretations PREFACE 
of mental disturbances following on brain-lesions in terms of the 
mosaic theory, interpretations which, not long ago, were very 
confidently advanced as justifying that theory. The psychoana- 
lytic movement, however great its errors may prove to be, must 
always be memorable as a breaking loose from the tradition of 
mental life as a mechanical mosaic, and a demonstration that 
we must interpret it as a play of purposive forces rather than 
as an aggregation or mechanical streaming of mental atoms. 
In Germany, whence the mosaic psychology was imported into 
this country, there seem to be clear indications that its course 
is well-nigh run. Among the academic psychologists, those of 
the group represented by Psychologische Forschung have set 
their feet upon a better way. And, in a report upon the Con- 
gress held at Marburg in 1922, Doctor Hemsing writes: “Until 
the turn of the century it was believed that one could grasp the 
mind with number and measure. This was the direction of the 
Wundtian School; but few papers of this kind were presented 
to the Congress; for since 1900 there has developed a qualitative 
psychology which concerns itself less with numbers and more 
with kinds of experience and qualitative analysis. We know 
to-day that the complications and structure of experience cannot 
be analyzed into simple qualitative elements or built up by 
joining one such element to another.” In America also this 
return to sanity is not without its pioneers. Professor R. M. 
Ogden, for example, in a recent article (“Are There Any Sensa- 
tions?” Am. Journ. of Psych., 1922) raises a “doubt as to the 
genuineness of the hypothetical elements of sensation,” and 
proposes that we should no longer strive “to reconstruct mental 
life as a certain number of conscious entities merely joined one 
to another in a mosaic of sensory particles.” And some leading 
psychologists, notably Doctor Morton Prince and Professor M. 
W. Calkins, have never wholly deserted the purposive route, 
even when they have compromised with the other by admitting 
“mental elements” as units of composition of “consciousness.” 
I venture to regard my book as an endeavor to carry to its 
logical conclusion that critical rejection of the “mosaic psy- 
chology” which has been a main theme of the psychological 
writings of Messrs. James Ward, F. H. Bradley, Dawes Hicks, PREFACE 
and G. F. Stout. My exposition is most nearly allied to and 
owes most to the works of the last named. Although I always 
feel humble in face of the clarity and penetrating quality of Pro- 
fessor Stout’s writing, I venture to hope that in certain respects 
I may have attained greater consistency and a more complete 
emancipation from the evil influence of the “mosaic” tradition. 
Any introduction to psychology written from the mechanistic 
and mosaic standpoint naturally begins with a description of 
the structure and functions of the nervous system, and goes on 
to discuss at some length the “sensations” of the various senses. 
I have touched on these topics very lightly only; because any 
attempt to treat of them adequately would have made the book 
unduly large, and because they seem to me of very secondary 
importance for the beginner. 
Our knowledge of the functions of the nervous system is very 
rudimentary, and as regards many of those of greatest interest 
to psychology we are still entirely in the dark. The schematic 
oversimplified view which can be presented in one or two chap- 
ters seems to me of little value, and apt to be seriously misleading. 
The psychophysiology of the senses is a field rich in accumu- 
lated observations, the fascination of which as a field of research 
is not unknown to me. But I cannot see that a brief and bald 
statement of the principal facts and theories is of primary im- 
portance to the young student of psychology. And the student 
who approaches psychology by this route is almost inevitably 
led into the mechanical atomistic way of thinking which I would 
have him avoid. 
To begin with the study of the senses is seductive; for this is 
one way of simplifying psychology and of enabling the student 
to feel that he is acquiring a solid basis of facts. But it is a 
simplification achieved at the cost of an abstraction from actual 
experience, the degree of which the young student does not easily 
understand. I have preferred to lead the student up to the 
complexities of the human mind by way of the simpler processes 
of the animal mind. For there, although we are confined to the 
observation of behavior for evidence of mental life, we do at 
least deal with concrete realities rather than with abstract and 
artificial entities, such as “the sensations” are. PREFACE 
I have not attempted to make direct use of the large and 
rapidly increasing body of knowledge derived from the study of 
abnormalities of mental life. For this also is not of primary 
importance for the beginner; and it seems to me that little is 
to be gained by inserting snippets of psychopathology into an 
introductory book. I hope to publish shortly a volume on the 
abnormal processes, in which I shall endeavor to show how these 
may be satisfactorily conceived in terms of the general principles 
laid down in this volume. Although it is intended that the two 
volumes shall be independent, they will naturally supplement 
one another; and, for brevity’s sake, I have on several pages re- 
ferred to this projected volume as Part II. 
I have printed in smaller type a number of passages in which 
I have discussed problems of peculiar difficulty or of secondary 
importance. The main part of the text in larger type may be 
read continuously; and the beginner may safely omit, on first 
reading, both the sections in smaller type and the foot-notes. 
In adopting this plan I have aimed to make the book useful 
both to junior and to more advanced students. I would also 
warn the beginner that the introductory chapter is a very dif- 
ficult one. He should not be discouraged, if he should find 
that he cannot understand all of it at the first reading. He 
should return to it after reading the rest of the book. 
Readers of my “Social Psychology” will notice that I have 
modified in certain respects my account of instinct. The pres- 
ent account is, I hope, not only fuller, but also clearer and 
nearer to the truth. The statement of the theory of laughter, 
included in Chapter V, has appeared in Scribner's Magazine, 
and I thank the publishers for permission to make use of it here. 
I have to thank Professor Arthur Thomson and the publishers 
of “An Outline of Science,” and Sir F. W. Mott and the pub- 
lishers of his “Human Voice in Speech and Song,” for permis- 
sion to reproduce the two plates (Figs, i and 2), and to thank 
also Mr. L. H. Horton, who has read part of my manuscript and 
made valuable suggestions for its improvement. McD 
Harvard College, 
September, 1922. CONTENTS 
CHAPTER I 
PAGE 
Introductory:—provisional definition of psychology i 
Psychology is based on observations of three kinds: (x) Introspection; 
(2) Observation and description of the conditions of experience; (3) 
observation and description of behavior—Popular and literary psy- 
chology—Divergence of scientific psychology—Applications of psychol- 
ogy restore it to sanity—The use of hypotheses is necessary—Some 
historical hypotheses—Psychology of pure experience—Psychology of 
the soul and faculty psychology—The psychology of ideas—Psychology 
as science of consciousness—The atomistic or mosaic psychology— 
Fusion of atomistic with idea psychology—Influence of physiology on 
psychology—The mechanical reflex theory—Memory and the reflex 
theory—Consequences of the mechanical reflex theory—The mechani- 
cal reflex theory not the foundation-stone of psychology—The assump- 
tions of the reflex theory—Acceptable hypotheses—The hypothesis of 
the mind—Definition and divisions of psychology—The Subject is an 
indispensable hypothesis—Mental structure and mental functions. 
CHAPTER II 
The Behavior of the Lower Animals 43 
The marks of behavior—Behavior is purposive—A scale of degrees of 
purposiveness—Purpose implies foresight—Purposive and reflex actions 
contrasted—Conditioned reflexes—A seventh mark of behavior—Rela- 
tion of the human to the animal mind—The nature of tropisms—Trop- 
ism a valid principle, but not all-sufficient—Behavior of protozoa— 
Behavior of the earthworm—Insects and instinctive behavior—The 
hormic theory. 
CHAPTER III 
Behavior of Insects 74 
Purely instinctive behavior—Instinct and intelligence co-operate in 
homing—The tropic theory unable to account for homing—Other in- 
stances of intelligent adaptation of instinctive action—Instinct and 
intelligence not separable. CONTENTS 
CHAPTER IV 
PAGE 
Behavior of the Vertebrates 94 
Fishes—Birds—Recognition of species, of sex, and of individuals by 
birds—The reproductive cycle among pigeons—Some general principles 
of instinctive activity—Instincts as springs of energy—The life-history 
of an instinct—Degrees of specificity of instincts—Instincts and motor 
mechanisms—How is an instinct defined if not by its motor expressions? 
CHAPTER V 
The Instincts of the Mammals and of Man . . . 121 
Instincts or emotions are assigned by common sense as the springs of 
animal action—Motives and intention—Common sense and motives— 
Instincts and emotions—The common-sense cue justified by the theory 
of evolution—The parental or protective instinct—The working of the 
parental instinct—The instinct of combat—The instinct of curiosity— 
The food-seeking instinct—The instinct of repulsion—The instinct of 
escape—The gregarious instinct—Primitive passive sympathy—The 
instincts of self-assertion and submission—The mating instinct—The 
acquisitive instinct—The constructive instinct—The instinct of appeal 
—Some minor instincts—A theory of laughter—Play not the expression 
of “an instinct of play”—Imitation not due to “an instinct of imita- 
tion.” 
CHAPTER VI 
Habit and Intelligence in Animals 177 
Habit too much used as explanatory principle—Habits of mind and 
habits of body—Habits not sources of motives—Attachment of im- 
pulses to new objects—Perceptual habits—The method of trial and error 
—Imagination in animals—Mental evolution. 
CHAPTER VII 
Behavior of the Natural Man 204 
Naturalness in the absence of traditions—Mowgli’s greater powers of 
imagination—Desire—Desire and imagination—Rudimentary senti- 
ments—Hormic theory contrasted with other theories of action—Quali- 
ties of conduct and character—Pleasure and pain in the hormic theory. 
CHAPTER VIII 
Perceptual Thinking 221 
Present and remote objects—Visual perception—Sensory qualities are 
signs of objects—A simplified world—Recognition is based on sensory CONTENTS 
PAGE 
patterns of three kinds—Qualitative patterns—Temporal patterns— 
Spatial patterns—Varieties of sensory qualities—Temporal perception— 
Spatial perception—Perception of a solid object—Imagery—Can 
“meaning” be analyzed into “images”?—Minds of simple and of com- 
plex structure. 
CHAPTER IX 
Attention and Interest 265 
The cycle of mental activity—Is striving initiated by feeling? Or is 
feeling secondary to striving? Psychological hedonism and utilitarian- 
ism—Intensity and suddenness of sense-impression not in themselves 
determinants of attention—What is interest?—Interest is conative— 
Conative unity—Conative persistence and reversion of attention— 
Distribution of attention. 
CHAPTER X 
Imagining—Anticipating—Recollecting 284 
The use of names—Pre-perception the most primitive kind of imagin- 
ing—Language as stimulus to imagination—Exaggeration of the role of 
movement in thinking—Anticipatory and reproductive imagination— 
Experiments on memory—Is retentiveness improved by practice ?—Are 
habit and memory identical functions?—The role of “meaning” in re- 
membering—Memory or remembering in the strict sense—How do we 
“place” our memories in the past?—The essence of recognition—Mem- 
ory and conation—Desire and imagination. 
CHAPTER XI 
Emotion 314 
Qualitative varieties of emotional experience—Two senses of the word 
“emotion”—Conation as a mode of experience—Conative experience 
in'emotional excitement—Emotion, impulse, and bodily adjustments— 
Instincts and corresponding qualities of emotion—The primary emo- 
tions—The Lange-James theory of emotion—The blended or secondary 
emotions. 
CHAPTER XII 
The Derived Emotions 338 
Prospective emotions of desire—Retrospective emotions of desire—Joy 
a derived emotion—Surprise—Distinction between primary and de- 
rived emotions—The use of the word “feeling”—Varieties of feeling— 
Blending of pleasure and pain—Feelings and emotions disentangled. CONTENTS 
CHAPTER XIII 
PAGE 
Disposition, Temper, Temperament, and Moods . . 351 
Disposition—Temper—Temperament—The endocrine glands—Intro- 
version and extroversion—Moods. 
CHAPTER XIV 
Belief and Doubt 362 
Belief is not “inseparable association”—Belief is a derived emotion— 
Conation and belief—Judgment converts doubt to belief—Belief in 
reality of things—Simple apprehension and belief—The aesthetic atti- 
tude—Beliefs. 
CHAPTER XV 
Growth of Mental Structure: The Development of 
Cognitive Structure or Intellect 378 
Intellect and intelligence—Associationist account of mental growth very 
inadequate—Generic images—Three fundamental processes of growth 
of intellect—Discrimination—Apperceptive synthesis—Explicit and im- 
plicit apperception or intuition—Development of mental structure by 
association—Association of various levels—Assimilation. 
CHAPTER XVI 
Reasoning and the System of Beliefs 399 
Judgments determined by perception, by communication, or by reason- 
ing—Reasoning from particulars—Inductive reasoning—Deductive rea- 
soning—Systems of beliefs. 
CHAPTER XVII 
Growth of Mental Structure (Continued). The De- 
velopment of Sentiments, the Organization of 
Character 417 
The nature of sentiments—The sentiment of hatred—The sentiment of 
love—Sentiments of contempt and respect—Sentiment of friendship— 
The tender passion—The sentiment of self-regard—Extensions of self- 
regard—Sentiments and complexes—Moral sentiments—Character— 
Volition—Resolve—Freedom of the will—The main stages of mental 
evolution—Some problems of the future. 
Index 451 OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
CHAPTER I 
INTRODUCTORY 
Psychology is, or aspires to become, a science, a systemati- 
cally organized and growing body of knowledge. Entering upon 
the study of this science, we shall naturally expect to be told 
what is the class of things or processes with which the science 
is concerned; what kind of knowledge, what sort of increase of 
understanding, we may hope to gain from the study of it. 
The most satisfying answer is that it should help us to a 
better understanding of human nature. The aim of psychol- 
ogy is to render our knowledge of human nature more exact and 
more systematic, in order that we may control ourselves more 
wisely and influence our fellow-men more effectively. There is 
probably no psychologist who would find serious fault with this 
statement. As a definition of the province of the science it falls 
short in two respects. Such a definition should indicate all that 
falls within the province and should exclude everything that 
does not. And in both these respects the statement falls short 
of perfection. For one well-established branch of psychology 
studies animals, and is properly called the study of animal be- 
havior. And, on the other hand, we have anthropology, a 
study which by its very title claims to be, and in practice is, 
the science of mankind; but which, as generally understood, 
includes much that falls outside the province of psychology. 
We should not attach great importance to these imperfections; 
for similar difficulties arise when we attempt to define concisely 
any science or branch of science. The fields of the various sci- 
ences overlap. It is inevitable that they should do so'; for, if 
there are sharp divisions in nature, we do not know exactly 
where to find them, and therefore cannot draw any precise 
boundaries between the sciences. And such overlapping of the 2 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
sciences is really advantageous; for it brings the workers in the 
several sciences into touch and co-operation one with another. 
The psychologist may and should study animal behavior; in 
doing so, he enters the field of the zoologist, needs his help and 
may hope to render some help in return. But he studies animals 
for the sake of the light which such study may throw upon his 
own problems, the problems of human nature. The relation of 
psychology to zoology is not unlike that of zoology to geology. 
The zoologist or biologist needs some knowledge of geology, and 
is able to make returns to the geologist for the help he gets from 
him; and there is a large field of overlap, the science of fossil 
remains or palaeontology, which is dependent upon and supple- 
mentary to both these more fundamental sciences. In a very 
similar way, the science of animal behavior stands between 
zoology and psychology, as a field of overlap which is dependent 
upon both and in which they may come into helpful relations. 
The other weakness of our definition of psychology, namely, 
that it may seem to claim too much and so encroach upon the 
field of anthropology, is no more serious. Anthropology, broadly 
conceived, concerns itself with man as an animal species. Within 
this wide science are several more special anthropological sci- 
ences, none of which can be sharply marked off from the more 
inclusive science or from one another; such are ethnology and 
human morphology and physiology. Psychology is a member 
of this group of anthropological sciences; it may be distinguished 
from the wider science of anthropology by saying that it is 
concerned, not with man as one animal species among others, 
but with man in his distinctively human aspect. Now every 
one knows that man is chiefly distinguished from the animals 
by his mental powers. Why not then be content (as some of the 
earlier writers were) to define psychology as the science of mind, 
or of the human mind, or of mind as manifested in the human 
species? There are several objections to such a definition. 
First, “mind” is a vague word, itself in need of definition. The 
meaning of the word can not be defined by pointing to one mind 
after another and saying: “This and this and this is what I mean 
by ‘a mind.’” Although the words “mind” and “mental” are 
in common usage, we can only gradually by prolonged study INTRODUCTORY 
3 
build up and clarify our conception of “mind” or of “a mind.” 
Secondly, there are other sciences of mind than psychology: 
such are logic, and metaphysic, and epistemology, and theology, 
all of which claim to tell us about mind or minds. 
Those who have been content to define psychology as the 
science of mind have for the most part conceived of human 
nature as a combination of two very unlike things or principles, 
mind and body. But this is an assumption the validity of 
which is highly disputable; it has been not only disputed, but 
also confidently rejected, by a great number of philosophers, as 
well as by many of the leaders of modern science. And, even 
if we regard the assumption as well founded, we have to con- 
fess that it is impossible to distinguish clearly and confidently 
between body and mind, between the working of the body and 
the manifestations of mind in or through the body. 
Psychology is Based on Observations of Three Kinds. 
Introspection 
The difficulty is that each of us has no direct or immediate 
acquaintance with minds other than his own. Each one of 
us experiences pain and pleasure and various emotions, thinks 
and strives, remembers and expects and resolves. And it is 
generally agreed that all such experiences are manifestations of 
his mind or mental capacities. By reflection upon such experi- 
ences a man may form some notion of what his mind does and 
can do. And, by comparing notes with other men, he learns 
that they have similar experiences upon similar occasions, and 
infers that they have minds not unlike his own. Such observa- 
tion of the varieties of one’s own experience is called introspec- 
tion. Every intelligent person can and does to some extent 
notice and remember his experiences; and there are very few 
who do not sometimes describe their experiences in words, reflect 
upon them and discuss them with their fellows. When such 
introspection, reflection, and interchange of descriptions of ex- 
periences and reflections upon them are conducted systemati- 
cally, the process constitutes one of the great methods of psy- 
chology. It has for a long time been a well-recognized method; 
it has in fact often been declared to be the sole practical method 4 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
of psychological study, the only legitimate and effective method 
of obtaining knowledge of the mind. During the last half cen- 
tury, this method of study has been greatly refined by the use 
of systematic experiment; that is to say, the person who wishes 
to notice and describe his experiences of any particular kind, 
instead of waiting until in the natural course of events such an 
experience occurs, deliberately seeks or arranges conditions 
under which some such experience is likely to occur, expects it 
and notices it, and describes it as carefully as possible. By 
the aid of a laboratory, all sorts of ingenious apparatus, and 
skilled assistants, much may be done to refine introspection 
and to record its results more accurately; and such work is a 
large part, though by no means the whole, of what is called 
“experimental psychology.” Experimental introspection has 
obvious limitations. Many of the most vital and interesting 
experiences, such as grief or joy or fear or moral struggle, cannot 
be induced at will, except, perhaps, in very slight degrees. 
And, under the most favorable conditions, introspection of our 
more vivid and vital experiences is difficult, because we are 
apt to be primarily interested in the events of the outer world 
in which we are taking part, if only as observers. Then again 
the very act of introspection does to some extent modify the 
experience we wish to observe and describe; so that in intro- 
specting we partially defeat our own purpose. 
Another great difficulty meets us when we come to exchange 
notes with others upon our introspections; namely, the lan- 
guage in which we describe our experiences to one another is 
always sadly inadequate and imperfect. It is not true, as has 
sometimes been said, that language was evolved purely for the 
description of material things and events; it seems more nearly 
true to say that language was in the first place essentially a 
means for communicating and describing our experiences, and 
that, throughout its development, this has been a very impor- 
tant function of language. Nevertheless, in respect of this func- 
tion, language, in spite of all the efforts of literary men and of 
psychologists to render it more precise and effective, remains a 
very inadequate instrument. For the description and discus- 
sion of things and events of the material world language has INTRODUCTORY 
5 
become very efficient; because we all have, or may have, the 
same kind of acquaintance with those things and events; and 
the efficiency of language for this purpose affords a strong guar- 
antee of the essential similarity of such knowledge and acquaint- 
ance obtained by men in general. 
But, in respect of the description of our experiences, language 
can never attain the same efficiency; just because each man has 
one kind of acquaintance with his own experience, namely, a 
direct acquaintance, and another, a very indirect kind of ac- 
quaintance only, with the experiences of other men.1 Yet here 
again the fact that we do succeed by the aid of language in mak- 
ing one another understand in some degree our descriptions of 
our experiences shows that one man’s experiences are not wholly 
unlike another’s, but rather have much in common. In many 
cases of the description of experience, language is but little less 
efficient than for the description of objective fact. If I say “I 
saw the moon rise over the hill just now,” you understand what 
I mean almost as fully and as surely as when I say “The moon 
rose over the hill just now.” Yet in the former case my words 
describe a fact of my experience of which you can have only in- 
direct acquaintance through my description; while in the second 
case the words describe an objective event which you may be 
acquainted with in the same way as myself and may objectively 
verify in other ways. Again, I say “I am truly sorry”; and (if 
I am speaking truly) I describe a fact with which you can have 
no direct acquaintance, such as I have; yet you know very well 
what I mean, and you adjust your conduct accordingly. And 
if, instead of “sorry,” I had used any one of some hundreds of 
words, and had said “ I am, or I feel, weary or angry, or anxious, 
or afraid, etc.,” you might have felt the same confidence that 
you took my meaning. This confidence is justified by the suc- 
cess with which we use such language to influence one another. 
1 This statement is sometimes disputed. There is some striking evidence in 
support of the view that one man, A, may sometimes become aware of the thoughts 
or feelings of another, B, or otherwise be influenced by them, in some more direct 
fashion than the usual roundabout processes of bodily or verbal expression by B and 
the perception of those expressions by A by aid of his senses. Such communica- 
tion by unknown means is generally called “telepathic but its reality is not re- 
garded as fully established. 6 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
Observation and Description of the Conditions of Experience 
The introspective method has, then, peculiar difficulties and 
limitations; yet, in spite of these, it is possible for it to achieve 
a generalized description of types of experience. It could and 
did achieve in this way a certain stage of psychological science, 
namely, the descriptive classificatory stage, which is but the 
first stage of the development of a science. But even this could 
be achieved only by taking note of the conditions under which 
we enjoy the experiences that we more or less successfully 
describe in words. For it is largely by noting and pointing out 
to one another such conditions that we attain to a common use 
and understanding of the words by aid of which we describe 
our experiences. We note, for example, that “hot” is the right 
word for the description of our experience when we closely ap- 
proach the fire, “pain” when any part of the body is injured, 
“weary” when we have worked long and hard, “pleased” when 
we attain what we seek, and so on. Some of these conditions 
are facts of the outer world, some are facts of experience; and 
by noting systematically such occasions or conditions of various 
types of experience, it is possible to establish a certain number 
of empirical rules which raise to the explanatory stage the purely 
descriptive psychology attainable by introspection alone. This 
has been done with good effect. 
Observation and Description of Behavior 
A third great type of observation enables us to carry yet 
further our understanding of our experience, and at the same 
time raises another group of problems. This is the observation 
of conduct or behavior, both our own and that of other persons. 
By the term “conduct or behavior of any person” we denote 
every movement and every other observable change of bodily 
condition which seems to express his experience. We know from 
observation of our own behavior that movements of the limbs, 
the face, the throat and chest, and other bodily changes, such 
as sweating and shedding of tears, are apt to accompany or 
follow upon experiences of certain types, in a more or less regular 
and orderly fashion. And observation of other persons, com- INTRODUCTORY 
7 
bined with their statements about their accompanying experi- 
ences, enables us to formulate a number of general rules, stating 
the correlation or conjunction of types of experience with types 
of bodily expression or behavior. Common observation has 
embodied in common speech a number of such empirical rules 
of correlation between modes of experience and modes of be- 
havior; and, aided by these and by his own observations, every 
man, without special study, acquires some skill in interpreting 
modes of behavior as expressions of experiences. 
Popular and Literary Psychology 
These three kinds of observation—namely, (i) introspection, 
or the noticing of one’s own experiences, (2) observation of the 
conditions or occasions of experiences, (3) observation of the 
expressions of experiences—are practised by all men with some 
degree of success; and common speech embodies many general 
propositions based upon them. Such propositions constitute 
the popular psychology which we inevitably acquire in learn- 
ing the use of language. Until we begin to study psychology 
scientifically, we inevitably make use of these forms of speech 
and accept more or less uncritically the propositions expressed 
or implied by them. Most of these implications of common 
speech are more or less true; for they embody the wisdom of 
the ages. But most of the words used in popular psychology 
are so vague and ill-defined that it is very difficult to formulate 
in such terms any unambiguous propositions or to convey any 
clear meaning. The literary art largely consists in so combining 
the words and phrases of popular psychology as to convey such 
meaning more effectively than the common speech of the com- 
mon man can do. The cultivation of literature or the art of 
letters has thus greatly refined the psychology of common speech; 
and, when we speak of a cultivated man, we generally mean 
one who has learnt to appreciate and to make use of this more 
subtle and effective literary psychology. Persons whose edu- 
cation has been mainly literary, and who have learnt to appre- 
ciate highly and to use with some skill this more subtle literary 
psychology, are very apt to take the view that it is the only 
form of psychology of any value and that the attempt to deal 8 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
scientifically with the facts of experience, or to make a scien- 
tific psychology, is mistaken and fruitless. But this anti- 
scientific view is ill-founded; there need be and should be no 
antagonism between literary and scientific psychology. From 
this point onward I shall use the terms “psychology” and “psy- 
chologist” to denote the scientific varieties; but in doing so, I 
shall imply no disrespect for the achievements in this sphere 
of poets and biographers and writers of romance. The wise 
psychologist will regard literature as a vast store-house of 
information about human experience, and will not neglect to 
draw from it what he can. 
Divergence of Scientific Psychology 
For long ages the literary and the scientific treatments of hu- 
man nature and human experience were but little differentiated; 
but as, under the stimulus and example of the other natural 
sciences, psychology began to be studied more systematically 
for its own sake, it drew further away from the popular and 
literary traditions, and a spirit of antagonism showed itself. 
This tendency was perhaps inevitable; for the psychologists, in 
attempting to specialize the words of common speech and to 
give them precise meaning, and in endeavoring to formulate 
exact generalizations and explanations of experience, formed 
hypotheses or theories, as is done in all the other natural sci- 
ences; their statements about experience and even their ob- 
servations were then apt to be distorted or perverted by their 
theories; for such theories could at the best only approximate to 
the truth, and at the worst were very misleading. This tendency 
of psychology to diverge from the common and the literary tra- 
ditions culminated about the end of the nineteenth century, 
when the artificial character of psychology was carried so far 
by some of its exponents that their writings seemed to have no 
relation to human nature or experience and no bearing upon 
practical life. To some psychologists this was evidence that 
their science was still in a very crude and unsatisfactory condi- 
tion; for they saw that the true purpose of psychology, in the 
progressive realization of which its justification must be found, 
is the improvement of our understanding, and therefore of our INTRODUCTORY 
9 
control, of human experience and behavior. But others took a 
high line and reacted against the charge that psychology was a 
useless and purely academic pursuit, by retorting that it made 
no claim to be anything else; that it could have, and should not 
aspire to have, any bearing whatever on real life; that it was a 
game like any other, to be played according to accepted rules 
or conventions; that the enjoyment to be had from the game 
and the sharpening of wits that it might bring were its sole justi- 
fication and raison d'etre. 
Applications of Psychology Restore It to Sanity 
This stage, however, did not long endure. One of the most 
prominent of the “strictly scientific” psychologists who dog- 
matically expounded this remarkable doctrine, in accordance 
with his principles and in defense of the strictly useless psy- 
chology which he had produced, shortly afterward published 
a long series of books on the applications of psychology to life; 
and, as these books were not without value, they provided a 
convincing demonstration of the falsity of the doctrine. In 
thus turning from false theory to practical endeavor, this in- 
consistent psychologist exemplified the condition and the devel- 
opment of psychology at the time. For by the impartial in- 
quirer the so-called science might well have been described as 
a mass of observations of the three kinds we have noticed, mixed 
with and distorted by a chaotic jumble of theories. 
Nevertheless, it began to be apparent, even to some prac- 
tical men, that this jumble of facts, expressed by various writers 
in terms of the most diverse and inconsistent theories, though 
it might hardly deserve the name of a science, had yet some- 
thing to offer of value for practical life. And the psycholo- 
gists kept plugging away, accumulating observations, refining 
their methods, and discussing their theories, vastly encour- 
aged by these indications of a coming recognition and prac- 
tical application of their hard-won knowledge. Nothing suc- 
ceeds like success. And so these first successful applications of 
psychology have brought many more students into the field, 
have turned many into the paths of direct attack upon practical 
problems (i. e., of applied psychology) and have excited a wide- OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
spread popular interest in this now flourishing science. Even 
literary men are beginning to pay some attention to it and to 
find in it some help toward understanding and describing human 
experience and behavior. Thus psychology is coming into its 
own; and the psychologist, instead of ploughing his lonely fur- 
row in the vague hope of contributing to a science that may 
some day be recognized as of value to mankind, finds himself 
embarrassed by the fact that men of the most varied occupations 
are calling on him for help, expecting from him definite pro- 
nouncements and safe guidance in a multitude of practical prob- 
lems. 
This revolution of the popular attitude toward psychology, 
from one of complete indifference to that of excessive trust and 
expectation of practical guidance from it, brings serious draw- 
backs and dangers to the orderly development of the science. 
But in the long run it must tend to its advancement. And we 
may now confidently say that psychology is destined to go for- 
ward, answering more fully the practical demands made on it, 
and gradually building itself up into the master science of hu- 
man nature; a science which will provide for all the social sci- 
ences the foundation for lack of which they have long remained 
relatively sterile. 
The Use of Hypotheses Is Necessary 
I have said that the theories of psychologists have colored 
their descriptions, and often have distorted their observations. 
What, then, is to be our attitude toward theories or hypoth- 
eses in psychology? Are we to banish them and to build up 
a science without hypotheses? That would be quite impos- 
sible, even if we were content to remain on the plane of purely 
descriptive psychology. For, in order to describe, we must 
use general and abstract terms; and every such word implies 
a theory or hypothesis. Description requires classification of 
like with like; and the use of any word which denotes a class 
of like objects of thought implies the hypothesis that these ob- 
jects are so far of common nature as to justify us in thinking 
of them as alike—for the particular purpose we have in view. 
Classificatory hypotheses of this kind are necessarily made INTRODUCTORY 
by every science; and they have to justify themselves by their 
successful working. Without them, not only science but all 
intelligent discourse is impossible, whether about human na- 
ture or any other topic. The discussion of experience, of its 
conditions and its expressions, necessarily makes use of such 
classificatory hypotheses. But the question remains—Should 
we restrict the use of hypothesis as much as possible ? Or is it 
advantageous deliberately to devise and use hypotheses that go 
beyond the bare minimum necessary for description, hypotheses 
of a more gratuitous nature, designed to explain the facts we 
describe ? Here opinions differ very widely. Some authors pro- 
fess a horror of hypotheses, and pretend to proscribe them from 
all science. This is mere ignorance and pedantry. We have 
seen that the hypotheses invoked in the use of general terms are 
inevitable; and the more far-reaching, more deliberately designed 
hypotheses, which are commonly distinguished as explanatory, 
are not really of a different nature; for description and explana- 
tion are not really distinct processes; explanation is only descrip- 
tion in terms more general and more abstract than those of 
simple description. In making and using such hypotheses, it 
is all-important to be aware of what we are doing and to be 
ready to modify or abandon them at need. If we maintain this 
attitude, hypotheses are great aids to discovery, and, in so far 
as they are well designed, they greatly simplify description and 
facilitate explanation. 
Some Historical Hypotheses 
When psychology began to separate itself as a science from 
the popular and literary traditions, it did not start with a clean 
sheet in respect of hypotheses. Not only was it obliged to use 
and to revise, as best it could, the classificatory hypotheses of 
common speech; but also it found in these traditions certain 
hypotheses of the more far-reaching or explanatory kind, which, 
though vague and ill-designed for scientific purposes, were so 
firmly established that it was difficult to escape their influence. 
The very name of the science embodies such a hypothesis; for 
it implies that the science is concerned to study the soul or 
psyche, which for long ages had been regarded as a vital prin- OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
12 
ciple inhabiting and animating each human body and somehow 
the ground of each individual’s experience. Many of these 
hypotheses were launched on their careers by great writers, or 
were developed by philosophers and by their authority estab- 
lished more securely in the common and literary traditions. 
Almost all psychologists make use of hypotheses having some 
such history. And the mischief is that there is no agreement 
as to which are the better of them; and, worse still, some hold 
them dogmatically, shape all their psychology upon them, 
and look with scorn upon all other types of psychology de- 
termined by the acceptance of other hypotheses. Wide di- 
vergences due to acceptance of widely different hypotheses are 
not peculiar to psychology. In physical science there are those 
who accept the ether, and those who do not; those who believe 
in absolute space and time, and those who do not; those who 
make use of the hypotheses of causation, energy, and force, and 
those who profess to have thrown them overboard as useless 
impedimenta. Similar differences in psychology are, then, no 
reproach to it and no ground for regarding it as in a peculiarly 
bad or hopeless position. 
We may glance at some of the chief of these divergent types 
of psychology, resulting from different views as to the use of 
hypotheses. 
Psychology of Pure Experience 
Those who would restrict the use of hypothesis most severely 
aim at describing and explaining experience in terms of experi- 
ence alone. They are allied with the pure idealists among the 
philosophers, for whom experience alone is real and all that ex- 
ists, or is real, is experience. They are apt to define psychology 
as the science of individual experience or of pure experience. 
Apart from the insuperable difficulties of the metaphysical doc- 
trine implied, psychology of this type may confidently be said 
to condemn itself to sterility by its self-denying ordinance. 
Psychology of the Soul and Faculty Psychology 
Ancient psychology accepted the soul, and was chiefly con- 
cerned to distinguish the various functions of the soul and to INTRODUCTORY 
13 
assign them seats in the various parts of the body. In the 
modern period this type developed into what is generally called 
“faculty psychology.” Experience was regarded as a function 
or activity of the soul, or of a part of the soul distinguished as 
the mind; or “the mind” was used as synonymous with “soul”; 
and experiences of each of the principal types, such as remem- 
bering, desiring, judging, comparing, were said to be due to 
the exercise of a corresponding faculty, a faculty of the mind or 
soul; each such faculty being a subsidiary hypothesis. Faculty 
psychology had a considerable career; and early in the nine- 
teenth century it received a new lease of life in the modified 
form of phrenology, which taught that each faculty had its seat 
in some particular part of the brain. Both the older and the 
later form of faculty psychology have long been discredited. 
Even though it be admitted that the conception of a soul or 
mind endowed with certain most fundamental faculties is one 
that we cannot wholly dispense with; yet we must recognize 
that in itself this assumption can carry us but a little way, and 
that to multiply the faculties and merely ascribe each type of 
experience to the exercise of such a faculty is a fruitless proce- 
dure. 
The Psychology of Ideas 
The great rival of the faculty theory was the theory of ideas. 
This theory has had a most varied and influential career in both 
philosophy and psychology; and, though no one has ever been 
able to make of it a consistent and intelligible theory, its influ- 
ence still lives on. It is so firmly entrenched in the popular, 
the literary, and the psychological traditions, that the word 
“idea” is perhaps the most frequently used of all psychological 
terms, and few psychologists succeed in avoiding the use of it, 
even when they reject the theory it implies. In Plato’s theory 
of ideas each “idea” was a supernatural archetype of a class of 
things; and the “ideas” existed in some remote and inaccessi- 
ble region.1 But at a later period “ideas” were brought into 
the mind and changed their character. John Locke was chiefly 
1 This is the traditional interpretation of Plato’s language, but in recent years 
it has been seriously questioned. OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
14 
responsible for establishing “the new way of ideas” in modem 
psychology. He began by defining “an idea” as anything 
whatsoever of which a man thinks 1 And, since Locke accepted 
the common-sense view of the physical world, the view namely 
that material things exist independently of our minds, this defi- 
nition seemed to identify material things with “ideas.” But 
Locke’s further discussion made it seem that “the ideas” were 
somehow within, and a part of, the mind. The quick-witted 
Irishman, Bishop Berkeley, seized upon this inconsistency of the 
ponderous Englishman, and pointed out that, if all things of 
which we can think are “ideas,” and “ideas” are in, or of, the 
mind, then all things of which we can think are in and of the 
mind; and, therefore, all things of which we can have any 
thought or knowledge are mental things. In this way he started 
a stream which swelled into that vast sea of troubled specula- 
tion called modern idealism. David Hume also took the “ideas” 
into the mind; but, in doing so, made them a substitute for the 
mind itself. Locke’s use of the theory of “ideas” was a com- 
promise between this extreme position and the faculty psy- 
chology; between “the new way of ideas” and the old way of 
faculties. For he continued to use the hypothesis of the mind 
endowed with faculties, and described the mind as exercising 
its faculties upon or about its “ideas.” But, said Hume, all 
we know directly is the stream of “ideas” (and “impressions” 
which for him did not differ essentially from “ideas”) and what 
we call the mind or soul is a mere empty stage which we un- 
necessarily assume to exist as the scene upon which the “ideas” 
play their parts. From that time onward “ideas” have played 
a very prominent part in psychology.2 Experience became a 
mere stream of “ideas,” and the course of experience was to be 
explained by the action of “ideas” upon one another. Think- 
ing of any object was described as “having an idea of it”; and 
to think of it a second time, or a third, was described as “having 
the same idea again.” Then arose the question—Where was 
the “idea” in the interval between my first and second thinking 
1 “Whatsoever is the object of the understanding when a man thinks.” 
2 The more modern term “presentation” is almost synonymous with “idea” 
and has the advantage of denoting also “sense-perceptions.” . INTRODUCTORY 
of the object? Two answers, often confused together, became 
current. One described “ideas” as capable of existing in two 
conditions, the conscious and the unconscious conditions; when 
I am thinking of an object, my “idea” of it is said to be in the 
conscious condition; when I cease to think of it, the “idea” 
subsides into the unconscious condition. Some authors, seeing 
that the “idea’ was, if it was anything at all, essentially a 
section or piece of experience, sought to avoid the inconsistency 
of the expression “unconscious idea, ’ by supposing that, in the 
interval between its successive appearances, the “idea” became, 
not unconscious, but only subconscious or very slightly con- 
scious The mind for this school was then no longer a stage 
or scene for the “ideas”; but consisted in and of the mass of 
“ideas,” unconscious or subconscious for the most part, but 
passing in turn into the conscious condition. 
The other answer was that the mind, the stage on which 
“ideas” play their parts, is also a store-house; that beneath the 
stage, which is illuminated, is a dark chamber in which “ideas” 
are stored. From this dark chamber they issue in turn, to ap- 
pear upon the illuminated stage; afterward sinking down again 
into the dark store-house. Thus, for this theory, the mind con- 
sists of two chambers, one illuminated, one dark; the illumina- 
tion is “consciousness,” a sort of light which plays upon the 
“ideas” as they emerge from below; the plane of emergence, that 
of the trap-doors in the stage, came to be spoken of as “the 
threshold of consciousness”; and the “ideas” were said to rise 
above or fall below this threshold, the transition from light to 
darkness being usually more or less gradual. This way of de- 
scribing experience is full of inconsistencies and obscurities. 
And, though it may have played a useful part in the past, as, 
for example, in the psychology of Herbart, there is no justifica- 
tion for continuing to use it. My own opinion is that any ser- 
vice performed by these confused and confusing fictions (namely, 
the “ideas,” the dark and the illuminated chambers of the 
mind, “ the threshold of consciousness,” and “consciousness” as a 
light which illuminates “ideas”) is far outweighed by the vast 
mass of confused and loose thinking which they have engendered. 
They should be sternly banished to the psychological museums. 16 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
Yet they still thrive; as we see in the Freudian psychology, 
which has flourished so greatly of late years, and in the usage 
of many writers of other schools. 
Psychology as Science of Consciousness 
Others define psychology as the science of consciousness; 
which is not far from the definition of it as the science of indi- 
vidual experience. For “consciousness” is generally taken to be 
almost, if not quite, synonymous with “experience”; although, 
as we have just seen, there are other usages of the word. “Con- 
sciousness” is a thoroughly bad word; and it has been a great 
misfortune for psychology that the word has come into general 
use. If it be used as synonymous with “experience,” it must 
be admitted that “experience” is much the better term; because, 
even when it is used in the substantival sense, it retains the 
form of the verb from which it is derived, so that we can hardly 
forget that experience implies some one who experiences and 
something which is experienced by the experiencer. Whereas 
“consciousness,” having the form of a substantive which cannot 
be used as a verb, allows us to forget that it stands for the fact 
of being conscious of something, and that it implies some one 
who is conscious of that something. And many of the writers 
who use the word allow themselves to fall into this error; though 
the etymology of the word should help them to avoid it. For 
it is derived from conscire, which is the Latin for “to know 
things together”; and “consciousness,” if it is used at all, should 
be used to mean “the act of knowing or thinking of things.” 
The word “conscience” would have been a better word than 
“consciousness” for psychological purposes, if it had not been 
appropriated by the moralists and given a special popular mean- 
ing. The French language is more fortunate than ours in that 
it retains the word “conscience” in its original sense. 
The Atomistic or Mosaic Psychology 
The havoc wrought in psychology by the word “conscious- 
ness” is chiefly due to our deep-seated tendency to reify (to 
make a thing or a stuff of) every object that we think and speak 
of, especially when we think or speak of it by aid of a word of INTRODUCTORY 
17 
substantival form. Yielding to this tendency, very many 
psychologists have fallen into the way of speaking of conscious- 
ness (i. e., of the act of thinking of things) as though it were 
a stuff. Then, on contemplating this stuff, it appears obvious 
that it is not a simple stuff of uniform texture, but rather highly 
complex and variegated; more like a mosaic or a piece of tapes- 
try than a uniform white sheet. Moreover, it appears like a 
stuff that perpetually changes, as though an endless strip of 
tapestry were drawn along before our eyes. Therefore, pro- 
ceeding to analyze this stuff, they seem to themselves to dis- 
cover that it is a mosaic, made up of small pieces of stuff; and 
they then set themselves to find the smallest particles, the 
irreducible elements or atoms, of this stuff. 
The question then arises whether all these particles, of which 
“consciousness” is supposed to be made up, are of one kind; 
and, while some maintain that they are of several or of many 
kinds, the majority assert that they are fundamentally of one 
kind only, which they call “sensations,” or “sensory elements.” 
And some speculators of a metaphysical turn go further and 
say that these particles are not really the ultimate elements; 
but that, just as the atoms of the older chemistry are now 
commonly said to consist of electrons, or of particles of elec- 
tricity or of some other stuff, so the sensory elements or atoms 
really consist of still finer particles of “consciousness” which 
they like to call “mind-stuff” or “mind-dust.” Some of them 
go so far as to assert that, not only ourselves or our minds, but 
all things in the universe are made up of such mind-dust, ar- 
ranged and compounded in many different conjunctions. And 
then, in order to make plausible this fantastic view, the view 
that the seas and mountains, stars and planets and all things 
else are made up of this stuff, they fall back on the expressions 
“subconsciousness,” and “threshold of consciousness,” and “con- 
sciousness as a light which illuminates one chamber of the mind 
and all that enters into it”; striving in this way to make intel- 
ligible their doctrine that the stuff they call “consciousness” ex- 
ists in two forms, namely, “conscious consciousness” and “un- 
conscious consciousness.” 18 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
Fusion of Atomistic with Idea Psychology 
This way of treating of experience readily combines with 
“the way of ideas.” For “ideas,” regarded as things, are a 
product of the same tendency to reify whatever we think of. 
The “consciousness psychologist,” accepting “ideas” as things, 
as innocently as he accepts “ consciousness” as a stuff, asks him- 
self—Of what stuff are these things called “ideas” composed? 
The answer is not far to seek. Obviously “ideas” are com- 
posed of “sensory elements”; and so arises a full-blown “sen- 
sationism” or sensationist psychology. It is generally held by 
the exponents of this doctrine that it has the great merit of 
solving or abolishing the perplexing problem of the relations 
between mind and matter; and, since matter is said by them to 
be composed of the same stuff as “consciousness” or “ideas,” 
they proudly claim for it the title of “idealism.” 1 Any one who 
is capable of contemplating the history of psychology in a de- 
tached spirit will be inclined to agree that this “consciousness” 
is not only stuff but also non-sense. And some of the exponents 
of “sensationism,” having carried the doctrine as far as they 
can, have themselves arrived at this conclusion. For, turning 
round upon their own doctrine in a moment of illumination, 
they have asked—Does this stuff that we call “consciousness” 
really exist? Does consciousness exist? And they have been 
constrained to reply—No, obviously it does not exist; it is an 
illusion, a fiction. 
Having thus displayed the purely fictitious and fallacious 
character of “consciousness psychology,” some of the more 
thoroughgoing thinkers have deduced from its failure a new 
philosophy which they call “neo-realism.” Thus has been 
evolved the very latest form of materialism which, instead of 
saying, with the old-fashioned materialists, that the brain se- 
cretes consciousness, says rather that the distinction between 
1The word “idealism” has two entirely different meanings which are often con- 
fused implicitly and sometimes deliberately. In the one meaning it denotes any 
doctrine which asserts that the whole world consists of mind or minds or mental 
operations. In the other meaning it stands for any moral attitude of striving to 
realize an “ideal”—to make real or actual a state of affairs that seems to us better 
than the existing state. INTRODUCTORY 
19 
consciousness or experience and things known or experienced is 
fictitious and illusory, that “ideas,” and “perceptions,” and all 
the other things said to be composed of bits of “consciousness,” 
are really identical with the objects of the physical world. 
Thus the wheel comes full circle, and we are brought to the 
position from which Locke started out—“ideas” are once more 
the things of which a man thinks; that is to say, they are iden- 
tified with all “the furniture of earth,” while “the choir of 
heaven,” including all such things as minds, souls, selves, or 
spirits, with all their modes of activity and experience, is left 
out from the picture of the universe. 
Most of the exponents of “consciousness” and “sensation- 
ism” do not achieve this last turn of the wheel. In order to 
understand their position, which is perhaps the one most widely 
held at the present day, we must consider a very important in- 
fluence in modern psychology of which up to this point I have 
made no mention, the influence, namely, of physiology. 
Influence of Physiology on Psychology 
The ancient philosophers knew nothing of the functions of 
the brain. But, early in the modern period, it was made clear 
that the functions of the human brain are very important and 
that they are somehow bound up with or concerned in our 
knowing and feeling and striving, with our experience in short. 
Therefore, many ardent spirits set to work to solve the secrets 
of experience by investigating the brain. An immense and 
ever-increasing amount of human energy has been devoted to 
this very difficult research, and a multitude of facts have been 
established. And the school which seeks to explain all human 
experience and activity in terms of the structure and functions 
of the brain, or of the nervous system, has constantly gained 
in numbers and influence. The program of this school was 
crudely formulated in the eighteenth century by the notorious 
dictum that the brain secretes thought as the liver secretes bile. 
But various more-detailed formulations were made by the 
physiologists, according to the type of psychological doctrine 
which they chose to adopt for assimilation with the facts of 
their own science. 20 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
Early in the nineteenth century, the phrenologists, of whom 
Francis Gall was the leader, combined a crude brain-physiology 
with the “faculty psychology.” Even before this date the “idea 
psychology” had been given (by David Hartley, 1749) a physi- 
ological turn which greatly added to its plausibility, and which 
went far to make the fortune of that type of “idea psychology ” 
known as “the psychology of association.” The “association 
psychology,” which was long dominant in England, of which 
Locke and Hume were the founders, and of which Hartley, the 
two Mills and Bain, were the leading exponents, claimed to ex- 
plain all experience as a succession of “ideas”; these were said 
to be linked or associated together and to draw one another 
along into consciousness by means of their links or automatic 
couplings. Now, though “ideas” seemed to be facts or real 
things, it was difficult to give any adequate picture of the links 
or couplings; and therefore Hartley, one of the first of the asso- 
ciationists, devised, no doubt with a sense of great relief, the 
plan of attributing to the brain the couplings and all the pull- 
ing and pushing, in short, the whole business of shunting and 
shifting “ideas” into and out of “consciousness.” And the more 
the brain was studied, the better it seemed to lend itself to this 
purpose. 
The doctrine of localization of cerebral functions, which, in 
the crude form of Gall’s phrenology, had proved untenable, 
seemed to become more definitely established as knowledge grew 
rapidly in the later part of the nineteenth century. The brain 
became revealed as a vast jungle of cells connected by a tangle 
of nerve fibres, each of which cells seemed to be in some sense a 
vital unit. The “idea psychology” was then translated into 
physiological terms by supposing that each “idea” had its home 
in some one cell, where it dwelt at peace and in darkness during 
the greater part of its time; and that occasionally, when a ner- 
vous current reached the cell, the “idea” within it glowed and 
became “conscious” or was projected into “consciousness.”1 
And it was conceived that, whenever the excitement of one cell 
followed upon that of another, the two cells became linked to- 
1T. H. Ziehen (“Outlines of Physiological Psychology”) is the best contemporary 
exponent of this view. INTRODUCTORY 
21 
gether by a path of low resistance; so that thereafter the excite- 
ment of one would easily spread over to the other, leaving the 
path between them still more open. In this way all experience 
was physiologically explained as the successive emergence of 
“ideas” out of their holes or cells, according to the law of neural 
habit. Then, when “sensationism” analyzed “ideas” and dis- 
played them as made up of “sensory elements” or “sensations,” 
these elements or atoms were assigned each to its own nerve 
cell; and the “idea” or “cluster of sensations” had then for its 
neural counterpart a cluster of cells which worked together as a 
functional unit. And this unit could grow by the inclusion of 
more cells, as the “idea” could become more complex by the 
inclusion of more “sensory elements”; and the group of cells 
could become linked with others to form a group of groups, 
which might come into action simultaneously or successively. 
To those who accepted this scheme it naturally seemed that 
there was no longer any need to postulate a “mind,” a “soul,” 
a “subject of experience,” a “self”; an experiencer or a thinker 
of any kind who thinks, desires, remembers, expects, or in any 
way experiences, was deemed unnecessary; or, if it seemed con- 
venient at times to use language of this kind, it was sufficient 
to say that “the idea” of the moment does the thinking, or that 
the passing thought thinks and is the only thinker.1 But in 
the main the active mode passed out of fashion in the descrip- 
tion of experience; and the laws of thought became the me- 
chanics of the brain. “Consciousness,” it was said, was reduced 
to the role of a passive spectator. But even this was an over- 
statement of the position assigned to it; even a spectator is 
active to the extent of observing. It would be more true to 
say that “consciousness” was given the role of a “super.” 
The Mechanical Reflex Theory 
The full persuasiveness of this translation of psychology into 
terms of brain-mechanism is only to be understood when it is 
realized that, in addition to providing what seemed an equiva- 
1This last was the subterfuge preferred by James, who, in his great work, “The 
Principles of Psychology,” made an heroic effort to work out a consistent “ Sensa- 
tionism.” 22 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
lent in the brain for every “sensation” or other discoverable ele- 
ment of “consciousness,” and a plausible scheme of the way in 
which these brain-elements might be supposed to play upon one 
another, physiology was working out at the same time a scheme 
which claims to be able to explain, in principle, all human action 
in terms of the mechanics of the nervous system. This scheme 
is a development of the principle of reflex action, which was first 
clearly formulated by the great philosopher Descartes at the 
opening of the modem period. Descartes suggested that the 
principle would suffice to account for all the bodily activities of 
animals; but he himself and most other psychologists continued 
to regard the bodily actions of men as expressions of their experi- 
ence, as somehow determined by their thinking, by their feel- 
ing, their desiring, their remembering, their recognizing, and 
so forth. 
Descartes’ account of reflex action was merely a brilliant 
guess; but the subsequent course of physiological discovery has 
justified it abundantly. It has been shown that, in both men 
and animals, some elementary but seemingly purposive move- 
ments may be evoked, even when the brain is wholly out of 
action or destroyed and the individual remains unaware of the 
whole process. Thus, if the sole of the foot is pricked, most 
men and most animals will quickly draw away the foot. Com- 
mon sense says: “He feels the prick and draws away the foot 
in order to avoid the painful impression.” Well, physiologists 
have shown that this withdrawal of the foot may occur in a 
very similar way, when the spinal cord has been separated from 
the brain. And a man in this condition, though he may see 
his foot move when pricked, does not feel the prick or the move- 
ment; and he knows nothing of them, if his eyes are closed. They 
have shown that the prick excites a nerve in the foot, that this 
excitement spreads up the nerve to the spinal cord as a wave 
of physical change (not unlike a current of electrical change in 
a telephone-wire) leaps across from the sensory nerve to a motor 
nerve (much as the electric spark leaps from one terminal to 
another) and so issues along the motor nerve and, reaching the 
muscles of the leg, causes in them an explosion which in turn 
causes them to contract and so withdraw the foot. That is the INTRODUCTORY 
2 3 
type of reflex action as conceived by Descartes and studied by 
modern physiologists. The latter have shown that many simple 
movements and secretions may be produced in animals and in 
the human organism in this relatively simple way; the whole 
action" or reaction being a sequence of processes which seem in 
principle capable of being adequately described and explained 
in terms of physics and chemistry; although as a matter of fact 
we are still far from having achieved any such description. 
Physiologists have shown also that the spinal cord (the part of 
the central nervous system which lies in the spine and to which 
all the sensory nerves pass in and from which all the motor and 
gland-exciting nerves issue) consists essentially of a large num- 
ber of such mechanisms for effecting reflex actions; each mecha- 
nism being a more or less complicated conjunction of sensory 
with motor nerves, by means of which the nervous current ex- 
cited in any sensory nerve is led over into some group of motor 
or gland nerves. Further, they have found reason to believe 
that the whole nervous system, including the brain, is built up 
on the pattern of these reflex mechanisms or sensori-motor ner- 
vous arcs, which lead on from sense-organs to the executive or- 
gans, namely, muscles and glands. The brain seems, in fact, to 
consist merely of a multitude of such nervous paths or arcs, dif- 
fering only from those of the spinal cord in being longer and more 
complicated, and in having more abundant connections with one 
another. The mysterious “nerve-cells,” which had been sup- 
posed to be the abodes of “ideas,” are shown to be merely swel- 
lings upon the fine protoplasmic threads which are the nerve 
fibres. Those of the surface or cortex of the brain (the famous 
gray matter) seem to be in no way essentially different from 
those which occur in the spinal cord on the simplest reflex arcs; 
and their essential function seems to be to regulate the nutrition 
and growth of the nerve fibres which are parts of the same cells. 
Thus all human action is made to appear to be of the type of 
reflex action, to be the issue merely of the play of nervous cur- 
rents, started in the sense-organs by stimulations from the phys- 
ical world and propagating themselves through the jungle of the 
nervous system, finding always the paths of least resistance 
according to purely physical principles. All human action is 24 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
reflex action, or, as the principle is more commonly formulated, 
every human action is a mechanical response to a stimulus. 
Memory and the Reflex Theory 
If you, my reader, are new to this sort of thinking, you may 
say: That is all very well, but how about memory? Surely 
many of my actions are prompted and guided not by sense- 
impressions, but by memory, by memories of past experiences! 
The physiologist has his answer to this question also. The ner- 
vous system contains many reflex paths innately organized; 
that is to say, they develop and become ready to lead off sen- 
sory excitation to the appropriate muscles spontaneously; just 
as the blood-vessels develop spontaneously in such a way as to 
lead the currents of blood wherever they are needed. But, un- 
like the network of the blood-vessels, the nervous network is 
plastic. Every reflex arc is connected with a multitude of others; 
so that, under the most favorable conditions (as when, for exam- 
ple, all nervous pathways are rendered very open by a large 
dose of strychnine) excitement started in any sensory nerve 
may spread like an avalanche throughout a multitude of chan- 
nels and throw practically every muscle in the body into violent 
action. Any nervous current is normally restricted to a com- 
parative'y few pathways, leading it over to the muscles, by the 
fact that every sensory nerve-path is more intimately connected 
with certain motor nerves than with any others; but these con- 
nections, junctions or synapses between nerves or neurones (as 
the complete units, consisting of nerve-cell and fibre together, 
are now called) are very delicate structures. Each synapse pre- 
sents a certain resistance to the passage of the current of nervous 
energy. But this resistance is not a fixed quantity; it varies from 
moment to moment, according to the conjunctions of many in- 
fluences that play upon it. Hence the unpredictable and vari- 
able character of all reactions, save the simplest reflexes. Of all 
influences that affect the resistance of the synapse, the most im- 
portant is conceived to be the actual passage of the nervous cur- 
rent across it from neurone to neurone; for, it is held, this ren- 
ders the resistance of that synapse permanently lower than it 
previously was, or leaves it with a diminished power of resisting INTRODUCTORY 
25 
the passage of the current. Granting this, imagine that an 
entirely novel odorous object is presented to your nose; this 
“stimulus” excites, by way of well-organized reflex paths, the 
reaction of biting. The object then stimulates your mouth or 
tongue in such a way as to excite another reflex action, that of 
spitting it out (in common parlance, we say: The object has a 
pleasing odor, but a bad taste). Now suppose further that a 
similar object is presented to your nose on a second occasion. 
It is probable that you will not bite, but rather will make (in- 
cipiently at least) the motion of spewing it out. Common sense 
would say that you remember the bad taste and that this leads 
you to refrain from repeating your bite; or it might say that, 
owing to your prior experience of the bad taste, the odor is now 
unpleasant to you; or that it now, instead of exciting your ap- 
petite, excites disgust. But the physiologist says that the close 
succession of the two reactions on the first occasion has estab- 
lished a more intimate connection between the two reflex paths 
through which the two reactions were evoked, by lowering the 
resistance of certain synapses; so that now the nervous current 
excited by the odor, instead of flowing on to the muscles which 
do the biting, flows over directly to the second set of muscles 
which effect the movement of spewing out. Thus an alteration 
of resistances at certain synapses has produced a new reflex 
path. A reaction established or acquired in this way is called 
a “conditioned reflex.” All that used to be called profiting by 
experience, or intelligent adaptation of behavior, or the ac- 
quirement of habits, in short, all facts that used to be classed 
under the terms “memory” and “habit” we are now to regard 
as essentially a matter of the establishment of “conditioned 
reflexes.” No wonder that in these days the young student of 
psychology swears by “conditioned reflexes” and is apt to re- 
gard the term as the key to most of the riddles of the universe, 
or at least as the master key of human fate! Having grasped 
this master principle, he feels, and in some quarters he is en- 
couraged to feel, that he need no longer rack his brains over the 
traditional puzzles of psychology. For it has become clear to 
him that love, honor and duty, faith, hope and charity, reason, 
will and moral effort, are merely so many names by which we 26 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
denote as many varieties of “conditioned reflex,” of somewhat 
complicated pattern no doubt, but not essentially different from 
the scratch-reflex of the dog’s hind-leg. He sees clearly that the 
good dog is the one whose “conditioned reflexes” lead him to 
the softest spot and the best bone. Equally clearly he sees 
that the good man is he whose conditioned reflexes have been 
established by a judicious system of rewards and punishments; 
and that the wise man is he whose conditioned reflexes lead him 
to avoid pain and to pursue pleasure. Sic itur ad astra. 
Consequences of the Mechanical Reflex Theory 
Having arrived at this point of his career in the pursuit of 
understanding, two courses lie open to the aspiring student of 
human nature; he may attach himself to either of two schools. 
If he is of a severely practical turn of mind, he will give ear 
to the “ Behaviorists.” The official representatives of this 
flourishing school will tell him that he need trouble himself no 
further over the problems of experience or of “consciousness”; 
need not ask the troublesome questions: Does consciousness 
exist? Can consciousness do this or that? How is it related 
to the reflex processes of the brain ? He will be told that the 
conduct or behavior of any man is merely the sum of his con- 
ditioned reflexes; that this is all we know and all we need to 
know. But, accepting this position, he has one more choice 
still to make. He may elect to fall in with the crowd march- 
ing behind Dr. J. B. Watson1 and to say with him: What has 
been called experience or consciousness may occur or exist for 
all I know or care. But I am not interested in it. I am con- 
cerned only to understand human behavior. I know that all 
behavior is mechanically determined by reflex processes; let 
me get on with the study of “conditioned reflexes.” 
Or, if he feels the need of a metaphysical justification of his 
position, he may follow the forlorn banner of Dr. E. B. Holt,2 
the most thoroughgoing of the neo-realists, who with a sublime 
consistency will tell him that what he has been accustomed to 
call his experiences or his consciousness of pleasure or of pain, 
1 “ Psychology from the Standpoint of the Behaviorist.” 
2 “The Concept of Consciousness.” INTRODUCTORY 
27 
of desire, of effort, of knowing, of remembering, and the rest, 
that all these are really movements of particles or of currents 
of energy in the world about him; and who will explain to him 
how and why, from the dawn of reflection to the end of the nine- 
teenth century, the whole human race has been the victim of 
the illusion that thinking of a material object is not identical 
with the existence of that object, but rather a fact of a different 
order. 
But the student who has accepted the principle of the condi- 
tioned reflex as all-sufficient may nevertheless find it impossible 
to appreciate Dr. Holt’s extreme position; and he may also 
refuse to copy Dr. Watson in his devil-may-care attitude toward 
experience. For he may feel that his experience is too real to 
be explained away as an illusion; and he may argue that, even 
though behavior be merely a sequence of reflex actions mechani- 
cally determined, yet we cannot afford to repudiate introspec- 
tive observation entirely. For, he may reflect, our knowledge 
of these reflex processes is still rudimentary and schematic only; 
and, if “sensations” or “sensory elements” faithfully attend 
the workings of the brain, each drawn along by some “condi- 
tioned reflex” like a slave at the chariot-wheel of his master,' 
we may hope, by continuing the study of them, to throw more 
light upon these theoretically so clear, but practically so obscure, 
master-factors of human nature, the “conditioned reflexes.” 
If he takes this line, he will fall in with a large and excellent 
company of psychologists who are following just this road. 
Not all of these pin their faith to the conditioned reflex con- 
ceived in the strictest and narrowest sense; but for all of them 
(and probably this group comprises a majority of the academic 
psychologists of the present day) human conduct is determined 
wholly and strictly by the mechanical action of the bodily or- 
gans, and chiefly by that of the nervous system; that is to say, 
by physical and chemical changes in the nervous and other 
tissues, processes which are in principle strictly predictable and 
describable as movements in space, obeying laws or conforming 
to equations no other than those which are found to hold good 
for inorganic processes. For them the nervous system has taken 
the place of the soul, or mind, or self, or the subject of experi- 28 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
ence; the brain, or at most “the passing thought that thinks,” is 
the sole thinker, and thinking is mechanical brain action or its 
“epi-phenomenon.” A large number of psychologists who agree 
in this respect (though they differ widely in other matters) do 
not, like the late Hugo Miinsterberg, loftily assert that, because 
“sensations” or other elements which compose their “conscious- 
ness” are artificial abstractions, their psychology has no bear- 
ing upon human life and no practical value; nor do they, like 
Dr. Watson, cease to take an intelligent interest in their own 
introspective findings and those of other observers. They 
rightly recognize that, even if their physiological assumptions 
be true, it is nevertheless a fact that research into the functions 
of the brain has been greatly aided in the past by introspec- 
tive observations; and, though they anticipate that the mechan- 
istic physiology of the brain will more and more supersede and 
ultimately wholly absorb psychology, they hold that its ad- 
vance may be greatly aided by the continued and more refined 
study of experience. Professor Titchener may perhaps be 
named as standing unambiguously for this type and program 
of psychology.1 
The Mechanical Reflex Not the Foundation Stone of 
Psychology 
Now let us go back to consider the student confronted by 
the consequences drawn from the study of the nervous system. 
He is told that his experiences are merely mosaics of sensory 
elements, each of which is called into being, or into “conscious- 
ness,” by a physico-chemical process of the brain; that his belief 
in his power of choosing, resolving, striving, “of seeking the 
good and ensuing it,” in purposive action in a word, is a delu- 
sion; that his hardest choice is not, as the older determinists 
used to say, determined by his strongest desire, is not in fact at 
all influenced by desire or by anything of that nature; and that 
even pleasure and pain, which for so long were widely held to 
be the springs of all human action, have no influence upon it. 
We have seen how, confronted with these conclusions, which 
are supported by an imposing array of authority, and feeling 
1 “A Text-book of Psychology.” INTRODUCTORY 
29 
themselves unable to criticise the observations and reasonings 
upon which they are based (for indeed the full appreciation of 
these would demand several years of special physiological study, 
which few psychologists find time to undertake) the majority 
capitulate, and follow one or other of the lines I have briefly 
sketched. 
But some (and I hope that this book may add to their num- 
ber) will hesitate, remembering vividly perhaps some devas- 
tating conflict of desires, some moral struggle hardly won, some 
intense pain, some base temptation, some impulse of profound 
pity or of tender devotion, of fierce anger or horrible fear. They 
may ask themselves: Is there not something radically wrong 
with a system of thought which tells us that these experiences 
are of no account in the world ? Must there not be some flaw, 
some ill-founded premise or assumption, in the argument which 
leads to this incredible conclusion; a conclusion which runs 
counter to the teachings of the moral leaders of all ages; which 
represents man as no more capable of creative activity or of 
self-determination than the humblest animal or the crystal in 
the test tube; which regards the Bible, or the works of Shake- 
speare, of Beethoven, of Newton, as fortuitous concourses of 
atoms, whose arrangement in space is due to mechanical proc- 
esses of natural selection no other than that which sorts the 
pebbles from the sand upon the beach ? 
It is said that he who hesitates is lost. But sometimes it 
happens that he who hesitates is saved, especially when it is a 
question of dashing down a steep slope. Let the beginner in 
psychology who hesitates at the brink of the slope that leads to 
materialism and a rigid determinism look round again and criti- 
cally survey the ground. Let him also look down the slope; 
and there in imagination he may see the sturdy figure of T. H. 
Huxley, struggling in vain in his old age to lay the spectre he 
had so confidently helped to create;1 there also he may descry 
the forlorn figure of Herbert Spencer, once acclaimed the king 
of mechanists, but now remembered as the author of a “chromo- 
philosophy” of scandalous vagueness. Let him turn and look 
upward, and he will see the serene figures of Charles Darwin 
1 “Evolution and Ethics.” 30 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
and Newton and Faraday, of Herman Lotze, of Leibnitz and 
Plato and Wordsworth, and of all the great poets, an august 
company of great men who refused to “lay the intellect to rest 
upon a pillow of obscure ideas,” whose voices still ring down the 
ages, insisting that Man is more than mechanism and may 
yet be master of his fate. 
The Assumptions of the Reflex Theory 
Thus warned and encouraged, the student may be prepared 
to give due weight to the following reflections. All the varieties 
of psychology which propose to abdicate in favor of a mechan- 
istic physiology, which propose to replace the hypothesis of a 
mind, a soul, a self, a subject, an experiencer, by that of a brain 
or a bodily organism working on strictly mechanical or physical 
principles (that is to say, behaviorism, sensationism, associa- 
tionism, presentationism), may be conveniently classed together 
as mechanistic psychologies.1 All of these are based upon cer- 
tain assumptions which, though they have a certain plausibility, 
have not been justified by the best efforts of those who make 
use of them so confidently. The chief of these assumptions are: 
(i) that mechanistic physiology will at some remote date prove 
adequate to the task that lies before it, namely, the working 
out of a complete description and explanation of the bodily 
processes of organisms (including the human organism) in terms 
of the mechanistic principles of physics and chemistry; (2) that 
it is, or may become, possible to give an intelligible account of 
the relation between the facts of experience and the facts of 
behavior, in terms compatible with such mechanistic physiology. 
Let us examine briefly these two assumptions. The assump- 
tion which underlies mechanistic physiology is part of a wider 
twofold assumption which underlies the whole of mechanistic 
biology; namely, that the mechanistic description of the in- 
organic world is in principle correct, and that organisms have 
1 These psychologies are not necessarily mechanistic. Any one of them might 
be combined with a belief in the reality of purposive action. But they all lend 
themselves readily to alliance with the mechanistic view of organisms which denies 
the reality of purposive action; and as a matter of fact they are usually so allied. 
Behaviorism especially seems to be deduced implicitly from the mechanistic dogma 
and to lie, somewhat uneasily, in this metaphysical bed. INTRODUCTORY 
been evolved from inorganic matter by the operation of natural 
selection, without the intervention of any influences, forces, or 
modes of action other than those operative in the inorganic 
world. Although this assumption has been very often and very 
confidently made, its validity appears more doubtful now than 
it did a generation ago. It is beginning to be generally ad- 
mitted by leading biologists that Darwin’s great principle of 
natural selection will not suffice to account for organic evolution 
and for that appearance of purposive adaptation of organisms 
to their environment which forces itself on our attention through- 
out the realm of life. As our knowledge of living things grows, 
the problem of life and its evolution appears more, rather than 
less, resistant to mechanical principles. The same is true 
within the narrower field of general physiology. The researches 
of the last one hundred years have brought us a vast mass of 
knowledge about the physical and chemical processes that go 
on within the body; but each new step reveals more problems 
of regulation and adaptation than it solves. We are told by 
some of the more philosophically minded leaders in physiologi- 
cal research1 that we seem to be moving ever further from the 
goal of the mechanistic program, rather than approaching it. 
Again, within the still more special field of the physiology of the 
nervous system, our knowledge is astonishingly defective in view 
of the confidence with which it is put forward as a substitute for 
psychology. We do not know the nature of the change which 
propagates itself along the nerve fibres, as the so-called nervous 
impulse; and opinion is acutely divided as to whether this is of 
one kind only, or of two, or of many kinds. We know nothing 
about the nature of the inhibitory process which is involved in 
all co-ordination of nervous activity. We know next to nothing 
of the peculiar constitution and processes of the all-important 
synapses. The doctrine of “specific energies of sensory nerves,” 
which, under several successive forms, has been as a ray of light 
in a great darkness, is now much blown upon and most by those 
who have no intelligible substitute for it. The doctrine of the 
localization of functions in the cerebral cortex, which, about the 
beginning of this century, seemed to be well established, at least 
1 E. g., Doctor J. S. Haldane, “Life, Mechanism, and Personality.” 32 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
for the elementary sensory and motor functions, is also rocking 
insecurely and seems to need at the least a complete recasting 
in some form not yet suggested.1 The facts of restitution of 
function, after destruction of tissue, remain as completely re- 
fractory to mechanistic interpretation in this as in all other 
fields of biology.2 
As regards their second great assumption, the mechanistic 
psychologies are in no better case. The proposal of the behavior- 
ists “to look this problem boldly in the face and pass on” cannot 
be acceptable to any man not entirely lacking in scientific curi- 
osity; for, even though experience be nothing but a kind of 
phosphorescence upon the brain, it is yet that without which 
life would have no value and no meaning for us. The proposals 
of the neo-realists would, if carried to their extreme, abolish the 
problem; but only one author has had the moral courage to at- 
tempt to carry them to this ridiculous extremity. The “sensa- 
tionists” are divided between, or vacillate uncertainly between, 
the doctrine of epiphenomenalism (which would make “sensa- 
tions” a kind of phosphorescence called into being by the ner- 
vous current traversing the cortex) and the mind-stuff theory, 
according to which “sensations” are things which exist in their 
own right as the primordial stuff of which the world is composed. 
Both doctrines utterly fail to give any intelligible account of the 
conditions under which these “sensations” come together to form 
“consciousness” as we know it introspectively, the conscious 
activities of perceiving, imagining, remembering, or otherwise 
thinking of an object.3 And both fail to carry through the pro- 
gram whose simplicity is the main strength of the mechanistic 
position, namely, that of describing and explaining the whole 
of nature in one set of terms or categories, the categories of 
1 Cf. S. I. Franz, presidential address to the American Psychological Association, 
Psychological Review, 1921. 
s Ibid. See also “The Science and Philosophy of the Organism,” by Hans 
Driesch, for discussion of facts of this order. 
’Professor C. A. Strong (“The Origin of Consciousness”) has made the most 
thorough and sustained effort to carry out the “mind-stuff” program; but finds 
himself constrained to introduce into his sketch of the universe “given essences” 
which are “logical entities or subsistents . . . not either physical or psychologi- 
cal,” and which seem to be so inconsistent with the general program as to con- 
stitute an admission of the impossibility of working it out consistently. INTRODUCTORY 
33 
physical science. For, if the matter of the brain can generate 
“sensations,” that matter is more than, and other than, the 
matter or physical processes described by physical science; and, 
if all matter is “sensations,” or of the same nature as “sensa- 
tions” which can combine to constitute the various forms of 
experience, then the account of it which physical science gives 
is most misleading, and the categories of that science, however 
useful they may have been, are only distant approximations to 
the truth. 
Indeed, in the present state of physical science, it is absurd 
to pretend that its categories must prescribe the type of all 
legitimate description and explanation. For these are in per- 
petual flux. In the palmy days of materialism, it was common 
form to assert dogmatically that the universe consists of atoms 
of matter, that all energy was the momentum of such atoms, 
and all change the transmission of momentum by impact of 
one hard and resilient particle upon another. But those days 
of the “billiard-ball-universe” are gone forever, save perhaps in 
the imagination of a few belated biologists who have picked up 
their views of physical science from old-fashioned text-books. 
All the categories of physical science, matter, energy, motion, 
momentum, mass, and Space and Time themselves, are in ques- 
tion ; and no man can say whether any one of them will emerge 
alive from the fermenting chaos of modern physical speculation.1 
This being the state of affairs, it is surely premature, to say 
1 Let the student ponder the following words with which a leading physicist 
(A. S. Eddington, professor of astronomy at Cambridge) concludes a recent work 
on “Space, Time, and Gravitation”: “The theory of relativity has passed in 
review the whole subject-matter of physics. It has unified the great laws, which 
by the precision of their formulation and the exactness of their application have 
won the proud place in human knowledge which physical science holds to-day. 
And yet, in regard to the nature of things, this knowledge is only an empty shell 
—a form of symbols. It is knowledge of structural form, and not knowledge of 
content. All through the physical world runs that unknown content, which must 
surely be the stuff of our consciousness. Here is a hint, of aspects deep within the 
world of physics, and yet unattainable by the methods of physics. And, more- 
over, we have found that where science has progressed the farthest, the mind 
has but regained from nature that which the mind has put into nature. We have 
found a strange footprint on the shores of the unknown. We have devised pro- 
found theories, one after another, to account for its origin. At last, we have suc- 
ceeded in reconstructing the creature that made the footprint. And lo! it is 
our own.” 34 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
the least of it, to assume that human nature and human action 
are capable of being adequately explained or described in terms 
of the categories of physical science. The only wise course for 
the psychologist, as for the biologist in general, is the bold one 
of asserting the relative independence of his science and his right 
to choose and use the categories that are most profitable for his 
purpose, the better understanding and control of human nature. 
Let him leave to the future the most difficult task of harmonizing 
the conclusions of the biological and the physical sciences, while 
keeping an open mind and a critical attitude toward all attempts 
in that direction. 
Acceptable Hypotheses 
In this book, then, I shall attempt to show my readers how 
we may describe human nature and human experience, and in 
a proximate (i. e., in a scientific rather than a metaphysical) 
sense explain the facts, by the aid of working hypotheses which 
make no claim to be ultimately true, but claim merely to be 
useful at the present time. The hypotheses to be adopted must 
determine the method of description; and the language of de- 
scription will imply these hypotheses. 
I shall try to avoid the language implying the hypotheses 
which I have adversely criticised in the foregoing pages, namely 
“ideas,” “consciousness” as a stuff compounded of “sensations” 
or other elements or units of composition, and mechanical re- 
flexes as the units of action. It is not easy to adhere strictly 
to this program; for the language of “ideas” and “sensations” 
is common, not only to most psychologies, but also to the lit- 
erary and the common-sense traditions; and I must pray for in- 
dulgence if here and there I should lapse into these convenient 
and familiar but misleading modes of speech. 
I will indicate here in briefest outline the hypotheses that 
seem to me most acceptable and the terms which we may most 
profitably use. First—What is to be our attitude toward physi- 
ological knowledge, especially our knowledge of the structure 
and functions of the nervous system ? We have seen that many 
psychologists at the present day have given up altogether the 
use of the terms “mind,” “soul,” and “subject.” Recognizing INTRODUCTORY 
35 
that the mind can be profitably described neither as merely a 
bundle of faculties, nor as a more or less organized mass of 
“ideas” regarded as enduring things that pass in and out of 
“consciousness,” they have substituted for the mind the ner- 
vous system or the brain; with the results that we have glanced 
at. Now, if we refuse to follow this modern practice, we must 
go back to, or adhere to, the older practice and still speak of 
“the mind.” For what the older psychology meant by “the 
mind” was that something which expresses its nature, powers, 
and functions in two ways: (i) the modes of individual experi- 
ence ; (2) the modes of bodily activity, the sum of which consti- 
tutes the behavior of the individual. The mechanistic psy- 
chology says—this something which expresses its nature in these 
two ways is essentially the brain, as described to us by the 
mechanistic physiology. There can be no question that we are 
bound to postulate this something; and that, if we are not con- 
tent to regard it as merely the brain mechanically conceived, 
we must have some name for it, and must recognize that it has 
a very complex nature, or is a very complex organization; that 
it first manifests itself in the relatively simple behavior of the 
new-born infant; and that it grows in complexity and definite- 
ness, partly in virtue of its innate or hereditary tendencies, 
partly in virtue of the influences that play upon it from within 
and without the body and of the modes of activity with which 
it responds to these influences. 
I do not think that we can find a better word to denote this 
something than the old-fashioned word “mind.” The mind, 
then, of the individual organism is that which expresses itself 
in his experience and in his behavior; and we have to build up 
our description of the human mind by gathering all possible 
facts of human experience and behavior, and by inferring from 
these the nature and structure of the mind. I say nature and 
structure; for we may usefully distinguish between these. It 
seems probable that Mind has the same nature wherever and 
whenever it exists or manifests itself, whether in animals, men, 
or superhuman beings, whether in the new-born infant, the fool, 
The Hypothesis of the Mind 36 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
or the wise man. On the other hand, the structure of the mind 
seems to be peculiar to each individual; not only is it very 
various in the various species of animals (if they have minds) 
and in man; but the structure of the mind of one man is differ- 
ent from that of every other man; and, in any one man at each 
stage of his career or life-history, it is not quite the same as at 
any other stage, because, as we said, it constantly develops or 
evolves into greater complexity and definiteness during the 
years of growth, and later perhaps, in extreme old age, under- 
goes a regressive change or involution. 
The mechanistic psychologist will say: What you call “the 
mind ” is just what I call “ the brain.” Why go out of your way 
to set up this vague, mysterious, purely hypothetical something 
which, as you admit, no one has ever seen or handled or can 
hope to see or handle, while all the time you have the brain, 
as solid and as real as a lump of cheese, which we positively 
know to be concerned in all experience and in all behavior, and 
about which the labor of thousands of expert workers has built 
up an immense mass of knowledge? To this I would reply: I 
do not underrate the value of this physiological knowledge and 
research; but I assert that, in the present state of science, it is 
not profitable to substitute the brain for the mind. To do so 
limits unduly our freedom of thought; it ties us down to one kind 
of explanation, leads us to absurd consequences (of the kind we 
have noticed), and, worst of all, is apt to blind us to facts of 
observation, and biases our interpretation of other facts. 
On the other hand, I have no sympathy with certain psycho- 
logical purists who would banish all physiological facts and 
theories from psychology, on the ground that psychology and 
physiology are two distinct sciences whose facts and categories 
can not be mingled without confusion. I would say: Let the 
psychologist make the fullest possible use of all the help that 
physiology can give; let him regard it as one of his tasks to har- 
monize or co-ordinate the facts and descriptions of his own 
science with those of physiology. But let him not capitulate 
to the unjustified demand that his science shall abdicate its 
functions in favor of a mechanistic physiology. Ultimately we 
may learn how to harmonize the findings of the two sciences far INTRODUCTORY 
37 
more satisfactorily than it is possible to do at the present day. 
Let us push explanation in terms of nervous structure and func- 
tion as far as ever we can; but in doing so, let us not suppose 
that such explanations are ultimately and completely true.1 
The Definition and Divisions of Psychology 
After thus defining what meaning we are to attach to the 
word “mind,” we may return to the question of the proper or 
most useful definition of psychology. Provisionally we defined 
it as the study of human nature, admitting that this is unsatis- 
factory in that it seems to claim the whole of human physiology 
as within the province of psychology; whereas it is clear that at 
present it is to the best interests of both sciences that they shall 
be kept distinct, the nature of their relations being left for better 
and more exact determination as both sciences progress. Psy- 
chology clearly is concerned with human nature in its mental 
aspect, physiology with human nature in its bodily aspect. At 
present there are many facts of importance to the one science 
which the other can afford to neglect. If it is objected that this 
division of labor implies the old view of radical dualism of mind 
and matter, or soul and body, we reply that it need not and 
should not carry this implication; that this question of dualism 
is a metaphysical problem with which science is not immediately 
concerned, one which it may and should leave undecided; that, 
since no certain answer can be given to it, science should not 
hamper itself by accepting dogmatically, or even provisionally, 
one or other answer. 
With this understanding, then, psychology may be defined as 
11 have myself followed this plan and indulged in a good deal of physiological 
speculation. To the young student of psychology who intends to make psychol- 
ogy, either as pure science or in any of its applications, his business in life, I would 
say—Learn all you can of physiology and especially of the nervous system. It is 
worth while to devote several years to the study of physiology, while you are still 
young. It is noteworthy that some of the greatest psychologists have followed 
this plan, and have made themselves acquainted not only with physiology but 
with the whole range of medical studies of their day. I may cite the names of 
John Locke, R. H. Lotze, William James. It may be claimed also that some ex- 
perience of the actual practice of medicine is of great value to the psychologist. 
In no other way can he come into the most intimate contact with other persons and 
study them from all points of view. 38 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
the science of the human mind; we may make the definition 
more exact by adding the words “positive” and “empirical”; 
“empirical” to mark the fact that psychology relies upon the 
great method common to all the natural sciences, namely, ob- 
servation of concrete facts and the induction of general rules or 
laws from these concrete particulars, rather than upon deduc- 
tion from any a priori principles; “positive” to mark it as the 
science of mind as it actually exists and operates, to distinguish 
it from the sciences primarily concerned with the ideals, norms, 
standards, or rules of right thinking and conduct.1 
The psychologist has, then, to build up his description of the 
human mind by inference from the observed facts of behavior, 
the behavior of men and of animals, and from the observed facts 
of experience, facts of his own experience observed introspec- 
tively and facts of others’ experience described and recorded 
by them. 
1 As long ago as 1905 I suggested that psychology might be defined as the posi- 
tive science of conduct or behavior (in my “Primer of Physiological Psychology”), 
and in later works I have used and defended this definition. I preferred this 
definition to any of the others current, for two reasons: (1) it seems to mark off 
the field of psychology clearly from the fields of other sciences and to include 
everything that properly pertains to psychology; whereas ambiguities, and logi- 
cal and other difficulties, are involved in all the other definitions; (2) it lays stress 
on the importance of the objectively observable facts, the facts of outward be- 
havior or bodily action in which mental activity expresses itself; and these facts 
had usually been unduly neglected in favor of the other class of expressions of mind, 
the introspectively observable facts. I still regard this definition as a good one, 
logically perhaps the best. But since my suggestion was made, it has been adopted 
and carried to an extreme by the “behaviorists.” In protesting against a too 
exclusive study of the introspective data, and rightly insisting on the importance 
of the study of behavior as a psychological method, they have overshot the mark 
and swung into the untenable position noticed above. Hence I am disposed to 
say: “If you are going to get on, it’s time for me to get off.” This question of 
the definition of psychology is after all one of minor importance. All our lines 
of separation between the sciences are provisional only and liable to readjustment 
as knowledge grows. We ought to aim not so much at perfectly logical defini- 
tions, which will only be possible when the sciences are completed, but at defini- 
tions stated in terms of the practical purposes with which we pursue the several 
sciences. Accepting this principle, we may define physiology, as it exists to-day, 
as the science which aims to give us better understanding and control of the chem- 
ical and physical processes of the various organs of the body; and psychology as 
the science which aims to give us better understanding and control of the behavior 
of the organism as a whole. This is the demarcation proposed in my “Psychology, 
the Study of Behavior,” Home University Library, 1912. INTRODUCTORY 
39 
This is the fundamental kind of psychology, the general psy- 
chology presupposed by all the more special kinds of psychologi- 
cal study, such as the study of individual or racial peculiarities 
of mental constitution, the study of group life or collective 
psychology, the study of abnormal or disordered minds. Some- 
times the name of one or other of the principal methods of 
study is prefixed to the word psychology, as though to denote a 
specialized branch, such as experimental, or physiological, or 
comparative or genetic, or introspective; but, though these are 
convenient divisions, justified by practical exigencies of study, 
they are not logically distinct branches of the science; and the 
student should not let himself be misled into thinking of them in 
that way. Indeed the special branches themselves must also 
be regarded as capable of lending valuable aid in the attack on 
the problems of general psychology; and in so far they may be 
regarded as methods of study rather than as distinct special 
branches of the science. 
The Subject is an Indispensable Hypothesis 
In the main our minds have been evolved in the course of 
our efforts to comprehend and control our physical environ- 
ment. We deal with this most successfully, for all practical 
purposes, by regarding it as made up of enduring things which 
undergo changes and act upon one another and upon us. In 
consequence, when we turn to describe experience, we tend to 
treat it in similar fashion, as though it were made up of things. 
Whatever phase of experience we think of we make an object of 
our thinking; and we tend to regard every object of our think- 
ing as a thing. But experience is not made up of things; it 
is a process and perhaps in all cases a train of activity.1 
1 Professor Bergson has made much of this tendency to reify whatever we think 
of; he describes it as a natural and unavoidable weakness of the human intellect 
which unfits it to deal with the facts of life and experience. He recognizes a mode 
of mental activity which he calls “intuition” and regards as fundamentally distinct 
from intellect or intelligence; and he assures us that this faculty alone is capable 
of coping with the facts with which psychology is concerned. I have never been 
able to comprehend the nature of this alleged faculty, nor am I convinced by his 
arguments against the competence of intellect. But I do recognize the need of 
conducting our intellectual processes with the greatest circumspection in this 
sphere and the need of choosing our language in such a way as to give as little 
scope as possible to this falsifying tendency to reification. 40 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
The most general and fundamental facts about experience 
as we know it, or enjoy it, are two. First, experience or experi- 
encing is always an experiencing of something, it is always a 
thinking about some object, even when, as in psychologizing, 
that object is itself an experiencing or thinking. Secondly, all 
experiencing or thinking is the experiencing or thinking of some 
one, some subject, some person, some organism. So far as we 
positively know, this some one, this subject, is always a material 
organism, or is embodied in, and manifests itself to us only in 
and through the medium of, a material organism. That is to 
say, experience, as we know it, is always the thinking of some 
subject of or about some object. Therefore I propose to use 
the verb “to think” as the most general word for the descrip- 
tion of experience. This usage is wider than the usual one; 
but it has good precedent in Descartes’ famous phrase, “ Cogito, 
ergo sum ”—cogito, or I think, is the most general form of experi- 
ence. If we use this word, we shall be more likely to avoid the 
error of reifying our mental processes; for it will constantly re- 
mind us that, whenever we refer to a fact of experience, we 
imply some one thinking of some thing. 
Let the student ask himself whether he has ever chanced to 
find “a percept,” or “a concept,” or “an idea,” or “a sensation” 
lying about loose in the world, as he may find a pebble, or a 
star, or a bone, or any other physical thing. He will realize 
that he has never done so, nor is likely to do so. He might as 
well expect to find “a falling” or “a movement” without some- 
thing that falls or moves, as “a perceiving” or “a remember- 
ing,” detached and isolated from the subject who perceives or 
remembers. And surely to say “I think of X,” or “I perceive 
X,” is a more direct and accurate statement than to say “ I have 
an idea of X” or “I have a percept of X,” or than to say, “An 
idea or percept of X has come into my mind or risen into con- 
sciousness.” The former is a plain and simple statement of 
fact; the other modes of expression are circumlocutions that 
imply strange and highly disputable theories, such as those we 
have glanced at in this chapter. Even if we use these perverse 
traditional expressions, we have to admit, when the question is 
raised, that these “ideas” or “percepts” or “concepts” and the INTRODUCTORY 
“consciousness,” into and out of which they are said to pass, 
always belong to some one, to some person or other organism,1 
which we naturally denote either by a proper name or by a 
pronoun, I, you, he, she, or it. All experience then is the ex- 
perience of some subject. Whether all experience takes the form 
of thinking of an object is a debatable question. It has been 
pointed out that, while every experience that any one can in- 
trospectively observe and report upon is a thinking of an object, 
yet sometimes we seem to be almost purely passive, to approxi- 
mate to mere suffering or enjoying without being aware of any 
object; and it has been argued that we may justifiably postulate 
a kind of experience that, going yet further in this direction, 
becomes a pure passivity. Such hypothetical purely passive 
experience would not be thinking of an object and might be 
called “anoetic experience.” 
Mental Structure and Mental Functions 
By adhering to the direct and natural form of speech, we may 
secure another great advantage, namely, we may distinguish 
clearly between facts of mental activity and facts of mental 
structure. Mental structure is that enduring growing frame- 
work of the mind which we infer from the observed manifesta- 
tions of mind in experience and in behavior; and, since this de- 
velops, grows and, even when the mind is at rest, endures, we 
may properly describe it and its parts in substantival terms, 
which terms we shall have to select and define with care. The 
distinction between mental structure and mental process or 
functioning or activity is comparable to that between the struc- 
ture and the functioning of a machine or of a bodily organ such 
as a muscle. It is of course impossible to find any true analogy 
or parallel to illustrate the task of the psychologist in building 
up his account of the structure of the mind; but the following 
crude illustration may help to make it clearer. Suppose a 
1 Some modern philosophers and logicians speak of our acts of thinking as 
“ideas,” and “concepts,” and “concrete universals,” and “neutral entities,” and 
so forth, and thus, misleading themselves into the belief that such entities exist, 
they are led to the monstrous conclusion that whatever we can imagine has or 
enjoys actual existence; all of which is a natural outcome of the “idea” theory, 
which in turn is merely the outcome of a loose usage of words. 42 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
mechanical toy or doll, actuated by a complicated clockwork, 
which reacts in a variety of ways under different conditions; and 
suppose that the investigator, who wishes to ascertain the nature 
of the machinery within it, can only watch its movements under 
various conditions and hear a variety of sounds emitted by 
its mechanisms when they are in motion. From data of these 
two kinds he could build up by inference some account of the 
structure of the hidden mechanisms. It is one of the allure- 
ments of the “idea theory” that “ideas” are treated at will 
as either functions or parts of the structure, a very convenient 
procedure, but one which leads to endless confusion. Many 
other words are frequently used in this ambiguous and confus- 
ing manner which we must try to avoid. 
In speaking of mental structure and likening it, as I did just 
now, to the structure of a machine, we must not be misled into 
taking the word “structure” in the sense of a material structure 
or any spatial arrangement of parts. We commonly and prop- 
erly speak of the structure of a poem or of a musical composi- 
tion, meaning a whole consisting of parts in orderly functional 
relations with one another; and, though the structure of the 
mind is not of the same order as these structures, yet these, 
rather than the material structure of a machine, should be 
thought of as offering the closer analogy. Those students who 
find it useful to picture, or visualize, or represent in diagram- 
matic form whatever they think about may visualize the struc- 
ture of the mind in spatial terms without danger, if they bear 
this warning in mind. And, in accordance with what was said 
above of the use in psychology of knowledge of the nervous sys- 
tem, we may, without serious danger, allow schematic diagrams 
of nervous structure to represent features of the mental struc- 
ture, if we hold fast to the truth that the mind and its proc- 
esses cannot be literally translated into, or adequately rep- 
resented by, or supplanted by, any description of the structure 
and functions of the nervous system mechanically conceived. 
The structure of the mind is a conceptual system that we have 
to build up by inference from the data of the two orders, facts 
of behavior and facts of introspection. CHAPTER II 
THE BEHAVIOR OF THE LOWER ANIMALS 
I have used the word “behavior” hitherto as though it stood 
in no need of definition; and practically we all understand and 
use the word in pretty much the same sense. We all learn early 
in life to distinguish two great classes of things in the world 
about us, living things and lifeless things, or the animate and 
the inanimate. Primitive men make the same distinction; but 
they do not draw the line as accurately as we do. They easily re- 
gard any unusual appearance or happening among lifeless things 
as evidence of their animation; this is the tendency known as 
primitive animism or anthropomorphism. But the spread of 
scientific knowledge has made it easy for us to draw this dis- 
tinction without hesitation, and usually without error. 
The Marks of Behavior 
By “behavior” we commonly mean the action or actions of 
some living thing. It is true that we may say of a ship or of 
an automobile: “She is behaving badly to-day.” But the fact 
that we are apt to use the personal pronoun on such occasions 
shows that we more or less playfully personify the ship or the 
machine. And, if the “behavior” of the ship or of the machine 
is extremely bad, we are apt to “lose our temper’ and swear 
at it—a further degree of the same tendency to personification. 
Behavior, then, is peculiar to living things. When an animal is 
dead, its corpse does not “behave”; it has become inert, the 
sport of the forces that play upon it from without.1 This indi- 
1 About plants we are in doubt. When a tree sways in the breeze, we do not 
speak of its motions as behavior; but when a flower turns its face toward the sun, 
or opens and closes its petals, or when a climbing plant seems to reach out and 
grasp a support, we are more inclined to speak of its behavior. And science 
cannot yet tell us whether such language is justified. In the opinion of some 
leading botanists it is. 44 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
cates one of the marks of behavior, namely, a certain sponta- 
neity of movement. In behaving, an animal is not simply pushed 
or pulled by forces external to itself; but, if it actively resists 
the push or pull, it is behaving. It is true that the behavior 
of an animal often appears to be a response or reaction to some 
sense-impression, a sound, a touch, or a ray of light. And 
some of the mechanists dogmatically lay down the law that 
every movement is a response to some such impression, which 
they call the “stimulus to the reflex action”; and when, as 
is often the case, the movement cannot be traced to any im- 
pression on an external sense-organ, they postulate some in- 
ternal stimulus, some impression upon a sensory nerve from 
within the body, and so bring the apparent exception under 
their “law.” Whether this assumption is well founded we can 
not at present say. But, even if it be true that every instance 
of behavior is initiated by a “stimulus,” it is evident that the 
movement or train of behavior, once initiated, often continues 
independently of the initiating stimulus. A momentary noise, 
such as the snapping of a twig, may send the rabbit scurrying 
to his burrow, put to flight a flock of birds, and throw the timid 
deer into the attitude and motions of alert watchfulness; or the 
taking of my hat from its peg, or a single word uttered, may 
provoke in my dog a violent and prolonged outburst of activity, 
a general excitement which may long persist and may break out 
afresh many times. This is a second mark of behavior; namely, 
the persistence of activity independently of the continuance of the 
impression which may have initiated it. 
An inanimate object, when set in motion, continues to move 
in the same direction, if not acted upon by any forces which 
deflect or arrest it; it continues so to move until by friction, 
or by impact against some greater mass, it is brought to rest. 
Its movements and changes are in principle strictly predictable 
according to physical laws. And if the object contains, like a 
rocket, or a torpedo, or an automobile, some supply of energy 
which maintains the movement in spite of friction or other re- 
sistances, the exact prediction of the rate, extent, and direction 
of the movements is in principle equally possible, through more 
complicated calculations. But, when an animal persists in the THE BEHAVIOR OF THE LOWER ANIMALS 
45 
movements initiated by a sense-impression, its movements are 
not predictable in detail. If we are familiar with the behavior 
of animals of the same species, we may predict with some con- 
fidence the general character and the final outcome of its move- 
ments under particular circumstances. When, for example, like 
a rabbit, it belongs to some timid species which normally shel- 
ters itself in holes in the earth, we may predict that, if it is 
set running by a sudden noise, it will continue to run until it 
finds such a shelter, and that, if the course it first takes leads 
to no such shelter, it will dodge hither and thither until shelter 
is found. Such variation of direction of persistent movements is 
a third mark of behavior. 
The movements of an animal are commonly continued, with 
more or less variation of direction, until they bring about that 
kind of change in its situation which, as we have noted, is pre- 
dictable in general terms from a knowledge of the species; and 
when that new situation is achieved, the train of activity com- 
monly ceases, perhaps giving place to some activity of an alto- 
gether different kind. We naturally say in such a case that 
the activity has come to an end. This coming to an end of the 
animal's movements as soon as they have brought about a particular 
kind of change in its situation is a fourth mark of behavior. 
Again, we may often observe that, while the animal’s move- 
ments are maintained, they seem to show in some degree prepa- 
ration for, or anticipation of, the new situation which will bring 
them to an end or will give rise to a new and very different 
train of movements. The dog which, when shut in a room, is 
aroused by the sound of his master’s voice without may rush to 
the window and then to the door, and may keep looking at the 
door or scratching at it. Or the house-dog, when a strange dog 
or man approaches the house, may advance toward him with 
teeth bared, hair bristling, and every muscle stiffened in prepara- 
tion for attack or combat. Or the cat, aroused by the squeak 
of the mouse behind the wainscot, stealthily approaches the hole 
and there lies in wait in the attitude of preparation for the spring 
upon the prey. Such preparation for the new situation toward 
the production of which the action contributes is a fifth mark of 
behavior. 46 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
It is almost impossible to describe actions which show these 
five marks of behavior, especially the third, fourth, and fifth, 
in purely objective terms, that is, without using words which 
attribute to the animal certain modes of experience. We natur- 
ally say that the animal is seeking and anticipating the new 
situation which is the natural end or goal of its behavior, and 
that it directs its actions toward this goal. 
When we observe movements which exhibit all of these five 
peculiarities, we do not hesitate to regard them as manifestations 
of Mind or mental activity. No movements of lifeless things 
combine these five peculiarities; and it is just because the move- 
ments of plants do not unmistakably show them that we hesi- 
tate to ascribe Mind to plants. 
A sixth mark of behavior, which is less easy to observe, has 
been very commonly accepted as the most trustworthy indica- 
tion of mental life; namely, some degree of improvement in the 
effectiveness of behavior, when it is repeated by the animal under 
similar circumstances. When such improvement occurs, when, 
on the recurrence of a particular situation, the animal is excited 
on this second occasion to behavior which attains the same 
natural goal, but attains it more rapidly, more directly, more 
neatly, with fewer steps and less of seemingly random move- 
ment, we naturally say that it has profited by its experience on 
the former occasion. No doubt, when such improvement may 
be observed, it provides the surest criterion; but, without this 
sixth mark, we may infer mental activity from the other five. 
And it is to be noted that this sixth mark implies the others; 
if the train of movements did not present those characters, we 
should not be able to infer Mind from the sixth alone. For 
many machines, as every one who has driven a new automobile 
knows, improve in efficiency with repetition of their movements, 
owing to the nicer adjustment of parts to one another which 
results from friction and wearing of the surfaces. THE BEHAVIOR OF THE LOWER ANIMALS 
47 
Now, when the movements of a human being exhibit the first 
five marks of behavior, we do not hesitate to infer that they are 
purposive; by which we mean that they are made for the sake 
of attaining their natural end, and that this end is more or less 
clearly anticipated or foreseen. For any one of us, when he 
acts in this way and reflects upon his behavior, may observe 
introspectively that he himself foresees, however vaguely, the 
kind of end his actions will attain. In the typical case of pur- 
posive action, we foresee or imagine the end very clearly and 
definitely, and we desire or resolve to attain it; and we may also 
foresee and deliberately adopt the various steps of action which 
are the means to the attainment of the desired or resolved end. 
The natural end of a train of action foreseen and desired, or con- 
sciously chosen or intended, is properly called the goal of action 
or endeavor. We are said to strive toward the goal. The at- 
tainment of the goal is said to be the purpose of our action or 
our striving.1 
We have to recognize that in many cases our foreseeing of the 
goal and of the steps toward it is very vague and sketchy; and 
that the steps and the goal itself become clearly defined in our 
minds, only in the course of action and attainment. Yet we 
do not feel it improper to describe such actions as purposive. 
Sometimes one may perform an action or train of actions rap- 
idly and impulsively, as we say; perhaps there is no time for 
deliberation or introspection. And, if one looks back upon such 
action, it may be impossible to recover any clear description of 
one’s experience during action. Perhaps one may be able to 
say: I suddenly noticed a child in the roadway before an on- 
coming car, and, without having time to think what I should do, 
I found that I had snatched it up. In such moments one is 
wholly absorbed in action. But the difficulty of making any 
clear retrospective survey of one’s experience does not prevent 
us from properly regarding such an action as purposive. 
Behavior is Purposive 
1 While the adjective “purposive” may be applied to action or bodily move- 
ment clearly and unambiguously in the sense defined in the foregoing pages, it re- 
mains very difficult to use the substantive “purpose” without ambiguity. 48 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
A Scale of Degrees of Purposiveness 
By reflecting upon a variety of actions, we may realize that 
our actions may be arranged in a scale; at the upper end of 
the scale may be put such actions as are most deliberately pur- 
posive, the goal and means having been pondered, developed in 
imagination, and deliberately chosen among various alternative 
possibilities, before overt action began. Lower in the scale 
would be those actions the goal and the steps toward which we 
have thought of, clearly perhaps, but without pondering and 
choosing. Lower still are such actions as we perform with only 
a very vague and sketchy foresight of the goal and of the means, 
or perhaps of the goal only. And, at the lower end of the scale 
of purposiveness, would be such impulsive actions as the snatch- 
ing the child from imminent danger. As regards action of this 
last class, although we cannot give any retrospective account of 
our experience which would include the foreseeing of the goal 
of the action, we see that the action is such that, if we had acted 
a little more slowly and deliberately, we should have foreseen 
the goal we sought or purposed, and perhaps also the steps of 
the action we actually took. We rightly feel that we did not 
act as a mere machine, but that the action was a purposive 
action in which our nature was truly expressed; and we may 
confidently infer that the goal was foreseen, however vaguely 
and incompletely, at the moment of action. There is no ob- 
vious lower limit to the scale of purposiveness; and we may 
fairly ascribe to other men in moments of impulsive action the 
same vague foreseeing that we infer on our own part at such 
times. And, though here the inference is more debatable, we 
may ascribe to an animal whose action exhibits the first five 
marks of behavior the same kind of vague anticipation of the 
goal. 
Purpose Implies Foresight 
Purposive action is, then, action that seems to be governed 
or directed in some degree by prevision of its effects, by prevision 
of that which still lies in the future, of events which have not 
yet happened, but which are likely to happen, and to the hap- THE BEHAVIOR OF THE LOWER ANIMALS 
49 
pening of which the action itself may contribute. Purposive- 
ness in this sense seems to he of the essence of mental activity ; and 
it is because all actions which have the marks of behavior seem 
to be purposive, in however lowly and vague a degree, that we 
regard them as expressions of Mind. 
We cannot provide any final and conclusive proof of the truth 
of this ascription of purposive or mental quality to the action 
of any animal. Some of the mechanists would scornfully repu- 
diate the claim that we may reasonably regard animal behavior 
as purposive; they would stigmatize such interpretation as an- 
thropomorphic; and this word is one of their strongest terms of 
reproach for those who do not agree with them. Logically they 
should equally repudiate the attribution of purpose to their 
fellow-men, or to those men who give no introspective account 
of their purposive actions; and some of them do not hesitate to 
do this, and to deprecate as “anthropomorphic” such interpre- 
tation of human action. If they admit the word “purposive,” 
they define it in a non-psychological manner, and describe as 
purposive all actions which seem to be serviceable to the life 
of the animal or the species. Applying this objective and non- 
psychological criterion, they point out that simple reflex actions, 
such as the withdrawal of the foot from a sharp contact, or the 
scratch-reflex of the dog’s hind-leg, are serviceable, and therefore 
purposive. Yet we see that such reflex actions may be provoked 
by suitable stimulation in an animal whose brain has been de- 
stroyed; or in a man in whom the part of the spinal cord con- 
cerned in the action is severed from the brain, and who remains 
entirely unaware of the whole process. They argue from these 
facts as follows: such serviceable reflex actions appear to be pur- 
posive ; yet they are accompanied by no experience and are purely 
mechanical processes of which the successive steps can be traced 
in the nerves and muscles as purely chemical and physical events; 
hence, when we observe the more complicated trains of action in 
which the processes of the brain play some essential part, we are 
justified in regarding them as merely more complex processes of 
the same mechanical type; and, if the actions are those of a man 
who tells us that he foresaw the end of his action and desired it, 
and directed his action in such a way as to attain this goal, that OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
makes no essential difference; the brain mechanisms, the compli- 
cated arrangements of nervous paths laid down in his brain, 
would have brought about the serviceable train of action of his 
limbs just as securely and effectively, if he had not foreseen or 
desired the end.1 
Now, if the mechanist could point to any processes or move- 
ments of inanimate things which presented all the foregoing 
marks of behavior, his argument would be a strong one. We 
might feel compelled to admit that he was right in assimilating 
all animal and all human behavior to the type of the mechanical 
reflex, and in explaining behavior from below upwards; leaving 
the relation of experience to such actions a blank mystery, as the 
“parallelists” do in their formula that experience runs parallel 
with brain-action in a relation of temporal concomitance merely, 
like two parallel rays of light projected into space, which con- 
tinue to run parallel, but which never meet or influence one 
another. 
But it is impossible to find any instance of such movements 
of lifeless objects; and for this reason we are justified in claim- 
ing, provisionally at least in the present state of science, that 
nature presents two classes of things, the non-living and the 
living, and two classes of movements, the mechanical and the 
purposive, characteristic of the two classes of things respec- 
tively. 
There is a class of things which in a sense stands between these two classes, 
namely, machines. The machine achieves a purpose, and its movements may 
therefore be said, in a certain sense, to be purposive. But the purpose which 
they express and achieve is not that of the machine, but rather that of the 
man who designs and constructs the machine, and who sets it in movement, 
or sets it ready to move when some part of it is touched. It is the existence 
of complicated and delicate machines that gives plausibility to the mechan- 
istic view of human and animal behavior. If such machines occurred in 
nature without the intervention of living beings, their existence would go far 
1 This is the position common to all the mechanistic psychologists (behaviorists, 
epiphenomenalists, and parallelists). The psychic monist would disclaim it, but for 
all practical purposes, that is to say, pragmatically, and therefore really, his posi- 
tion is not essentially different so long as he accords primacy or superior validity 
and reality to the laws or categories of physical science. For definition and dis- 
cussion of these views and the further justification of the view here taken, the 
reader is referred to the final chapter of Part II. THE BEHAVIOR OF THE LOWER ANIMALS 
51 
to justify this view. And, in a much less degree, the view would find some 
justification, if any man could devise and construct a machine which would 
exhibit all the marks of behavior. But even this has not been accomplished. 
The complicated machine is not in principle different from the simple tool, 
the mechanical aid to our purposive action. If I throw a stone at my enemy’s 
head and stun him, the stone effects my purpose or intention; it is directed 
by it and may be said to embody it. In the same way, if I construct an in- 
fernal machine of the greatest subtlety which will explode under my enemy’s 
bed at a given hour, or whenever he may lie down upon it, the machine 
equally and in the same sense effects and embodies my purpose. But, even 
if it were made so perfect that it would explode only on the approach of my 
enemy and not on that of any other man, it would still be only a more com- 
plicated example of the principle of action illustrated by the stone thrown 
from the hand. 
In the first chapter I argued that the psychologist should and 
must choose the fundamental categories appropriate to his sci- 
ence, if he is to make progress toward his proper goal, the better 
understanding and control of human nature and human be- 
havior. Purposive action is the most fundamental category of 
psychology; just as the motion of a material particle according 
to the mechanical principles of Newton’s laws of motion has long 
been the fundamental category of physical science. Behavior 
is always purposive action, or a train or sequence of purposive 
actions. 
Purposive and Reflex Actions Contrasted 
Let us look a little more closely at the distinction between 
purposive action and the reflex action which the mechanists at- 
tempt to put in its place, with the consequences that we have 
already glanced at; namely, “sensations” or “ideas” confusedly 
thought of as mysterious entities, dragged passively into and 
out of that other mysterious entity “consciousness” by the 
mechanical reflex processes of the brain. I do not mean to as- 
sert that reflex processes as conceived by physiology do not oc- 
cur. Human organisms, as well as the higher animals, do ex- 
hibit reactions of the mechanical reflex type. If the reader, 
comfortably seated, will cross his right knee over the other and 
sharply tap the tendon below the right knee-cap, his right foot 
will jerk forward owing to the contraction of the large muscles 
of the front of the thigh. That is a very simple reflex action. 52 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
Many other such tendon-reflexes can be provoked in similar 
fashion; the observation of them is of great value to the neurol- 
ogist as throwing light upon the condition of the nervous sys- 
tem. Others can be provoked by gently scratching the skin in 
various parts; e. g., “the abdominal reflex,” a sharp contraction 
of the muscles of the wall of the abdomen, by scratching the 
skin of the flank; or the closing of the eyelid at the slightest 
touch on the skin over the eyeball. Many other reflex processes, 
resulting in contractions of the muscles of the visceral organs, 
such as the heart, blood-vessels, respiratory and digestive organs, 
or in secretion of tears, saliva, gastric and other juices, may be 
provoked by stimulation of various sensory nerves. Such re- 
flex actions have been elaborately studied in animals whose 
brains have been destroyed.1 It has been shown that the sim- 
ple reflexes are, in many instances, functionally linked in such 
a way that they naturally succeed one another, producing a 
more or less complicated train of movement of a serviceable 
type, the first movement producing a stimulus for the second, 
the second for the third, and so on. For example, the legs of a 
dog whose brain has been destroyed may be thrown by stimula- 
tion of the soles of the feet into a sequence of movements re- 
sembling the movements of walking.2 Such a sequence of reflex 
actions is commonly called a chain-reflex; and it is by imagining 
the arrangements of nerve-paths which subserve such chain 
reflexes to be multiplied and complicated enormously, but on 
the same mechanical principles, that the mechanists seek to 
explain all human behavior. And recently it has been shown 
that the human spinal cord, when detached from the brain by 
a wound, is richer in such complicated reflex mechanisms than 
had previously been supposed.3 
1 By no one so thoroughly as by Professor Sir Charles Sherrington, the President 
of the Royal Society of London, whose great work embodying his studies of reflex 
action (“The Integrative Action of the Nervous System”) should be mastered by 
every serious student of psychology. 
2 The animal in this condition cannot, however, walk; for walking is a very much 
more complex process than the mere sequence of leg movements; the balancing of 
the whole body is involved in it. 
3 Especially by the studies of Doctor Henry Head. Cf. “Studies in Neurology,” 
London, 1920. THE BEHAVIOR OF THE LOWER ANIMALS 
53 
But, although such reflex movements are serviceable, in the 
sense that they are such as the organism makes use of in the 
course of its normal behavior (for example, the reflex walking 
movements of the legs of the brainless dog) when we examine 
them closely, we see that they do not exhibit the characteristic 
marks of behavior, the objective criteria of purpose. 
The reflex lacks (i) the spontaneity of behavior: the legs of 
the brainless dog only execute the walking reflex when stimulated 
in a particular manner: the normal dog gets up from sleep in a 
dark quiet corner and walks, without being excited to this be- 
havior by any assignable stimulus. The reflex lacks (2) the 
persistency of behavior: that is to say, the reflex movements 
continue only so long as the stimulus is applied to the appro- 
priate sense-organ. The chain-reflex is no exception to the rule, 
though it may seem to be so to the casual observer; for each 
movement produces the stimulus to the next in the sequence; 
just as, when one shell in a “dump” is exploded, a sequence of 
explosions may result. (3) The reflex is stereotyped or fixed, 
the movements evoked by the same stimulus falling on the same 
sensory nerve are, approximately, the same on all occasions; 
whereas purposive movements are indefinitely variable. If we 
saw a dog walking steadily forward over a smooth road, we 
might be in doubt whether his movements were purely reflex; 
and, if the movements were long continued, we should be in- 
clined to suspect this; just by reason of the absence of those per- 
petual variations of movement which are so characteristic of 
behavior. But, when we see a dog, aroused by his master’s 
whistle, run from door to window and back again, varying his 
movements in a hundred ways as he does so, we confidently re- 
gard this as behavior. 
(4) The reflex movements do not present that appearance of 
seeking a goal which is common to all behavior, and of which 
the essential feature is the persistence of movements with vari- 
ation until, and only until, that goal is attained. It is true 
that the cessation of the stimulus which provokes the reflex 
might be claimed as the analogue of the goal of purposive be- 
havior; as when the foot is withdrawn from a prick, or the dog’s 
hind-foot scratches its irritated flank. But the natural goal of 54 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
behavior (i. e., of a purposive movement) is more than the ces- 
sation of a stimulus; its attainment, which brings the move- 
ment to a close, involves some positive novelty in the total 
situation. Thus, if we saw a dog lying in the sunlight and then 
saw him get up and wander about, we might suppose that the 
heat of the sun’s rays had stimulated him to reflex walking; but, 
if we saw him walk to a patch of shade and there lie down and 
resume his slumber, we should confidently infer that this was 
behavior, a purposive movement attaining its natural goal. 
(5) Reflex action does not show that preparation for the com- 
ing situation (the situation which will result from the action) 
which in behavior suggests anticipation of that future situation. 
Conceiving the dog as a reflex machine, a bundle of reflexes, we 
might legitimately imagine such a mechanism to be stimulated 
by a sudden noise, such as the sound of his master’s voice, to 
rouse up from sleep, get upon his feet, and wander about. But 
nothing that we know of reflex action would justify us in sup- 
posing that he could be led by similar reflex processes to make all 
those preparations for a joyous and riotous welcome with which 
the normal dog responds to such a sense-impression. 
(6) Reflex processes are not improved by repetition, as the 
movements of behavior are. The same stimulus, applied again 
and again under the same conditions, repeatedly evokes the 
same movements or train of movements. It is possible that by 
repetition a reflex movement may be rendered more fixed or 
more easily evocable; but even that has not, I think, been shown 
to be true. Still less has it been shown that any reflex process 
becomes more nicely adjusted, or more effective on repetition. 
The scratch-reflex of the brainless dog’s hind-foot, which super- 
ficially resembles so closely a purposive movement, always shows 
a lack of nicety of direction toward the spot irritated, as com- 
pared with the scratching movements of the normal dog. And 
there is no evidence to suggest that any amount of repetition of 
stimulation at any one point of the skin of the brainless dog 
would result in a nicer direction of the foot toward the spot. 
The mechanist will point to the “conditioned reflex,” and say—here is evi- 
dence of “learning” or “profiting by experience” among reflex processes. 
But just here the weakness of the mechanist’s position appears very clearly. THE BEHAVIOR OF THE LOWER ANIMALS 
55 
The typical instance of “the conditioned reflex,” on the study of which the 
doctrine is chiefly based, is the salivary reflex of the dog. Professor Pavloff 
showed that, when a savory morsel is presented to the nose of a dog, saliva 
is secreted; and that if, on repeated occasions, a bell is sounded at the same 
moment that the food is presented, the sound of the bell will (after a certain 
number of repetitions of this conjunction of impressions) suffice to evoke a 
flow of saliva. This appears to involve both a profiting by experience and a 
preparation for the coming situation. But in claiming this reaction as a re- 
flex and the whole process as purely mechanical, the mechanist begs the very 
question in dispute. 
If it could be shown that a “conditioned reflex” of this sort can be estab- 
lished in a brainless dog, or in a dog or other animal deeply anesthetized with 
chloroform or ether, the mechanist’s interpretation of the particular facts 
would be strongly supported and his general position greatly strengthened. 
But this has not been shown to be possible. The attempt to demonstrate 
this possibility should be the all-absorbing task of the behaviorist. But I do 
not know of any attempt at such demonstration; and all we know of the func- 
tions of the nervous system tends to make it appear very improbable that 
any such attempt can succeed. For we know that dogs (and other animals) 
deprived, not of the whole brain, but of the cerebral cortex only, seem incapa- 
ble of learning, of profiting by experience, or of acquiring “conditioned re- 
flexes.” Yet an animal in this condition, retaining intact the cerebellum and 
basal ganglia of the great brain, is very much more like a normal animal 
than is one in which the whole brain is out of action. An animal in the former 
condition will wander about restlessly, will eat and perform all the bodily 
movements essential to continued living; and he may be provoked to what 
seem to be emotional expressions (especially anger). Yet, in spite of the fact 
that his movements show some of the marks of behavior, he never seems to 
learn or to profit by experience. Though he may be fed by the same man for 
months, he seems to show no recognition of the man or of the approach of 
food, by anticipatory actions such as the mechanist would call “conditioned 
reflexes.” 
The mechanist may be disposed to challenge also my statement that the 
reflex process does not exhibit variation of character and direction. He may 
point to the much celebrated instance of the brainless frog which, if a bit of 
blotting-paper soaked in vinegar is placed on one flank, will wipe it away 
with the hind foot of the same side, and which, if that hind foot is forcibly 
restrained, will wipe it away with the hind foot of the other side. In face of 
this instance (and of similar instances) we must admit that we cannot inter- 
pret the facts confidently. But there are two alternative interpretations, 
either of which is consistent with the distinction between reflex and purposive 
action which I have drawn. First, it may be that this is a true reflex action, 
mechanically explicable; that is to say, it maybe that the resisted contractions 
of the leg, first excited reflexly by the stimulus, give rise to additional stimuli 
which provoke reflexly the movements of the other leg, or determine the ex- 
citement from the irritated spot to flow over to the other leg. If this is the 
true interpretation of this movement, it remains an interesting example of 
complicated reflex action. Secondly, it may be that the action is purposive 
in a lowly sense. When we deal with animals so low in the scale of life as 
frogs, we cannot argue safely from their anatomy to their functions. The 
brain of the frog is but very little developed; and a little lower in the scale 56 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
we find animals which exhibit behavior in spite of having no brains, as we 
shall presently see. It may be, then, that at the level of organization of the 
frog, the brain is not essential to purposive action—as it seems to be in 
animals higher in the scale of life. 
A Seventh Mark of Behavior 
In contrasting reflex action with purposive action or behavior, 
we must take notice of yet another distinction of great impor- 
tance, which perhaps deserves to rank as a seventh objective 
mark of behavior; namely, a reflex action is always a partial re- 
action, but a purposive action is a total reaction of the organism. 
Let us examine this distinction more nearly. If your dog is 
lying idly by your side, perhaps occasionally snapping at a fly, 
you may, by pulling a hair or otherwise stimulating his flank, 
repeatedly provoke the scratch-reflex of his hind leg, without 
interfering with his repose; he may continue to snap, cocking 
his eye now and then at some interesting object, apparently 
quite unaware of your stimulus and of the machine-like move- 
ments of his leg—with a very comical effect. In a similar way, 
various reflex reactions may be simultaneously evoked by inde- 
pendent stimuli; and, so long as they do not affect the same or- 
gans, they do not interfere with one another; each is a strictly 
local reaction of a segment (or of some few segments) of the 
animal.1 In a similar way in ourselves, many reflexes may be 
excited simultaneously and independently of one another; the 
pupil may contract to increase of light, the foot jerk to a tap on 
the tendon, the respiration or blood-vessels or heart respond to 
various stimulations. 
In purposive action, on the other hand, the whole organism 
is commonly involved; the processes of all its parts are subordi- 
nated and adjusted in such a way as to promote the better pur- 
suit of the natural goal of the action. If, while you amuse your- 
self by repeatedly exciting the scratch-reflex in your dog, some 
sound excites him to behavior, then, even though the behavior 
1A few highly complex reflex movements involve many segments, e. g., the walk- 
ing movements of the dog’s legs; and here, as in all opposed reflexes of the same 
limb, such as those of extension and flexion, the law of reciprocal inhibition holds 
good; that is to say, the more strongly excited reflex inhibits the less strongly ex- 
cited and incompatible reflex. THE BEHAVIOR OF THE LOWER ANIMALS 
57 
consists in nothing more than assuming an alert attitude with 
eyes and ears directed toward the disturbing object, your stimu- 
lation of his flank becomes ineffective; at the same time the fly is 
ignored, and even your voice, raised in command, may fail to 
provoke any sign of obedience. If the sound is followed by the 
appearance of a stranger (dog or man) your dog springs to his 
feet with every muscle and organ at work in preparation for 
attack; and, while this condition continues, all his reflexes are 
subordinated to this major purposive activity; stimuli which, 
when he was at rest, would have evoked a wide range of reflexes 
produce no appreciable effect, and objects which might have 
provoked him to other trains of behavior are ignored. That is 
the type of the total reaction. The vital energies of the whole 
organism are concentrated upon the task in hand.1 
The Relation of the Human to the Animal Mind 
Having now studied the essential peculiarities of purposive 
action objectively observed, we may turn to review very briefly 
the actions of animals at various levels in the scale of life. The 
study of animal behavior teaches four lessons of high impor- 
tance for psychology: (i) It makes clearer the nature of pur- 
posive action and reveals its prevalence throughout the whole 
of the animal world: (2) it elucidates the very foundations of 
human nature, by displaying in relative simplicity among the 
animals the modes of action (namely, instinctive actions) which 
are fundamental in human behavior, but which in human life 
are so complicated and obscured by the great development of 
our intellectual powers that their full importance is only now 
beginning to be recognized: (3) it shows us how we may con- 
ceive the structure of the relatively simple mind of an animal, 
and so gives us a valuable cue for building up our description 
of the structure of the human mind: (4) for it reveals some of 
the stages which the mind must have passed through in the 
long course of mental evolution from animalcule to man. 
We have to regard the human mind, not as different in kind 
1 For a more detailed discussion of the distinction between reflex and instinctive 
action, I would refer the senior student to my article, “The Use and Abuse of In- 
stinct in Social Psychology” (Journal of Abnormal and Social Psychology, 1922). 58 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
from the animal mind, but rather as built up on a foundation 
which is essentially similar to the animal mind, especially to 
that of the animals nearest to us in the tree of life. We must 
look for evidence of the persistence of the types of structure and 
function of the animal mind, remembering that these funda- 
mental structures are overlaid by later evolved structures, and 
that their functioning is complicated and disguised by the ac- 
tivities of the more recently evolved structures. 
This way of regarding the relation of the human to the animal 
mind finds strong support in the comparative study of the ner- 
vous system of the vertebrates. When we go outside the ver- 
tebrate group, the anatomy of the nervous system is found to be 
so differently planned that it is difficult to point with confidence 
to any of its parts as strictly homologous with parts of the ver- 
tebrate nervous system. But within the vertebrate group we 
can trace these homologous parts (parts of similar function) 
without difficulty; and we find that we can select and arrange 
in an evolutionary scale a number of types of nervous system 
which may be regarded as roughly representing stages on the 
line of evolution of the human nervous system from one like 
that of the simplest existing vertebrate. 
When we construct such a scale and compare its various mem- 
bers, we find that the parts which constitute the simplest verte- 
brate nervous system are represented throughout the scale, and 
that evolution seems to have taken the form of the successive 
superposition of new structures upon the older. It seems that 
the essential functions of the older structures are not abrogated 
or altogether superseded by those of the more recently evolved 
parts, but, retaining their fundamental importance, become com- 
plicated, and variously controlled and modified by the functions 
of the later evolved superimposed structures.1 Now, though we 
have refused to regard the nervous system as identical with the 
mind, and though we maintain that the mind has a nature, a 
1 Some general understanding of the parts and functions of the nervous system 
is necessary for every student of psychology. The student should study the dia- 
grams in some such book as Herrick’s “Introduction to Neurology”; and he who 
intends to study psychology intensively should at least make himself thoroughly 
master of this book, as well as of Sherrington’s “Integrative Action of the Nervous 
System.” From ‘'The Outline of ScienceBy permission of G. P. Putnam’s Sons 
FIG. I.—THIS DRAWING SHOWS THE EVOLUTION OF 
THE BRAIN FROM FISH TO MAN THE BEHAVIOR OF THE LOWER ANIMALS 
59 
structure,- and functions which cannot be adequately described, 
represented, or explained in terms of nervous structure and func- 
tions, we have to recognize that the nervous system is at least 
the immediate instrument and servant of the mind, through 
which it maintains its relations with the rest of the bodily or- 
ganism and with the physical world about it, as well as with 
From. “ The Brain and the Voice in Speech and Song,” by Sir F. IV. Mott. 
Courtesy of h arper (if Bros., London. 
FIG. 2. 
This picture of the human brain (seen from the left side) illustrates the large extent of the areas 
of the cortex which surround the areas immediately concerned in sensory and motor functions. These, 
the “association areas,” the areas of highest function, are small in the ape’s brain and are hardly 
distinguishable in the brain of the dog. 
other minds embodied in other organisms. Hence the story of 
the evolution of the nervous system, which we can reconstruct 
from the comparative study of existing types, affords valuable, 
though always indirect and disputable evidence, of the course 
of mental evolution. 
The Nature of Tropisms 
One of the very obvious difficulties of the theory that be- 
havior is merely a conjunction or series of mechanical reflexes, 
is the fact that the reflex is peculiar to those animals which 
have a well-developed nervous system. For the behavior of 
animals that have no such nervous system, the mechanists are 
therefore driven to devise some other explanation than the re- 60 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
flex. We may best bring out the purposive quality of the 
movements of the lower animals by examining the mechanistic 
explanation and pointing out its inadequacy. 
The principle of the tropism has been confidently offered as 
adequate to explain all these lower sub-reflex forms of behavior.1 
The principle may be best illustrated by imagining a simple, 
free-swimming, bilaterally symmetrical organism whose move- 
ments are effected by two paddles, one on each side, as rep- 
resented in Fig. 3. We may 
suppose the animal to have 
also a pair of rudimentary 
eyes, mere spots of pigment 
which absorb the light and 
are stimulated by light to a 
degree proportional to its in- 
tensity. And we may sup- 
pose each eye-spot to be con- 
nected with the muscles of 
the paddle of the same side 
by a thread of conducting protoplasm, a rudimentary nerve. 
Then we may suppose that each paddle will work strongly in 
proportion to the intensity of the light falling upon the eye- 
spot of the same side. If a ray of light passes through the 
water in the direction shown by the arrow, it will stimulate 
fig. 3. 
1 By none more confidently than by Doctor Jacques Loeb, whose experimental 
observations have done much to secure acceptance for the principle, their brilliance 
blinding many students to the weakness of the reasoning applied to the facts of 
observation. Cf. “The Mechanistic Conception of Life,” Chicago, 1912. Loeb 
seeks to identify instincts with “tropisms” rather than with reflexes. He writes: 
“That in the case of our inner life a physico-chemical explanation is not beyond 
the realm of possibility is proved by the fact that it is already possible for us to 
explain cases of simple manifestations of animal instinct and will on a physico- 
chemical basis; namely, the phenomena ... of animal tropisms.” Further: 
“Our wishes and hopes, disappointments and sufferings, have their source in in- 
stincts, which are comparable to the light instinct of the heliotropic animals. 
The need of and the struggle for food, the sexual instinct with its poetry and its 
chain of consequences, the maternal instincts with the felicity and the suffering 
caused by them, the instinct of workmanship, and some other instincts are the 
roots from which our inner life develops. For some of these instincts the chemical 
basis is at least sufficiently indicated to arouse the hope that their analysis, from 
the mechanistic point of view, is only a question of time.”—Pp. 26 and 30. THE BEHAVIOR OF THE LOWER ANIMALS 
61 
the left eye more strongly than the right; and therefore the left 
paddle will work more strongly than the other. This will cause 
the creature to turn toward the right; and the turning move- 
ment will continue until the animal swims away from the 
source of light and parallel to the ray. That direction will be 
one of stable equilibrium; for the least deflection from this direc- 
tion will produce inequality of stimulation of the two eyes, and 
so make the direction of movement parallel to the ray once 
more. Accordingly, if a number of such animals were swim- 
ming freely in a long glass tank in the dark, they might be found 
swimming in all directions and irregularly distributed through- 
out the water. But, if a ray of light were then thrown through 
the tank from end to end, all the animals would turn away from 
it; and presently all would be found butting their noses against 
the end of the tank remote from the light; or, if one part of the 
tank were shaded from the light, all or most of them would be 
found swimming in this shaded part. The ordinary man, con- 
templating this effect of the light on the animals, would be in- 
clined to interpret it anthropomorphically, by saying that the 
animals dislike or fear the light, and therefore flee from it to 
seek the shade. But the mechanist would smile pityingly and 
say: “No, liking and disliking, fear, discomfort, satisfaction, 
pain and pleasure have no more part in this little drama than 
they have in the drama of human life. The whole process of 
redistribution of the animals in space is completely explicable 
in terms of physics and chemistry. The turning of the animals 
from the light is a tropism; they are negatively photo-tropic.” 
Now imagine an animal of similar structure, different only in 
that each eye-spot is connected with the paddle of the opposite 
side only. It is obvious that such an animal would turn toward 
the light rather than away from it; and that, if a ray of light 
were passed through the glass tank, all the animals would swim 
toward the source of light, and would presently be found but- 
ting against the end of the tank at which the light enters. And, 
if one part of the tank were shaded, they would seem to avoid 
this shaded part and to seek the light. Such animals would be 
positively photo-tropic. 
All animals are constantly subjected to chemical and physical 62 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
influences, many of which are directed upon them somewhat in 
the fashion of a ray of light; especially is this true of all forms 
of radiant energy, heat, electricity, and that mysterious energy 
we call gravity. And chemical substances are apt to diffuse 
themselves through air and water in a way which results in a 
graded density of the solution, and thus may give rise to chemo- 
tropisms. The mechanists are inclined to regard all the be- 
havior of the lower forms of life as tropisms of these various 
kinds; and they do not hesitate to extend the principle to 
explain the behavior of animals that have well-developed ner- 
vous systems. For example, larvae of a certain insect (Porthesia 
chrysorrhcea) climb upward on the tree on which they are hatched, 
and so find the young buds on the tips of the branches. This is 
said to be due to positive heliotropism; light directs their move- 
ments upward. When they have climbed to the top of the 
branch and eaten all the leaves, they turn downward and de- 
scend, as though in search of more food. This offers no diffi- 
culty to the mechanist interpretation. When they have eaten 
all the leaves, they lose their positive heliotropism. Hence their 
descent.1 This is a mild sample of what can be accomplished 
1 Professor Loeb writes: “They can now creep downward, and the restlessness 
which is characteristic of so many animals forces them to creep downward until 
they reach a new leaf, the odor or tactile stimulus of which stops the progressive 
movement of the machine and sets their eating activity again in motion.” (Op. cit., 
p. 48.) He adds, in a foot-note: “The physico-chemical cause of this ‘restlessness,’ 
which is noticeable in many insects and crustaceans, is at present unknown.” The 
implication is that if, and when, the chemical condition of this restlessness shall 
be discovered, this train of behavior will be wholly explained in physico-chemical 
terms. But that is far from true. Why downward ? Why not down and up and to 
and fro in perfectly random fashion ? If it be suggested that feeding renders the 
larvae negatively heliotropic, the theory would encounter the difficulty that, on 
coming across more leaves, the larvae cease to descend. This simple case illustrates 
the fact that the tropic theory, although it no doubt points to a real factor influ- 
encing behavior in many cases, cannot wholly explain any train of behavior. This 
inadequacy of the tropic theory and of the reasoning of the mechanists is well 
illustrated by Loeb on his next page, where he shows that ants and bees, at the 
time of the nuptial flight, seem to be positively heliotropic. He adds: “I gained 
the impression that this nuptial flight is merely the consequence of a very highly 
developed heliotropic sensitiveness.” The significant word here is “merely.” 
The author neglects a host of the facts of the nuptial flight which render it very 
different from a mere flying toward the sun, and concludes in characteristic fashion: 
“Thus, according to these observations the bees at the time of the nuptial flight 
are positively heliotropic machines.” THE BEHAVIOR OF THE LOWER ANIMALS 
63 
by the principle of tropism. Its most enthusiastic exponents 
seem to believe that by the same principle all behavior, even 
human behavior, is explicable; and they even seem to resent 
the fact that the higher animals possess nervous systems and 
reflexes; for this fact narrows the field of application of their 
favorite principle, and restricts the scope of their ingenuity in 
applying it, or at least brings a serious rival into the field. 
Tropism a Valid Principle but Not All-Sufficient 
It is worth while to reflect that, if a monstrous visitor from 
another planet were to study the behavior of a colony of human 
beings through a powerful magnifying glass, he might well come 
to the conclusion that human behavior is largely, if not wholly, 
a matter of tropic reactions. For he would observe that, when 
they are fatigued by a day’s activity, they become negatively 
photo tropic, seeking dark places and lying quiet there; but 
after a period of rest the sign of their tropism is reversed, so that 
they become positively phototropic and seem to seek the light. 
He would observe that in cold weather these queer creatures 
become positively thermotropic and congregate about fires and 
stoves; and that, when they are hungry, they become positively 
chemotropic toward the chemical substances which diffuse 
themselves from the cook-house door. He might observe also 
that the males tend to congregate about young females; and, if 
he were a mechanist of the school of Loeb, he would confidently 
infer that the young female emits some unknown form of radiant 
energy towards which the males are positively tropic.1 
The evidence on which this observer would base his interpre- 
tations would be not unlike that which we have for the applica- 
tion of the principle of tropism to the animalcules. I do not 
wish to suggest that the principle is not sound and valid in cer- 
tain cases. When, for example, the moth flies into the flame, 
consumed by a desire for immortality, as the poets tell us, or 
fascinated by the pleasing glow, as perhaps the man-in-the- 
street would say, it is, I think, not improbable that a positive 
heliotropism is really the determining factor. And in many 
1 Cf. Bethe’s interpretation of the “homing” of bees on p. 8l. 64 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
other instances tropism may play a part in determining the 
behavior of animals. But there seems to be no possibility of 
explaining all the behavior of any animal in terms of this prin- 
ciple. Even some of the most plausible applications of the 
principle come upon nasty snags, as we have seen in the instance 
of the larval Chrysorrhcea. In other cases we can only work 
the tropic principle by piling supposition upon supposition. 
But more important is the consideration that the movements 
of an animal, guided by tropisms alone, would show none of the 
marks of behavior; yet the movements of even the simplest ani- 
mals do show such marks. The tropic principle presupposes 
that spontaneity and that persistence of movements which we 
called the first two marks of behavior. For, if the animal makes 
no movements of locomotion, there is nothing for the tropic 
guidance to work upon. 
Further, movements governed by tropism, when they do not 
at once attain their natural end, should show none of that 
variation of direction which is the third mark of behavior. Yet 
almost every instance of animal locomotion shows this mark. 
Even the moth does not usually fly directly into the flame; 
but more commonly hovers round it uncertainly, as though 
both attracted and repelled, before he blunders into it. 
It is among the unicellular animals that the tropic principle 
might, if anywhere, be expected to celebrate its completest 
triumph. For surely, it may be said, it is absurd to postulate 
anything of the nature of mind in a tiny speck of jelly, which 
appears almost structureless under the highest powers of the 
microscope. Yet we must remember that each one of us, even 
the most magnificently endowed, begins life as just such a speck 
of jelly. The only difference known to us is that one speck 
remains a speck, or becomes many similar specks, while the 
other becomes a man and, perhaps, a philosopher. 
Behavior of Protozoa 
Of such animals {Protozoa) the humblest and simplest is the 
Amoeba. Yet here is a condensed chapter from the lives of two 
such creatures.1 These unicellular specks of protoplasm creep 
1 H. C. Jennings, “The Behavior of Lower Organisms,” p. 17. THE BEHAVIOR OF THE LOWER ANIMALS 
65 
over solid surfaces submerged in fresh water. A larger speci- 
men, C, comes in contact with a smaller one, B. C thereupon 
changes the direction of its locomotion and sends out two long 
protuberances which begin to enclose B, as B continues on its 
path. This process continues until C completely encloses B, to- 
gether with a quantity of water. C then stops and changes its 
direction, carrying B within it in a quiescent condition. After 
a brief period, the quiescent B bestirs itself and begins to emerge 
from C, sending protuberances out through a small canal left 
open in the substance of the enclosing C. Thereupon C reverses 
its movement and again completely encloses B, and again moves 
off in the opposite direction, carrying B within. Again B, by 
a few rapid movements, escapes from the “posterior end” of its 
captor C, and becomes completely free and separated from C by 
a clear interval. Again C reverses, overtakes B, again engulfs 
it, and starts away in a new direction. B then seems resigned 
to its fate; it remains contracted to a spherical mass within C 
for some five minutes. But, after that time, B again bestirs 
itself, forces its way through the containing wall of C’s sub- 
stance, and finally escapes. 
It is clear that this series of movements resembles behavior, 
a series of purposive actions, far more closely than a series of 
tropisms. At any rate, the tropic theory is very far from hav- 
ing an adequate explanation to offer. 
Consider the movements of the slipper animalcule (Paramos- 
cium). This is a tiny slipper-shaped animal. Although it con- 
sists of a single cell only, it has highly specialized parts or organs, 
including the cilia, whose whiplike movements propel it with 
blunt end foremost and sweep particles of food into its mouth. 
Its activity consists in little more than these almost constant 
movements of its cilia. And it is one of the most machinelike 
of the animalcules. Yet it exhibits unmistakably some of the 
marks of behavior. Especially it exhibits spontaneity in its al- 
most perpetual activity and in the renewal of it after short 
periods of quiescence. Usually, upon coming into contact with 
a solid object, it reverses the motion of its cilia, backs away, 
turns through a small angle and again swims forward. But 
sometimes it remains quiescent, anchored to the surface, then 66 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
shifts its position upon it, remains quiet again, and then swims 
away. “All this may happen without the slightest evident 
change in the outer conditions. So far as can be seen, the 
Paramoecium first responds to the solid by the avoiding reac- 
tion, later by the positive contact reaction, and still later sus- 
pends the contact reaction, all without any change in external 
conditions. The changes inducing the change in reaction must 
then be within the animal.” (Jennings, op. cit.) 
Even more suggestive of behavior or purposive action are 
the following reactions of Stentor, a slender vaselike creature. 
It consists of a single cell, but has a more differentiated struc- 
ture than most other Protozoa. The apex of its conical body is 
commonly attached to some solid surface; the base of the cone 
is surrounded with cilia, whose movements drive a current of 
water into a soft-walled depression, which is the mouth. This 
creature was bombarded with a stream of innutritious particles 
by Jennings, who describes the following series of reactions: (i) 
Stentor sweeps the particles into its “mouth” for a short time; 
(2) it bends to one side, repeating this movement several times 
at short intervals; (3) it reverses the action of the cilia about 
its “mouth,” so that the particles, instead of being ingested, 
are driven away; (4) after repeating this reversal two or three 
times, it contracts its whole body toward its base of attach- 
ment; (5) if, after several repetitions of this withdrawal, Stentor 
still encounters the stream of particles on extending itself, it 
makes a more violent contraction of its whole body, which 
results in its detachment from its fixed base; it then swims away 
and takes up a new position, again attaching itself to some solid 
surface. This sequence of reactions to the unvarying stimulus 
seems to exhibit in a rudimentary way all the marks of behavior. 
The mechanist may suggest that the continued bombardment 
reverses the sign of Stentor’s tropism toward such stimulation; 
but this hardly meets the case. The significant fact is that, 
after repeating one movement several times, the animal, under 
the same external conditions of stimulation, makes a quite dif- 
ferent movement which more effectually removes it from the 
harmful influence. It is at least a striking instance of variation 
of movement in face of constant stimulation; and each of the THE BEHAVIOR OF THE LOWER ANIMALS 
67 
successive movements is an adaptive reaction. Perhaps it de- 
serves to be classed as a very simple instance of learning or of 
profiting by experience. 
Professors H. S. Jennings and S. J. Holmes, who seem to be 
strictly impartial and who have studied the behavior of these 
animalcules most intensively, agree in holding that we cannot 
explain all the movements of these simplest animals as tropisms 
and reflexes, and that we are justified (provisionally at least) in 
regarding them as constituting behavior, that is to say, as very 
simple and lowly examples of purposive action.1 
We might with advantage dwell upon hundreds of examples 
of behavior among very simple animals. But I will cite only 
one more from the quite lowly region of the scale of life, a well- 
known bit of behavior of the common earthworm. It has long 
Behavior of the Earthworm 
1 Professor Jennings writes of the Amoeba as follows: “Can the behavior of 
Amoeba be resolved throughout into direct unvarying reactions to simple stimuli 
—into elements comparable to simple reflexes ? For most of the behavior . . . 
the stimuli can be recognized in simple chemical or physical changes in the environ- 
ment. Yet there are certain trains of action for which such a resolution into 
unvarying reactions to simple stimuli seems unsatisfactory. This is notably true 
for some of the food reactions. In watching an Amoeba following a rolling food- 
ball, one seems to see the animal, after failing to secure the food in one way, try 
another. Again, in the pursuit of one Amoeba by another, it is difficult to con- 
ceive each phase of action of the pursuer to be completely determined by a simple 
present stimulus. For example [in the pursuit described above], after Amoeba B 
has escaped completely and is quite separate from Amoeba C, the latter reverses 
its course and recaptures B. What determines the behavior of C at this point ? 
. . . One who sees the behavior as it occurs can hardly resist the conviction that 
the action at this point is partly determined by the changes in C due to the former 
possession of B, so that the behavior is not purely reflex.” (“Behavior of the 
Lower Organisms,” p. 24.) Again he writes: “We may classify the various changes 
in behavior due to stimulation into three main types, which may be called the 
positive reaction, the negative reaction, and the food reaction. . . . These types 
are not stereotyped; each varies much in details under different conditions. The 
movements in these reactions are clearly not the direct results of the simple physi- 
cal action of the agents inducing them. As in the higher animals, so in Amoeba 
the reactions are indirect. ... It is therefore not possible to predict the move- 
ments of the organisms from a knowledge of the direct physical changes produced 
in its substance by the agent in question.” (Op. cit., p. 23.) 
Jennings writes also: “Thus we find in the unicellular organisms very little in 
the behavior that can be interpreted in accordance with this local action theory 
of tropisms. The latter does not by any means express the fundamental nature 68 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
been common knowledge that an earthworm, when about to 
draw a leaf into its burrow, will seize it by the narrower end. 
Experiment on this cue with pieces of paper of various shapes 
has shown that an earthworm, whose sense-organs and nervous 
system are very simple, will explore the piece of paper which it 
is about to draw into its burrow, and will generally seize it by 
the most suitable corner for its purpose. Thus, if the paper be 
a triangle, having one angle distinctly more acute than the 
other two, it will seize the paper at the apex of this angle, which 
obviously is the one that any intelligent being would choose, if 
its purpose was to drag the paper into a narrow round burrow.1 
of their behavior in directed reactions. These are based chiefly on the perform- 
ance under stimulation of varied movements, with selection from the resulting 
conditions. . . . The prevalence of this local action theory of tropisms as a gen- 
eral explanation of behavior in lower organisms is based only on an incomplete 
knowledge and an insufficient analysis of the facts of behavior.” Further, he 
writes: “Intelligence is commonly held to consist essentially in the modification of 
behavior in accordance with experience. ... It appears clear that we find the 
beginnings of such adaptive changes of behavior even in the Protozoa. . . . This 
fundamental basis [of intelligent adaptation] then clearly exists even in the Pro- 
tozoa; it is apparently coextensive with life. It is difficult if not impossible to 
draw a line separating the regulatory behavior of lower organisms from the so- 
called intelligent behavior of higher ones; the one grades insensibly into the 
other. . . . We have asked merely whether there exist in the lower organisms 
objective phenomena of a character similar to what we find in the behavior 
of man. To this question we have been compelled to give an affirmative 
answer. So far as objective evidence goes, there is no difference of kind, but 
a complete continuity between the behavior of lower and of higher organisms.” 
He then discusses the question—Is the behavior of lower organisms such as to 
“suggest to the observer the existence of consciousness”? He is of the opinion 
“that Paramoecium . . . makes such an impression that one involuntarily recog- 
nizes it as a little subject acting in ways analogous to our own. Still stronger, 
perhaps, is this impression when observing an Amoeba obtaining food. . . . The 
writer is thoroughly convinced, after long study of the behavior of this organism, 
that if Amoeba were a large animal, so as to come within the every-day experience 
of human beings, its behavior would at once call forth the attribution to it of 
states of pleasure and pain, of hunger, desire, and the like, on precisely the same 
basis as we attribute these things to a dog. . . . We attribute consciousness to 
the dog, because this is useful; it enables us practically to appreciate, foresee, and 
control its actions much more readily than we could otherwise do. ... I believe 
it beyond question that we should find similar attribution to it [Amoeba] of certain 
states of consciousness a practical assistance in foreseeing and controlling its be- 
havior. Amoeba is a beast of prey, and gives the impression of being controlled 
by the same elemental impulses as higher beasts of prey.” 
1 Charles Darwin seems to have been the first to put these facts on scientific 
record in his book on earthworms. His observations have been confirmed. Professor THE BEHAVIOR OF THE LOWER ANIMALS 
69 
I confess that this behavior is staggering. It certainly can- 
not be explained as either a tropism or a conditioned reflex. 
In some sense the animal appreciates by successive touches the 
shape of the paper, or at least the nature of its angles; and in 
some sense it compares these, and chooses the one most suitable 
to its purpose. The behavior seems to imply and express a 
comparative judgment, as clearly as when I choose a shoe to 
fit my foot. We shall see that other animals a little higher in 
the scale behave in a variety of ways which seem to imply such 
judgment. 
Insects and Instinctive Behavior 
Let us turn now to the insects, whose fascinating behavior 
has attracted the intensive study of many fine observers and 
which lend themselves so much better than most wild animals 
to minute observation. The difficulty is to choose amidst a 
wealth of material. The insects have a relatively simple ner- 
vous system, consisting of a chain of ganglia (small clusters of 
cells); each ganglion is connected with its neighbors by a longi- 
tudinal bundle of nerve fibres; and each receives sensory fibres 
from the sense organs, and sends out motor fibres to the muscles 
of its segment. Each ganglion seems to be a small group of 
typical reflex mechanisms. 
Further, the insect is strictly bilaterally symmetrical, and thus 
lends itself well to explanation by the tropic principle. Here, if 
anywhere, we might expect a combination of reflexes, condi- 
G. Kafka writes (in his very thorough and critical “ Tierpsychologie,” Leipzig, 
1914) as follows: “Dass es tatsachlich Formreize sind, welche die Reaktionen der 
Tiere [earthworms] bestimmen, ergibt sich aus den versuchen Hanels, in denen 
ihnen drei- oder viereckige Papierstuckchen zum verstopfen ihrer Rohren dargebo- 
ten und diese Figuren wiederum weitaus am haufigsten in unmittelbarer nahe des 
spitzesten Winkels ergriffen wurden, selbst wenn etwa in einem gleichschenkeligen 
Dreieck das verhaltnis des schenkels zur Basis nur 9: 10 betrug.” (Vol. x, p. 494.) 
Without wishing to reflect upon the scientific impartiality of Herr Kafka, I would 
draw the student’s attention to his use of the term “Formreiz,” literally, “shape 
stimulus.” This is a mild example of a practice common among mechanists. 
They fit all behavior to their “stimulus-response formula,” by means of the simple 
device of classifying as “stimuli” everything in heaven and earth, from a flash of 
light or a simple touch to a religious or political system of beliefs, or an institution 
such as the Roman Church or the British Empire. 70 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
tioned reflexes, and tropisms to yield fairly adequate explana- 
tions of what to a superficial view looks like behavior. 
Some of the mechanists have rightly seen that here is the 
proper field for the demonstration of the adequacy of their 
principles, and have boldly thrown out their challenge to the 
anthropomorphists.1 
The behavior of insects is particularly interesting also, be- 
cause insects are rightly held to illustrate in the richest and 
purest manner the operation of “Instinct.” The problem of 
“Instinct” is of fundamental importance. Instinctive action, 
rather than reflex action, is in my view, and in that of many 
other psychologists, the key to the understanding of human 
behavior. It is the teaching of this book that human behavior 
is built up on a basis of innate tendencies which are in all essen- 
tials very similar to the instinctive tendencies of animals. 
Others, notably Professor Bergson, take a different view. 
They assert that Instinct and Intelligence are two diverse de- 
velopments of Mind that have little in common. They sug- 
gest that in the course of evolution Mind arrived at a parting 
of the ways, that the path of evolution was split into two diver- 
gent paths, Instinct and Intelligence; and that, while the insects 
followed the former and developed Instinct in a very high 
degree and Intelligence hardly at all, the vertebrates and mam- 
mals followed the other path and developed Intelligence till it 
culminated in the intellect of man; Instinct in this line remain- 
ing comparatively inactive, until it was rediscovered by Pro- 
fessor Bergson and recognized by him as the essential function 
involved in philosophic intuition. 
The mechanists form a third party who see in Instinct noth- 
ing more than complex reflex action, often of the type of the 
chain-reflex, and sometimes modified or controlled by tropisms. 
We have then to keep in mind these three rival views during 
our study of insect behavior; and we must attempt to find 
grounds of decision in favor of one or other of them. 
The definition and demarcation of Instinct and Intelligence 
have been much debated of recent years; but no general agree- 
ment as to the precise use of the words has yet been reached, 
1 Cf. especially the attempt of A. Bethe discussed in the following chapter. THE BEHAVIOR OF THE LOWER ANIMALS 
nor can be reached until agreement as to the nature of the facts 
denoted shall have been achieved. But the great majority of 
all parties would agree that we may properly call “instinctive” 
those actions of animals which seem to be purposive (i. e., ex- 
hibit the marks of behavior) and which are performed by any 
animal independently of previous experience of similar situa- 
tions. The surest evidence of such independence of prior ex- 
perience is the performance of an action immediately after the 
animal emerges from its egg, or after some similar radical change 
of environment and mode of life; though in many other cases it 
is possible to be sure that, in spite of the lapse of time since such 
a change of life, the animal has not had contact with any object 
or situation similar to that which evokes the instinctive response. 
In defining instinctive action, some authorities would add that 
an instinctive action or tendency is one which is common to all 
members of the species. This is, no doubt, very generally 
true, but seems to be an unnecessary and extrinsic addition. 
Intelligent action, on the other hand, is generally defined as 
one which seems to show that the creature has profited by prior 
experience of similar situations, that it somehow brings to bear 
its previous experience in the guidance of its present action. 
Instinct (abstractly conceived and with a capital letter) is na- 
tive or inborn capacity for purposive action; Intelligence is the 
capacity to improve upon native tendency in the light of past 
experience. 
The Hormic Theory 
A word must be said here on the meaning of the word "teleological.” I 
have insisted that all mental activity is purposive, that it is a striving toward 
a goal, however vaguely the goal may be thought of. The word "teleologi- 
cal,” which means directed toward a goal, has often been applied to animal 
behavior, or to the realm of life in general, to imply that the processes of organ- 
isms are adjusted to bring about certain results which are the goal designed 
or willed by the Creator. If organic processes are described as teleological 
in this sense of the word, the view is compatible with the theory that all an- 
imals are merely machines or mechanisms. For the processes of a man- 
made machine are teleological in this same sense: they bring about the re- 
sults designed and willed by the maker of the machine. We may, however, 
use the word "teleological” as equivalent to "purposive” in the sense in 
which it is defined in this chapter. The difference between the two mean- 
ings is very important. Applied to the whole process of organic-evolution, the 
term " teleological ” may mean that the process is realizing a goal conceived 72 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
and willed by the Creator in the minutest detail. On the other hand, if it is 
used as synonymous with “purposive” in the sense defined in this chapter, it 
means that in the process of organic evolution the goal of the process is pro- 
gressively created and defined, as evolution advances and as Mind becomes 
increasingly capable of conceiving the future in terms of alternatives between 
which it chooses. 
The view that all animal and human behavior is purposive in however 
vague and lowly a degree, and that purposive action is fundamentally differ- 
ent from mechanical process, may be conveniently called the hormic theory. 
The word “hormic” is from the Greek "horme” (%«?), which means a vital 
impulse or urge to action. Schopenhauer’s “will-to-live,” Professor Bergson’s 
“elan vital," and Doctor C. G. Jung’s "libido," are alternative expressions 
for the purposive or hormic energy that is manifested in human and animal 
behavior. In adopting this word I am following the suggestion of Professor 
T. P. Nunn in his very excellent little book, “Education, Its Data and First 
Principles.” He states the theory so admirably that I cannot forbear to cite 
a few sentences: 
“Are we, since our bodies are ‘matter,’ to seek in physical laws an explana- 
tion for the whole of life; or are we, since our bodies are alive, to interpret 
their activity by what we know of life where its character appears in the 
highest and clearest form—namely, in the conscious life of the mind ? ” “ The 
animal’s life is, of course, permeated (as human physiology is) by chemical 
and physical factors; but just as a poem, though permeated by grammar, is 
more than a sum of grammatical expressions, so the behavior, even of a pro- 
tozoan, escapes beyond the conception of a physico-chemical machine. In 
short, the humblest creature is autonomous.” “Stupendous as the distance 
is between the lives of the protozoan and the creature who has been made a 
little lower than the angels, it consists—like the difference between a village 
church and a cathedral—not in any radical unlikeness of the essential features, 
but rather in the differing richness, variety, and subtlety of the details in which 
a single scheme has been worked out at different evolutionary levels.” 
“Starting from the position that there is more than physics and chemistry 
even in the humblest animal, it [the hormic theory] comes to view the history 
of life as a striving toward the individuality which is expressed most clearly 
and richly in man’s conscious nature, and finds, therefore, in that goal toward 
which the whole creation moves the true interpretation of its earlier efforts.” 
“We need a name for the fundamental property expressed in the incessant 
adjustments and adventures that make up the tissue of life. We are directly 
aware of that property in our conscious activities as an element of ‘drive,’ 
‘urge,’ or felt tendency toward an end. Psychologists call it conation, and 
give the name conative process to any train of conscious activity which is 
dominated by such a drive.... For instance, the reader's endeavor to under- 
stand the present sentence is a conative process in which a relatively complex 
system of mental acts moves toward a more or less clearly envisaged end. . . . 
While the reader’s mind is pursuing the printed argument, his neuro- 
muscular mechanisms are keeping his head aloft upon his shoulders, his di- 
gestive glands are dealing with his latest meal. None of these purposive 
processes may be called conative, for they lie below, and even far below, the 
conscious level; yet a suprahuman spectator, who could watch our mental 
behavior in the same direct way as we can observe physical events, would see 
them all as instances of the same class, variant in detail but alike in general THE BEHAVIOR OF THE LOWER ANIMALS 
73 
plan. In other words, he would see that they all differ from purely mechani- 
cal processes by the presence of an internal ‘drive.’ ... To this element of 
drive or urge, whether it occurs in the conscious life of men and the higher 
animals or in the unconscious activities of their bodies and the (presumably) 
unconscious behavior of lower animals, we propose to give a single name— 
horme In accordance with this proposal all the purposive processes 
of the organism are hormic processes, conative processes being the subclass 
whose members have the special mark of being conscious.” Again he writes: 
‘‘Horme, as we have defined the term, is the basis of the activities that differ- 
entiate the living animal from dead matter.” Further, they, the hormic 
processes, undergo a “development in which they become organized into 
ever wider and more complex hormic systems. Beginning as a cell in his 
mother’s body, a very part of her flesh, he [each man] becomes a ‘parasite’ 
nourished by her blood and feeding on her food, yet already a being with a 
life and destiny of his own. The hormic processes, both conservative and 
creative, in which that life consists, are still mainly unconscious, though, as 
his nervous system determines and his sense organs form, his ‘will to live’ 
may be enriched by some vague conational, that is, conscious elements, while 
he still lies in his mother’s womb. As soon as he has left her body and has 
entered on the long task of picking his way through the labyrinth of the 
outer world, the conational elements acquire a new significance, and their 
development becomes the centre of the spectator’s interest. Conation rises 
slowly from the level of blind, or purblind, impulse to that of clear-eyed de- 
sire, and eventually from the level of desire seeking an immediate good to 
that of will fixed upon a distant and perhaps ideal goal. Meanwhile, sub- 
serving this advance in the character of the horme, there is a parallel develop- 
ment in its organization—showing itself first in the emergence of his physio- 
logical organs and in the correlation of their functions, then after birth, in 
the co-ordination of the powers of sense and movement in systems of ever- 
increasing complexity and effectiveness, and lastly in the gradual building up 
of great conative hierarchies, which determine the form of the man’s indi- 
viduality and are the measure of his life’s achievement.” CHAPTER III 
BEHAVIOR OF INSECTS 
Many great naturalists have devoted much of their lives to 
the study of the ants, bees, and wasps; and the behavior of these 
insects is of the utmost interest to the psychologist, because it 
presents so many clear instances of the blending of Intelligence 
with Instinct, of undeniable Intelligence with unmistakable In- 
stinct. But, before turning to these, let us consider a single 
example of what may fairly be called purely instinctive be- 
havior. I select for description a train of actions, each of which 
is normally performed once only by each insect, and which 
therefore can owe little or nothing of its nicety of adaptation 
to the previous experience of the individual performer. In- 
stances of such actions abound among the insects; the following 
one differs from many others only in being exceptionally com- 
plex. 
Purely Instinctive Behavior 
The Yucca moths “emerge from their chrysalis cases just 
when the large, yellowish-white, bell-shaped flowers of the 
Yucca open, each for a single night. From the anthers of one 
of these flowers the female moth collects the golden pollen and 
kneads the adhesive material into a little pellet, which she 
holds beneath her head by means of the greatly enlarged bristly 
palps. Thus laden, she flies off and seeks another flower. Hav- 
ing found one, she pierces with the sharp lancets of her ovipositor 
the tissue of the pistil, lays her eggs among the ovules, and then, 
darting to the top of the stigma, stuffs the fertilizing pollen- 
pellet into its funnel-shaped opening.” 1 In this way the moth 
places her eggs where they can develop, if the ovules develop; 
but the ovules can develop only if the moth pushes the pollen 
from another flower into the open stigma. Nature has so con- 
11 cite from Professor Lloyd Morgan’s account in “Habit and Instinct.” BEHAVIOR OF INSECTS 
75 
stituted the moth that she performs this cycle of nicely adjusted 
actions, essential to the continuance of the species, shortly after 
emerging from the chrysalis, when she cannot have acquired 
any knowledge of the flower or of her grub and its needs. 
This is a fine example of the working of a chain-instinct. Why 
should we not be content to call it a chain-reflex ? Each step 
in the train of action brings the moth into a new situation in 
which new stimuli affect its sense-organs. Why not be content 
to suppose, with the mechanists, that each step is simply a 
reflex reaction to some new stimulus ? The available descrip- 
tions of this train of action do not enable us to say whether or 
no it presents all the marks of behavior. The first three marks 
of our list—spontaneity, persistence, variation—are not de- 
scribed; though it is probable that minute and repeated obser- 
vation would discover them. Preparation for the coming situ- 
ation is conspicuous. Direction toward an end might perhaps be 
claimed; but it does not clearly appear, because its clear appear- 
ance involves the first three marks, not reported in this in- 
stance. There is no evidence of improvement on repetition, 
because no repetition has been observed. But each step does 
seem to be a total reaction. And there is another feature of 
the process which, though not an essential mark of behavior 
(because not present in many of the lower instances of behavior, 
and not always present in instinctive action), yet, when it is 
present, very clearly marks off instinctive from merely reflex 
action and from tropism. Reflex action is response to a stimulus; 
instinctive action is in many cases a response to an object. Sub- 
jectively the distinction between response to a stimulus and 
response to an object is fairly clear, though the line may not be 
sharply drawn. For example, if particles of pepper enter my 
nostrils they may provoke a sneeze, even though I do not 
perceive the odor or the irritation; the sneeze is then a reflex 
action, a reflex response to a stimulus. But, if I perceive the 
odor and the irritation and then blow my nose, that is behavior 
initiated by perception, a purposive reaction upon an object. 
In attempting to apply this distinction in the study of animal 
behavior, we have to rely upon objective criteria; therefore, 
when we observe reaction upon some simple sense-impression, 76 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
such as an odor, a simple sound, a touch, or a ray of light, we 
remain in doubt. But, if a nicely adapted reaction is found to 
be evoked only by some complex conjunction or sequence of 
sense-impressions, then we may infer on the part of the animal 
a synthetic activity which makes from a complex of sense-stimuli 
a unitary object.1 
Synthetic activity of this kind is of the essence of perception. 
Thus, when the humble earthworm slowly explores, by successive 
touches, the borders of a leaf or of a piece of paper, then seizes 
it by its acutest angle and drags it into his burrow, we may in- 
fer on his part an act of perception; we may infer it as confi- 
dently as when we see a blind man spell out a word or recognize 
a child by touch; or as when, with closed eyes, a man recognizes 
by touch alone a complex object placed in his hand. For the 
earthworm’s behavior is not merely a response to a stimulus ; it is 
action guided by an appreciation of the shape of the object, an 
appreciation gained through a series of sense-impressions. And 
it implies far more than a mere summation of stimuli. If a 
stimulus is weak, it may fail to evoke a reflex action; and yet 
may evoke such action, if it is repeated several times in quick 
succession. That is what is meant by “summation of stimuli.” 
But the earthworm, in order to seize the acutest angle, must 
appreciate in some sense the shape of the leaf, must relate the 
successive stimuli or sense-impressions of contact in a complex 
and orderly whole; and such relating synthetic activity is the 
essence of perception. Such relating synthetic activity is most 
prominent in ourselves in relation to impressions of sight and 
hearing; that is why we call these the most intellectual of the 
senses. In the animals also sight and hearing seem to be promi- 
nent in the same way; but the behavior of some animals, of the 
ants, for example, implies that complex and successive impres- 
sions of both touch and smell are synthesized by them more 
elaborately and effectually than by the normal average man. 
Let us return to the Yucca moth, whose train of behavior 
may seem to a superficial view so machinelike. Consider a 
single step of this behavior, the placing of the egg in the one 
1 More strictly—the subject responds to a complex conjunction or sequence of 
sense-impressions with awareness of a unitary object. BEHAVIOR OF INSECTS 
77 
position in all the world where it can develop, that is, among the 
ovules of the flower. Even if we assume that an odor emanat- 
ing from the ovules exerts some tropic influence on the moth, it 
is obvious that this will not suffice to determine the placing of 
the egg in the right spot. That can be effected only under the 
guidance of a multitude of simultaneous and successive sense- 
stimuli; and these must be not merely summated, but rather 
synthesized and related into an appreciation of the shape of the 
parts of the flower concerned. In other words, the response of 
the moth to the flower is a perceptual response, not a mere reac- 
tion to a stimulus.1 
Instinct and Intelligence Co-operate in Homing 
Among the hymenoptera the solitary wasps are the most in- 
teresting in the present connection. For the behavior of the 
social species is more difficult to analyze, and at present many 
of its features are far beyond our comprehension. M. Henri 
Fabre, the aged prince of entomologists, has devoted some of 
his many fascinating reports to the solitary wasps.2 And Mr. 
and Mrs. Peckham have given us minute studies of them in a 
very charming volume.3 There are many species of these soli- 
tary wasps, all of which lead much the same sort of life; but the 
behavior of each species is in some respects peculiar to itself. 
In so far as all the members of one species behave in the same 
ways, and especially when such behavior is peculiar to that one 
species, we may confidently regard such behavior as instinctive. 
The solitary mode of life of these wasps presents great advan- 
tages to the student of their behavior. When we are observing 
the behavior of animals that are gregarious or that are brought 
up by parents in a family group, it is often difficult to distin- 
1This is one of the respects in which an uncritical adhesion to the mechanist 
theory of behavior is apt to blind the theorist to facts. Starting out with the 
formula that all behavior is a reaction to a “stimulus,” such a theorist is apt to 
ignore altogether this highly important distinction between “stimuli” and “ob- 
jects.” This abuse of the word “stimulus” reaches its extreme when the mecha- 
nist seeks to bring, say, the political or religious activities of a man under the stim- 
ulus-response formula by describing his system of political or religious beliefs as 
an internal institutional stimulus. 
2 “Souvenirs Entologiques.” 3 “Wasps, Social and Solitary.” 78 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
guish instinctive behavior from that which is moulded by the in- 
fluence of parents and companions. The study of the solitary 
wasps is almost entirely free from this complication. In each of 
the species we are to consider, the female wasp emerges full- 
grown from the grub and proceeds forthwith to lead her solitary 
life. Alone and without the example or assistance of any com- 
panion, she sets about her task of perpetuating her species. 
This task is accomplished by a cycle of behavior of several 
phases: she makes, or finds, a suitable nest for her eggs, lays 
one or more eggs in it, and deposits beside them a store of ani- 
mal food, which she secures by hunting with much and varied 
activity. The grub which hatches from the egg feeds upon the 
prey deposited beside it, and grows; until it in turn emerges a 
perfect wasp, almost ready to enter upon a similar cycle of ac- 
tivity. Unlike the Yucca moth and many other insects, each 
wasp performs, or may perform, the cycle of egg-laying many 
times. After depositing her egg with the supply of animal 
food, she leaves the nest (generally having first securely closed 
it) and never returns to it; she proceeds to find or make a new 
nest and to repeat the cycle. It seems clear, therefore, that 
the wasp never learns by individual experience the issue of her 
labors, namely, the birth of offspring like herself. And it seems 
fairly safe to assume that she has no knowledge and no foresight 
of this issue of her untiring activity. Her parental care is cer- 
tainly not to be attributed to an intelligent anticipation of ben- 
efits to be received; whether in the form of the pleasures of con- 
tact with her young, or of a proud contemplation and display 
of her offspring, or of care and attention from them in her old 
age. It is safe to assume that the institution of old-age pen- 
sions among these wasps would have no appreciable effect on 
their birth-rate. 
Such lack of all knowledge of the ultimate issue of action on 
the part of the performer is sometimes made a part of the defi- 
nition of instinctive action; but this also is an extrinsic and un- 
essential mark. But when it can be confidently inferred, whether 
in human or animal behavior, it is a sure indication of an in- 
stinctive basis or factor. 
Various holes are used by the solitary wasps as nests; but BEHAVIOR OF INSECTS 
79 
each species makes use of only one kind, or at most a few simi- 
lar kinds. Some dig holes in the ground; and the form of the 
hole so dug is characteristic of the species. Some choose holes 
in timber, or the cavities of straws, and so on. And the prey 
hunted by the wasps, to be stored in their nests as provender for 
the grub, is equally various; but is more strictly peculiar to each 
species. One species makes use of caterpillars, another of 
spiders, a third of grasshoppers, and so on. Here the limitation 
of their intelligence is strikingly displayed; for it is probable that 
the grub of any species might thrive upon the flesh of many dif- 
ferent kinds of prey. Yet each species of wasp is so narrowly 
limited in its choice of prey that, if prey of its proper kind were 
to be suddenly destroyed by a plague, that species of wasp would, 
it seems, inevitably die out also. 
The wasp, emerging from the shell within which the meta- 
morphosis has taken place, spends some days or weeks in flying 
about within a limited area, finding her proper nourishment, 
and making herself acquainted with the geography of her neigh- 
borhood. Is this last expression unduly anthropomorphic ? To 
the mechanist, who can see in animal behavior nothing but 
responses to “stimuli,” it will seem so. But the statement is, I 
think, fully justifiable; for the success of the whole cycle of 
instinctive activity depends upon this detailed acquired ac- 
quaintance with the locality. Consider the following facts: A 
wasp digs in the ground a burrow of suitable shape, and then 
departs in search of prey to deposit in it. She wanders freely 
throughout a considerable area, certainly some hundreds of yards 
in extent. At any point in this area she may come upon her 
prey. Having seized and mastered her prey, the wasp returns 
to the nest she has prepared; and she does not achieve this by 
travelling hither and thither at random over the whole area 
until she blunders upon the nest. That procedure would sel- 
dom be successful; the wasp would be worn out by her labors in 
dragging her prey over vast distances. It might have been sup- 
posed that Nature would have solved the problem by endowing 
the wasp with the instinct to find her prey first, and then to 
choose or make her nest close beside it. But, no ! Nature, 
working through Mind and not merely through mechanical re- 80 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
flexes, has endowed the wasp with an instinctive tendency which 
requires for its success the co-operation of intelligence, and in- 
telligence of no mean order; an intelligence utterly different 
from any system of “conditioned reflexes.” For, in order that 
the wasp shall return to her nest, it does not suffice that she 
should in some sense recognize landmarks within the area of 
her explorations and react to them with this or that move- 
ment. Given a power of recognizing landmarks, something 
more is required, something much more intellectual, some- 
thing higher in the scale of intelligence. Namely, these land- 
marks, if they are to guide the wasp back to her nest, must 
each be recognized not merely as a detached object, but also 
as an object spatially related to others in more or less definite 
fashion. 
We are compelled, I say, to believe that in some sense the 
wasp constructs and carries with her a map or plan of the locality, 
for her behavior shows that she perceives and recognizes objects 
within this area as parts of a geographical whole of which the 
nest is also a part. 
If any thoroughgoing behaviorist should read the foregoing 
passage he will, I know, hardly refrain from laughter at this point. 
But that is only because he has not thought out the problem in 
view of all the available facts. Here are some of the facts which 
have to be taken into account. It has been observed that it is 
the practice of many of these wasps, when they leave the nest 
to search for prey, to circle round and round it many times in 
an enlarging irregular spiral course. This is described by the 
Peckhams as the making of a locality-study; and there can be 
little doubt that the terms are well chosen. This behavior 
would seem to serve no other purpose; it is meaningless and 
otiose, if the wasp does not find her nest by recognition of its 
surroundings.1 We know that other animals, which find their 
way home from distant regions—for example, homing pigeons— 
behave in a similar fashion. The days or weeks of wandering 
1 Some wasps will sometimes lay down their prey after carrying it part way to 
the burrow, depart from it (apparently in order to make sure of their topography), 
and return after a short interval. Before leaving the prey, they are apt to make 
a “locality study” as on leaving the nest. BEHAVIOR OF INSECTS 
81 
over the area, before making or choosing a nest, seem to have no 
other biological value or function than the facilitation of the 
return to the nest within the area thus made familiar. Again, 
if during the absence of the wasp in search of her prey, objects 
surrounding the nest are moved or otherwise changed, the wasp 
on her return is apt to wander about uncertainly for some little 
time, instead of proceeding directly to the nest, as she more 
usually does. 
Further, it seems to be impossible to suggest any other ex- 
planation of the wasp’s power of finding her nest than the 
assumption that, like ourselves, she learns to recognize land- 
marks in their relation to the whole area and to one another. 
Let the reader imagine himself set down in the midst of a dense 
forest of vast trees in hilly country.1 He is provided with a hut 
and has to find his way back to this for shelter, after every expe- 
dition in search of food. He will proceed just as the wasp 
does, if he is wise; he will make locality studies of its immediate 
neighborhood, and he will wander about, extending his range 
gradually, noting various landmarks, until he is familiar with 
a sufficient area; and then he will conduct his searches for food 
within this area. And, when he wishes to return to his hut, it 
will not suffice to find one of his landmarks and to recognize it 
as an object that he has seen before. That in itself would not 
help him. He must also remember the relations of this to 
other landmarks or to his hut. 
The Tropic Theory TJnahle to Account for Homing 
But does not the principle of tropism make possible a simpler 
interpretation ? A leading mechanist has made a valiant at- 
tempt to apply the principle, not to the nest-finding of the soli- 
tary wasp, but to the return of bees to the hive. This problem 
of “homing” is so important that it is worth while to examine 
this attempt2; if it is successful for the bees, it will no doubt 
apply to the wasps. Bethe’s argument and conclusion may be 
1 Cf. the Peckhams’ description of the return of a wasp on foot through a patch 
of corn. Op. cit., p. 18. 
2 “Diirfen wir den Ameisen u. Bienen psychische Qualitaten zuschreiben,” A. 
Bethe. Archiv fur die Ges. Physiologic, Bd. 70, 1898. 82 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
briefly stated as follows: It is impossible to admit that a bee 
can find its way home as a man does, by intelligent recognition 
of familiar objects and places; and it is clearly impossible to 
regard her return to the hive as a long chain of mechanical reflex 
movements; therefore, the bee must be guided by “tropism”; 
and, since no other explanation is possible, we are compelled to 
believe that energy of some unknown form radiates from the 
hive and acts upon the bee tropically.1 We must suppose that 
the bee, so long as she is unladen, is indifferent to, or negatively 
tropic toward, this mysterious X-ray; and that she, so soon as 
laden with honey or pollen, becomes positively tropic toward it; 
so that, as she flies, this radiant energy turns her always toward 
the hive. 
What facts does Bethe adduce in support of this hypothesis? He shows 
that the return of bees to the hive is little disturbed when the appearance 
of the hive is disguised by screens of paper or leaves; and that, if the hive be 
moved, the bees return to and hover about the place occupied by the 
door of the hive, before it was moved. These and other facts of the same 
order show, Bethe argues, that the bees do not guide themselves by vision, 
in the way that a man seeking the hive would do. And Bethe hastily concludes 
that they are not guided by vision. It seems clear also that they are not 
guided by smell. Hence, says Bethe, we are compelled to postulate an un- 
known form of radiant energy which guides their return. 
What facts are there which make this hypothesis unnecessary and im- 
probable ? 
1. Other forms of behavior of the bees and wasps imply a high degree of 
intelligence, as we shall presently see; and, though the return to the nest 
perhaps implies a higher level of intelligence than any other of their actions, 
it is in accordance with many other facts that just this capacity (this special- 
ized form of intelligence, the capacity to acquire and use knowledge of or 
familiarity with a locality), which is essential to the achievement of their 
principal task in life, is found to be possessed by these insects in the required 
degree. 
2. If, while the bees are out foraging, the hive be removed some little dis- 
tance from its place, the bees return to the place where the hive previously was 
1 “The bees follow a force (einer Kraft) which is quite unknown to us, and 
which compels them to return to the position in space from which they have flown 
forth.” Op. cit., p. 82. Fabre, who, while denying intelligence to the insects, 
credits them with a certain power of “discernment,” would explain their “hom- 
ing” by the postulation of “un sentiment topographique,” which remains merely 
a phrase, a form of words comparable to “the homing instinct,” the utterance of 
which phrase suffices for the popular mind as an explanation of all facts of this 
order. Such use of the word “instinct” as a mere cloak for ignorance is, of course, 
regrettable. BEHAVIOR OF INSECTS 
standing; and they will even hover about the spot where they were accus- 
tomed to find the landing board. Bethe meets this fact by supposing that 
his hypothetical X-ray radiates, not from the hive, but from the spot where it 
had previously stood—thus piling one wild improbability upon another. 
The fact serves to negative the least wildly improbable form of tropic theory, 
namely, that the bees are guided to the hive by the odor of the queen bee, or 
of the hive in general. 
3. It is a well-known fact, established by simple observation as well as by 
experiment, that bees commonly do not travel more than about two miles 
from the hive, and that, if they are carried beyond this limit, many of them 
fail to return. 
4. If bees are overtaken by the dusk while at some little distance from the 
hive, they fail to return. 
5. But far more conclusive is the following observation: Bees dwelling in 
hives which adjoined an arid district naturally foraged much in the fertile 
region on one side of the hives, and little or not at all in the arid region on the 
other side. It was found that, while bees carried to any point within the 
two-mile limit in the fertile zone did not fail to return, of those carried to 
similar distances in the unexplored arid zone many failed to return.1 Bethe, 
of course, would meet this by pointing out that in the arid zone the tropism 
of the bees was not reversed by the finding of pollen or honey. It is regret- 
table that the bees released in the arid zone were not fed before release. Here 
is a beautiful and conclusive experiment still to be made. 
6. In New England, wild-bee hunting is a sport ardently pursued by some 
experts, whose method of locating the hives is very instructive in the present 
connection.2 The hunter captures a bee, and, having marked her with a 
spot of paint, puts her into a small box; where she feeds on syrup. When the 
bee has taken her fill she is released and, having (like the wasps) flown round 
a little,3 disappears in the distance; and the hunter sits down beside the box 
confidently awaiting her return. He is seldom disappointed. Under favor- 
able conditions the bee usually returns (identified by her paint-spot) accom- 
panied by others; and these also fill themselves with syrup and depart to the 
hive, to return again and again until the syrup is all harvested. By studying 
the line of flight followed by the bees, the hunter discovers the locality of 
their hive. Here, then, is a new difficulty for the tropic theory. It must 
assume that yet another form of unknown energy radiates from the syrup, 
and that toward this the bees are positively tropic when they are unladen.4 
1 Cf. Van Buttel Reepen, a high authority, who criticises and rejects Bethe’s hy- 
pothesis as utterly impossible. “Sind die Bienen Reflexmaschmen?” Leipzig, 1900. 
2 Article in Boston Evening Transcript, June 4, 1921, on “The Technique of Bee 
Hunting,” by Mr. E. K. Vaughan, an expert of large experience. 
3 When a bee has made several journeys to and fro between the hive and the 
box, she omits this spiral “locality study.” 
4 Bethe himself has described similar facts, which in themselves suffice to refute 
his hypothesis. He describes how, when bees are carried some distance from the 
hive in a box and released, some, after flying about, will return to the box; and how, 
if the box be removed, some will return to the spot at which they made exit from 
the box, even though this is situated six feet above the ground. The farther from 
the hive was the place of release, the larger the proportion of bees which returned 84 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
7. Each hive must have its own peculiar form of radiant energy to which 
the bees of that hive are sensitively tropic, while they remain indifferent to 
the X-rays of other hives; for bees are in general faithful to their own hive. 
8. The experiments of Lubbock and others on bees (some of which I have 
repeated on social wasps with similar results) show clearly that bees are 
guided by vision; for, when the appearance of the objects about the hive is 
altered in form or color, the return of the bees to the hive is no longer so 
unerring as it normally is.1 
9. The difficulties of applying the tropic theory to the case of the solitary 
wasps returning to their nests must, one might suppose, make even the most 
determined behaviorist pause a moment to think. The theory would have 
to assume (1) that each wasp deposits in the nest she makes a source of radiant 
energy peculiar to herself (for hundreds of wasps sometimes have their nests 
within a small space over which they all wander freely); (2) that the wasp is 
negatively tropic to this form of energy so long as she has no prey; (3) that the 
possession of the prey reverses the sign of her tropism; (4) which is again 
reversed as soon as the prey is deposited with the egg in the nest. Truly, the 
behavior of the behaviorists lends some color to their theory; for it might well 
be maintained that the “tropic” theory of the “homing” of insects is the 
product, not of thought, but of the play of language mechanisms only. 
The tropic theory is, then, impossible as an explanation of the 
homing of bees; it would therefore be obviously absurd to at- 
tempt to apply it to the solitary wasps. We have to reconcile 
our views of the mental powers of animals with the unquestion- 
able fact that very many (even some as low in the scale as the 
to that place. Bethe is, then, logically committed to the supposition that his 
unknown energy radiates not only from the spot where the hive has stood, but 
also from the place momentarily occupied by the box from which the bees are 
released. But he prefers even this wild absurdity to the supposition that the 
bees have a spark of intelligence of like nature with our own. 
1 In considering the facts, including those cited by Bethe, which he interprets 
as showing indifference to optical impressions, we have to remember that the vision 
of the bee with its faceted eye is very different from ours, lacking a focal area of 
foveal vision, and that the bee is probably guided by large areas of the visual 
field rather than by small features singled out of them. The question of the degree 
to which insects are guided by color and form (especially of flowers) has been 
much debated, and a vast amount of careful observation has been made. Professor 
Bouvier (“Vie Psychique des Insectes”) sums up the results by saying: “Visual 
sensations of color and of forms certainly play a role of the first order in direct- 
ing the anthophilous insects to the flowers.” Again, he writes: “They know 
how to profit by acquired experience. When, in course of their researches, they 
have been led by chance or by their senses, either to sweetmeats on which they 
regale themselves, or to deceptive flowers [t. e., flowers without nectar], they make 
use of memory of the places and appearances in order to return to the former and 
to avoid the latter.” And: “Evidently the aerial insects have excellent and 
quicker topographical memory, to which without doubt the mosaic vision of their 
composite eyes contributes.” BEHAVIOR OF INSECTS 
85 
Limpet) have the power of finding their way home from greater 
or less distances, and that in the main this depends upon ac- 
quired familiarity with the area in which they wander, as does 
a man’s power of returning home.1 
This capacity for “homing” is one which, before all others, 
the mechanists are under obligation to deal with. We have 
seen how hopelessly Bethe’s bold attempt has failed. To the 
best of my knowledge it is the only mechanistic attempt on the 
market. The return of the solitary wasp to her nest is rendered 
possible only through familiarity with its surroundings, acquired 
by the wasp in the course of her wanderings. It involves on a 
great scale the application of past experience to the guidance of 
present action; it is therefore intelligent behavior according to 
the almost universally accepted usage of the words “intelligent” 
and “intelligence.” I do not suggest that the wasp, on leaving 
her nest, says to herself: “I must fly round about and take care- 
ful note of the position of this nest, so that I may be able to 
find it when I shall have caught the caterpillar I want for my 
grub to feed upon.” The return to the nest is highly intelligent 
1 Messrs. L. B. Arey and W. J. Crazier have recently made a careful study of 
the “homing” of Onchidium, a mollusc which stands in the scale of organization 
at about the lowly level of the common limpet, and which, like the limpet, wan- 
ders over the rocks when the tide goes down, leaving exposed the homes or nests 
of the animals, which always occur between the high and low water marks. They 
report: “Onchidia return each to its own particular nest, even on much eroded 
rocks and where the nests are many and close together, and that in spite of the 
fact that the individuals emanating from different nests frequently mingle during 
their wanderings . . . over an area a metre in diameter.” Further: “An indi- 
vidual taken from one side of its nest and placed on the opposite side, at a dis- 
tance of a metre or slightly more, frequently exhibits little or no hesitation in 
turning and moving directly toward the nest.” After considering all possibilities 
of explanation of these facts, including the tropic principle, they conclude: “We 
are therefore forced to the provisional opinion that an Onchidium returns to its 
particular nest by virtue of some internal condition simulating memory of the 
position of the nest in terms of its surroundings” . . . The homing ‘ seems to 
depend mainly upon internal conditions akin to the remembrance of specific locali- 
ties” (Proc. Nat. Acad, of Sciences, 1918). Doctor H. Pieron has made a similar 
study of the homing of limpets and comes to the conclusion that each limpet is 
enabled to return to its station on the rock surface over which it wanders when 
the tide covers it, in virtue of its acquired familiarity with the slopes and irregu- 
larities of the surface (C. r. Soc. de Biol., 1919). These observations refute com- 
pletely the dogmatic assumption of Bethe and other mechanists that the limpet 
and its relatives must be supposed to be guided home by odor or other sense im- 86 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
behavior; and yet the intelligence is very strictly limited in its 
range and scope; it is Intelligence in bondage to Instinct. In- 
telligence here serves Instinct, and its service is essential; without 
it Instinct would be of no avail. This, as we shall see, is univer- 
sally the relation of Instinct to Intelligence, and of Intelligence 
to Instinct. With the doubtful exception of those most machine- 
like instances of instinctive action (of which the egg-laying of 
the Yucca moth is the type), we always find Instinct and Intelli- 
gence in intimate co-operation; neither is effective without the 
other. If the further course of our inquiry bears out this for- 
mulation, we shall have to reject Professor Bergson’s statement 
of their relation as a serious and very misleading error. 
The wasp’s circling about her nest before she leaves the spot 
is, we may feel sure, instinctive; it is a phase of a complex chain 
of instinctive action, each phase of which prepares for the 
next. But her noting of the features surrounding the nest is a 
mental activity which synthesizes the successively noticed de- 
tails in some kind of a whole; and this experience produces in 
the wasp’s mental structure some kind of change or develop- 
ment which persists and plays its part in guiding her return to 
pressions from their own tracks. Lest my summing up of the facts of insect- 
homing may seem to be biassed, let me cite in support that of Professor S. J. Holmes, 
who is not a mere psychologist, like myself, but a zoologist of high standing. He 
writes: “The power of return exhibited by bees and wasps is shown pretty clearly 
by the experiments of Lubbock, Buttel Reepen, the Peckhams, Wagner, and 
others to depend upon the individual experience of these insects. The homing of 
insects takes place in essentially the same way as the homing of carrier pigeons, 
and involves an acquaintance with the locality gained by previous exploration.” 
(“Animal Intelligence,” p. 193.) 
The problem of “homing” is by no means solved in all cases The homing of 
pigeons is still under experiment and discussion. Horses, dogs, and cats are com- 
monly believed to have shown in some instances an inexplicable power of return- 
ing home over great distances in unfamiliar country. This possibly is a matter 
of the recording of the few fortunate successes among many random wanderings. 
The migration of birds still presents unsolved problems. If it be true, as often 
asserted, that the young birds of a species precede the older birds in migrating, 
none of the explanations suggested, except the hypothesis of what can only be 
called racial or inherited memory, would seem adequate to the facts. The golden 
plover oscillates between the extreme north and the south of the American con- 
tinent, and follows entirely different routes when flying north and south respec- 
tively. This looks like racial memory. On the other hand, some individual 
birds have been found to return to the same spot after migration; this clearly 
implies individual memory. BEHAVIOR OF INSECTS 
87 
the nest. And the preliminary exploring of the whole area of 
operations is a process of the same type, but of a more general, 
more varied, and more elaborate nature. 
Other Instances of Intelligent Adaptation of Instinctive Action 
Let us glance now very rapidly at some other actions of the 
wasps. Of all the solitary wasps Ammoph.Ua has been raised to 
the highest pinnacle of fame, owing to Fabre’s fascinating de- 
scription of her behavior and Professor Bergson’s alluring inter- 
pretation of it. 
Fabre has described how this wasp, which preys upon cater- 
pillars, seizes her prey and, with marvellous precision, plunges 
her sting into the principal nerve ganglia, and thus paralyzes 
without killing her victim; how she then drags it to her nest 
and deposits her egg upon it, leaving it as a supply of fresh (be- 
cause living) meat for the grub which will hatch from the egg. 
It is implied by both these eminent authors that, if the cater- 
pillar were killed instead of being merely paralyzed, it would be 
useless to the grub, and that the whole cycle of instinctive activ- 
ity would therefore fail to attain its natural goal. 
Fabre would have us see in this behavior the direct inter- 
vention of the finger of God.1 Bergson likens the powers dis- 
played by the wasp to the skill of the surgeon, combined with 
the insight of the physiologist and the knowledge of the com- 
parative anatomist; and he would explain this remarkable action 
by ascribing to the wasp an instinctive sympathy with the vic- 
tim which teaches her just where the caterpillar is most vul- 
nerable. 
It seems to me that both of these eminent authors, in their 
enthusiastic admiration for the action of the wasp, have neg- 
lected to contemplate the action from the point of view of the 
caterpillar. However that may be, further study of this be- 
havior has shown that neither Fabre’s description nor Bergson’s 
interpretation was strictly scientific; that the former was biassed 
by a theological conviction and the latter by a philosophical 
theory. For Mr. and Mrs. Peckham have observed and de- 
1 His language seems to me to imply this very clearly. 88 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
scribed this behavior of Ammophila with minute care and ad- 
mirable impartiality.1 Their description shows clearly, (i) that 
the wasp does not always sting her prey precisely in the ganglia, 
but rather that, standing over her prey, she plunges in her sting 
at the joints between the segments where the cuticle is least 
resistant, and on the under side, where the sting most naturally 
comes in contact with the caterpillar (given the position of the 
wasp standing over her prey); and that she repeats the sting a 
variable number of times, in a somewhat irregular and variable 
series of spots; (2) that the caterpillar sometimes is not merely 
paralyzed, but killed; and in other instances is neither killed nor 
lastingly paralyzed, and that in either case the grub thrives 
upon its flesh, with seeming indifference to its putridity or its 
wri things. 
The Peckhams’ account is valuable also as refuting the theory 
of the chain-reflex. If Fabre’s description were accurate for all 
cases, if the wasp always held and stung the caterpillars in ex- 
actly the same way, with the same sequence of movements, it 
would be plausible to interpret this series of movements as a 
series of chain-reflexes. But if (as the Peckhams’ account shows 
to be the case) different individuals and the same wasps on suc- 
cessive occasions master the caterpillars by movements which 
are different in their sequence and direction on each occasion, 
the theory of the chain-reflex must appear less plausible; for this 
theory presupposes just such machinelike precision, regularity, 
and constancy of movements as Fabre has described.2 
Consider another instance in which the Peckhams have sup- 
plemented the description of Fabre, with disconcerting results 
for him, for M. Bergson, and for the chain-reflex theorists. 
Fabre has described how the wasp of a certain species, on 
bringing her prey near the nest in the ground which she has 
prepared, invariably lays it down near the entrance, enters the 
hole without it, and after a few moments emerges to seize her 
prey again, and drags it into the nest. On one occasion Fabre 
1 “Wasps, Social and Solitary,” p. 25. 
2The Peckhams write: “In this species, as in every one that we have studied, 
we have found a most interesting variation among the different individuals, not 
only in methods, but in character and intellect.” Op. cit., p. 22. BEHAVIOR OF INSECTS 
89 
made the following experiment: As soon as the wasp had entered 
her nest, leaving her prey near the entrance, he removed the 
prey a short distance from the hole. The wasp came up, searched 
for her prey, and, having found it, dragged it once more to the 
mouth of her burrow, and again entered, leaving it at the mercy 
of the observer. Again he removed it to a little distance. Again 
the wasp emerged, sought and found her prey, and left it close to 
the entrance, while she performed the instinctive ritual of enter- 
ing the nest “empty-handed.” And this was repeated many 
times; until the patience even of Fabre was exhausted, and the 
wasp had her way. Oh, wonderful and inscrutable instinct! 
How radically different from and incompatible with all intelligent 
action ! Shall we call it, with Fabre, the working of the finger of 
God; or, with the mechanists, an illustration of the chain-reflex 
principle? Or shall we, with Bergson, see in it an example 
of the complete divorce in the insects of Instinct from Intelli- 
gence ? But wait! the facts are not all in. 
The Peckhams repeated the experiment with a wasp of the 
same species. At first the result was the same. But the ob- 
servers persevered again and again; and, after many repetitions 
of the comedy, the wasp at last omitted the “ritualistic” act, 
dragged her prey to the opening and, without laying it down, 
drew it into the nest. Oh, admirable co-operation of Intelli- 
gence with Instinct! After so many repetitions of the unintel- 
ligent instinctive routine, a little spark of Intelligence at last 
stirs, breaks through, and gives to Instinct just that help with- 
out which Instinct so often would fail. Was it that the Ameri- 
can observers were more patient? Or that the wasps of the 
New World have gained a little in “cuteness” over their rela- 
tives in the Old? Or was it a matter of individual difference 
of endowment, or of happy chance? Who shall say? In any 
case the incident is but the most striking of many reported, 
which show that the sequence of actions of a typical chain-in- 
stinct is not absolutely fixed and invariable, as the theory of 
the “chain-reflex” requires that it should be. In this, as in so 
many other instances, the animal shows itself capable of omit- 
ting a phase, or of going back and repeating a phase, of vary- 
ing in many other ways the usual sequence of actions and of 90 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
adapting them to unusual circumstances; the wasp’s intelligence 
enabled her to solve the unprecedented problem set her by the 
insatiable curiosity of Man.1 
A few more instances of intelligent action, out of a multi- 
tude, must suffice. Wasps of a certain species choose for their 
nests the cavities of cut straws protruding from a straw stack. 
The straws they use are by no means always of the same diam- 
eter. The wasp (we are told by the Peckhams) which has 
chosen a straw of a particular diameter invariably chooses for 
her prey, among insects of very many sizes, one which is not 
too large to be dragged into the rigidly bounded nest. Does 
not this imply comparative judgment of size? Any one who 
has bought shoes for his children in their absence will appre- 
ciate the difficulty of the wasp’s achievement. 
Wasps of another species prey on spiders and always draw 
their prey into the burrow by walking backwards, with the 
spider held in the jaws. One such wasp, holding her spider by 
the ventral surface, was prevented from drawing it into her bur- 
row by the resistance of the spider’s spreading legs. She tugged 
hard and long, but in vain. At last she released the spider, 
took a new grip of it, this time by the dorsal surface, and then 
backed easily into her hole, the legs folding up like an umbrella. 
One more example from the repertoire of the admirable Am- 
mophila. This wasp makes her nest at the bottom of a sloping 
burrow dug in the earth. When she has deposited in it her egg 
and the necessary caterpillar (dead or alive, paralyzed or writh- 
ing), she proceeds to fill up the hole by tearing down loose earth 
from the walls and raking particles from the surrounding sur- 
face of the ground. When she has thus filled the hole flush with 
the surface, she smoothes it off neatly, so that neither mound 
nor hollow remains, stamping down the loose earth. On one 
1 Other evidence that the instinctive actions of the wasps are by no means 
rigidly prescribed, limited, and uniform is afforded by certain species which are 
parasitic upon allied species, in that, instead of hunting prey for themselves, they 
are content to lay their eggs upon the prey captured by their allies, whom they 
may drive away from it by a lively attack. But the most interesting in this 
respect are members of a species which (as described by Ferton) sometimes cap- 
ture their own prey and sometimes make use of prey which has been captured 
by wasps of an allied species. (Cf. Bouvier’s “Vie Psychique des Insectes,” p. 162.) BEHAVIOR OF INSECTS 
occasion the Peckhams observed the following behavior: Am- 
mophila had filled her hole, and the operation, the last of the 
cycle of activities, seemed to be nearly completed. She seized 
in her jaws a tiny pebble and with it pounded down the loose 
earth filling the mouth of the hole, repeating her strokes many 
times. Oh, wonderful Ammophila! What shall Fabre, or Berg- 
son, or the mechanists say of this most irregular behavior, so 
upsetting to every theory—except the common-sense theory that 
Instinct and Intelligence co-operate most intimately and that, 
while the wasp has much Instinct, she has also some Intelli- 
gence. Here is Ammophila using a tool! A mode of behavior 
commonly regarded as the exclusive prerogative of man, and 
sometimes proposed as the defining mark of his species. 
If the Peckhams’ instance stood alone, perhaps it would be 
wise to dismiss it as a joke, a hoax, or an error of observation or 
of memory. But, unfortunately for the theological, the philo- 
sophical, and the mechanical theorists, it does not stand alone. 
Closely similar behavior, on the part of another member of the 
same species, has been minutely observed and described by an 
independent observer in a distant part of America. Are we then 
to regard each of these two wasps as a lively “ bahnbrechende ” 
genius, leading their species onward to the use of tools; individ- 
ual sports comparable to the man, or ape, who first took a stone 
in his hand to crack a nut and so foreshadowed the genius of 
Nasmyth ? I see no other plausible interpretation of the facts.1 
I must pass over with only one comment the marvels of the 
social life of the bees and ants; for, as I said above, these are not 
yet sufficiently analyzed to be profitably discussed here. I 
would only point out that those who have studied them most 
1 Professor E. L. Bouvier, a most impartial and well-informed authority, writes 
as follows: “With their tropisms, their rhythms, their adapted manifestations of 
differential sensibility, above all, with power of transforming habits into automa- 
tisms, the insects are essentially animals of instinct whose activity is composed 
above all of automatic acts, but automatic acts dominated by the power of the 
brain. One may not see in them mere “reflex machines,” for they know how to 
adapt themselves to circumstances, how to acquire new habits, how to learn and 
retain, how to manifest discernment; they are, one might say, somnambulists, 
whose mind awakens and gives proof of intellect when the need arises, and that 
removes them far from the mechanism of which Bethe is the protagonist.” (“La 
Vie Psychique des Insectes,” 1918.) 92 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
intimately are not to be found in the ranks of the mechanists. 
Lubbock, Fabre, Forel, Wheeler, Wasmann—these are lifelong 
students of the behavior of these insects; and though their inter- 
pretations differ widely, they are at one in rejecting the strictly 
mechanistic view. 
Instinct and Intelligence Not Separable 
The chief lesson I would have the student learn from the 
behavior of insects is that Instinct and Intelligence are not 
two diverse principles of action or of guidance of action. In- 
stinctive behavior is indistinguishable from intelligent behavior 
by any outward mark. It is true that, when the same favor- 
able conditions of the animal and of the environment are re- 
peated, instinctive behavior is apt to be repeated with a re- 
gularity which gives it a machinelike air. But the same is 
true of intelligent behavior. If we have found the best way of 
dealing with a particular situation, then on its recurrence, if we 
are intelligent, we deal with it by the repetition of the same 
series of movements; as when we roll a cigarette or brush our 
hair. To do these things differently upon each occasion would 
add nothing to the evidence of our intelligence. When the cir- 
cumstances of the creature are such that its instinctive actions 
do not immediately reach their goal, we see variation of direc- 
tion and of mode and sequence of actions, with persistent effort. 
The behavior of the solitary wasps abounds in such variation 
and persistence in face of difficulties and failures to attain im- 
mediate success; for example, the varied modes of tugging, bit- 
ing, and stinging the prey displayed by individual wasps, ac- 
cording to the size and shape of the prey and other circumstances 
of the task in hand. In some instances these variations astonish 
us by their effectiveness, their nice adaptation to the particular 
and unusual circumstances; for example, the seizing of the 
spider by the back, the omitting of the “ritualistic” act, the 
use of the pebble as hammer. These isolated acts are hard to 
interpret, though it is difficult to deny them the quality of in- 
telligence. 
More important are those forms of intelligent behavior which 
are displayed by all members of a species, and in which the BEHAVIOR OF INSECTS 
93 
past experience of the individual is unmistakably brought to 
bear in the guidance of present action. The return to the nest 
is the most striking and most abundantly illustrated of such 
actions. The tendency to explore the area for some days be- 
fore making a nest; the tendency to make a particular study of 
the immediate neighborhood of the nest; the highly specialized 
capacity of all these species for organizing such experience in a 
systematic whole of knowledge of the area such as is implied by 
their return to the nest—all these tendencies and capacities are 
innate in the species. On the other hand, the knowledge of the 
locality which they acquire is not innate, but built up by many 
successive acts of perception. 
How then shall we separate instinctive from intelligent be- 
havior ? We might perhaps say that the making of the locality 
study is instinctive, and that, when the wasp seeks her nest, 
the application of the knowledge so acquired is intelligent. 
But even this is an arbitrary distinction; for, in returning to 
the nest with her prey, the wasp is impelled by an innate ten- 
dency which is only awakened when the prey is secured, by an 
instinctive impulse of whose ultimate goal she perhaps has no 
foresight; yet this instinctive innate impulse can attain its end 
only when aided and guided by the acquired knowledge of the 
locality. Here, clearly, Instinct requires and implies the co- 
operation of Intelligence, and without its aid can achieve noth- 
ing of value to the creature or the species. And Intelligence 
operates only and always in the service of the instinctive im- 
pulses to action. This, then, is the relation of Instinct to In- 
telligence among the insects, which by common consent display 
Instinct in its purest and most typical forms. We shall see that 
the same relation obtains throughout the vertebrate realm, the 
human species not excepted. CHAPTER IV 
BEHAVIOR OF THE VERTEBRATES 
The fishes are at the bottom of the vertebrate scale. Their 
behavior is predominantly instinctive; and, accordingly, it seems 
in many cases quasi-mechanical and unintelligent, as when the 
fish which has escaped from the angler’s hook seizes the same 
bait and the same hook a second time after a brief interval. 
Yet every angler knows how wary are the trout in a much- 
fished river; and it does not seem possible to attribute this 
wholly to selection. And that fish are capable of “learning” is 
shown by those instances in which they learn to come to be 
fed at the sound of a bell. Some fish have in some degree that 
capacity for returning to a particular spot which we have seen 
to be so highly specialized in the wasps; as those which deposit 
their eggs in some rude nest and then hover in the neighbor- 
hood keeping guard over them; and in those more doubtful but 
more striking instances in which fish are said to return to the 
same stream after migration to the sea, even sometimes to a 
stream, one of many, opening into a lake far from the sea. 
The amphibia and the reptiles come next to the fishes in the 
evolutionary scale and lead on from them to the birds and mam- 
mals. In the mental scale they seem to rise but little above the 
level of the fishes. 
In the birds Instinct is prominent. Their migrations, their 
nesting, their mating, their song, their modes of feeding and of 
seeking their prey or food, all these modes of behavior are in 
the main peculiar to each species; and they are closely alike in 
all members of the same species; sure indications of their strong 
instinctive basis. Yet striking instances of great modifications 
of all these modes of instinctive behavior in the light of experi- 
ence are well established. The specific song is sometimes greatly 
modified by example; the parrot and other birds can even learn 
to utter words or human melodies. BEHAVIOR OF THE VERTEBRATES 
95 
Sea-gulls learn to follow the plough or the steamship; and in 
the severe winter of 1894 they learned to come up to London 
Bridge to be fed by the passers-by—an acquired behavior which 
has become traditional among them. 
The carrier-pigeon, if released on successive occasions farther 
from his home, can be taught to return over great distances. In 
the presence of an abundant supply of some strange but suit- 
able material, some birds have been known to use it in the 
construction of their nests, in place of the more usual matter 
supplied by nature. And almost all birds make nests in places 
to which they return after wandering freely over more or less 
extensive areas, sometimes after travelling immense distances; 
that is to say, they have that power of “homing” which among 
the wasps is so highly developed and which involves, as we 
have seen, the intimate co-operation of Instinct with Intelli- 
gence, of innate or instinctive impulse common to the species 
with knowledge acquired by and peculiar to the individual. 
M. Bergson has not told us to which of his two supposedly 
divergent lines of evolution the birds belong; to ask him the 
question is to refute his theory. 
Recognition of Species, of Sex, and of Individuals by Birds 
The problems of bird-behavior are innumerable. I will draw 
the student’s attention to one of peculiar interest. How do 
birds recognize the members of their own species ? And how 
do they single out their mates, to whom so many of them remain 
faithful for life? The second problem includes the former; we 
may concentrate upon it. Peculiarities of voice and of shape 
and of coloration are the main guiding marks for the recognition 
of species, sex, and individuals. Voice and plumage are in this 
respect more or less complementary; where the one is highly 
peculiar, the other is in general but little specialized. 
Consider the case of the nightingale, the little brown bird, so 
insignificant to the eye, which, when it opens its throat, pours 
out a melody that enraptures the poets of every age. There 
can be no doubt that the biological function of this song is the 
attraction of the female to the male. In the spring of the year, 
the male birds arrive in the south of England from distant 96 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
southern haunts, where they have passed the winter. Each 
chooses some dense coppice and there spends a large part of 
both day and night pouring out his song.1 Some days or weeks 
later, the females arrive. Consider the behavior of a young 
female. Probably she has never yet heard the song of the male; 
or, if she has, it was when, as a fledgling, she was indifferent 
to it. When she comes within range of this sound, it affects 
her as no other sound can do. Among all the chorus of bird- 
song and the multitude of other sounds, this sequence of sounds 
alone attracts her. If she were guided to the male by odor, we 
might plausibly speak of “tropism.” If she were guided by the 
monotonous repetition of some single peculiar note, we might 
try to explain her approach as a series of reflex reactions; and, 
if she might be supposed to have heard the note before, we 
might invoke the aid of “the conditioned reflex.” But the song, 
the specific object to which she responds, is no simple sense- 
stimulus; it is rather a sequence of sounds (or vibrations) which, 
by the specificity of their temporal and harmonic relations, con- 
stitute a specific complex object. The specific response to this 
complex series of impressions implies just such synthetic appre- 
ciation of the series as is implied in that appreciation of a com- 
plex of spatially related visual impressions by which the wasp is 
guided to her nest. It implies a synthetic activity of perception, 
which alone, and not any mere sense-stimulus, can initiate the 
instinctive behavior of approach to the male. If it should be 
shown that any previous hearing of the song plays any part in 
determining this behavior, that would only illustrate once more 
the intimacy of co-operation of Intelligence with Instinct. 
In many species of birds the male is distinguished from the 
female by splendor of color or by peculiarities of form, such as 
a crest or tuft or a great tail; or by both, as in the peacock. It 
seems as though, in such instances as the nightingale and the 
peacock, what began as a necessary recognition mark of sex 
had been developed into a display of beauty which allures the 
female more effectively than more simple notes or colors. And, 
though the evidence in such instances as the peacock is less 
clear than in the case of the nightingale, there can be little 
1 It is a common error to suppose that the nightingale sings only by night. BEHAVIOR OF THE VERTEBRATES 
97 
doubt that the pea-hen is prepared by Nature to perceive the 
splendors of the male and to be stirred by them. That again 
implies that, in spite of her very limited intelligence, she has at 
least this one capacity for complex perception. For the pea- 
cock’s tail is anything but a simple “stimulus.” 
It seems to me that to speak of such complex objects as 
“stimuli” in the physiological sense is as seriously misleading as 
to speak of the responsive behavior of the female which they 
evoke, or the activity of the male which sets these objects before 
the female, as reflex actions, comparable to the knee-jerk. Their 
effect upon the female may be likened much more truly to the 
experience of a young man “bowled over” for the first time by 
the beauty of a maiden. The biological function of the nightin- 
gale’s song can be understood far more fully and truly by him 
who has survived that strange experience than by one who has 
never suffered it. 
In some species, notably among the pigeons, the cock-bird is 
not distinguished from the female by any marks perceptible to 
our senses; we find accordingly that the birds have the same 
difficulty as the pigeon-fancier in distinguishing the sexes.1 
The most expert fancier can distinguish the sexes only by ob- 
serving their behavior, and not rarely he is deceived or in doubt 
for some time. The same is true of the birds themselves.2 If 
two unmated pigeons be placed in a cage where they are sep- 
arated only by a wire screen, the process of mutual recognition 
of sex may sometimes be observed to be tentative, gradual, and 
cumulative; and sometimes a hen-bird will play the male so 
exactly as to deceive for a time all observers, human and avian. 
Among the birds, then, there are three principal kinds of sense- 
impression by means of which the male evokes in the female 
1This fact is of interest as showing that birds do not distinguish the sexes by 
any occult sense-impression of a simple kind, such as an odor, which might escape 
our senses, and such as the tropists and the reflexists are bound to postulate. 
2 This difficulty has arisen again and again in the course of my large experience 
of pigeon-keeping. But I refer to Professor Wallace Craig’s excellent study of 
doves (“Appetites and Aversions as Constituents of Instincts,” Biol. Bull., Febru- 
ary, 1918, and a long series of papers in the Journal of Animal Behavior and else- 
where) for this and many other instructive observations. The keeping of domestic 
pets of various kinds should be recognized as an essential part of the education of 
a psychologist. 98 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
the train of instinctive behavior which culminates in her submis- 
sion to impregnation by him; the vocal display, the display of 
plumage, and the display of antics. In all cases the display 
involves some activity on the part of the male; and in many 
species, as notably among the pigeons, the male is active in all 
three ways: he struts and bows and spreads his tail; at the same 
time he swells his splendid breast and from time to time coos in 
the manner peculiar to the occasion. 
The female is prepared by nature to be affected in a specific 
manner by these displays of the male; they normally evoke in 
her the submissive attitude and behavior which are her instinc- 
tive role in the business of pairing; but not suddenly and fatally; 
her response is as unlike the knee-jerk or the scratch-reflex of 
the dog’s hind leg as any action well could be; it exhibits all 
the marks of behavior in the highest degree. Only after many 
hours or days of active courtship by the male, does she at last 
yield to him. The peacock’s tail or the nightingale’s song may 
be called the “stimulus” to the pairing instinct of the female; 
but, if we so describe it, we are using the word in a sense very 
different from the physiologist’s usage; as we might speak of the 
stimulus that comes to a man from a great example, from an 
ideal, from prizes, or from rivals. 
Such a specific object, any object that evokes an instinctive 
response, may be likened more profitably to a key that unlocks a 
door. The key and the lock are unlike one another, but they 
are made for one another; each implies the other and is useless 
without it. The pairing instinct of the female bird is provided 
by Nature with a lock which can be turned only by a key of one 
specific pattern; the male is provided by Nature with that key. 
And the key is no magic formula, no mere “stimulus,” that 
needs only to be presented in order that the door may swing 
open. The male must use the key with skill and persistency, 
adapting his actions to the various circumstances of the succes- 
sive phases of his courtship. Nor is the opening of the door a 
simple process, like a reflex movement; the opening of the door 
lets out a flood of energy which impels the female to a train of 
activity of many phases, in all of which the male continues to 
co-operate.1 
1 Cf. Craig, op. cit, BEHAVIOR OF THE VERTEBRATES 
99 
In the case of the pigeons we see how complex is the pattern 
of the key used by the male, involving, as it does, the antic dis- 
play, as well as the display of plumage and of voice, presented 
to both eye and ear of the female. The lock of the female’s 
pairing-instinct is no simple one; it is comparable rather to one 
of those vastly complicated locks we sometimes glimpse in a 
banking house, the successful working of which implies not only 
the possession of the key but also the knowledge of its usage 
with a due sequence of actions. 
These facts illustrate a fundamental truth which has been 
overlooked by very many of the writers upon Instinct. In- 
stinctive activity is normally initiated by an activity of percep- 
tion, more or less complex; the capacity for this activity is 
given in the innate constitution of the animal and is as essential 
a part of the total instinctive disposition (or instinct) as the 
capacity to execute the train of bodily movements which catch 
our eye. The first part of the instinctive response of the female 
is actively to perceive or appreciate the pattern of the key. If 
she were not endowed by nature with a lock of the required 
pattern for its reception, she would remain indifferent to the 
blandishments of the male, no matter how precisely the appro- 
priate bodily movements might be laid down in her constitu- 
tion, and no matter how strong her potential impulse to execute 
those movements. It is only because the store of energy and of 
movements has a lock which fits the key that that energy and 
those movements are set in train on the appropriate occasion; 
that is, when the key is skilfully applied to the lock. 
This feature of instinctive behavior appears clearly among the 
solitary wasps. I did not insist on it in that connection, because 
the birds illustrate it more clearly. Since the wasps of each 
species prey only on animals of one kind—spiders, grasshoppers, 
caterpillars, or what not—it is obvious that the train of instinc- 
tive activity, which consists in seizing and mastering the prey 
and dragging it to the nest, is only to be set going by the specific 
object, namely, prey of the kind proper to each species of wasp. 
We cannot be sure what sense-impressions play the chief role 
here; but it seems probable that visual impressions are all- 
important, and that the key to this instinct in each species of OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
wasp is the bodily form and characteristic movements of the 
specific prey, as appreciated by the vision of the \vasp. 
To return to the pigeons: the instinctive activity of courting 
culminates after some days in the act of sexual union (generally 
repeated several times) which results in the impregnation of 
the female. Then begins a new phase of activity, that of pre- 
paring a nest. This in turn presents two minor phases, the 
choosing of a suitable spot and the construction of the nest. 
When, after some days, this work is completed, the eggs are 
laid in the nest, and a tnird phase begins, the brooding or sitting, 
which continues until, after some three weeks, the young hatch 
out. Then begins the fourth major phase, the task of feeding 
the young, which continues for some weeks. This completes 
the cycle; after a short time courtship begins again, and the 
whole cycle of four major phases and of many minor ones is 
repeated. During each of these phases the two birds co-operate 
most fully. For example, during the sitting phase, about the 
middle of each morning the male bird approaches the nest, on 
which the female has been sitting continuously since late after- 
noon, and gently coaxes her to give place to him. She rises, 
steps out, stretches herself, seeks food and drink, and for some 
six hours leaves the business of sitting wholly to her faithful 
partner, while she enjoys her freedom. 
There is something extraordinarily touching and beautiful in 
the partnership of such a pair of pigeons. In some cases it 
continues for many years and is ended only by death: a perpet- 
ual round of gentle, tender, graceful actions, all directed by the 
partners to one another and to their successive broods of young. 
It is disturbed only by occasional outbursts of fury, when either 
bird will fight in defense of their home, or the male will fight 
to the death in defense of his partner against some other aggres- 
sive male. But here we are not concerned with the aesthetic 
and moral implications of these forms of behavior. I will only 
say that, unless the angels are constituted very differently from 
ourselves, there must be more rejoicing in heaven over the life 
of one faithful pair of pigeons than over the human sinner who 
repents him of his vileness and cruelty. BEHAVIOR OF THE VERTEBRATES 
Professor Craig has rightly drawn attention to the evidences 
of appetite in the instinctive behavior of pigeons. We know 
what we mean by the experience of appetite when we are hun- 
gry or thirsty or lustful. But at present we are seeking the 
objective evidences of appetite and some understanding of its 
conditions. The word “Appetite” as applied to animals, like 
the word “Instinct,” denotes a general fact of their behavior; 
namely, that instinctive behavior of a particular kind cannot 
always be evoked even by the most perfect application of the 
specific key. A small boy may lead the horse to the water; but 
the most expert horseman cannot make him drink—or can do 
so only by keeping him under such conditions as will induce in 
him an appetite for water. 
Hunger and thirst are the types of Appetite, as the common 
usage of the word implies. But it is probable that all instinc- 
tive action depends in some degree on Appetite. The beast of 
prey hunts only when he is hungry. The sated cat may allow 
the mice to play over her tail. The true dipsomaniac is indif- 
ferent to alcohol, until the fierce appetite springs up within 
him. In a similar way each major phase of the pigeons’ cycle 
of reproductive activity seems to depend upon a corresponding 
appetite. An appetite for pairing comes upon them in the 
spring, and recurs on the completion of each cycle during the 
summer. At other times the female cannot be moved to respond 
to the approaches of the male; and the male does not normally 
make such approaches. When the pairing is completed, a new 
appetite begins to dominate the scene; sheltered corners and bits 
of stick and straw, which evoked no response during the first 
phase, are the keys which unlock the activities of the second 
phase. The nest and the eggs are the master-keys to the ac- 
tivities of the third phase; and the scene is dominated by an 
appetite for “sitting.” With the hatching of the young, this 
slowly gives place to yet another appetite, namely, that for 
being pestered by the young and yielding to their clamor for 
“pigeon’s milk.” If in any phase of the cycle, owing to dis- 
ease, old age, cold weather, or other untoward circumstance, 
Appetite as a Factor in Instinctive Behavior 102 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
the appetite fails, the whole cycle is deranged and fails to at- 
tain its goal. 
How then do we judge of the presence of the appetite ? What 
are its external or objective marks ? First, the fact already in- 
dicated, namely, that only at certain appropriate times do the 
specific objects (the keys to the locks) excite the instinctive 
responses; the mechanism is there, but the driving power is lack- 
ing, the energy without which the turning of the key cannot 
set the wheels in motion. 
Secondly, an appetite is apt to manifest itself in the absence of 
the key, the specific object, in a more or less vague restlessness; 
a wandering which, in the absence of prior experience of the 
object, is usually of a more or less random character, but which 
nevertheless seems to be vaguely purposive, a search for an 
object which is not definitely anticipated. It is as though the 
spring of energy which drives, or actuates and sustains, the 
train of activity of each phase of instinctive action were liable 
to bubble over among the motor mechanisms and to keep them 
in random activity, until the animal encounters the specific ob- 
ject; this object alone can direct the energy in the courses proper 
to the securing of the instinctive goal, by unlocking the door 
and allowing the overflowing energy to escape in the appropriate 
channels. 
There can be no doubt that the appetite, the welling up of the 
energy of the instinct, is largely determined by the bodily me- 
tabolism and the various external and internal influences which 
affect it: temperature, food, chemical substances, especially 
those complex internal secretions that are called hormones or 
endocrimes. And there can be equally little doubt that the 
evoking of the instinctive action, the opening of the door of the 
instinct on perception of its specific object, increases the ur- 
gency of the appetite. 
In some instinctive behavior Appetite is a very prominent 
fact, notably in food-seeking. In other types it is less clearly 
manifested and is liable to be overlooked; as, for example, in the 
case of the combative instinct, which in some species seems to 
be always ready for action, though in others it clearly is subject 
to Appetite, at least to the extent that at certain seasons it is BEHAVIOR OF THE VERTEBRATES 
103 
much more readily and intensively brought into play than at 
others.1 
Some General Principles of Instinctive Activity 
We have now reviewed so much of instinctive behavior that 
we may attempt to formulate some general principles. 
First let us ask whether anything is to be gained by the use of the expres- 
sion “an instinct”; and, if so, how the term is to be used and understood.2 
I have used it in the immediately preceding pages in writing of “the pairing 
instinct.” And I have already tried to suggest the essential features of “an 
instinct.” As I conceive it “an instinct” is a concrete fact of mental struc- 
ture, which in the main we infer from facts of behavior and of experience. 
As we are dealing now with animal behavior, the facts of experience are also 
inferential; but, as I shall show, we have good ground for inferring them by 
analogy from human experience. I have already insisted upon the import- 
ance of this distinction between facts of mental structure and facts of func- 
tioning or activity. The use of the term “an instinct” or such a term as “the 
pairing instinct of this pigeon” enables us to observe this distinction faith- 
fully. The critics of this usage object—But what do you gain by it? You 
say that the behavior of this pigeon during courtship and mating is due to 
the possession by the pigeon, and to the operation within it, of “this instinct”; 
but “this instinct” is nothing but a direct translation into static terms of the 
observed facts of behavior; the use of the word tells us nothing new about the 
behavior, throws no further light upon it. 
My reply to this is: (1) The instinct does not reveal its whole nature in any 
one action, or in any one train of behavior. We build up our description of 
“this instinct” by observing the behavior of the same animal on a variety 
of occasions. This fact would provide some justification for the expression 
“this instinct.” But (2) “this instinct” in this particular pigeon is only one 
example of the large class of similar concrete things, similar instincts each one 
of which resides in the constitution of one of the many pigeons of this sex 
and species. And we enrich our description and understanding of “this 
instinct in this pigeon” by studying the similar instinctive behavior of many 
other pigeons; just as we may build up our description of the structure of a 
1 Some authors, e. g., Professor Drever (“Instinct in Man”), propose to separate 
appetites from instincts, as two distinct kinds of innate organizations. What I 
have said above may serve to show how impossible is this disjunction. Cf. on this 
W. Craig, op. cit. 
2 This is in accordance with popular usage, and there are good precedents for it 
among psychologists. William James, e. g., among many others, adopts this usage. 
In my “Introduction to Social Psychology” I have used the expression and have 
attempted to give it a more definite meaning. The usage has been severely criti- 
cised of late, e. g., by Professor J. R. Kantor (Psychological Review, January, 1920), 
and in a manner more intelligible to me by Mr. A. C. Field (“Instinct Psychology 
and Faculty Psychology,” Mind, July, 1921). The principal point of his criticism 
is the assertion that to ascribe an action to “an instinct” throws no more light on 
it than to ascribe it to “a faculty.” 104 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
particular flower by studying many specimens of that species. (3) We gain 
further light upon “this instinct” by a comparative study of the pairing be- 
havior of pigeons of this species with that of birds of other species, and that 
of other animals and, not least, with that of the human species; where we 
are further helped by our own experience during courtship and by the ex- 
periences of other human beings, reported more or less indirectly in innumera- 
ble novels, romances, and poems. (4) We gain further light upon “this in- 
stinct” by a comparative study of instinctive behavior and experience of all 
varieties. Such study enables us to formulate some empirical laws or rules 
about instincts in general, which we can then apply to this particular in- 
stinct, with a view to discovering whether it does or does not conform to the 
rules; and we may use such general rules as hypotheses to guide our ob- 
servations and experiments upon “this instinct.” (5) We may gain further 
light upon “this instinct” by the purely biological study of Instinct, especially 
the study of heredity. For example, it has already been shown that some 
simple instincts seem to be transmitted according to the Mendelian laws; 
and it seems highly probable that, as these studies are carried further, we 
shall find that “an instinct” is a Mendelian unit-factor in the make-up of the 
constitution of the individual. If this probability should be generally sub- 
stantiated, it would in itself justify and require the use of the term “an in- 
stinct.” (6) Closely allied with the last is the light thrown upon “an in- 
stinct” as a unit factor by the comparative study of “strains” within the 
same species. For example, we find that some strains of the domestic fowl 
are good “layers”; while others are noted as good “sitters,” and are not 
liked as "layers” because they so quickly and obstinately “go broody.” 
Other strains again are distinguished as excellent mothers; while some of 
the good “laying” and good “sitting” strains are such poor mothers that 
their broods are in constant danger of disaster. These three phases of instinc- 
tive activity in the fowl, laying, sitting, and mothering, would seem to be in- 
dependently variable in the species; and this goes far to justify us in ascrib- 
ing them to three distinct “instincts”; and if it were found that each of these 
is transmitted as a Mendelian unit, it would be difficult to see how the most 
captious critic could continue to gird at “an instinct.” (7) “An instinct” is 
an enduring feature of the constitution of the individual animal which has a 
life-history of its own. It comes into action (or readiness for action, waiting 
only for the appropriate circumstances, external and internal, for the turn 
of the key combined with the presence of appetite) only when a certain stage 
of the general development of the individual is reached; it undergoes further 
change and development in the course of its functioning; and it enters into 
enduring functional relations with other features of the mental structure; 
and, whether it comes into play or remains dormant, it eventually (in some 
instances at least) seems to fade away, or undergo involution, to the point 
where it cannot be brought into action by the most favorable conjunction of 
circumstances. (8) The physiologists also have something to tell us about 
instincts. They have shown reason to believe that each kind of instinctive 
activity of any species is bound up with and dependent upon the normal de- 
velopment and integrity of certain parts of the nervous system. It has, for 
example, been shown that instinctive actions of the mammalia are chiefly 
dependent on the basal ganglia of the brain (especially the optic thalamus)', 
and there is good evidence that each of the principal forms of instinctive ac- 
tivity is especially dependent upon a particular small mass of nervous tissue BEHAVIOR OF THE VERTEBRATES 
within the basal ganglia. Further, the physiologists are showing us how 
certain forms of instinctive activity are favored and facilitated and supported 
by internal secretions or hormones; and it seems probable that each instinct 
is served in this way by one or more hormones which have no such specific 
effect upon other modes of instinctive behavior. (9) Therefore, when I 
speak of “this instinct in this individual pigeon,” I am not merely translating 
into static terms the facts of its behavior which I have observed; I am rather 
implying a large body of knowledge built up by observation and experiment 
in many different fields. (10) It results that, when I point to some action of 
a particular animal and say “That is an expression of its pairing instinct, 
or of its fighting instinct, or of an instinct named in any other way”—I am 
not, as some critics suggest, merely using a circumlocution for the expression 
“that is instinctive behavior” or “that is due to Instinct.” For my sen- 
tence implies far more, and to any one who has made any study of Instinct 
conveys much more meaning than the other sentences. Among other things, 
it implies on my part a considerable power of prediction about the further 
course of this behavior, which, like all scientific prediction, may prove to be 
faulty, but which attains greater probability the more our knowledge of In- 
stinct in general, and of this kind of instinct in particular, is enriched by 
further observation and reasoning. I add the word “reasoning,” because 
some of the critics of “an instinct” seem to be under the delusion that the sci- 
ence of behavior can be effectively built up by the mere accumulation of 
printed reports of observations of concrete facts of behavior. 
Instincts as Springs of Energy 
We may properly say that a particular instinct, such as the 
pairing instinct, is a feature of the innate mental constitution of 
a particular animal. We can infer the instinct with high proba- 
bility, even though we know nothing more of the animal than 
its species and sex; just as the botanist, on recognizing the 
species of a flower, can tell us something about the structure 
and arrangement of its invisible parts and can predict with some 
confidence how they will grow and develop. For each animal 
species is endowed with certain instincts, just as each flower of 
a given species has certain parts or organs which characterize 
the species. 
“An instinct” is a fact of mental structure, and we need 
some most general term to denote such distinguishable features 
of mental structure. We have rejected “idea” and “sensa- 
tion” and other terms which are ambiguously used to denote 
facts of structure as well as facts of activity or functioning. 
The best word available, though it is clumsy, seems to be the 
word “disposition.” In adopting this word as the most general 106 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
term to denote all the functional units of mental structure, I am 
following good precedent, and am merely specializing for psy- 
chological usage a term of common speech, without seriously 
distorting its common meaning. And this is what we are com- 
pelled to do with many words of the common-sense and literary 
traditions, in order to build up our psychological terminology. 
“An instinct,” then, is a mental disposition, whose nature is 
revealed to us in, and inferred by us from, the modes of behavior 
and of experience which it determines. And we can confidently 
infer that the typical instinct is a complex disposition in which 
we may distinguish at least two principal parts. There is the 
part which renders possible the perception of the specific ob- 
ject (the key to the instinct); this part is the lock into which 
the key fits. Secondly, there is the part which determines the 
outflow of energy into all the bodily organs that take part in 
the instinctive activity. 
Should we distinguish a third part? This is a very difficult 
question. We have seen how, when an instinct is excited in an 
animal, its behavior may involve a great output of energy and 
may exhibit great persistence; so that in extreme cases the ani- 
mal perseveres to the point of exhaustion and even to death.1 
When the sense-organs of any animal are brought within range of 
the specific object of any one of its instincts an outburst of en- 
ergy, of energetic action, even if it be only the maintenance of 
an attitude of alertness, is the general and characteristic result. 
Often there is an output of surplus energy, manifested in an ex- 
cess of more or less random movements, in addition to the more 
specifically directed movements; as when the wasp buzzes ex- 
citedly about her prey or her nest; or when the terrier strikes the 
trail of a rabbit; or an unmated cock-pigeon is brought into the 
presence of a hen-bird. This excess of movement brings, no 
doubt, certain advantages, in the way of trial and error, which 
may lead to improved modes of behavior. When the conditions 
1 Many instances might be cited. I well remember a fine old pouter pigeon of 
my own, who, when his partner had been accidentally killed shortly after the 
hatching of a pair of young, persisted valiantly in the heavy task of feeding them. 
In spite of all efforts to assist him, the task proved too much for his declining 
strength and, before the young could feed themselves, he died, a mere mass of skin 
and bone. BEHAVIOR OF THE VERTEBRATES 
107 
are favorable for specifically directed actions, we commonly see 
such behavior sustained with all the energy which the organism 
has at its disposal. The creature seems to become wholly ab- 
sorbed in the task in hand, in the pursuit of the natural goal of 
the instinct, and so continues until the goal is attained, or exhaus- 
tion supervenes, or some strong appeal to some other and perhaps 
stronger instinct is made. How are we to conceive this output 
of energy ? Whence does it come ? And how is it liberated ? 
The essence of instinctive activity seems to be such liberation 
and direction of energy, which perhaps we may best speak of as 
psycho-physical energy. We are naturally inclined to suppose 
that it is a case of conversion of potential energy, stored in the 
tissues in chemical form, into the free or active form, kinetic or 
electric or what not; and probably this view is correct. And we 
may legitimately speculate on the sources, the seat of storing and 
of liberation, and the mode of direction of the liberated active 
energy, in purely physiological terms.1 But, since we are still so 
ignorant of the deeper secrets of the nervous system, it is best 
to formulate our description in the terms most consistent with 
the known facts and most serviceable for our psychological pur- 
poses. Two alternatives then present themselves. First, we 
might regard each instinct as containing a store of potential 
energy, which is liberated and directed into the appropriate 
channels when the instinct is excited, and which leaks or over- 
flows in that restlessness which we have seen to be characteristic 
of Appetite. Secondly, we might regard the several instincts of 
an animal as somehow drawing upon a common store of reserve 
energy. There is much that requires or justifies the second 
view; and yet, if we accept this, we have to recognize that the 
several instincts do not draw upon this common store with equal 
11 have put forward such a hypothetical description of the nervous conditions 
of this process (“The Sources and Direction of Psychophysical Energy,” American 
Journal of Insanity, 1913). My suggestion was that each instinct is in part a 
sluice-gate in the system of barriers which dams back the energy liberated in the 
afferent side of the nervous system; that on stimulation of the instinct, on turning 
of the key in the lock, the sluice-gate swings open and makes the efferent channels 
of the instinct the principal outlet, “the final common path,” for all available free 
energy. These sluice-gates are in the main situated in the optic thalamus of the 
vertebrate brain. This seems to me the most acceptable of any views suggested; 
but, like any other view, it is very speculative. 108 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
facility and freedom. For, some forms of instinctive behavior 
seem to involve as a rule a great, perhaps a maximal, output 
of energy; while others seem to be relatively feeble in this 
respect, and to be incapable of being excited to a degree which 
would involve any great output. Such a relatively feeble in- 
stinct is the “curiosity” of many species; while in very many 
species the mating instinct, the fighting instinct, and the in- 
stinct of escape seem capable of determining a maximal output 
of energy.1 Some combination of these two views seems to be 
required, or something intermediate between them. We may 
best express the facts we are considering by saying that the 
excitement of “an instinct” evokes “an impulse” to action; 
that this impulse is variable in strength with any one instinct, 
according to the conditions (internal and external) of its excite- 
ment; and that the impulses of the several instincts of any ani- 
mal are not capable of the same maximal strength. For we may 
observe how one instinctive impulse may overcome another, 
when they are simultaneously excited.2 
Whether we conceive of each instinct as an independent store 
or spring of energy, or of all the instincts of an animal as drawing 
in various degrees upon a common store of energy and merely 
liberating and transmitting some proportion of this energy, when 
each in its turn comes into action, we may speak of the energy of 
the instinct, or of the energy derived from the instinct; and we 
may regard the felt strength of the impulse to action as in some 
sense a measure of the flow of such liberated energy.3 
1 Doctor W. H. R. Rivers suggests that every instinct obeys the “all or nothing” 
principle, i. e., if it is excited at all it is maximally excited. This seems to me to 
be obviously untrue of many. (Cf. symposium on “Instinct and the Uncon- 
scious,” British Journal of Psychology, 1919.) In his more recent book, “Instinct 
and the Unconscious,” Rivers has modified his view by suggesting that the “all 
or nothing” principle holds good for some instincts, but not for others. 
2 Another way of expressing the same facts is to speak of the relative strengths 
of the several instinctive “tendencies”; but “impulse” seems the better word; 
impulse to action being something that we experience in ourselves as well as ob- 
serve at work in others; and it denotes essentially a fact of activity; whereas “ten- 
dency” has the objectionable ambiguity, so beloved of psychologists, which enables 
it to be used to denote both facts of structure and facts of functioning. 
3 Though we have no guarantee that the correlation between the felt strength 
of the impulse and the flow of energy is a close one, our experience justifies us in 
assuming that it is in the main a positive correlation. BEHAVIOR OF THE VERTEBRATES 
109 
Those who like mechanical analogies may find some help in the following 
one. We may liken the dispositions which are the instincts of any individual 
organism to the following mechanical arrangement: Each instinct is repre- 
sented by (i) a chamber within which a process of fermentation or other 
chemical change constantly liberates a gas, which accumulates under pressure. 
The several chambers communicate with one another by fine channels through 
which the gas can pass against considerable friction, when the pressure in any 
two chambers is different. (2) Each chamber has an outlet which branches 
into a complex system of pipes leading to a group of executive organs (nerves 
leading to muscles and glands). (3) This outlet is closed by a door or sluice- 
gate provided with a lock of more or less complex pattern peculiar to itself 
(in some cases it is a series of locks rather than a single one). This door is 
never quite gas-tight; gas leaks through, and leaks in larger quantity the 
higher its pressure in the chamber (appetite and the restlessness in which it is 
expressed). When the key is turned, the door swings open and the gas, issu- 
ing along the many channels, sets in action the various mechanisms to which 
it is led; and at the same time the relief of pressure in the chamber leads to a 
more rapid evolution or liberation of gas within it and to some drainage into 
it from other chambers. The key is the sensory-pattern presented by the 
specific object of the instinct (e. g., the nightingale’s song, the peacock’s tail). 
The turning of the key is the act of perceiving the object. Such a mechanical 
model is inevitably inadequate in many respects to represent the psycho- 
physical disposition. It might perhaps be improved by replacing the locked 
door by a spring valve, which is opened by the short arm of a lever, in pro- 
portion as the long arm of the lever is depressed by a strong spring attached 
to its free end. Such depression is prevented, when the mechanism is at 
rest, by a series of stops, each of which can be drawn back by touching a key 
on a keyboard (like the keyboard of a piano). The complete depression of 
the lever and the fullest opening of the valve occur only when a certain com- 
bination of keys is struck; the striking of some of these keys will permit a 
partial depression of the lever. The keyboard is the array of sensory-organs; 
the key is any natural object which will strike the appropriate combination 
of keys. To complete the analogy, we should have to suppose that the 
mechanisms actuated by the pressure of the released gas are such as will, 
under favorable conditions, change the set of affairs which determines the 
striking of the keys, so that a new combination of keys is struck; the new 
combination releases the lever from its spring and so allows the spring valve 
to return to the closed position, and perhaps actuates another lever opening 
another valve (as in the case of chain-instincts), and so sets a different mech- 
anism in action. 
This rude analogy, which likens the organism to an organ whose keys and 
stops are played upon by Nature, is, I repeat, wofully inadequate; but cer- 
tainly less inadequate than the description of instinctive behavior as a series 
of simple reflexes and tropisms. 
When an instinctive impulse is liberated or evoked, the 
organism becomes absorbed in the endeavor toward the goal of 
the instinct; its reaction to the exciting object is a total reac- 
tion; its energies are concentrated on the task in hand and the OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
functioning of the various organs is subordinated to and har- 
monized with the dominant system of activity. This absorp- 
tion of the organism in any particular task or mode of activity 
is what we call in ourselves “attention”; and that general excite- 
ment whose indications we observe in the animals, when their 
instincts are strongly excited, is what we call in ourselves “emo- 
tion.” We may therefore define “an instinct” as an innate 
disposition which determines the organism to perceive (to pay 
attention to) any object of a certain class, and to experience in 
its presence a certain emotional excitement and an impulse to 
action which find expression in a specific mode of behavior in 
relation to that object.1 
This formula will hold good generally only if we take the 
word “object” in the very widest sense, namely, to include not 
only material things and organisms, but also various situations 
in which the creature may find itself, consisting in conjunctions of 
internal and external conditions: for we must remember always 
that a large part of the sensory stimuli that play upon the sense- 
organs come from within the organism; and these constitute an 
important and constantly changing part of the total complex 
of sense-stimuli. 
I shall illustrate and further justify this definition of “an in- 
stinct” on later pages. It may be, and often is, difficult to 
mark off a particular action or train of behavior as the expres- 
sion of one instinct. But the difficulty is not one of principle, 
but rather one of practice. In principle it is legitimate to ask 
How many instincts has this species of animal ? and to endeavor 
to define the objects or situations which will bring each one into 
play, the kind of behavior which each one will determine, and 
the kind of goal (or change of situation) which will satisfy the 
impulse and bring the train of activity to a close. 
1 We might attempt to enrich the definition by placing before the word “dispo- 
sition” the adjective “mental,” “physiological,” “neural,” or “psychophysical.” 
Of these the last is, perhaps, preferable to the others, because it clearly implies 
that the disposition plays a part in determining both bodily action and the course 
of experience. If we use the adjective “physiological” or “neural,” we should 
do so with the explicit understanding that it is not meant to imply the mechanistic 
interpretation of instinctive action. BEHAVIOR OF THE VERTEBRATES 
The Life-History of an Instinct 
Each instinct develops in the organism gradually and may 
express itself in partial and incomplete fashion before it is per- 
fected. This hardly occurs in the insects, because they emerge 
from the chrysalis fully developed (or very nearly so). In other 
words, the insects have but little youth, that period of develop- 
ment in which skill and knowledge are acquired while the in- 
stincts are still slowly maturing. Such a period of youth, how- 
ever, is not entirely denied to all insects. We have seen that 
the solitary wasps enjoy a period of free wandering before they 
begin their principal life-task, that of laying the eggs under 
conditions suitable for their development. This is their youth; 
during this period the instincts which determine the cycle of egg- 
laying, with its several major phases, are not yet mature, or 
they would begin to function. For the beginning of this cycle 
of activity is, so far as we can see, determined by no change 
in the environment, but only by the maturing of the instincts. 
During this period of youth the wasp is actuated in the main 
by the instinct of self-nutrition; she feeds herself and is in- 
different to the small animals which later she will hunt on be- 
half of her grub; and during it she lays up that knowledge of the 
locality which is an essential aid to the operation of the system 
of reproductive instincts when they become mature. 
In some few cases it appears that an instinct, if it is not excited 
or brought into play soon after the date at which it normally 
matures, fades away, or at least becomes incapable of being 
excited. A few such instances have led to the statement of a 
“law of transitoriness of instinct” alleged to hold good of all 
instincts. James taught that every instinct is essentially tran- 
sitory; that it endures but a little while, during which it may 
determine the formation of “habits” of action; that, as the in- 
stinct decays, these habits take its place; and that, if no such 
habits are formed, the instinct passes away, leaving no trace 
behind. Assuming this theory to hold good of the human in- 
stincts, he based on it certain precepts for educational practice. 
There seems to be no foundation for this theory, beyond a few 
Striking instances in animal life, such as the instinct which 112 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
leads the young lamb to follow its dam. And James’s doctrine 
seems to involve a radical misconception of the nature and func- 
tion of habit in human life. There are many instincts which 
clearly do not conform to this law of transitoriness. Wild birds, 
for example, hatched and brought up in captivity, kept perhaps 
in a narrow cage where they cannot even fly until long past 
their youth, will, when released, show all or most of the instinc- 
tive behavior proper to their species.1 If James’s generalization 
were true of all the human instincts, it would indeed be of vast 
practical importance. But all the great development of psycho- 
therapeutics which has been achieved since he wrote tends to 
show its falsity. The element of truth which it contains is a 
very modest one, namely, that in the main the repeated exer- 
cise of any instinct seems to render it more easily excitable and 
to strengthen its impulse to action. 
It is probably true to say in general terms that the exercise of 
all its instincts in normal degree is essential to the fullest vigor 
and health of any animal. The absence of such conditions as 
evoke or give scope to any one form of instinctive activity is 
probably detrimental in some degree to the organisms of health 
and development; and we may infer that, if it were possible to 
prevent the excitement of every instinct, the young animal could 
not develop and the adult animal could not live. This is the 
ground of the difficulty of keeping and raising some wild ani- 
mals in captivity. We have to recognize that the instincts of an 
animal are, as it were, its very essence and central core, all its 
bodily organs and functions being merely the servants of the 
instincts. A species is most completely characterized by its in- 
stincts, all its peculiarities of form, color, structure, function, 
and habit being subservient to and determined by them. 
1 In my own experience wild ducks, hatched and brought up in the poultry-yard 
with closely clipped wings, show a remarkable tendency to find any patch of water; 
and, when the wing feathers are allowed to grow in adult life, the birds will take 
to the wing and disappear into the wild, the habits of half a lifetime passed in 
the poultry-yard notwithstanding. Some domestic animals will display terror and 
violent efforts to escape at the smell of the lion or at the sound of his voice, encoun- 
tered for the first time at a mature age. The pairing instinct in many species 
seems to survive all denials of opportunity. It is well known that many domestic 
animals will readily “run wild” or become feral, reverting to the life of instinct 
denied them in large part under domestication. BEHAVIOR OF THE VERTEBRATES 
113 
This is a fact too often overlooked in discussions of biological evolution. 
The evolution of the animal world is primarily a process of differentiation and 
specialization of instincts; this much-neglected truth is obvious when we 
reflect on such facts as the following: Horned cattle or antlered deer do not 
fight because they are provided with horns or antlers; the species develops 
these weapons in the service of the instinct of combat. The carnivore does 
not prey on animals because he has large teeth; his teeth and claws have been 
evolved, because his food-seeking instinct has become specialized in this direc- 
tion. The seal did not take to the water because his legs were flipperlike and 
his body fish-shaped; he acquired these peculiarities of structure in conse- 
quence of his food-seeking instinct having become specialized for the pursuit 
of fish. The same is true of a thousand instances of shape and form and 
coloration, of bodily structure and function, down to the minutest details. 
The evolution of the animal world may properly be conceived as primarily 
and essentially the differentiation of instinctive tendencies from some primor- 
dial undifferentiated capacity to strive. It is this undifferentiated capacity 
to strive, this primordial energy, which M. Bergson has named I'elan vital, 
which others (notably Doctor C. G. Jung) speak of as the libido, and which 
perhaps is best named vital energy. We may regard the instincts as so many 
differentiated channels through which the vital energy pours itself into or 
through the organism. 
Two (or more) instincts may be simultaneously excited. If 
their tendencies are not incompatible, behavior is then a blend 
of the actions characteristic of the two instincts, each being 
modified by the other. If their tendencies are opposed, we may 
witness a struggle, with alternation of the movements of oppo- 
site kinds, until one gains the upper hand. Or, when one in- 
stinct is in operation, an opposed instinct may be excited (al- 
though this is not so easily excited as when the animal is at 
rest) and may cut short more or less suddenly and completely, 
may inhibit, the other mode of behavior; in which case we may 
assume that the impulse of the second is stronger than that 
of the former.1 
Degrees of Specificity of Instincts 
The specificity of instincts, both on the receptive or percep- 
tive side and on the executive side, is of very different degrees. 
An understanding of this is of the first importance, and to the 
lack of it is due much of the prevailing confusion about instincts. 
It is when an instinct is highly specific, or of highly specialized 
1 This seems to be an instance of the general law of reciprocal inhibition of in- 
compatible movements. 114 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
structure on both sides, that instinctive action appears in its 
most striking forms, striking because relatively machinelike and 
unintelligent. This specialization is carried to the highest de- 
gree in many of the insects; it is for this reason that they are 
commonly regarded as the exponents of instinctive behavior par 
excellence. An example is that chain-instinct of the Yucca moth 
which prescribes minutely the series of actions by which the egg 
is deposited, actions which only occur when the required condi- 
tions (the specific characters of the flower) are present. It is 
clear that the more highly specialized the instinct on both sides, the 
less scope is there for the play of Intelligence. If it is very highly 
specialized on the receptive side, it can be excited only by the 
presence of just one particular kind of object; and any abnor- 
mality in the object results in failure of the instinctive beha- 
vior. And, in a similar way, a high degree of specialization on 
the executive side renders the animal incapable of attaining its 
natural goal, if in the course of its train of instinctive action it 
meets with unusual conditions; as when, for example, Fabre’s 
scientific curiosity led him repeatedly to withdraw the prey 
from the entrance of the wasp’s nest.1 
On the other hand, the less specialized the instinct, the greater 
the scope for and the demand for Intelligence to supplement In- 
stinct. In this respect the solitary wasps are intermediate be- 
tween those insects of very highly specialized instincts (such as 
the Yucca moth) and the higher vertebrates. The instincts of 
the latter are so little specialized that to the undiscerning eye 
these animals may seem to have no instincts at all; because In- 
telligence plays so large a part in modifying instinctive behavior. 
The instincts of the birds are in the main less specialized than 
those of the wasps; therefore their operations are more modified 
by Intelligence. But the modes in which Intelligence modifies 
instinctive action may be best studied in the behavior of the 
mammals. 
Instincts and Motor Mechanisms 
One other feature of instinctive action, one very difficult to 
understand, may be touched on at this stage. When a young 
1 P. 88. BEHAVIOR OF THE VERTEBRATES 
bird becomes fully fledged, it takes to the wing and flies and 
perches with considerable accuracy. Commonly its first flights 
show some lack of the perfection shown after some little practice. 
It is probable that this is chiefly due to the bird undertaking its 
first flight, before the spontaneous development of the power of 
flight is completed. If it be prevented from flight for a few days 
longer, it exhibits on the first occasion a skill but little inferior 
to that of the much practised adult. In a similar way a young 
ground bird hatched but an hour or two will run about, pre- 
serving its balance and using its legs effectively; and equally 
early it will peck at small grains on the ground and pick them 
up with astonishing accuracy. Or a newly hatched duckling or 
water-fowl will take to the water and swim or dive in a manner 
that hardly permits of improvement by practice. Only birds 
that are hatched in nests built in safe places are nearly quite 
helpless in the first days after hatching; but even these will rise 
up in the nest, stretch out their necks, open wide their bills and 
squeak, when the parent approaches or the human observer 
roughly imitates the sounds of the approaching parent. All 
these actions are complex and involve the nice co-ordination of 
the contractions of many muscles. The mechanist naturally in- 
clines to regard these as the very types of instinctive action and 
to concentrate his attention upon them to the neglect of all 
others. For they may easily be conceived as complex reflexes. 
The question we have to consider is, whether they are merely 
reflex, or are properly regarded as instinctive actions. In 
either case—What is their relation to the more complex forms 
of instinctive behavior, of which such bodily activities as walk- 
ing, flying, swimming, and diving are partial constituents ? 
For it is clear that, in such instinctive activity as the pairing 
or the combat of pigeons, or the capturing of its prey by a 
wasp, almost all the forms of bodily movement proper to the 
species may be brought into service; and that each major phase 
of instinctive activity may involve many of the same kinds of 
co-ordinated bodily movement as other phases. If we regard 
each distinct kind of innately co-ordinated movement as the ex- 
pression of a corresponding instinct, we shall have to say that 
the major instincts somehow make use of the minor instincts. 116 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
Some writers, notably Mr. A. F. Shand,1 have taken this line, regarding each 
form of co-ordinated bodily movement that requires little or no practice for 
its execution as the expression of “an instinct.” Shand’s position has this 
further peculiarity that he confines the term “instinct” to these innately 
organized motor dispositions and describes as “emotional dispositions” what 
I am describing as the major and typical instincts. Shand has kept in view 
chiefly the behavior of men and mammals; I think that, if he would turn his 
attention to the birds and insects, he would see that his position is untenable. 
Professor Lloyd Morgan has taken a similar line in face of this problem.2 He 
proposes to recognize instincts of at least three levels. He would call “lower- 
level instincts” all the innately organized nervous structures, concerned in 
the production of co-ordinated bodily movements, which I propose to distin- 
guish from instincts as mere motor mechanisms. Secondly, all the instincts 
that I recognize as such he would call “mid-level instincts.” And he would 
recognize a third class of instincts of a higher level, of which class he names 
two only, namely, “self-preservation” and “race-maintenance.” I venture 
to think that these alleged “higher-level instincts” are fictitious; each of them 
is in reality a group of instincts, and neither group is in any sense a functional 
unity. All that is common to the instincts of either group is that they con- 
tribute to self-preservation or to race-maintenance. Clearly both food-seek- 
ing and escape from danger are activities that contribute to self-preservation. 
I can see no justification for lumping them together to make a single “high- 
level instinct.” Both of them contribute directly to race-maintenance also; 
as when the parent seeks food for her young, or leads them to take cover. 
But that way of stating the facts seems to me erroneous. I 
see no reason why these complex co-ordinated movements should 
be regarded as the expressions of so many distinct instincts. In 
my view they are essentially the expressions of motor mechanisms; 
the execution of each such movement presupposes a complex 
motor mechanism in the nervous system, comparable to that 
which in the brainless dog may determine “progression” move- 
ments of the legs, or the scratching movements of the hind leg, 
so long as suitable stimuli are applied to certain sensory sur- 
faces. Possibly each such motor mechanism3 is connected with 
sensory nerves and sense organs, by stimulation of which it 
1 “The Foundations of Character.” 
* “Instinctive Dispositions,” Scientia, October, 1920. 
* These motor mechanisms are made up of nervous elements which reside very 
largely in the cerebellum; and all the evidence we have goes to show that the cere- 
bellum is immediately concerned neither in impulsive action nor in experience. 
On the other hand, the cerebellum is always found to be large in proportion to the 
number and complexity and delicacy of co-ordination of the motor mechanisms of 
which the species normally makes use, and especially so when these involve delicate 
adjustments of the balance of the whole body, as in flying and swimming; thus it is 
proportionally large in the birds that catch insects on the wing and in the porpoise. BEHAVIOR OF THE VERTEBRATES 
117 
may be thrown into action (as in the case of the scratch-reflex 
mechanism); though we have evidence of this in a few instances 
only, which possibly are exceptional. 
We have to regard such motor mechanisms not as instincts, hut 
merely as the instruments of the instincts. Each one is what the 
physiologists call a “final common path,” and as such may serve 
as the channel of outlet for the energy liberated from any one of 
the instincts. No doubt each instinct discharges more readily 
into some one motor mechanism than into others; but it is capa- 
ble of discharging into others, and under appropriate circum- 
stances will do so. Thus the combative instinct of the pigeon 
most immediately discharges itself into motor mechanisms which 
effect an aggressive approach to the enemy on foot, followed by 
pecking and striking with the wings when he comes within range. 
But, if the enemy takes to flight, the angry bird may pursue 
him on the wing and renew the attack on alighting. In a simi- 
lar way, the pigeon startled when on the ground takes immedi- 
ately to the wing; but, if startled when perched in or near the 
nest, he merely assumes an alert attitude and utters a subdued 
warning note; and he takes to flight only if the startling object 
becomes more immediately and powerfully threatening. These 
seem to be instances in which the same instinct makes use under 
different circumstances of different motor mechanisms; and they 
are typical of all instinctive behavior. 
Observation of the ways in which the various motor mecha- 
nisms are first used by young creatures bears out, I think, this 
view that they are not to be identified with instincts, but rather 
require some instinctive impulse for their actuation. In other 
words, they are in themselves inert mechanisms which require 
to be “driven” by some impulse, by a stream of energy derived 
from some instinct; just as an electric motor is an inert mecha- 
nism which requires to be driven by a stream of energy generated 
and directed elsewhere (though by turning its wheel by hand 
the whole mechanism may be put in movement—a case com- 
parable to the reflex excitation of the scratch-reflex). 
If you watch a young pigeon almost fully fledged, you may 
observe that its first flight, the first actuation of the motor 
mechanism of flight, is undertaken not for its own sake, but in 118 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
the course of its clamorous pursuit of its parent; that is, in the 
service of its food-seeking impulse; or perhaps when it is escap- 
ing from the attack of some hostile cock-bird. In a similar way, 
the first pecking of the newly hatched chick seems to be not a 
mere reflex in response to the optical stimulus of a small grain, 
but rather the actuation of this particular motor-mechanism by 
the impulse of the food-seeking instinct: this impulse may ex- 
press itself by means of other mechanisms also; as when the 
chick runs to and fro, and especially when he runs to his mother 
as she scratches the earth and gently calls him with a specific 
note. 
This principle, that any one instinctive impulse may make use 
of a variety of motor mechanisms, according to the circumstances 
of the moment, is no doubt difficult to understand or interpret 
in terms of the mechanistic hypothesis, i. e., in terms of reflex 
mechanism; but it seems to be a fact, nevertheless, and unless 
we recognize it and take it fully into account, we meet with in- 
superable difficulties in attempting to interpret instinctive be- 
havior. 
How Is an Instinct Defined If Not by Its Motor Expressions ? 
We may raise at this stage, also, a still more difficult question. 
If one instinct does not always express itself in the same kind 
of bodily activity, but rather may actuate or make use of several 
different motor mechanisms in succession, according to the cir- 
cumstances of the moment, how are we to recognize the goal of 
the instinct, and how define the instinct and mark it off from 
others ? Obviously, if every instinct always expressed itself by 
setting in action some one motor mechanism peculiar to itself, 
or several in a given order, there would be no difficulty in defin- 
ing the instinct; and also the path of the “mechanist” would 
be made comparatively smooth, for one of the principal distinc- 
tions between instinctive and reflex action would be lacking. Is 
there, in fact, any stable position between the mechanist’s iden- 
tification of instinctive with reflex action and the mere attribu- 
tion of actions to “Instinct” written with a capital letter? I 
think there is. “An instinct” is to be defined and recognized, BEHAVIOR OF THE VERTEBRATES 
119 
not by the kind of movements in which it finds expression, but 
by the kind of change of the animal’s situation which its move- 
ments, whatever they be, tend to bring about and which, when 
it is achieved, brings the train of behavior to a close. Thus the 
nature of the instinct at work in an animal cannot be recognized 
by simple observation of its movements. You may see one 
pigeon pursuing another assiduously from place to place; but 
these varied movements of locomotion and pursuit may express 
either the combative instinct, or the pairing instinct, or the 
food-seeking impulse of the young pigeon. Yet there can be 
no doubt that these are distinct instincts, whose operation is 
attended by appetites requiring very different situations for their 
satisfaction. Unlike reflex action, instinctive action strives 
toward a goal, a change of situation of a particular kind, which 
alone can satisfy the impulse and allay the appetite and unrest 
of the organism. We must, therefore, define any instinct by 
the nature of the goal, the type of situation, that it seeks or 
tends to bring about, as well as by the type of situation or 
object that brings it into activity. 
We shall see that this principle requires very careful han- 
dling in connection with some problems of human instinct. For 
example—What degree of generality may be assigned to the 
goal of an instinct. The majority of the psychologists who 
recognize any human instincts postulate “an instinct of imita- 
tion and they continue to do so in spite of the fact that no 
such instinct has been shown to exist in any animal species, 
and in face of the fact that, if this instinct exists in man or any 
animal species, its goal can be defined only as the performing 
of any action witnessed by the imitator. In the same uncritical 
way, many psychologists continue to postulate “an instinct of 
play” in man and many animals. This kind of “instinct psy- 
chology” may fairly be likened to the “faculty psychology” 
which we all profess to repudiate with scorn. So far as I can 
see, to say that play (or imitation) is due to an instinct of play 
(or imitation) differs not at all from saying that it is due to a 
faculty of play (or imitation); whereas to say that the wasp’s 
pursuit of her prey of a particular kind is due to an instinct 
to provision hex nest with that kind of prey is very much more 120 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
than to say it is due to a faculty for pursuing prey. If the 
reader cannot at first glance see any distinction between the 
two cases, I would advise him to ponder the problem; perhaps 
after some years of psychologizing the distinction may become 
clear to him. CHAPTER V 
THE INSTINCTS OF THE MAMMALS AND OF MAN 
Few will deny that the lower mammals are largely governed 
by Instinct; but, when we consider the behavior of an intelligent 
house-dog, the role of Instinct is not so obvious. We are apt to 
discern Instinct when we see him performing some utterly use- 
less action; such as scratching the carpet and turning round and 
round, before lying down to sleep in a familiar corner. But most 
of his actions seem so intelligent that the instinctive factor in 
them does not clearly appear; and, reading our own experience 
into him, we are apt to interpret and explain his actions in terms 
of emotions, or emotional experiences, which we attribute to him. 
Thus we say that he is barking loudly at the intruding stranger, 
because he is angry; or that he is running away with his tail 
between his legs, because he is afraid; or that the mother-dog 
tenderly licks her puppies and anxiously watches over them, 
because she loves them; or that the hound crouches humbly at 
a word from his stern master, desisting from the wildest pranks 
or the most absorbing pursuits, because he stands in awe of him. 
And in all such cases we rightly feel that we have in some sense 
explained the dog’s behavior and that, if we are right, we in 
some sense understand it. 
Motives and Intention 
Notice that we interpret human behavior in a similar way. 
Suppose that you are sitting in a concealed spot near a lonely 
road, and that you observe an acquaintance, X, walking alone 
along the road. Suppose, further, that you see a needy-looking 
man coming in the opposite direction; that, when the two meet, 
they stop and exchange some words; and that X puts his hand 
in his pocket, hands some money to the other man, and passes 
on. How will you interpret that behavior of X ? If he is well 122 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
known to you, you may interpret his behavior with some con- 
fidence. But, if he is a stranger or a casual acquaintance, and 
if you have observed nothing more than the facts described, you 
will be at a loss. You will be able to infer that the man begged 
alms of X, and that X gave them; further, you can infer that 
X, when he put his hand in his pocket, intended to find a coin 
and to give it to the beggar. About his intention, then, you are 
clear. But what about his motive? That remains problem- 
atic. Here we have a clear illustration of the obvious fact that 
motive and intention are entirely distinct facts. Yet many 
psychologists and some lawyers deliberately confuse them, or 
assert that a motive is merely an ulterior intention. There is no 
distinction of more importance for the understanding of be- 
havior; and he who has not grasped it can be neither a good 
lawyer nor a good psychologist.1 If X, when he put his hand 
in his pocket, had pulled out a pistol instead of a coin, and had 
put a bullet through the other man, the question of motive 
would have become a matter for the lawyers to discuss. The 
intention to shoot at the other man might be confidently as- 
sumed, though the motive remained absolutely unknown. 
On seeing the coin given, at least three possible motives might 
be guessed with equal plausibility. You might guess that X 
was a timid person and that he gave the coin because he was 
afraid of the other man, afraid of being assaulted by him if he 
refused to give. Secondly, you might guess that X was a pitiful 
or kindly man, and that he was moved to give by pity. Thirdly, 
if you were “inclined to be cynical,” you might guess that X is 
a man who likes to feel himself superior to others and who enjoys 
any situation that enhances his feeling of superiority to others 
and their sense of his power over them. You might formulate 
your interpretations by saying, in the first case, that the act of 
almsgiving was due to fear; in the second, that it was due to 
pity; in the third, that it was due to pride: that is to say, you 
would explain the action by attributing it, not to an instinct, 
but to an emotion—just as in the case of the dog. In each case 
you would be assigning an emotion as the motive of the action; 
1 Of course, for the consistent mechanists motives are fictitious or illusory; there 
are only .physical and chemical stimuli and mechanical responses. INSTINCTS OF MAMMALS AND OF MAN 
123 
and, in so far as your guess was a good guess, you would have 
explained the action as completely as the psychology of the 
common-sense tradition can pretend to explain it. Of course, 
your explanation might be less simple; you might guess that all 
these three emotions were at work together, that X was a little 
bit afraid, a little bit compassionate, and a little proud, all at 
once; and, if he were a stranger to you, it would be safest to 
assume some such mixed motives or emotions. 
Now, if you had observed from a distance only the outward 
action of X, your guess would be a mere guess; you would merely 
be naming one or more of the emotions which your general knowl- 
edge of human nature would lead you to suppose might be evoked 
in any man by the appeal of the beggar. But, if you were in a 
position to observe X closely during the incident, you might be 
able to make your guess with much greater confidence. If, for 
example, you had observed that, as the beggar approached X, the 
latter looked up and down the road and all around, that his hand 
shook a little as he handed out the coin, that his voice trembled, 
his face paled, and that he walked on at a faster pace afterwards, 
you would feel pretty confident in assigning fear as the domi- 
nant emotion of the moment and the chief motive of the act. 
If X’s face had assumed an air of kindly interest, if his voice 
and gestures were gentle, if he moved on slowly, looking back 
again and again at the beggar, your diagnosis of pity would be 
confidently made. If X had pulled out his coin and handed it 
over with an air of condescension and had walked on with his nose 
in the air and a cheerful complacency reminiscent of Jack Horner, 
your diagnosis of pride or vanity would be assured. Or you might 
have detected symptoms of all three emotions in X; a shaking 
of the hand, a tear in the eye, and an air of condescension and 
complacency; when you would feel that his motives and his 
emotions were mixed. If now you approached X and asked 
him—“Why did you give a coin to that beggar?” you might 
get any one of several answers. He might say—“ I think it right 
to give alms to the needy,” or give some still more sophisticated 
reply. But, if he were a child or a blunt honest man, he would 
possibly say: “Because I was afraid of the beggar; he looked 
capable of any desperate act”; or, “Oh, I couldn’t help feeling 124 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
sorry for the poor devil. I know it’s not right to give money to 
wayside beggars, but I couldn’t help it.” Or, if he were a per- 
son quite unusually honest and interested in self-analysis, he 
might say—“Well, do you know, I really believe the humble way 
he came up and cringed to me made me feel so big and rich and 
benevolent and lordly that I just had to do it.” In each case, 
if the statement agreed with your observation of symptoms of 
emotion, you would feel that the question of motive was solved. 
If the reply did not so harmonize, you would feel sure that it was 
at best only partially true. And, if you felt so convinced, you 
would not, unless you were a very naive and ignorant person, 
necessarily infer that X was a liar or that he intended to deceive 
you. For you would know that it is very difficult to be sure of 
our own motives, at least as difficult as it is to give just the 
right name to our emotion at any moment. 
When you had extracted some such answer from X, you would 
have gone as far as common sense ever goes in the pursuit of 
motives. If you were a lawyer examining X in court, you 
might try to show that his statements were untrue, by catching 
him in some inconsistency; or you might try to discover what 
sort of character and reputation the man bore. If you could 
show by an array of testimony that he was a notoriously timid 
man and one who had never been known to perform a kindly 
action, you would establish a presumption in favor of fear as 
the motive, and against pity—and so on. 
What could psychology contribute to the solution of this psy- 
chological problem, one of a type with which we all have to deal 
in practical life, and with which we do deal more or less success- 
fully on the whole? Well, in face of the concrete problem, it 
could not do very much. If you had studied psychology, you 
might have observed the indications of X’s emotions a little 
more fully, accurately, and analytically; and, when you put your 
questions to him, you might have formulated them a little more 
searchingly. And, if at the critical moment you could have 
examined him closely, with the aid of a laboratory full of ap- 
paratus, you might have counted his pulse and respiration, noted 
other peculiarities about them, recorded his blood-pressure curve, 
determined the amount of adrenalin or sugar in his blood, and INSTINCTS OF MAMMALS AND OF MAN 
125 
so on; and in these ways you might have made the diagnosis of 
some particular emotion a little more surely. 
The psychologist could do little more than any intelligent 
man, in face of the concrete problem of behavior. But let it 
not be inferred from this that psychology is a useless purely 
academic game. The professed student of any other science 
would be in much the same position, when confronted by a con- 
crete problem. Suppose, for example, you show to a geologist 
a volcano in eruption, and you say to him: “Now, you are a 
geologist, you know all about volcanoes. Tell us just exactly 
why this volcano is erupting at this moment.” Your geologist 
would not be able to answer your question forthwith. Yet that 
would not prove him incompetent nor his science utterly useless. 
It would only seem so to the “practical” man. The geologist 
could tell you much about the general principles of volcanic 
action; and he could set about the study of this particular vol- 
cano and, after much labor, arrive perhaps at some probable 
explanation of the immediate causes of this eruption and, per- 
haps, predict with fair degree of confidence the further course of 
its eruptions. 
The limitations and the possibilities of the psychologist in face 
of any concrete eruption of human nature are similar. He can 
give some statement of the general principles of human nature 
and action; and, after studying the individual, he can exhibit 
the particular action as an instance illustrating and conforming 
to those principles. 
Common Sense and Motives 
The cases of canine and human behavior we have imagined 
illustrate a very important fact, namely, that common sense 
identifies emotions with motives. Common sense, when it has 
named correctly the emotion dominant during any man’s action, 
holds that it has explained the action, made it intelligible, in 
general terms. If any further explanation is required, it must 
take the form of explaining why that man experiences and dis- 
plays that emotion under the circumstances of that moment. 
This stage of the explanation involves the description of his 
“character”; and an adequate understanding of his character 126 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
can be attained only by considering both his hereditary con- 
stitution and the course of his development. It is in this 
second stage of the explanation that psychology should be of 
service. 
It is a principal feature of this book that, in this all-important 
matter of the explanation and understanding of human behavior 
or conduct, it holds “common sense” to be in the right; and it 
holds many of the psychologies and philosophies of the past to be 
in the wrong, because they have rejected the common-sense pro- 
cedure and offered in its place a variety of fantastic theories. 
We have seen already what some of these theories are. There 
is (i) the theory of reflexes and “conditioned reflexes,” which 
was elaborated by Herbert Spencer and has recently been fur- 
bished up again as “behaviorism.” There is (2) the theory of 
“ideas,” which, when applied to the explanation of conduct, 
takes the form of the “ideo-motor” theory, and asserts that this 
mysterious unintelligible something called an “idea” is a motive 
force as well as a mosaic of bits of “consciousness.” There is 
(3) the pleasure-pain theory which dominated British psychol- 
ogy and social philosophy for several generations, under the 
name of “psychological hedonism.” It asserts that pleasure and 
pain, or the desire for pleasure and the aversion from pain, are 
the motives of all human conduct. And, not content with the 
utter inconsistency of this theory with a thousand obvious facts, 
many of its exponents have combined with it the obscurities 
and absurdities of the “idea theory” and have asserted that 
“the idea of pleasure” or “the idea of pain” is the motive of all 
action. Then (4) there is the theory which explains all human 
action by saying it is due to “The Will;” though what “The 
Will” is and what is the relation of the “willed” acts of human 
adults to the behavior of animals and children it has never made 
clear. There is (5) the theory that all human conduct is the 
expression of “Reason”; and this theory is in the same position 
as the theory of “The Will”; and both are remnants of the 
Faculty Psychology of the eighteenth century. Lastly, there is 
(6) the theory that all human conduct is determined by “The 
Unconscious.” This, the latest and most fashionable fad in 
psychology, is a new development by medical psychologists of INSTINCTS OF MAMMALS AND OF MAN 
127 
the theory of Schopenhauer and Ed. von Hartmann. All these 
are interesting exhibits in the museum of psychological antiqui- 
ties and curiosities. The beginner may safely stand at a little 
distance and view them with the respectful curiosity due to every 
historically interesting object, while still preferring explanations 
of the common-sense type. In this book it will be my chief 
endeavor to show him how the common-sense explanation may 
be refined and made more definite and systematic 
Instincts and Emotions 
We have seen that, in face of the behavior of such an animal 
as the dog, we are apt to invoke explanations of two kinds. 
When his behavior is like our own, and seems to express any 
emotion such as we ourselves experience, we are content to 
ascribe it to that emotion; as when we say that the animal is im- 
pelled by anger or fear or curiosity or disgust. When it is very 
unlike our own and expresses no emotion that we can recognize by 
its expressions, we ascribe it to Instinct. And, in either case, we 
recognize that a little dose of intelligence may modify the im- 
pulsive power of emotion or of instinct. On contemplating the 
behavior of birds, we are more ready to invoke Instinct and less 
ready to infer Emotion; for the greater difference of bodily 
structure and mode of life renders our recognition of their emo- 
tions more difficult and ambiguous than in the case of the mam- 
mals nearest to ourselves. Yet common sense and the literary 
tradition do not hesitate to ascribe to the birds emotions not 
utterly different from our own. The insects being still more 
remote from us in structure and mode of life, common sense in- 
vokes Instinct only; for, though it does not fail to see signs of 
emotions in insect behavior, it rightly judges these to be so 
unlike our own that they cannot safely be given the same names 
and cannot profitably be assigned as the motive powers of their 
actions. 
What, then, is the relation between these two principles of 
action that we invoke to explain animal behavior, so long as 
we are not sophisticated by psychological theories ? Are Emo- 
tion and Instinct two distinct principles of action; impulsive 128 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
powers of two different orders ? Common sense hardly seems to 
think so; for in some instances it seems to identify an instinct 
with an emotion, by giving them the same name; notably in the 
cases of fear, curiosity, and disgust. 
Suppose that psychology, instead of turning away with scorn 
to devise fantastic theories which cannot be brought into any 
intelligible relation with the common-sense type of explanation, 
should accept this clue offered by common sense and work it 
for all it may be worth. Might we not hope to find that com- 
mon sense, the wisdom of the ages, is fundamentally right, and 
that its practice is capable of being developed into a consistent 
and useful theory? 
This was the line taken in my “Social Psychology.” 1 For 
the first time the cue offered by common sense was frankly 
accepted as a working hypothesis. Emotion was regarded as a 
mode of experience which accompanies the working within us of 
instinctive impulses. It was assumed that human nature (our 
inherited inborn constitution) comprises instincts; that the opera- 
tion of each instinct, no matter how brought into play, is accom- 
panied by its own peculiar quality of experience which may be 
called a primary emotion; and that, when two or more instincts 
are simultaneously at work in us, we experience a confused 
emotional excitement, in which we can detect something of the 
qualities of the corresponding primary emotions. The human 
emotions were then regarded as clues to the instinctive impulses, 
or indicators of the motives at work in us. Guided by this hy- 
pothesis, I attempted to sketch the instinctive basis of our active 
nature and its development, under experience and education, 
into character. Some psychologists have explicitly accepted 
this scheme for the development of common-sense psychology; 
but very many, in view of difficulties that arise in the course of 
its detailed application, have rejected it. Yet I hold fast to the 
scheme as essentially on the right lines; my confidence in it has 
been strengthened chiefly by two facts. First, it has been 
found useful in several fields of practice, notably in education, 
medicine, and industry. Secondly, its critics have nothing to 
put in its place but one or other of those six theories (enumerated 
1 “An Introduction to Social Psychology,” first published in 1908. INSTINCTS OF MAMMALS AND OF MAN 
129 
on p. 126), all of which I find to be obscure and unintelligible or 
grossly inconsistent with many facts of observation.1 
The Common-Sense Cue Justified by the Theory of Evolution 
We return now to the study of mammalian behavior with this 
clue in our hands. Whenever we observe in an animal signs of 
emotion which we feel able to interpret with some confidence, 
we may accept that as an indication of the working of a corre- 
sponding instinct. And, whenever we see an animal aroused to 
some train of instinctive activity, we may assume that it experi- 
ences some emotional excitement; and we may endeavor, though 
often with little success, to interpret the action sympathetically 
in terms of emotion. 
That we may thus interpret the behavior of the higher 
animals with considerable confidence is shown by the fact that 
those who practise such interpretation and rely most upon it 
achieve the greatest success in their practical dealing with 
animals; the hunter, the herdsman, the horseman, the trainer 
of dogs, and the tamer of wild beasts, all proceed on this 
principle, however little they may have formulated it in ex- 
plicit propositions. The success of this practice is the best 
evidence of our near relation to the animals; better even than 
the discovery of morphological homologies of their parts and 
organs with ours. If the behavior and the emotions of the dog 
and the horse and the ape were as obscure to us as those of the 
bees, we should, in spite of all morphological homologies, hesitate 
to accept the theory of the continuity of human with animal 
evolution, But, in face of this success, we cannot deny our 
continuity of nature with our humble relatives; and the theory 
of evolution affords the best explanation of that continuity. 
In the days before Darwin, when evolution was merely a wild 
speculation accepted by few, it was not unreasonable to assert 
that animals are guided by Instinct and man by Reason; for each 
species was regarded as specially created and independently 
endowed with such faculties and organs as seemed best to its 
11 do not stop to criticise each of these theories in detail. I shall point out 
incidentally on subsequent pages some of their shortcomings. 130 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
Creator; and Man was endowed with Reason, in place of all the 
many different instincts with which the various animal species 
were endowed. 
It is strange that this view should have survived the Darwinian 
revolution and that to-day it should still be necessary to argue 
against a mass of professional students of human nature who, 
while not denying that animals are guided in the main by in- 
stinct, fail to see any evidence of the part played by instinct in 
human life.1 For it would be strange indeed if Nature, after 
successfully evolving through many millions of years all the 
wonderful varieties of nicely adapted animal behavior on the 
principle of Instinct, had suddenly deserted this principle for 
another, had thrown the instincts of our prehuman ancestry on 
the scrap heap, and had made a new start on a new principle. 
And such a reversal of policy by Mother Nature would seem the 
more strange, when we see how, even far down the scale of 
animal life, Intelligence co-operates so beautifully with Instinct, 
remedying its defects and supplementing its inefficiencies, widen- 
ing its scope and range of application; and how, as we approach 
Man in the animal scale, the evidence of this supplementing of 
Instinct by Intelligence and of their harmonious co-operation 
becomes ever clearer and stronger. 
The Parental or Protective Instinct 
In reviewing mammalian behavior, we must begin by consider- 
ing the role of one great instinct, Nature’s brightest and most 
beautiful invention, the parental instinct. The systematic zoolo- 
gists have rightly seen that the suckling of their young is the all- 
important and characteristic feature of the life of mammals. 
Not the anatomical fact of the possession of milk-secreting 
1 During the past few years there have appeared many articles which attack the 
view that human nature comprises instincts, or maintain that any human in- 
stincts are of little or no importance for adult life. I have replied to some of these 
critics in an article in The Journal of Abnormal and Social Psychology, 1922 (“The 
Use and Abuse of Instinct in Social Psychology”), pointing out that this adverse 
negative attitude toward human instincts arises in the main from the confusion of 
instincts with mere motor mechanisms. The distinction between them is all 
important. It will be developed in the following pages. INSTINCTS OF MAMMALS AND OF MAN 
glands, but the psychological fact of the use of them, is all- 
important. 
It was this “invention” which alone rendered possible the 
development of a highly intelligent species, such as Homo Sa- 
piens, and which also gave to his nature, conduct, and institu- 
tions all that is truly admirable in the moral sense. And if, as 
has been claimed, the birds contain the potentiality of a mental 
and moral development rivalling that of man, it is only because 
they also (or most of them) are endowed with the parental in- 
stinct. It is no exaggeration to say that this one instinct is the 
mother of both Intellect and Morality. For, without it, Intellect 
could not have been evolved; and its impulse is the only truly 
altruistic element in Nature; and, though many philosophers 
have ignored the fact, the moral tradition, by which all moral 
character is shaped, could never have been built up without this 
altruistic factor. 
Among the mammals this instinct is part of the natural en- 
dowment of the female sex in all species; for the suckling of the 
young is its simplest and primary expression, without which the 
mammary glands would be useless and the young could not live. 
So much activity on the part of the mother as is necessary to the 
suckling of the young is an expression of the instinct common to 
all species. The particular movements and attitudes by which 
suckling is achieved vary from species to species, according to the 
bodily form of the species and the degree of activity of which the 
young are capable. But more than suckling is necessary in most 
species. The mother wanders in search of food; and either the 
young wander with her, as in most herbivora, or they lie snugly 
in some hidden nest or lair, awaiting her return. In the former 
case the mother and young must keep together. They achieve 
this by the aid of special powers of vision, hearing, and smell, and 
of recognition marks, visible, audible, or olfactory, which are so 
many locks and keys to the instincts of parent and offspring. In 
the other case, the mother must return to her nest after all her 
wanderings in search of food; and so she shares with the wasps 
the capacity for “homing,” that is, for acquiring familiarity with, 
or knowledge of, the wide area in which she roams; her maternal 
instinct thus requires the large co-operation of intelligence, of 132 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
acquired knowledge. This is one chief reason for the superiority 
of the carnivores to the herbivores in respect of intelligence, a 
superiority only partially offset by the requirements of the gre- 
garious life of the latter. The carnivorous mother’s instinct 
commonly impels her to bring home her prey to her young; in 
this work the male of some species co-operates, and then the 
family is founded. 
It is from the apes that we may hope for most light on the 
instincts of the human species. Unfortunately, we know little 
about them. Yet we do know that in some of them the parental 
instinct is very strong, prompting the mother to carry her young 
with her in almost all her roaming through the trees, and on 
occasion to defend it with the utmost fury and desperation. 
Thus the arboreal life demands of the mother-ape more continu- 
ous contact with her young and more unremitting care and toil 
than any other animal-mother displays. This, rather than any 
structural peculiarity, such as the prehensile tail or paw, was 
the prime condition of the evolution of Man. 
The external skeleton of the insects compelled their ontogeny 
to take the form of the grub, the chrysalis, and the metamor- 
phosis which launches the fully formed insect on its independent 
life with all organs complete. It was necessary, therefore, that, 
when so launched, the insect should have matured all the instincts 
of self-maintenance, and that these should at once come into play. 
And this, as we have seen, is the rule among the insects. This 
inevitable consequence of metamorphosis is very prejudicial to 
the development of Intelligence. For instincts which are to 
operate before the animal has had time and opportunities to 
accumulate experience must be fully, precisely, and more or less 
rigidly organized, on both the receptive and the executive sides; 
a condition which permits little scope for the modification of 
instinctive dispositions by experience. In other words, this 
necessity for precision of instinctive behavior, independently of 
prior experience, prevents the insects from enjoying a period of 
youth; except in a very limited degree, such as that of the short 
period in which the solitary wasp wanders freely, before begin- 
ning her major task of egg-laying. 
Youth is essentially the period of free development during INSTINCTS OF MAMMALS AND OF MAN 
133 
which the young creature, freed by parental care from the full 
responsibilities of self-maintenance, can afford to play and to 
experiment and, by so doing, to build up a rich body of experi- 
ence. Only the young creature whose prime needs (food, shel- 
ter, warmth, and protection) are cared for by the parental in- 
stinct can enjoy such a period of youth in any full sense. The 
young so cared for have no need for instincts mature at birth. 
Their instincts may ripen at leisure and come into operation at 
such intervals after birth as may be most conducive to a rich 
and varied experience. And they do not require instincts pre- 
cisely organized and nicely fitted to the various objects and 
situations with which the adult animal will have to deal. Rather, 
the young animal that enjoys a protected period of youth 
requires instincts which, though capable of generating powerful 
impulses to action, are relatively general or non-specific on both 
the receptive and the executive sides. The type of instinct 
that is most serviceable to them is one which can be brought 
into play by a wide variety of objects or situations conforming 
to one general type or presenting some feature in common, 
though widely different in other respects; one which impels 
them not to actions precisely adjusted to deal with one type of 
object alone, but to actions conforming to a general type. 
Instincts of just this general or non-specific type we find 
among the mammals. The carnivore, unlike the solitary wasp, 
does not prey on one species of animal only; rather his instinct 
is so generalized that it impels him to pursue any living moving 
thing of suitable size. And, when he has seized it, he does not 
master it by means of any one series of narrowly prescribed 
movements, which would be suitable to one form of prey only; 
rather, he displays a great range, variety, and freedom of move- 
ment, adapting his actions to the form and behavior of each 
kind of prey. Instinctive behavior of this kind is clearly ren- 
dered possible only by the period of youth, passed under parental 
care. For such relatively general or non-specific instincts abso- 
lutely require the co-operation of a considerable body of accu- 
mulated experience, if they are to subserve the serious tasks of 
life. And the longer the period of youth, that is, of relative 
incapacity under parental care, the richer the experience which 134 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
co-operates in the pursuit of the goals prescribed by the in- 
stincts. 
Accordingly, we find that the longer the period of youth the 
higher is the development of Intelligence, and the more ob- 
scured by Intelligence is the operation of Instinct. And in Man, 
in whom youth is prolonged for so many years, the generality of 
instincts and their dependence upon and overlaying by Intelli- 
gence reach such a point as to obscure the existence of the in- 
stincts from the eyes of Man himself, especially those of so- 
phisticated men. 
But Man, though he is Nature’s most favored child, was not 
constructed by her upon any new principle. He is only one 
among her many marvels, though the greatest of them; and in 
the structure of his mind, as in his body, there are no elements 
and no principles that she has not used again and again in those 
less exalted achievements which we call the animals. In mak- 
ing Man she did but compound the same elements more subtly 
and with greater skill and success; and especially she pushed 
her greatest invention, the parental instinct, for all it was 
worth. And behold! Man slowly diverged from the animals, 
stood up, looked round on the world, and saw that it was both 
good and bad—and the moral conflict began. 
And when the college student of the twentieth century pock- 
ets the harmless necessary check, and with patience and good- 
humored tolerance accepts the accompanying admonitions, he 
is but co-operating in Nature’s most successful experiment, the 
development of Intelligence by the agency of the parental in- 
stinct. So let him not be too squeamish in accepting that 
parental aid; if a post-graduate course of study will really fur- 
ther his intellectual development, let him feel that Nature bids 
him pursue it, even at the cost of continuing to accept parental 
care in the sublimated form of a check. 
Among the lower mammals, the development along this new 
path has gone but a little way. Instinct still rules and Intelli- 
gence halts. Such a creature as a rabbit is still obviously but a 
bundle of instincts; and the parental instinct does little beyond 
providing food and shelter for a little while. But, when we come 
to the carnivores, we see a considerable advance; the young are INSTINCTS OF MAMMALS AND OF MAN 
135 
more helpless, youth is more prolonged, parental care more 
diversified. And the instincts themselves are so modified as to 
aid in the development of Intelligence; as when the parent, in- 
stead of providing merely milk or dead meat, brings home the 
living prey on which the young may feed, acquiring, in so doing, 
experience which later will supplement in a hundred ways their 
highly general instincts. 
We cannot attempt a complete examination of the mammalian 
instincts. We must be content to notice some which are of 
greatest importance and widest distribution, to try to assign 
the natural goal and the natural occasion of the activity of each 
of these, and to note the principal ways in which these instinc- 
tive reactions are modified by experience. Let us begin with 
the parental instinct itself. 
The Working of the Parental Instinct 
The litter of young is the natural object that evokes the pa- 
rental activity; but not the young as inert objects merely. 
Doubtless their odor plays a part, but far more important is 
their behavior. The instincts of the parents and of the young 
are reciprocally adjusted, as we have seen so clearly in the 
pigeons. The mother offers her teats, and the young respond 
by actively seeking them (aided no doubt by smell) and by ac- 
tively sucking. The mother calls for silence and immobility, 
and the young lie still. The young cry in distress, and the 
mother rushes to them. As they grow stronger and begin to 
stray, she lifts them in a way which does no harm, and, in spite 
of protesting squeaks, lays them back in the nest. And, when 
she herself enters the nest amidst the writhing mass of young-, 
she so regulates her movements as to achieve the apparently 
impossible and avoids hurting any one of them. In all species 
it is, above all things, the cry of distress from the young which 
most powerfully and certainly evokes the maternal response; a 
response which is no mere reflex (conditioned or unconditioned), 
but which from the first adjusts itself to the circumstances of 
the moment, and may consist in offering the teat or licking clean 
the young, in carrying it back to the nest, or in driving off the 136 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
intruder with fierce threats or actual attack.1 Shall we, on con- 
templating this behavior, follow the behaviorists in refusing to 
speculate on the nature of the mother’s experience while she 
performs these offices? It is true that we can never know with 
certainty what exactly that experience is; just as you can never 
know with certainty the nature of the experience of another 
man. The difference is only one of degree, and the justification 
for attempting to understand that experience is the same in 
both cases; namely, that the more fully and accurately we under- 
stand it, the better we shall understand the accompanying behavior, 
and the better we shall be able to foresee and to influence both the 
experience and the behavior that must ensue. 
When a human mother sees another suckling or comforting 
her infant, she knows, with as good warrant perhaps as any 
human knowing, what that other woman feels. When we see 
a mother-animal gently moving among her young, feeding them, 
guarding them, responding to their signs of distress, patiently 
suffering many things and laboring incessantly on their behalf; 
always showing signs of complete satisfaction, as each phase of 
her activities completes itself, and acute restlessness and an- 
xiety when her efforts fall short of success; then we may infer 
with a high degree of probability that the human mother who 
“sympathizes” with her is not altogether mistaken. And, when 
we notice how in so many ways the behavior of the human 
mother most closely resembles that of the animal-mother, can 
we doubt that the principles of explanation required for the 
two cases are essentially similar? That, if the animal-mother is 
moved by the impulse of a maternal instinct, so also is the 
woman ? To repudiate this view as baseless would seem to me 
the height of blindness and folly, yet it is the folly of a number of 
psychologists who pride themselves on being strictly “scientific.” 
1 The specific effect of the cry of distress is well illustrated by the following de- 
scription by Professor W. Kohler of the response evoked by the distressful cry of 
a chimpanzee separated from his fellows: “It happens often enough that, if the 
cage of the isolated animal can be reached, one or other of the group will quickly 
spring to it and embrace the complaining one through the bars. But the latter 
must actually cry and howl (heulen) in order that this friendliness shall be shown 
him; as soon as he becomes quiet the rest of the group remain unconcerned.” 
(“Zur Psychologie der Schimpansen,” Psychologische Forschung, 1921.) INSTINCTS OF MAMMALS AND OF MAN 
137 
Among many carnivora the parental labors of the mother are 
shared by the male. Where he plays an essential part, there 
the family exists. In all species in which the male does not 
share in the parental labor, he seems to be entirely devoid of 
the parental instinct; and in almost all such species he shows 
no particular attachment to or constancy to one female. But 
in those species in which the males co-operate, they must be 
credited with some share of the parental instinct. In almost 
all cases, and even among such birds as the pigeons, the care 
given by the male is less intimate and less constant than that 
of the mother. These facts in themselves serve to show that 
the parental instinct is entirely distinct from the pairing instinct; 
although of course the two instincts have that kind of depen- 
dence which consists in the necessary precedence of pairing to 
the exercise of parental care. But the behavior of the two in- 
stincts has nothing in common; and in their strength and distri- 
bution they are independent variables.1 
The parental instinct of the higher mammals shows that lack 
of specificity which characterizes all their instincts, and whose 
importance we have seen. A female cat or dog will feed and 
cherish, not only her own offspring, but even those of widely dif- 
ferent species; a fact which implies lack of specificity of the 
instinct on both the receptive and the executive sides. But no 
one, I think, has reported a case of a rabbit mothering a kitten, 
or of a sheep adopting a kid, or a cow a foal. And this lack of 
specificity is carried a stage further by the monkeys and apes; 
and to the highest level by the warm-hearted woman in whom 
the maternal instinct responds most delicately to any young 
and helpless creature, especially if it shows signs of distress 
This extension of instinctive responses to objects other than the specific 
or natural object of the instinct implies something more than the lack of 
specificity mentioned above. The lack of, or low degree of, specificity is 
merely a permissive condition of such extension. The extension involves a 
positive mental function or capacity of the utmost importance, namely, the 
11 can see no slightest justification for that confounding of the parental with 
the pairing instinct which is one of the foundation dogmas of the Freudian psychol- 
ogy. If I am right in regarding these two instincts as separate and distinct units 
of our constitution, at least half of what has been written by the Freudians falls 
to the ground. OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
capacity of being affected by one aspect or feature of a complex whole in the 
same way as by the whole itself. We shall see in a later chapter that this 
function is essentially involved in all the higher flights of the mind, and is 
of the essence of all that we call reasoning. At the level with which we are 
now concerned, its exercise does not involve a conscious singling out or dis- 
crimination of the aspect, quality, or feature of the object to which response 
is made. 
In my “Social Psychology” I have maintained that the protective impulse 
of the parental instinct is a truly altruistic factor and the only altruistic fac- 
tor in human nature; that from its prompting all truly altruistic striving, 
directly or indirectly, proceeds. The proposition is so important for social 
and ethical theory, and the reality of any altruistic factor has been so fre- 
quently denied or ingeniously explained away, that it is worth while to cite 
evidence of it in the anthropoids. Kohler {op. cit.) writes as follows of a sick 
young chimpanzee and a female not his mother: “One day when he seemed 
to be rather better, the young one was allowed again into the open place where 
the others were eating green stuff. With difficulty he crawled towards them, 
and after a few steps he collapsed on the ground with a piercing cry of dis- 
tress. Tercera was sitting chewing, a little to one side. She sprang up; all 
her hair stood out with excitement; with a couple of great bounds in the 
upright position she sprang to his side, her face all anxiety, her mouth 
distressfully pouting, and uttering cries of sorrow (Trauerlaute); she seized 
the prostrate little one beneath the arms and labored strenuously to bring 
him to the erect posture. No one could behave in a more motherly manner 
than this chimpanzee on this occasion, and I give these words expressly their 
full significance.” Further, Professor Kohler describes how, when one animal 
is punished, others will display a tendency to interfere: “It was especially 
the feeble little Consul who would come hurrying up and (in the way in 
which young chimpanzees express all urgent wishes) lift up one arm to the 
attacker with beseeching mien; if one still did not release the chimpanzee 
undergoing punishment, he would seek to hold one’s arm with all his strength, 
and finally would begin, with angry gestures, to beat the big human.” 1 
A very striking fact, which reveals the predominantly instinc- 
tive nature of all parental care among the animals, is the indif- 
ference shown by the parents as soon as the young cease to need 
and to demand their care. It seems probable, though so far as 
I know the experiment has never been made, that, if the young 
could be kept young and helpless and clamorous for food and 
care, or if, for example, young birds in a nest could be con- 
stantly substituted by others of the same species a few days 
1 It is necessary to point out that Professor Kohler is not merely a hunter or 
trainer or lover of animals, but an academic psychologist of the highest standing, 
and that he writes his description with full sense of responsibility and of the meaning 
of his words. Further, he has enjoyed opportunities of studying a group of chim- 
panzees in captivity such as no other trained observer has had. INSTINCTS OF MAMMALS AND OF MAN 
139 
younger, the parents would continue to respond indefinitely.1 
It is the key operated by the young which keeps open, or repeat- 
edly opens, the door of the parental instinct; and, when the key 
is no longer applied, the instinct sinks into quiescence; though in 
rare instances some appetite may be displayed, as when an 
animal that has no offspring seems to make efforts to adopt 
those of another.2 
The Instinct of Combat 
Let us consider now the notorious fact that a mother will 
fight in defense of her young. There are, I suppose, exceptions 
to this rule. I have never observed any indication of this ten- 
dency in the mouse or the rabbit; and among birds some mothers 
seem to be innocent of it. But, among all animals that display 
pugnacity under any conditions, any threat to the young seems 
to be the surest excitant of such behavior; and many animal- 
mothers, like some human mothers, will fight with the utmost 
fury against overwhelming odds and in face of the most certain 
destruction from which they might easily escape by flight. 
Some species are provided with special organs of combat; and 
in each species the movements and attitudes of combat are com- 
mon to the species and often are characteristic of the species. 
Many animals assume a specific threatening or warning atti- 
tude, or utter cries of the same nature, before actually attacking.3 
I make no distinction between attack and defense. Nature 
knows well that attack is the best mode of defense; and the two 
cannot be distinguished in animal behavior. The threatening 
attitudes and cries obviously serve to warn off intruders, or to 
intimidate them. These attitudes and the modes of attack are 
clearly, in the main, unlearned and innately prescribed; but they 
are not the mere reflex agitations of as many motor mechanisms. 
1 We have an approximation to this in the way a hen continues to lay eggs when 
the eggs laid are removed day by day, and in the way a cow continues to give milk 
when her udders are regularly emptied by “milking.” 
- It has often been remarked that among the laboring classes a similar indiffer- 
ence on the part of the parents often supplants their tender solicitude, when the 
children no longer need their constant care. This is a perfectly natural conse- 
quence of the fact that, as the child grows up, he gradually loses those qualities 
which appeal directly to the parental instinct. 
3 Cf. W. Craig, “Why Do Animals Fight International Journal of Ethics, 1921. 140 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
The train of action, once initiated, exhibits in the highest degree 
the characteristic marks of behavior or purposive action. It is 
spontaneous, persistent, varied, total, directed, anticipatory, 
and perceptual. Such combative behavior seems, then, to be 
instinctive. But, if so, are we to regard it as one of the expres- 
sions of the parental instinct? That would, I think, be im- 
proper. Similar combative behavior may be displayed on many 
occasions, when the young are not concerned; and it is displayed 
more readily by the male of many species than by the female, 
and by males in which the parental instinct seems to be entirely 
lacking. Notably, any interference with the food-seeking im- 
pulse, or with the pairing impulse, is liable to evoke this beha- 
vior. And the behavior generally expresses, in an unmistakable 
manner, an emotional excitement as different as possible from 
the tender feeling that seems the proper accompaniment of all 
operations of the parental instinct; namely, the animal displays 
anger, rage, or fury—these being three names for three degrees 
of intensity of this emotion. 
If we try to enumerate and describe the various objects or 
situations which provoke the combative behavior of such an ani- 
mal as the dog, in which the impulse is strong and lively, we 
shall find that they are extremely various. Yet they all have 
this in common: the combative behavior and signs of anger are 
evoked by the behavior of any other creature that tends to 
thwart or obstruct him in the pursuit of any natural goal, that 
is, in the working out of any instinctive train of behavior. 
Whether it be the pursuit of his mate or of his prey, the gnaw- 
ing of his bone, the guarding of his home, the assertion of his 
superiority over his fellows, or, most striking of all, the effort to 
escape by flight from a superior aggressor, single or collective, 
the dog will fight angrily if hindered or obstructed in any of 
these instinctive activities. Wherever we look in the animal 
kingdom, the same rule seems to obtain: in general terms, the 
stronger the impulse at work in an animal, the more readily is 
the angry combative behavior evoked by any obstruction from 
other creatures, if the species is at all capable of this response. 
Combative behavior is, then, the expression of an instinct 
which is peculiar in that it has no specific object; the key that INSTINCTS OF MAMMALS AND OF MAN 
opens its door is not a sense-impression or a sensory pattern of 
any kind,1 but rather any obstruction to the smooth progress 
toward its natural goal of any other instinctive striving.2 
The natural goal of the combative impulse, toward which it 
tends and the attainment of which alone allays it, may be ade- 
quately defined as the getting rid of the obstruction which evoked 
it. This it does most commonly by driving away the obstructive 
intruder; it goes on to destroy him, only if he does not yield to 
the threats or the first attack.3 The instinct is, then, one which, 
like so many others, normally operates in two successive phases, 
involving different bodily attitudes and movements, the phase of 
threatening and the phase of attack. It is true that the actions 
of the two phases are often intermixed or blended in some degree; 
yet, though the attitudes of the threatening phase are largely of 
the nature of preparation for attack, they commonly include cer- 
tain features proper to this phase and of no direct value in the 
second phase. Swelling of some part of the body, the erection of 
hair or bristles, lashing of the tail, are among the actions peculiar 
to the threatening phase. But the most widely used are sounds 
produced by the voice or other means;4 the noisiness of the first 
stage of combat contrasts dramatically with the silence of the 
second, when the combatants are locked in deadly struggle. 
Shall we say, then, that the normal course of combat involves the successive 
operation of two distinct instincts, one of threatening and one of actual strug- 
gle? This question is of much importance; for a similar one arises in connec- 
tion with many forms of instinctive behavior. Especially the instinct of 
escape presents the problem in an acute form, so that some authors speak of 
1 If it be true that the mere display of a patch of red color before a bull will 
provoke him to rage, this would seem to be an exceptional instance. 
2 We may perhaps interpret this relation physiologically by imagining the dispo- 
sition of this instinct to be related to ail other instinctive dispositions in such a 
way that it is a channel of overflow for energy banked up in any one of them. 
3 As Craig (loc. cit.) points out, the instinct is satisfied by the retreat of the in- 
truder in almost all instances. This is true of beasts of prey, as well as of the 
herbivora; but in their case it is often difficult to distinguish the working of the 
combative from that of the preying impulse. To this peculiarity of the combative 
impulse is due the success of the precept to lie perfectly still when escape from an 
angry beast is impossible, and also the truth of the saying “A soft answer turneth 
away wrath.” 
4 In accordance with the principle, to be noted below, that a sudden loud noise 
is the most universal key to the fear instinct. 142 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
a group of “danger instincts,” 1 rather than of a single instinct. Of course, 
if we regard an instinctive action as nothing more than a reflex action, and 
“an instinct” as nothing more than a sensori-motor reflex arc in the nervous 
system, we shall have to recognize in every train of instinctive behavior the 
operation of a multitude of instincts. It is this way of thinking, adopted 
more or less explicitly, which has led several authors to recognize far more 
instincts in man than I am prepared to admit. Professor Thorndike’s discus- 
sion of the human instincts illustrates the consequence of accepting that prin- 
ciple.2 He recognizes some forty human instincts; and the consistent appli- 
cation of the principle would compel us to recognize a much larger number. 
On the other hand, Mr. Shand’s3 acceptance of that view of instincts (the 
identification of instincts with motor mechanisms) is combined with the recog- 
nition of the fact that we cannot explain human behavior as the mere con- 
junction and succession of such a multitude of reflex actions; he sees that we 
must recognize some larger purposive co-ordination of the motor mechanisms 
which he regards as instincts; and so he is led to the peculiar view that the 
innate constitution of man comprises, besides a multitude of these so-called 
instincts (motor mechanisms), certain innate dispositions which he calls “the 
emotional dispositions.” When we attempt to apply this way of thinking to 
animal behavior, we see at once how unworkable it is. For example, applying 
it to the pigeons, we should have to say that many instincts displayed during 
the first phase of their reproductive activities are governed by a “pairing 
emotion”; those of the second phase by a site-choosing emotion and a nest- 
building emotion; those of the third phase by a “sitting” or “brooding” 
emotion; those of the fourth by a “nutritional emotion” or a “feeding-of-the- 
young emotion.” And, applying it to the solitary wasp, we should have to 
say that, in securing her prey, she is governed in turn by a “ prey-seeking emo- 
tion,” a “prey-seizing emotion,” and “a return-to-the-nest-laden-with-the- 
prey emotion.” To do this would be to fly in the face of all common usage 
of the words, without bringing any advantages, but rather confusion only. 
We have to recognize two distinct types of bodily movement among the 
higher animals, namely, the mechanical or quasi-mechanical reflex and the 
purposive instinctive action; and I cannot see that anything is to be gained 
by introducing a third category of actions, the emotional. Mr. Shand, if he 
would consistently carry through his scheme, should cease to use both the 
terms, instinct and reflex, since he identifies the things denoted by them. He 
would agree with me in recognizing only the two categories of action, which 
he would call reflexes and emotions, but which I prefer to call reflexes and 
instinctive actions. 
The Instinct of Curiosity 
A succession of phases of action is common to the operation of 
all instincts, save perhaps the very simplest. Let us consider this 
fact in connection with an instinct which in most of the mam- 
mals operates in relatively simple fashion, namely, the instinct 
1 E. g., Doctor W. H. R. Rivers, “Instinct and the Unconscious.” 
2 “Educational Psychology.” 3 “Foundations of Character.” INSTINCTS OF MAMMALS AND OF MAN 
of curiosity. This instinct is in a sense the opposite of the com- 
bative instinct; for, whereas the operation of the latter normally 
supervenes upon that of some other instinct, curiosity is com- 
monly displayed as a prelude to some other mode of action. Yet, 
in another way, the two instincts are of similar type; namely, in 
that curiosity, like the combative instinct, has no specific object, 
is not called into activity by objects of any one type only, but 
rather by any object or situation which involves a certain fea- 
ture, namely, imperfect apprehension or perception insufficiently 
clear to invoke any other instinct. 
The goal toward which this instinct strives is fuller apprehen- 
sion or clearer perception, perception definite enough to deter- 
mine some other instinctive reaction. 
The object (using this word again in the widest way to include 
every kind of perceptible situation) that is to excite curiosity 
must have some degree of resemblance to objects that normally 
evoke some other instinct, or it will fail to draw the attention of 
the animal; but, under the particular conditions of the moment, 
it must present so much of novelty, or of the unusual, as not 
to excite that other instinct or to fail to excite it in full 
strength.1 
The service to the animals of this instinct is obvious; namely, 
it determines fuller perception and so leads on to appropriate 
action. It is naturally through the distance-senses, eye, ear, 
and nose, that curiosity is chiefly, perhaps always, evoked. 
And the sense on which an animal chiefly relies for discovery of 
its food or avoidance of its enemies is that through which its 
curiosity is most readily evoked. The display of curiosity nor- 
mally proceeds in at least two phases—a phase of approach to 
the object and a phase of closer examination by one or more 
channels of sense. During both phases the specific reactions 
which more definite perception may evoke are apt to show 
through, as it were, complicating the behavior proper to curi- 
osity. The horse approaches the strange ill-defined object on 
1 Cf. Mr. W. T. Hornaday’s description of a mountain sheep which stood for 
some twenty minutes fixedly gazing at the spectacle of a horse bearing on its back 
the horns and skin of a large sheep. (“The Manners and Habits of Wild Ani- 
mals.”) 144 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
the ground, circling round it, with eyes, ears, and nose on the 
alert, starting away in retreat and again approaching. Move- 
ment of ill-defined objects makes perhaps the most universal 
appeal to this instinct. Hunters and trappers learn to play 
upon it, studying the responses of the various species they have 
in view. The omnivorous monkeys, preying upon and preyed 
upon by so many other creatures, display this instinct in great 
strength and versatility; and this feature of their constitution 
was probably of the first importance in leading them on in the 
scale of intellectual development. For no other instinct gives 
so great scope for the exercise of discrimination and the co- 
operation of reflective judgment. The attitude of curiosity is 
essentially one of suspended judgment; and that is the begin- 
ning of wisdom, of questioning, of further examination, and of 
explicit judgment. 
The Food-Seeking Instinct 
That animals seek their food instinctively is a fact generally 
recognized. In all cases their organs are adapted to the intake 
and digestion of food of the kind they instinctively seek. It is 
a fair assumption that all forms of the food-seeking instinct are 
differentiations from one most primitive and fundamental of all 
instincts. The impulse to wander in search of food seems to 
have led to the differentiation of animals from plants. In most 
of the insects the instinct has become highly specialized, so 
that each species seeks and thrives upon some one narrowly 
prescribed kind of food only. In the mammals the instinct 
is less specialized, conforming in this respect to the general 
rule; but in the lower mammals and in many birds we observe 
such a degree of specialization that the animal may starve to 
death in the midst of plenty, through lack of adaptability of 
this instinct. The higher mammals show but little specializa- 
tion and hence considerable adaptability. Most grass-eating 
herbivora will on occasion browse on leaves of bushes and trees. 
The stupid sheep hardly attains to this; but to the more intelli- 
gent goat almost all green stuff is fair game. Some carnivora 
are very selective; but others will prey upon and devour almost INSTINCTS OF MAMMALS AND OF MAN 
145 
every kind of animal.1 All animals are alike in this—that when 
the impulse of this instinct is aroused in great strength, it over- 
rides every other tendency, subduing or preventing even fear 
itself. Both in this sense and in that it was presumably the 
first tendency to be differentiated from the primal purposive 
energy or elan vital, the food-seeking instinct may claim primacy 
over all the others. 
The most interesting problem presented by food-seeking is 
this: Are the various activities involved in the unlearned search 
for food by any one creature to be attributed to one instinct or 
to several ? That such activities are instinctive is shown by 
their peculiarities proper to each species and common to all 
members of the species. In herbivora, such as the sheep, the 
problem appears in its simplest form; for the food-seeking of the 
adult animal is monotonous and simple in the extreme; though 
even here there are the two phases, first, of wandering in search 
of pasture (which on a barren mountainside is of some impor- 
tance), and, secondly, the actual cropping of herbage when found. 
Those who identify instincts with reflexes must attribute these 
two phases to two distinct instincts. Others will confidently 
assume that the same appetite, the same impulse, sustains both 
phases. But what shall we say of the relation between the food- 
seeking of the young and that of the adult animal ? The young 
animal satisfies its food-appetite by sucking the udder of its 
dam; and this also is a two-phase activity, the running to the 
dam and finding of the udder, and the actual sucking; both 
phases are clearly dependent on the same appetite; both are 
inexcitable when the appetite is stilled. Shall we say that at 
a certain age a new instinct ripens in the lamb, an instinct to 
nibble the grass, and that this gradually supplants the sucking 
instinct? Surely not; surely it is the same appetite that seeks 
and attains satisfaction in these two ways, by means of these 
different motor mechanisms. Smell is probably the guiding 
sense in both cases, and presumably the same odors operate in 
both cases. The milk of the dam is odorous of the herbage on 
xThe dog under domestication becomes almost omnivorous. One of my dogs 
spontaneously learned to regale himself on peas, beans, marrows, and other vege- 
tables growing in the garden. 146 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
which she feeds; it is, then, not difficult to see how the transition 
from the one kind of activity to the other is made, and how, once 
begun, the more satisfying form of feeding supplants the other. 
There can be little doubt that the lamb, if it were prevented 
from grazing and if the dam continued to yield milk, would con- 
tinue to feed from the udder indefinitely. This problem, which 
is presented by all mammals, seems capable of a similar solution 
in all cases. 
More difficult is the relation of thirst to hunger in those ani- 
mals that drink water. The problem may be stated in this 
way: Is thirst the same appetite as hunger, or are they distinct 
appetites rooted in two instincts? Here the best indication is 
afforded by one’s own experience. For myself, I can confidently 
say the two appetites are not distinct. Frequently I am at a 
loss to know whether I am hungry or thirsty; and I can then 
decide the question only by taking a drink of water. If this 
allays my craving, my appetite was thirst; if not, it is hunger. 
The true statement seems to be that in ourselves, as in all drink- 
ing mammals, the one appetite requires both food and drink 
for its satisfaction. We see this clearly in the carnivora, which 
normally eat and then drink, before lying down in satisfied re- 
pletion. 
The food-seeking instinct is variously specialized among the 
carnivora. In those that hunt game on the ground, this special- 
ization expresses itself in following the scented spoor, in cautious 
approach, making use of cover and avoiding all unnecessary 
movements, and in lying in wait. In others it leads to the climb- 
ing of trees, and in others again to swimming and diving in pur- 
suit of fish; in both cases the bodily form and organs have be- 
come adapted to these modes of pursuit. Thus, all the behavior 
which is sometimes attributed to a “hunting instinct” is in 
reality the expression of this one most fundamental impulse. 
And I see no reason to doubt that this is true of man, who seems 
to find in hunting a satisfaction that implies an instinctive 
basis; he readily turns to hunting when other forms of food 
run short; and he finds the most complete satisfaction in hunt- 
ing, only when the successful hunt is followed by the devouring 
of his prey, and when the hunting itself is accompanied by INSTINCTS OF MAMMALS AND OF MAN 
anticipation of this consummation of the activity. Hence the 
significance of the phrase, “as hungry as a hunter.” 
Odors seem to play a large part in guiding all mammals to their 
food; while taste proper seems to have the function of further 
stimulating appetite and the digestive functions and of carrying 
to a further stage the discriminations effected by smell between 
the edible and the noxious. The low degree of specialization of 
the instinct on its receptive side among the higher mammals 
gives large scope for profiting by experience and the exercise of 
intelligent discrimination. 
147 
The Instinct of Repulsion 
In order to understand how such discrimination is effected, 
we must take account of another instinct, namely, the instinct of 
avoidance, repulsion, or disgust. This is perhaps the simplest of 
all the instincts. Its end is merely the avoidance of noxious 
things, or their rejection, if they have been taken into the mouth. 
Among the animals in which the food-instinct is highly special- 
ized on the receptive side, an instinct of avoidance and repulsion 
is hardly required. But in the higher mammals, in which the 
food-instinct is but little specialized on the receptive side, the 
utility of the instinct of disgust is obvious. It permits them to 
experiment with safety upon a large variety of edible substances. 
I may illustrate the complementary working of these two instincts by de- 
scribing very shortly an experiment made with one of my dogs who had long 
been accustomed to eat cubical lumps of sugar with every sign of gusto. My 
design was to investigate his power of color-discrimination. With this end in 
view, I dyed a large number of cubes of sugar with a variety of bright colors. 
The dyes were vegetable, harmless, and tasteless. The dog ate the colored 
cubes as readily as the white. All the cubes of one color, red, were then 
impregnated with a solution of quinine. He took the first red cube and 
mouthed it, then speedily put it out, and gazed upon it from a respectful dis- 
tance. After a little encouragement he ate cubes of other colors, and then 
again took a red cube and rejected it. After several repetitions of this ex- 
perience with the red cubes, he showed reluctance to take any cube, white or 
colored; but after an interval of some days he again took the cubes of all 
colors, and now, although he hesitated in crumbling the red cubes, he finally 
swallowed them. My experiment failed to achieve its purpose1; but it brought 
11 am nevertheless inclined to think that the method is a sound one for the in- 
vestigation of color-discrimination in animals and infants; the same method might 
be used for investigation of the discrimination of form and size. 148 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
out in an interesting way the conflict between the two opposed impulses of 
gusto and disgust, the former eventually getting the better of the latter; so 
that the dog may be said to have acquired a new taste, just as we learn when 
hungry to like, that is, to eat with gusto, things that at first and when we are 
not very hungry excite disgust—such as tomatoes or strong cheese. There 
can be no doubt that, if all the cubes had been impregnated with quinine, he 
would quickly have learned to avoid all such objects. 
It is obvious that the wild animal may learn in this sort of 
way to discriminate between the harmless and the noxious 
among a wide range of substances: for those substances that are 
noxious have in the main odors and tastes that excite disgust; 
for example, putrescent things and those vegetables that con- 
tain the bitter and poisonous alkaloids. 
To say that the instinct of disgust generates an appetite would 
do violence to common usage; but we can properly say that its 
operation is accompanied by aversion. Aversion is striving 
away from the object, just as appetition is a striving toward it. 
As a technical word we may perhaps use “appetite” to include 
aversion, which then may be classed as a special variety of 
appetite. It is worth noting that our own reactions toward 
food-substances are determined very largely by our bodily con- 
dition. If we are hungry, the odors from the kitchen attract 
us, excite our appetite. If we are replete, the same odors may 
excite our disgust. We may sit down to a feast of sweet things 
with keen appetite, which, as repletion supervenes, gives place 
to disgust. And we know how a single experience of this sort 
may have a more or less lasting effect in changing our attitude 
toward the substances concerned. Again, nausea, which is only 
disgust in an acute form, may be induced by physical causes, 
such as the motion of a ship or by drugs; and we know how, 
when in that condition, to perceive or in any way to think of 
food does but excite or intensify our aversion. 
Under the guidance of disgust and of the food-seeking in- 
stinct, animals in which the latter is not highly specialized ac- 
quire a large range of likes and dislikes, that is to say, they 
learn to avoid on sight or sound or smell (i. e., from a distance) 
those things which, when first taken into the mouth, excite dis- 
gust, and to be attracted by the sight or smell or sound of things 
to which they are natively indifferent. This acquirement of INSTINCTS OF MAMMALS AND OF MAN 
149 
“tastes” for a variety of objects is carried furthest by the mon- 
keys; and it is probable that in them, as also in some degree in 
other animals, the process is greatly aided by the impulse of 
curiosity; for the monkey, like the young child, usually carries to 
his mouth, nibbles, and tastes whatever small objects excite his 
curiosity. 
Instances of perversion of the food-appetite are not unknown among ani- 
mals; in the human being such perversions become of great importance. 
Many things are found to yield a partial satisfaction to the food-appetite, 
when they are taken into the mouth and chewed or tasted and swallowed. A 
large part of the machinery of civilization is devoted to the preparation and 
distribution of such substances—chewing-gum, tobacco, candy, betel-nut, soft 
and strong drinks of all kinds, and all the array of condiments from pepper 
and salt to the most refined spices and flavorings. It is true that some of 
these, such as salt, alcohol, tea, coffee, cocaine, and opium, owe their attrac- 
tion largely to further and more subtle chemical effects produced after their 
absorption into the blood; but the immediate satisfaction of the food-appetite 
which they yield remains the foundation of their charm. I see no reason to 
doubt that the craving for such substances, which is apt to become established 
after much usage of them, may be identified with the food-appetite working 
in a perverted manner. In no other way can we explain the great power of 
such cravings. This identification is borne out by three considerations: First, 
such cravings may be arranged in a series of increasing perversity; the less 
unnatural cravings of the series are obviously but slight specializations of the 
food-appetite, such as the idle woman’s craving for candy; and these connect 
by steps, such as the quid of tobacco, with the most unnatural of such crav- 
ings, as that for cocaine or opium. Secondly, it is noteworthy that the in- 
dulgence of such cravings always tends to disturb the normal appetite, to 
substitute for natural food the substance craved for, so that the drug-addict 
always suffers from loss of appetite for food. Thirdly, the use of these sub- 
stances, from chewing-gum, betel-nut, the cigarette, and the quid of tobacco 
to opium and cocaine, does as a matter of fact relieve both hunger and thirst; 
and often, when food and drink cannot be obtained, they are deliberately 
used for this purpose.1 
The Instinct of Escape 
Avoidance of and escape from danger are instinctively achieved 
by almost all mammals. Even the lion will on occasion slink 
away with his tail between his legs. The hedgehog and the por- 
cupine are so well defended by their quills, and the skunk by his 
1 A wise treatment of these perverted appetites gives practical recognition to 
this view of their nature. The almost universal use of such substances, among peo- 
ples who have learned to eat full meals at regular intervals, is to be connected with 
the fact that primitive men, like the apes, nibble and chew almost continuously 
such things as sugar-cane and raw fruits. OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
odor, that they do not need this instinct; and they seem to remain 
calm in all situations. The more defenseless the species, and 
the more it is subject to be preyed upon by others, the more 
sensitive is this instinct and the more powerful its impulse; as 
in the deer, the rabbit, the sheep, and the mouse. The most 
difficult question in regard to the behavior of escape is this: Is 
all behavior of escape the expression of a single instinct, or have 
we to do with a group of instincts of allied function ? Having 
recognized the avoidance of disgust as the expression of a dis- 
tinct instinct primarily concerned in correcting the food-seeking 
impulse, we may, I think, recognize all other forms of aversive 
behavior as expressions of a single instinct. 
Some influential writers have taken the other view, notably Doctor W. H. R. 
Rivers.1 He recognizes in Man a group of five “danger instincts,” as follows: 
(1) flight or escape proper, (2) aggression, (3) manipulative activity, (4) 
immobility, (5) collapse with tremor. This multiplication of instincts, all 
subserving a common end and all evoked by threatening situations is, like so 
many other confusions in this field, largely due to the failure to distinguish 
between motor mechanisms and instincts. The student will see that, if we 
observe this distinction, this array of alleged danger-instincts is unnecessary; 
because these various modes of reaction to danger can be adequately accounted 
for without postulating more than a single danger instinct. 
What name should we give to this instinct? It is sometimes 
spoken of as “the instinct of self-preservation”; and there is no 
serious objection to this name, though it has the drawback that 
it may seem to imply self-consciousness and a higher level of 
intellectual development than we can legitimately attribute to 
most of the animals; and it is a clumsy name. Common sense 
has in this case recognized the essential relation of emotions 
to instincts by using the word “fear” to name both the in- 
stinctive behavior and its characteristic emotional accompani- 
ment. And I see no reason why we should not follow this 
usage. But, if we must have a separate name for the instinct, 
we may best call it the instinct of escape. In man and many 
other mammals it is distinctly a two-phase instinct. In the 
young of the human and of many other species it determines, 
first, a running to shelter; secondly, a lying hid when the shelter 
1 In his “Instinct and the Unconscious,” Cambridge, 1920. INSTINCTS OF MAMMALS AND OF MAN 
151 
has been attained. The shelter may be the nest or the body of 
the mother. For the adult, the shelter may be the lair or any 
other cover; for the gregarious species, it may be the mass of the 
congregated herd. The fainter manifestations of this instinct 
we commonly speak of as caution or timidity; in its most in- 
tense expression we call it terror. When strongly excited, this 
instinct impels to extreme efforts to which every bodily organ 
is attuned. The flight to cover requires extreme bodily exer- 
tion, if it is to attain its maximum efficiency; and, when cover 
has been found, a continued readiness for further exertion, either 
of flight or combat, is needed, as also a continued alertness of 
all the senses. 
One expression of terror common to man and many animals is difficult to 
understand, namely, the trembling of the limbs, which goes so far, in some 
men at least, as to incapacitate them for steady effort. I think that this well- 
known symptom of fear may properly be regarded as one of Nature’s dishar- 
monies, a fortuitous by-product; it seems to express an incoordination of 
muscular action consequent upon the conflict of incompatible impulses. In 
man this symptom is most apt to appear when, in the presence of threatening 
danger, escape is impossible, either for moral or for physical reasons, and the 
man therefore makes an effort, only partially successful, to control his fear. 
And in animals the same seems to be true. The terrified horse does not 
tremble, if he can gallop wildly away; but only if his master restrains his efforts 
and compels him to face or to approach the terrifying object.1 
In the gregarious animal the first reaction of this instinct is 
commonly the giving out of some signal which serves to warn 
its fellows, and to bring them together for defense or escape. 
Stamping on the ground is one such signal. The bobbing of the 
rabbit’s white tail in the dusk achieves this function, while he 
bolts to his hole. But a cry, symptomatic of fear in each spe- 
cies, is the commonest danger signal; and in this respect man 
reveals clearly his community of nature with the gregarious 
mammals. 
In the more defenseless mammals fear is very readily and fre- 
quently excited. And the objects which are capable of exciting 
1 This was the history of the persistent tremors which during the war were the 
most common symptoms of “shell-shock.” We observe trembling in ourselves 
and in animals on conflict of impulses in which fear is not involved, as when we 
strive to restrain our anger; or in the dog or cat excited to spring upon a rabbit, 
yet restrained by his master’s prohibition. 152 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
it, which serve as keys to the gates of fear, are many and highly 
general. A loud and sudden noise is perhaps the most nearly 
universal key. The sudden movement of a large object is per- 
haps as nearly a universal key. More specific is the danger-cry 
(or other danger-signals) emitted by members of the same spe- 
cies; for this, as we see best in the case of birds, may evoke the 
behavior of fear even when the sound is of low intensity. Still 
more specific are certain odors, if it be true that the scent of 
man, or of other beasts of prey, drives some animals to head- 
long flight on their first encountering it. 
The instinct of escape has many locks; and its gate may be 
thrown open by the application of the appropriate key to any 
one of these locks. Another universal excitant of fear, an- 
other specific key to the instinct, is bodily pain. In the healthy 
wild animal, pain normally is excited only by violence from 
without. The behavior of the fighting animal, as soon as it 
goes beyond the preliminary phase of threatening, is an en- 
deavor to inflict pain; if he succeeds in inflicting sufficiently in- 
tense pain on his foe, he evokes fear in him and so drives him 
to flight. It is because bodily pain excites fear that it is capable 
of so strongly inhibiting all forms of activity other than efforts 
to escape. In ourselves, the distress we suffer from bodily pain, 
both in anticipation and in actual endurance, is the distress of 
fear which cannot achieve its goal. Let any one who doubts 
this consider his experience in the dentist’s chair. The child 
especially is full of instinctive fear in such a situation. If we 
can feel absolutely assured that no harm, but only good, will be 
done to us by the painful operation, it is easy to support the 
mere pain. So, when the child cuts his finger, feels the smart, 
and sees the blood flow, his physical pain is slight, but his fear 
and, therefore, his distress are great. 
One other very general excitant of fear is especially interest- 
ing, namely, the mysterious, the uncanny. In this respect curi- 
osity and fear are closely allied. The object that is to excite 
curiosity must have a certain similarity to familiar objects in 
order to attract attention; and yet it must be so far different as 
to fail to produce the reactions that are usual in the presence of 
the familiar object. It would seem that a higher degree of this INSTINCTS OF MAMMALS AND OF MAN 
difference-in-spite-of-similarity provokes fear. Hence we may 
see animals or children, in the presence of such objects, alternat- 
ing between the attraction of curiosity and the aversion of fear. 
Professor Kohler’s chimpanzees displayed much and long-sus- 
tained curiosity in the presence of a mirror, and learned to study 
reflections in pools and various polished surfaces. But, in the 
presence of rudely made toys representing various animal forms 
and on the approach of a familiar man disguised by a face-mask, 
they displayed fear. 
“Large, unusual animals need only come near the chimpanzees and at once 
they are thrown into panic. When it happened that a pair of the huge oxen 
of Teneriffe dragged a plough to and fro before the cage, the whole group 
flew to and fro like hunted creatures, always to the spot remotest from the 
terrifying object, and there hid their blanched faces, trembling, only to flee 
again with incredible swiftness when the oxen came nearer.’1 Rude toy 
models of oxen and donkeys about 40 cm. high were prepared. “ It was quite 
impossible to bring Sultan (who could be led about in the open by the hand) 
near to these small and unnatural beings; at a distance of many meters he 
fell into extreme fear. . . . One day I entered the animals’ room unexpect- 
edly with one of these stuffed models under my arm. ... In a moment a 
dark cluster, composed of all the chimpanzees, hung from the remotest corner 
of the roof; they sought to push one another aside, each trying to bury his 
head as deeply as possible in the mass of the others. . . . One makes too easy 
an explanation if one assumes that the novel, the unknown, is in itself terrify- 
ing. . . . Not every new thing is uncanny to the chimpanzee. . . . Nor is 
any appreciable similarity to the living foes of the species a necessary condi- 
tion [of fear]. . . . One day, when I suddenly put on a hideous face mask 
. . . the chimpanzees disappeared in a moment. They dashed as though 
possessed into a box.” {Op. cit.) 
The Gregarious Instinct 
Many species of mammal are gregarious, grazing, roaming, or 
hunting in herds, flocks, packs; or dwelling in colonies of bur- 
rows. In all such species we may infer the presence of an 
instinct whose function is to keep the members of the group 
together. For, without the operation of such an instinct, the 
young, on becoming capable of foraging for themselves, would 
soon become detached from the parents in the course of their 
search for food, and no enduring group would be formed. Ad- 
hesion to the group brings three principal advantages, which off- 
set the greater difficulty of foraging involved by membership in 154 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
the group; namely, collective attack and defense, mutual warn- 
ings of danger, and in various degrees the sharing in a tradi- 
tional knowledge and in the benefits secured by the keener 
senses or by the superior intelligence of other members of the 
group. 
The lack of cohesion among such animals as the solitary car- 
nivores illustrates the all-importance of Instinct and the small 
importance of Habit among the animals. For most of these 
carnivores spend the first months or years of life as members of 
a family group; and, if Habit were the enduring and all-power- 
ful factor in human and animal life that it is so often said to be, 
we should expect them to form during this period an enduring 
gregarious habit. But we find nothing of the kind. A species 
is either gregarious or non-gregarious by nature; and in this 
respect Habit modifies its members but little or not at all. We 
see the fact illustrated also in the inverse manner by individuals 
of gregarious species brought up in solitary captivity by man. 
Such an animal, as soon as released, seeks and merges himself 
into the herd or other group; as with horses that run wild on the 
pampas. 
This instinct is best called the gregarious instinct, though “herd 
instinct” is perhaps a neater term.1 It is sometimes spoken of 
as “the social instinct”; but this is undesirable, for it is not 
clear that it is the root of all social life—the carnivorous family 
of some species, for example, enjoying a social life without, it 
would seem, any such instinct; though it remains a question 
whether in such cases some rudiment of the instinct be present. 
The goal of the instinct is merely the near presence of other 
members of the species; its impulse is to approach others, es- 
pecially a group of others. The outward form and coloring of 
the species, its specific cries, and probably the specific odor are 
the keys to which the locks of the instinct are adjusted. The 
appetite of this instinct seems to be strong in many species; 
when absent from the group, such a creature grows uneasy and 
1This term has been popularized by Nietzsche and by Mr. W. Trotter’s book, 
“Instincts of the Herd in Peace and War.” This brilliant and very readable little 
book is pervaded by the error of attributing to the “herd instinct” every form of 
social relation and influence, in a quite undiscriminating manner. INSTINCTS OF MAMMALS AND OF MAN 
155 
roams restlessly; until some one of the recognition-marks of the 
species guides it back to company and the craving is satisfied, 
the impulse allayed. It would be an error to suppose that, in the 
mammals generally, this impulse prompts to behavior that could 
be called altruistic. The only doubtful exceptions are the pro- 
tective behavior of the leader or patriarch of a herd, and the 
keeping watch in turn by members of a herd or flock. This last 
form of behavior has often been reported; but it is very difficult 
to interpret. 
We can hardly doubt that the human species is endowed with the gregarious 
instinct. The gibbon is distinctly gregarious. One who has startled a troop 
of these animals, and caught a glimpse of them swinging swiftly through the 
forest with loud musical cries, can hardly doubt it. In the chimpanzee the 
same impulse seems to be strong. In evidence I cite the following passage 
from the recent report by Professor W. Kohler.1 “One hardly exaggerates if 
one says that an isolated chimpanzee is not a true chimpanzee. . . . The 
specially characteristic qualities of this species only reveal themselves to 
observation, when one has a group of the animals before one. . . . The 
observation of several peculiarities of the chimpanzee can only be clearly 
interpreted when the behavior and counter-behavior of the individuals in the 
group are regarded as a total process. . . . The hanging together of the 
group of chimpanzees must be regarded as the expression of a very real force, 
sometimes of astonishing strength. One sees this clearly at every attempt 
to isolate an animal from a group well accustomed to be together. If this 
has not happened before or not for some considerable time, the separated 
individual becomes wholly absorbed in the striving to unite itself with the 
group. Very small animals display fear {Angst) . . . Larger animals, by 
which no symptom of fear is displayed, cry, howl, and rage, throw themselves 
against the walls of the confining chamber and, if there appears even a most 
improbable route by which the others may be reached, will forthwith launch 
themselves upon it at the risk of life, in order to return to the bosom of the 
group. Even when they are quite exhausted by desperate efforts, they crouch 
whimpering in a corner, until they have regained strength for a new effort.” 
Primitive Passive Sympathy 
In connection with the gregarious instinct, we should notice 
a fact of primary importance for all social psychology; namely, 
among the gregarious animals, where concerted action or, rather, 
community of behavior, is necessary for securing the full benefits 
of group-life, each of several of the instincts seems to be specially 
1 “Zur Psychologie der Schimpansen,” Psychologische Forschung, 1921. OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
adapted on the receptive side, in such a way as to be played upon 
by the expressions of the same instinct in other members of the 
species. We see this clearly in the familiar response of dogs to 
the specific cries of other dogs. The yap which the dog utters, 
when he starts a rabbit or other prey, was designed by Nature to 
bring his fellows to his aid; it is one of the keys of the hunting in- 
stinct. But the key would be useless without a lock into which 
it may fit; and this lock is to be found in the perceptual or- 
ganization of the same instinct of every member of the species. 
Hence, when this yap resounds, it fits into all such locks and 
arouses the impulse of pursuit in all dogs within hearing. The 
same seems to be true of the bark of anger; it brings to the 
scene of combat all the dogs within hearing, all tensely prepared 
to take part in the struggle. 
Perhaps the most generally manifested response of this sort is 
the behavior evoked by the cry of fear; for among the more 
timid animals a cry is in nearly all cases the first expression 
of fear. The cry of fear and other expressions of fear, such as 
headlong flight, are specific excitants of fear itself. 
The instinct of curiosity and seemingly in many species (es- 
pecially among gregarious birds) the pairing instinct are ad- 
apted in a similar way; each has a lock which is adjusted to the 
key formed by the expression of the same instinct. 
This liability or capacity, so wide-spread among gregarious 
animals, the liability to be stirred to that kind of instinctive be- 
havior whose signs are displayed by other members of the species, 
I have proposed to call primitive passive sympathy. For sub- 
jectively it involves the sharing of the emotional excitements 
that accompany instinctive behavior. It seems to be very gen- 
eral in the human species; that is to say, most of the human in- 
stincts have this lock or specific adjustment on the receptive 
side. It is the source of many of the phenomena of crowd be- 
havior, such as the panic, the frenzied applause and frenzied 
anger of the mob. And it is the essential basis of the higher 
forms of sympathy. If the gregarious instinct is the cement 
without which the group could not come into existence or grow 
beyond the very simple form of the family, it is primitive sym- 
pathy that renders group-life advantageous to all members of INSTINCTS OF MAMMALS AND OF MAN 
157 
the group and is the basis of all higher developments of so 
ciability.1 
The Instincts of Self-Assertion and Submission 
Among the gregarious animals some kind of social order 
within the group is commonly preserved. The lowest form of 
such order exists where certain individuals that are endowed 
with more strength or initiative than others lead the way in all 
collective locomotion and are followed by the rest. But in 
many cases social order attains a higher level, through the recog- 
nition by the group of some one leader, master, or chief. This 
is commonly an adult male who may, or may not, tolerate the 
presence of other adult males in the group. It is clear that, in 
the latter case, the group must remain much restricted in size, and 
must thereby forego many of the advantages of group-life. 
Hence, we commonly find the former state of affairs, namely, a 
male who is the recognized leader and other adult males who 
submit to his domination. How is this domination effected ? 
In part, no doubt, it is through fear. In groups of many species, 
the leader of the group must be prepared to assert his superior- 
1 Cf. my “Group Mind,” London and New York, 1920. The same principle 
seems fundamental in the life of the social insects. When the queen bee is removed 
from a hive, all the bees set up a peculiar cry (the so-called heulen) and, as Pro- 
fessor Holmes says {op. cit.): “Among bees, ants, and termites signs of anger by 
one individual may awaken the whole community to a high pitch of excitement. 
Each individual then serves to arouse the others, and the larger the community 
the greater the mass effect.” Kohler {op. cit.) describes this process in the group 
of chimpanzees as follows: “At times the slightest falling out between a man and 
a chimpanzee which leads the latter to angry cries and attack upon the foe suffices 
—immediately a wave of anger sweeps over the group and from all sides they hasten 
to the common attack. In this instantaneous spread of the cry of anger through 
all the animals a daemonic power wells up from the depths of these organisms. . . . 
The whole group is thrown into blind rage, even when most of the members have 
not seen what was the occasion of the first outcry, or what the trouble is about. 
The outburst follows simply upon the resounding of the peculiar exciting cry. I 
have experienced that the good-tempered Diana has on such an occasion suddenly 
sprung upon my neck in senseless fury, although in the previous moment she was 
playing gaily with me.” I would specially commend this account to the attention 
of those who doubt the principle of primitive passive sympathy and to those who 
deny that the primary emotions indicate the workings of the instincts. I would 
also especially beg my readers to notice that I do not describe primitive passive 
sympathy as an instinct, nor as the expression of any one instinct. 158 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
ity in combat at any moment; and punishment in such combat 
does, no doubt, inspire in the vanquished a more or less endur- 
ing fear of the victor, a tendency to approach cautiously and 
to flee at any sign of anger. But the maintenance of social order 
in this way alone would be wasteful of energy and of life itself, 
and little conducive to harmonious social existence. Hence we 
find evidence in many gregarious animals of two other instinc- 
tive modes of behavior, complementary to one another, the in- 
terplay of which secures social order in a less wasteful and more 
comfortable manner. 
We are here dealing with intimacies of the life of animals which 
in the natural wild condition remain hidden from us for the 
most part. We have to rely mainly upon such indications as 
the enfeebled and perverted instincts of the domesticated ani- 
mals afford us. We observe how a young dog will approach an 
older one in an attitude and with movements which we can de- 
scribe only as deferential, conciliatory, deprecatory, or sub- 
missive. He crouches, his ears and tail hanging loosely, his 
back smoothed and hollowed, every detail expressing the ab- 
sence of all defiance, an acknowledgment of the superior power 
of the other. The bigger or older dog, on the other hand, re- 
ceives him in an attitude which we can hardly describe without 
such words as dignity, pride, condescension, sense of superiority 
or power. We see indications of similar reciprocal modes of 
behavior among horses at pasture. In the chaos of the farm- 
yard or of the monkey cage at the zoo, where all natural rela- 
tions are disturbed and perverted, it is, no doubt, difficult to 
discern the reciprocal play of these two instincts; but we may 
infer that, in many animal groups, it conduces greatly to the 
preservation of social order, by the due subordination of all to 
the natural leader of the group, and by regulating precedence 
among the other members. 
We may attribute these two opposed and complementary 
modes of behavior to the instincts of self-assertion and of sub- 
mission, respectively. They are present in the gregarious human 
species and play an immense part in the social life of mankind. 
We must return to say something more of them, after a few 
words about the pairing or mating instinct in mammals. INSTINCTS OF MAMMALS AND OF MAN 
The Mating Instinct 
That mammals mate or pair instinctively is quite clear. Take 
two young white rats approaching maturity, male and female, 
which have been brought up in isolation from the earliest mo- 
ment at which they could be weaned; and put them in the same 
cage. At once the play of courtship begins in the prettiest man- 
ner: the pursuit and retreat and the mutual exploration; and 
soon it culminates in the natural manner. The same is true of 
two young pigeons, and probably would be found to be true of 
all young mammals with which the experiment could be made. 
Although the movements and attitudes in which the train of 
behavior culminates are more or less specific or peculiar to this 
instinct, the preliminary behavior of courtship may involve all, 
or nearly all, the motor mechanisms possessed by the animals; 
but they are none the less actuated by the impulse of the pair- 
ing instinct. The natural goal of this impulse, which alone 
satisfies and allays it, is the act of union. The natural object 
is the individual of the opposite sex; the sex-characters of the 
one sex are the natural keys that unlock the door of the instinct 
in the other sex. But the element of appetite is strong, especially 
perhaps in the male of most species; its importance and its de- 
pendence upon bodily factors, such as hormones, or internal se- 
cretions and stimuli, are shown by the periodicity and seasonal 
variations of the appetite. 
There is undoubtedly some considerable difference between 
the male and the female of most species, as regards not only the 
receptive but also the executive side of the instinct. The male 
is more aggressive and active and usually takes the initiative. 
We have seen how among the pigeons these peculiarities of 
behavior are the only clear recognition marks of sex; and how, 
among birds endowed with special sex-characters, such as 
plumes and special colors and patterns, the male actively dis- 
plays these before the female. The same is true in a less degree 
of the mammals. The male, in subduing the female to his “will,” 
makes use of his voice and a display of his size, strength, and 
agility. The stallion arches his thick neck, waves aloft his tail, 
steps high and prances proudly. The bull bellows; the lion 160 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
roars; the cat caterwauls; and the young man curls his mustache, 
strokes his beard, raises up his voice, and displays his strength 
and agility in leaps and bounds and his prowess in real or mock 
combat or in a hundred different dances, games, or sports, more 
or less organized, from the corroboree and the head-hunting ex- 
pedition to the mediaeval tourney, the duel, the minuet and 
gavot of the eighteenth century, down to the “jazz,” the 
“shimmy,” and the “speed stunt” of the present day. 
A very difficult question arises at this point. Is all this behavior of self- 
display on the part of the male, to which the female responds by a similar but 
less active and aggressive display of the peculiarities of her sex—is all this 
self-display to be regarded as the work of the mating instinct alone? Or is 
it the expression of the instinct of self-assertion ? I do not think that we can 
hope to distinguish sharply here. The self-display of courtship is perhaps 
largely and directly due to the mating instinct. But, as in all social situations, 
the assertive and the submissive impulses are constantly at work, complicat- 
ing the behavior of the pairing instinct.1 Among many of the mammals and 
birds such complication would seem to occur in various degree. 
In all mammals the mating instinct matures relatively late, 
and generally first expresses itself unmistakably about, or 
shortly before, the time at which physical growth is completed. 
There is much difference of opinion as to the age at which the 
mating instinct of the human species normally begins to influ- 
ence experience and behavior. The view most commonly held, 
perhaps, is that it remains entirely latent until puberty, a period 
of development marked by bodily changes, which consist in the 
main of the development of the secondary sex-characters. Pro- 
fessor Freud and his disciples, on the other hand, teach very 
confidently that the instinct normally plays a very important 
part from earliest infancy. The truth seems to lie about mid- 
way between these extremes. It is probable that in this respect 
individual differences are very great, and that some extreme 
instances of precocity conform to and give color to the Freudian 
teaching. But there is good reason to believe, as I have shown,2 
1 This fact affords some excuse, but no justification, for the Freudian confusion 
of the pairing instinct with these others. 
2 Cf. “The Definition of the Sexual Instinct,” Proc. Roy. Soc. of Medicine, 
London, 1914. For a fuller discussion of the nature and development of this in- 
stinct in the human species see the supplementary chapter on “The Sex Instinct” 
in my “Social Psychology.” INSTINCTS OF MAMMALS AND OF MAN 
161 
that, in the normal average child, the instinct first begins to play 
some part at eight or nine years of age. 
The Acquisitive Instinct 
Some of the mammals gather surplus food and hoard it in- 
stinctively. The food of the carnivora gives little scope for this 
tendency; but we see a rudiment of it in the behavior of the dog 
who buries his bone and returns after an interval to dig it up. 
Among those mammals which have fixed abodes and which feed 
on grain, nuts, and other such durable vegetable products, the 
tendency is wide-spread. 
Are we to regard such behavior as one expression of the feed- 
ing instinct ? Or should we attribute it to a distinct and separate 
instinct? It may be that it is an instinct in process of differ- 
entiation from the feeding instinct, and that various species 
illustrate stages of this differentiation. But there is an objec- 
tion to this view, namely, that a tendency of the same or similar 
kind is manifested by many animals that do not hoard food. 
The birds gather sticks, straws, hair, and moss for their nests; 
and they defend their nests from intruders, especially against 
members of their own species who, in the absence of such defense, 
would rob them of these gathered treasures. And, in general, 
animals that have any kind of lair or home are apt to resent the 
intrusion of other creatures; and this defensive attitude is very 
commonly extended to a certain area surrounding the “home”; 
the dictum that “his home is his castle” is true not only of the 
Englishman, but also of many humbler creatures. This posses- 
sive behavior seems to be instinctive. It is certainly closely 
allied with hoarding. Have we to do here with two separate in- 
stincts, or with two rather different expressions of one instinct ? 
The question, as all questions of animal instinct, is chiefly of 
interest in its bearing upon human nature. I am inclined to 
suppose that there are two distinct instincts, and that both are 
constituents of normal human nature. But it is so difficult to 
distinguish their influences in human behavior and experience 
that for the present we may with advantage content ourselves 
with the recognition of an acquisitive instinct; and we may at- 162 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
tribute to it both hoarding and the defensive possessive be- 
havior. Still, it is perhaps not entirely fanciful to point out 
that, while some men are content with few possessions, but guard 
them most jealously, others seem to find their chief satisfaction 
in the perpetual garnering of new gains and seem relatively in- 
different to the fate of their treasure, allowing it to slip away 
from them without protest or effort in its defense. Perhaps 
the born gambler is the man in whom the gamering instinct is 
strong, the hoarding instinct weak, in whom, therefore, the sat- 
isfaction of winning far outweighs the pain of losing; while the 
miser is he in whom the hoarding instinct is unduly strong. 
The Constructive Instinct 
Among the birds and insects and spiders the construction of 
nests, homes, webs, combs, and so forth affords some of the 
most marvellous examples of instinctive activity, in which the 
nice co-operation of Intelligence with Instinct is often displayed. 
Among the mammals such constructive activity generally at- 
tains but a low level. The beavers alone rival the birds and 
insects in this respect. Yet rudiments of such constructive be- 
havior are widely displayed. The rabbit digs his burrows, the 
mole his galleries; the rat and the squirrel form their nests. It 
might have been expected that the monkeys would exhibit a 
high development of constructive power; but in this respect they 
are disappointing. The quadrumana alone seem to build a nest, 
and this seems to be at the best a very rude affair.1 But the 
fact indicates the existence in them of an instinctive tendency 
which we can only ascribe to a distinct instinct. And this sup- 
ports the view that human nature comprises a similar instinct of 
construction of a very low degree of specialization. Construc- 
tive play of young children, their delight in making things, espe- 
cially houses, caves, and shelters, and their satisfaction in being 
within such constructions, are perhaps the most direct evidences 
of the presence of this instinct in man. 
1 The fact was generally doubted until my friend, Doctor C. Hose, procured the 
nest of a Maias in Sarawak and sent it intact to the museum at Cambridge, Eng- 
land, where, I believe, this unique specimen may still be seen. INSTINCTS OF MAMMALS AND OF MAN 
163 
The Instinct of Appeal 
The young of many mammals instinctively utter a cry of 
peculiar quality, when they are unable by their own efforts to 
attain some instinctive end. This cry is the master-key to the 
parental instinct and brings the parent promptly to the aid of 
the young. It is the instinctive cry of distress, and seems to 
be the expression of a distinct instinct, which bears to other in- 
stincts a relation similar to that of the combative instinct; but, 
just as the impulse of the latter instinct is secondarily evoked, 
when other instinctive stirrings are thwarted, so the instinctive 
cry of distress is evoked as a further reaction, when the com- 
bative instinct fails to attain its goal, or when the re-enforcement 
that it gives to other impulses proves insufficient. We observe 
this sequence of impulses if we pinch or prick a young animal, 
such as a puppy, and restrain his efforts to escape. First, he at- 
tempts to escape in fear; secondly, he turns and snaps and strug- 
gles in anger; thirdly, if still his efforts are unavailing, he whines 
in distress. A similar sequence is shown very frequently by 
young children. Withhold the breast, or the bottle, or any 
other object which the infant keenly strives to attain, and he 
displays anger and redoubles his efforts; continue to withhold 
the object with ruthless determination, and his anger gives place 
to the cry of distress with all its natural bodily accompaniments 
of tears and sobs, and, if he has attained to the age of standing 
and running, he casts himself to the ground, with relaxation of 
all other efforts. Of course, the stages of anger and of distress 
often overlap and commingle their signs and symptoms; but the 
natural order of sequence is nevertheless clear. 
This behavior must be ascribed to a distinct instinct whose 
function is to obtain aid and comfort from others, primarily from 
the parent. We may perhaps best call it the instinct of appeal. 
Some Minor Instincts 
I have now enumerated and briefly discussed thirteen instincts 
which seem to be common to most of the mammals and to be 
constituents of human nature. The number is notoriously un- 164 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
lucky, and I should like to add to it. But I cannot see adequate 
grounds for the recognition in man of any other tendency or 
impulse properly to be called instinctive, unless possibly it be 
the tendency to laughter and certain tendencies which are so 
simple and constant in their motor expressions that they approx- 
imate to the type of the reflex. These are sometimes called 
“sensation-reflexes,” in order to distinguish them from reflexes 
that involve only the spinal level of the nervous system and 
seem to occur independently of awareness of any sense-impres- 
sion. 
The chief of these are the tendencies to sneeze, to cough, 
to scratch any itching spot, to defecate, and to urinate. Of 
these, scratching any itching spot of the skin seems to conform 
more nearly than the rest to the type of an instinctive reaction. 
For it does not find expression through any one motor mech- 
anism only, but may make use of a very wide range of move- 
ments; as we may see especially clearly in the contortions of a 
man who has an itching spot between his shoulder-blades. The 
rest of these tendencies express themselves very constantly 
through particular motor mechanisms. But this seems to be 
because there is only one kind of muscular action which is capa- 
ble of achieving the natural end of the impulse. This in turn is 
due to the fact that the sense-impressions by which they are 
evoked, and those also by means of which they attain satisfac- 
tion, are (except in the case of scratching) in each case peculiar 
to certain parts of the body. 
The principal grounds for attributing each of these reactions 
to a special very simple instinct are the following: (i) Each of 
them is the expression of a definitely felt impulse, which, if it 
cannot at once find expression, is capable of becoming a strong 
desire; and this impulse and the effort prompted by it may 
absorb the whole energy of the organism, to the exclusion of 
other instinctive impulses and reactions; or they may conflict 
with other impulses. (2) They conform to the same rules of 
satisfaction and dissatisfaction. (3) They are subject to the 
same kind and degree of voluntary control as the other instinctive 
impulses. If we contrast them in these respects with certain 
reactions which at first glance may seem to be of similar nature, INSTINCTS OF MAMMALS AND OF MAN 
165 
we see more clearly their affinity with the typical instincts. 
Sweating and blushing and pallor are organic reactions which 
may be evoked reflexly, or as elements in certain complex in- 
stinctive reactions, such as fear and anger. But they do not ex- 
press any independent impulse. We never become aware of an 
impulse to sweat or to blush or to grow pale; and we have no 
direct control of these reactions, as we have of all the impulsive 
reactions. It is true that we may desire to exhibit such reac- 
tions, as, for example, when we wish to simulate or display some 
emotion; but such desire is secondary to some other purpose. 
These reactions are not in themselves purposive. On the other 
hand, a particle lodged in the throat may, by irritation of the 
mucous membrane, generate a desire of extreme urgency and 
strongly purposive efforts for its removal.1 
Laughter also expresses an independent impulse, which some- 
times, as we know, is almost or quite uncontrollable. It belongs 
to this group of minor instincts, but is of special interest and 
deserves some special discussion. 
A Theory of Laughter 
Laughter presents problems with which philosophers have wrestled with 
little success. They have given us many ludicrous theories of the ludicrous. 
Man is the only animal that laughs. And, if laughter may properly be called 
an instinctive reaction, the instinct of laughter is the only one peculiar to the 
human species. 
Almost all of the writers who have discussed laughter have regarded it as an 
expression of pleasure; and most of the so-called theories of laughter have 
been endeavors to explain the source of the pleasure which is supposed to be 
the cause of the laughter. Thomas Hobbes, for example, saw this source in 
the feeling of “sudden glory” which he supposed all men to experience on 
seeing another man cast down. Many others have vainly pursued this false 
scent in other directions. That it is false becomes clear at once, if we ask 
ourselves the simple question—Are we pleased by the things we laugh at? 
Is the ridiculous, the ludicrous, the absurd, essentially pleasing? Obviously 
not—the things and situations that provoke our laughter are not pleasing in 
themselves, but rather the contrary; they are things that would annoy us if 
we did not laugh. 
Herbert Spencer’s theory of laughter was that laughter is merely an over- 
flow of surplus nervous energy. There is an element of truth in this view 
1 It has been argued with much force by Professor E. Clapar&de that falling asleep 
is an instinctive process. I am inclined to agree with him. But the question is 
one of great difficulty. It will be further discussed in Part II. 166 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
which I shall indicate presently. But it is not an adequate theory. Laughter 
involves a very complex and nicely co-ordinated system of movements, which 
complex co-ordination is provided for in the innate organization of the ner- 
vous system. We all laugh in much the same way, without instruction. 
Such a complex organization can have been evolved in the species only if it 
performs some service, secures some biological advantage. A mere overflow 
of nervous energy can be, and is, effected through any of the other motor 
mechanisms; as we see in the restless fidgeting of the child under restraint. 
Nature therefore had no need to devise and construct a special and highly 
complex nervous mechanism for this service. 
The latest notable theory of laughter, that of Professor Bergson, merely 
tells us that laughter serves the ends of social discipline, because we naturally 
laugh at whatever in behavior is stiff, clumsy, or machinelike. This, no 
doubt, is true and involves an advance on the “pleasure theory” of laughter. 
But it also is very partial and inadequate as a theory of laughter. We can 
hardly believe that this complex co-ordinated reaction was evolved by Nature 
to perform primarily this social service. And that is the first and fundamen- 
tal question to be answered by the true theory—namely, What biological ser- 
vice does laughter perform? What advantage does it bring? What is its 
survival value? 
We find the clue to the true theory if we ask—What does laughter do for 
us? What are its effects or consequences? Well, obviously we enjoy laugh- 
ter; it does us good to have a good laugh. The fact is notorious. When we 
feel depressed, we welcome or seek the situations, objects, or persons which 
will make us laugh. Laughter prevents (for the moment at least) gloomy 
thinking and melancholy brooding, no matter how it is induced. How does 
it achieve this beneficial effect? In two ways—one purely physiological, the 
other more psychological. Physiologically its immediate effect is to stimulate 
the respiration and the circulation, to raise the blood-pressure, and to send a 
fuller stream of blood to the head and brain; as we see in the ruddy face of 
the hearty laugher. Psychologically it works by breaking up every train of 
thinking and every sustained activity, bodily or mental. Here presumably 
Spencer’s theory finds a partial and inverted application. The nervous chan- 
nels of laughter drain off energy from all others; but they do not serve merely 
to get rid of surplus energy as a waste product; rather they were evolved in 
order that, by draining off energy, they might prevent its application in other 
directions. Laughter is essentially relaxation from all effort, a relaxation 
whose mechanical effects bring speedy recuperation of energy, and which 
enables us to start afresh on life’s tasks briskly and undismayed, unharassed 
by the past. This being so, it is obvious why we seek the objects and situa- 
tions that make us laugh; we seek the ludicrous, the grotesque, the absurd, 
the ridiculous, not because they are in themselves pleasing, but because they 
make us laugh, and laughter does us good, makes us feel better and brighter, 
frees us from depression, prevents our thinking of depressing things. The per- 
fectly happy man does not laugh, for he has no need of laughter, though he 
may smile. Almost all writers on laughter have assumed without question 
that the smile is identical with the laugh, or have regarded it as a partial and 
incipient laughter. I suggest that this is an error. The smile is the natural 
expression of the satisfaction that attends the success of any striving. The 
victor smiles the smile of triumph; but he does not laugh. The mother smiles 
as she soothes and cherishes her healthy infant. We smile as we discover a INSTINCTS OF MAMMALS AND OF MAN 
167 
long-sought secret or the solution of a problem with which we have wrestled. 
We smile as we contemplate any well-completed task in which we have been 
absorbed; merely to anticipate success makes us smile. Note one extreme 
and significant contrast between the smile and the laugh—the smile is beau- 
tiful, the laugh is ugly. Why, then, does laughter so often die away in smiles? 
A fact which is, no doubt, at the root of their false identification. The answer 
is that laughter, freely indulged, gives rise, like all other successful activities, 
to satisfaction which expresses itself in a smile. The smile into which laughter 
so often subsides is the smile of the satisfaction brought by laughter; and it is 
only when the smile is blended with the subdued laugh that laughter is re- 
deemed from ugliness and may even be beautiful. 
If, then, laughter produces these beneficial effects, how shall we define the 
ludicrous? What is it that is common to all ludicrous objects and situa- 
tions, beyond the fact that the contemplation of them makes us laugh ? Cer- 
tainly it is not that they are in themselves pleasing. Consider the types of 
the ludicrous. The man sitting down on his own hat, or pursuing it down the 
street before the breeze; the clown who falls with a resounding thud, lets fall 
a pile of crockery, or whacks another with loud blows and slaps. These are 
basic examples of the ludicrous. Rather less crude are all the instances in 
which men fail in some stroke of skill; as the golfer who cuts up the turf and 
drives his ball but a yard or two; or the man who lands in the ditch, instead 
of clearing it. More refined are the instances of the ludicrous provided by 
those who “make fools of themselves” by lack of tact or social adroitness; by 
the man who “can’t open his mouth without putting his foot in it”; by 
the man who boasts or lies without seeing that his hearers understand him. 
Another great class of things ludicrous are awkward, defective, or bizarre 
modes of attire, of address, of speech, of gait, of eating. We laugh at all these 
things, and our laughter serves, as Bergson says, the ends of social discipline. 
But do we usually laugh in order to discipline the fool ? How about the clown 
on the stage? Do we desire to discipline him? Can we suppose that Nature 
has given us this strange ugly reaction for this purpose ? And are these ludi- 
crous objects pleasing to us? Are stupidity, clumsiness, tactlessness pleas- 
ing? Surely not. Hobbes would have it that they are secondarily pleasing 
to us when displayed by others, because they make us feel our own superiority. 
A far-fetched explanation indeed! Are we not sometimes filled with ad- 
miration for the clever clown, even while he provokes us to roar after roar of 
laughter by his grotesque antics and mishaps? If we look at the ludicrous 
situation or action more directly and clearly, we see that the ludicrous is essen- 
tially personal, human or quasi-human. An arrangement of inert objects 
may be ludicrous, but only in so far as it suggests some human relation or the 
human action which did or might have produced it. The behavior of animals 
is sometimes ludicrous, as when a dog plays wildly with children or with other 
dogs; but then it is only in so far as we sympathize with the dogs and appre- 
ciate their sudden evasions, their feints, their failures, their tumbles, their 
surprises and disappointments, as we should those of romping children. 
There are, then, two features essential to the ludicrous. First, it always 
involves some maladjustment, something inappropriate, which, if we contem- 
plated it without laughter (as do some persons who seem incapable of laughter) 
would displease us, as every lack of harmony and order in nature displeases 
us. Secondly, in every case, the ludicrous situation or action is one which, 
if we ourselves suffered it or performed it, would be mildly distressing to us, 168 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
and one which is, as a matter of fact, mildly distressing to the person who 
suffers or performs it; except in the case of the clown, who acts the part and 
finds satisfaction in the success of his efforts to provoke laughter. Now, if 
we had no capacity for laughter, in virtue of the primitive sympathetic ten- 
dency, we should, on contemplating these disharmonies of action, share in 
some degree the distress, the embarrassment, the disappointment, or the 
humiliation—in short, the pain and depression which accompany all failure 
of action. That is to say, a human being, deprived of the capacity for laugh- 
ter, but otherwise normally constituted and leading a normally social life, 
would suffer very frequently from sympathetic pain and depression. For the 
pain of every little embarrassment, disappointment, failure, and mishap of 
all those about him would be sympathetically shared by him. We are saved 
from this multitude of small sympathetic pains and depressions by laughter, 
which, as we have seen, breaks up our train of mental activity, prevents our 
dwelling upon the distressing situation, and provides an antidote to the de- 
pressing influence in the form of physiological stimulation that raises the blood- 
pressure and promotes the circulation of the blood. This, then, is the biologi- 
cal function of laughter, one of the most delicate and beautiful of all Nature’s 
adjustments. In order that Man should reap the full benefit of life in the 
social group, it was necessary that his primitive sympathetic tendencies should 
be strong and delicately adjusted. For, without this, there could be little 
mutual understanding and only imperfect co-operation and mutual aid in the 
more serious difficulties and embarrassments of life. But, in endowing Man 
with delicately responsive sympathetic tendencies, Nature rendered him liable 
to suffer a thousand pains and depressions upon a thousand occasions of mis- 
hap to his fellows, mishaps so trivial as to call for no effort of support or as- 
sistance. Here was a dilemma—Whether to leave man so little sympathetic 
that he would be incapable of effective social life? Or to render him effec- 
tively sympathetic and to leave him subject to the perpetually renewed pains 
of sympathy, which, if not counteracted, would seriously depress his vitality and 
perhaps destroy the species? Nature, confronted with this problem, solved 
it by the invention of laughter. She endowed Man with the tendency to 
laugh on contemplation of these minor mishaps of his fellow-men, and so 
made of such mishaps occasions of actual benefit to the beholder; all those 
things which, apart from laughter, would have been mildly displeasing and 
depressing, became objects and occasions of stimulating beneficial laughter. 
This, I suggest, is the true theory of laughter;1 it assigns its biological func- 
tion, its raison d'etre, explains why we laugh and are pleased at that which 
is essentially displeasing; and it is capable of taking account of all the many 
varieties and occasions of laughter. Let us look at some of the more special 
forms of laughter and at some facts which, at first sight, may seem to be difficult 
to reconcile with the theory. 
There is a form of laughter which conforms to Herbert Spencer’s theory; 
that is to say, it is a mere overflow of surplus nervous energy; for the motor 
mechanism of laughter, having been created, serves on occasions, as any motor 
mechanism may, as a mere channel of overflow. Such is the nervous laugh 
which is merely a form of fidgeting. Closely allied to this is the laughter of 
11 first proposed this new theory of laughter in a letter to Nature (Vol. 67, 1903), 
and later expounded it in more detail before the British Association in a paper 
published in Psyche, Vol. 1, No. 3. INSTINCTS OF MAMMALS AND OF MAN 
169 
“high spirits,” when our nervous energy is so abundant that it seems to spill 
over in a variety of movements, and laughter occurs without assignable cause 
or occasion; just as we may shout or leap or run. This is the most elementary 
form of play; we must consider it more nearly on a later page. 
There is laughter at our own mishaps. This is the essential basis of all 
humor. It presupposes the development of the capacity to stand aside and 
contemplate one’s self and one’s minor mishaps in the same way that we con- 
template those of our fellows. Humor is essentially laughter at ourselves, at 
one’s own individual self, or one’s self as included in humanity at large or some 
group or class; it is laughter “at our own expense,” as we say; we turn our 
own minor misfortunes into benefits by laughing at them. Not every laugher 
achieves this level of detachment; and, by a subtle complication, lack of this 
power becomes itself ludicrous to the onlooker. 
There is a strange type of laughter which has puzzled and shocked many 
who have experienced or witnessed it; namely, the laughter sometimes provoked 
by the recital of a catalogue of human disasters. This occurs when disasters 
are recited which are great and horrible, but which afflict persons so remote 
from us in time and place, so unfamiliar, that their great mishaps affect us 
only in the same mild degree as the minor mishaps of those nearer to us. 
Why do we laugh when we are tickled ? This is a crucial question for any 
theory of laughter. Note first that, though we can tickle ourselves, or can 
be tickled by a stray hair, or a fly, such tickling is merely disagreeable and 
does not provoke laughter. The tickling that provokes laughter is playful 
tickling by another person. This shows the essentially psychological, rather 
than merely physiological, nature of the process. I suggest that laughter on 
being tickled is the crudest and earliest form of humor; it is laughter at one’s 
self; one’s self appears ludicrous, because the trivial attack of the other person 
produces so much discomfort and disorder of movement. Normally both the 
tickler and the tickled laugh, and the occasion is the same for both; both laugh 
at the discomposure of the tickled one; and, by laughing together, they in- 
tensify and prolong their laughter. For laughter is no exception to the law 
of primitive sympathy, but rather illustrates it most clearly and familiarly; 
the infectiousness of laughter is notorious and as irresistible as the infection of 
fear itself. That is to say, the expressions of laughter are themselves keys 
which unlock laughter. This fact goes far to justify the ranking of laughter 
with the instinctive reactions, and the classing of the disposition to laughter 
as an instinct. If we class it with the instincts, we must recognize that it 
differs from all other instincts in that its impulse seeks no goal beyond itself, 
but secures its own satisfaction by means of bodily processes which effect noth- 
ing in the outer world. 
What sort of persons are the great and ready laughers? If Hobbes’s theory 
of “sudden glory” were true, they should be the proud, the disdainful, and 
the scornful. But, fortunately, the harsh and hideous laughter of such per- 
sons is comparatively rare, and we hate to be laughed at by them. The great 
laugher is the person of delicately responsive sympathetic reactions; his laughter 
quickly gives place to pity and comforting support, if our misfortune waxes 
more severe. The laughter of such persons is in little danger of giving of- 
fense; for we detect their ready sympathy and easily laugh with them; they 
teach us to be humorous. 
Although the philosophers have failed to penetrate the secret of laughter, it 
seems to have been revealed to more than one poet. Lord Byron wrote: “And 170 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
if I laugh at any mortal thing, ’tis that I may not weep.” And Nietzsche said: 
“ Perhaps I know best why it is man alone who laughs; he alone suffers so 
deeply that he had to invent laughter. The most unhappy and melancholy 
animal is, as is reasonable, the cheerfulest.” (“Will to Power,” § 91.) The 
true theory of laughter may be stated in one sentence—laughter is the anti- 
dote to sympathy. Here, if anywhere, the Lange-James theory is true. If 
we are pleased when we laugh, we are pleased because we laugh. 
Play Not the Expression of “an Instinct of Play” 
Though animals cannot laugh, many of them play, especially 
when they are young. The gambolings of lambs, of puppies, or 
of kittens are the purest examples of play. Is, then, play the 
expression of “an instinct of play,” as so many psychologists, 
educationists, and popular writers assume? While recognizing 
the difficulty of the problem, I must affirm that in my opinion 
this is an error and will state tentatively the view which com- 
mends itself to me. It is clear that in play all (or almost all) of 
the motor mechanisms possessed by the creature may be brought 
into action. Watch two young dogs at play. They race to 
and fro, they leap and turn, they bite and bark, they seize one 
another by the throat, they roll one another over, they lie down 
and roll over on their backs, and they adopt a great variety of 
attitudes. If an instinct were merely a motor mechanism, play 
would have to be regarded as the expression not of one instinct 
but of many, or of all. 
Professor Groos’s well-known theory of play asserts that it is 
essentially the exercise of instinctive modes of action, for the 
sake of development and improvement of skill in movement. 
We have recognized that youth is essentially the period of ac- 
cumulation of experience before the instincts are mature. But 
there are difficulties in the way of Groos’s theory. We have to 
ask: Is there a special instinct which impels to this kind of ex- 
ercise and somehow modifies the behavior proper to each in- 
stinct? If only young animals played, the problem would be 
simpler; for then we might suppose that the several instincts 
which find expression in play are incompletely developed, and 
that the incompleteness of the instinctive reaction is due to this 
immaturity. But this will not do. For sometimes mature ani- 
mals play; as, for example, a grown dog with a puppy. The INSTINCTS OF MAMMALS AND OF MAN 
171 
problem appears most clearly, if we consider the special feature 
of dogs’ play which consists in one biting the other. The prob- 
lem is: How are we to interpret the fact that, in such playful 
fighting, the biter never drives home his teeth; while the other 
often makes no effort to escape or defend himself, but, rather, 
lies on his back, presenting his undefended throat and belly to 
his fellow, in a way he will never do in real combat ? Clearly, if 
the combative instinct is at work, it is working in a strangely 
modified fashion. Further, it is clear as daylight that the com- 
bative emotion, anger, does not accompany these activities. 
Playful struggling may readily turn to real fighting; but, as soon 
as one of the players displays anger, the play is at an end, giving 
place to real combat or, at least, to the preliminary threats. 
Thirdly, the circumstances which evoke the impulse and emo- 
tion of the combative instinct are lacking in play. Neither dog 
is pursuing an instinctive goal; and therefore there is no impulse 
at work the thwarting of which would provoke anger. The same 
is true of the playful actions which seem to be expressive of 
other instincts. The one dog flees and the other pursues; but 
the fleeing dog is not really striving to escape, and shows no 
signs of fear. And the pursuer is not really hunting him; does 
not attempt to seize him and devour him if he comes near him; 
does not yap as he would if pursuing game; and he experiences, 
we may feel sure, little or none of the emotional excitement 
proper to the hunt. 
Since, then, neither the occasions, nor the symptoms, nor the 
movements of the playing animals, are those characteristic of the 
instinctive activities which the play simulates, we are driven to 
the conclusion that the corresponding instincts are not really at 
work (or at play). I suggest that the animals are merely exer- 
cising their various motor mechanisms in turn under the gui- 
dance of their sense-organs, and finding pleasure or satisfaction 
in so doing. Play is activity for its own sake, or, more properly, 
it is a purposeless activity, striving toward no goal. Whence, 
then, comes the energy that sustains it ? The answer is, I think, 
that the well-fed and well-rested animal, especially the young 
animal, has a surplus of nervous energy which works through 
the channels of the various motor mechanisms. We see this in 172 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
the caged beast which prowls round and round, or from side to 
side, or springs aimlessly back and forth; we see it in the chained 
elephant who sways from side to side for hours together. We see 
it in the school-boys, who, after growing more and more fidgety, 
spring out into the playground, running and shouting and laugh- 
ing aimlessly and independently of any exciting objects. We 
see it in the sailor who paces the deck; and in the student who 
throws down his book and goes for a walk, or perhaps merely 
paces up and down his room, or twists his limbs to and fro. We 
see it most clearly in the well-fed young horse who, as soon as 
he comes out of his stable, begins to frisk, running, lashing out 
with his heels, neighing, shying, prancing, exercising all his 
motor mechanisms, but without sign of emotion or purposive 
effort. It is the primal libido or vital energy flowing not in the 
channels of instinct, but overflowing, generating a vague ap- 
petite for movement and finding outlet in any or all of the 
motor mechanisms in turn. 
All human play, save that of young children, tends to take 
the form of games. A game is not pure play; it stands midway 
between play and work; and, in proportion as it is dominated and 
sustained by purpose, it approximates to work. Of all motives 
that sustain games the competitive motive is the chief: we play 
the game to win; and the more strongly this motive operates and 
dominates, the less playful and the more serious is the game. 
We so choose our sports and devise our games as to evoke other 
motives and, therefore, more energy; in this way we give greater 
zest to the game and attain greater satisfaction. We hunt or 
fish for the sport; but we introduce the competitive element by 
aiming at bigger fish or more points to the antlers. And, when 
we go rock-climbing or big-game shooting, we seek the added 
energy and zest given by the element of fear; as do children 
when they play at ghosts and bogies. 
But in games the competitive motive is easily first. What, 
then, is this ? Is it the impulse of a distinct instinct, an instinct 
of rivalry or competition? That view is temptingly easy; but 
there is serious objection to it. It is not clear that any wild ani- 
mal displays competitive behavior. And to assume such an in- 
stinct would be to assume a higher degree of generality and INSTINCTS OF MAMMALS AND OF MAN 
173 
abstractness, in respect both of the object and the goal, than any 
known instinct displays. Every instance of competitive beha- 
vior may be attributed to the instinct of display or self-assertion, 
and seems to be adequately explained in this way. Competition 
is an effort to assert our superiority to others, and, by so doing, 
to throw others into the submissive uplooking attitude which 
gratifies or brings satisfaction to our impulse of self-assertion. 
Unless it can be shown that this explanation is inadequate, the 
principle of economy of hypothesis must forbid the assumption 
of an instinct of rivalry. 
Imitation Not Due to “an Instinct of Imitation ” 
Closely allied to the problem of play are the question of “an 
instinct of imitation” and the problem of explaining imitative 
behavior, if we refuse to admit such an instinct. The grounds 
for rejecting it are similar to, but stronger than, those which lead 
us to reject instincts of rivalry and of play; namely, (i) the very 
high generality of the object or situation which must be assumed 
to evoke such an instinctive impulse; (2) the extreme diversity 
of its alleged manifestations; (3) the absence of any clear evi- 
dence of such an instinct in animals; (4) the possibility of ex- 
plaining all outwardly imitative behavior in other ways. It is in 
the monkeys, if anywhere among animals, that we might expect 
to find such an instinct; and to them an instinct of imitation is 
unhesitatingly assigned by the popular mind. Yet careful ex- 
periment1 seems to have shown that monkeys are no more capa- 
ble of general imitation in the strict sense than any other animal; 
that is to say, they are quite incapable of it. Imitation in the 
strict sense implies the perception by A of the bodily movements 
or attitudes of B, and the subsequent production by A of move- 
ments or attitudes similar to those of B, the reproduction being 
determined or conditioned by the previous perception. As we 
have seen, some animals are moved by the gregarious impulse 
to follow others of the same species. And all gregarious ani- 
mals have in some measure the tendencies of primitive sym- 
pathy, which lead them to behave as they perceive their fellows 
1 Cf. Professor J. B. Watson, in “Animal Behavior.” 174 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
doing, to flee when they flee, to approach curiously when they 
approach, and so on. These two modes of behavior (simple fol- 
lowing prompted by the gregarious impulse and the primitive 
sympathetic reactions) include most instances of apparent im- 
itation in animals. 
There is a form of imitation displayed occasionally by the higher animals, 
and more especially by the monkeys, which depends upon the appreciation by 
the imitating animal, A, of the fact that the behavior of the imitated one, B, 
leads to a result desired by A. It has been shown, for example, that when a 
monkey, A, has failed to learn to obtain food by manipulating some simple 
mechanism, it may be aided to learn the manipulation by the example of 
another, B, which has already learned the trick.1 It would seem that the 
example of B merely serves to direct the attention of A to the essential part 
of the mechanism, which A has then to learn to manipulate by his own series 
of more or less random efforts. If, for example, the essential act is the pulling 
down of one end of a lever, A’s attention and efforts may be directed to that 
end of the lever by B’s example; but there is no good evidence that A’s per- 
ception of B’s action may be sufficiently analytic to enable A to proceed at 
once to pulling the lever downwards, rather than to pushing and pulling it in 
a variety of ways. It is clear that such vaguely imitative behavior does not 
imply an instinct of imitation, but rather a vague understanding that some 
action upon the lever is a necessary step toward the desired goal. 
One other important field of action seems to give some support to the 
assumption of an instinct of imitation—namely, the learning of vocal utter- 
ances. It seems to be proved that some songbirds will learn to utter the song 
proper to other species, if they are brought up with members of that species, 
and that others can be taught to whistle bars of a melody. That parrots and 
some other birds can be taught to utter words and phrases is notorious. How 
are these facts to be explained, if not by the postulation of an instinct of imi- 
tation? We must notice that the action of uttering a sound is unique among 
all actions in one very important respect; namely, whereas action of any other 
kind cannot be perceived by the actor in the same way in which it is perceived 
by his fellow-creatures and in which he perceives their bodily movements, the 
sounds he and they utter are perceived by him and by them in just the same 
way. Suppose, then, a creature, child or animal, endowed by Nature with 
a number of vocal motor mechanisms, which enable it to utter a variety of 
sounds expressive of various emotions or impulses. Whenever any one of 
these is set in action, the creature hears its own voice uttering corresponding 
sounds; in consequence, this sense-impression becomes associated with that 
motor mechanism, so that the hearing of the sound tends to innervate that 
mechanism—hence the tendency to monotonous repetition of sounds, common 
to young children and many animals.2 Now suppose the creature to hear the 
same sounds uttered by another. The sound will have the same effect; namely, 
in so far as the creature responds by vocal utterance, it will tend, in virtue 
of the preformed association, to utter the same sound that it hears. If now 
1 Cf. M. E. Haggerty, Journ. of Phil., Vol. IX, No. io, 1912. 
2 This is a common kind of pure play. INSTINCTS OF MAMMALS AND OF MAN 
175 
the creature has a number of such vocal motor mechanisms, each will become 
associated with the sound which its own working produces; and if thereafter 
several of these sounds are repeatedly uttered in its presence in the same 
sequence, it will, when it is moved to vocalization, tend to utter this same 
sequence. That, in rough outline, seems to be the principle involved in the 
imitation of sounds, the principle which leads children and some animals to 
utter sounds in the same combinations and sequences that they frequently 
hear. Given a certain variety of vocal mechanisms and an impulse to respond 
to sounds by some vocal utterance, it is inevitable that the creature so endowed 
will tend to “imitate” the sound-combinations that are frequently repeated 
in its hearing. The difference between the animals that can “learn to talk” 
and those that cannot seems to be merely that the former are endowed with 
a considerable variety of vocal motor mechanisms, while the latter are not. 
And the human infant is endowed with a larger variety of such mechanisms 
than any other creature. It cannot be doubted that, if the dog possessed a 
considerable variety of such mechanisms, instead of being so poorly endowed 
in this respect, he would learn to “talk” far better than the parrot or the star- 
ling; in all probability we could then push his education considerably further 
than is actually possible. 
Most instances of human imitation are of more complex origin 
than the simple forms of imitation exhibited by animals; and 
they issue from a variety of complex mental activities of which 
the process technically known as “suggestion” is the chief. 
This we shall have to consider on a later page. 
I have now enumerated and defined all the instincts that seem to me to be 
comprised in the innate constitution of the human species. Many writers 
who repudiate the notion of human instincts make much of the fact that the 
lists of these instincts drawn up by different authors are very unlike, some 
enumerating many and others few. This criticism is unfortunately well 
founded; but it does not justify the rejection of the notion as illusory. It was 
only after much discussion and research that the list of chemical elements 
was generally accepted. The differences of opinion among chemists during 
that period of discussion would not have justified any critic in repudiating the 
notion of chemical elements. The hypothesis of human instincts is now in 
a position similar to that of chemical elements during that period of discus- 
sion. I have no doubt that it will become as generally accepted as the theory 
of chemical elements has been, and that it will prove as useful to psychology 
as that theory has been to chemistry. 
The differences between the exponents of human instincts are chiefly due to 
that confusion of instincts with motor mechanisms which I have pointed out 
in the foregoing pages. I have to admit that, in my earlier discussions of 
Instinct, I fell a victim to that confusion. This all-important distinction has 
only recently become clear to me. 
Another great source of confusion and difference of opinion is the common 
practice of classing together, as expressions of one instinct, whatever modes of 
bodily activity subserve the same general biological function. This practice 176 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
involves the application of purely external or biological rather than psycho- 
logical criteria. It results in classing together such distinct instincts as the 
pairing and the parental instincts, because they both subserve the perpetua- 
tion of the species; and the instincts of food-seeking, disgust, escape, and 
combat, because all these subserve the preservation of the individual. Even 
if such terms as “social,” “reproductive,” and “self-preservative” are used 
merely as names for groups of instincts of allied function, they are, I think, 
to be deprecated; for they inevitably lead to cross-classifications and con- 
fusions, and bring no compensating advantages. 
Some authors who agree with me in regarding instincts as enduring innate 
dispositions, which generate impulses to action, and who agree also in regard- 
ing them as the mainsprings of human conduct, refuse nevertheless to attempt 
to distinguish, enumerate, and describe the several human instincts. This is 
the attitude, for example, of Doctor C. G. Jung, who is content to speak of the 
hormic energy of all the instincts as the libido, refusing to distinguish any 
distinct instinctive tendencies beyond the nutritive and the reproductive. 
Similarly, Professor John Dewey, in his “Human Nature and Conduct,” 
recognizes the importance of instincts and their impulses in human nature, 
but strongly deprecates any and every attempt to distinguish or define the 
several human instincts. Neither of these distinguished authorities offers us 
any intelligible and weighty ground for this refusal to be interested in what 
seems to me the primary task of the psychologist. Their attitude is, I think, 
partly due to their neglect to make any serious study of animal behavior; but, 
though it may be explained, it cannot be justified. It is true that many 
writers on social phenomena have made a crude use of the theory of human 
instincts, and have drawn illegitimate deductions from it; as when, for exam- 
ple, they allege that warfare between nations can never be abolished, because 
the combative instinct is an enduring feature of our innate endowment. But 
such improper use of the theory cannot be prevented by condemnation of all 
attempts to refine our knowledge of the human instincts, but only by deep- 
ening and clarifying that knowledge and presenting it in an intelligible form. CHAPTER VI 
HABIT AND INTELLIGENCE IN ANIMALS 
We have seen that the mammals are well endowed with in- 
stincts, which differ from those of the insects chiefly in being less 
specialized. We have seen that this lack of specialization of the 
instincts leaves the young mammal comparatively helpless; but 
that he is more than compensated by the period of youth, during 
which he is fed, sheltered, protected, and to some extent guided 
by parental care, while he develops his intelligence and ac- 
quires knowledge of “good and evil,” or, at least, learns to 
discriminate between those things which are noxious or danger- 
ous and those which are useful. 
Habit Too Much Used as Explanatory Principle 
We have now to consider more nearly the development of in- 
telligent behavior. And in this connection we must inquire into 
the formation of habits. The word “habit” is commonly used 
very loosely. We speak not only of habits of movement, but 
also of habits of feeling and of thought. Wherever we observe 
the repetition of any intelligently adapted reaction, we are apt 
to speak of the reaction as habitual and to ascribe it to a habit. 
Some authors use the word in an even wider sense, though 
with more definite connotation. Ever since the rise of the asso- 
ciation-psychology, there has been a strong and increasing ten- 
dency to explain by the principle of habit all behavior that ex- 
hibits improvement or adaptation through individual experience. 
Modern “behaviorism,” with its reflexes and conditioned re- 
flexes, is the culmination of this tendency. For the conditioned 
reflex is a habit. And the program of this school is to inter- 
pret even the highest manifestations of human genius in terms 
of habit. When used by psychologists of this school, “habit” 
is no longer a merely descriptive term denoting the fact of repe- 
tition of acquired reactions under similar circumstances. It im- 178 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
plies rather a most far-reaching hypothesis, the mechanistic 
hypothesis, according to which all development of intelligence 
and all acquisition of knowledge are merely the formation of 
habits. And all habits are conceived as nervous structures, and 
their formation as a mechanical building up of such structures. 
The scheme in terms of which it is sought to effect this reduc- 
tion of all the life of intellect and feeling and will to the mechani- 
cal formation and play of habits may be outlined as follows. 
The nervous system contains an array of innately organized 
motor mechanisms Each of these consists of motor neurones 
connected to form a system such that, when it is stimulated in 
any way, currents of neural energy issue from it along the 
axons which connect it with certain muscles. Each motor 
mechanism is connected by sensory nerves with one or more 
points in one or several sense-organs, in such a way that, when 
the sensory point is stimulated, a nervous current, initiated in 
it, runs into the motor mechanism and so produces a reflex move- 
ment. (I leave aside all consideration of the “Consciousness” 
which may or may not be assumed to accompany or “run par- 
allel with” the nervous currents, according to the particular 
school of the mechanist; for all these schools agree that it makes 
no difference.) The movements so produced are simple or more 
or less complex, according to the number of muscles into which 
the motor mechanism discharges itself. If two or more such 
motor mechanisms are thrown into action simultaneously (or in 
immediate succession) by the conjunction (or succession) of ap- 
propriate sense-stimuli, they become linked together by paths 
of low resistance in the nervous system, so that thereafter they 
tend always to function simultaneously or in immediate succes- 
sion; and this linkage becomes stronger upon every repetition of 
this conjunction or succession. Such linkage is the formation 
of a habit; the habit is the conjoined motor mechanisms; and 
habitual action is the mechanical working of the conjoined 
mechanisms. 
The difficulty with this scheme is, not that it is altogether 
false, but that it contains enough of truth to lead so many to 
believe that it is an all-sufficient principle for the explanation 
of intelligent behavior. I will not dwell upon its difficulties. HABIT AND INTELLIGENCE IN ANIMALS 
179 
Some of them I have indicated on earlier pages. But I insist 
again on the highly speculative nature of the scheme. We have 
only the most uncertain guesses as to how habits are formed.1 
Habits of Mind and Habits of Body 
We shall do well, I think, in approaching this very difficult 
topic of Habit, to preserve the old distinction between habits 
of mind and habits of body. The term “bodily habits,” taken 
in its widest sense, includes all kinds of bodily adaptation through 
use; such adaptations, for example, as take place when the or- 
ganism comes into a changed climate, when it adapts itself to 
the low atmospheric pressure of high places, or to the heat of 
the tropics, or when it adapts itself to a changed diet or to 
abnormally much or little muscular activity. These instances 
show that the formation of a nervous habit is only a special case 
of a more general power, that of adaptation to circumstances, 
possessed in various degrees by all organisms and organs, and 
not always dependent upon nervous factors. But we may con- 
fine our attention to the habits of the nervous system; for these 
are of chief importance in the study of behavior. 
Men do undoubtedly form bodily habits of the nervous kind. 
We learn by practice, by purposive effort oft repeated, to com- 
bine our more elementary movements in new ways, gradually 
achieving the new combination more easily, with less effort; 
until it is, as we say, “secondarily automatic,” and requires for 
its production no effort, but merely the intention or will to pro- 
duce it. By far the greater number of the new combinations of 
movements that we thus acquire are made in the service of spe- 
cial purposes, and are useful to us as facilitating the achievement 
of such purposes; we call them, therefore, skilled movements, 
and speak of the acquisition of skill. Now, in acquiring a skilled 
movement (or secondarily automatic combination of movements) 
we undoubtedly build up in the nervous system a new motor 
1 The fact that the manner of formation of neural associations and habits remains 
a very obscure problem seems to escape the notice of many psychologists. In my 
view the most plausible attempt to solve this problem is that embodied in my 
“Primer of Physiological Psychology,” under the heading, “The Law of the Attrac- 
tion of the Nervous Impulse,” which in turn rests upon my hypothesis of inhibition 
by drainage. 180 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
mechanism similar to those motor mechanisms with which we 
are innately endowed. The process is not only one of combina- 
tion of preformed mechanisms; some analysis or breaking up of 
innate mechanisms into more elementary parts is also involved, 
a process even more difficult to understand in purely mechanistic 
terms than the conjoining of mechanisms. But, assuming the 
new motor mechanism to have been built up, we have to ask 
—What are its status and function in behavior ? 
Those who identify instincts with mere motor mechanisms of 
the nervous system claim that an individually acquired mech- 
anism, or habit, is essentially of the same nature as the innately 
organized mechanism which they regard as an instinct. Some 
of them, therefore, speak of habits as instincts, and of instincts 
as innate or racial habits; the difference between the instinct 
and the habit being, for them, merely one of history or genesis.1 
And, recognizing that instincts impel to action, they assert or 
assume that habits have the same impulsive power, the same 
power of driving us on to action and of sustaining effort or ac- 
tivity. We have seen that William James adopted this view, 
in asserting that instincts are essentially transitory and merely 
serve to give rise to habits, by which in the adult they are, he 
said, supplanted. The clearest and most consistent exposition 
of this view, which attributes impulsive power to habits, has 
been given by Professor Woodworth.2 He uses the convenient 
term “drive” to denote the impulsive energy of an instinct; and 
he maintains that, just as each instinct drives, or has, or is, a 
“drive,” so also in the same sense a motor habit drives, or has, 
or is, a “drive.” This is a view which I cannot accept. But it 
requires careful examination; for at first sight it seems that 
much may be said in its favor. 
Let us notice first that secondarily automatic or skilled movements, im- 
plying motor habits, are almost peculiar to man. Few animals acquire any 
modes of movement beyond those provided for in the innate constitution of 
the species. It is only the most intelligent animals, and they only under the 
patient control and guidance of man, that acquire motor habits; as when a 
1 This was the practice of the late Professor Wundt, also of Herbert Spencer. 
2 “Dynamic Psychology,” New York, 1919. I have criticised Woodworth’s 
doctrine in some detail in an article in Mind, N. S., 1920, “Motives in the Light 
of Recent Discussion.” HABIT AND INTELLIGENCE IN ANIMALS 
181 
dog is trained to walk on his hind legs or a bear to ride on a bicycle. In all 
such cases the new movements (or acquired combinations of muscular action) 
are closely allied to the natural (or innately organized) movements, and 
involve but little recombination. The displays of circus animals which excite 
our wonder are achieved by much patient training of those motor faculties 
which are naturally, or innately, highly developed in them; as, for example, 
the marvellous balancing and catching of balls by sea-lions; in these creatures 
extreme nicety of balance and of movement of the head under guidance of the 
eye is required by their pursuit of fishy prey. Now we do observe instances 
in which such animals, when they have acquired some such trick, repeat it 
again and again spontaneously, as though the habit once formed were a 
“drive.” But we have to remember that, in the training of such animals, 
great use is commonly made of the feeding-instinct. The animal is kept 
hungry and rewarded with a piece of food, when he has done his trick. And, 
when we see a dog, taught in this way, spontaneously and repeatedly walking 
on his hind legs, or a sea-lion pertinaciously balancing a ball, we may infer 
with some confidence that he is “playing up” for more food; in other words, 
that he is impelled, not by any “drive” from the acquired habit, but by the 
impulse of the feeding-instinct, which operates now through this newly acquired 
mechanism, just as it may and does operate through and “drive” various in- 
nate motor mechanisms. 
This example may serve as an illustration of the relation between instinct 
and motor habit in general. Consider any instance of motor habit in your- 
self, the habit which enables you to use the typewriter, or to play on the piano, 
or to adjust your necktie, or ply the knitting needles, so smoothly that the 
action seems to require no effort, or but a minimum, and can be carried on 
while you talk or read or think of other things. Does any such habit, no 
matter how perfected and how much repeated, become in itself a drive ? Does 
it yield a motive, an impulse to action that may be difficult to control ? Does 
it generate, or is it sustained by, an appetite? Is it in itself a source of pur- 
posive activity? To all these questions the answer is clearly—No. The 
habitual action is only purposive when performed in the service of a purpose 
with the origin of which it has nothing to do. We perform such secondarily 
automatic or skilled actions, not for their own sake, but for some purpose, 
with some goal in view, from some motive. Like all the innate motor mech- 
anisms, habits are only instruments, which subserve our purposes, but do not 
determine them. In myself the most practised habit is probably the repeti- 
tion of the alphabet. I must have repeated it some thousands of times, since 
I acquired the habit; and I trust it: when I am looking up a word in a dic- 
tionary or a directory, I will often run through the sequence of letters from 
the beginning. But is there any type of situation or object which can evoke 
in me an impulse to repetition of the alphabet comparable to the impulse 
to strike an angry blow evoked by your stepping on my toe or openly insulting 
me? No—the habit has no motive power, is not in itself a “drive.” It is 
mere mechanism, a servant of the driving impulses which come from the 
instincts. 
In certain cases, you may say, the habitual action does seem to be per- 
formed for its own sake: as when we repeat it, just because we are perfect in 
it. But then our purpose is either to display our skill and so assert ourselves 
over against others, or to assure ourselves of our possession of this prized 
instrument, or to maintain it in perfect condition, in order that we may dis- 182 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
play it, or make other use of it, on some future occasion; just as a vengeful man 
may take out his sword or pistol and polish it, or a lady may try on her new 
hat in private. The motor habit is merely an instrument which may be 
brought into play in the service of our various purposive impulses. Certain 
tricks, such as twirling the mustache or toying with the watch-chain, may 
seem to be exceptions to this rule. In reality, such habits come into play as 
partial and inadequate expressions of impulses toward goals, quite indepen- 
dently of what is effected by the habitual movement. Take such a habit 
as scratching the head when puzzled; or putting out and contorting the tongue, 
or puffing at a pipe, when writing. Such habits are formed in the first place 
as features of a more or less diffused and random activity, which is apt to 
occur whenever an impulse cannot immediately attain its goal.1 With repeti- 
tion they tend to become part of the total expression of the impulse, of the 
effort toward that kind of goal. Thus, scratching the head or chewing the 
end of one’s pencil may become an habitual part of the expression of an 
effort to solve a problem. And putting one’s hands in one’s trouser-pockets 
may become an habitual part of the effort to appear at ease or unconcerned. 
Some such habits become uncontrollable and are then known as “tics.” The 
modern study of such uncontrollable habits has shown, in many instances, that 
the tic is the partial, often symbolical, expression of an impulse which is un- 
controllable, because it forms part of a repressed or dissociated system; and 
that, when the repression is relieved or the dissociation resolved, the tic is abol- 
ished.2 These morbid habits thus illustrate very clearly the principle invoked 
above for the explanation of the minor senseless habits which do not go be- 
yond the limits of the normal. 
It would seem, then, that the motor habit is always acquired 
and used for some end, in the service of some purpose, and is 
not itself a source of purpose or motive power or “drive.” 
Attachment of Impulses to New Objects 
Animals, though they acquire but very few and simple motor 
habits, nevertheless do acquire through experience habits of 
another kind, a kind which, if we observe the distinction between 
bodily and mental habits, must be classed as mental. Consider 
a simple instance. A beaver, having chosen a tree for felling, 
works at it intermittently, and completes the felling in the course 
of some ten or more nights, according to the size of the tree. 
And the task is, apparently, always achieved without the co- 
operation of other beavers. It has been found in many instances 
that, if a beaver is disturbed, when at work on a tree, by a flash- 
1 Such surplus of random movement is a characteristic feature of the process of 
trial and error all down the scale of life. 
2 Compare Part II. HABIT AND INTELLIGENCE IN ANIMALS 
183 
light arranged so that he discharges it in the course of his move- 
ments, he never works again upon that tree, but leaves his task 
unfinished.1 We may infer, with some confidence, that the flash 
of light in the darkness strongly excites in him the impulse to 
escape; and that, when he approaches the same tree on a sub- 
sequent occasion, the perception of the tree (and perhaps of its 
immediate surroundings) evokes again the same impulse. We 
cannot know what his experience is; but we may suppose with- 
out extravagance that his retreat from the tree was accompanied 
by fear, and that some such emotional excitement recurs, if he 
again approaches it. In this instance the tree, which had at- 
tracted the animal and provoked in him the instinctive activity 
directed to felling it, now excites in him an aversion, an impulse 
to avoid it and retreat from it. This new reaction to the tree is 
what the mechanists call a “conditioned reflex.” In reality, the 
changed reaction implies an enduring change in the mental 
structure of the animal, a change which consists in the linkage 
of the disposition to escape, retreat, or avoidance, with the per- 
ceptual disposition by means of which the tree is recognized 
or discriminated from other trees. 
A very similar instance is that of the puppy who approaches 
in friendly fashion a strange boy and is maltreated in some way 
that drives him to flee in terror. Thereafter the puppy will be 
apt to avoid this boy, or perhaps all boys; and he may flee with 
signs of fear on perceiving him or any one nearly resembling 
him. Repetition of such an experience confirms the acquired 
tendency. In the absence of repetition, the effect left in the 
mental structure of the animal is apt to fade away, until no 
trace is clearly manifested. The discipline of animals is con- 
ducted by some trainers largely on this principle, and few can 
dispense with it altogether. In the training of a lively young 
dog in a household, we may see the principle nicely illustrated. 
His mistress perhaps takes endless trouble, coaxes, rewards, 
scolds, uses the whip frequently and makes a great display of 
it; and yet never achieves control: the dog continues to defy or 
ignore her commands, when he is keenly interested in other 
1 National Geographical Magazine, August, 1921. The flashlight is arranged in 
conjunction with a camera, which secures a picture of the animal. 184 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
things, that is to say, when any of his instincts are strongly 
excited. His master, on the other hand, may, quickly and with 
a hundredth part of the care and energy devoted by his mis- 
tress, secure a complete submission and obedience of a lasting 
kind. This effect he commonly attains by inflicting one or two 
or a few severe punishments; he applies the whip with sufficient 
energy to evoke fear; while the mistress, unable to harden her 
heart sufficiently, has never pushed her punishments to this 
point. The whipped puppy may learn to fear, not only the per- 
son who whips him, but the whip itself; so that the mere sight 
or sound of the whip, flourished by any hand, will evoke fear.1 
Learning of this kind is of the first importance among the 
higher mammals; it is chiefly in such learning that their intelli- 
gence is manifested. In their youth they are largely occupied in 
learning of this sort, learning, that is to say, to discriminate be- 
tween individual things, and classes of things, and to react to 
them with appropriate impulses. Some of those who have recog- 
nized the importance for animals of youth, as a period of learning, 
have attached too much importance to the mere improvement of 
bodily skill. This does, no doubt, occur in some degree; though 
it is always difficult to determine the extent of such improvement 
of the innate motor mechanisms. It is a peculiarity of muscular 
tissue that it does not develop without exercise; therefore we are 
precluded from making any pure experiment. But, if the experi- 
ment of preventing all bodily movements until maturity were pos- 
sible, we should find, I think, that most animals owe very little 
of the nicety of their movements to improvement by practice. 
It is a nice question whether the training of a dog can be achieved without 
evoking fear on one or more occasions. My own experience inclines me to 
suppose that it cannot. Nevertheless, I feel sure that the occasions of evok- 
1 In the effects of fear we have one of the simplest of all illustrations of the inade- 
quacy of the stimulus-response formula. A stimulus that provokes a mere reflex 
response leaves no appreciable effect that outlasts the bodily movement; but, if a 
stimulus, no matter of how brief duration, excites fear strongly, the behavior of 
the animal is apt to be profoundly and more or less enduringly modified. For some 
minutes, or even hours, all his responses to other impressions may be quite other 
than they would have been, if the fear-exciting impression had not preceded them; 
and, on coming into a place or situation similar to that in which fear was excited, 
the animal may show unmistakably the enduring effect of the fear, even after a 
considerable interval of time. HABIT AND INTELLIGENCE IN ANIMALS 
185 
ing fear should be as few as possible. If you wish to make of your dog a 
devoted friend, as well as an obedient servant, you should rely chiefly upon 
the instinct of submission, and as little as may be upon fear. In the training 
of many dogs, especially of those employed professionally, the master establishes 
and maintains his ascendancy chiefly through fear; as may be seen from the 
general attitude and bearing of the dog toward him. But it is doubtful if the 
appeal to fear alone could succeed in training the dog to be a useful com- 
panion. If, in training your dog, you use the whip too severely and the 
appeal to fear exclusively, you will find that, while you can effectively inhibit 
him from various actions, you have little power to induce positive or active 
co-operation. And, when you flourish the whip, your dog, instead of obeying 
you, will be apt to flee away, leaving you in a state of baffled anger; for which 
there is no remedy but a nicer judgment in the use of means for playing upon 
these two instincts. For the impulse of fear is inhibitive and prohibitive; 
but docility comes from the submissive instinct. This is borne out, I think, 
by the experiences of animal trainers. Any animal of a gregarious species 
may be trained to be friendly and obedient; because it is endowed with the 
submissive instinct, which we can evoke if we use the right means. But with 
the solitary carnivora the case is different. The story of Androcles and the 
lion is pure fiction. The behavior of the lion or tiger or leopard in the pres- 
ence of his trainer is a perpetual conflict and compromise between the im- 
pulses of anger and of fear. Such animals seem to be devoid of the submis- 
sive instinct, and are therefore but little if at all docile. They can be in- 
hibited from their various instinctive modes of behavior; and they can be 
driven to leap from this place to that through fear; but this seems to be all 
that can be accomplished with them by the most judicious, skilful, and daring 
trainers. In all gregarious species, on the other hand, the submissive instinct 
seems to be always present in some degree; accordingly they are docile, and 
can be truly tamed and trained to a degree which is limited only by their 
intelligence. In this respect the contrast between the cat and the dog is 
striking and instructive. The cat is attached to his home, the dog to his 
master. The cat can be induced to perform certain tricks in the pursuit of 
his own ends, especially the securing of tit-bits; but he cannot be made docile 
or obedient in the full sense. He may come when you call him, if he has 
“nothing better to do,” and especially if he is hungry and is accustomed to 
be fed by you. But the well-trained dog will come at your call, no matter 
how little this response comports with his pursuit of other goals. 
I have dwelt at some length on this elementary principle, because the same 
problem arises in the training of children, namely: Is it necessary to appeal 
to fear; and, if so, to what extent? There was a time when fear was the 
master principle in the training of children, from fear of the whip to fear of 
hell-fire. I believe there may be instances of perverted natures in which the 
appeal to fear may be necessary for the establishment of ascendancy and the 
beginning of discipline. But I am sure that with normal children the duty of 
parents and teachers is to shield them in every way from all occasions of fear. 
Fear was very necessary for the survival of primitive man; the instinct needed 
to be very sensitive and its impulse to be very strong, if it was to preserve 
him from the many dangers that threatened him. But, under civilized condi- 
tions, its operation is hardly needed; and the great strength of this instinct is 
an anachronistic survival which is the bane of our lives and the source of 
infinite evil. 186 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
In the instances cited above to illustrate the attachment of an 
instinctive impulse to a new object, the impulse of the instinct 
of escape was chosen. But all other instinctive impulses are 
subject to similar adjustments or new attachments. Just as the 
dog learns to react with fear at the sight or sound of those per- 
sons or objects which have evoked his fear in the past by in- 
flicting pain, so he will learn to react with anger to the sight or 
sound of those who have teased him by trying to take away his 
bone, or by otherwise obstructing and thwarting his impulses to 
action. In a similar way he learns to seek foods to which he is 
by nature indifferent; and to avoid others that at first attracted 
his food-seeking impulse, but have been found on nearer ac- 
quaintance to be disgusting.1 Or, again, many animal-mothers 
may learn to pour out their parental care, to direct their pro- 
tective impulse, upon young creatures of a species other than 
their own. 
The formation of mental habits of this kind is, then, achieved 
by many animals and is the principal type of learning or profit- 
ing by experience that they display. It involves no new sources 
of energy, the formation of no new springs of action, but merely 
a redirection of the instinctive impulses; so that the animal 
responds with an instinctive impulse to some object toward 
which he was previously indifferent, and achieves a nicer dis- 
crimination between objects and between classes of objects. 
Perceptual Habits 
All that very special development of intelligence which is 
involved in the return to the nest, or to any other familiar spot, 
may be regarded as the formation and exercise of habits of a 
1 Compare the experiment with the quinine-soaked sugar, p. 147. At the risk of 
tedious repetition, I must again insist that the instinctive impulse, thus attached 
by experience to some previously indifferent object, does not necessarily find expres- 
sion through any one motor mechanism, but may express itself through a variety 
of such mechanisms, according to the particular circumstances of the moment. 
Throughout the discussion of this topic, I have used the expression “ attachment 
of the impulse to an object,” in order to avoid tedious repetition of a cumbrous 
phrase. The more accurate phraseology would run—“the formation of an associa- 
tion between the affective-conative disposition of an instinct and the cognitive 
disposition concerned in the recognition of the object.” HABIT AND INTELLIGENCE IN ANIMALS 
187 
third class. It also involves improvement of discrimination be- 
tween objects which guide the operations of instinctive impulses. 
Animals comparatively low in the scale of intelligence, animals 
which exhibit no trace of acquisition of skill (in the proper sense 
of improvement of motor mechanisms), nevertheless exhibit such 
guidance of present actions through past experience. Let us 
consider a very simple instance. A crayfish, placed at one end 
of a long trough of water, which contains at the other end some 
food, Z, attractive by its odor, will swim or crawl toward the 
food. If the middle part of the trough contains a longitudinal 
fig. 4 
wall dividing it into two passages, A and B, as in the figure; and 
if one of these passages, B, is closed by a sheet of glass, the 
animal will at first show no preference for A or B. It will some- 
times enter B, and, continuing its efforts, will wander, until it 
escapes from B and finds the food by way of A. On many repe- 
titions of this behavior, it gradually learns to avoid B and to 
seek the food directly and on all occasions by way of A. And, 
if the glass be transferred from B to A, it will gradually learn 
to pass directly through B rather than to enter A.1 Here we 
have the simple rudiment of that capacity to “learn the way 
home” which is so greatly developed in some insects and in 
many birds and mammals. Here is intelligence at its lowest 
and simplest level. How shall we interpret the facts ? We can 
hope to do so only very incompletely. For we do not know by 
what sense-impressions the animal is chiefly guided; and its 
experience is very remote from our own. The animal may be 
1 This very interesting experiment is one of many of similar type that we owe to 
the ingenuity of Professor R. M. Yerkes. 188 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
said to form the habit of going to the right or left. But how is 
the habit formed ? If the animal were repeatedly guided or led 
directly through the one passage only, we could imagine that its 
motor mechanism acquired a “set” which resulted in its work- 
ing always in that way; as a piece of paper or cloth, folded re- 
peatedly along the same lines, tends to fall into those folds; or 
water, led through certain channels, wears them, so that it tends 
of itself to find those channels. But all such simple mechanical 
analogies fail us before this simplest manifestation of intelli- 
gence. For, before the “habit” is acquired in some degree, the 
animal goes as often to B as to A; yet begins to acquire a “pref- 
erence” for A. Almost all writers who have dealt with this 
problem, as presented by numberless instances of animal be- 
havior, invoke the influence of pleasure and pain, of satisfac- 
tion and dissatisfaction; appealing to the analogy of our own 
experience under similar conditions. Pleasure or satisfaction, 
they say, attends upon and follows from success; pain or dis- 
pleasure or dissatisfaction attends and follows upon failure and 
thwarting of efforts. And somehow the pleasure confirms or 
“stamps in” the tendency to repetition of the movements which 
it attends and follows; and pain inhibits, checks, and “stamps 
out” the tendency to movements which it attends upon and 
follows. Even the mechanists and the reflexists generally admit 
these correlations of pleasure with success and a tendency to 
repetition, and of displeasure or pain with failure and a ten- 
dency to vary the movements, to seek other ways, other means. 
But, of course, their principles commit them to the supposition 
that this all-important role is played not by pleasure and pain 
as modes of experience, but by two unlike types of physical or 
chemical process which they assume to be the physical concomi- 
tants of pleasure and of pain. And there have been many 
attempts to suggest the nature of these alleged concomitants of 
pleasure and of pain. I will not delay to state or criticise these 
suggestions. I will only say that no one of them has secured, 
or deserves to secure, general acceptance, and will refer the stu- 
dent to an argument which I have published elsewhere and 
which has not received the attention it deserves.1 
1 “Primer of Physiological Psychology,” p. 158. HABIT AND INTELLIGENCE IN ANIMALS 
189 
One attempt to explain mechanistically this fundamental type of profiting 
by experience has been widely accepted, and therefore, though it seems to me 
obviously fallacious, requires a few words of criticism. It is said that, each 
time the animal enters B, he must return to and pass through A before he can 
attain his goal; hence, since it may be assumed that he at first will enter A 
and B equally often, he must pass through A twice as often as he passes into 
fig. 5 
B; for, when he enters A, he does not enter B\ but each time he enters B he 
must subsequently pass through A. Hence he acquires a stronger tendency 
to enter A than to enter B, in accordance with the fundamental principle that 
repetition of any series of reactions strengthens the tendency in proportion 
to the number of repetitions. The argument may be presented schemati- 
cally in the form of the diagram (Fig. 5), in which the curved lines represent 
FIG. 6 
the hypothetical paths followed by the animal in four successive experiments. 
But this argument and this diagram are wofully misleading. According to 
the agreed assumptions, the animal, when situated at or about the starting- 
point 0, is as likely to go toward B as toward A, no matter by what process 
he reaches, or is placed at, O. When, then, he returns to 0, after entering B, 
he will as often return again to 5 as to d, so long as he has not acquired a 
stronger tendency toward A than toward B. Hence the diagram which truly 
schematizes his movements, in accordance with the mechanistic assumptions, 190 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
is Fig. 6. From this it is clear that, in accordance with the mechanistic 
assumption, he will strengthen both tendencies, that toward A and that 
toward B equally, because he repeats the movements in the two directions 
equally often.1 
A less obviously fallacious mechanistic explanation of the facts is the fol- 
lowing: It is said that the completion of the act following upon the entering 
of A, or the near approach to the stimulating object Z on passing through A, 
determines a higher level of activity in passing through A than in wandering 
in B. Hence the acquirement of a “preference” for A. In face of the facts 
as described above, this explanation is plausible. But consider now a varia- 
tion of the experiment which rules out both of the above mechanistic explana- 
tions. I constructed a tank (Fig. 7) containing a compartment 0 and at 
fig. 7 
one end a platform Z. From O two channels lead to Z, a longer one A and a 
shorter one B. The tank is half filled with water, leaving the platform Z 
projecting a little above the water. From each of the passages, A and B, a 
sloping board leads from the surface of the water to the platform. A white 
rat is placed in O. He swims about and soon finds his way to the platform. 
At first his tendency is to go by B rather than A, because B is shorter. When 
this habit has been established, an interrupted electric current is passed 
through a grating on the sloping way from B; so that every time the rat ascends 
from B to Z he receives an electric shock. The rat exhibits signs of fear on 
and after receiving the shock. But nevertheless he persists for some time 
1 This fallacious and widely accepted explanation was, I believe, first suggested 
by Dr. J. B. Watson in his volume “Behavior.” He seems to have been obscurely 
aware of its fallacy; for he sought to give it plausibility by saying that when the 
animal, returning from B, reaches 0, the kinsesthetic stimuli will force it to go on 
via A. But if we accept the assumption that the kinsesthetic stimuli will drive it 
directly forward, it follows that they will drive it from 0 to the wall W, on reach- 
ing which it will be equally likely to turn to the right or the left, i. e., to enter A 
or return to B. HABIT AND INTELLIGENCE IN ANIMALS 
191 
in passing up the slope from B to Z. He hesitates, approaches, and draws 
back; and generally he makes a violent dash at the slope B, often leaping 
across it so rapidly that he gets only a momentary shock. This alteration of 
his manner of approaching and ascending B is the first stage of learning. After 
a certain number of repetitions of the ascent of B and of the shock, he refuses to 
attempt B and always goes by A; and he refuses to attempt B even if his access 
to A is barred by a sliding door. I have repeated this with 11 rats, and the re- 
sult was in general terms the same with each one, though some learned to avoid 
B more quickly (after fewer repetitions of the shock) than others. Here, then, 
neither of the foregoing mechanistic explanations is applicable. The rat has 
gone oftener by B than by A; and his movements toward his goal have been 
more vigorous, in going by B than in going by A; and in both cases he has 
attained his goal. Yet in the end he refuses to attempt B. We can only ex- 
plain the facts by saying that, on facing the B route, the rat anticipates more 
or less intelligently the consequence of taking that route, namely, the electric 
shock. Or perhaps we might say that, as he faces the B route, the perception 
of that passage evokes fear, or the impulse to retreat, which inhibits the im- 
pulse to go forward. But this last account would not be wholly adequate to 
the facts; for most of the rats showed unmistakably a strong aversion not 
only from the B slope, but also from the doorway which opens from O to B. 
For example, if both doors be kept closed for half a minute after the rat is 
put into O, he will, after learning to avoid B, usually cling to or hover before 
the door to A, avoiding all approach to the door to B. 
The correlation of pleasure with success or with progress 
toward the end of action, and of displeasure with failure and 
thwarting of action, must be accepted as fundamental, an ulti- 
mate fact of mind.1 And it is more than a correlation; we find 
that in ourselves pleasure sustains, prolongs, and confirms the 
modes of striving which bring pleasure, that is, the successful 
modes. It is for this reason that we truly say “nothing succeeds 
like success.” Pain or displeasure, on the other hand, checks 
us, discourages and turns us aside from the line of effort we are 
pursuing now or have pursued unsuccessfully in the past. To 
this fundamental feature of its nature the mind owes its direc- 
tive power, its power to guide and improve our modes of striving 
toward our goals. We have seen that mental activity is essen- 
tially forward-looking and anticipatory. When we encounter a 
second time circumstances under which we have striven success- 
fully, the satisfaction we have attained on the former occasion 
revives and colors our anticipation, reinforcing and sustaining 
our efforts. When we find ourselves striving in a way and 
1 As ultimate as Newton’s laws of motion or the gravitation of matter. 192 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
under circumstances which formerly brought the dissatisfaction 
of failure, this dissatisfaction colors our anticipation and turns 
us aside to other lines of striving. It is in this way that the 
pleasures and pains of the past guide our actions in the present. 
We may assume that it is not otherwise with our fellow-men 
and with the animals. If we try to imagine any creature con- 
stituted in the opposite manner, namely, so that it was stimu- 
lated by failure to persevere in the same line and discouraged by 
success, we realize more fully the fundamental nature of this 
harmony. And, if we imagine a creature so constituted as to 
know neither pleasure nor pain and to remain indifferent to 
success and failure, we see that it would not improve its modes 
of striving; for under the same circumstances it would strive in 
the same way on successive occasions; it would learn neither to 
discriminate more nicely than it is fitted to do by its innate 
constitution, nor to adapt its behavior to the varying features of 
the objects to which it reacts. 
These, then, are the functions of pleasure and of pain. We 
live in a world in which we meet again and again objects and 
situations similar to those we have encountered in the past. If 
each recurrent object and situation were quite unchanged on 
these successive occasions, if they were modelled exactly upon 
the eternal “Ideas” of Plato, our instincts would suffice to guide 
us in all situations, and we should have no need of the guidance 
of pleasure and displeasure. But the world we live in with the 
animals is not of that nature; every object in it is unique, and 
we never find ourselves a second time in the presence of the 
same circumstances. Hence it affords indefinite scope for dis- 
crimination and the discriminative guidance of action by plea- 
sure and pain. It is just because animals and plants run so 
nearly true to the type of the species, because all members of 
each species are so nearly alike, and because Instinct is so 
largely concerned with reactions to animals and plants, that 
Instinct in the lower animals can achieve so much with little 
help from Intelligence. 
There is a strong tradition in psychology which sees in pleasure and pain 
the source, spring, or motive of all action. This view, known as “psycho- 
logical hedonism,” readily gains acceptance among the vulgar, because it HABIT AND INTELLIGENCE IN ANIMALS 
193 
seems so obvious that we do shrink and turn aside from pain and do pursue 
pleasure. It is incapable of exact formulation and has been very variously 
stated, just because it is false. Its falsity is easily seen, when it is attempted 
to apply it, in any one of its various forms, to animal behavior. Yesterday I 
drove down the village street, and a large collie dog raced along the road 
beside the car. His course, which was perfectly straight, led him within a 
few feet of a hen which was anxiously gathering her chicks at the roadside. 
As he passed the hen, she flew at him with all her feathers ruffled. How can 
the pleasure-pain theory deal with that behavior of the hen ? Was she moved 
by the “idea” of the pain she would experience if he hurt one of her chicks; 
or by the “idea” of the pleasure of giving him a good sharp peck? Or was 
it some pain or pleasure that she actually experienced on the dog’s approach 
that impelled her to the assault ? 
I do not know whether this hen had ever before found herself in a similar 
situation. But there can be no doubt that she would have behaved in the 
same way, even though this were the first occasion on which she led forth her 
brood from the shelter of the hen-coop. In other words, her action was purely 
instinctive, owed little or nothing to previous experience, and was impelled 
neither by pleasure nor by pain, and was not an effort to secure pleasure or 
to avoid pain. The behavior of the animal mother who fights to the death 
in defense of her young is only the most striking illustration of the ineptitude 
of the hedonist theory of action. Almost all instances of animal behavior 
illustrate it only a little less clearly. To apply the hedonist theory to human 
conduct, as so many philosophers and amateur moralists have done, is to 
deny the continuity of human with animal evolution and the community of 
human and animal nature. I shall not trouble my reader with any elaborate 
refutation of psychological hedonism. Those who have a hankering after 
the theory may find it discussed ad nauseam in ethical treatises.1 
The Method of Trial and Error 
The instance of the crayfish learning to seek his food through 
the open, rather than the closed, passage is a typical example of 
what is generally called the “method of trial and error.” Much 
human, as well as animal, learning proceeds in this way, and 
many experimental studies of such animal learning have been 
made. Let us consider another instance of such behavior under 
experimental conditions. We may take the justly famous ex- 
periments of Professor E. L. Thorndike, which have served as 
the model for many other laboratory workers in this field. 
Thorndike confined young cats in cages of which the front wall 
consisted of vertical bars and a door; the door was fastened on 
its inner surface by a catch or button which could easily be 
turned by the animal. In each instance the animal was placed 
1 Cf. also pp. 219, 268. 194 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
in the cage in a condition of “utter hunger”; and food was 
placed outside the bars of the cage, beyond reach of the cat’s 
paw. The result in general terms was that each animal scratched 
and clawed about the front of his cage for some time, until, in 
the course of these “random” movements, he turned the but- 
ton, escaped, and secured food. Each animal was put through 
the process again and again; and in the main the result was that 
he gradually shortened the period of “random” movement, 
until after many repetitions he learned to go straightway to 
the button, turn it, and so escape. Such learning by dogs and 
cats has been widely represented as illustrating the nature and 
limits of animal intelligence. And the mechanists have seized 
upon it eagerly; for it seems to them to bear out their contention 
that Intelligence is only mechanism working in the obscurity 
imposed by the thickness of our skulls. They interpret the 
facts in some such way as follows: The animal in the cage is 
stimulated, by sense-stimuli received from various parts of the 
cage, to a series of random reflex movements. These are con- 
tinued, until by happy chance some movement turns the but- 
ton and releases the prisoner. The pleasure of escape or of the 
taste of the food then “somehow stamps in” the particular 
reflex reaction which turns the button; so that, when the same 
situation recurs, this reflex is more readily fired off than all 
others; and with each repetition the “stamping in” goes further, 
until this reflex becomes so preponderatingly sensitive that it is 
fired off as soon as the animal is placed in the cage. Of course 
the “behaviorist” of the pure blood knows nothing of pleasure 
and pain, and therefore nothing of their nervous correlates; and, 
in face of this relatively simple problem, he can only maintain 
the lofty attitude that his business as a scientist is to describe 
facts and not to dabble with explanations and hypotheses. But 
the less rigidly “scientific” mechanists of the more common 
kind are confronted with this problem: How does the nervous 
correlate of the pleasure resulting from escape from the cage, or 
from the taste of the food, how does this “stamp in” the reflex 
which preceded it in time and led to the opening of the door? 
It seems to be a clear case of the effect preceding the cause, a 
sequence entirely inadmissible in a world of pure mechanism. HABIT AND INTELLIGENCE IN ANIMALS 
195 
If we are not committed to the identification of mental ac- 
tivity with mechanical process, we shall see, even in this display 
of the stupidity of the animal, a revelation of the essentially 
teleological or purposive nature of mental activity, an instance 
of that power of Mind to foresee the future in accordance with 
past experience and to govern action in the light of that fore- 
sight which is its fundamental nature. The essential nature of 
Mind is to govern present action by anticipation of the future 
in the light of past experience; to make, in short, effects precede 
and determine their causes. The cats’ movements are in the 
main not merely reflex responses to stimuli. Rather they are 
throughout governed by the purpose of reaching the food. This 
involves some anticipation, however vague, of the goal. We 
may fairly suppose that, as the process is repeated, this antici- 
pation becomes more definite, as also anticipation of the various 
steps of action by which the goal is reached. Without rejecting 
the facts, we may criticise the experiments as failing to give fair 
play to the intelligence of the animals. Let us imagine twenty 
college professors shut in as many cages in a condition of “utter 
hunger,” while a table is temptingly spread before the line of 
cages. And let us suppose that each one can secure his release 
only by scratching a hole in the ground with his finger-nails and 
rummaging with his nose at the bottom of this hole. The con- 
ditions would be comparable to those imposed on his cats by 
Professor Thorndike. Is it not possible that a Martian observer, 
knowing little of human nature, might infer from the behavior of 
the professors that they were creatures of small intelligence, much 
given to random movements and meaningless vociferations ? 
Thorndike’s experiments were a valuable contribution to methods of study. 
But those who accept the results of experiments of this kind as illustrating the 
limits of intelligence of the animals concerned are seriously misled. I sug- 
gest that what we now need is not experiments which show how little intelli- 
gence the animal may display under highly unfavorable conditions; but rather 
experiments which will show how much an animal may achieve in the way 
of intelligent adaptation of behavior, under the most favorable conditions and 
after continued and varied training upon tasks of the same general nature.1 
1 Professor L. T. Hobhouse, in his “Mind in Evolution,” has worked along this 
line with striking success. This book, together with Professor S. J. Holmes’s 
“Evolution of Animal Intelligence,” may be warmly recommended to the student 
who wishes to read further in this field. 196 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
As a small contribution to this step in method, I describe the following experi- 
ment. I had a lively sociable Airedale terrier who, up to middle age, had never 
been trained to tackle mechanical problems; though he had learned without 
assistance to open a heavy wicket-gate, by pulling down the handle of the 
latch and then pulling the gate toward him, when he sought exit from the 
garden. I constructed a cubical wooden box, ten inches in diameter, and 
screwed it to a square board about twenty inches across (Fig. 8). The box 
had a lid, hinged at one side and provided with a broad handle, A, projecting 
from the hinged side. Pressure on this handle would open the lid. I pro- 
ceeded to feed the dog by breaking his biscuit into pieces and placing a piece 
in the box. The dog, watching my procedure with an air of lively interest, 
showed a tendency to seek the pieces of biscuit which I held in reserve. A 
FIG. 8 
few stern words sufficed to check this tendency, though not to destroy it; he 
was always ready to take advantage of any remissness on my part to secure 
a reserved piece. Forbidden the reserved pieces, and allowed to see the piece 
in the box before the lid was closed, he turned to the box and quickly secured 
the biscuit by shoving up the front edge of the lid with his nose. He repeated 
this promptly several times. I therefore shaved down the margins of the lid, 
until its front edge could sink below the rim of the box and rest there upon 
a ledge. The dog’s first method was now of no avail; but he pushed his nose 
so vigorously against the front rim of the box as to overturn it; and then, the 
lid falling open, he secured his biscuit. Thereafter I usually kept my foot 
on the ground-plate, to prevent the use of this second method; but, when 
occasionally I neglected this precaution, he seldom failed to revert to this 
simple and natural procedure. Finding now the second method futile, he 
scratched and bit and scrabbled all round the box, often spending some time 
in persistently licking the lid; until after some few minutes he depressed the 
handle, A, with his forepaw, and so lifted the lid, Immediately he released HABIT AND INTELLIGENCE IN ANIMALS 
197 
the handle and rushed to the front of the box; but the lid fell back into place. 
With admirable good temper and energy he renewed his scrabbling and soon 
depressed the handle again. This time he quickly inserted his nose under 
the raised lid before releasing the handle, and so secured his biscuit. On 
repetition he quickly became more expert and quicker in this simple train of 
action. I then added a simple latch, consisting in a slat of wood, B, about 
8 inches in length, loosely pivoted at its middle on the front corner of the 
box. This prevented the opening of the lid, until it was turned through an 
angle of 450. At first he was held up by this latch, but soon learned in random 
fashion to push B aside. He would then usually begin by trying A. If the 
lid refused to rise, he would at once run round to B and push it with nose or 
paw, and then return to press on A. Sometimes he had not pushed B far 
enough, and A would still resist his pressure. Then he would quickly return 
to B and give it another push. When he had learned to deal with B, I added 
a third obstacle, namely, a board, C, hinged to the foot-piece so that, when 
set vertically, it prevented the depression of A, and had to be pushed down 
before the lid could be opened. He soon learned to deal also with C, and 
would throw down C and turn B, either with his nose or paw, indifferently, 
and not always in the same order. 
How shall we interpret this process of learning? Certainly there was much 
of more or less random effort, and only a gradual acquisition of the art of 
opening the box. But the whole process was in several respects essentially 
different from the establishment of a chain of reflexes by simple repetition of 
completely random movements and the “stamping in” of the accidentally 
successful movements. From the first it was obvious that the dog was trying 
to open the lid in order to obtain the biscuit which he had seen put into the 
box. His action was purposive. It is true that throughout he did not under- 
stand the mechanism of the box any better than the average driver of an 
automobile understands the mechanism which he learns “by rule of thumb” 
intelligently to control. But, when he had watched me put a piece of biscuit 
in the box, he knew it was there, just as I knew it. It is true he did not formu- 
late this knowledge in words, and he did not achieve it by the aid of a formal 
syllogism; but no more did I. And his knowledge or his implicit judgment 
of the presence of the biscuit was liable to error. And so was mine. Occa- 
sionally he did struggle with the empty box, but only very rarely; though he 
had many opportunities. And when he had seen the biscuit put into the 
box, I never knew him to give up the struggle; though in some cases it was 
prolonged for twenty minutes before he attained success. Even his first 
method, simple as it was, was entirely different from a reflex. And the in- 
telligent nature of his second almost equally simple method (that of over- 
turning the box) was shown by the fact that, though he had used it suc- 
cessfully only a few times, he was quick to seize any opportunity of revert- 
ing to it. 
When he had learned the whole trick and could in a few seconds work all 
three bits of mechanism, the movements by which he achieved success were 
anything but a fixed habitual series; not only did the movements not occur 
in the same order upon successive occasions, but the nature of the move- 
ments themselves continued to vary widely. Often he would begin by press- 
ing the handle with his paw; and this was done sometimes with the right, 
sometimes and more often with the left, forefoot. On finding it resist his 
pressure, he would usually run round at once to the latch B; and this he would 198 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
turn, sometimes with his nose, sometimes with his paw. Often he failed at 
first to move it far enough, and he never seemed to discover this by vision, 
but only by trying the handle A again; when, if it still resisted, he would 
usually return to B and give it another shove. The throwing down of C was 
done generally by a single definite stroke of the paw, either before or after 
turning B, and either before or after trying A. I cannot see any ground for 
denying that in a vague and imperfect manner he understood the nature of 
his task, and that, in fact, his manipulation of the mechanism was strictly 
comparable to the manipulation of an automobile by one who does not under- 
stand the machinery; differing chiefly in that he learned how to work it by 
his own repeated trial and error, whereas the automobilist is taught when 
and how to move his levers and turn his keys. These movements may be 
said to have been more or less random; but they were far from being com- 
pletely so. In the first place, they were all directed to the box; and this 
direction was neither by a reflex nor by a tropism. The odor of the biscuit, if 
it had any for him, was all around and about the scene of his operations. 
Secondly, his efforts were directed almost exclusively to the lid and its handle, 
and very seldom to other parts of the box. His first throwing down of C was 
no doubt in the course of random pawings; but his success quickly led him to 
direct his movements to it, either pawing or pushing with his nose. Very 
striking was his quick appreciation of the uselessness of pressing on the han- 
dle so long as it did not yield; often he fumbled the handle badly, and let it 
slip after raising the lid and before getting his nose under it. But this was 
largely due to the defects of his paw as an instrument of manipulation. This 
course of events implies that, while the dog’s behavior was from the first 
purposive, a striving toward the goal of obtaining the biscuit, the goal, and 
especially the steps toward the goal, became more defined in the dog’s mind 
as he became more expert in his task. He never thought out any com- 
plete plan of procedure; and even at the end he probably never imagined, 
even in outline as a complete series, all the steps he had to take to attain his 
goal. 
But, while his anticipation of each step of action was at first vague in the 
extreme, we must suppose that it became more clearly defined; until in the 
end each step of action was thought of more or less definitely, as the occasion 
for it arose out of his preceding action. 
I will describe one more of this dog’s achievements; for, though it was not 
observed under laboratory conditions, it was none the less highly significant. 
He would seek and find a piece of biscuit hidden in the room. After he had 
played this game many times, it was varied by taking the biscuit to other 
rooms; with very little experience of this more difficult task, he learned to sit 
listening intently in a room down-stairs, while the biscuit was hidden in any 
one of a number of rooms up-stairs. Then, when the hider returned and gave 
the signal, he would dash up-stairs, and generally would quickly enter the 
right room and find the biscuit. The mechanist, of course, will say that he 
was guided by the scented trail; but the whole house, inhabited as it was by 
a large family, must have been saturated with a multitude of odors for him. 
What exactly his mental process was it is impossible to say; but it would, I 
think, be pedantic to deny that it involved an intelligent appreciation of the 
whole situation, to which an acquired knowledge of the house and of its 
various parts was essential—an appreciation and a knowledge analogous to 
our own. HABIT AND INTELLIGENCE IN ANIMALS 
199 
Laboratory experiments are valuable; but they must not 
lightly pretend to determine the limits of the animal’s intelli- 
gence. For in the laboratory the conditions are inevitably so 
remote from the natural as to be highly unfavorable to the 
animal’s exercise of his highest powers. How many centuries 
of laboratory experiment with wasps might have elapsed with- 
out revealing any action comparable to the use by Ammophila 
of a pebble for pounding down the earth over her nest! 
In this connection I will refer to the Elberfeld horses and other 
parallel instances of animal behavior, only to indicate them as 
a warning to those who would minimize the intelligence of ani- 
mals.1 For the interpretation of these instances remains too 
enigmatic and disputable. But at the very least they proved, 
on the part of the horse, a delicacy of perceptual discrimination 
far surpassing anything that his best friends had previously 
claimed for him in that line. 
It is probable that only the higher animals learn to discrimi- 
nate or distinguish and recognize individual objects as such. 
Instinctive perception is essentially the discrimination of objects 
only as representatives of their class or species. But it is clear 
that all animals that form enduring partnerships with their 
mates, and those that return to their nests or homes under the 
guidance of acquired familiarity with the neighborhood, learn 
to discriminate and recognize particular objects as such. And 
it is clear that an intelligent dog achieves the discrimination and 
recognition of a large number of persons and other objects. 
Such recognition implies elementary judgment, which becomes 
more explicit when the animal hesitates before acting. For ex- 
ample, I enter at my garden-gate, while my dog lies before the 
house-door some sixty yards away. He barks at me, as he would 
bark at a stranger, and comes toward me in a threatening man- 
1 One horse, der kluge Hans, was alleged to perform arithmetical operations of 
some complexity, tapping out with his forefoot his answers to the problems set 
him. It was shown by Professor Stumpf and his pupils that this achievement 
seemed to depend upon the appreciation by the horse of slight movements made 
unintentionally by spectators. Herr Krall, of Elberfeld, undertook to teach a 
number of horses to perform even more complicated calculations. He had great 
success, apparently, and several scientific critics were unable to explain away their 
achievements by aid of the principle which had seemed adequate in the case of 
der kluge Hans, 200 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
ner; and, if I refrain from speaking or making any familiar ges- 
ture, his attitude changes to one of friendly welcome only when 
we are separated by no more than some twenty yards; for a 
dog’s visual discrimination is less delicate than man’s. As he 
approaches, his behavior is apt to show clearly a blending and 
alternation of the two attitudes, the hostile and the friendly 
submissive attitudes; until suddenly the hesitation is resolved 
and gives place to unrestrained welcoming. If I make the ex- 
periment in a dim light and speak in a disguised voice, his hesi- 
tation may be more prolonged, and resolved only when his nose 
comes very near to me. I do not see how we can deny that 
this behavior is strictly analogous to our own, when we are in 
doubt about the recognition of an approaching friend. Our 
attitude is one of hesitation and questioning, and passes into 
definite recognition and greeting by way of an act of judgment, 
which may or may not be expressed in the words “It is he.” 
Sometimes this judgment is preceded by the verbal formulation 
of the question, “Is it he?” But in other cases there is no 
verbal formulation, but a mere puzzled questioning examina- 
tion of the approaching figure; until suddenly the judgment of 
recognition is achieved. In the latter case the mental process 
would seem to be strictly comparable to the dog’s, when he 
recognizes me after hesitation. 
Judgment is the beginning of reasoning; and though reason- 
ing in the full sense implies freely working imagination and the 
use of language, yet even on the perceptual plane elementary 
reasoning takes place. The essential feature of reasoning is 
reaction to some aspect or quality of an object which marks it 
as appropriate for the purpose of the moment. Of any animals 
lower in the mental scale than the apes it is difficult to point to 
behavior that clearly implies reasoning. But when an ape uses 
various objects, such as sticks, ropes, sacks, in order to draw 
within his reach some such thing as a nut, we have evidence of 
perceptual reasoning. For the animal recognizes and reacts to 
that common quality of such diverse objects which, in spite of 
their widely unlike properties, renders them all alike serviceable 
for his purpose, namely, the quality of being more or less heavy, 
loose, and manageable. The higher apes have frequently been 
observed to display such evidence of rudimentary reasoning. HABIT AND INTELLIGENCE IN ANIMALS 
201 
Most of the behavior of animals is initiated and guided by- 
perception, that is to say, by appreciation of impressions made 
on the sense-organs. It is not easy to answer the question: 
How far can animals think of, or adjust their behavior to, 
objects not present to their senses ? But that the higher an- 
imals have this capacity in considerable degree we can hardly 
doubt. Imagination is the most general term for this capac- 
ity or function of thinking of absent or remote objects. 
When an animal travels steadily toward its home; or a dog gets 
up from sleep and goes directly to a spot at a distance and digs 
up a bone which he has buried on the previous day; or a dog 
waits a long time before the door where his master has entered, 
refusing to be enticed away, it is difficult to interpret the beha- 
vior without the assumption that the animal in some way 
thinks of or imagines his home, his bone, or his master. The 
behavior of a sleeping dog sometimes strongly suggests that he 
is dreaming of the chase. 
Imagination in Animals 
Professor W. S. Hunter has made ingenious and exact investigation of the 
capacity of animals and young children to be guided by sense-perceptions 
that lie in the past.1 The subject of the experiment learned by many repeti- 
tions to find food in one of three chambers, which was distinguished from 
the other two by a bright patch of light. The subject was then prevented 
from approaching the chamber until an interval had elapsed (its duration 
varying in successive experiments) after the exposure of the signal-light. In 
this way it was found that each species of subject failed to be guided aright, 
if the interval was prolonged beyond a certain maximum period. This period 
was for rats ten seconds, for dogs five minutes, and for children much longer 
periods, according to their age. Kohler {op. cit.) reports the following obser- 
vations. He buried a pear in the sand before a cage in which sat a chim- 
panzee keenly watching his operations. The sand was smoothed over with 
a rake. After intervals ranging up to an hour, a stick was put into the cage; 
the animal took the stick and, thrusting it between the bars, began to dig 
at the spot where the pear had been buried, and quickly secured the fruit. 
In other experiments the animals were allowed into the arena where sixteen 
hours earlier they had watched the burying of fruit in the sand. In many 
cases they went directly to the spot and dug up the fruit. The necessary 
controls were observed; and the experiment seems to establish beyond doubt 
that these animals were guided by memory of the observed place and pro- 
cedure. It would be pedantic to deny that, as they proceeded to dig in the 
1 “The Delayed Reaction in Animals and Children,” “Behavior Monographs,” 
2, i, 1913- 202 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
sand at the right spot, they in some sense thought of the fruit as buried at 
that spot. 
Most of such instances of imagining by animals seem to de- 
pend upon familiarity acquired by the individual creature. But 
in some few instances we seem compelled to suppose that the 
power of thinking of, or imagining, an object not present to the 
senses is provided in the form of innate mental structure. Such 
an instance is the building of a complex structure according to a 
plan common to the species and without previous acquaintance 
with such structures, as in the case of some spiders and insects. 
The construction of the complex nests of some birds, especially 
those of the weaver-birds, seems to fall under this head; for, al- 
though the birds have in most such cases been hatched and 
fledged in a nest such as they will later construct, it is very dif- 
ficult to suppose that the peculiar structure of the nest is tradi- 
tional only and that the young birds study the structure in 
preparation for building which they will undertake some months 
later. Yet these are the alternatives. There is no question here 
of a mere chain of reflexes. The animal, while achieving the 
general form and pattern proper to the species, adapts his work 
in a multitude of ways to special circumstances; he knows how 
to repair accidental injuries to the structure, and how to make 
use of unusual materials and positions that may offer themselves. 
In these pages I cannot attempt to discuss the evolution of mental func- 
tions in the animal kingdom. I will only emphasize in passing the view that 
Instinct and Intelligence represent neither two divergent lines of evolution 
nor two stages of evolution, but rather are always only two aspects of all 
mental life which we distinguish by an effort of abstraction. A common 
view represents instinctive behavior as “unconscious” and intelligent be- 
havior as “conscious,” and raises the question—At what stage of evolution 
did Intelligence or “Consciousness” begin to supplant or modify unconscious 
Instinct. Thus Professor S. J. Holmes writes in his admirable book, “The 
Evolution of Animal Intelligence,” as follows: “It is scarcely possible at 
present to fix, even with the rudest approximation, the point where intelli- 
gence makes its first appearance in the course of evolution. There is little 
doubt that the step from instinct to intelligence has been made, not once 
merely, but several times. The intelligence of the higher mollusca had, in 
all probability, an origin independent from that of the arthropods, and the 
intelligence of the vertebrates was probably developed independently of that 
of other groups. Among the arthropods themselves it is not likely that the 
intelligence manifested by the arachnids had a common origin with that of HABIT AND INTELLIGENCE IN ANIMALS 
203 
the insects, and within both of these large groups intelligence may have been 
independently developed out of behavior of the purely instinctive type.” 
This is a half-hearted evolutionism which smacks too much of the Spencerian 
doctrine that “consciousness” somehow arose out of the compounding and 
recompounding of mechanical reflexes, when the structures concerned had 
attained an unspecified degree of complexity. We shall never achieve under- 
standing of the evolution of Mind by following this false lead. I have tried 
to show my readers that the rudiments of Mind are implied by the behavior 
of the most lowly animals, and that we cannot hope to trace the genesis of 
purposive behavior out of mechanical processes; because the two conceptions 
are radically different. Eventually it may be shown that all processes are 
of one type; but it seems more likely that the processes of inorganic nature 
may ultimately be shown to be purposive than that the behavior of animals 
will be shown to be purely mechanical. Hitherto all attempts to resolve the 
one type of process into the other have proved fruitless. Both conceptions, 
mechanical process and purposive action, are at present useful and, in fact, 
indispensable, and therefore valid; and they seem to be equally fundamental, 
each in its own sphere. CHAPTER VII 
BEHAVIOR OF THE NATURAL MAN 
We commonly contrast the natural and the artificial; and, if 
we inquire more nearly into the nature of this contrast, we find 
that the artificial, that which is produced by art, results from 
the application of the accumulated traditions of thinking, feel- 
ing, and doing, which constitute human culture in its various 
degrees. The normal development of every human being is 
influenced profoundly by these traditions; the constitution that 
each of us inherits from his ancestors is molded by a multitude 
of contacts with his fellows, especially with his elders, who in 
turn have been molded in a similar way. The immense extent 
of the influence of tradition upon us may be most readily brought 
to mind by reflecting that our command of language is almost 
wholly the result of our absorption of tradition, and that on the 
use of language thus absorbed depends the development of all 
our higher capacities. 
It is useful to try to imagine the life of a small community of 
men grown up together in detachment from all tradition. Such 
a community has probably never existed; but it is not in prin- 
ciple impossible and might be experimenta y produced with 
immense advantages to psychology, if there were no moral ob- 
jections to such an experiment. But, though we cannot make 
the experiment actually, we may profitably attempt it in imagi- 
nation. We may hope, by doing so, to realize more vividly the 
essential similarities between human and animal behavior, bridg- 
ing in imagination the immense gap made, between the lowest 
known men and the highest animals, by the accumulated mass 
of traditional knowledge, belief, and sentiment which the most 
primitive human societies have acquired. The members of such 
a community might properly be called natural men and women 
and natural children. What sort of a creature would be such a BEHAVIOR OF THE NATURAL MAN 
205 
natural man? How would he differ from the higher animals, 
on the one hand, and from the rudest savages known to us on 
the other ? Mowgli1 would enjoy all the sensory capacities that 
we enjoy and, in respect of the natural objects with which he 
was led by his instincts to concern himself, his powers of per- 
ceptual discrimination would probably be very highly devel- 
oped, as we find among many savages. He would be endowed 
with the instincts which we have seen reason to suppose are 
common to the higher gregarious mammals. He would be 
moved, on the perception of various objects and situations, to 
strive impulsively toward the natural goals of his instincts. He 
would experience the appetites or cravings of his several in- 
stincts and the emotional excitements proper to them. He 
would feel pleasure or satisfaction on success, pain or displea- 
sure on failure or thwarting of his impulsive efforts. He would 
have no command of language, beyond a few emotional cries 
and interjections, aided by expressive gestures. 
If we made friends with such a man and studied his behavior, 
we should have no other means of interpreting it than those we 
apply to animal behavior; and we should be able to interpret it 
only a little more fully and confidently than we interpret the be- 
havior of an intelligent dog. The chief difference between his 
behavior and that of the higher animals would be that it would 
be guided more largely by, would imply more reference to, things 
previously perceived, but no longer present to the senses, and 
situations previously experienced and likely to be experienced 
again. We should probably find that he possessed and jealously 
secreted and guarded some little store of food and a few material 
possessions, such as a few skins and a few very rude utensils or 
tools. These would be fashioned to his uses hardly at all, but 
merely chosen in virtue of their lending themselves to his pur- 
poses. He would probably have a home or lair in some cave, 
which he would share with other men and women; and he would 
probably show some attachment to some one female, who would 
be the mother of his children; though whether he would show 
any special interest in his own children, would defend them, 
1 Kipling has depicted such a natural man in Mowgli, the hero of his “Jungle 
Tales.” I venture to borrow the name. 206 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
feed them, or claim possession of and obedience from them, in a 
way that would mark them off from the children of his fellows, 
we cannot confidently say. From the extent to which his be- 
havior referred to remote objects, we should infer that his power 
of thinking of such objects, his Imagination, was much more de- 
veloped and active than that of any animal. For his behavior 
would imply more foresight of the future in accordance with 
past experiences; a certain more far-reaching planning of action 
to forestall and prepare for future events. And, in the execution 
of such plans, he and his fellows would probably achieve a more 
effective and varied co-operation than any of the other mam- 
mals attain to; showing thereby that they achieved a better 
mutual understanding, by means of gestures and their very lim- 
ited vocabulary. 
Desire 
Mowgli’s greater power of imagination would reveal itself also 
in a higher degree of spontaneity and initiative, and in a greater 
continuity of effort. Most, though not all, of the trains of beha- 
vior of an animal are initiated by sense-impressions; and, if the 
object which evokes its instinctive response is withdrawn from 
the range of its senses, the impulse in most cases soon dies away, 
or is supplanted by a new impulse evoked by some other object.1 
An animal, if it is diverted from a train of activity started by 
one sense-impression, and if the interruption is not of very brief 
duration only, seldom resumes that activity; unless it finds itself 
again in the presence of the object which initiated it. But a dog 
digs up a bone he has buried on the previous day; a beaver re- 
turns again and again to work at felling the same tree; beasts 
of prey will return to the carcass they have left partly devoured; 
the wasp returns to the hole she has prepared; and the bee 
returns to the syrup in the bee-hunter’s box, after transporting 
a load to the hive. In all such cases we observe a continuity 
of effort or behavior which seems to imply that the animal thinks 
of or imagines the object, while remote from it; and thinks of it 
not simply as such, but also as located in a known position. 
1 If the appetite is strong, it may continue to manifest itself in the vague un- 
directed restlessness characteristic of appetite. BEHAVIOR OF THE NATURAL MAN 
207 
Such action directed toward a remote1 object implies the state 
which in ourselves we call desire. Desire in the widest sense 
may be defined as an impulse directed toward a remote object. 
So defined it includes aversive desires, which more commonly 
are called aversions. If I am reminded of an impending danger, 
a threatening object, such as a wild beast, which I cannot per- 
ceive, I nevertheless experience the impulse to escape and hide 
myself. This is an aversive desire. In the narrowest and strict- 
est sense, desire denotes our state when imagination of an object 
evokes in us an impulse to action, yet action is suspended or 
prevented by some physical or moral or intellectual difficulty; 
as when I desire to obtain food, but am securely confined in a 
prison cell, or fear to venture forth, or know that there is no 
food within the reach of my utmost efforts. It is probable that 
the animals never experience desire in this fullest sense, but only 
that lower form of desire which is a striving toward, or in rela- 
tion to, a remote object. That is to say, the animal in which 
any instinctive impulse is excited does not suspend action, even 
though the object be remote; the impulse probably always ex- 
presses itself in action. In this respect our natural man would 
show his superiority to the animals. He would be capable of 
the higher form of desire, namely, impulse toward or away from 
a remote object, with suspension of action. This suspension of 
action results from his more developed imagination. The higher 
animal, we may reasonably infer, is capable of imagining the 
remote food or the remote danger; and, as it thinks of the one or 
the other, the corresponding impulse expresses itself in action. 
But the natural man could imagine the remote food and the 
remote danger as co-existing in the same place; and so he might 
experience a desire for the food, while the action to which it 
prompted was suspended or inhibited by the impulse of fear or, 
as we loosely say, by the desire for safety. Such suspension of 
action, while the impulse to action continues to work in the 
form of desire kept alive by imagination of its object, is the 
11 use the word “remote” here and hereafter to imply that the object so char- 
acterized is beyond the range of the senses; by this specialization of the word we 
may fill an inconvenient gap in our terminology. I shall also use the adjective 
“present” in the opposite sense, i. e., to denote objects present to, or affecting, 
the senses. 208 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
essential condition of all higher intellectual activity, of all 
thinking in the fuller and more usual sense of the word. 
Desire and Imagination 
Our natural man, desiring the remote food, yet kept within the 
shelter of his cave by the fear of a remote object, would con- 
tinue to think about the food and about the dangerous object; 
he would imagine himself approaching the food cautiously in 
various ways. It might be that the desired food is game, such 
as deer, obtainable only by night, at a drinking pool frequented 
by lions as well as by the deer. As he lies in his cave, imagin- 
ing both the deer and the lions, impelled by hunger and re- 
strained by fear, our natural man, Mowgli, may imagine him- 
self taking refuge in a tree beside the pool, as he may have done 
when threatened by lions in the past. Then he imagines him- 
self going in safety to the tree in daylight and remaining there 
till nightfall, and thence descending upon his game at a moment 
when there is no sign of lions at hand. He would then, having 
imagined this line of behavior, which promises to satisfy his 
hunger without incurring great risk, proceed to work it out in 
action. He would have formed a plan, And, if he had imagined 
and successfully executed such plans several times, he would, 
when confronted with a new problem, probably set himself more 
or less deliberately to imagine a plan. In this way Mowgli 
would achieve real planning, the thinking out of a line of action 
before beginning to act. It is very doubtful whether any animal 
achieves this level of thinking. Animals, if they are confronted 
by a problem, solve it, if at all, ambulando, in the course of 
action; they do not sit down and think out a plan; still less do 
they sit down in order to think out a plan. Such planning, such 
purposive deliberation, would be the principal condition of the 
natural man’s superiority to the animals. When confronted by 
difficulties, he would imagine various alternative lines of ac- 
tion; and, when he had imagined a line of action which avoided 
or circumvented the difficulty or danger, he would proceed to 
action on that plan. Having no language, beyond rude gestures 
and exclamations, his planning would be almost purely the BEHAVIOR OF THE NATURAL MAN 
209 
imagining of concrete objects and situations; but even so it 
might aid him greatly in his struggle for existence.1 
Rudimentary Sentiments 
In another way Mowgli would attain to greater continuity 
and consistency of behavior than the animals do. We have 
seen how such an animal as the dog may acquire the tendency 
to react with a particular instinctive impulse to an object toward 
which he was naturally indifferent; as when he learns to shrink 
in fear from a whip, or to be habitually submissive to some one 
man or to another dog. Mowgli, aided by his greater power of 
imagining, would more readily acquire through experience such 
enduring attitudes toward various objects. Let us imagine him 
discovering the entrance to a deep cave. Impelled by curiosity, 
he enters and penetrates cautiously, until the light is very dim. 
Suddenly a loud rumbling resounds through the cave, and he 
flees in terror. On reaching his own abode, he lives again in 
imagination through this event. His imagination depicts the 
terrifying noise as coming from some great agency capable of 
seizing and destroying him. He cannot think of this vague 
agency without fear; and yet it strongly evokes his curiosity. 
After a few days, during which he suffers no harm, he finds him- 
self again, in the course of his roaming, in the neighborhood of 
the cave. He approaches it, his curiosity more strongly excited 
than before; but also he is more strongly restrained by fear, 
which arrests him after every few steps and prompts him to 
peer and listen, ready to flee at the slightest unfamiliar sound 
or movement. But nothing happens; and, perhaps, his curiosity 
is increased and his fear diminished by the presence of compan- 
ions. Slowly he penetrates further than before and finds, to his 
delight, a spring of cool clear water, at which he slakes his 
thirst. When, after this discovery, he dwells in imagination on 
this place, he feels not only fear and curiosity, but also he feels 
that this mysterious and terrible agent has given him what he 
greatly needs and values, a constant supply of pure water. 
11 insist upon and illustrate the value of such concrete imaginative thinking, 
because it has so often been asserted that we cannot think without making use of 
words 210 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
Mowgli and his companions now frequent this spot, making 
their home near to it. He feels submissive or humble before 
this mysterious power, but does not cease to feel both curiosity 
and fear on contemplating it. He feels also that here is some- 
thing that he and his group possess and would possess exclu- 
sively. Perhaps they make a barrier of rough stones across the 
entrance. And when, in a time of drought, the spring does not 
fail them, they feel gratitude, such as they feel when a fellow- 
hunter shares his game with them; and they begin to bring and 
place within the cave small objects of value, such as they would 
give in return for gifts from their fellows. In this way our 
natural man may be supposed to build up an enduring complex 
attitude of the kind that is properly called a sentiment} And 
in the case we have imagined, it would be a rudimentary reli- 
gious sentiment, a sentiment of awe, developing, by the addition 
of gratitude, into one of reverence. His imagination would have 
provided him with an object on which the various impulses of 
this sentiment are centred; and, whenever he may approach this 
spot or think of it in any way, these various impulses will be 
stirred within him, one or other more strongly than the rest, 
according to the circumstances of the moment.2 
Suppose again that, in the small community within which our 
natural man grows up, there is another young male who is 
stronger than he and who makes ruthless use of his superior 
strength, snatching away from Mowgli the choice tit-bit on its 
way to his mouth, and taking away the game that he has secured 
with much risk and effort. Mowgli fiercely resents these acts; 
but on several occasions when his anger has blazed out in active 
resentment, the bully has overcome him and by brutal exercise 
of his superior strength has inflicted excruciating pain. After 
some repetition of such experiences, Mowgli will be unable to 
think of the bully without both fear and anger; the mere sound 
of his voice in the distance, the mention of his name by others 
(if names had been invented and were in use among these nat- 
ural men), the mere thought of him, as he wakens in the morn- 
1 Cf. Chapter XVII. 
2 In just such a cave in the hills of Central India I have seen the wild black hill- 
men depositing their little gifts beside a bubbling spring. BEHAVIOR OF THE NATURAL MAN 
211 
ing or roams alone in the forest, always brings these two emo- 
tions and the corresponding instinctive impulses into play. 
When the bully is far away, the angry impulse predominates 
and Mowgli imagines himself attacking the bully, overcoming 
him, and tearing him in pieces. But, when he hears his rough 
voice, sees his huge limbs and fierce eyes, fear predominates and 
checks the impulse to attack. Mowgli has learned to hate the 
bully; and his hatred consists in this readiness to experience both 
fear and anger, whenever he perceives the bully or in any way 
thinks of him. An enduring sentiment of hatred has been built 
up in the structure of his mind; the growth of the sentiment is 
the linkage of the affective dispositions of the instincts of fear 
and anger with the disposition which is concerned in and alone 
renders possible the discriminating, the recognizing, and the im- 
agining of this individual, the bully. 
Consider another phase of the life of the natural man. As 
Mowgli becomes adolescent, he feels a new impulse of attraction 
toward the young women whom he encounters. One such 
dwells in a neighboring cave; but her parents keep him at a 
distance, and she is shy. When spring puts an end to the hard- 
ships of the long winter, the sexual appetite waxes strong in 
Mowgli; and his imagination dwells upon the girl, sustained by 
a strong desire. He lies in wait for her and intercepts her return- 
ing from the spring with a gourd full of water. She repels his 
nearer approach with fierce cries and gestures, and flees to the 
shelter of her cave. On the following day, Mowgli approaches 
her again, but this time more cautiously. Aware that her cries 
may bring her fierce old father to the spot, his attitude is sub- 
missive; and he humbly lays at her feet a plump hare which he 
has caught for this purpose. On repetition of such meetings 
the girl learns to suffer his approach without fear, and even wel- 
comes him. One day their meeting is disturbed by an encoun- 
ter with a wild beast. The girl turns to him with a cry of fear 
and distress. His protective impulse is aroused and, putting 
out all his strength and skill, he slays the beast. Another day, 
when Mowgli meets her, she is fleeing before a rival suitor. 
With a sudden fury Mowgli falls upon him and drives him in 
headlong flight. Or perhaps he is worsted in the combat; his 212 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
rival is too strong for him and leaves him on the field, stunned 
and wounded and weak. He drags himself back to his cave, 
nursing his wounds, and thinking constantly of the girl and of 
his rival. He is torn by conflicting desires—his desire to de- 
stroy his rival, as a step to his undisputed possession of the girl, 
and his fear of him (his desire to avoid him). Thus brooding 
and imagining, he thinks out a plan; and, when his strength is 
renewed, he executes it; he lies in wait for his rival at the old 
meeting-place and stretches him dead by a stealthy blow from 
behind. Then Mowgli resumes his courting, and soon he leads 
the girl to a cave he has newly discovered; there they set up 
housekeeping and found a new family. 
Such, we may suppose, was the life of the natural man, before 
language and tools and firm social traditions had raised him far 
above the level of animal behavior. It was not a life of reason, 
principle, conscience, and duty; nor was it the pursuit of plea- 
sure for its own sake, modified by avoidance of pains; nor yet a 
series of chain reflexes. It was a life of instinctive impulse and 
desire, impulse often expressing itself immediately in action, 
but often checked by difficulties encountered or foreseen, and 
then working on, as desire, to sustain imaginative thinking, which 
sometimes issued in plans of action more or less well suited to 
overcome the difficulties. 
We do not know whether, at the stage we have tried to imag- 
ine, man lived chiefly in the trees or on the ground; we know 
nothing of the details of his mode of life; but we may feel sure 
that, whatever its details and general habit, arboreal or other, 
it was a life of the kind we have imagined, a life governed by 
instinctive impulses similar to those of the other higher mam- 
mals, and differing from their mode of life chiefly in the greater 
foresight and restraint which result from greater power of 
imagining the remote in time and place, and in the greater con- 
tinuity of effort rendered possible by more enduring sentiments 
for a greater variety of objects. The life of social man is sus- 
tained by impulses and desires springing from the same in- 
stincts. It differs from that of the natural man in two ways: 
(i) In that he learns to make use of a vast store of traditional 
knowledge; and (2) in that, under the influence of example and BEHAVIOR OF THE NATURAL MAN 
213 
precept, he builds up many sentiments which are traditional in 
his society, enduring attitudes toward a multitude of objects, 
both the concrete objects which the natural man knows, and the 
abstract objects which only the use of language enables the 
social man to think of or conceive. 
The Hormic Theory of Human Action Contrasted with Other 
Theories 
We have examined and found wanting some of the alterna- 
tive views or theories of human action, the reflex theory and 
the pleasure-pain theory. We have rejected by implication an- 
other widely held theory of human action, namely, the ideo- 
motor theory, which proclaims that all acts are the expression of 
“ideas,” and that every “idea” is by its very nature a ten- 
dency to movement; for I have rejected “idea” as a confused 
and confusing term. But something more in criticism of this 
ideo-motor theory must be said on a later page. For the sake 
of completeness of review of theories of action, let me very briefly 
state and examine yet other alternatives. 
Some authors, while recognizing that animals are moved 
wholly or chiefly by instinctive impulses, are yet unwilling to 
admit that the same is true of man. Or, while recognizing in 
man some very simple instincts, such as instincts to crawl, to 
walk, to climb, to suck, to run, to vociferate, they ascribe his 
more complex modes of behavior to what they are pleased to 
call “innate propensities.” These authors seldom take the 
trouble to attempt to define these “propensities.” If they did 
so, they would, I think, find them to be identical with what we 
have called the instinctive tendencies. The word “propensi- 
ties” is a good one. There is no reason why we should not speak 
of instinctive tendencies as “innate propensities,” and of the 
individually acquired tendencies that we have called sentiments 
as “acquired propensities.” But the use of the word merely to 
obscure the fact of the essential similarity of human to animal 
behavior is to be deprecated. I think that those who recognize 
as instincts in man his various motor capacities, while ascribing 
his more complex behavior to “propensities,” are misled by the 
false doctrine which identifies an instinct with a mere motor 214 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
mechanism. We may fairly ask such persons where they will 
class the behavior of the higher mammals. Is it the expression 
of instincts or of “propensities” ? And if the latter, what is the 
relation of “propensities” to instincts? Does the startled rab- 
bit bolting to his hole exhibit instinct, and the dog shrinking or 
fleeing from his enemy exhibit a “propensity”? Is the return 
of the solitary wasp to her nest due to an instinct or a “propen- 
sity”? Are the strutting and sexual self-display of the male 
pigeon and all his varied behavior of courtship due to the pair- 
ing instinct, while the strictly analogous behavior of the youth 
is to be ascribed to a pairing propensity ? Clearly, this distinc- 
tion is one of no value and cannot be observed. If we give the 
name “innate propensity” to the relatively unspecialized in- 
stincts of the human species, and the name instinct to the more 
highly specialized propensities of the insects, we shall be in 
difficulties with the mammals and birds, whose instincts are in 
the main intermediate in the scale of specialization between 
those of the insects and those of man. The differences between 
the less and the more specialized instincts are perfectly gradual. 
There is another great theory of human action beloved of 
some moralists. They tell us that our higher forms of conduct 
are due to Reason, while they ascribe our simpler and more im- 
pulsive actions to what they call our passions, propensities, or 
instincts, usually prefixing the adjective “baser” or “lower” 
to these words. They are not much interested in these simpler 
modes of action and do not much care how they are described or 
explained, so long as Reason is admitted to be a supreme prin- 
ciple of action. Some of them identify Reason with Conscience 
and with Will. I propose to discuss Reason, Conscience, and 
Will in later chapters. Here I will only point out that, if only 
certain of our most complex modes of behavior, those we call 
moral efforts, are to be attributed to these abstract principles, 
the problem of interpreting all our simpler modes of behavior 
remains unaffected, except in so far as a new problem is created, 
namely, that of defining the relations of the lower modes of be- 
havior to those higher modes which are attributed to some utterly 
unlike principle. Further, I would point out that reasoning (as 
distinct from Reason) plays its part in the lower forms of be- BEHAVIOR OF THE NATURAL MAN 
215 
havior of man. Even our natural man must be supposed to 
reason in a simple manner, when he thinks out a plan of action. 
That is not to say that his actions in such cases are not due to 
his instinctive impulses; it is merely to recognize that reasoning 
plays its part in the discovery of better means for attaining the 
ends prescribed by his instincts. And it is the same with our- 
selves—reasoning, like all other forms of intellectual process, is 
but the servant of the instinctive impulses; it does not prompt 
or impel us to action. By reasoning we discover new means 
for the attainment of our goals; and by its aid we envisage more 
clearly the nature and the further consequences of the goals we 
seek. But, unless we seek or desire some goal because it is our 
nature so to do, no reasoning can make us seek or desire it; it 
can at most reveal to us some probable consequence of action 
as of the kind which is a natural goal for us, that is to say, of 
a kind in the attainment of which some instinctive impulse of 
our nature will find satisfaction. 
Qualities of Conduct and Character 
There is a popular method of explaining human behavior 
which we must very briefly examine; for it is capable of giving 
rise to some confusion. We see a man carry through some reso- 
lute action in the face of obvious danger; and we say that it was 
a brave or courageous act and that it was due to the man’s 
bravery or courage. We see another shrink and run away from 
danger; and we say this behavior was due to his timidity. We 
see a man give away his worldly goods, or his reputation, for the 
sake of the welfare of another; and we say he is generous, and 
ascribe his action to his generosity. Or we see him refuse all 
assistance to a deserving suppliant; and we say that he is mean, 
and ascribe the action to his meanness. We see a boy bullying 
another or teasing a caged animal; and we say he is cruel, and 
ascribe his action to his cruelty. And often in popular speech 
these abstract qualities of conduct—courage, timidity, generos- 
ity, meanness, cruelty and many others—are referred to as 
instincts. The bullying or teasing boy is said to be moved by 
an instinct of cruelty, or the generous man by an instinct of 
generosity. Or, again, these qualities are spoken of as emo- 216 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
tions—the emotion of courage, of cruelty, of generosity. There 
are, I suppose, some hundreds of adjectives which we use in 
describing conduct and character. And each one of these ad- 
jectives, with few exceptions, has its substantival form, the 
name of the abstract quality which, we say, is displayed in the 
concrete action. And, when any man displays such a quality 
frequently or constantly under the appropriate circumstances, 
we say that his character possesses this quality. From this it is 
but a small step to ascribe all actions displaying this quality to 
the quality itself as a factor in the man’s constitution. This 
usage of language is not confined to the popular tradition, but 
figures largely in the literary tradition also. And even some of 
the prominent schools of psychology continue to confuse these 
abstract qualities of conduct and character with the instincts 
and the emotions. It is of the first importance that the beginner 
should understand the difference between the instincts and these 
abstract qualities. 
To ascribe an* action to a quality is to indulge our inveterate 
tendency to reify, to make things and agents of whatever we 
think of by aid of a substantive. To explain a man’s giving 
away his coat by saying that he was prompted or impelled to 
do so by his generosity, his goodness, his kindness, or his ben- 
evolence, is strictly comparable to explaining his falling asleep 
by ascribing it to his sleepiness. In each such case, if the man 
has frequently displayed in his conduct the quality named, the 
ascription of the act to the quality does provide an explanation 
of a sort; for it asserts that the particular act is in conformity 
with his character, and is the sort of action which previous ex- 
perience would lead us to expect from him. But such ascrip- 
tion of an action to some abstract quality of character does 
not carry the explanation of it beyond this very limited range. 
Whereas, when we can confidently ascribe it to an instinct, to 
the working of an instinctive impulse or some conjunction of in- 
stinctive impulses, then we have explained the action as fully 
as we can hope to do; except in so far as we can give some ac- 
count of the genesis of instincts in the race and of the growth 
of the individual’s character by the redirection of instinctive 
impulses to form acquired propensities or sentiments. BEHAVIOR OF THE NATURAL MAN 
217 
Consider an action which would generally be called courageous 
or brave. A boy, entering a barn on his father’s farm, finds a 
group of strange rough boys of his own age torturing some ani- 
mal. He intervenes and, though they tell him with oaths and 
threatening gestures to go away, he stands up to them and in- 
sists on their departure. His action is courageous. But do we 
satisfactorily explain it by ascribing it to his courage ? We ex- 
plain his action only when we correctly assign or name its mo- 
tive. Can we say that his courage was his motive ? Clearly— 
no. If he showed anger and furiously attacked the other boys, 
we should say his immediate motive was anger. But what was 
the ground of his anger ? What other impulse was it that turned 
to anger? Perhaps it was pity for the tortured animal; or per- 
haps his sense of ownership was stirred by the trespassing gang 
and their refusal to go away. Perhaps their insulting replies 
stung him. In the last case, this anger, as is so frequently the 
case, sprang from the obstruction to his self-assertive impulse. 
If he is strong and confident and skilful in combat, he may drive 
off the gang in perfect coolness, without any symptom or feeling 
of anger, perhaps planting a few blows with cool and scientific 
skill. Perhaps, on the other hand, he is filled with fear and 
only screws himself up to intervene by a great effort, calling 
himself a coward for shrinking. In all these cases, his interven- 
tion would be courageous, perhaps most truly so in the last case. 
But courage would not be his motive. Even if his motive were 
wholly or chiefly the desire to prove or display his courage, still 
courage would not be his motive. In this case his principal 
motive would be his self-assertive impulse; and in any case this 
motive would probably co-operate with his pity for the animal, 
that is to say, his protective tender impulse. Thus, in order to 
evaluate conduct and apply the correct adjectives to it, we need 
to know the motive at work; and we cannot explain conduct by 
finding a more or less suitable adjective and then turning the 
adjective into a substantive, reifying the quality so named and 
making of it the active agent, impulsive power, or motive. No 
matter how courageous the boy, he would not have interfered 
without some motive; his quality of courage is displayed only 
when he is moved to action by some impulse springing from 218 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
some instinct. If he felt no pity for the animal, no sense of 
ownership in the place, no desire to assert his authority, he 
might look on curiously, or contemptuously, or sympathetically 
joining in the laughter of the gang, in spite of all his courage. 
It is an excellent exercise in psychology to take actual or 
imaginary instances of behavior, one’s own or others’, and to 
attempt to assign the possible or actual motives. The main 
thesis of this book is that in every case the motive, when truly 
assigned, will be found to be some instinctive impulse or some 
conjunction of two or more such impulses. Hence, as I have 
written elsewhere, “the instincts are the prime movers of all 
human activity; by the conative or impulsive force of some 
instinct, every train of thought, however cold and passionless 
it may seem, is borne along toward its end, and every bodily 
activity is initiated and sustained. The instinctive impulses de- 
termine the ends of all activities and supply the driving power 
by .which all mental activities are sustained; and all the com- 
plex intellectual apparatus of the most highly developed mind 
is but the instrument by which these impulses seek their satis- 
factions, while pleasure and pain do but serve to guide them in 
their choice of the means. Take away these instinctive disposi- 
tions, with their powerful impulses, and the organism would be- 
come incapable of activity of any kind; it would lie inert and 
motionless, like a wonderful clockwork whose mainspring had 
been removed or a steam-engine whose fires had been drawn. 
These impulses are the mental forces that maintain and shape 
all the life of individuals and societies, and in them we are con- 
fronted with the central mystery of life and mind and will.” 1 
I cite this passage as a concise statement of the theory of ac- 
tion which is maintained in these pages; the one we have called 
“the hormic theory of action.” It is not a new theory, but a 
very old one; and it is radically opposed to all the theories enu- 
merated on page 126.2 
I have modified the foregoing passage by leaving out a reference to habits 
as springs of action derived from the instincts, because I seem now to see 
clearly that, as I have argued on pages 114 and 180, motor habits are not in 
1 “Introduction to Social Psychology,” p. 44. 
2 Cf. Chap. II, p. 71, for fuller statement of the hormic theory. BEHAVIOR OF THE NATURAL MAN 
themselves springs of energy or “drives.” I feel that a further qualification of 
this earlier statement is, perhaps, necessary. It is possible that the statement 
does not adequately cover the case of the Epicure, the highly sophisticated 
individual who deliberately aims at and pursues pleasure, and perhaps certain 
instances in which the normal man acts after the fashion of the Epicure. In 
Chapter IX I shall examine this type of action and the hedonist theory to 
which it seems to give plausibility. Here it may suffice to recognize that we 
do learn to desire and to seek opportunities for the successful and there- 
fore pleasurable exercise of our instinctive impulses. This is indeed a con- 
sequence of the fundamental influence of pleasure, which inevitably develops 
with the development of our power of foreseeing the future. Having at- 
tained the satisfaction of some instinctive impulse by a certain line of action, 
the influence of pleasure determines us to act again in the same way under 
similar circumstances; and, as a further stage of influence, it determines us to 
seek the circumstances which will evoke the impulse and give scope to the 
same kind of successful activity and so bring us the same kind of satisfaction; 
as when we go hunting or fishing, without needing the game for the pot; or 
as when we merely “go out to get an appetite for dinner.” 
To recognize the reality of such desire for pleasurable exercise of our natural 
tendencies is by no means to accept the theory of psychological hedonism. 
For that theory asserts that pleasure or the desire for pleasure (or pain or the 
aversion from pain) is the primary spring or motive of all action. Whereas 
we realize that the so-called desire for pleasure is always secondary to instinc- 
tive impulse; that both the pleasure that we have experienced in the past and 
the pleasure that we desire to attain in the future are dependent upon and 
secondary to the working in us of instinctive tendencies, without which we 
should neither act nor experience pleasure. 
We may suppose that the natural man would be moved to some slight 
extent by the desire for pleasurable activity such as he has experienced in the 
past. Most of his activities would be directly prompted by instinctive im- 
pulses and desire in the way we have imagined. But we may suppose that, 
in a time of unusual ease and plenty, he might be moved to go out hunting, 
not by any desire for food, but merely because his imagination depicts with 
delight the seizing of his quarry, and because he desires to renew this activity. 
If he was moved in this way, his hunting would be sport. Undoubtedly sport 
is largely of this nature; it is the putting ourselves under such circumstances 
as will evoke our instinctive impulses, in order that we may enjoy the satis- 
factions that attend their successful exercise. Sports are closely allied to 
games; and what was said of games in an earlier chapter must be supple- 
mented in the light of the present discussion of the secondary desires for 
pleasure, by recognizing that games are renewed largely for the sake of the 
satisfactions which we have learned to find in them, the satisfaction of success- 
ful striving, of display of our skill and strength, of association with others, 
or (in such games as the solving of puzzles) the satisfaction of our curiosity 
by successful effort to solve the puzzle. 
We have now reviewed the behavior of animals and of man 
regarded externally as an animal; and we have carried our ex- 
planation of his behavior in general terms as far as is possible 220 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
without such more exact description of the course of experience 
as is rendered possible only by systematic introspective study. 
We must now turn to such introspective study, the study of 
behavior from within. 
We have not only described types of behavior in general 
terms, but also we have made from the observed facts of be- 
havior certain inferences as to the nature and structure of mind 
in general and of the minds of various species of animals, includ- 
ing the human species. In a similar way, in making our in- 
trospective study, we have to aim not merely at describing the 
course of experience in general terms, but also at extending and 
supplementing our inferential account of the nature and struc- 
ture of the normal human mind. CHAPTER VIII 
PERCEPTUAL THINKING 
In any attempt to describe the course of experience, the 
choice of an appropriate terminology is all important, as I have 
pointed out in the introductory chapter. If we begin by talk- 
ing of “sensations” and “ideas” as things, or as fragments or 
mosaics of stuff called “consciousness,” that terminology will 
infect the whole of our description with incurable confusion. 
We must hold fast to the fact that to experience is to be men- 
tally active; that experiencing is an activity of some being or sub- 
ject who experiences something, or somewhat. The word “object,” 
like the word “thing,” is apt to mean for us in common speech 
a material thing, continuously existing and separable as a co- 
herent whole from its environment of any particular moment. 
But we may use it in a wider sense as the most general name 
for whatever we can think of, or whatever any subject can 
think of. 
The simplest, most elementary kind of thinking, almost all 
the thinking of animals and of young children, is thinking of 
objects present to and affecting the senses, what we may call 
“present objects” in distinction from “remote objects.” The 
“present object” may, of course, be very remote from us in 
space; but we speak of it as present, so long as energy coming 
from it affects our sense-organs appreciably. The fire across 
the room is a “present object,” if its radiant heat effectively 
stimulates my skin. My dog is a “present object,” when I hear 
him barking in the distance or scratching at the door. The 
moon is a “present object,” when the sunlight reflected from it 
falls into my eye and stimulates the retina. But if, while I 
gaze at the moon through the window, a thick cloud swims 
across it or you close the shutter, it becomes for me a “remote 
object.” Our life is passed among many and ever-changing 
“present objects,” and during waking life, at least, we often 222 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
think of present objects; but, if we think of remote objects, we 
are apt to ignore present objects. When we think of a present 
object we are said to perceive it. That is the technical usage of 
the word “perceive.” In common speech it is used more widely 
and loosely; as when we say “I perceive your intention.” 
It is commonly said that we can think of only one thing at 
once. How far that statement requires qualification we must 
consider later. At present we may accept it as approximately 
true, if we interpret the words widely. Of all the “present ob- 
jects” about us, we commonly are concerned with and perceive 
some one only; but this one may be highly complex; it may com- 
prise many physical things, all of which are “present objects” 
and each of which I may perceive separately and individually, if I 
wish to do so; as when I look down on a village from a mountain- 
top or look at a trayful of china. How much of the total field 
of present objects I shall perceive, shall think of, at any moment, 
is determined by my purpose at the moment. If my purpose 
is to recognize the distant village, I perceive the whole of it as 
one object set in a certain environment of meadow or forest. If 
my purpose is to recognize a particular house in it, I perceive 
the individual houses in turn, each in its peculiar setting of 
spatial relations to other things. The perception of any thing 
is only possible so long as that thing, or energy radiating from 
it, affects some sense-organ and initiates in it a nervous current 
which transmits itself to the brain. 
Thus all our perception of the beauty and wonder of the 
material world about us is only possible in virtue of these streams 
of energy poured upon us from material things. And our appre- 
ciation of the moral world is equally dependent upon such 
streams of energy affecting our sense-organs. For it is only 
through the medium of our sense-organs that we become aware of 
one another, that we perceive one another and communicate our 
experience, our knowing, our feeling, and our striving.1 Each 
kind of sense-organ is specially adapted to receive some one 
1 Some considerable evidence exists in favor of the view that this is not strictly 
true and that communication in some more direct mode sometimes occurs. But 
if such “telepathic” communications occur, they would seem to be rare exceptions 
to the general truth of the statement. PERCEPTUAL THINKING 
223 
kind of energy and to concentrate it effectively upon the tips 
of the sensory nerves within it, while shielding them from the 
incidence of other forms of energy. In this way our sense- 
organs are instruments of selection among the streams of energy 
playing upon us, a passive selection, like that of a sieve which, 
in virtue of its structure, lets pass the smaller particles and 
keeps out the larger. The eye is specially adapted to concen- 
trate light upon the tips of the optic nerves (spread out in a 
single layer over the inner surface of the eyeball) while shielding 
them from heat, mechanical pressure or tension, and chemical 
influences. The ear is adapted to bring to bear, as effective 
stimuli upon the auditory nerve, the most delicate vibrations of 
the air, while shielding it from all other influences. The nose 
and tongue contain sense-organs that respond to the chemical 
stimulus of substances floating in the air or dissolved in water, 
respectively. The skin contains organs delicately affected by all 
mechanical pressure and tension, and others which are effec- 
tively stimulated by changes of temperature. And the muscles, 
tendons, ligaments, joint-surfaces, and various membranous sur- 
faces within the body, contain other organs readily stimulated 
by pressure or tension of the parts. This, in brief, is our array 
of sensory-organs through which all perception is achieved. 
There are forms of energy in the world about us to which 
no sense-organ of our own is specially attuned and which, there- 
fore, play little or no part in our perceiving. The physiology of 
the sense-organs is in itself a very large field of study, with an 
immense literature and a multitude of recorded facts. But un- 
fortunately the difficulties of the study are so great that we can- 
not yet give any satisfactory account of the way in which the 
energies stimulate the sensory nerves, nor of the way in which 
the nerves respond to these stimulations. There are many rival 
hypothetical accounts, but none which is entirely satisfactory. 
Our ignorance may be illustrated by reference to our vision. 
The normal man, on looking at the rainbow or other spec- 
trum of sunlight, sees an array of colors—red, orange, yellow, 
green, green-blue, blue, and purple, and between these many 
Visual Perception 224 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
distinguishable transition qualities. We know that each dis- 
tinguishable part of this array of color-qualities corresponds to 
ethereal vibrations of a certain frequency, constituting the light 
of that part of the spectrum. And we infer, with considerable 
confidence, that our perception of each distinguishable quality 
of color implies and depends upon some physico-chemical process 
going on in the brain which is peculiar to, or specific to, that 
quality. Further, if our color-perception is to serve us faithfully 
in the discrimination and recognition of material objects, there 
must be some specific and constant correspondence between these 
brain-processes and the vibration-frequency of each ray of light 
that falls into the eye. But how this correspondence is secured 
we do not know. There are hypotheses of two principal types. 
Those of one type assume that each sensory nerve is capable of 
many kinds of excitation or vibration, and that each nerve- 
fibre somehow takes up and transmits to the brain a vibration 
corresponding in frequency to the ethereal vibration that falls 
upon it. Those of the other type (known as the “theory of 
specific nervous energies”) assume that the kinds of nervous 
process in the visual parts of the brain are very limited in num- 
ber, some three, four, five, or six only. Thus, one famous theory, 
that of Thomas Young, which has the merit of an elegant sim- 
plicity, assumes only three such kinds of nervous process in the 
brain resulting from stimulation of the eye; that these three de- 
termine our perception of red, green, and blue color respectively, 
when they occur singly; and that all other color-qualities are 
experienced upon conjunctions of these three fundamental brain- 
processes in various proportions or intensities. As originally 
propounded, this theory assumed three kinds of fibre in the 
retina and optic nerve and brain, each kind capable of one of 
the three fundamental modes of change, and each most sensitive 
to light of one part of the spectrum only. Various modifications 
of the theory have been proposed1 But there are very great 
difficulties in the way of all varieties of either type of theory, 
so that no one of them holds the field. 
11 have attempted to render this famous theory adequate to the facts by adding 
a number of supplementary hypotheses. “Thomas Young’s Theory of Light and 
Colour Vision,” Mind, N. S., Vol. X. PERCEPTUAL THINKING 
225 
Sensory Qualities Are Signs of Objects 
We are in no better case with the other senses. Hence, al- 
though the study of the senses is a most fascinating one and 
should be a part of the discipline of every professed psycholo- 
gist, and though it bristles with problems of the greatest theoreti- 
cal interest, it has not yet advanced so far as to put any sure 
detailed knowledge at the disposal of the psychologist. One 
great fact of fundamental importance we may regard as estab- 
lished, namely, that somehow, in some way that we do not 
understand, the various qualities of our sensory experience are 
correlated in fairly constant fashion with the specific modes of 
stimulation of our sense-organs that come to them from the 
things around us; so that these qualities of experience serve us 
as signs of the presence of the things from which such stimula- 
tions come. 
It is these qualities of experience, resulting from stimulations 
of our sense-organs, that are called “sensations.” And there is 
no harm in the word, so long as we do not make entities or 
things of these “sensations,” and do not yield to the temptation 
to describe experience, or the mind itself, as a mosaic constructed 
by the justaposition of these so-called elements. 
Philosophers, who for the most part are very ignorant of the 
facts of sensory experience and of the physiology of the senses, 
have raised an immense amount of dust over these so-called 
“sensations.” And it must be admitted that the exact state- 
ment of the part played by sensory experience in our mental 
life is extremely difficult. The difficulty and confusion arise 
largely from the fact that, though the sensory qualities normally 
and primitively serve merely as signs of objects, guiding us in 
our discriminations and recognitions, nevertheless, when we be- 
come introspective, we readily make any one of these qualities 
the object of our thinking; just as, though even more readily 
than, we make other modes of experience, such as our desires, 
our satisfactions, and our emotional excitements, objects of our 
thinking. One consequence of this is that the sensory quality, 
which is a mere sign of the object, is readily confused with the 
object of which it is a sign, and is sometimes said to be identical 226 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
with it; or the physical object is said to be a complex or con- 
junction of such sensory experiences or “ sensations.” Thus it is 
said that, when I look at the moon, I perceive a yellow patch in 
the sky, and that this yellow patch is what I perceive; and so 
the moon is identified with the experience of yellow, with this 
“extensive sensation of yellow quality”; and all the physical 
world is said similarly to consist of patches of “sensation.” 
Then, of course, arises a hubbub over the question whether the 
“sensations,” which are said to be the physical objects, are in 
my mind or out there in space; and some say one thing and some 
the other. All this confusion is largely due to the fact that it 
is, unfortunately, the customary practice of philosophers to 
choose visual experiences and objects visually perceived, as il- 
lustrations in their discussions of perception.1 
If we consider any other type of sensory experience, we have 
no difficulty in avoiding this mass of confusion. For, when we 
hear the stroke of a bell or the humming of an engine, no one 
would be so foolish as to maintain deliberately that the sensory 
experience is the bell or the engine; or that the odor of a skunk 
is a skunk; or that the warmth we feel on approaching the fire 
(or on going out into the sunshine) is the fire (or is the sun). 
In all these cases the sensory quality of experience resulting from 
the sense-stimulation is clearly not the physical object itself, but only 
a sign of it, an occasion for our thinking of the object; it is a sign 
of the presence of the object, a sign which may suggest it to the 
mind, or may set us thinking of it.2 It is seldom that a simple 
sensory quality suffices to determine us to perceive, or to enable 
us to recognize, a physical object. 
1 Much confusion would be avoided if all philosophers were born blind or were 
forbidden to refer to visual perception. 
2 Perhaps the most troublesome case of perception to deal with in a satisfactory 
way is the case of the double images we see on looking at anything (such as the 
moon or a candle-flame) without accurate convergence of the two eyes upon it. 
Shall we say that we see two moons, or two images of one moon ? Or that the 
abnormal functioning of the sense-organ disturbs the correlation which normally 
obtains between sensory experience and the stimulating thing ? PERCEPTUAL THINKING 
227 
A Simplified World 
We may imagine a physical world consisting of distinct physi- 
cal things of a limited number of classes or species, the members 
of each species being exactly alike, and each species capable of 
affecting our sense-organs in a way peculiar to itself and in that 
one way alone. We should then enjoy as many qualities of 
sensory experience as there were species of things; and each 
quality would correspond to one species and serve as the in- 
variable sign of its presence (or, rather, of the presence of some 
member of the species). And we may imagine a creature, 
living in that simple world, to be endowed with as many in- 
stinctive tendencies as sensory qualities, one tendency corre- 
sponding to each quality and to each species of thing, a tendency 
which would be released or set in action by the sense-impression 
peculiar to each species. The life of such a creature would be a 
series of impulsive actions, each provoked in turn by the ap- 
propriate simple sense-impression. The life of the simpler ani- 
mals approximates to this type; not because they live in a 
simpler world; but because they ignore a vast number of ob- 
jects, and react to objects not as distinct individual objects but 
only as generic objects, as objects representative of their genus, 
class, or species. 
Recognition is Based on Sensory Patterns of Three Kinds 
But the physical world is infinitely diversified; no two physical 
things are exactly alike. Even the proverbial two peas are 
found to be unlike, when they are closely examined. Hence 
there is infinite scope for discrimination between kinds of things, 
and between individual things of the same kind; and the crea- 
ture which discriminates most nicely between things will in the 
main be the most successful. The development of the power of 
perceptual discrimination between things and between classes of 
things is the basis of all the higher forms of mental life. Such 
discrimination is only possible in virtue of the infinite com- 
plexity and variety of the impressions, the stimulations, which 
physical things are capable of making upon our sense-organs. 228 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
The complexity and variety of these impressions are of three 
kinds; physical things present patterns of three kinds—qualita- 
tive, temporal, and spatial. 
Qualitative Patterns 
First, the thing may transmit to us a physically complex 
impression, each of the elements or constituents of which is 
capable of exciting in us a correspondingly simple sensory ex- 
perience; it presents a qualitative pattern. When a sense-organ 
is affected by such a complex impression, the resulting sensory 
experience is of a quality unlike the simple quality which results 
from stimulation by any one of the constituents of the complex 
stimulus; and often, though not in all cases, we can, upon intro- 
spection, become aware of a complexity of quality correspond- 
ing to the complexity of the physical stimulus. This is best 
illustrated by musical tones. A good tuning-fork, reinforced 
by an appropriate resonator, will send to the ear a sound-wave 
which is physically simple. And, on listening to the fork, our 
sensory experience is of simple quality. No amount of practice 
and effort of discrimination, it seems, will enable us to discover 
any complexity in it. Consequently we cannot, by hearing, dis- 
criminate one such fork from any other which emits a similar 
wave. But, when a bell is struck, or a stretched wire or string 
is plucked, it communicates to the air a complex vibration, con- 
sisting of several simple vibrations of different frequencies super- 
imposed on one another. If the slowest of these vibrations is of 
the same frequency as that of the pure tuning-fork, we recognize 
the note as similar to that of the fork; but we are at the same 
time aware of a difference of quality; and, if we are practised in 
observation of this kind, we can detect in the sensory experience 
a complexity corresponding to the complexity of the stimulating 
air-wave; we can detect within the complex quality elements 
corresponding to each of the vibration rates within the complex 
air-wave. The facts are commonly described by saying that 
the tuning-fork excites a simple “sensation” of tone; and that 
the vibrating string excites a complex or compound “sensation” 
formed by the fusion of several simple “sensations.” 
This way of describing the facts is perhaps justified by its 
brevity and convenience; but it is apt to be very misleading; PERCEPTUAL THINKING 
229 
for it seems to imply that the several “sensations” come into 
existence as separate things (or perhaps that they are separately 
hauled out of the “unconscious” into the light of “conscious- 
ness”), which then proceed to fuse together; as molten drops 
of two metals may fuse to form an alloy that has some of the 
properties of both constituents. 
It is important to notice that we become aware of this com- 
plexity of the sensory quality only when we adopt the intro- 
spective attitude and make the quality of experience the object 
of our thinking. So long as we remain in the natural attitude 
(when our sensory experiences serve merely as signs of the 
presence of physical objects) the complexity of the impression 
merely serves as the basis of our discrimination and recognition. 
When we hear the pure tone, we say “There is a tuning-fork”; 
and when we hear the complex note of the bell, we say “There 
is the bell ringing.” In a similar way, if a bell and a stretched 
wire emit in turn air-waves the lowest or fundamental vibra- 
tions of which are of the same frequency, we recognize the two 
notes as alike (of the same fundamental pitch, as we say); but, 
at the same time, the two qualities of experience differ in a way 
which enables us to distinguish the notes and to recognize the 
bell and the string. For the complex waves emitted by the two 
instruments, though alike in the frequency of the fundamental 
partial wave, are unlike in the frequency of their upper partial 
waves. If we are practised in such discrimination, we can de- 
tect, in each of the complex impressions, the qualities correspond- 
ing to each of these partial waves. But such analytic discrimi- 
nation is not a necessary condition of our recognition of the bell 
and of the wire, or of our judgment that the two sounds are 
different. The more nearly alike are the distinguishable quali- 
ties within the complex quality of any sensory experience, the 
more difficult is it to distinguish them; or, as is commonly said, 
the more intimately do they fuse together; in other words, the 
more difficult is it to analyze the complex experience when we 
introspectively examine it. 
In the main the various qualities resulting from stimulation 
of any one sense-organ are more alike than those excited through 
two different sense-organs; all auditory qualities are more like 
one another than they are like visual qualities, or taste or touch 230 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
qualities. Hence the complex qualities excited by simultaneous 
stimulation of different senses may, in nearly all cases, be easily 
analyzed in the sense defined above. Yet our recognition of an 
object sometimes depends upon such a conjunction of stimula- 
tions of several senses. Thus, if you take a sip of lemonade, 
normally you merely recognize it as lemonade; the complex 
sensory experience is for you the sign of lemonade. But, if 
your purpose leads you to adopt the introspective attitude, you 
easily detect the acidity and the sweetness (two qualities due 
to stimulation of distinct sense-organs in the tongue) as well 
as the flavor characteristic of lemons (a quality excited through 
sense-organs in the nose) and the cool contact qualities that 
depend on stimulation of sense-organs distributed over the 
mucous membrane of the mouth. And, in the light of previous 
experience, you may accept each of these distinguished qualities 
as the sign of one of the constituents of the complex physical 
thing, the lemonade. The sweetness is the sign of sugar; the 
acidity and the flavor are the sign of lemon; the coolness and 
contact experiences are the sign of the water. In a similar way 
the musician, analyzing his complex auditory experience in the 
presence of an orchestra, may accept the various qualities which 
by analysis he discovers within the whole as signs of the various 
instruments; or the naturalist in the tropical forest may hear in 
the sudden chorus which breaks out at sundown, and which to 
the stranger is a mere chaos of sound, the voices of a hundred 
different species of bird and beast and insect. 
Such successive discrimination of qualities within a qualita- 
tive pattern, or such recognition of the various objects which 
they suggest or signify, requires time. Nevertheless, though the 
complex sense-impression endure but a single moment, we are 
able to effect some such discrimination; because the sensory 
experience outlives the stimulation. 
Temporal Patterns 
A second great aid to recognition is the succession of sense- 
impressions giving rise to a changing course of sensory experi- 
ence, a temporal pattern. Thus, if I hear the cry “Cuck-coo,” PERCEPTUAL THINKING 
231 
it suggests to my mind the bird of that name; whereas the cry 
“cuck” or “coo” alone would probably not do so. The repeated 
experience of the succession of the two qualities has rendered 
them a significant whole for me; so that, when I again have the 
experience, I am apt to think of the bird, and may rightly say 
that I hear or perceive him. Auditory impressions are espe- 
cially apt to occur in characteristic sequences, as in the cries 
and songs of most animals; and in such cases our recognition 
depends, not only on the quality and intensity of the sensory 
experience, but also upon the succession and the rate of suc- 
cession of qualities. When we are familiar with the order of 
succession and with the relations of quality and intensity between 
the phases that make up such a course of experience, recognition 
may be determined by the temporal succession, even though 
the actual qualities are very different upon successive occasions. 
This fact is best illustrated by our recognition of a melody, 
though it be given on successive occasions in very different keys 
and by instruments of very different tones. 
The apprehension of successive phases of sensory experience, 
making a temporal pattern which serves as a sign of an object, 
is sometimes called temporal colligation of sensations. If we 
use this phrase, we must beware again of implying the putting 
together of separately existing entities called “sensations.” 
Temporal pattern is of chief importance in auditory perception. 
It plays some part in tactual perception, but very little in other 
modes of perception. The facts may also be described by 
naming the pattern (the rhythm or the melody) “an object of 
a higher order,” an object, that is to say, which is recognizable 
as such, even though it be presented on successive occasions 
through the medium of very different sensory qualities.1 
Spatial Patterns 
The third great aid to perception derives from the fact that 
two or more sense-impressions, affecting different parts of our 
sensory surfaces, can in many cases be distinguished as locally 
1 Here again is a case which clearly illustrates the absurdity of identifying the 
sensory qualities with the object; for the object, the melody, remains “the same,” 
though all the sensory qualities be different. 232 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
separate or distinct, even though the qualities of the resulting 
experience be indistinguishable as such. Thus, if I look up and 
see the two stars, Castor and Pollux, in the clear night sky, the 
quality of my sensory experience is not appreciably different if 
I turn from Castor to Pollux; and, if I regard them as two parts 
of one whole, I am aware of a difference between them which is 
wholly and only of that peculiar nature we call “ a difference of 
locality or position.” If I turn my gaze to the constellation we 
call "The Plough,” I recognize it immediately in virtue of the 
relative positions of the several points of light. For, in virtue 
of previous experience, these points in these relative positions 
are for me a whole; the pattern is the distinctive feature and 
suggests to me the constellation. 
This combining of locally distinct parts of a total sensory ex- 
perience is sometimes called spatial colligation. The spatial dis- 
tinction of parts of a complex sensory impression and their 
colligation play an immense role in visual perception. Just as 
temporal pattern, the temporal relations of parts, may suffice 
to determine recognition of an object, though its qualities be 
changed; so also, in visual perception, recognition may be based 
wholly on spatial pattern. Every spatial pattern recognizable 
by me, such as an equilateral triangle, a square, a pentagon, is 
for me, like a familiar melody, “an object of higher order.” 
The importance of spatial relations in vision goes further 
than that of temporal relations in hearing. If, in sequences of 
auditory impressions, all differences of quality are abolished, so 
that the same quality is repeated in various temporal patterns 
or rhythms, the variety of such patterns that we can learn to 
recognize is very limited. But in vision, in the absence of all 
differences of quality, we can still recognize an immense variety 
of spatial patterns, as, for example, all the constellations of the 
heavens. And my recognition of the pattern is not dependent 
upon its extension or the apparent distances between the parts, 
nor upon their locations relative to myself or the parts of my 
body. We recognize “The Plough” in the sky, no matter what 
position in its path about the Pole-star it may occupy; though, 
in describing that path, its long axis turns through 360°. And, 
if the same pattern be reproduced on paper in any combination PERCEPTUAL THINKING 
233 
of colors and in any size, we recognzie it equally readily. In 
this last respect spatial pattern is far more elastic than temporal 
pattern. If the time-intervals of a temporal pattern are varied 
beyond very narrow limits, we do not recognize the pattern. 
But, in visual perception, the spatial intervals may be varied 
within extreme limits, without seriously disturbing our recog- 
nition of the pattern. The importance of pattern in visual per- 
ception is well illustrated by black-and-white drawings and by the 
art of the silhouette. There we see how visual pattern alone, 
unaided by differences of quality and intensity of sensory ex- 
perience, can suggest to us, or be the ground of our recognition 
of, an almost infinite variety of objects. In fact, differences of 
quality, of color, are of relatively small practical importance in 
visual perception; pattern predominates vastly. 
The Varieties of Sensory Qualities 
To the practical man the complexities of quality of sensory 
experience serve as signs of things; he seldom or never makes 
these qualities the objects of his thinking. It is only artists, 
psychologists, and certain specialists, such as wine and tea 
tasters, who become interested in qualities as such and learn 
to think of them in abstraction from the objects they signify. 
Accordingly, the variety of words used in common speech to 
denote these qualities is very inadequate. The musicians have 
devised a technical notation which supplements the inadequacy 
of common speech to the qualities of auditory experience; but 
in the sphere of visual qualities little has been done by the 
artists in this direction. 
There can be little doubt that the range of sensory qualities of 
our experience is much wider (richer in varieties) than that of 
the lower animals; and, if we accept the continuity of human 
and animal evolution from primitive forms of life, it seems nec- 
essary to suppose that the various qualities have become gradu- 
ally differentiated from some primordial sensory experience. 
But this is a very speculative topic of which little can be said 
with any confidence. At present we have to accept the human 
capacities for sensory experience as a bare fact. We do not 234 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
even know how far we are alike or different in respect of these 
capacities. Instances of well-marked color-blindness are not 
rare; and these, together with other anomalies of sensory capac- 
ity, warn us against the assumption that we are uniformly 
endowed. Yet it seems in the highest degree probable that, 
apart from a small percentage of individuals who suffer from 
pathological or developmental defects, and apart from some 
slight racial differences, the whole human species enjoys a range 
of sensory capacities which is nearly the same for all individuals.1 
Individual differences of capacity for sensory discrimination 
seem to be mainly, though not wholly, due to different degrees 
of practice in discrimination. I say “mainly, though not 
wholly”; because apart from gross defects, such as color- 
blindness, individuals do differ in respect of sensory discrimina- 
tion in a way which cannot be attributed to degrees of practice 
or of general intelligence. There are highly intelligent persons 
who seem incapable of achieving the finer discriminations of 
one sense, while surpassing the average man in the discrimina- 
tion of another sense. And there are others who, with com- 
paratively little effort and practice, carry their fineness of dis- 
crimination in some one sense-province far beyond the level of 
the average man. 
Temporal Perception 
Our capacities for temporal discrimination and colligation 
seem to follow from the nature of experience as a succession of 
phases, each giving place more or less gradually to its successor. 
This is not due merely to the fact that we live in a physical world 
that is constantly changing and raining new stimuli upon our 
sense-organs. It is due also to the fact that the very nature of 
mental activity is to progress from the present toward the fu- 
ture, to reach out toward the future, anticipating the coming 
changes. In this respect, as in so many others, our minds are 
adapted to the world we live in, a constantly changing world. 
1 Cf. “Reports of the Cambridge Anthropological Expedition to Torres Straits.” 
Members of this party attempted for the first time a complete survey of the sen- 
sory capacities of a people of primitive culture. We found evidence of only slight 
differences from Europeans. PERCEPTUAL THINKING 
235 
But if, as now constituted, we could suddenly be transplanted 
to a changeless environment, our experience would still be a 
constant succession of phases; because we should turn from one 
object to another and perceive them successively. Nevertheless 
the continuity of changes in the physical world, especially of 
changes of position and of changes of the sounds uttered by our 
fellow-creatures, is an important condition of our temporal per- 
ception. We learn to accept a continuously changing sound as 
significant of one object, and a continuously changing visual 
experience as similarly the sign of one object. Yet our capacity 
for temporal colligation is narrowly limited. We can recognize 
a series of sounds of uniform quality, only if it is very short; and, 
even if the sounds follow upon one another in a regular rhythm 
marked by differences of intensity or of time interval, we can 
colligate them in one recognizable whole only if the series does 
not endure for more than a few seconds. And even when we 
get further help from differences of tone, as in a bar of music, 
our range of colligation is not greatly extended. It is for this 
reason, one may suppose, that the songs of birds and the cries of 
animals, which serve as recognition-marks, are never more than 
the repetition of a short series of tones, a temporal pattern of 
brief duration. 
Spatial Perception 
Spatial discrimination seems to be the fundamental and most 
primitive form of spatial experience—to hear two successive 
sounds as coming from different directions, to see successively 
two points of light as in different positions, to feel two touches 
as in different positions on the skin. Though we cannot imag- 
ine a creature lacking all appreciation of temporal succession, 
we can imagine one devoid of all capacity for this most primi- 
tive mode of spatial experience. The perceptual discrimina- 
tions of such a creature would be based wholly on differences of 
sensory quality and on temporal pattern. It is obvious that it 
would be but very poorly adapted to live in our spatial world of 
moving things. It would lack the most fundamental function 
of mind, which seems to be the guidance of bodily movement so 
as to effect changes in our relations to the objects about us— 236 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
changes of a kind that will promote our own welfare and that of 
the race. 
Our spatial experience has been studied and discussed at 
great length by thousands of philosophers and psychologists; 
the whole topic bristles with fascinating problems and an im- 
mense amount of fine experimental work has been done with 
the aim of throwing light upon it. And yet we are very far from 
having attained to an intelligible and generally acceptable way 
of describing and explaining it. 
It is not easy to classify in groups the rival views or theories, 
or to state concisely the type theory of each group. The dis- 
cussion has raged largely round the alternatives of nativistic 
and genetic theories. These are perhaps the two most compre- 
hensive headings. By a “genetic theory” is meant one which 
assumes that all the capacity for spatial experience enjoyed by 
any individual is acquired or built up by him in the course of 
his life; that he brings with him at birth no ready-made, though 
perhaps latent, capacity for spatial discrimination or spatial col- 
ligation. By a “nativistic theory” is meant one which does 
assume some such capacity as hereditarily given or innate in 
our constitution, even though it may develop in the individual 
only gradually under the influence of experience. 
The principal theories of spatial perception fall into three 
fairly distinct groups: (i) Associationist theories; these are in 
general frankly sensationist. The more recent exponents of 
theories of this type supplement or replace the principle that 
sensations cohere or cluster together in virtue of “association” 
by the principle that they fuse or become synthesized into 
compounds unlike themselves (namely, in spatial perception, 
the spatially extended qualities); this is the principle of mental 
chemistry. (2) The extensity theory which, when combined, as 
by James, with sensationism, asserts that every sensation, every 
atom of mind-stuff, possesses the attribute of extensity, and 
must always exhibit extensity in some degree, just as it must 
always have some degree of intensity. (3) The psychic-stimu- 
lus theory, which asserts that the immediate sensory effects of 
a spatial pattern serve merely to provoke the mind to think the 
perceived object as having spatial attributes; the capacity for PERCEPTUAL THINKING 
237 
spatial thinking being inherent in the mind, over and above its 
capacity for responding to the sense-stimuli with divers sensory 
qualities. 
The most extreme form of genetic theory is that of the English Association- 
ist School, the tradition of which descends from Locke and Hume through 
Hartley, James Mill, John Stuart Mill, and Alexander Bain. Accepting John 
Locke’s dictum that the mind at birth is a tabula rasa, a clean sheet, upon 
which the sense-impressions of the physical world record themselves as “sen- 
sations,” psychologists of this school recognize only one principle of mental 
activity, namely, “association.” They set out to describe the genesis of 
spatial “ideas” according to this principle as follows: Perception of position 
and distance is, it is clear, connected with bodily movement. In order to 
reach a spot seen in any direction and at a given distance, with my finger, 
my eye, or by bodily locomotion, I must make some train of movements. 
Such movements excite “sensations” through the sense-organs embedded in 
the muscles, tendons, and joints of the moving parts. Through repetition 
of such movements directed to a spot in the same position relative to myself, 
the “sensation” of light or color becomes indissolubly associated with the 
“sensation of movement”; and such association of the “sensations of move- 
ment” with a “visual sensation” (or with any “sensation” of the other 
senses) renders the latter spatial, gives it locality. Further, a group of such 
seen spots excites a group of sensations of color, each of which, being thus 
localized by association with a “sensation of movement,” coheres with its 
fellows to form the “compound sensation” of a colored surface. Some of the 
Associationists, recognizing that this account involves the transformation of 
“sensations of movement” into something quite different, namely, extension 
or other spatial qualities, followed John Mill in supplementing the principle 
of association with that of “mental chemistry”; the sensations of movement, 
in fusing or combining with sensations of color or touch, are transformed, they 
said, as a chemical element is transformed on combining with another. 
The late Professor Wundt, seeing that this simple theory would not work, 
attempted to improve it (i) by giving more explicit recognition and greater 
scope to the principle of mental chemistry, renaming it more appropriately 
as “the principle of creative synthesis,” and (2) by postulating a greater 
variety of the adjuvant sensations which were supposed to enter into the 
synthesis. Adopting a term first used by Hermann Lotze, the Association- 
ists had called “the sensations of movement” the “local signs of the sensa- 
tions of color or of touch.” Wundt saw that the Associationist theory encoun- 
ters this difficulty—How, in the perception of several or many points of light, 
does each local sign find its own visual sensation, in order to fuse with it? 
Reducing the problem to its simplest terms, it may be stated as follows: Two 
stars, one on my right and a second on my left, throw their images on my 
retina, each exciting a “sensation” of color, R and L respectively. Each 
excites also a “sensation” of movement which is peculiar or proper to the 
spot of the retina stimulated; call these r and /. According to the theory, r 
must fuse with R, and l with L, to give it local quality or position. But how 
is r to come together with R, and l with L? May not r just as well rush 
into the arms of L? Is it a matter of habits? The theory of neural habit 238 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
will not help here at all; for the habits must be attributed to the sensations 
themselves; which is going a long way toward not only reifying, but also per- 
sonifying, the “ sensations.” But, even granting that a “ sensation ” of a given 
quality may form a habit, a difficulty remains. The “sensation” from R (or 
rather every “sensation” excited from this one retinal spot) may have on 
successive occasions any one of the whole range of visual qualities; and so 
may that from L. We cannot therefore identify the “sensation” R on suc- 
cessive occasions, personify it, and attribute to it the habit of fusing with r. 
Some authors, seeing this difficulty, have assumed that the various “sensa- 
tions” excited on successive occasions from any one point of the retina have 
not only their color-qualities, but also some further quality which is peculiar 
to all color-qualities excited from this point; and they have proposed to call 
this hypothetical-quality element the local sign of the “sensation” from that 
point. Of course this peculiar quality must be assumed to be, like the alleged 
“movement sensations,” subconscious. Wundt’s “theory of complex local 
signs” combines these two theories of local signs and aims, by so doing, to 
overcome their obvious inadequacies. For, on the assumption of the reality 
of both kinds of local sign, the “sensation” from each point of the retina, no 
matter what its color-quality, is labelled by this adjuvant subconscious 
quality; the “motor sensation” excited from that point may therefore recog- 
nize it; r may recognize R, and l recognize L, and each proceed to fuse with 
its appropriate fellow to give it a locality or position distinct from all others. 
This theory of Wundt’s is the high-water mark of the genetic theories. What 
shall we say of it? First, that it involves in an extreme degree the illegiti- 
mate process of making abstract entities, the so-called “sensations,” into 
concrete things, and endowing them with quasi-personal powers. For they 
are credited not only with the power of seeking out their appropriate fellows 
and of fusing with them, but also with the power of creating out of a com- 
plex mass of sensation-qualities something of an entirely different order, 
namely, experience of spatial extension and pattern, including extension in 
the third dimension; for the theory professes to explain that also on similar 
lines. 
The chapter on “Space-perception” in James’s “Principles” is perhaps the 
best discussion of the problem ever written. He rejects the Associationist 
theory root and branch, agreeing with those who assert that spatial qualities 
cannot be generated by, or out of, “sensations” which are entirely devoid of 
spatiality. “The truth is,” he wrote, “that the English Associationist School, 
in trying to show how much their principle can accomplish, have altogether 
overshot the mark and espoused a kind of theory in respect to space-percep- 
tion which the general tenor of their philosophy should lead them to abhor. 
Really there are but three possible kinds of theory concerning space. Either 
(i) there is no spatial quality of sensation at all, and space is a mere symbol 
of succession; or (2) there is an extensive quality given immediately in certain 
particular sensations; or, finally, (3) there is a quality produced out of the 
inward resources of the mind, to envelop sensations which, as given originally, 
are not spatial, but which, on being cast into the spatial form become united 
and orderly. This last is the Kantian view. Stumpf admirably designates 
it as the “psychic stimulus” theory, the crude sensations being considered as 
“goads to the mind to put forth its slumbering power.” 1 James rejects the 
1 Vol. II, p. 271. PERCEPTUAL THINKING 
239 
first and the third theories, in the main because he has set himself to con- 
struct his psychology on a sensationist basis. He accepts the second theory, 
namely, that “there is an extensive quality given immediately in certain par- 
ticular sensations.” Others who adopt this theory speak of this “extensive 
quality” of sensations as “extensity” or “voluminosity” and allege that it 
is a quality or attribute common to all “sensations.” It is said that experi- 
ence, while it cannot lead to the creation of spatiality, does, especially through 
repeated movements of our sense-organs over extended surfaces, lead to the 
orderly discrimination of positions within this natively given “extensity” 
which is common to all “sensations.” 
This second theory is thus nativistic and sensationist. Is it acceptable and 
satisfactory so far as it goes? I think not. First, it involves all the radical 
errors of “sensationism,” especially the error of regarding “the sensation,” 
an abstract object which we learn to think of only by the exercise and devel- 
opment of the highly intellectual function of abstraction, as a concrete entity 
after the pattern of a physical thing, an entity possessing a number of attri- 
butes and powers. This is shown by the language which James inevitably 
uses in expounding the theory. “All our sensations,” he says, “are positively 
and inexplicably extensive wholes.” 1 But “a whole” is just what any sen- 
sory quality of experience never is. The “wholes,” the “entities,” we think 
of, we constitute by our thinking. As James has so well shown in another 
connection, they are purely relative to our interests and purposes. It is 
wholly impossible to point to any “sensation” which is a natural “whole,” 
which we can think of as such. A whole must have limits or boundaries 
that mark it off from other “wholes.” A sensory quality is no more a whole 
than Space, or Time, or Strength, or Speed, or Courage, or Virtue, or Beauty, 
or any other abstraction; and what is called “a sensation” is only some 
sensory quality of experience that we choose to make the object of our think- 
ing, instead of accepting it as a sign of the presence of some physical object. 
Hence, to say that sensations are “extensive wholes” is to answer in the 
affirmative a meaningless question that should never be asked, the question: 
Are “sensations” spatial, extended, extensive? And the affirmative answer 
is a long step on the way toward that pseudo-Realism which asserts that the 
physical world is made up of “sensations.” James’s sensationist account is 
not even consistent with itself. For, while on one page we are told that “all 
our sensations are . . . extensive wholes,” on another (page 216) we are told 
that distance, height, and breadth are in strictness themselves sensations. 
And this is only one of many illustrations of the fact that the Sensationist who, 
like James, takes his program seriously and attempts to carry it through, 
finds himself compelled (as James himself did) to invent “sensations” of many 
strange kinds, in order to have an adequate variety of material with which to 
build up or compose “the stream of consciousness,” “sensations” of relations 
of many kinds besides spatial and temporal relations, for example, sensations 
of likeness and of difference and of all the relations expressed by “if” and 
“or” and “of,” and by all other conjunctions and prepositions and adverbs. 
Let us hold fast to the truth that what is called “a sensation” is a quality 
of experience arising as a reaction of the mind (or, if you prefer, of the organ- 
ism) to a physical stimulus; such experience is not given us by the brain- 
process as a ready-made article, like a cake or a lollipop, as James’s account 
1 Op. cit., p. 268. 240 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
seems to imply. It is a psychic reaction to a stimulus. We shall, then, not 
shrink from the epithet “psychical stimulist,” and may turn to the “psychic 
stimulus” theory of spatial perception, to see if it can be intelligibly stated.1 
James’s statement of the theory runs as follows: “There is a quality produced 
out of the inward resources of the mind, to envelop sensations which, as 
given originally, are not spatial, but which, on being cast into the spatial 
form, become united and orderly.” 2 I am not prepared to say whether this 
is, as James says, the Kantian view; like some others, I find it difficult to 
know what that view exactly is. But I am sure that it is not a good state- 
ment of the psychic-stimulus theory. It queers the pitch for that theory 
from the outset by attempting to combine it with the sensationist-theory, for 
whose errors it is not responsible. The “sensations” are assumed to be 
“given” as non-spatial wholes, which have to be subsequently converted into 
spatial wholes, and then placed side by side in orderly fashion, exactly like so 
many bricks. James is so dominated by the mosaic-theory of consciousness 
that he imports it even into his statement of rival theories. 
Hermann Lotze has given the best statement of the “psychic stimulus” 
theory. His term “local-signs” has been borrowed by many authors, most 
of whom have used it in a sense quite other than Lotze’s, many of them, like 
Wundt, assuming that the local sign is necessarily a “sensation” of some 
sort. Lotze’s great contribution was essentially this: he pointed out that, 
when the images of two spots of light of similar physical quality, like two 
stars, are projected onto two separate spots of the retina and are seen as two 
spots, R and L, of similar quality and brightness but of different position, we 
must assume that the two nervous processes initiated in the retina are alike 
in respect of those factors which determine quality and brightness; but that 
we must postulate in each process, in addition to these factors which are 
alike in both, some factor or element which is peculiar to each and which is 
the same for every process initiated at each of the spots, no matter what the 
quality of the sensory experience it gives rise to. This factor or element in 
the total nervous process initiated by stimulation of any spot of the retina, 
a factor which remains constant for that spot, no matter what the physical 
nature of the stimulus or the quality of the resulting sensory experience, is 
11 am glad to find evidence that leading German psychologists are now revolt- 
ing against the “mosaic” theory of consciousness which has so long been domi- 
nant. In illustration of the fact I cite a single untranslatable passage from an 
article by Professor M. Wertheimer, the whole of which is an expansion of the 
view implied: “Bei der wissenschaftlichen Behandlung der Wahrnehmung ist 
hiernach nicht fundierend auszugehen von der ‘Summe’ der Einzelreize einerseits 
und der ‘Summe’ der Empfindungen andererseits in Einzelentsprechung unter 
sekundarer summativer Hinzufiigung weiterer Factoren, sondern—und das ist 
schlicht tatsachennaher—von der Reizkonstellation einerseits und dem psychisch 
tatsachlich Gegebenen in seinem Gestalthaften andererseits. Neben den Faktoren 
der Reizkonstellation (deren Ganzfaktoren schon zu beriichsichtigen sind) sind 
gesetzliche subjektive Faktoren bestimmend, welche in wesentlicher Hinsicht 
charakteristische Ganzbedingtheiten darstellen.” “Untersuchnungen zur Lehre 
von der Gestalt,” Psychologische Forschung, Vol. I, 1921. The position taken is 
essentially similar to that maintained in these pages and briefly set out in the 
chapter on “Meaning” in my “Body and Mind,” 1911. 
* Op. tit., p. 272. PERCEPTUAL THINKING 
241 
what Lotze proposed to call the "local sign." Without some such factor it 
would be impossible for the subject to distinguish the two stars as two locally 
distinct spots of light. Since so much confusion and misrepresentation have 
been current, it seems worth while to restate the reasoning in another way. 
If any one spot of the retina is stimulated successively by light of many dif- 
ferent vibration-rates and amplitudes, the subject sees a spot of light of 
varying color and brightness, but sees it occupying constantly the same 
position. From this we may confidently infer that the nervous process in- 
itiated in the retina is a complex of factors; there are at least three factors, 
which determine, or are the ground of, the subject’s knowledge or awareness 
of the color, of the brightness, and of the position of the spot of light, respec- 
tively. Of these three factors, the third, that which is the ground of the 
subject’s appreciation of the position of the spot of light, is the local sign. 
It is constant (under normal conditions) and specific for each spot of the 
retina stimulation of which may result in the subject’s seeing a locally dis- 
tinct spot of light. 
Lotze’s local sign is, then, not a “sensation” and not any mode or quality 
of experience.1 It is a purely nervous process, initiated by the stimulus to 
the retina; and its specific nature depends upon the locality of the retinal 
spot stimulated. So far, it seems to me, Lotze’s theory of local signs must 
be accepted by every one. His reasoning is as conclusive and convincing as 
any reasoning can be. Lotze went on to inquire, What sort of nervous proc- 
ess (or factor in the total nervous process initiated by the stimulus) this may 
be ? He pointed out that the eyeball is moved by a complex system of motor 
mechanisms, such that the stimulation of any eccentric point of the retina 
results, if not counteracted, in a reflex rotational movement of the eyeball 
which brings the fovea, the central spot of the retina, into the position of the 
stimulated spot, so that the fovea then receives the optical image of the star 
(or other source of the stimulating light). The movement of the eyeball, 
required to effect by the shortest route this translation of the fovea to the 
position of the optical image, is specific for each point of the retina; it requires 
therefore a specific conjunction of the nervous processes which determine 
the movements or the contractions of the muscles of the eye. Lotze sug- 
gested that this specific conjunction of innervation processes is the factor 
in the total nervous process initiated by the stimulus which is the local sign 
in visual perception. He did not say that the innervation process gives rise 
to a “sensation of movement" which becomes fused or “creatively syn- 
thesized” with the “sensation” of color. The activity, call it creative or 
not, as you please, which constitutes the knowing of the position of the star, 
the recognition of its direction and distance, and the capacity for such know- 
ing, such recognition, he attributed not to “sensations,” but to the mind, 
soul, or subject of experience. Lotze’s doctrine thus brings us back to fun- 
damentals. The essence of the sensationist position is that knowing and 
thinking of every kind consist in “having sensations,” in “sensations” com- 
ing into existence or being hauled out of “the unconscious,” in various com- 
plex conjunctions. The anti-sensationist doctrine is that thinking or know- 
ing cannot be adequately described in that way; it asserts that all thinking, 
all experience, involves a knowing of something (technically called “cogni- 
tion”) and a striving in relation to it (technically called “conation”), and 
1 This is true of his original statement. Later statements were modified by him. 242 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
that the qualities of sensory experience are merely occasions or provocatives of 
this cognitive-conative activity which is thinking. 
What were the grounds of James’s rejection of the psychic-stimulus theory, 
apart from his resolute adhesion to his sensationist program? He wrote: 
“The essence of the Kantian contention is that there are not spaces, but 
Space—one infinite continuous Unit—and that our knowledge of this cannot 
be a piecemeal sensational affair, produced by summation and abstraction, 
to which the obvious reply is that, if any known thing bears on its front the 
appearance of piecemeal construction and abstraction, it is this very notion 
of the infinite unitary space of the world.”1 I imagine that this is not an 
accurate statement of the Kantian view; it seems to me to be an instance 
of the neglect of a rule, the nice observance of which is essential to all clear 
psychological and philosophical thinking, a rule seldom carefully observed, 
the rule, namely, that we should always distinguish with the utmost care 
between, on the one hand, the object we think of and, on the other hand, 
our thinking of it.2 Of course, if “Solipsism” is true, if I am alone in the 
world, or, rather, if I am the world, then the objects I think of, other than 
the modes of my own experience, have no existence, and my thinking alone 
is real. But, when I think of them, I think of them as existing, and, whether 
I am right or wrong in so thinking, I must distinguish between the object as 
so thought of and my thinking of it. Space, then, is an object which I think 
of, in various ways at various times. The question at issue between nativists 
and geneticists is not: Do I bring this object ready-made with me into the 
world? Nor is it: Do I bring with me, or hereditarily possess, a “category,” 
or a “concept,” or an “idea” of Space? But rather the question is: Does 
my innate constitution comprise a capacity, or a disposition to develop a 
capacity, for perceiving spatial relations and for thinking spatially in the 
many ways I do come to think spatially? Or does each of us acquire and 
build up this capacity de novo in the course of his individual life ? 
If we reflect on the extreme complexity of the processes involved in spatial 
thinking, and on the fact that some animals seem, as we have seen, to exercise 
a similar power of spatial thinking with very little prior individual experience, 
we must decide in favor of the nativistic view. But we cannot be content, like 
James, to say that ‘‘ sensations ’ ’ are natively endowed with “ extensity. ” This 
statement is really an illusory subterfuge. It is an attempt to put into the 
“sensations” something out of which we may suppose our spatial thinking to 
be constructed, namely, by juxtaposition of bits of “ extensity.” We may agree 
with James in holding that, if the world of extended things (or our thinking 
of it) is to be made up of “sensations,” it is necessary to assume that the 
“sensations” are themselves extended or extensive. But, if we are of the 
opinion that this way of describing either the physical world, or our thinking 
of it, is wrong, misleading, not conducive to success in our practical activities, 
then we may relegate the extensity of sensations to the limbo to which “sen- 
sations,” “ideas,” “percepts,” “concepts,” and all such phantasmagoria 
properly belong. 
Another objection raised by James to the “psychic stimulus” theory is the 
following: After citing a long passage from Schopenhauer, which leads up to 
1 Op. cit., p. 275. 
2 What is called “idealism” in philosophy has generally taken the form of an 
elaborate effort to abolish this distinction without falling into Solipsism. PERCEPTUAL THINKING 
243 
the conclusion that "the perception of the external world is essentially an in- 
tellectual process, a work of the understanding, to which sensation furnishes 
merely the occasion and the data to be interpreted in each particular case,” 
James writes: "I call this view mythological, because I am conscious of no 
such Kantian machine-shop in my mind, and feel no call to disparage the powers 
of poor sensation in this merciless way. I have no introspective experience of 
mentally producing or creating space. My space-intuitions occur not in two 
times, but in one. There is not one moment of passive inextensive sensation, 
succeeded by another of active extensive perception, but the form I see is as 
immediately felt as the color which fills it out.” 1 This argument has weight 
if directed against the assumption that "local signs” are “sensations” of move- 
ment, or of some other kind, which first come into existence and then proceed 
to fuse or “creatively synthesize” themselves with other sensations. But it 
can have little weight against 
the psychic-stimulus theory. 
We frequently have experiences 
in which, while the sensory im- 
pressions and sensory qualities 
remain unchanged, we radically 
change our interpretation of 
the object from which these 
impressions come. The field of 
visual perception bristles with 
examples, many of which James 
has cited in his chapter. Con- 
sider a single instance. The 
figure 9 is an arrangement of 
straight lines drawn on the flat 
surface. At first glance one is 
apt to see it as such, perhaps as a mere confusion of fines. And it is safe to 
say that, at a certain age, I was incapable of seeing it otherwise than as 
such a confusion of lines. But, if I continue to examine this figure, trying 
what I can make of it, I am apt to see it as a cube of which the nearest 
point is the angle a, and the remotest the angle b. And, if I still continue 
to examine it, 1 may perceive it as a cube of which b is the nearest and a 
the remotest point, the spatial significance of every part of the figure under- 
going a corresponding change. In such instances the perceiving of the 
spatial properties of the object is, as a matter of experience, a two-stage, 
or even a three-stage, affair. The extensive properties of the figure are not 
contained in the "sensations” it excites; nor are they generated by the 
juxtaposition of “extensive sensations.” And, though we cannot be mentally 
active about the figure, cannot make it the object of our thinking, without 
thinking it as extensive; yet, by analogy with the difference between seeing it 
as cubical and seeing it as flat, we may imagine our awareness of its spatial 
properties still further reduced and simplified, while the sensory qualities re- 
main unchanged. If this reduction could be carried to the point of total un- 
awareness of spatial properties, leaving merely the sensory qualities, that would 
be a form of anoetic or passive experience. All that we discover in the object, 
beyond such sensory qualities, is discovered by an activity, a constructive 
FIG. 9 
1 Op. tit., p. 275. 244 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
activity, which may work in various ways and with various degrees of success 
upon the same sensory data, producing, as we see in this case, various results.1 
In the interests of Sensationism and of various impossible theories of spa- 
tial perception of the type of Wundt’s, a number of psychologists, of whom 
perhaps Miinsterberg did most to promote the fashion, have assumed and 
even asserted that, in all such cases of varied perception on the basis of con- 
stant sensory stimulation, the muscular or motor or kinsesthetic sensations 
are changed at each change of perception, and that this is the essence of the 
change; the changed motor sensations fusing with the constant color or bright- 
ness sensations to give or constitute the changed “percept.” And they apply 
this assumption to the explanation of a large variety of illusions of sense. This 
is one instance of a mythology of kinaesthetic “sensations” and their doings 
which we shall come across again. It has been worked to death by the be- 
haviorists; though it should have received its quietus years ago, when Professor 
Stratton2 showed, by an ingenious photographic method, that the eye-move- 
ments made during perception of simple geometrical figures bear little rela- 
tion to the shapes of the figures, and, in the case of illusions, no constant or 
regular relation to the nature of the illusion. I have shown the same fact 
by the study of illusions of reversible perspective, such as that produced by 
Fig. 9.3 
Let me try to summarize this very difficult section. Theories of spatial 
perception are of three main types: (1) Associationist theories; these are 
usually sensationist, that is to say, they assume that our spatial thinking is a 
mosaic formed by the juxtaposition or cohering of atoms of mind-stuff (called 
“sensations”) which in themselves are utterly devoid of spatiality; and, fur- 
ther, they are usually “genetic,” that is to say, they assume that each of us 
builds up all his capacity for spatial thinking, de novo, in the course of his 
individual life. Wundt has modified this by substituting for the principle 
of simple clustering of associated “sensations” the principle of “creative 
synthesis,” endowing the non-spatial “sensations” with the capacity to 
engender spatial awareness when they fuse together. (2) Extensity theories; 
these are necessarily nativistic, and they may be sensationist, as in the hands 
1 The determination of the meaning of the parts by the meaning read into the 
whole in such instances as the perception of Fig. 9 illustrates a principle which has 
been well named “relative suggestion.” Let the reader isolate the small cross 
drawn below a in Fig. 9 by covering the rest of the figure with a sheet of paper in 
which is a small hole. He will see the cross as oblique, the horizontal line being 
cut by the other at an angle of 450. Removing the paper screen, the cross will 
appear as, will be given the meaning of, a right-angled cross, because it now ap- 
pears as drawn upon one side of the cube. This process of “relative suggestion” 
may be well studied by the aid of after-images. Let the reader cut a right-angled 
cross out of a white card, place it in a strong light on a dark ground, and fixate 
its centre for thirty seconds. Then let him project the after-image on the walls 
of his chamber. When he projects it on a surface which is at right angles to his 
line of vision, the after-image will appear as a right-angled cross. But on all 
other surfaces the cross will suffer distortion of its angles; the meaning of its angles 
will be adapted to the fixed meanings of the rectangular but obliquely seen walls 
of the chamber. 
2 “ Experimental Psychology and Culture,” Chap. XII. 
3 “Physiological Factors of the Attention-Process,” Mind, N. S., Vol. XII. PERCEPTUAL THINKING 
245 
of James, or non-sensationist, as in the hands of Professor James Ward or 
Professor Stout. (In the latter form the distinction between this and the 
third type of theory is hardly discernible.) (3) The psychic-stimulus theory; 
this may be held in a Kantian form which postulates the conception of tri- 
dimensional space as given once for all in our constitution, a category or form 
of thought or intuition which we impose upon the “manifold data of sense”; 
or it may be held in an evolutionary sense, the capacity for spatial thinking 
being regarded as one which has been slowly built up in the course of organic 
evolution, in a way which each of us recapitulates more or less fully in the 
course of his individual development; the capacity for such recapitulation 
must then be regarded as an inborn tendency to the spontaneous develop- 
ment of the complex mental structure that is presupposed by all developed 
spatial perception.1 
The outcome of an unprejudiced review of theories of spatial 
perception is that the acceptable theory must be nativistic and 
of the psychic-stimulus type; that is to say (i) it must recognize 
that spatial perception, as enjoyed by ourselves and the higher 
animals, is an extremely complex function, the capacity for 
which is not built up by each of us de novo, but is laid down in 
our innate constitution, its spontaneous development during the 
life of the individual being promoted and furthered and refined 
by exercise: (2) it must admit that our recognition of spatial 
qualities of things, their position, distance, size, shape, and pat- 
tern, is achieved only by a mental activity, to which the sense- 
stimulations and the qualities of sensory experience that imme- 
diately follow upon them are but the provocations. As all the 
world knows, since Plato and Herbart, each subject perceives 
only what he is capable of perceiving, only what he is prepared 
by nature and by experience to perceive.2 We may fairly as- 
sume that, in any two normally constituted persons, the sensory 
effects of similar sense-stimulations, the sensory qualities experi- 
1The student may ask—What is “an inborn tendency to development” ? He 
may ask the same question in regard to all our innate endowments, bodily and 
mental; and in all cases the answer is—“We do not know.” The same is true 
also of the specific structure and functions of the simplest plant. 
2 Coleridge has perfectly expressed this truth in the ode “Dejection”: 
“O Lady! we receive but what we give 
And in ourselves alone does Nature live. 
Ours is her wedding garment, ours her shroud! 
And would we aught behold of higher worth 
Than that inanimate cold world allowed 
To the poor loveless, ever-anxious crowd, 246 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
enced, are alike; yet, as we know, they may perceive, in response 
to similar sensory stimulations, very different objects, or per- 
ceive the object with very different degrees of adequacy. In 
every field the expert perceives far more than the inexpert; be- 
cause he reacts upon similar sense-impressions with a more ade- 
quately prepared mind. In some sense the stored traces of his 
many experiences in his special field of observation rise up to 
meet the sense-impressions and to mould them in conformity 
with those past experiences. 
This fact, that the mind is active in perception, supplying 
from its own resources something very essential, over and above 
the sensory qualities with which it responds to sense-stimula- 
tions, this fact is occasionally brought home to us very vividly by 
some such experience as the following: As I walk quietly through 
the forest, something, probably some slight movement or sound, 
provokes me to gaze curiously in a certain direction. There 
before me is a confused patchwork of light and shade and color, 
which, perhaps, I perceive as a rock partially concealed by foli- 
age; until suddenly, without any change in the sense-stimulations 
I am receiving, I perceive an animal standing motionless gazing 
at me; the patchwork of light and shade and color has resolved 
itself into the animal; or rather, my mind, working under the im- 
pulse of curiosity, has suddenly found a richer “meaning” in the 
confused visual impression. We have a similar experience in 
examining one of those puzzle-pictures in which the outlines of 
some familiar object, such as a man or an animal, are so com- 
bined with other lines as to form part of a landscape. We may 
be told to find the man, or the elephant, or what not. And this 
helps one greatly; but, even with such a cue, one may search the 
drawing for some time and fail to see the elephant. Then sud- 
denly it seems to leap out from its background, and is per- 
ceived so clearly, is so obtrusive, that we cannot glance at the 
picture in any position without perceiving it; and we are puz- 
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth 
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud 
Enveloping the earth— 
And from the soul itself must there be sent 
A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth, 
Of all sweet sounds the life and element!” PERCEPTUAL THINKING 
247 
zled to understand how we could have failed to see it at first 
glance. 
It is the same in the simplest spatial perception. When my 
retina receives the optical images of four stars disposed at the 
corners of a square, I do not necessarily see a square. The visual 
impression does not necessarily or always evoke that meaning or, 
as we say, convey that meaning. I can perceive a square only 
in so far as I have learned to think of a square (or possibly am 
prepared by heredity to do so). Every visual pattern is seen by 
me as such, or as an object of definite shape, only in so far as I 
have, by heredity or by training, a mental disposition corre- 
sponding to that object, and in so far as the retinal stimulus 
brings this disposition into play. The figure 9 is an instance in 
which the same retinal stimulation is equally capable of bring- 
ing any one of several pre-formed dispositions into play; hence 
the facility with which it suggests, or signifies to me, any one of 
several objects; or, in other words, the facility with which I 
find different spatial meanings in it, see it as first this object, then 
that. In general terms, we may say that shapes, positions, and 
all spatial attributes are objects which the mind, or the subject, 
thinks in response to solicitations of the senses; they are “mean- 
ings” which we find in the object or read into it. For every ob- 
ject which the subject can think of, he must possess a corre- 
sponding cognitive disposition, innate or acquired; and no 
amount of “extensity,” postulated as inhering in “sensations,” 
will enable the “sensations” to do the thinking, or to find a 
“meaning” for themselves. As we said in dealing with instincts, 
the cognitive disposition is a lock which can he turned by a key of 
appropriate pattern, and the key which is operative in perception is 
the qualitative, the temporal, or the spatial pattern of the complex 
sense-impression. 
Just as there are rhythms or temporal patterns which are too 
complex to be perceived as such by me (because I have not 
built up the required cognitive dispositions), so there are spatial 
patterns too complex for me, and which I can resolve into sig- 
nificant objects of my thinking, only by neglecting some part 
of the total field of sense-impression; as when I single out “The 
Plough” in the heavens, neglecting all the rest of the visual field. 248 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
The fact that “I am conscious of no machine-shop in my 
mind,” that I do not become aware by direct introspection of the 
complexity of the processes involved in spatial perception, is no 
guarantee of their simplicity. In this respect spatial perception 
is not peculiar, but merely conforms to the general rule that our 
experience is very far from adequately expressing the complex- 
ity of the mental processes which issue in acts of knowing and in 
behavior. The processes that go on in our heads never can be 
revealed in all their vast complexity to the introspective glance 
of any psychologist—not even of a William James. Recent de- 
velopments of mental pathology are forcing the recognition of 
this fact more strongly upon psychologists every day; so that 
few remain who have not some acquaintance with it. 
Perception of a Solid Object 
Having glanced at the three great types of complexity upon 
which our perception, our perceptual recognition of objects, de- 
pends, namely, qualitative, temporal, and spatial patterns, let 
us, in order to realize more fully the complexity of perception, 
consider the process of perception of some material thing; and 
let us take the traditional orange. The sensationist account 
runs in some such way as follows: “I see the orange on the ta- 
ble” means that rays reflected from the orange enter my eye 
and form an optical image on my retina. The optical image, by 
stimulating the fibres of the optic nerve, excites the “visual 
sensation” of orange quality and also a complex of “motor sen- 
sations,” which, fusing with the “visual sensation,” give it shape 
and position. In addition to this, in virtue of previous experi- 
ence of oranges, the images of sensations of taste, smell, contact, 
and weight, previously experienced on handling and tasting or- 
anges, are revived, reproduced, or brought back into conscious- 
ness; because, according to the law of association by temporal 
contiguity, all these images are associated with the visual “sen- 
sation” of orange quality.1 The “sensations,” visual and motor, 
1 At this point the account may or may not be complicated, according to taste, 
by the statement that of course the links of association do not obtain between 
“sensations” and “images” as such, but between corresponding elements of the 
cortex of the brain, each link of association being a brain-fact, a path of low re- 
sistance in the cortex. PERCEPTUAL THINKING 
249 
together with all these “images” or revived “sensations” of 
various senses, form a coherent cluster which is the “percept” 
of the orange. This “percept,” once constituted, is capable of 
being revived, reproduced in “consciousness,” by the mere hear- 
ing of the word “orange,” or in many other ways, in the absence 
of any sense-stimulation coming directly from the orange. The 
“percept” has become an “idea” of an orange, which “idea” 
may become variously associated with other similarly constituted 
“ideas,” such as an “idea” of an apple. 
What shall we say of this account of perception ? We cannot 
say that it is altogether false. Put we can say that it is very in- 
adequate and, in certain respects, misleading. It is true that 
in perception the sensory qualities are often complicated by 
imagery. 
Imagery 
Let us grapple at once with imagery. Most adult persons un- 
derstand what it is “to have an image in the mind,” to depict 
“in the mind’s eye” the face of some friend or some familiar 
scene or object. Such depiction is thinking of a remote object 
by aid of imagery; just as perceiving the object is thinking of 
it by the aid of sensory qualities. Most persons also can in some 
measure depict familiar sounds, such as the voice of a friend or 
the striking of the hall clock, “in the mind’s ear.” And some 
can think of odorous and tasting things, of hard and soft and 
smooth and hot or cold things, in the same sort of way. Though 
in these respects individuals seem to differ widely. In all such 
cases we seem to experience in a faint, thin, ghostlike fashion the 
sensory qualities on which we rely in perception. These faint ex- 
periences of the sensory qualities are what are commonly called 
“images”; and “images” are treated by the sensationists in 
much the same way as “sensations” and are assigned much the 
same role as “sensations.” The objections that we have raised 
against “sensations” lie equally against this usage of the term 
“images.” The “image,” like the “sensation,” is an abstraction, 
not a concrete entity. Recognizing the similarity of imagery to 
sensory experience, we may best speak of it as imaginal experi- 
ence or the experiencing of imaginal qualities. The difference 250 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
between the two kinds of experience cannot be adequately de- 
scribed, though it is familiar to us. Perhaps it is best described 
by saying that imaginal qualities lack sensory vividness. Sen- 
sory vividness seems normally to attach only to qualities evoked 
by stimulation of the sense organs. What are the neural con- 
ditions of the difference is a fair topic of speculation and inquiry. 
It is commonly assumed that imagery depends upon neural 
processes going on in those parts of the brain-cortex on excite- 
ment of which the corresponding sensory qualities are experi- 
enced. This, however, is a deep question, by no means decided 
yet, though capable of being decided by empirical evidence.1 
Can “ Meaning" be Analyzed into “ Images" ? 
The more important question for psychology is that of the 
role or function of imagery in thinking in general, and in per- 
ceptual thinking in particular. The Sensationists will have it 
that the “images,” clustering round the “sensations” excited by 
sense-stimulation, give “meaning” to them and convert the 
“sensations” into a “percept” of the object. Thus, when I see 
an orange, “images” of its flavor, its contact, its weight cluster 
round the “color-sensation” of orange quality and constitute 
the “meaning” of the “percept.” 
“Meaning” is a topic of lively contemporary discussion. It 
is commonly raised under the form: How are we to describe “ the 
meaning” of an “idea”? Is it the imagery comprised in the 
“idea”? Or is it something of a different nature? But the 
problem is best raised in connection with perception. Behavior- 
ists at one extreme assert that “meaning” is wholly and solely 
a bodily attitude, an innervation of certain muscles. Others, as 
we have seen, assert that “imagery” is the “meaning” of the 
“percept”; that a “percept” is sensations and images combined 
somehow in one whole. Thus, they say, the spatial “meaning” 
of a point of light is the “images” of the movements I should 
have to make in order to touch that spot with my finger. For 
the spatial qualities of things are undoubtedly “meanings.” 
1 Professor Bergson is the most thorough critic of the common view. He rejects 
it utterly and brings forward an imposing array of evidence. Cf. his “Matter 
and Memory.” In my opinion the question is still open. PERCEPTUAL THINKING 
251 
James introduced a more subtle variety of the sensationist 
account of “meaning” in his famous doctrine of “the fringe of 
thought.” Every substantive part of the “stream of conscious- 
ness” is, he said, surrounded and bathed in a vague mass of 
waxing and waning elements, “sensations” or “images,” and 
these it is which give “meaning” to the “sensations” or “im- 
ages” occupying the “focus of consciousness.” According to 
this doctrine, that which is vague and obscure in the experience 
of any moment constitutes the “meaning” of that which is 
clear and prominent to introspection. A strange theory, indeed ! 
For my “meaning” is the all-important fact in my thinking. To 
perceive an object, or otherwise think of it, is essentially to mean 
that object and no other. So long as I mean the object, it mat- 
ters little what sensory or imaginal qualities enter into my ex- 
perience. When I use the word “orange,” or when I set about 
to do something to or with an orange, to eat it or throw it at 
your head, the all-important thing for the success of my under- 
taking is that I should “mean” the physical thing, the orange; 
or, if I want to call attention to, or to reason about, only the 
color-quality, orange, it is essential that I should mean the color- 
quality and not the physical thing. In both cases I may use 
the word “orange,” or may experience the imaginal color-quality; 
and in both cases the imagery may include other sensory prop- 
erties of the orange; but in the two cases my “meaning” is 
very different. And we know that there are some persons who 
may use the word “orange” in both of these distinct senses or 
meanings and who, though they are incapable of visual imagery, 
nevertheless are perfectly well aware in which sense they use the 
word, what they mean by it as they speak it. 
To mean an object is, then, the very essence of thinking of it, 
and is something quite different from having any cluster of 
“sensations” or “images,” whether clear and vivid, or waning 
or otherwise obscure, marginal, or fringy. If we must describe 
thinking as made up of entities put together, we might say that 
perception, or a “percept,” is “sensations” plus “images” plus 
“meaning,” and that an “idea” is “images” plus “meaning.” 
And we might say that the “sensations” and “images,” in some 
qualitative, temporal, or spatial complex, are the psychic stim- 252 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
uli which evoke the meaning. What, then, is the “meaning”? 
How is it to be introspectively described, if it consists of neither 
sensory nor imaginal qualities ? 
This question is very puzzling; and it is, perhaps, no cause for 
wonder that many psychologists, without subscribing to the ex- 
travagances of the behaviorists or those of the neo-realists, deny 
that “meanings,” over and above the sensory qualities or 
“contents of consciousness,” are facts of experience in any sense 
whatever. We have thus at the present time this remarkable 
state of affairs among psychologists. One party affirms that 
“meaning” is a fact of experience not to be identified with 
sensory or imaginal qualities, and is the all-important fact in 
all experience. A second party identifies “meaning” with the 
“sensations” and “images” at the focus of consciousness. A 
third, admitting the all-importance of “meaning,” identifies it 
with a mass of vague marginal sensations and images, largely 
motor or kinaesthetic.1 A fourth admits the reality and all- 
importance of “meaning” in mental life, and agrees with the 
first party that it is not to be identified with “sensations” and 
“images”: but maintains that psychology must restrict itself to 
describing these latter, and must leave “meaning” to be dealt 
with by logic. This is one way of rendering psychology a 
strictly useless science and preserving it from all contaminating 
contact with problems of human life and human nature.2 A 
fifth party (the behaviorist) says that “meaning” is, like all 
experience, an illusion, a fiction, an error, if conceived as other 
than physical vibrations in the brain. 
This divergence of opinion is due to the fact that the experi- 
ence of “meaning” cannot itself be made an object of intro- 
spective observation, as sensory qualities and other modes of 
experience can, and for this sufficient reason: when we perceive 
1 In order to show the reader that this view is by no means extinct but is seri- 
ously held in an extreme form, I cite the concluding sentence of a recent article on 
the “Development of Meaning” by Doctor R. H. Wheeler {Am. Jour, of Psych., 
1922): “It is quite probable that pure meanings, so-called, are in reality masses 
of diffuse muscular sensations which the reagent has not succeeded in recognizing 
and in describing.” 
2 This seems to be, e. g., Professor Titchener’s doctrine, as set forth most clearly 
in his “Beginner’s Psychology.” PERCEPTUAL THINKING 
253 
a physical object, we mean it; but, if we become introspective 
in the presence of the physical object, if we introspectively 
examine our perceptual activity, we find the sensory and im- 
aginal qualities; and at that very moment the “meaning” is 
changed; we no longer mean the physical object, we no longer 
think of it; rather, we mean, or think of, the thinking of the 
object; and, when we do that and analyze the thinking, we 
discover the sensory qualities, but the “meaning” necessarily 
eludes our introspective observation; it always runs ahead of 
our introspective glance. The attempt is like driving in a 
buggy and trying to catch up with the horse by whipping him 
up or turning him this way and that; however we hasten the 
pace and however quickly we turn, he is always ahead of us. 
And yet, though we were blind and deaf, we should know he was 
there, by inference from the fact that we are borne along and 
from the control we can exercise over him. 
Here, perhaps, we have the explanation of another remark- 
able divergence of opinion, namely, between those who tell us 
that the essential and complete program of psychology is to 
give a systematic account of the findings of introspection, and 
those who say that introspection is essentially impossible. For 
the former party are content to describe the sensory qualities, 
to display “consciousness” as a flowing mosaic of “sensations” 
and “images”; while the others rightly see that such a descrip- 
tion fails to include the essence of “consciousness,” of experi- 
ence, of thinking, namely, the activity of knowing or meaning 
an object. 
The fact is, we cannot describe “meaning” otherwise than in 
terms of the object that we mean; we can only say “I mean this 
or that object.” And it is misleading to use the word “mean- 
ing” as a substantive; just as it is misleading to describe any 
fact of experience in substantival terms. 
Let us notice that some of the authors, who, in discussing 
perception, neglect “meaning” or identify it with imagery, rein- 
troduce it in a chapter devoted to conception. It is common form 
among psychologists to discuss perception and conception as 
though they were entirely different functions, conception being a 
loftier kind of thinking which only the cultivated adult attains to. 254 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
Yet to think of an object is to conceive it; to know, to recognize, 
to be aware of, or conscious of, any object is to conceive it, even 
when our knowing is a perceptual knowing. To mean an object 
is to conceive it. The usual discussion of conception identifies it 
with, or restricts it to, the conceiving of abstract objects. But 
this restriction of the word is indefensible.1 The difference be- 
tween thinking of a concrete thing and of an abstraction is not 
properly described by saying that, in the former case, I have 
“a concrete idea” and, in the latter, “an abstract idea” or a 
“concept” in consciousness. We should rather say that I think 
of or conceive, in the former case, a concrete object, and, in the 
second case, an abstract object. When I look at this fly on my 
page, I may say that I conceive it to be a fly, no less truly than 
I may say that I conceive its vitality, its beauty, its noxious- 
ness, its size, its shape, its color, its powers of flight, its genus, 
or its species. Perceiving is one mode of conceiving.2 
Let us return to our orange. In perceiving it, I know it, cog- 
nize or recognize it as an orange. The word “recognize” is 
sometimes used in the stricter sense of recognizing some particu- 
1Thus Professor Stout writes: “Evidently conception and perception stand in 
antithesis to each other. This antithesis is often represented as identical with 
that between the universal and the particular. Now if this is taken to imply 
that perception involves no universal element, it is entirely false and misleading. 
All thought implies a universal, and a perception is a thought. At the least, it 
implies distinction and recognition, and so carries with it a reference to an object 
which remains the same in its varying appearances. The transition from the 
percept to the concept is not a transition from the merely particular to the uni- 
versal. The difference is rather this: in perception, universal and particular are 
indistinguishably blended; the universal element lies entirely in the bare fact that 
the particular is recognized. Now the essential character of conception is that 
in it the universal is thought of as such, in contradistinction to the particular; 
implicit in the percept, it is explicit in the concept.” (“Analytic Psychology,” 
Vol. 2, p. 173.) This seems to me sound doctrine. I take exception only to the 
terminology. It seems to me better practice to follow James in using “concep- 
tion” as the most general name for the function of apprehending or thinking 
“the universal,” whether in perception or in thinking of abstract objects by the 
aid of names. The process which Stout defines as conception I would then call 
“thinking of abstract objects.” In perception we may exercise this function; as 
when we pay attention to the color of a thing in abstraction from the thing as 
such, or when we perceive, on looking at a man’s face, moral qualities such as 
kindliness, cruelty, or honesty. 
2 The nature of “meaning” has been much investigated in laboratories of late 
years. While some of the investigators continue stoutly to deny “meaning” as PERCEPTUAL THINKING 
255 
lar object previously perceived; but, considered as a mental 
function, the recognition of an object as a representative of its 
class is not essentially different from the recognition of an indi- 
vidual as such; therefore it is better to use the word in the wider 
sense. Almost all our perceiving is recognition in the wider 
sense; it is a knowing, a cognizing of the object as of a kind pre- 
viously known. If the cry of an animal, unlike any I have heard 
before, suddenly breaks upon my ear, claiming my attention by 
its loudness, I do not recognize the animal; but I may recognize 
some animal; the sound signifies to me some animal. Or, even 
if it fails to do that, I recognize at least a sound of a certain char- 
acter; which is to say that the sensory experience suggests or 
signifies some object, the source of the sound. 
Perhaps the only instances of pure cognition, as distinct from 
recognition, are those in which a creature is confronted for the 
first time with an object of the kind that evokes an instinctive 
reaction. When the solitary wasp encounters for the first time 
a creature of the kind which is the natural and sole prey of its 
species; when the hen nightingale hears for the first time the 
song of the male; when the gregarious animal, brought up in 
lonely captivity, encounters for the first time another member 
of his own species; then, we may suppose, an act of pure cogni- 
tion is achieved. 
Now note that, when I perceive the orange, there is somehow 
a fact of experience over and above all sensory and imaginal qualities, the balance 
of such testimony seems to be inclining steadily in favor of the other view. Those 
who adhere consistently to the sensationist program find themselves driven to 
escape the task of dealing with “meaning” by relegating it to the logicians, 
as they relegate motives to the moralists. They thus preserve the purity of the 
sensationist psychology, at the cost of rendering it perfectly useless. As good 
examples of such laboratory work on “meaning,” I refer the student to two arti- 
cles in The Psychological Review. In one of these (Vol. 22) Doctor T. V. Moore 
reports evidence against the identification of “meaning” with imagery of the fol- 
lowing nature. Subjects were instructed to react to printed words, in one series 
as soon as they took the meaning of each word, in the second series as soon as the 
word evoked an image. In nearly all cases, the reactions of the former series were 
more rapid than those of the second series. From which the author infers that 
the “meaning” precedes the image in time. Further, all his subjects found it 
possible to distinguish introspectively between “meaning” and image. In the 
other article (Vol. 24) Doctor E. C. Tolman, using a similar method and a larger 
array of subjects, reports similar results, namely, discrepancy in time between 
“meaning” and image, though in some cases the image preceded the meaning. 256 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
operative in the act of perception not only my previous experi- 
ence of oranges, constituting the act one of recognition, but also 
a vast amount of other experience, experience of material objects 
of many kinds—experiences of seeing, of handling, of tasting, of 
hearing, and so forth. And all this mass of past experience con- 
tributes to determine the “meaning” of the object, or, more 
strictly, my “meaning” as I perceive the orange. I know it, not 
merely as something that may yield me sensory experiences of 
taste and odor and touch, but also as a solid object out there 
in space, with all the properties that I have learned to expect 
of solid objects. If I put out my hand to raise it to my lips, the 
strength of my innervation of my muscles is nicely adjusted to 
its weight, without my reflecting on, or being explicitly aware of, 
its weight; as I realize, if the object proves to be a mere hollow 
shell, of less weight than a normal orange; for it flies up in the 
air in a way which surprises me. Similarly, if you push it off 
the edge of the table and it remains suspended in the air instead 
of falling to the ground, I realize that its gravitational property 
was implicit in my perception. Or if I take a knife to cut it, 
and the knife meets with no resistance; or if I throw it forcibly 
against the wall, and it is not shattered. In a multitude of such 
ways I may be brought to realize the extreme complexity of my 
act of perception, to understand how much is implicit in my 
recognition of the orange, and how much previous experience 
has gone to the formation of this mass of knowledge of material 
things which is implicitly operative in my act of perception, 
guiding my behavior in relation to the object. 
All this mass of knowledge contributes to the “meaning” 
which I find in the object, the “meaning” which is evoked by 
the pattern of the sensory stimulation. And this “meaning” is 
far richer than any imagery which I may introspectively dis- 
cover as playing a part in the act of perception or recognition. 
Of the total “meaning,” the total knowledge which is opera- 
tive in the mind as I perceive the orange, one part or another is 
apt to be more prominent and to play a larger part than others 
in the guidance of my behavior, according to my purpose at the 
moment my glance falls on it. If I am thirsty and seeking to 
allay my thirst, I seize the orange or, at least, perceive it as an PERCEPTUAL THINKING 
257 
object that will satisfy that desire; I perceive it as a succulent 
cool fruit; that part of its total “meaning” is most prominent. 
If I am looking for a missile to throw at an intruding burglar, I 
probably pass it by. But, if I am looking for one to throw play- 
fully at a friend, I may seize it for that purpose; then its weight, 
softness, its property of going “squash ” on impact, are the promi- 
nent part of the “meaning” I find in the visual impression. 
Take another example. I enter my study in the dusk and 
see an irregular brown mass on the hearth-rug. I cannot at 
first recognize it more exactly. Continuing to gaze, I recognize 
it as a dog lying curled up. My “meaning” has become very 
much richer. The brown patch is now not merely a solid mate- 
rial object of a given shape and size and position; but all my 
acquired knowledge of animals and of dogs in general becomes 
operative and determines my behavior. I may retreat; or I 
may go forward and kick at the object.1 In the latter case, if 
my foot meets with no resistance, I am puzzled and disturbed, 
perhaps even frightened. I feel that my recognition has been 
profoundly at fault; the object is not a dog and not even a 
material mass. If my foot meets with the normal soft resis- 
tance, implicitly expected by me, but the mass makes no move- 
ment, again I feel I am at fault. I have perceived a live dog, 
implicitly recognizing the object as having the normal reaction 
tendencies which I have learned to expect in all live dogs; and I 
have been at fault: the dog is a dead dog. 
Or, again, my perception may advance to a third stage of 
explicitness and adequacy; I recognize the brown mass, not only 
as a dog, but as my dog, Jack. Then the “meaning” I read 
into the sensory experience, the “meaning” evoked in my mind 
by the sense-impression, is far richer than before. I know the 
object as having not only all the properties common to solid 
masses and those common to dogs in general, but also as having 
all the moral peculiarities of my dog Jack. And my behavior 
1 It is important to notice that my reaction to the sense-impression is deter- 
mined only indirectly by the nature of the sensory pattern. The “meaning” I 
read into the sensory pattern is the immediate determinant of my reaction, my 
impulse to retreat or advance. How absurd, then, for psychologists to ignore 
the “meaning” and content themselves with an analytic description of the sen- 
sory pattern, as some would have us do. 258 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
is determined by this mass of implicit knowledge of a kind which 
is utterly incapable of being represented in any sensory terms 
less complicated than a page of print or a long disquisition on 
his virtues and vices. I may step over him, or pat him, or 
speak a word, or stir him with my foot; and he may respond 
merely by cocking an eye or an ear at me. Both actions, mine 
and his, are then enormously significant; each implies an act of 
recognition rich in “meaning”; all our past relations of mutual 
confidence and service have gone to build up in each of us a 
knowledge of the other which is implicit in the act of recognition.1 
Perception, then, cannot be adequately described as the rise 
to “consciousness” of certain “sensations” surrounded by a 
cluster of “images,” whether these images be described as focal 
or as constituting a “fringe of thought.” What rises to “con- 
sciousness” is the object perceived or thought of. 
The Herbartian psychologists made a considerable advance 
on sheer associationism. They made much of facts of the order 
we have considered in the last few pages. That rising up in the 
mind of a rich mass of effects of former experience to greet the 
sense-impression of the moment was called by them appercep- 
tion. They conceived the mind as constituted of a mass of 
“ideas,” arranged in more or less orderly fashion in the subcon- 
scious chamber of the mind, like books in a well-classified library. 
The “apperception” of a sense-impression consisted in the 
“ideas” of similar objects rising above the “threshold of con- 
sciousness” to greet and welcome it, and to lead it to its appro- 
priate dwelling-place in the subconscious chamber of “ideas” 
among its nearest relatives. 
11 have sometimes let myself into my house in the small hours of the morning, 
while the dog mentioned on page 196 lay in his usual sleeping-place in the hall. 
On these occasions he made no other movement than to cock his eye or ear, and 
sometimes only a hardly perceptible movement of his tail. Yet, if a stranger 
came down the garden during the night, he would make a furious noise. This 
was no result of training by me; there was no question of the “stamping in” of 
one reflex by pleasure and the “stamping out” of another by pain. The same 
dog, if my absence from home lasted several days and nights, would always spon- 
taneously choose for his sleeping-place the mat outside my wife’s door, instead of 
his usual place down-stairs in the hall. Such behavior is difficult to interpret, but 
it is certainly not a matter of substituting one reflex for another. In both cases 
the dog showed a more or less intelligent appreciation of the total situation. PERCEPTUAL THINKING 
259 
We have rejected the use of the word “idea” because (among 
other reasons) it confuses the act of thinking of an object with 
the enduring conditions which render possible the thinking of 
that object. And we prefer to call that which endures in the 
mind, as the condition of our thinking of any object, not “an 
idea,” but a cognitive dispositionJ 
The complexity of the perceptual process in the developed mind and the 
working of a highly complex cognitive disposition may be illustrated by the 
process of examining such an object as a strange flower, with the purpose of 
classifying it. A person having no botanical knowledge may merely recognize 
it as a flower, and perhaps enjoy its beauty. But in the mind of the botanist 
the disposition which is brought into play by the sight of the flower is highly 
complex, a system of definitely related parts. If, moved by curiosity, he 
proceeds to examine the flower, his attention turns from one feature to another, 
petals, stamens, pistil, ovules, etc., until he has explicitly perceived all these 
parts and their relations to one another. In this train of activity, the suc- 
cessive acts of perception imply the successive coming into predominant 
activity of the parts of the total mental system built up by much previous 
perception of flowers. The whole system is excited from the first; and the 
systematic relation of the parts governs the order of the perceptual activity. 
The parts may be said to be implicitly apprehended throughout the process, 
while each part in turn becomes explicitly apprehended. Such schematic 
implicit apprehension ' characteristic of all our more intelligent and purpose- 
ful perception. 
We see now that the cognitive disposition concerned in any 
act of developed perception is no simple element of the mental 
structure; it must rather be conceived as very complex and as 
related in very complex fashion with other parts of the structure 
of the mind. The facts of apperception of the order of those 
we have considered show that the cognitive structure of the 
mind must be conceived somewhat after the pattern of a tree. 
Perhaps a banyan-tree would be a less inadequate simile than 
an ordinary tree. 
Perception is primarily and fundamentally the cognition, the 
conception, of a material object in space. As James said: “The 
function by which we thus identify a numerically distinct and 
1 If the word “idea” is to be retained in the scientific vocabulary, it would be 
best used as the most general name for enduring cognitive dispositions and sys- 
tems of dispositions, rather than to denote acts of thinking. Its double use, to 
perform both of these services, is the main ground of its convenience and of the 
confusion to which it has given rise. 260 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
permanent subject of discourse [i. e., an object] is called con- 
ception.” 1 He went on to say that an object may be conceived 
with a very minimum of connotation or meaning. “The essen- 
tial point is that it should be reidentified by us as that which 
the talk is about. ... In this sense creatures extremely low 
in the intellectual scale may have conception. All that is re- 
quired is that they should recognize the same experience again. 
A polyp would be a conceptual thinker if a feeling of ‘ Hollo! 
thingumbob, again ! ’ ever flitted through its mind.”2 This seems 
to me true doctrine; but it is quite inconsistent with James’s 
sensationism. It implies the truth that the most rudimentary 
mind is capable of thinking of an object, no matter how in- 
adequately it may think of it. Unless we postulate this function 
of cognition or conception as of the essence of mental life and 
present wherever mind is active, at the very bottom of the evo- 
lutionary scale as well as at its higher levels, we shall never 
evolve it by compounding “sensations” together, not even if we 
endow them with “extensity” or describe them as “extensive 
wholes.” 3 
The simplest mind we can legitimately conceive is, then, one 
which would respond to a sense-impression, not by merely 
“having a sensation,” but by an act of knowing; this act we 
could only describe as becoming aware of something there, an ob- 
ject in space, no matter how completely undefined the nature 
of the object as thought of and the nature of its spatial rela- 
tions. Such a mind, of simplest possible structure, must be 
conceived as consisting of one cognitive disposition linked with 
a single conative disposition. Such a mind would respond to 
every sense-impression that affected it at all (no matter whar 
its nature) with simple awareness of something there and a vague 
undirected impulse of appetition, of striving toward the object. 
Or perhaps, as a matter of speculative probability, we ought to 
1 “Principles,” Vol. I., p. 461. 2 Op. cit., p. 463. 
3 Knowing, cognizing, recognizing, or conceiving is then a fundamental function 
or faculty of mind. We cannot hope to describe or explain the genesis of this out 
of any process of a different type, whether physical process or some hypothetical 
simpler mode of experience, such as “having sensations.” All we can hope to do 
is to understand the relation of the more complex modes of exercise of this func- 
tion to simpler modes, and the evolution of minds capable of the higher modes from 
minds of more lowly constitution and capacity. PERCEPTUAL THINKING 
261 
postulate in the simplest possible mind two unlike cognitive 
dispositions, linked respectively with two conative dispositions, 
one of appetition, one of aversion. A creature so endowed 
would respond to all impressions in one of two ways; the one 
response would be the cognizing of something there to be pur- 
sued ; the other would be the cognizing of something there to be 
avoided. It would, that is to say, have two instincts of the 
most highly generalized type. A creature so endowed might 
get on in the world; and from such a rudimentary mental struc- 
ture the evolution of minds of more complex structure may be 
imagined. 
This seems to be the explanation of the fact that, whatever 
we may think of, we tend to think of it as a thing somewhere in 
space; for to think in that way is the primordial thinking, and we 
only emancipate ourselves from this primordial mode of all think- 
ing by much discipline, if at all. Of course I do not mean to 
imply that the most primitive mind possesses a “concept” of 
Euclidean tri-dimensional Space with which it envelops its 
“sensations,” or within which it locates them; rather, knowledge 
of space, the capacity for spatial perception and conception, must 
be supposed to have been evolved, to have been differentiated 
out of this primordial “there,” with the increasing complexity 
of mental structure. 
All the wealth of things that we learn to perceive and recog- 
nize has been differentiated out of this primordial something— 
this object of widest possible denotation and so nearly lacking 
in all connotation—by successive discriminations between classes 
of objects previously indistinguishable. Each new discrimina- 
tion has involved a further differentiation of the cognitive struc- 
ture of the mind, the whole structure growing, like a tree that 
puts out new twigs from the stem, forming new growing points, 
which in turn divide; until in the developed human mind the 
structure is like a vast tree. The common stem, which supports 
all the branches, twigs, and leaves, is the primordial undiffer- 
entiated cognitive disposition. The main branches correspond 
to the great classes of things; the smaller branches to the more 
special classes; the twigs to still smaller classes; and the leaves 
to individual objects. 262 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
Consider this simile in relation to a single department of 
knowledge, the knowledge of the animal kingdom in the orderly 
mind of a naturalist. This knowledge consists not in a mere 
mass of “ideas” lying latent and unconscious, but in the cognitive 
mental structure which he has built up by a multitude of acts 
of discriminative perception. He recognizes all living things as 
material objects occupying and moving in space; but he recog- 
nizes them also as living. That is to say, he has differentiated 
in his mind a branch of the tree of knowledge, a cognitive dis- 
position, corresponding to living things; and this branch has 
branched again into two branches, one corresponding to ani- 
mals, the other to plants. The animal branch in turn has 
grown out into smaller branches, each one of which corresponds 
to one of the great divisions of the animal kingdom. Each of 
these has put forth twigs corresponding to the various genera 
and species of each kingdom. 
When such a man, one who has acquired all this systematic 
knowledge, who has built up all this orderly mental structure, 
perceives an animal and recognizes it as a member of a particu- 
lar species, he thinks of it, conceives it, not merely as an object 
presenting a particular color-pattern to the eye or sound-pattern 
to the ear. His meaning is far richer than that. He conceives 
it, in that moment of perception, as having not only its specific 
qualities, but also the qualities or properties of its genus, family, 
and phylum, and also the properties common to all animals and 
those common to all living things, and also those common to 
all material things. All this knowledge is implicit and opera- 
tive in his act of recognition; for, if on further observation, the 
animal failed to conform to any one of these categories, the 
observer would be utterly puzzled and the impulse of curiosity 
which led him to examine the creature, instead of attaining sat- 
isfaction in the act of recognition and correct classification, 
would be strongly provoked to further activity. 
Just as any leaf or twig of a tree cannot perform its function 
without the co-operation of the branches and stem which sup- 
port it and from which it was derived by an evolutionary differ- 
entiation, so also the highly special cognitive disposition con- 
cerned in the recognition of the individual or of the species can- PERCEPTUAL THINKING 
263 
not function without the co-operation of the whole of the more 
fundamental dispositions from which it has been differentiated. 
The normal functioning of the leaf or twig implies the function- 
ing of the branches and stem which support it; and in a similar 
way the functioning of the special cognitive disposition implies 
and involves the functioning of its parent dispositions. 
The mental structure may then be compared not only to a 
tree but also to a family tree, of which the successive genera- 
tions remain alive and active, becoming a nation of many co- 
existent co-operating generations. In successive generations 
specialization of labor is carried further; and the work of the 
youngest most highly specialized generation implies, and is only 
possible in virtue of, the co-operation of the less specialized and 
older generations. 
If we apply this way of thinking to the whole of the cognitive 
structure of a well-developed and well-organized mind, we see 
that it approximates to a microcosm which mirrors the macro- 
cosm, the world in which it lives and about which it thinks. 
The perfectly developed and organized mind would have a cog- 
nitive disposition for every individual object and for every spe- 
cies, genus, and class of objects; and these would not be a mere 
unorganized crowd of dispositions, but would be related in a 
perfectly definite treelike system; the relations between the parts 
of the system would correspond to the actual relations between 
all the objects and classes of objects which the subject was 
capable of recognizing or in any way thinking of. 
In a later chapter we must consider the processes of growth of 
mental structure. But first we must inquire into the facts im- 
plied by the word “attention.” 
On an earlier page I wrote that perception is essentially a synthetic activ- 
ity. We have now seen something of the complexity and variety of this 
synthetic activity, which responds to the stimulus of sensory patterns (quali- 
tative, temporal, and spatial) with awareness or cognition of objects. The 
complex object is thought of as a whole or unity comprising many parts; but 
the act of knowing or thinking the complex whole is a single act, though it 
may prolong itself through successive phases. In the total process the vari- 
ous sense-impressions composing the sensory pattern play their parts, con- 
tributing to the total unitary resultant. But the synthetic activity does not 
consist merely in holding or binding together a number of discrete sensory 
elements. The thinking of the object is a unitary act, a psychic response 264 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
to a multiplicity of stimuli. If we could follow and describe the process in 
all its details, we should have to describe a hierarchy of processes, each step 
of which involves the synthetic function, the unity of the act of cognition 
being the final product of the converging hierarchic series. New evidence 
of this vast complexity underlying and constituting the synthetic activity of 
perception has been discovered by the researches of Dr. Henry Head in the 
domain of mental disorders resulting from injuries to the brain. (“Studies in 
Neurology,” 1920.) CHAPTER IX 
ATTENTION AND INTEREST 
All thinking, all experience is a process, an activity rather 
than a state or a thing. That is one reason why it cannot be 
adequately described in static terms such as “sensations” and 
“ideas,” “percepts” and “concepts,” but only in dynamic 
terms, by the use of verbs; and, because the activity is always 
concerned with some object, the verbs chosen should as far as 
possible be transitive rather than intransitive, and in the active 
rather than the passive voice. 
The word “attention” is often used in psychology as a sub- 
stantive; and then the question is asked—What is attention? 
And attention is said to do this, that, and the other, to make 
sensations or ideas more intense, or clearer, or more prominent 
in “Consciousness,” or to single out this object or that. This is 
a survival of the way of speaking proper to the faculty psychol- 
ogy. Such language is confusing. Let us hold fast to the fact 
that there is only one agent in all forms of mental activity, you 
or I, he, she, or it, an agent who can properly be denoted only 
by a proper name or a pronoun, or generally as “the subject.” 
It is true that the agent is also a patient, in so far as he suffers 
the consequences of his actions, the satisfactions of success, the 
dissatisfactions of failure. 
The Cycle of Mental Activity 
Mental activity is a cyclic process, a series of cycles of activ- 
ity. Each cycle begins with some cognition; the subject recog- 
nizes or thinks of some object. This evokes in him an impulse 
to effect some change, if only fuller cognition, more definite 
recognition. The striving thus brings about further cognition, 
which either satisfies the impulse (when the process terminates) 
or fails to do so, when the subject continues to strive, varying 
the direction and nature of his efforts. This cyclic character is 266 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
perhaps most obvious in such an activity as thinking out the 
moves of a game of chess. It is almost equally clear in the case 
of taking in the hand some complex object, as a flower or an 
insect, and examining it with a view to a fuller knowledge of it. 
In such cases the successive cycles are clearly so many steps in 
a larger process which has a certain unity, a unity of aim or 
purpose. If we use the convenient Latin word “conation” to 
denote the striving aspect of mental process, we may conve- 
niently speak of this as the “conative unity” of the process. 
We might use the word “conate” as a verb, in order to complete 
our technical vocabulary. We should then have the parallel 
terms, “cognize, cognition, cognitive,” and “conate, conation, 
and conative,” for the description of mental activity in its double 
aspect of knowing and striving. 
The passive aspect of experience, the suffering of pain or dis- 
satisfaction, the enjoying of pleasure or satisfaction, is conveni- 
ently called “affective”; and, if a corresponding substantive is 
needed, as the most general term, we may speak of “feeling” 
or “affection.” The word “feel” is commonly used as a tran- 
sitive verb, equivalent to “perceive,” as when we say “ I feel the 
roughness of this surface.” This usage is apt to create confu- 
sion. We do not need an active verb to denote facts of this 
order; for that reason the words “affective” and “affection” 
are better than “feeling.” As a verb “feel” should be used 
only in the intransitive sense, as when we say, “ I feel tired or 
lazy or hungry”; and even there we do better to say “I am 
tired,” etc. We often speak of an intellectual or cognitive ac- 
tivity; or of an act of willing or of resolving, choosing, striving, 
purposing; or again of a state of feeling. But it is generally ad- 
mitted that all mental activity has these three aspects, cognitive, 
conative, and affective; and when we apply one of these three 
adjectives to any phase of mental process, we mean merely that 
the aspect named is the most prominent of the three at that 
moment. Each cycle of activity has this triple aspect; though 
each tends to pass through three phases in which cognition, 
conation, and affection are in turn most prominent; as when the 
naturalist, catching sight of a specimen, recognizes it, captures 
it, and gloats over his capture. ATTENTION AND INTEREST 
267 
Is Striving Initiated by Feeling? Or Is Feeling Secondary to 
Striving ? 
It is perhaps a fair question for discussion, whether the three 
phases of dominance of the cycle by cognition, conation, and 
affection, always succeed one another in this order. Many 
authors, including all the psychological hedonists (if there still 
be any) hold that conation naturally succeeds affection and is 
determined by it; that all striving is prompted by feeling, by 
pleasure or pain. This is a very speculative question, though 
of great theoretic interest; it can hardly be answered positively 
by any introspective skill. Theoretically it would seem that 
the natural order of predominance of the three aspects of the 
cycle is cognition, conation, changed cognition, affection. 
The type of experience which gives most color to the hedonist 
position is that in which we suffer some bodily injury and make 
efforts to escape or withdraw. For here, it is said, the pain 
initiates the striving. But in strictness this statement involves, 
as is now generally recognized, a confusion of two senses of the 
word "pain,” namely, what is called "pain-sensation” or bodily 
pain and disagreeable feeling or dissatisfaction or mental pain. 
The German language distinguishes these two kinds of experi- 
ence better than the English; it uses the words Schmerz or Stich- 
empfindung for bodily pain, Unlust for mental pain; though the 
distinction is carefully observed only by psychologists.1 
Bodily pain is a variety of sensory experience; it may be re- 
garded as the primordial undifferentiated sensory quality pushed 
to a high intensity. It serves as the sign of something to be 
escaped and avoided; that is to say it is a specific provocative 
of fear. If one’s effort to withdraw or escape is impeded, pre- 
vented or in any way unsuccessful, and if the strong stimulus con- 
tinues to work, mental pain supervenes immediately and grows 
stronger in proportion to the strength of our unsuccessful efforts 
to escape. If, on the other hand, one can subdue or prevent the 
1 The word “displeasure” would be the best term for “mental pain” but for the 
fact that it is so commonly used to denote a mild degree of anger. It seems to 
me best to continue to use the word “pain” for “mental pain” and to use some 
other term to denote pain-sensation. 268 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
fear, with its strong impulse, and welcome the sensory experience 
as a sign of some beneficial object, the experience is robbed of all 
mental pain, all pain in the true sense; though the quality of the 
sensory experience remains unchanged. We may fairly suppose 
that this is what those martyrs accomplished who, we are told, 
submitted themselves to torture with a calm smile on their faces; 
such martyrs as Latimer, who is said to have calmly held his 
hand in the consuming flames. Few men can accept bodily in- 
juries in this spirit, without any impulse to shrink or desire to 
escape. But most of us can achieve it in respect of minor bodily 
hurts. This afternoon the surgeon has put a row of stitches 
through my scalp. He told me, as kindly surgeons do, that it 
would be a little painful. But he was mistaken, if the term 
painful be taken in its strict sense. After being kept waiting 
some little time, I was glad to feel the needle go through my 
scalp; although of course my sensory experience was of a sting- 
ing burning quality, from which I should have shrunk if I had 
not known its source and full significance.1 Our suffering in the 
dentist’s chair and in similar situations is in the main the suffer- 
ing that comes from ineffectual conflict of impulses, in which 
fear plays a prominent part. 
The doctrine that affection or feeling, in the form of pleasure or pain, deter- 
mines attention and all forms of mental and bodily activity (except merely 
reflex actions) has a long history and has had a great influence, not only in 
psychological speculation, but also in other fields of theory and practice. This 
doctrine (psychological hedonism) was adopted by the founders of the 
utilitarian philosophy, and it is generally regarded as an intrinsic part of 
utilitarian ethics; although the two principles, hedonism and utilitarianism, 
are distinct and neither necessarily implies the other. It has been accepted 
also by many philosophers and psychologists who do not adhere to the utili- 
tarian principle in ethics. The doctrine is peculiarly plausible and is easily 
accepted as obviously true by many men who have made no study of philos- 
ophy or psychology. It was stated in the most uncompromising way by 
Jeremy Bentham, the father of modern utilitarianism. He opened his “Prin- 
ciples of Morals and Legislation’’ with these words: “Nature has placed 
mankind under the governance of two sovereign masters, pain and pleasure. 
It is for them alone to point out what we ought to do, as well as to determine 
1 Such a stimulus as an unexpected needle-prick gives rise to that kind of sen- 
sory experience which most seems to justify the term “a sensation”; for the sharp 
stinging quality breaks suddenly across one’s train of thinking without other 
connection with it; and its “meaning” is very vague and general, namely, some- 
thing to be avoided; that is to say, it approximates to anoetic experience. ATTENTION AND INTEREST 
269 
what we shall do. On the one hand the standard of right and wrong, on the 
other the chain of causes and effects, are fastened to their throne. They 
govern us in all we do, in all we say, in all we think: every effort we can make 
to throw off our subjection will serve but to demonstrate and confirm it. In 
words a man may pretend to abjure their empire, but in reality he will remain 
subject to it all the while. The principle of utility recognizes this subjection, 
and assumes it for the foundation of that system the object of which is to rear 
the fabric of felicity by the hand of reason and of law. Systems which at- 
tempt to question it deal in sounds instead of sense, in caprice instead of 
reason, in darkness instead of light.” With this fine piece of dogmatic 
rhetoric Bentham laid the foundation of utilitarian morals and legislation 
and, without more ado, proceeded to build upon it a vast structure, accepting 
this foundation as an axiom, a truth which needs only to be stated in order to 
secure universal acceptance. Few of his disciples have maintained it quite 
consistently. Alexander Bain, who may be said to have given it its most 
complete expression, combined it (as also did Bentham and the two Mills) 
with the principle of the association of ideas, making of these two principles 
the keys to all psychological problems, the master principles of all thought 
and action. Yet Bain wavered in his assertion of the doctrine in the most 
astonishing and amusing manner; and in this respect very many modern 
philosophers and psychologists resemble Bain. 
The rival doctrine, the hormic theory,1 which is maintained in these pages, 
asserts that conation (action, attention, striving, desire, volition, activity of 
every kind) is immediately determined by cognition, and that pleasure and 
pain result from the conation, are determined by the striving; pleasure, when 
the striving attains its natural goal or progresses toward it; pain, when striv- 
ing is thwarted or obstructed and fails to achieve, or progress toward, its goal. 
This doctrine comes down to us from Aristotle. It has had few consistent 
exponents in the modern period; of these Edward von Hartmann (author of 
“The Philosophy of the Unconscious”) is the most notable and uncompro- 
mising.2 Schopenhauer came near to maintaining it consistently, but in the 
end compromised with the hedonist theory. 
Most of the psychologists of the Scottish School rejected the hedonist doc- 
trine and taught the hormic theory more or less explicitly. They sought the 
prime movers of human activity in what they called “the implanted propen- 
sities.” Dugald Stewart, in whose voluminous works the Scottish psychology 
reached its most mature expression, distinguished five distinct classes of such 
propensities, falling into two natural groups, namely, “instinctive propensi- 
ties” (comprising appetites, desires, and affections) and rational principles of 
action (comprising Self-love and the Moral Faculty). The chaotic condition 
of psychological theory on this fundamental question is well illustrated by 
the writings of Wundt and of William James, and at the present time by 
those of Professor Freud and the other psychoanalysts. Of contemporary 
authors Professor G. F. Stout is the most able and consistent advocate of 
the dependence of feeling on conation (in his “Analytic Psychology”); but 
even he wobbles a little in his later writings. 
The student will naturally ask: “If, accepting the hormic theory, you 
1 Cf. pp. 71, 213, 218. 
2 The senior student should consult von Hartmann’s “Die moderne Psychologie,” 
which contains an excellent sketch of modern views on this problem. 270 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
identify pleasure with the satisfaction of success, and pain with the dissatis- 
faction that comes from thwarting and failure of our strivings, would you 
have us believe that pleasure and pain are merely consequences or expres- 
sions in consciousness of degrees of success and failure, and that they have 
no influence on the course of mental process?” The answer is—by no means. 
Pleasure and pain influence the further course of mental process very power- 
fully; each influences it in two ways which, although closely allied, may be 
usefully distinguished. First, pleasure, arising in the course of mental activ- 
ity, supports that activity, sustains our striving in the direction, or of the kind, 
which brings pleasure; it strengthens and prolongs the impulse or conative ten- 
dency at work in us. Secondly, on recurrence of a situation of the kind in which 
we have striven successfully, our tendency to strive again in the same way 
is stronger; the tendency seems to be confirmed by the previous experience 
of success; and this confirmation of the tendency may fairly be regarded as a 
consequence or result of the pleasure experienced on the former occasion. Con- 
versely pain, arising during striving, tends to divert the striving to other direc- 
tions; and on renewal of the situation in which we have striven unsuccessfully 
and (in consequence) painfully, our tendency to strive again in the same way 
is weakened or abolished or diverted to some new direction; these weaken- 
ings and diversions of the impulse seem to be the effects or consequences of the 
pain experienced on the former occasion.1 
But, it may be objected, does this formulation of the role of feeling cover 
the facts? Is it not a fact that sometimes we act simply in order to secure 
pleasure or in order to avoid pain, as the hedonists assert of all our activities? 
It must be admitted that this is a very difficult question. Can the hormic 
theory deal with the facts of the order referred to, without admitting the 
hedonist principle to be equally fundamental with the hormic? The most 
difficult type of behavior for the hormic theory is that of the habitual pleasure- 
seeker. 
Let us consider the problem as it is presented in relatively simple and crude 
form by the glutton. The glutton is the man who seems to be governed 
largely, to be sustained in much of his bodily and mental activity, by the 
desire of the pleasure of eating. I well remember falling into conversation 
with a worthy citizen of Glasgow on the deck of a steamer in the Firth of 
Clyde. It was a perfect day and the hills and sea most beautiful. Pres- 
ently my acquaintance, rubbing his hands together and smacking his lips, 
said: ‘‘I like these steamer trips. They give me a splendid appetite, and 
the food supplied is very good.” He gave the impression that he had taken 
the trip chiefly and primarily for the sake of the pleasure which his meals 
would bring him under the favorable conditions of the voyage. The case 
is typical of the behavior of the libertine and of pleasure-seekers of more 
refined types. Here desire of pleasure seems to be the primary and funda- 
mental motive; pleasure seems to be the goal of action. But the glutton’s 
own words and actions showed the dependence of pleasure upon impulse. 
He knew well that, if he went to the table without appetite, he would attain 
1 Some authors who in other respects are pure mechanists (or nearly so) never- 
theless recognize the second kind of influence of feeling; they inadequately express 
the facts by saying that pleasure “stamps in” the associations formed during 
pleasurable activity, while pain “stamps out,” or tends to prevent the formation 
of, associations in the course of the activities which it accompanies. Cf. p. 194. ATTENTION AND INTEREST 
271 
no pleasure; the pleasure he sought was the pleasure of satisfying the food- 
seeking impulse, sustained by the appetite we call hunger. 
The case, then, illustrates the primacy of conation, the dependence of feeling 
on conation, rather than of conation on feeling. But, it may be objected, the 
man desired the appetite, and strove to induce the impulse to eat, for the sake 
of the pleasure which would accompany and follow upon the eating. In a simi- 
lar way the worn-out roue is said to desire to recover the strong sexual desire 
or impulse which, he has learned, is the essential condition of attainment of 
his favorite form of pleasure. Therefore, it may be said, it is true to say that 
the motive of such actions as our glutton’s is the desire of pleasure. The 
answer of the hormic theory is that such instances only arise as the result of 
a long process of sophistication; that primarily what the glutton desired was 
to eat food; that gradually, by exercise of the power of abstraction, he learned 
to distinguish the pleasure that accompanies eating from the eating itself, 
and to emphasize this aspect of the total experience of eating.1 And, in psy- 
chologizing on such instances, we are apt to carry still further the separation 
between eating and the pleasure that goes with it. In reality the goal of the 
desire, which is the moving force or motive, is pleasurable eating. The plea- 
sure of eating, or rather pleasurable eating, many times experienced, has 
strengthened the desire to eat and confirmed the tendency to seek those con- 
ditions under which eating will be most pleasurable. 
The case of the glutton is typical of all instances in which we are said to act for 
the sake of securing pleasure, or to be moved by the desire of pleasure. With- 
out exception they fall under the general law that pleasure or satisfaction, 
accompanying and following upon any particular mode of activity, strength- 
ens or confirms the tendency to repeat the activity. On the perceptual plane 
of mental life the facts are simple and obvious. It is in regard to action 
guided by imagination that the hedonist error arises. We recollect or depict 
in imagination some mode of activity which was pleasurable, including the 
circumstances which evoked that activity and the goal attained by it. The 
imagined situation evokes the same impulse as the formerly perceived situa- 
tion. The impulse works toward the same goal by some train of imagi- 
nary action, and, in doing so, attains again in an imperfect degree the sat- 
isfaction of success. This working of an impulse on the plane of imaginative 
representation of the goal is what we call “desire”; and, since an impulse 
working on the plane of imagination follows in the main the lines of action 
through which in the past it has attained satisfaction, it becomes plausible 
to say that in desiring we desire pleasure. The glutton (or the libertine) who 
takes measures to promote his appetite cannot properly be said to be prompted 
to such measures by desire of the pleasure of eating; rather, he is seeking to 
escape from the tedium of a round of actions in which he finds no satisfac- 
tion, either because he is sustained in such actions by no strong impulse, or 
because, through lack of knowledge, strength, or skill, impulses directed to 
these other goals attain no success. 
Affection, then, does not, as is sometimes said, initiate “atten- 
tion.” For “attention ” is merely conation or striving considered 
1 Pleasure and pain, it should be noted, are abstractions; what is desired is the 
total experience in which pleasure predominates; and what is avoided (or averted) 
is the total experience in which pain predominates. 272 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
from the point of view of its effects on cognitive process. The more 
strongly we strive to see, to hear, to understand, or in any way 
to achieve better or fuller cognition, the more attentive are we. 
And conversely, we are less attentive the less strongly we strive 
to know or cognize the object in hand, the more we are relaxed, 
the more nearly we sink into mere passivity. 
We have already seen what is the fundamental condition of 
striving, namely, that thinking of some object shall stir up some 
conative disposition, shall evoke the hormic energy within us 
in the form of the impulse of some instinct; that, accordingly, is 
the fundamental condition of “attention” or attending. The 
higher form of attention which is achieved by an effort of will 
we must consider under the head of volition in a later chapter. 
At present we are concerned only with what is generally distin- 
guished as non-voluntary or spontaneous attention; and this 
offers a number of points for discussion. 
The Sensationists, who are content to describe mental life as 
the mere flow of “sensations” and “images,” tell us that, for 
introspection, “attention” is essentially clearness of “sensa- 
tions.” But this “clearness” is itself very unclear. The truth 
seems to be that the experience they describe as clearness of 
“sensations” is clearness of cognition of the object. Thus, if 
the image of a falling meteorite, or of an animal moving quickly 
from cover to cover, is projected on the peripheral part of my 
retina, the Sensationist would describe my experience by saying 
that my visual sensations lack clearness; whereas the fact is that 
my apprehension of the object, of its position, shape, and nature, 
lacks clearness. 
Intensity and Suddenness of Sense-Impression Not in Themselves 
Determinants of Attention 
It is commonly said that intensity of sense-impression deter- 
mines attention; or that the more intense a “sensation” the more 
strongly it tends to attract attention. A sudden flash of light, 
like the flash of lightning, a sudden loud noise, like the banging 
of a door, a sudden strong sense-impression in any part of the 
body—all these may strongly divert our attention from any task 
in hand, and may set us wondering what is the source of the im- ATTENTION AND INTEREST 
27 3 
pression, or shrinking and striving to escape. That is to say, such 
sense-impressions attract our attention, not merely because they 
excite sensations of high intensity, but because they excite in us 
the impulse of curiosity, or of fear, or both impulses together; 
they are specific excitants of these instincts. That the mere in- 
tensity of such a sense-impression is not the essential condition 
of its power to determine attention is shown by the fact that 
a continued bright light, such as the blaze of the sunny sky at 
my window, or a continued loud noise, such as the roar of the 
railroad train in which I sit, has no such effect, so long as I 
understand its source. 
Suddenness of a sense-impression also does not suffice to enable 
it to draw attention. As I finished writing the foregoing sen- 
tence, I became retrospectively aware that, while I wrote, a rail- 
road train had thundered past not a quarter of a mile away; 
yet it had failed to divert my attention. On the other hand, 
a loud sound or a blaze of light may strongly attract my atten- 
tion, even though it swells gradually from zero, on condition 
that I do not understand its nature and origin. And it may 
continue strongly to distract my attention from my book or my 
writing, so long as I do not understand its significance. Instead 
of accommodating myself to the strong impression, I grow more 
and more uneasy, I find it more and more difficult to attend to 
the task in hand; until at last I spring up, saying “I must go and 
find out what that is.” And the impulse that moves me is 
either fear or curiosity, or both. 
A faint sound or light, whether sudden and short or gradual 
and long continued, may produce similar effects. We are apt 
to respond to the strong and sudden impression with fear; to 
the faint and gradual with curiosity. 
What Is Interest? 
Again, you are driving your automobile, and the continued 
roar it makes does not hold or divert or attract your attention. 
But presently a new element, perhaps of relatively low inten- 
sity, enters into the complex stimulation, and your attention is 
at once attracted; you notice the new sound and begin to won- 274 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
der what it means; while your friend by your side, who perhaps 
is as familiar with the roar as yourself, fails to notice the new 
element, even when you ask him to direct his attention to it. 
The difference between you (manifested in the fact that your 
attention is drawn to the sound, while his is not), is that you are 
11 interested" in the sounds made by the automobile and he is 
not. Such instances are numerous and familiar. It is com- 
monly said that “interest” determines “attention.” What, 
then, is “interest”? Is it an agent, an entity, or a faculty, 
that we have hitherto overlooked ? “ Interest” is a vague word; 
but the facts implied by it are very important. 
A man is said to be interested in a certain object or topic, 
even though he may be thinking of other things. But we know 
that, if he is interested in it, his attention can readily be drawn 
to it and, when so drawn, will usually be sustained and keen, 
or, as we say, concentrated. That, in fact, is what we mean by 
saying that he is interested in the object. Being interested is, 
then, an enduring condition of the subject. What is the nature 
of this condition of mind that we call “being interested” or 
“having an interest” in anything? Animal behavior gives us 
the clue to the answer. 
Interest Is Conative 
Clearly, an animal is interested in all those things that are 
capable of evoking any of its instinctive impulses. It is not 
always equally interested in all those things; because appetite, 
as we have seen, waxes and wanes with changes in the bodily 
condition. When an animal is replete from a good meal, it is 
not at all, or but little, interested in its natural food-objects or 
its prey. The mice may play with the tail of the overfed cat. 
But, when hungry, every animal is keenly interested in all its 
natural food-objects. With this necessary qualification, allow- 
ing for the variation of appetites, we may lay down the general- 
ization that animals are “interested" in objects in so far as the 
objects are of kinds that evoke their instinctive impulses, and in 
proportion to the strength of those impulses. 
In man the matter is more complex (as also in animals so 
remote from the natural condition as the domesticated dog). 
Let us go back to the automobile which begins during a journey ATTENTION AND INTEREST 
275 
to emit a new sound. You, the owner and driver, quickly de- 
tect this sound; it readily draws your attention. Of your two 
companions in the car, A is accustomed to drive a similar car, 
B is quite inexperienced in the driving or care of cars, though 
he has ridden in them as much as A or yourself. A hears the 
sound that troubles you, as soon as you draw his attention to it, 
and, like yourself, he continues to show “interest” in it or, 
rather, in the problem of its source. B, on the other hand, has 
the greatest difficulty in hearing it; and, if you succeed in getting 
him to hear it, by describing its peculiar quality and perhaps 
pointing out its variations of intensity, he very soon ceases to 
pay any attention to it; his attention was not spontaneous, but 
rather the expression of a voluntary effort. What are the differ- 
ences between yourself, A, and B, which determine these differ- 
ences of “attention”? You and A have learned, by previous 
efforts, to discriminate the various elements in the complex of 
noises emitted by the car and to attribute to each its significance; 
that is to say, you have differentiated corresponding cognitive 
dispositions in the structure of your minds. B has not pre- 
viously made such efforts of discrimination; he has been content 
to accept the noise of the car as an unanalyzed complex impres- 
sion. Further, he feels no responsibility for the car, and is 
quite incurious as to all its operations. You and A are equally 
well equipped with the sort of mental structure required for the 
discrimination of the sounds and the appreciation of their sig- 
nificance. And both of you are interested in automobiles. But 
your interest in this particular machine is greater than his, be- 
cause it is your machine and you are responsible for operating it. 
This example shows us that our “interest” is essentially cona- 
tive, as it is in the animals. It is sometimes alleged that “in- 
terest” in any object or topic depends upon, or consists in, the 
possession of appropriate knowledge or (in terms of the “idea” 
theory) of a mass or system of “ideas” related to the object or 
topic.1 That is, I believe, false doctrine. Like the animals, 
1 “An apperceptive mass,” as the Herbartians say. This intellectualist doc- 
trine of “interest” was the great contribution of Herbart’s psychology to educa- 
tional theory. Professor R. Woodworth’s “Dynamic Psychology” contains the 
most modern and forcible defense of this view. I refer the senior student to his 
statement of it, and to my criticism of it, “Motives in the Light of Recent Dis- 
cussion,” in Mind, N. S., Vol. 29, 1920. 276 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
we are interested only in those things that evoke in us one or other 
{or several) of the instinctive impulses. The difference between 
ourselves and the animals is that, while their “interests” are in 
the main such as Nature provides in the form of instincts, we 
acquire a great variety of new interests through the building up 
of sentiments for a great variety of objects. We have seen that 
a dog may and normally does extend the field of his “interests” 
through acquiring some simple sentiments, a sentiment of dread 
of one person, of devotion to another, and so on. The human 
being goes much further along this line of development, acquir- 
ing sentiments for many more objects; and so extends more 
widely his field of acquired interests. 
The fuller discussion of this topic must be reserved for a later 
page.1 Here I only insist on the view that “interest,” being 
essentially conative, is a matter of the enduring settings of our 
conative tendencies or impulses, and is therefore determined by 
our instincts and our sentiments. Knowledge about an object 
is not in itself a condition of “interest”; though such knowledge 
favors the sustaining of attention: without such knowledge our 
attention to any object, determined by conative interest, soon 
wanes; because we quickly exhaust upon it our limited powers of 
discriminative perception. Thus a naturalist and a layman may 
discover some strange plant or animal; it excites the curiosity of 
both, and both are interested in it; but the attention of the 
naturalist is more sustained, as well as more effective; for he 
has the knowledge, or cognitive mental structure, that enables 
him to examine it systematically and in detail, noticing a hundred 
features which entirely escape his companion. 
That “interest” is conative rather than cognitive; that it de- 
pends upon the strength of the conative tendencies excited, rather 
than upon the extent and variety and systematic organization 
of the cognitive systems of the mind (knowledge), is clearly 
shown by those cases in which a man develops a mass of sys- 
tematic knowledge in the service of some great natural purpose, 
such as the support of his family; and, after years of practice, 
when that goal has been secured by the saving of a competency 
or perhaps by its inheritance, he gladly escapes from the posi- 
1 Chapter XVII. ATTENTION AND INTEREST 
277 
tion he has occupied, and asks nothing better than to be allowed 
to forget all he has learned. He may have devoted half his life 
to acquiring an intimate knowledge of hardware and the hard- 
ware trade, because this has been the means of building up his 
fortune: but, the fortune once acquired, this derived interest, 
secondary wholly to his purpose of acquiring a fortune, lapses 
entirely; though his knowledge remains; and he devotes himself 
perhaps to art or golf or gardening or philanthropy, displaying 
not the least interest in hardware. Nevertheless, if circum- 
stances arise which evoke some effective motive for busying 
himself again with the hardware trade; if he finds it necessary 
to earn more money, or wishes to advise some less fortunate 
friend still in the trade, he is quite capable of bringing his store 
of knowledge effectively to bear once more, and of displaying a 
sustained attention; for the new motive gives him a new interest 
in the topic. To have an “interest” in any object is, then, to be 
ready to pay attention to it. Interest is latent attention; and 
attention is interest in action. The essential condition of both 
interest in and attention to any object is that the mind shall be 
so organized, either natively or through experience, that it can 
think of the object, and that such thinking shall evoke some im- 
pulse or desire which maintains a train of activity in relation 
to the object. 
Conative Unity 
There is a further peculiarity of mental activity which is com- 
monly discussed under the head of attention, namely, the fact 
that a train of mental activity has, not only conative continuity, 
but also conative unity. The fact is sometimes expressed by 
saying that we can think of only one thing at one time, or can 
do only one thing at a time; or, again, it is said that “conscious- 
ness” has a narrow focus, so that only one “idea” can be at 
the focus of “consciousness” at any moment. If we accept the 
second formulation of the facts, and say that we can think of, 
or do, only one thing at a time, we must use the word “thing” 
in a very wide sense. For, obviously, many physical things may 
be comprised in the object to which you pay attention; as when 
you look down on a village from a mountain-top and perceive 278 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
and recognize it as a whole. In such a whole, you may proceed 
to single out in turn the various parts, such as the several houses 
within the village, and, within each house again, parts such as 
doors and windows. To single out a part within a whole in this 
way is to narrow the field of one’s attention. The degree to 
which we narrow or restrict our attention is determined by our 
purpose at the moment. 
The term “concentration” is sometimes applied to this re- 
striction of attention. But, if we use “concentration of atten- 
tion” in this sense, we must not confuse it with the degree or 
intensity of attention; the latter depends upon the strength of 
the impulse at work within us. If we look down on a village 
in the course of a ramble over the hills, and if our attitude and 
interest in it are merely such as may be expressed by the words 
“What village is that?”—our attention is likely to be of low 
degree; it is determined and sustained by a mild impulse of 
curiosity. But, if we are scouts, carrying our lives in our hands, 
and, if the village is one that may have been occupied by the 
enemy, the attention we give it will be of high degree or in- 
tensity and may be properly said to be concentrated, whether 
we pay attention to the village as a whole or to some detailed 
part of it.1 
The measures of the degree of attention are (i) the efficiency 
with which the subject works toward his goal; (2) the resistance 
displayed to all diverting influences. When the impulse which 
sustains our attention is feeble, our mental process is relatively 
ineffective; we do not bring all our knowledge effectively to bear 
upon the task in hand; we are half, or more than half, asleep.2 
The stronger the impulse, the more completely awake we are. 
The highest degree of mental activity, of attention, is achieved 
when some strong impulse sustains our attention to some topic 
of which we have a rich and systematically organized knowledge, 
gained through much and varied experience. When the object 
or topic does not directly evoke some strong impulse, our interest 
1 Physiologically, concentration of attention seems to involve concentration of 
the disposable free energy of the brain in one system of channels. The student 
interested in physiological speculation should consult my series of papers, “The 
Physiological Factors of the Attention Process,” in Mind, N. S., Vol. XII. 
2 Sleep will be discussed in Part II. ATTENTION AND INTEREST 
279 
in it being secondary or derived from its connection with some 
other purpose, our attention may be intense and well sustained, 
if we clearly see that the object is a necessary means to some 
strongly desired goa’. But often, in such cases, we have to 
sustain our attention as best we can, by effort of the will; a task 
which few, if any, of us achieve with any high degree of success, 
and which is possible only in proportion as we have disciplined 
and practised ourselves in such efforts.1 
The most effective effort of the will never achieves the high 
degree of concentration of attention which the awakening of 
any strong impulse immediately produces. Let any object or 
situation appeal directly and strongly to any instinct or to any 
strong sentiment, and we cannot, though we try our best, divert 
our attention from it. We may resolutely turn away our eyes, 
or otherwise shut it away from our senses; yet we continue to 
think of it, intermittently at least, in spite of our best efforts to 
occupy ourselves with other things. When we lie down to sleep 
and try to bring our minds to rest, the topic becomes, as we say, 
insistent; and, even when we have fallen asleep, it crops up in our 
dreams, perhaps in some distorted and more or less disguised 
fashion.2 
When our attention is most concentrated, as in the midst of 
some exciting game, in the heat of battle, in the presence of 
1 It is probable that the principal effect of the old-fashioned education, which 
aimed at “training the faculties” by drilling in Latin grammar and similar sub- 
jects, was the development of this power of voluntary concentration of attention 
on things in which we have only a derived interest, an interest which depends 
upon our belief that the things or processes in question are means toward some 
goal desired for its own sake. 
2 Major R. E. Priestly (“The Psychology of Exploration,” Psyche, Vol. n, 
No. i, 1921) describes the hunger experiences of a “man-hauling” sledge-party 
in the Antarctic as follows: The diet, he says, “leaves the man-hauling party with 
a craving which nothing can allay but the next meal, and that but for all too 
short a time. The effect of this hunger upon the waking mind is to concentrate 
the thoughts upon every variety of savory food that the individual has known. 
Its effect in sleep is to lead to a succession of food dreams which carry the dreamer 
from one paradise of the gourmand to another, until he awakes to find the craving 
for food almost unbearable. The normally constituted party talk food, think 
food, dream food. Jealous eyes watch every crumb of the ration which falls to 
the floor. The most unsavory morsel ... is watched with the eager solicitude of a 
dog for a bone.” This statement illuminates the fundamental conditions of atten- 
tion infinitely better than hundreds of philosophical disquisitions on this question. 280 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
some awful object, when food is before us and we are very 
hungry, at all such times (that is, whenever any strong impulse 
is at work in us), things unconnected with the purpose in hand 
may rain strong stimuli upon our senses without diverting our 
attention, and therefore without our perceiving them; so that 
even a bullet or sabre wound may pass unnoticed until, when 
attention is relaxed, blood is seen to be flowing, or the con- 
tinued strong sense-impressions from the wound draw our at- 
tention to it. 
If we try to interpret these facts in physiological terms, we can only infer 
that the activity of one system of neurones in the brain inhibits the activity 
of all other systems; and we may suppose that, the higher the degree of ac- 
tivity in one system, the more strongly does that system inhibit all others. 
Unfortunately, we still are ignorant of the nature of nervous inhibition, 
even in its simplest instances, such as the reciprocal inhibitions of the antago- 
nistic reflexes which extend and flex the limbs. The hypothesis of inhibition 
by drainage seems to be the only one that can interpret these facts of recip- 
rocal inhibition in the higher brain-levels.1 Without identifying a system of 
mental dispositions with a system of nervous arcs in the brain, we may yet 
assume that to every system of mental dispositions there corresponds a neural 
system in the brain, and that each of these constitutes a main channel for 
discharge of nervous energy into the muscles and other executive organs. 
The drainage hypothesis assumes that the activity of any one such system 
inhibits all other systems, because they all draw upon a common stock or 
reservoir of free nervous energy. The student who is interested in physio- 
logical speculations should combine this view with the hypothetical account 
of the neural basis of instincts suggested on page 109, and also with the dis- 
cussion of the “law of the attraction of the impulse” in my “Physiological 
Psychology” (pp. 126-134). 
Conative Persistence and Reversion of Attention 
Degree of resistance to diversion of attention is a measure of 
the energy with which the subject devotes himself to the pur- 
pose in hand, with which he strives toward his goal. We are 
familiar with the fact that, when we are interrupted in any task 
which we keenly pursue, we naturally revert to it as soon as the 
distracting influence ceases to work upon us. Our interest in 
the task bridges the gap and gives to the whole process a cona- 
tive continuity, in spite of the interruption. The interruption 
may be momentary only; or it may endure for years, and yet, if 
1 Cf. my “Physiological Psychology,” pp. 36 and 103, and “The Nature of 
Inhibitory Processes Within the Nervous System,” Brain, Vol. 26. ATTENTION AND INTEREST 
281 
our purpose be strong and unsatisfied (that is, if our interest is 
keen) we may, after the long interval, take up our task afresh 
at the point where we reluctantly laid it down. This forms a 
third rough measure of the intensity of our attention and of the 
keenness of our interest.1 Our interest in a trivial task, such as 
a game of checkers, will hardly survive an interruption of a few 
minutes; our interest in some larger purpose, such as the writ- 
ing of a book, may survive an interruption of years. Such con- 
tinuity of interest of high degree implies not only that some 
impulse is strongly evoked, but also that the impulse comes 
from some enduring organization of interests of the kind we 
have to consider later under the head of “sentiments” and 
“character.” 
This tendency of attention to revert to the unfinished task, 
and to bridge the gap in the series of activities by which we 
pursue our goal, is the manifestation on the intellectual plane of 
that fundamental persistency of all mental impulse, striving, or 
conation, which we noticed on an earlier page (44). We cannot 
hope to explain it; we can only accept it as one of the funda- 
mental attributes of mental or purposive activity, one which is 
conspicuous by its absence in all purely physical processes. 
Distribution of Attention 
We all have in various degrees the power of distributing our 
attention and of carrying on two or more tasks concurrently. 
If I am writing an easy straightforward letter, I can, without 
interrupting my writing, overhear and understand conversation 
going on in the same room, and may even intervene in it. Some 
men seem to be able to write one letter and to dictate another at 
the same time. In most of us this power is very limited; as we 
easily discover by attempting to recite some familiar verse while 
we write another. Most of us find that the one task interferes 
with the other, words of the one verse appearing incongruously 
in the other. Such power as we have of this sort is in part an 
expression of the tendency of attention to revert readily to the 
1 The other two measures being (i) the effectiveness with which we apply our- 
selves or bring our knowledge to bear, (2) resistance to distracting influences. 282 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
interrupted task. But in part it is another mode of manifesta- 
tion of the persistency of conation toward its goal. Namely, an 
impulse, once set to work toward a goal, continues in some de- 
gree to operate after we cease to think of the goal or the means 
toward it. That is to say, conation outlasts the cognition which 
initiates iU This principle is of the greatest importance in con- 
nection with all the higher forms of conation, all that we call 
volition, will, determination, resolution, purpose in the fuller 
sense. Here we are only concerned to notice its simpler mani- 
festations. In writing, one’s pen flows on, producing the ap- 
propriate words, while one thinks perhaps of the sentence or 
phrase that must come next. And sometimes the fact is brought 
vividly home to one by an error or slip, which consists in writing 
some word thought of but rejected, or belonging to a phrase 
next in order to that which the hand is writing. Or at table 
one thinks momentarily of taking salt and continues the con- 
versation, while one’s hand carries out the purpose thus mo- 
mentarily formed; and again an error, such as seizing the pepper- 
pot instead of the salt-cellar, may make one realize how we com- 
monly rely upon this subconscious execution of purposes con- 
sciously formed. The routine details of practical life are 
largely executed in this way. Sometimes one is made still more 
acutely aware that conation outlasts cognition; we find our- 
selves walking toward some spot, opening a drawer or desk or 
standing before a table, and aware that we have come with 
some purpose; and yet we cannot recover, cannot rethink, the 
goal we had in view. Or, more vaguely still, we perhaps pass 
through a familiar village or street with an uneasy sense that 
there is something we ought to do there, something we have 
intended to do; and yet for the life of us we cannot remember 
what the task is.1 
11 have learned to trust this uneasy feeling as a sure indication of a forgotten 
task or goal; and it seldom, if ever, is at fault. Another illustration of the sub- 
conscious working of the conative impulse, after it has been set toward a particular 
goal, is waking at a particular hour in the morning. Closely allied is the following 
experimental observation: I fall asleep holding in my fist something of appropriate 
size and shape. If I resolve to hold it fast, I usually find it firmly grasped when 
I awake. If I make no such resolve, I find on waking that the article has fallen 
from my grasp. Hypnotic experiment affords many more striking illustrations of 
the same principle. ATTENTION AND INTEREST 
283 
It is this persistence of conation in spite of deflection of our 
cognition from the task in hand that enables us not only to 
revert easily to the interrupted task, but actually to carry on 
continuously two unconnected tasks. Our attention oscillates 
between the two tasks, and, in the intervals in which it is directed 
to the one, our executive organs continue to carry out the move- 
ments appropriate to the other. 
Individuals differ widely in respect of their capacity for dis- 
tributing their attention in this way. And the difference seems 
to be one of native constitution. Extreme instances of such 
division of the attention, or duplication of the stream of mental 
activity, fall in the province of morbid psychology. CHAPTER X 
IMAGINING—ANTICIPATING—RECOLLECTING 
Imagination is sometimes defined as the capacity for imagery 
or for having “images” in consciousness. This is an unduly 
narrow definition. We properly speak of the imagination of the 
mathematician or of the creative artist or of the philosopher; 
and in these cases “imagery,” though it may play some part, is 
often of minor importance. We may properly define imagina- 
tion or imagining as thinking of remote objects.1 
The simplest form of imagining is pictorial thinking; we de- 
pict to ourselves the object as we have perceived it, as we have 
seen, heard, touched, or otherwise sensed it. In such imagining, 
“imagery” seems to take the place and perform the functions 
of sensory experience. Such pictorial thinking is sometimes 
called “the rise of representations to consciousness,” or “the 
having of free ideas,” or “the passing of a train of ideas through 
consciousness,” in order to distinguish it from thinking of pres- 
ent objects, in which, as we have seen, “imagery” may compli- 
cate the sensory qualities directly due to sense-impressions. 
The Use of Names 
The simple use of names constitutes a form of thinking inter- 
mediate2 between perceiving and imagining. For a name is a 
quality Of thing which is assigned to it by human convention; 
and the hearing of the name suggests the object, or signifies it, to 
the person familiar with it; just as does the sensory pattern pre- 
sented by the physical thing. The name of an object is one of 
the keys which may set in action the appropriate cognitive dis- 
position or “idea,”3 and so set us thinking of the object. If you 
1 “Remote” being used in the special sense defined on p. 207, i. e., a “remote 
object” is any object not affecting the senses at the moment of thinking of it. 
2 Not necessarily intermediate in the evolutionary or developmental sense, for, 
as we have seen, there is reason to believe that some animals are capable of imagin- 
ing in some degree. 
31 remind the reader that I use the word “idea” here and hereafter as a con- 
venient synonym for “cognitive disposition.” IMAGINING—ANTICIPATING—RECOLLECTING 
285 
meet a friend face to face in the daylight, you perceive him 
through the medium of the pattern made on your retina by the 
light reflected from his face. If you meet him in the dusk, you 
may perceive him through the medium of the auditory pattern 
of his voice. But your hearing may be imperfect, or his voice 
may be disguised, so that you do not recognize it as his, but 
merely as a voice, somebody’s voice; then, if he utters his name, 
you perceive him as such, you recognize him, and the vague 
sense-impressions made on eye and ear then become definitely 
significant of him. The name as a sensory pattern has brought 
into play the appropriate mental disposition, or system of dis- 
positions; and your thinking of your friend, thus initiated, as- 
similates the vague confused sensory patterns made by his face 
and voice. That is to say, although these patterns are in them- 
selves inadequate to arouse the appropriate cognitive system, 
after the system (the “idea”) has been brought into play by 
the sound of the name, they contribute to determine the further 
course of your perception of your friend. The case is not essen- 
tially different, if your friend’s name is spoken by a third person. 
The sound of the name is a sensory pattern which makes you 
think of him and so prepares you to perceive him. 
Pre-perception the Most Primitive Kind of Imagining 
Thinking of an object before perceiving it greatly facilitates 
perception or perceptual recognition; such thinking is appropri- 
ately called pre-perception. Pre-perception plays a great part in 
determining the course of perception, the selection of this or 
that object or feature out of the wealth of “present objects.” 1 
It constitutes a third great selective factor in perception. We 
have seen how the constitution of the sense-organs determines a 
selection of the first stage, by rendering us much more sensitive 
to some physical stimuli than to others. The structure of the 
mind, hereditary and acquired, is the selective factor of the sec- 
ond stage; determining that, of all the sensory patterns received 
by the senses, we are influenced most effectively by those which 
1 It is sometimes represented to be a principal determinant of attention. With 
our discussion of attention (Chap. IX) in mind, the reader will see that this is not 
strictly correct. 286 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
fit some cognitive disposition, as a key fits the lock, and so bring 
one or another impulse into play. And now we see that selec- 
tion of a third stage is due to the fact that a disposition, if it is 
already active, is stirred by sense-impression to further activity 
more readily than if it be quiescent. Since some thinking goes 
on during all waking life, it follows that this kind of selection is 
frequently operative in perception, determining both which of 
the things impressing the senses we shall attend to and the man- 
ner in which we shall interpret the sense-impressions, the sign- 
ificance or “meaning” we shall attach to them. 
It is important to notice that perception may be influenced in 
this way, not only by present thinking of a remote object, but 
also by recent thinking of it. When you come face to face with a 
friend in the dusk, you will, if you have recently thought of him, 
recognize him more readily than if you have not thought of him 
for some considerable time. The fact that you were thinking 
of him five minutes ago facilitates your recognition of him. It 
is as though the mental system, after being stirred to activity in 
any way, sinks only slowly back to a condition of complete 
quiescence.1 It is not clear that such residual activity may be 
attributed to the cognitive disposition or “idea” as such. It 
seems more probable that, in all such cases, it is the conative dis- 
position involved in the recently active system which continues 
subconsciously active. If that is true, the facts of pre-perception 
we are now considering would be but another evidence of that 
conative continuity and persistence which we discussed in the 
foregoing chapter and formulated as the law that conation out- 
lasts the cognition which initiates it. This interpretation is 
borne out by the fact that the more keenly attentive we are to 
the imagined object, the more potently does such imagining gov- 
ern the course of perception, both at the moment of imagining 
and for a subsequent period of indefinite duration. Thus, if you 
are thinking of a friend and strongly desire to see him, or if you 
have recently thought of him with this strong desire, you will 
perceive him, will recognize him in the dusk, or single him out 
of a crowd of strangers, more readily than if you think of him, 
1 This we may correlate with the evidence of residual excitement in nervous 
“centres” after they have ceased to function actively. IMAGINING—ANTICIPATING—RECOLLECTING 
287 
or have recently thought of him, without strong desire. The 
same is true of the hated enemy of whom you think with strong 
aversion, keenly fearing to meet him. 
In extreme instances such strong desire (or aversion) deter- 
mines errors of perception of the kind we call illusions, or even 
hallucinations. We falsely recognize, as the desired friend or the 
feared enemy, some stranger, or even some stump or bush, seen 
in the moonlight; or we falsely single out his voice or footstep 
among the confused mass of sounds that fall on the ear. Such 
instances of false recognition or illusory perception bring vividly 
home to us the fact that perception is not a passive reception of 
a sense-impression, but is rather a reaction of the mind upon a 
cue supplied by the sense-impression; they illustrate the fact 
that the sensory qualities, the so-called “sensations,” no matter 
how specific their pattern, merely signify the object which the 
subject thinks of as there; the fact that the mind supplies from 
its inner resources the “meaning” which the sense-impression 
suggests; in short, the fact that the 11 psychic-stimulus theory” is 
essentially correct,1 that objects are not “given” us ready made 
in the form of complexes of “sensations,” but are thought of 
by the subject according to his capacity for thinking them, his 
interest in them, and his purpose at the moment of thinking. 
Language as Stimulus to Imagination 
Pre-perception, or the influence of imagination on perception, 
is greatest when we not only think of the object before perceiv- 
ing it, but also expect to perceive it; that is to say, when our 
anticipation of it is definite and explicit.2 The primary and es- 
11 remind the reader that in our discussion of spatial perception in Chap. VIII 
we arrived at the conclusion that the psychic-stimulus theory is the true one, that 
spatial meanings are evoked as reactions of the mind to sensory patterns, rather 
than given with the sensory qualities as attributes of those qualities or as prop- 
erties of “sensations.” 
2 The seeing of faces or other definite forms in the fire, in the clouds, in rocks 
or other features of the landscape is a familiar illustration of the influence of imag- 
ination upon perception; and, when we see such a form because our companion 
points it out and names the object which it suggests, we have a clear instance of 
pre-perception determining the course of perception. The name sets the appro- 
priate mental system to work and so facilitates the assimilation of the vague form 
by the system in question. 288 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
sential function of language is to determine pre-perception by 
creating expectation. Words are primarily indicative of objects 
and of their actions or movements. The first words were presum- 
ably merely specializations of the instinctive cries of animals. 
The dog uses a primitive language when he utters his bark of 
anger or of welcome, or his hunting yelp. In each case the bark 
of peculiar quality may be called merely an emotional expres- 
sion; but it is also a rudimentary word which suggests to his fel- 
lows the meaning “an enemy,” “a friend,” or “prey”; and it 
determines in them pre-perception of a vague highly general kind 
and the corresponding movements of appropriate general type. 
The primitive danger cry of man, we may suppose, became 
differentiated into several unlike cries, signifying bear, tiger, or 
wolf; and each of these would determine in his fellows the ap- 
propriate pre-perception and the corresponding form of be- 
havior, differentiated out of the instinctive fear reaction through 
experiences of dangerous animals of one of these different kinds. 
But, though the primitive function of words was to determine 
pre-perception and expectation, and though words continued to 
be used for this purpose, they quickly, we may suppose, came to 
be used in order to make one’s fellows think of remote objects as 
well as of present objects. It may be that the boy who cried 
“wolf,” when there was no wolf present, was the first to achieve 
this higher use of language, and that our intellectual life was in- 
itiated by a practical joke. 
However that may have been, it is clear that the use of words 
must have greatly stimulated imagination, and that, once men 
had begun to use words to make their fellows think of remote 
objects, they would quickly come to use them to facilitate their 
own thinking. For the name of an object, once learned, be- 
comes the most convenient key to the disposition concerned 
in thinking of that object. It is a key which we control much 
more effectually than any other keys to our mental systems; for 
by uttering the word we can give a quasi-perceptual reality or 
“presentness” to the object we think of. Hence we find that 
young children and primitive men tend to think aloud. Silent 
thinking of remote objects is only secondarily acquired by the 
suppression of the actual movements of speech; and the words IMAGINING—ANTICIPATING—RECOLLECTING 
289 
continue to be “uttered” silently in most of our imagining, es- 
pecially in thinking that is not wholly concerned with particular 
concrete objects in definite positions, such as the chessmen on 
the board. 
In animals, and primitively in man, every cycle of mental 
activity expresses itself in the bodily behavior which is the 
natural outcome of all conation. The utterance of a word is a 
form of bodily behavior which, as language and the power of 
imagining developed hand in hand, became the terminus of an 
increasing proportion of cycles of mental activity. And, when 
words are “uttered” silently, the case is not in principle altered. 
Silent thinking by the aid of words is a series of cycles of activ- 
ity, each of which terminates in the suppressed bodily behavior 
of speech. 
Exaggeration of the Role of Movement in Thinking 
To recognize that every cycle of mental activity naturally expresses itself 
in bodily movement and that, in imagining, this bodily expression may take the 
form of suppressed words, to recognize these facts is not to accept the extrava- 
gant behaviorist doctrine that all thinking is merely the innervation of the 
organs of speech or of other muscles. The truth here stated gives to this doc- 
trine a certain plausibility which enables it to be swallowed by some of those 
who are prejudiced in favor of mechanistic theories. That actual movement 
or innervation of the muscles of the speech-organs is not necessary to verbal 
thinking may be proved by the simple experiment of inwardly repeating a 
familiar verse or other train of verbal thought, while rapidly counting aloud 
or repeating the alphabet. This is a task which most readers will, I think, 
find quite possible. There is some interference of the two processes, but 
no more than (and, I think, distinctly less than) in the case of attempting to 
recite one verse while writing another. This shows that such interference 
is not due to the fact that the organs of speech cannot be innervated for the 
continued utterance of two different series of words, and that the interference 
is mental, or at least central; an illustration of the strict limitation of our 
capacity to duplicate the stream of mental activity. If the interference were 
due to incompatibility of the muscular innervations appropriate to the two 
processes, it should be very much more serious, when both processes involve 
a continued stream of words, than when they naturally express themselves 
in movements of quite separate bodily organs. Yet such interference is very 
formidable, if we merely try to beat one rhythm with the foot and another 
with the hand (as every student of “Eurhythmies” knows), or to make simul- 
taneously any two prescribed but unpractised movements. For example, 
let the reader stretch out the fingers of his left hand and touch the tip of 
each rapidly in turn with his right forefinger. Then let him, sitting on the 
edge of his chair, describe a figure of eight on the floor with the toe of his 
right foot. Nothing is easier than to repeat either series of movements 290 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
smoothly, rapidly, and continuously. Then let him try to repeat them 
simultaneously. He will find, I venture to say, more difficulty and inter- 
ference than in inwardly reciting verse while rapidly counting. 
The behaviorist dogma that thinking is the innervation of speech organs (or 
other organs of expression) is even less plausible when applied to that kind of 
thinking which consists in pictorially imagining a series of scenes or complex 
musical sounds. Any one who is a good visualizer may sit down with closed 
eyes and imagine in turn a succession of scenes, recent or more remote, for ex- 
ample, the scenes of yesterday’s drive in the country. In such an exercise one 
does not rethink the whole train of scenes and objects perceived, but, on setting 
oneself to the general task, the principal scenes, those in which one was most 
vividly interested, come to mind, often in no regular order; though they tend 
to conform roughly to the original time-order. In what innervation does 
such a train of pictorial thinking consist? It is difficult even to sustain in 
such a case the thesis, propounded above, that every cycle of thinking tends 
to express itself in bodily movement. The only movements involved in the 
original perceptual activity were those of the eyes, head, and body which 
facilitated the processes of perception; and, no doubt, the imagining of the 
same scenes involves some tendency to similar innervations. But it must be 
admitted that any motor expressions of this sort are extremely inadequate 
at the best, and in other cases are entirely suppressed as movements; for, as we 
have seen,1 even in the visual perception of simple geometrical figures, the 
movements of the eyes are quite inadequate to the complexity of the figures 
and bear no constant relation to them; and it is easy to satisfy oneself that, 
while imagining a scene, the eyes may be moved in any irrelevant manner 
(oscillated from right to left or continuously rotated) without appreciably 
interfering with the visualizing process. 
The same truth is even more indisputable in the case of a musician reading 
the score of an orchestral symphony by the aid of auditory imagery. I am 
told by some musicians that they perfer to enjoy such a composition in this 
way, because they are then not troubled by the imperfections which they 
cannot ignore in any actual performance. Now such a musician may be utterly 
incapable of singing or whistling more than the merest fragments of the melo- 
dies involved in the complex whole; he has only the most inadequate means 
of partially expressing the music in movements; and yet he imagines it in all 
its rich complexity. 
An older and less extravagant dogma than the behaviorist’s is the doctrine 
of “ideo-motor action,” which, like it, is an exaggeration and distortion of the 
truth that every cycle of mental activity tends naturally and primitively to 
express itself in bodily movement.2 The “ideo-motor theory” has been 
widely accepted and may be found dogmatically stated in many recent books. 
It asserts that every “idea” is not only a state or act of knowing but also a 
tendency to movement; and this is made the basis of a widely accepted 
general theory of action, the “ideo-motor theory.” This ideo-motor theory 
is most plausible in the case of “ideas” of bodily movement. It has frequently 
been alleged that, if we think of a movement, that movement inevitably 
1 Page 244. 
2This is in a sense the converse of the doctrine that we control our “ideas” by 
making movements; for it asserts that we control our movements by calling up 
“ideas” of them. IMAGINING—ANTICIPATING—RECOLLECTING 
291 
occurs, unless we somehow inhibit it. And one theory of volition asserts 
that volition is essentially the inhibition of “ideas” which inhibit the “idea” 
of movement. I cannot discover any substantial foundation for such asser- 
tions. It is clearly possible to think of such a movement as raising the hand, 
either as a movement to be made or as a movement not to be made. And I 
can find no truth in the assertion that, when I think of such a movement, my 
limb fairly tingles with the tendency to move, and that it is necessary to 
exert some inhibitory power in order to prevent its movement. To merely 
think of a movement and to intend or to will a movement are entirely dis- 
tinct ways of thinking. The relation of our impulses, intentions, and voli- 
tions to the actual movements of our limbs remains entirely obscure, a part of 
the larger mystery of the relation between experience and bodily processes. 
The ideo-motor theory is a mistaken attempt to resolve this mystery. 
I insist that all these allied doctrines, which so greatly overestimate the role 
of movement in thinking, have their very partial justification in the truth 
that all mental activity involves conation, and conation does primitively tend 
to express itself in bodily movement. But we must recognize that, with the 
development of our capacity for imagining, the suppression of the bodily 
factor has become more and more complete; until the bodily attitude appro- 
priate to intense thought has become one of complete immobility (as so well 
expressed in Rodin’s sculpture “Le Penseur”) rather than a state of abundant 
and varied movement, as these “motor” theories would imply. 
We may suppose that the development of language and the 
use of words stimulated greatly the exercise of imagination, al- 
though not essential to it. However that may be, the normal 
adult enjoys considerable power of imagination. We may use- 
fully distinguish three levels of imagination. The lowest is what 
is commonly called reproductive or representative imagination. 
The second is constructive imagination. The third is creative 
imagination. But though in principle we may distinguish these 
forms or levels of imagination, in actual living they are com- 
monly mingled inextricably. 
Anticipatory and Reproductive Imagination 
Persons differ widely in respect of the faithfulness with which 
they can depict objects, and in respect of the kind of imagery 
that they habitually use. One person, a visualizer, tends to 
think of things predominantly by the aid of visual imagery, an- 
other by the aid of auditory imagery, and some seem to use 
largely motor imagery; while others seem to imagine very well 
with the aid of very little imagery. It is usually assumed that 292 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
persons of this last class use verbal imagery, visual, auditory, or 
motor; and this is probably true of many of them. 
Most of us can depict objects most faithfully and vividly im- 
mediately after perceiving them. If, when the sense-impression 
dies away or is suddenly cut short, we continue to think of the 
object, many of us do, and probably all of us can, if we try, de- 
pict it, imagery taking the place of the sensory experience. 
Even under these most favorable conditions, “the primary mem- 
ory image,” as it is called, differs from the sensory experience 
not only in lacking the indefinable quality of sensory vividness, 
but also in lacking some of the detailed variety of the sensory 
experience and also its steadiness. As we think in turn of the 
various parts and aspects of the thing perceived a moment ago, 
the imagery tends to come and go. After the lapse of one or two 
minutes “the primary memory image” is apt to fall still lower 
in the scale of detailed faithfulness and steadiness. 
The imagining of concrete physical things is inferior to per- 
ceptual thinking, in that it is more liable to error; but, on the 
other hand, it is immensely superior, in that it reaches out into 
the future and foresees much that is beyond the range of the 
senses. We have seen that all thinking, even the primitive per- 
ceptual thinking of animals and young children, involves some 
degree of anticipation of that which is to come, of the next steps 
to be achieved by bodily and mental activity. And in this re- 
spect the transition, from the most purely perceptual to the most 
purely imaginative thinking, is perfectly gradual. The more 
developed the perceptual thinking, the more it involves an admixture 
of imagining. When the young child plays chess, his thinking is 
almost purely perceptual; with more practice and advancing age, 
he learns to foresee several moves ahead, depicting the pieces as 
they will be after being moved; and the expert can carry this 
process much further, until, as in playing blindfold, the per- 
ceptual element becomes relatively insignificant. 
The essential and primary function of imagination is to carry 
out the process of trial and error on the imaginary plane, to 
depict each situation and the consequences of each step of ac- 
tion, before the action is accomplished or even begun. It is thus 
a development of the primary anticipatory function of mind. In IMAGINING—ANTICIPATING—RECOLLECTING 
293 
so far as it works truly, it affects an immense economy of action, 
by rendering actual trial and error unnecessary. And it does or 
may work truly, just because the world we live in is one in which 
similar antecedents are followed very often by similar conse- 
quences. This is only roughly true; often the apparently sim- 
ilar is essentially dissimilar, and the apparently unlike situation 
is essentially like and capable of yielding the like consequences. 
Hence merely reproductive imagination avails little, and imag- 
ination requires for its higher and more productive flights the 
co-operation of reasoning—the function which selects in any ob- 
ject or situation the features essential to the purpose in hand and 
constructs the picture of the future, not in the exact semblance 
of the past, but as it is likely to flow from the particular condi- 
tions of the present. When our purpose is purely reminiscent, 
when we wish for any reason merely to imagine past events and 
scenes as we experienced them, then imagination approximates 
the purely reproductive. It would be an error to suppose that 
faithful reproduction of past scenes is the most primitive mode 
of imagination. For, as was said above, the primary function of 
imagination is to depict the future, to anticipate the course of events. 
All imagining, like every other form of thinking, is purposive 
in the wider sense of the word; that is to say, it is conative. But 
in this respect imagining varies widely, ranging from mere rev- 
erie or day-dreaming, in which the conative factor, the motive, 
is most obscure, the purpose least explicit, to such imagining as 
is involved in the working out of a definite plan for the attain- 
ment of some clearly purposed or willed end. I shall say some- 
thing of day-dreaming and its motives in discussing dreams and 
the abnormal mental processes with which it is allied.1 
Experiments on “ Memory ” 
Reproductive imagination has been intensively studied in the 
laboratory; such work is usually described as experimental in- 
1 In Part II. It must suffice to say here that modern research has clearly proved 
that even the most fanciful day-dreaming and the most chaotic dream of the 
sleeper can usually be shown to be the expression of some impulse, some conative 
trend, which is unable to attain full satisfaction in that intercourse with men and 
things which we naturally and properly call “real life.” 294 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
vestigation of memory and association. The aim has usually 
been to make the conditions as simple as possible, in order to ar- 
rive at the most elementary laws of reproductive imagination.1 
This type of experimental investigation was first made by 
Ebbinghaus2 and has been carried to a higher point of tech- 
nical exactitude by Professor G. E. Miiller3 and many others. 
Ebbinghaus began by committing verses to heart by a number 
of readings of each verse, and, after various intervals of time, 
determining how many re-readings were required in order to 
enable him to repeat the verses once more by heart. He was 
able in this way to measure, in terms of the number of re-read- 
ings required, the amounts of “forgetting” that had resulted 
after various intervals, and to establish a curve of obliviscence. 
But it was clear that some verses were remembered more 
easily than others, because they were more interesting or of an 
easier rhythm or richer in rhymes. Ebbinghaus therefore re- 
fined his procedure by committing to heart rows of meaningless 
syllables in place of verses, and by presenting these to the eye 
by a simple mechanical method. He used a rotating drum 
carrying the list of syllables, each of which appears in turn at a 
window in a screen. This secured a constant optimum rate of 
reading and prevented the eye from wandering back and forth 
over the list. Most of the more recent experimental investiga- 
1 The reader should notice, in order to avoid it, a confusion liable to arise from 
the ambiguous usage of the word “reproduce.” To speak of reproducing in imag- 
ination or memory the scenes of the past is a natural and convenient expression. 
But, clearly, in imagining the mountain, or the person I saw yesterday, I do not 
literally reproduce the object any more than, on seeing it, I produced or created 
it. But since the word “reproduction” implies that something which remains 
identical with itself has been produced on two occasions, as I may produce and 
reproduce an apple from a basket, many psychologists have fallen into the way of 
saying that “percepts” or “ideas” or “sensations” or “images” are reproduced; 
and often it is said that a “percept” is reproduced in the form of an “idea,” and 
a “sensation” in the form of an “image.” This is yet another instance of the 
laxity and ambiguity of language which have caused so much trouble in philosophy 
and psychology. To guard against it, let me say explicitly that, when the ex- 
pression “reproductive imagination” is used in these pages, it implies merely the 
thinking again of an object previously thought of; and faithful reproduction of 
an object means merely thinking it again as it was perceived or thought of on the 
previous occasion. 
2“Grundziige der Psychologie.” 
3 “Experimentelle Beitrage zur Theorie des Gedachtnisses.” IMAGINING—ANTICIPATING—RECOLLECTING 
295 
tions of memory and association have been made by methods 
which are essentially refinements or variations of this simple 
procedure. Many interesting results have been obtained; they 
cannot be stated here even in the most summary manner. 
HOURS 
FIG. IO.—CURVE OF OBLIVISCENCE 
A curve of this kind is obtained by learning at intervals rows of syllables of equal length and relearn- 
ing them after the intervals indicated (in hours) along the base line. The units of the vertical scale 
are the readings of the row. Thus the curve reports that for the learning of a row this subject required 
twenty-six readings; that to relearn it after six hours he required twelve readings; after twelve hours, 
sixteen readings; after twenty-four hours, nineteen readings; and so on. The curve approaches the 
base line (the level of complete obliviscence) asymptotically. 
The establishment of the curve of obliviscence by the method of “learning 
and relearning” is one of the results of most general interest. It is found 
that while individuals differ in this respect as in all others, it is generally true 
that the rate of forgetting is most rapid at first and gradually declines, be- 
coming after a time exceedingly slow; so that, long (even years) after the 
subject has ceased to be able “to reproduce” any part of a series of syllables 
“learned by heart,” some trace is retained which facilitates the relearning of 
the series. 
Another question of great general interest on which these methods seem 
capable of throwing light is—How far and in what sense can “memory” be 
improved by practice? The popular belief, which is the basis of much edu- 
cational practice, is that “memory” can be indefinitely improved by practice 
or cultivation. The financial success and the abundance of testimonials dis- 
played by the numerous commercial agencies which undertake to improve 
the “memories” of their clients testify to the wide diffusion of this belief, 
and afford a certain presumption in its favor. But the term “memory” is 
used in popular speech to denote a “faculty” in the sense of the old faculty 296 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
psychology. We must distinguish clearly three factors which are commonly 
lumped together under the head of “memory.” There are (i) the power of 
“committing to memory”; (2) the retaining of the traces which facilitate 
“reproduction”; (3) the capacity for “reproducing” by the aid of these traces. 
There can be no doubt that the first of these functions is susceptible of much 
improvement by judicious practice. Every one who experiments with rows 
of nonsense syllables finds that he quickly improves in the art of committing 
them to memory. Take such a row as mon—tek—nab—luz—dal—bik— 
noor—peef—loug—wut. You may find that you require to read such a row 
some twenty or more times, before becoming able to repeat it smoothly; but, 
after some practice with similar rows, you will find that you can repeat one 
by heart after, perhaps, only ten or five readings. Professor Meumann and 
his pupils have shown in an elaborate study1 how great such improvement 
may be; and they have shown that practice in the task of “memorizing” 
nonsense syllables effects improvement of one’s power to “memorize” other 
matter. But it may be that this improvement affects only the first, or the 
first and third of the three factors mentioned above. Undoubtedly we do 
learn by practice to set ourselves to such a task more effectively, to “concen- 
trate and distribute our attention” more suitably, to use rhythm skilfully; 
and we are apt to acquire a more vivid interest in the task as, day after day, 
we note our improvement and are encouraged to strive for more. Professor 
Meumann’s results leave untouched the question—Is the second factor, reten- 
tion, or retentiveness, susceptible of improvement by practice? Most psy- 
chologists have answered this question in the negative, somewhat dogmati- 
cally, deducing their answer from general principles. William James, for 
example, wrote: “No amount of culture would seem capable of modifying a 
man’s general retentiveness. This is a physiological quality, given once for 
all with his organization, and which he can never hope to change. It differs 
no doubt in disease and health, and it is a fact of observation that it is better 
in fresh and vigorous hours than when we are fagged and ill. We may say, 
then, that a man’s native tenacity will fluctuate somewhat with his hygiene, 
and that whatever is good for his tone of health will also be good for his 
memory. We may even say that whatever amount of intellectual exercise is 
bracing to the general tone and nutrition of the brain will also be profitable 
to the general retentiveness. But more than this we cannot say, and this, 
it is obvious, is far less than most people believe.”2 
This passage illustrates very forcibly the difficulty of clear thinking in 
psychology. For here even James has grossly confused two things that 
should be carefully distinguished, namely, our second and third factors, reten- 
tion or retentiveness and capacity to reproduce. All that he says of varia- 
tions of capacity with general conditions, such as fatigue and state of health, 
applies not to retentiveness, as he says, but to our power of reproduction. 
During fatigue or ill-health you may be unable to recollect many things which 
at normal times you can easily recollect at will. You may even be unable to 
recall your own name or that of a familiar friend. But, on recovery of your 
normal condition, all this inability disappears; which shows that, not your 
retentiveness, but your power of reproduction was impaired. 
James’s statement that a man’s general retentiveness or tenacity of mem- 
1 “The Psychology of Learning,” N. Y., 1913. 
2 “Principles,” Vol. II, p. 664. IMAGINING—ANTICIPATING—RECOLLECTING 
297 
ory cannot be improved by cultivation is a deduction from the view that all 
retention is a matter of the persistence of traces in the brain. In assuming 
the truth of this view, James was at one with many other psychologists; but 
he was begging a question of the profoundest interest which is still entirely 
open to dispute.1 There are philosophers and psychologists, such as Professor 
Bergson, who maintain that memory is not conditioned by the persistence of 
traces in the brain, but is a purely spiritual or mental function; who assert 
that all our experience leaves an indelible trace in the mind and is never for- 
gotten, and who maintain that, when we are unable to recollect, it is the third 
of our three factors that is at fault, not the second. The psychology of Pro- 
fessor Freud and his disciples, the psychoanalysts, seems to imply this doc- 
trine; although Freud has not, so far as I know, explicitly affirmed it. It is 
mainly based on the fact that in hypnosis and certain other abnormal states 
(especially the state of approaching death through drowning or other violence) 
the subject seems sometimes to remember many things which in his normal 
state he is quite incapable of recollecting. 
Is Retentiveness Improved by Practice? 
Either view of the nature of “retention” leaves open the question of the 
improvability of retentiveness by practice; and this question can only be 
answered by empirical observation. It is a straightforward question of fact 
which may be answered by experimental observation, though we remain 
ignorant of the nature of retentiveness. So far as I am aware, only one 
experimental investigation of this question has been made, namely, one con- 
ducted by Miss M. Smith and myself.2 
It is clear that the simple application of the method of learning and relearn- 
ing cannot solve this problem. For any improvement of “learning” due to 
practice may equally affect the process of “relearning.” What we have to do, 
in order to discover any improvement of “retention,” is to compare the im- 
provement effected by a period of practice in “learning” and in “relearning” 
respectively. If they show an equal improvement, there is no evidence of 
improvement of retention. If, however, “relearning” shows a greater improve- 
ment than “learning,” this excess of improvement may fairly be regarded as 
implying an improvement of “retention” through practice. That was the 
plan of our prolonged experiment, in the course of which each of six subjects 
“learned” a new row of syllables each day and “relearned” it after twenty- 
four hours, day after day, during many months. The result showed a large 
improvement both of “learning” and of “relearning”; and in three subjects 
the improvement of “relearning” was decidedly greater than the improve- 
ment of “learning”—a result which seems to imply improvement of “reten- 
tion” through practice. The definite establishment of so important a con- 
clusion would, of course, require the repetition of experiments of this kind 
on many subjects. And, even if all of them yielded the same result, the inter- 
pretation of it might remain disputable. It may be that practice improves 
the third more than the first of the three functions indicated above as con- 
1 And which James himself in later writings treated as an open question. 
2 “Some Experiments in Learning and Retention,” British Journal of Psychology, 
Vol. X, 1920. 298 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
Ftituting together what is commonly treated as a single function, under the 
head of “memory,” namely, the function of voluntary recall or reproduction. 
I have mentioned this research only to show the reader that experimental 
work of this kind is capable of throwing light on problems of the greatest 
practical importance and of the highest theoretical interest. 
Are Habit and Memory Identical Functions? 
Of more general interest than the detailed conclusions es- 
tablished by these experimental investigations of “memory” is 
the question (seldom raised by those who conduct such experi- 
ments) : What exactly is the function investigated ? Almost all 
the practical workers in this field have assumed the truth of the 
physiological theory of memory and association. This theory 
asserts that all that we call memory and association is a matter 
of the formation and persistence of paths of low resistance in the 
brain; a theory which combines very readily with the theory of 
“ideas” and of “ideas” as made up of “sensations” and “im- 
ages” associated with one another in groups or clusters, and also 
with the mechanistic theory of behavior. For just as “ideas” 
are said to be clusters of associated “images,” so complex forms 
of behavior are said to be clusters of associated reflexes; and the 
several “sensations” or “images” are supposed to be attached 
in some way to the several reflexes; the “association” being a 
path of low resistance which combines two reflex arcs into one 
more complex arc. 
These theories combine so well to make a comprehensible 
compound theory (the theory that memory and bodily habit are 
identical functions) that, with minor variations, the latter has 
been very widely accepted, often very uncritically and without 
any attempt to think out its difficulties. Only an unusually in- 
dependent and original mind will challenge such a theory, when 
it is familiar with the wide range of facts on which the theory 
is based and which it claims to resume. Professor Bergson is 
such a mind; and he has boldly challenged these far-reaching 
assumptions, which are of the essence of the mechanistic inter- 
pretation of Life and Mind. Without closely following Berg- 
son’s argument, I will indicate the kind of criticism he suggests. 
We must distinguish, says Bergson, between habit and true IMAGINING—ANTICIPATING—RECOLLECTING 
299 
memory; habit is of the body, memory of the mind.1 The 
physiological theory of paths of low resistance in the nervous 
system, formed and deepened by each passage of the nervous 
current, is probably a true account of the nature of habit; but 
it is wholly inadequate to throw light on pure memory. The 
so-called investigations of memory, by such methods as the learn- 
ing of rows of nonsense syllables, really deal with habit rather 
than with memory; the conclusions they reach are in the main 
laws of habit rather than laws of memory. But, in almost all 
instances of reproductive imagination, we have to do with a com- 
plex of habit and memory functions. In the nonsense syllable 
experiments, all the precautions taken to simplify and standard- 
ize the procedure tend to throw the emphasis on habit and to 
diminish the share of memory. Nonsense syllables are chosen in 
order, it is said, to have material free from preformed associa- 
tions, such as cling to every familiar word. In reality this is to 
reduce the factor of “meaning” or significance to a minimum. 
At the same time the factor of purpose is rendered as constant 
as possible, but also minimized; one learns the syllables under 
the driving power of a general volition to carry through the 
process in the interests of science. Yet, with all this simplifica- 
tion, which makes for the predominance of habit and tends to re- 
duce reproduction of the syllables to the mere unrolling of a 
motor habit, a motor mechanism we have formed by practice, 
the influence of true mental activity and of true memory is un- 
mistakable. Many of the experimental results show clearly that, 
both in the learning and in the reproducing of a row of syllables, 
the several syllables do not merely hang together like the links of 
a chain. Rather, the row is a unity for the mind, because of the 
subject’s purpose to regard it as a unity, a coherent object. 
That is to say, the row as thought of has conative continuity; or, 
more strictly, the thinking of the row is not a series or succession 
of “ideas” or of movements, but is the thinking of one whole 
1 “The past survives under two distinct forms: first in motor mechanisms; sec- 
ondly, in independent recollections. . . . The memory of a lesson remembered in 
the sense of learned by heart has all the marks of a habit . . the memory of 
each successive reading has none of the marks of a habit . . of these two 
memories one is pure memory, the other is habit interpreted by memory.”— 
“MatiSre et M6moire,” Chap. II. OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
object whose parts are named successively. It is for this reason 
that the learning of a long row is disproportionately difficult; 
for example, if you require for the learning of a row of eight syl- 
lables only six readings, you may require for the learning of a 
row of sixteen syllables not six, nor yet twelve readings, but per- 
haps forty or fifty or more. 
When you have re-read the row many times, it rolls itself off 
your tongue, without deliberation on your part, and without your 
being aware of each syllable before you speak it. It is as though 
you heard the syllables projected by a gramophone. And any 
effort to control the process is apt to interfere with the smooth 
repetition of the syllables. That is the mark of a well-formed 
motor habit, a “secondarily automatic process,” as it is com- 
monly called. The exercise of such a motor habit involves no 
remembering of the experiences through which it was acquired. 
It is as nearly as possible a mechanical process, the reeling off of 
a mechanism, such as the mechanists allege all our behavior to 
be. But, as Bergson points out, you can generally exert true 
memory, while the habit action proceeds; you can remember any 
one of the readings through the repetition of which you have 
learned the row. Each of these readings was a unique event; 
and the remembering of any one of them is an equally unique 
event, distinct from every other mental event and related in a 
unique manner to the event remembered. The motor habit, on 
the other hand, is a cumulative effect of all the successive read- 
ings, and bears no such unique relation to any one of them. 
Again, we know that, in order to create a habit of movement, 
it is necessary to repeat the series or chain of movements many 
times, under conditions as nearly as possible alike on each oc- 
casion; whereas perception on a single occasion of some intensely 
interesting scene or of some fascinating melody may leave us 
with the power to remember the scene or the melody, to “repro- 
duce” faithfully the sensory pattern in all its wealth of detail. 
Yet, if “memory” and “habit” are identical functions, the re- 
production of the sensory pattern must be regarded as dependent 
upon a multitude of neural links of the same order as those few 
involved in the motor habit. How, then, are we to account, in 
terms of the hypothesis, for the immense superiority of sensory IMAGINING—ANTICIPATING—RECOLLECTING 
301 
to motor memory ? Facts of this order seem to me to constitute 
in themselves an insuperable objection to the hypothesis of the 
identity of memory with motor habit. 
The common assumption that “habit” and “memory” are 
fundamentally identical functions and both alike explicable by 
the principle of “association” (understood in terms of paths of 
low resistance in the brain) is then highly disputable on the 
face of it. 
The assumption can be experimentally tested by the use of the correlation 
method, a method which in recent years has been developed and applied in 
psychology with most interesting results.1 Its application to our present 
problem depends on the following reasoning: If all habit and memory and 
association are dependent upon a common function, namely, the plasticity of 
the brain structure, or the facility with whicn new paths are formed and 
retained in the brain, and if, as James asserts, “This is a physiological quality, 
given once for all” in a man’s native constitution, it follows that all the wide 
differences between men in respect of retentiveness are expressions of native 
differences of this one “physiological quality”; and the man who has a good 
memory will also form readily and retain faithfully motor habits and “as- 
sociations ” of all kinds. If, on the other hand, this assumption is false, if 
memory and habit are radically distinct functions (as Bergson maintains), 
then it may well be that individuals who have good memories may have poor 
facility for habit formation, and conversely. That is to say, if James’s 
assumption is true, there should be high positive correlation between excel- 
lence in memory-tasks and excellence in habit-tasks. Whereas, if the assump- 
tion is false, there may he no such correlation, but possibly even an inverse or 
negative correlation. More popularly expressed, if James’s assumption is 
true, excellence in tasks of the two kinds should “go together” in the same 
individuals; whereas, if it is false, they may not “go together.” Further (and 
this is the essential argument), if we find, on empirical observation of a large 
number of individuals, that the two forms of excellence do not “go together,” 
but that many persons who are strong in memory are weak in habit-formation 
(if degrees of excellence in memory and in habit are not positively correlated), 
then we have strong evidence that the assumption is false, and that habit and 
memory are radically distinct functions. Such observations have been made 
by Miss M. Smith and myself. Recognizing that, if memory and habit are 
distinct functions, they nevertheless are conjoined in almost all operations in 
which degrees of excellence can be exactly determined, we tested a consider- 
able number of subjects (forty-one) in four tasks of two types. Two of one 
type were devised in such a way as to involve predominantly habit-formation; 
two of the other type were devised to involve as far as possible true memory 
1 The development and application of this method in psychology are largely due 
to the labors of Professor C. Spearman, reported in many articles in The British 
Journal of Psychology and elsewhere. An excellent discussion of the method may 
be found in “Essentials of Mental Measurement,” by William Brown and God- 
frey Thomson, London, 1921. 302 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
and as little as possible of habit-formation. When our subjects had been 
tested and a figure assigned to each denoting his degree of excellence in each 
of the four tasks, we determined the coefficients of correlation between de- 
grees of excellence of all the subjects in each task and their excellence in each 
other of the four tasks.1 The result was to show a high positive correlation 
between the two habit-tasks and also between the two memory-tasks; but a 
low or negative correlation between the habit-tasks and the memory-tasks. 
This evidence, then, indicates that the common assumption is false, and that 
Bergson is right in insisting upon the essentially different natures of habit 
and memory. 
The Role of “ Meaning ” in Remembering 
The distinction between motor habit and memory is further 
borne out, when we consider the immense influence of “mean- 
ing” in facilitating reproduction. When we learn rows of non- 
sense syllables, we are setting ourselves to a task in which the 
part of true memory is small, and the formation of motor habit 
is the principal factor. But, when we learn verses by heart, the 
task is one in which memory predominates and motor habit is 
of minor importance. Accordingly we find that the learning of 
verses is immensely easier. Many of us can learn a four-line 
verse by a single reading (or if not, then by two or three read- 
ings) ; though it may contain as many as fifty syllables. Whereas, 
in order to learn a row of fifty nonsense syllables, the same per- 
sons would require to read the row some hundreds of times. 
How are we to account for this immense difference ? The 
mechanists, who deny the distinction between habit and mem- 
ory, can only say that the words are rich in pre-formed associa- 
tions, while the nonsense syllables are not. But a multiplicity 
of pre-formed associations clustering about each word must in 
itself tend (as experiment has clearly shown) to complicate and 
make more difficult the task of forming new associations between 
the words. And this explanation is therefore no explanation at 
all. The truth is that, in learning the row of nonsense syllables, 
we are in the main setting up a speech habit or motor mech- 
anism. Whereas, in learning the verse, we appreciate the mean- 
1 By applying the formulae which the mathematicians have worked out. See 
“Essentials of Mental Measurement,” by Wm. Brown and G. Thomson. The 
research briefly summarized is reported in The British Journal of Psychology, Vol. 
X, 1920. IMAGINING—ANTICIPATING—RECOLLECTING 
ing, not only of the words, but of the conjunctions of words which 
make the sentences, and we remember the meaning of the whole 
sequence of words and of the component phrases. And some- 
times we can remember the meaning, without being able to 
reproduce the words. But the memory of their meaning im- 
mensely facilitates the reproduction of the words; because these 
meanings tend to express themselves in just such words. 
Just as we have distinguished between bodily and mental 
habits, so now we must distinguish between neural and mental 
association. Motor habit is formed by neural association; true 
memory involves mental association, a principle which seems to 
be of a very different order. The difference is well illustrated 
by the following simple experiment: Make a list of twenty words 
each of which denotes an object; and let each object be related 
to the object named next in order in the list in some obvious 
and familiar manner (as, for example, tree—mast—ship—sail— 
purchase—market—stall—stable—horse—wagon—sledge—snow 
—hail—thunder—Jove—Venus—Cupid—cupidity—stupidity— 
genius). You will find that most educated persons can repeat 
this list of words after once hearing it slowly read aloud—on two 
conditions, (i) that they set themselves to the task of remember- 
ing the words in order; (2) that they seize the meaning of the 
words and notice the relations between the objects named. Yet, 
as we have seen, to learn to repeat a list of twenty or thirty 
nonsense syllables (there are twenty words and more than thirty 
syllables in our list) is a very difficult task for most of us, requir- 
ing a hundred or more repetitions of the list, with concentrated 
attention.1 What, then, is the ground of this immense differ- 
ence ? Clearly, it is that in the one case we are dealing with 
association by habit, and in the other with association by “mean- 
J Even in setting up the motor habit which facilitates the repetition of the list, 
effort, i. e., conation, plays a very large role. If a list be merely read over and 
over again in an attitude of slack indifference, the number of readings required 
before it can be repeated “by heart” will be very much larger than if a deliberate 
effort is made to learn the list. (Cf. Smith and McDougall, loc. cit.) One sub- 
ject, when by practice he had acquired the art of maintaining an attitude as nearly 
as possible passive while reading again and again a row of twelve syllables, required 
more than two hundred such passive repetitions in order to learn the row; whereas, 
when he read a similar row with concentrated attention, only nine repetitions were 
necessary. OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
ing.” The nonsense syllables are mere sounds, significant of 
nothing beyond their appearance as written or printed. The 
words are significant of objects; each brings into play some great 
mental system which already has its place in the organized 
structure of the mind; and, on noticing the relations of any two 
objects successively named, each system interacts with the other. 
The words as mere sounds, or as mere movements of the speech- 
organs, are as nothing; their meanings are all-important. If you 
are equally familiar with two languages, half the words might 
have been of one language and half of the other, and, so long as 
their meanings were the same, the process in your mind would 
not have been essentially different, or the task appreciably more 
difficult. It is true that such words as “hail” and “thunder,” 
or “Venus” and “Cupid” may have been heard or spoken by 
you on several occasions in immediate succession; but the asso- 
ciation in your mind between the objects of each pair is not due 
to that; it is due to the fact that the objects named belong to 
the same “universe of discourse.” And when, after saying 
“sail,” the word “purchase” comes to mind, that is not due to 
any merely verbal association, but depends upon your having 
noticed, on hearing the words, the double meaning of the sound 
“sail.” If, on hearing the word “purchase,” you did not be- 
come aware of the second meaning of the sound “sail,” you will 
be at a loss when you come to that point in the process of recall. 
And the word “cupidity” follows easily upon “Cupid,” not be- 
cause the two sounds as such are associated in your mind, or be- 
cause the same motor mechanisms are involved in the utterance 
of both words; but because the juxtaposition of the two words 
leads you to recognize a relation between the two objects named, 
a relation which very possibly you have never before noticed. 
Reproductive imagining is, then, very different from the ex- 
ercise of a motor habit; to attempt to identify them, as the 
mechanists do, is to give a spurious and very misleading sim- 
plicity to the account of mental process. We must further con- 
sider the processes of association under the general heading of 
mental growth.1 Let us now consider certain distinctions in the 
operations of the developed mind. 
1 Chap. XV. IMAGINING—ANTICIPATING—RECOLLECTING 
305 
Memory or Remembering in the Strict Sense 
It is usual to treat of imagination and of memory in separate 
chapters, as though they were radically distinct functions or 
faculties; but I do not see how they can be profitably separated. 
Imagination, or thinking of remote objects, takes three forms 
—mere imagination, anticipation, and remembering. The an- 
ticipatory form of imagination would seem to be the most primi- 
tive and fundamental; for, as we have seen, it is an aid to, and 
an extension into the future of, the anticipation involved in all 
perceptual thinking. The retrospective attitude, which makes 
of imagining a thinking of the past or a remembering, seems to 
be a relatively late development, implying as it does a reversal 
of the primitive forward-looking attitude. It seems probable 
that no animal achieves this retrospective attitude and imagines 
the past as past. Simple imagining, without definite reference 
forward or backward in time, forms perhaps a transition stage 
in the development of remembering from anticipation. In a 
higher degree than imaginative anticipation, it implies sus- 
pension of action. The child remembers little explicitly; his 
remembering is in the main for the sake of action in the near 
future. Only the old or middle-aged learn “to muse and brood 
and live again in memory.” The child has difficulty in distin- 
guishing between his past perceiving and his past imagining. 
Savage man also draws this distinction with difficulty; he is apt 
to confuse his day-dreams and the imaginings of sleep with his 
perceptual experiences. The distinction is a difficult one; we 
learn to make it clearly and accurately only by much discipline. 
The word “memory” is sometimes used, in the widest possible 
sense, to cover all influence of our past upon our present experi- 
ence; and past experience plays its part, in determining the course 
of present experience, through the medium of the modifications 
of mental structure induced by that past experience. Enduring 
modifications or developments of mental structure are the links 
between past and present experiences. In the wide sense, all 
or most imagining, and indeed most perceiving, involves memory: 
for the structure of the mind is built up from its innate basis 
through experience; and in the adult human being the acquired OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
structure preponderates greatly in richness and complexity over 
the innate basis of structure. In the strictest or narrowest 
sense, on the other hand, memory or remembering implies imag- 
ining of events as experienced in the past; that is to say, the sub- 
ject, in the act of imagining the event, knows it or recognizes it 
as belonging to his own past experience. Between these extremes 
lie many degrees of explicitness of memory. 
The simplest form of true remembering is perceptual recogni- 
tion. All perception based on past experience involves recogni- 
tion in the looser sense, namely, an implicit classing of the present 
object with its fellows of the same class. In the strictest sense, 
recognition implies the distinguishing of the individual object as 
such and reference to the time and the place at which it was 
formerly perceived; as when we say: “This is the man I saw 
yesterday as I turned the corner of S Street on my way to 
lunch.” It has been commonly assumed in practical life that 
such remembering is a feat easily and accurately accomplished 
by all normal human beings. But psychological research has be- 
gun to make it clear that this assumption is not valid; and elabo- 
rate researches into testimony and its trustworthiness have re- 
vealed many sources of error and the extent to which the normal 
man is liable to such errors.1 In reality, remembering, in the 
full sense of the word, is a very complex introspective activity 
which implies a well-developed capacity of self-reflection or 
self-awareness, or, as it is commonly expressed, well-developed 
self-consciousness. Our knowledge of the time-order of the 
events we remember is for the most part vague and uncertain, 
except in so far as we make use of a conventional system of 
dates. 
How Do We 11 Place" Our Memories in the Past? 
Apart from our use of some such system of dates (which among 
primitive peoples is apt to be extremely crude and simple) our 
knowledge of the time-order of past events seems to be based 
on two factors only. First, after the lapse of time, the past 
object or event is remembered with a certain vagueness, a loss of 
detail and accuracy and vividness, which, being in the main more 
1 Cf. W. Stern, “Psychologie der Aussage.” IMAGINING—ANTICIPATING—RECOLLECTING 
307 
marked the greater the interval of time, serves as a rough mark of 
remoteness in time. This in itself is very apt to mislead us; for 
past events are remembered clearly and vividly in proportion to 
the keenness of our interest in them at the time of their hap- 
pening. Hence we say of the highly interesting event: “It 
seems as though it happened only yesterday.” This loss of viv- 
idness and detail, which becomes more marked with the lapse 
of time, is no doubt due to the development of our mental struc- 
ture which has taken place in the interval. If, like “Sleeping 
Beauty,” we could absolutely arrest our life for a hundred years, 
we should presumably remember the events of a century ago 
as vividly and faithfully as we remember those of yesterday. 
We find accordingly that the fuller and richer our activities dur- 
ing any period of time, the more do the events preceding that 
period bear in memory the mark of remoteness. Especially is 
this so, if in the interval we have been actively concerned with 
events of a similar type; for then that part of the structure of 
our minds which is concerned in all thinking of such things has 
undergone much change and development; hence even a short 
period, filled with intense activity about objects of a certain class, 
may result in our feeling that the experiences of the same class 
preceding that period are very remote. Whereas, if the inter- 
vening period is filled with activity of a different type and con- 
cerning objects of a different class from those familiar activities 
and objects to which you return after an interval (even of years), 
you are astonished to find how it all seems the same, how the 
interval has made no difference; the same old postman knocks 
on the same old door, the same old servant lays the table for 
dinner in the same old way, and all comes back to you as though 
you had been away but a few days. 
The second time-mark for memory (apart from conventional 
dates) depends upon the fact that in remembering our thinking 
tends to run forward in time. We think of a certain past event 
and then, so far as we continue in the reminiscent attitude, we 
tend to think of succeeding rather than of preceding events. 
To reverse this natural sequence in remembering requires a de- 
liberate effort and is not easy; in fact, we accomplish it only im- 
perfectly by taking short sequences of the past in inverted order. OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
It is commonly said that this tendency is the expression of a 
“law of forward association.” In reality it goes deeper than this; 
it seems to be the expression of the fundamental tendency of 
Mind to look forward, to work toward the future, to anticipate 
the event which is about to happen. 
The Essence of Recognition 
But a more fundamental question remains: What is the es- 
sence of recognition ? What is its essential condition ? When 
you see a man and say to yourself “ I have seen that man before,” 
you achieve an act of recognition of a simple kind in which is 
involved the essential function of all memory, as distinct from 
mere imagination. Here we must distinguish between implicit 
recognition and explicit recognition. The former is primitive; 
the latter develops out of it. The dog that runs away at sight 
of the man who kicked him yesterday recognizes him implicitly. 
It is probably true to say that the perceiving of the same man 
merely evokes again the fear-impulse which yesterday was 
evoked by his brutal act. The dog does not think “That is the 
man who kicked me yesterday; I will get out of his way lest he 
kick me again.” All sense-impressions which evoke the same 
reaction are signs of the same object. In ourselves the utterance 
of the proper name of the object is an important part of recog- 
nition. But, even apart from this, the similarity of the effect 
upon us is the essential ground of recognition. 
We may attempt further to explain the act of recognition by 
speaking of a “sense of familiarity” or “a feeling or sensation of 
familiarity” accompanying the act of perception. But we do not 
really advance our understanding of the process by so doing. 
The capacity for recognition, and so of all remembering, is at 
bottom that fundamental function which James calls “concep- 
tion” and which perhaps is better called simply “knowing.” 
Even in its simplest forms it involves a rudimentary act of 
judgment, the judgment of sameness—“Hello! Thingumbob, 
again!” This we have to accept as one of the fundamental 
faculties of Mind; we can give no further account or explanation 
of it, because we cannot explain the generation of Mind out of IMAGINING—ANTICIPATING—RECOLLECTING 
309 
something that is not Mind, whether physical movements or 
mere “sensations” or logical entities, such as “universals” or 
“essences” or “concepts” or “ideas.” 
We have rather to recognize that all those specialized highly 
developed forms of mental activity which are usually treated in 
text-books in separate chapters on imagination, memory, cona- 
tion, affection, association, conception, judgment, comparing, 
reasoning, and so forth, that all these functions are involved in 
the simplest mental acts; and that the process of mental evolu- 
tion in the individual, as in the race, does not consist in the add- 
ing or creation or development of new faculties. Mental de- 
velopment consists rather in the becoming more explicit of 
these distinguishable, but not distinct, modes of activity, by 
the accentuation in various acts of this or that aspect of mental 
activity. So remembering is an act in which that reference to the 
past which is implicit in all mental activity is more explicit and 
more prominent than in other acts.1 
The biological function of Mind is to bring the past to bear 
upon present action, guiding it in anticipation of the future. 
This it is able to do, because it (the “mind” of the individual) 
has an enduring structure which constantly grows and is de- 
veloped by every mental activity. “Memory” is our most gen- 
eral term for connoting this bearing of the past upon our present 
action through the medium of our developing mental structure. 
To have a good memory is to have a well-organized mind. Yet we 
are bound to recognize individual peculiarities of memory that 
are not wholly explicable in terms of differences of organized 
structure. Two men may have equally well and systematically 
organized minds; yet one seems to work predominantly in the 
form of explicit remembering of the past; while in the other man 
the stores of systematic knowledge remain implicit; his mind 
is occupied constantly with the future, and his knowledge oper- 
1 The beginner should be specially warned against a certain naive way of explain- 
ing acts of recognition and comparison, which consists in saying that, when I 
recognize an object, I bring out of the storehouse of the mind an “idea” of the 
object as previously perceived, and place it alongside my present “idea” or “per- 
cept,” and then, seeing that the two “ideas” are alike, deduce the sameness of 
the object. Such “explanation” is purely fictitious, one of the many excrescences 
of the “idea” theory. 310 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
ates implicitly in the devising of schemes of action. Such differ- 
ence of type may be largely due to difference of acquired inter- 
ests; yet it seems probable that it has also a basis in some ob- 
scure difference of native constitution. 
Memory and Conation 
Like all other thinking, remembering is a conative activity. 
We remember and recollect effectively in proportion as we have 
strong motives for doing so. This truth is too often ignored; we 
are apt to regard our “memory” fatalistically, as a mysterious 
automatic machine over which we have no control; either it 
works or it does not, and that is all there is to say of it. The 
physiological theory of memory, which identifies it with neural 
habit, has done much to accentuate this fatalistic attitude to- 
ward our “memories”; while at the same time the professional 
memory-trainers have been claiming the most striking successes 
and making their fortunes. 
It is true that, in the sphere of recollection, our volition often 
seems to be peculiarly ineffective. But in no kind of task is our 
volition uniformly successful. And it is notorious that we re- 
member emotionally exciting events better than others; which 
means that the strength of our conation, our interest, during any 
experience is a main condition of our remembering. There can 
be no doubt that an explicit volition, purpose, or intention to 
remember greatly favors remembering and recollecting. For 
example, in the experiment with the list of words (p. 303) our 
success largely depends on our intention to remember.1 On 
striving to recollect, our volition often fails; we cannot recover 
the name or the anecdote, though we know what it is we want 
to recall, we know that it is the name of that place or person, or 
a story about it. But, though our purpose to recollect may fail 
at the moment to achieve its goal, it often becomes effective af- 
ter an interval. We think of something else; and then our un- 
satisfied conation or purpose to recollect works subconsciously 
(another striking illustration of the law that conation outlasts 
cognition) and we suddenly become aware of the name, fact, or 
1 Cf. also the foot-note on p. 303. IMAGINING—ANTICIPATING—RECOLLECTING 
anecdote. Often we may notice that this “popping up into con- 
sciousness” of the fact we could not immediately recollect oc- 
curs when the mind is occupied with some allied topic; for ex- 
ample, I cannot recollect the name of one of the battle-fields of 
Flanders, though I could put my finger on the spot on the map; 
then after an interval I am led to think of the war again in some 
other aspect, and suddenly the name recurs to me. Recollec- 
tion of this kind is too often treated as though it were merely an 
accidental result of the working of cerebral machinery. But 
there can be no doubt that, in such cases, our desire or purpose 
to recollect is the determining factor of our subsequent recol- 
lection. 
The influence of conation on “memory” is very forcibly il- 
lustrated in mental pathology, especially by instances of func- 
tional amnesia or forgetting. For conation can determine not 
only remembering, but also forgetting; or, more correctly, just 
as desire for an object leads us frequently to remember that ob- 
ject, so aversion from an object (rooted in fear, disgust, or pain- 
ful experiences connected with it) may prevent the remembering 
of it, and may even make it impossible to recollect it by the most 
genuine voluntary effort. Amnesia of this kind occurred in 
thousands of instances among the soldiers who suffered the 
horrors of “the front” during the Great War. Here it must 
suffice to say that, in very many such cases (and in principle 
probably in all) it is possible to discover the motive which pre- 
vents recollection; and possible also to overcome it by evoking 
sufficiently strong motives of the opposite tendency. Hypnotic 
suggestion also affords ample evidence of the same truth. The 
essence of hypnotic suggestion is that the operator largely con- 
trols and directs the conative energies of the subject; and one of 
the most striking effects of such suggestion is to prevent by a 
few words of instruction the recollection of certain events; or, 
equally simply, to enable the patient to recollect some amnesic 
period, some event, or even a large tract of his past, which he 
could not voluntarily recall.1 
1 For discussion of these topics see Part II. 312 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
Desire and Imagination 
The influence of conation on imagination of the future is 
more generally and adequately recognized under the head of 
Desire. Desire is conative impulse working on the plane of 
imagination. Just as we cannot draw a sharp line between 
perception and imagination, because imagination co-operates 
with and is a further development of the anticipatory function 
of perception, so we cannot draw any sharp line bewteen im- 
pulse and desire. In the fullest sense of the word, desire implies 
that we imagine the goal, the change of circumstance toward 
which we feel impelled to strive, while nevertheless we suspend 
all bodily behavior directed toward that goal, because we recog- 
nize either the physical or the moral impossibility of successful 
action in the present. Thus, when I am hungry and no food is 
within reach, to imagine food is at the same time to desire it. 
And (as so well described by Major Priestly, p. 279) the food- 
impulse, when it is very strong, may dominate our thinking in 
the form of desire. Everything that can make us think of food 
starts up our desire afresh; and the desire tends to keep us think- 
ing of its object, determining anticipation and recollection as 
well as simple imagining of meals and of various forms of food, 
and makes us sensitive to every suggestion of food. Desire is 
thus essentially a self-sustaining circular or reciprocal process 
between two mental dispositions or systems; in this instance, 
between the cognitive system concerned in all thinking of food 
and the conative disposition from which springs the impulse to 
seek food. By reason of the impossibility of present action 
toward the natural end of securing food, the impulse operates 
to keep us imagining the various possibilities of action in the 
future. Desire is thus the great sustainer of productive im- 
agination, the imagination which runs before action and devises 
remote means to remote ends. 
More loosely we speak of “desire” under circumstances of 
two other types. First, if we pursue a train of action as means to 
a remote end, we may say in accordance with common usage 
that desire for the end sustains our action. Secondly, the de- 
sired object may be in view, may be present, and yet (like Major IMAGINING—ANTICIPATING—RECOLLECTING 
Priestly and his hungry men watching each morsel eaten by 
their companions) we restrain our impulse to act. Impulse, thus 
suspended in the presence of the object, is the simplest form of 
desire; one of which we may suppose most of the higher animals 
to be capable, as when the hungry dog sits looking eagerly at his 
biscuit, restrained from action by his master’s prohibition. A 
still lower form of desire than the last (in which the impulse is 
suspended by a stronger conflicting impulse) is that of the 
hungry animal separated by bars from the food he strives to 
reach. A dog or cat in such a situation may, after striving in 
vain for a time, sit down and lick his lips, with his eyes fixed 
upon the food. That is suspension of action while the impulse 
still works. Such presumably are the moments when produc- 
tive imagination achieves its first triumphs. 
By older writers (e. g., Descartes and some of the philosophers 
of the Scottish school) desire was classed as one of the emotions. 
This was a very confusing treatment. For desire (using the term 
in the wider sense to cover aversion as well as appetition) may 
spring from any one of the instinctive dispositions, and its re- 
lation to emotional excitement is essentially the same as that of 
impulse; for desire is impulse working on the more intellectual 
plane on which the goal of endeavor is explicitly thought of as 
distinct from the present circumstances. CHAPTER XI 
EMOTION 
We all know what it is to be emotionally excited. And we 
know that the experience of being emotionally excited is not 
always of the same quality; we experience emotional excitements 
of many distinguishable qualities. We confidently use a large 
number of words to describe these experiences. Most of these 
words are used in both adjectival and substantival forms, and 
some are used also as verbs, transitive or intransitive. We say 
“I was angry or afraid,” or we say “I felt anger or fear”; or 
again we say “I raged” or “I feared him” or “I admired him.” 
And the substantival form may be used as the name of an 
agent; as when we say “I was moved by anger or impelled by 
fear,” or ‘‘Curiosity carried me away,” or ‘‘Anger overwhelmed 
me, or gave me strength,” or “Fear lent wings to my feet.” 
The last usage is the most forcible; it is appropriate to poetical 
and romantic description. The poets legitimately personify 
these emotional experiences and speak of them as personal powers 
or agents. Plato set this fashion long ago, when he described 
Reason as striving to control the Passions, which drag us along 
like a team of spirited horses. It results from this usage that 
psychologists commonly speak of “the emotions” or of “an 
emotion,” just as they speak of “sensations” or “an idea.” 
And, as in these cases, the usage is misleading and confusing; 
though perhaps not so seriously misleading. Some psycholo- 
gists, indulging our natural tendency to reify whatever we name, 
seem to assume that we have to recognize “an emotion” of dis- 
tinctive quality corresponding to every name used in popular 
and literary description of emotional experience. Let us begin 
our study of emotional experience by putting aside this popular 
and literary usage; let us hold to the obvious fact that there are 
no such things as “emotions,” any more than there are such 
things as “sensations” or “ideas” or “.concepts,” And, if we EMOTION 
find it difficult or impossible to avoid altogether the use of the 
substantival forms, such as “anger” and “fright” and “curi- 
osity” and “wonder” and “admiration,” let us at least be clear 
that the adjectival form is preferable wherever possible, and 
that the use of a substantive does not imply a thing or agent, 
but always a mode or quality of experience. 
Qualitative Varieties of Emotional Experience 
We shall, then, not begin by asking, What is an emotion? 
Rather, we shall ask, What are the varieties of emotional ex- 
perience? And what are the conditions, internal and external, 
under which we experience these varieties or qualities ? And we 
may further inquire, What part do these qualities play in our 
mental life ? What is their function ? How do they contri- 
bute toward the attainment of our natural goals ? 
The emotional qualities are more difficult to describe than the 
sensory qualities. In both cases we can only indicate the qual- 
ity we experience by pointing to an object or situation and say- 
ing: “It is what I experience when I perceive or think of that.” 
But our sensory reactions are more true to type, more constant 
in relation to the objects and impressions that excite them, than 
are our emotional reactions. In the presence of the same object, 
the emotional experiences of different persons may be very dif- 
ferent, and even those of the same person on successive occa- 
sions may vary widely with changes in his general condition. 
Though similar differences and variations of our sensory experi- 
ences occur, they are far less extreme. Hence, while the sensory 
qualities are commonly said to be “objective,” or significant of 
the nature of the object, the emotional qualities are said to be 
subjective, or significant of the nature of the subject. As we 
have seen, some eccentric philosophers have endeavored in vari- 
ous ingenious ways to identify sensory experiences with physical 
objects; but few go so far as to seek to identify our emotional 
experiences with the objects that evoke them. Yet in a general 
way the quality of our emotional reaction to an object does 
signify the nature of the object. Common speech and literary 
usage recognize this fact; as when they describe as “fearful” an OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
object that frightens us; as “provoking” one that angers us; 
as “strange” or “marvellous” or “wondrous” or “curious” one 
that evokes our curiosity; or describe a landscape as sublime or 
awful, a work of art as admirable or tender, a person as disgust- 
ing or reverend or hateful or awe-inspiring. Common speech 
goes even further and invents substantives to denote those quali- 
ties of things in virtue of which they excite in us the various 
emotional qualities; such substantives as awfulness, hatefulness, 
sublimity, frightfulness, mysteriousness. 
These facts seem to suggest that, as regards their place and 
function in our mental activity, emotional qualities are not 
essentially different from the sensory qualities; that, like them, 
they are essentially cognitive, though their significance or signify- 
ing function is more ambiguous and variable. This is the view 
implied in the famous Lange-James theory of the emotions, 
which we must examine on a later page. 
Two Senses of the Word “ Emotion ” 
One source of confusion in discussions of emotional experience 
is that the expression “an emotion” is used in two very different 
senses. Sometimes it is used to mean only some emotional 
quality of experience. This is something we can readily con- 
ceive to be lacking in an experience otherwise similar; for it is 
variable in quality and intensity, while other distinguishable 
features persist or recur. For example, on catching sight of some 
strange object out in the forest or on the prairie, your experience 
may be tinged with that emotional quality we call fear. You 
continue to gaze at it and, as you do so, this quality fades out, 
leaving in its place, as it were, the quality we call curiosity. 
You continue to gaze, and presently, having recognized the ob- 
ject more fully, this quality also subsides and you turn away 
satisfied. Here the change is wholly internal. The object re- 
mains the same object, and the sense-impressions you receive 
from it remain unchanged; while your emotional reaction changes 
in quality and then fades away, as your cognition becomes more 
adequate. It is their relative independence of the object which 
leads us to call the emotional qualities subjective; while we call EMOTION 
the sensory qualities objective. And it is this which leads us 
to speak of the emotional quality as “an emotion.” 
But sometimes “an emotion” is used to imply the whole 
mental and bodily process of the moment; and in this sense “an 
emotion” means much more than the emotional quality of our 
experience at that moment. Either usage seems legitimate, if 
we make clear in which sense we use the words. The second 
usage arises from the facts (i) that each kind of emotional ex- 
perience is normally accompanied by bodily changes which are 
called “ the expressions of the emotion ”; (2) that every emotional 
excitement of the organism involves, beside the emotional qual- 
ity and its bodily expressions, a third distinguishable factor 
which is very often ignored in discussions of the emotions, 
namely, the conative factor in the total experience. This we 
must now consider, with the utmost effort to think clearly. 
Conation as a Mode of Experience 
Hitherto I have discussed conation or striving, under the 
heads of impulse and desire, as a factor in, or aspect of, all men- 
tal activity. We have noted how conation expresses itself, in 
behavior and in all mental activity, as a persistent striving 
toward a goal with variation of means. We have regarded such 
behavior as indicative of an energy that works teleologically, and 
which is therefore radically different from the energies which 
physical science conceives as working always mechanistically. 
I have now to insist that we conceive this energy, not only on 
the basis of our observation of all those peculiarities which are 
the marks of behavior, which distinguish behavior from all 
mechanical processes, but also on the basis of our immediate 
experience of striving. 
When we strive, we are immediately aware of striving; and 
this conative experience, which is always present in some de- 
gree as an element or quality in our experience, varies in 
strength or intensity with the intensity of our striving. It is 
distinguishable or introspectively recognizable just because it so 
varies in intensity. If it were a constant factor of all ex- 
perience, varying neither in quality nor intensity, we should OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
never become explicitly aware of it. Whether it varies qualita- 
tively is a very difficult question; but its variations of intensity 
are very marked. It is at a minimum when we are relaxed, in- 
different, and sluggish; at a maximum when we are on the alert, 
keenly pursuing any goal, whether by the aid of bodily activity 
or by purely mental activity. We experience it in the most 
distinct manner, when we are moved by some uncontrollable 
craving or desire which we cannot satisfy and which will allow 
us neither to rest, nor to turn our attention to other things. 
This factor in experience is so subtle and elusive to introspection that many 
psychologists ignore it altogether; while others, admitting its reality, regard it 
as merely a quality of sensory experience. James, for example, in the inter- 
ests of the sensationist psychology which he had espoused, endeavored to 
show that all our conative experience is merely a special kind of sensory ex- 
perience, namely, kinsesthetic or motor sensations. He pointed out that, 
when we strive intensely with bodily effort, the strong action of our muscles 
excites strongly the sensory nerves of the muscles, joints, and tendons; and 
he held that the sensory qualities so excited are the essence of such experi- 
ence of effort, being more intense the stronger our efforts. He asserted that, 
when we make what we call a purely mental effort, such activity is invariably 
accompanied by contractions of certain muscles which produce no large move- 
ments, but which nevertheless excite kinaesthetic “sensations” of an inten- 
sity proportional to the strength of our effort. And he inclined to the view 
that these “sensations” of strain from such muscles as those of the scalp, 
the forehead, the throat, and the other parts of the breathing mechanism 
are “the feeling of effort” in such purely mental activities.1 In this matter 
James has been followed by very many psychologists. 
The question at issue is very theoretical. Psychology can make much 
progress without having solved the problem. James claimed to base his view 
on his own introspection; and it is obvious that, if so skilled a psychologist 
could find in introspection a warrant for the sensationist answer to this ques- 
tion, those who take the opposite view cannot hope to establish it by simple 
appeal to the verdict of introspection. They can only testify, as I do, that 
their “sense of effort” seems to vary independently of muscular strains and 
tensions; that they are sometimes aware of intense mental effort, when there 
is no discoverable strain or tension of any muscles of corresponding degree. 
Those who take this view, maintaining that the “sense of effort” is radically 
distinct from all sensory experience, have to admit that in bodily effort the 
straining of the muscles does yield sensory qualities whose intensity runs 
parallel with the intensity of our striving, and that, in making any strong 
efforts of an intellectual kind, we are apt to wrinkle our brows or modify the 
breathing processes. But we can support our view with strong evidence of 
two kinds. First, our muscles sometimes contract very strongly, exciting 
11 say inclined to this view, because James, although he could find no place 
for conative experience in his sensationist psychology, nevertheless believed on 
moral grounds in the reality of spiritual force or effort, and therefore left the 
question open in psychology. EMOTION 
319 
intense kinaesthetic qualities, without our making any effort or having any 
“sense of effort”; as, for example, in muscular cramp, or when the muscles of 
a limb are caused to contract violently by an electric current passed through 
the limb. On such occasions we remain as nearly as possible passive spec- 
tators of the contortions of our limbs, with little or no “sense of effort”; or 
we may make an effort to straighten out the cramped limb, or to stand the 
pain of the electric current without shrinking, or to escape from it, or to ana- 
lyze introspectively its effects upon us. And in all these cases our “sense of 
effort” runs parallel, not with the strength of the contractions of our muscles, 
but with the intensity of the mental effort that we make. 
Evidence of the second kind, pointing strongly in the same direction, is 
afforded by certain pathological cases. A patient suffering from some severe 
shock may lie as though in a trance, showing hardly any sign of life, beyond 
faint pulse and breathing.1 Yet on recovery of his normal state, such a patient 
may relate how during that period he was intensely active mentally, suffer- 
ing an acute conflict, or overwhelmed with intense fear, which effectively 
inhibited all movement, or making intense efforts to recollect.2 
Some authors have confused this question of the nature of conative experi- 
ence with another, namely, the question of the reality of the alleged “feelings 
of innervation.” These “feelings of innervation” were supposed by Wundt 
and others to be qualities of experience strictly analogous to “sensations,” 
differing from them only in that, while “sensations” were excited by nervous 
currents arriving in the brain-cortex from sensory nerves and sense-organs, 
“feelings of innervation” were, it was said, excited by nervous currents going 
out from the cortex along the motor nerves. It must be admitted that James 
argued very forcibly and effectively against “feelings of innervation” so 
conceived. But to reject “feelings of innervation” is not to accept the sen- 
sationist view of our “sense of effort.” If we reject the “feelings of innerva- 
tion” and accept the sensationist view of the “sense of effort,” we shall be 
driven to the conclusion that we never know what degree of effort we are put- 
ting forth, or to put forth, until our muscles contract. But this is obviously 
absurd. It is clearly true that we often intend to make a movement with a 
certain force or enegry, before we begin to make it; and, in so far as our motor 
apparatus faithfully executes our intention, we may truly be said to know the 
strength of our muscular effort before we initiate bodily action. The rejec- 
tion of “feelings of innervation” thus only renders stronger the argument 
against the sensationist’s view of the “sense of effort.” 
One subterfuge remains for the sensationist, and he has usually seized upon 
it. He may say that, when we intend a strong or a weak muscular effort, the 
essence of such intention is imagery corresponding in quality to the strong or 
1 In such cases among “shell-shocked” soldiers I have observed a complete ab- 
sence of all deep reflexes, with complete flaccidity of all limbs, a condition which 
seems to imply a complete absence, or at least a minimal intensity, of all sensory 
qualities of the kinaesthetic class. And some of them who have described to me 
retrospectively their mental activity during the trancelike state have been able to 
give some account of events in their vicinity during this state. This constitutes 
evidence of the truth of their statements, and I can see no reason for doubting their 
substantial accuracy. 
2 Cf. the account given of his experience during such a state by the very intelli- 
gent Mr. Hanna, the hero of Doctors Sidis’s and Goodharts’s “Multiple Person- 
ality.” OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
the weak “sensations” of muscular strain that will result when the muscles 
begin to work. It is a sufficient answer to this last refinement of the sensation- 
ist’s theory to point out that, if in such instances the essence of our conative 
experience, of our sense of effort, is merely the imagining of the kinaesthetic 
sensory experience that will result from our muscular action, then to imagine 
a feeble movement must be identical with weakly intending, willing, or resolv- 
ing it; and to imagine a strong movement must be identical with strongly in- 
tending it; which is not the case. We may strongly intend or resolve to produce a 
feeble muscular contraction; and we may also weakly resolve, may intend with little 
sense of effort, to produce strong muscular contractions; and these two experi- 
ences of effort of different degrees of intensity are quite distinct. The strength 
of our effort (and of our “sense of effort”) bears no constant relation to the 
strength of the muscular contractions we are producing or intending to pro- 
duce. We see this most clearly, perhaps, when we make a great effort to keep 
the body perfectly passive under conditions which naturally stimulate us to 
bodily activity. We see it also if we compare the intensities of our “sense 
of effort,” when we execute some gymnastic feat which involves considerable 
muscular strain, and when we attempt to beat one rhythm with the right 
hand and another with the left. If our bodily condition is good and we are 
well practised, we may achieve the former feat with little "sense of effort,” 
but rather with a sense of ease and mastery; whereas, in attempting the 
feeble muscular movements involved in the second task, we may experience a 
very acute “sense of effort,” and may, moreover, find the second task much 
more fatiguing than the other. Consider also the intense sense of effort 
that we may experience in trying to keep awake when, after a bad night, we 
listen to a dull lecture; or when we are called upon to rise from bed on a 
cold morning before we are fully awake. 
Mental effort or conation, then, cannot be identified with 
bodily effort; and our experience of effort cannot be analyzed 
into any sensational or imaginal elements or qualities. 
Conative Experience in Emotional Excitement 
Conative experience is the felt impulse to action; and it is felt, 
or is prominent in experience, in proportion to the strength of 
the working of the impulse. It takes the forms of mere craving 
for some undefined goal, of definitely directed desire, of conflict 
of desires, of resolving, choosing, willing; and, when we are ac- 
tively occupied in working toward our goal, either by thinking 
or by bodily activity, this conative experience is complicated 
and obscured for introspection by the kinaesthetic sensory quali- 
ties set up by muscular strains. Now such felt impulse is present 
in all emotional experience. When we are afraid, we feel the 
impulse to retreat or escape from the object that frightens us; EMOTION 
321 
when we are angry, we feel the impulse to attack the object that 
angers us; when we are curious, we feel the impulse to draw 
nearer and examine the object that excites our curiosity. It is 
true that we become introspectively aware of the impulse, only 
when we do not give ourselves up to it, but, arresting or suspend- 
ing it, turn our attention from the object to ourselves; but that 
is the peculiarity of all introspective awareness. 
If the conative factor could be subtracted from an emotional 
experience, without other change, that experience would seem 
to be radically altered. We might still think of the object, and 
our thinking would still be colored by the emotional quality: 
but the whole experience would be profoundly different; it would 
seem to lack its very essence, to be empty and unreal. It would 
be like the simulation of emotion. We cannot, then, properly 
abstract from this conative factor, in describing or discussing 
emotional experience. That impulse to action is an essential 
feature of emotion is recognized by common speech and literary 
usage; as when it is said that anger or fear or disgust makes us 
do this or that, or impels us to act. 
Emotion, Impulse, and Bodily Adjustments 
There is only one way in which this impulsive power of “the 
emotions” can be intelligibly accounted for and brought into 
line with any systematic description of our mental life and 
structure. That is the way pointed out by Charles Darwin 1 
and developed in my “Social Psychology.” That way is to rec- 
ognize that all the bodily changes of any species of animal which 
we call “expressions of the emotions” are adaptations of the 
body to the modes of instinctive activity proper to the species. 
Each mode of instinctive activity requires, for its most efficient 
execution, the co-operation of all the parts and organs of the 
body; for, as we have seen, an instinctive action is essentially a 
“total” reaction, and the processes of every part of the body are 
subordinated to, and adapted to aid or supplement, the actual 
1 In his “Expression of the Emotions in Men and Animals.” Of course, if in 
the interests of the mechanistic theory, we ignore or deny the fact that emotion 
and impulse to action are closely correlated, the problem of the relation between 
them does not arise. 322 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
movements of limbs, or other parts, which immediately contribute 
toward the attainment of the natural goal. Thus, when the in- 
stinct of escape is excited, the impulse vents itself, and attains 
its goal, primarily and chiefly by swift locomotion. But, in order 
that these locomotory movements (of running, flying, swimming, 
or what not) shall attain the highest possible effectiveness, it is 
necessary that all the visceral organs shall be regulated in ap- 
priate fashion. The heart and lungs must work more rapidly; 
and the blood must be driven away from the digestive and 
secretory organs and from the skin, by the contraction of their 
arterioles; it must be concentrated in the lungs, muscles, and 
brain; the bladder and intestine must be emptied; and the pupil 
of the eye must be dilated, so that the greatest amount of light 
may be admitted from every part of the field of vision. All these 
adjustments are actually made, as parts or features of the total 
reaction which is the instinctive behavior of escape. 
The adjustment of the working of each of these organs is ef- 
fected by an executive nervous mechanism which is a part of the 
total native mechanism through which the instinctive impulse 
most readily finds expression; and, whenever the instinct is ex- 
cited, these several physiological mechanisms are brought into play 
with an intensity proportional to the intensity of the instinctive 
impulse. It is the sum of these effects which we call the expression 
of the emotion of fear—the dilated pupil, the staring eye, the dry 
mouth, the arrested digestion, the pallor of the skin, the rapid 
pulse and breathing, the voiding of urine, all these are symptoms 
of fear—together they constitute the unmistakable expression 
of fear. Such a complex of symptoms enables us confidently to 
recognize fear, either in another man or in ourselves; even though 
the subject suppresses, by an effort, the major movements of lo- 
comotion and the cry of fear which we naturally emit when the 
instinct is suddenly excited. 
In recent years the physiologists, especially Professor W. B. Cannon,1 have 
shown that the total instinctive reaction involves a further subtle and ad- 
mirable adjustment which supports and supplements these primary bodily 
adjustments. This secondary adjustment is effected by chemical means. 
Thus, the excitement of the instinct of escape sends a nervous current to the 
suprarenal glands (small glandular masses lying close to the kidneys), which 
1 “Bodily Changes in Pain, Hunger, Fear, and Rage,” New York, 1915. EMOTION 
323 
then secrete into the blood a complex substance (adrenalin); this, by direct 
action upon various tissues, stimulates them to sustain the same kind of 
activity to which they are primarily stimulated through their own nerves. 
It causes, among other effects, a conversion of the glycogen stored in the liver 
into sugar, which at once is taken into the blood and so conveyed to the 
muscles; the muscles involved in flight, being thus fed with a copious supply 
of their chief fuel, are enabled to sustain their activity at a high pitch of 
effectiveness. 
These secondary adjustments of the bodily organs are what 
Darwin called "serviceable associated actions.” They are char- 
acteristic or specific for each instinct; and are most abundant and 
intense in the case of those instincts, especially of escape and 
combat, which require an instant and maximal bodily activity, 
if the instinctive impulse is to attain its goal with the greatest 
possible efficiency. Hence we find that the emotions of anger 
and fear have the most violent, sudden, and uncontrollable ex- 
pressions; while those instincts whose goals may be attained by 
actions of a more leisurely kind, involving less prompt and in- 
tense bodily activity, are accompanied by emotional excitements 
whose expressions are less complex, less violent, and less dis- 
tinctive. The instinct of curiosity, for example, is one that may 
and must work in a more or less leisurely and quiet fashion, re- 
quiring no violent muscular action. Hence its bodily expres- 
sions are relatively simple and few and, therefore, less character- 
istic than those of escape and combat. Again, the gregarious or 
social instinct does not require, for the attainment of its end, any 
highly specific mode of action; nor does it require action of ex- 
treme promptness and vigor; hence the instinct has not at its 
service any complicated system of nervous mechanisms for the 
adjustment of the various bodily organs. 
If now we review the instincts of the human species (as enu- 
merated and shortly defined in Chapter V) and the emotional 
excitements that accompany the operation of the several in- 
stincts, we notice a close correspondence between the complexity 
and specificity of the bodily adjustments which constitute the 
whole of each instinctive reaction and the distinctness or speci- 
ficity of quality of these emotional excitements. We may arrange 
the instincts in a scale, in the descending order of complexity of 
bodily adjustments; and we find that the corresponding qualities 324 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
of emotional excitement then form a scale of diminishing de- 
grees of specificity. Accordingly, common speech has definite 
names, and indeed a variety of synonyms, for the qualities of the 
upper end of the scale, and no special names for the qualities of 
the lower end. For the emotional qualities that accompany the 
play of the instincts of the upper part of the scale are as easily 
recognizable as are the symptoms or bodily expressions of these 
instinctive excitements; while the qualities of the lower end of 
the scale are as little specific as are the bodily expressions: and, 
if we wish for psychological purposes to refer to the latter, we 
have to invent names for them; or, where there is no well-recog- 
nized emotional quality, we may use the expression "feeling 
of . . .” The two lists would run in my opinion as follows, but 
others might arrange the lists in a slightly different order: 
Names of Instincts (Synonyms 
in Parentheses) 
Names of Emotional Qualities Accompany- 
ing the Instinctive Activities 
I. 
Instinct of escape (of self- 
preservation, of avoid- 
ance, danger instinct) 
Fear (terror, fright, alarm, trepidation) 
2. 
Instinct of combat (ag- 
gression, pugnacity) 
Anger (rage, fury, annoyance, irritation, dis- 
pleasure). 
3- 
Repulsion (repugnance) 
Disgust (nausea, loathing, repugnance). 
4- 
Parental (protective) 
Tender emotion (love, tenderness, tender feel 
ing). 
5- 
Appeal 
Distress (feeling of helplessness). 
6. 
Pairing (mating, repro- 
duction, sexual) 
Lust (sexual emotion or excitement, some- 
times called love—an unfortunate and con- 
fusing usage). 
7- 
Curiosity (inquiry, dis- 
covery, investigation) 
Curiosity (feeling of mystery, of strangeness, 
of the unknown, wonder). 
8. 
Submission (self-abase- 
ment) 
Feeling of subjection (of inferiority, of devo- 
tion, of humility, of attachment, of sub- 
mission, negative self-feeling). 
9- 
Assertion (self-display) 
Elation (feeling of superiority, of masterful- 
ness, of pride, of domination, positive self- 
feeling). 
IO. 
Social or gregarious in- 
stinct 
Feeling of loneliness, of isolation, nostalgia. 
n. 
Food-seeking (hunting) 
Appetite or craving in narrower sense (gusto). 
12. 
Acquisition (hoarding in- 
stinct) 
Feeling of ownership, of possession (protec- 
tive feeling). 
13- 
Construction 
Feeling of creativeness, of making, of produc- 
tivity. 
14. 
Laughter 
Amusement (jollity, carelessness, relaxation). EMOTION 
325 
The minor instincts of scratching, sneezing, coughing, urina- 
ation, and defecation, are so simple in their bodily expressions 
that we cannot recognize as specific qualities the excitements 
which accompany their exercise; though the impulse of each 
may on occasion be excited in great strength. 
The Primary Emotions 
It is obvious that this list of emotional qualities does not in- 
clude all the well-recognized specific qualities of emotion. We 
must discuss presently those other emotional qualities and the 
conditions under which they are experienced. We may con- 
veniently speak of the qualities in the foregoing list as the 
primary emotional qualities, or, if we permit ourselves to speak 
of “emotions” as entities, we may say that they are the prim- 
ary emotions. 
Since the relation between these primary qualities of emo- 
tion and the several instinctive impulses was first clearly for- 
mulated in my “Social Psychology,” many psychologists have 
raised objections to this view that the primary “emotions” are 
essentially indicators of the working of instinctive impulses. 
But no one of these objections has seemed to me to carry weight; 
and the formulation is so obviously true to any unprejudiced 
mind that it has been very widely accepted.1 
The primary “emotion” is then an indicator of the instinctive 
impulse at work; its bodily expressions serve to indicate the na- 
ture of the impulse to our fellows and to evoke in them the same 
instinctive impulse, attitude, and emotional excitement; and the 
1 As in so many other cases of the definite enunciation of some psychological 
principle, this formula may be said to have divided psychologists into two parties, 
one consisting of those who entirely repudiate it, and the other of those to whom 
it seems so familiar and obvious that they regard it as a platitude or truism. When 
writers of the former class attempt to formulate the grounds of their objection to 
this view of the relation of emotion to instinct, they insist mainly on the obvious 
truth that we cannot adequately imagine the qualities of emotional excitement 
that accompany the instinctive activities of animals. But our inability to imagine, 
or appropriately name, such emotional excitements is no ground for doubting or 
denying that they are experienced by the animals. The demand, that we should 
be able to do this, is intrinsically absurd; and the absurdity reaches its climax when 
the demand is made in relation to the instinctive actions of insects, creatures which 
are so remote from us in constitution, mode of life, and racial history. 326 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
emotional quality serves also to indicate, to the subject himself, 
the nature of his excitement and the kind of action to which he 
is impelled. This last we may fairly suppose to be the essential 
function of the emotional qualities in our mental life. They en- 
able us to recognize our own state, and to regulate, direct, and in 
some degree control the impulses by which we are moved. And 
the expressions of similar emotions in our fellows enable us to 
infer,or to foresee, their probable course of action; so that we may 
prepare to meet their action with appropriate co-operation or 
opposition. If the emotional excitements accompanying all in- 
stinctive reactions were alike in quality, we should make little 
progress in self-control. A man so constituted might see an- 
other approaching him in a threatening manner, and he might 
feel a strong impulse and violent excitement; but he would not 
know to what kind of action he was impelled, until he found him- 
self rushing to attack, or fleeing headlong from the field: he would 
therefore be incapable of the foresighted control and adjustment 
of action which are the essence of all the higher forms of behavior, 
properly called “conduct.” On the other hand, if all the pri- 
mary emotional qualities were more distinctive, more widely dif- 
ferentiated, and more prominent as modes of experience, if all 
were as distinctive as the qualities of fear and anger, we should 
seldom be in doubt or error as to the motives of our actions. 
The emotional qualities have, then, a cognitive function; they 
signify to us primarily not the nature of things, but rather the 
nature of our impulsive reactions to things; they are the cogni- 
tive basis of self-knowledge and self-control. In this sense they 
are subjective rather than objective; the function they primarily 
subserve is cognition not of the object, but of the subject, of 
the state or activity of the organism. 
The Lange-James Theory of Emotion 
We are now prepared to consider the famous Lange-James theory of the 
emotions, and to understand in what sense it is true, and in what respects 
erroneous. The essence of the theory is the assertion that the “emotions” 
are essentially of the same nature as “sensations”; that “an emotion,” as 
felt or as an emotional quality, is a mass or complex of confused sensory 
experience arising from the sensory impressions made by the processes going 
on in the various organs of the body, and that each distinguishable quality of EMOTION 
327 
emotion owes whatever is specific or peculiar in its quality to the specific 
conjunction of sensory impressions made by a specific conjunction of bodily 
activities, the visceral organs playing a predominant part in this sensory 
stimulation. If this statement is modified or supplemented by recognizing 
that, just as the sensory qualities of the special senses are duplicated in 
imagery, the sensory qualities of the visceral or bodily senses are also dupli- 
cated in imagery, we must, I think, accept it as substantially true. 
But James, in stating his theory, went further than this and overstated it 
in a manner that gave it a needlessly paradoxical air; this, while it attracts 
many minds, repels others. Taking the confused popular and literary mode 
of speech, which asserts that our emotions cause, determine, or impel our 
actions, he simply inverted the popular statement and asserted that our bod- 
ily actions cause or determine our emotions. He wrote: “Emotion is a con- 
sequence, not the cause, of the bodily expression,” and “Common sense says, 
we lose our fortune, are sorry and weep; we meet a bear, are frightened and 
run; we are insulted by a rival, are angry and strike. The hypothesis here 
to be defended says that this order of sequence is incorrect, that the one 
mental state is not immediately induced by the other, that the bodily manifes- 
tations must first be interposed between, and that the more rational statement 
is that we feel sorry because we cry, angry because we strike, afraid because 
we tremble, and not that we cry, strike, or tremble, because we are sorry, 
angry, or fearful, as the case may be. Without the bodily states following on 
the perception, the latter would be purely cognitive in form, pale, colorless, des- 
titute of emotional warmth.”1 . . . “Emotion dissociated from all bodily 
feeling is inconceivable. The more closely I scrutinize my states, the more 
persuaded I become that whatever moods, affections, and passions I have 
are in very truth constituted by and made up of those bodily changes which 
we ordinarily call their expression or consequence; and the more it seems to 
me that if I were to become corporeally anaesthetic I should be excluded from 
the life of the affections, harsh and tender alike, and drag out an existence of 
merely cognitive or intellectual form.” 2 11 Each emotion is the resultant of a 
sum of elements, and each element is caused by a physiological process of a 
sort already well known. The elements are all organic changes, and each of 
them is the reflex effect of the exciting object.”3 
In these extracts we may see three respects in which James overstated 
his theory and fell into error; they are indicated in the three passages I have 
italicized. Consider the last of these first. The passage seems to imply 
not only James’s sensationism, but sensationism of the crudest form com- 
bined with the crudest form of the reflex theory. The first of the italicized 
passages implies that the various bodily changes which are “the expression 
of the emotion” must actually occur on each particular occasion before the 
emotional quality can be experienced; that is to say, the statement makes 
no recognition of what we may call imagery of the bodily senses. It is as 
though James should assert that every time we think of the color of an orange 
or of the sound of a bell, such thinking must be preceded by the appropriate 
stimulation of the retina or of the ear. He ignores the fact that sensational 
qualities may be centrally excited in the form of imagery, independently of 
stimulation of the sense-organs. 
Thirdly, and this is the most serious error, James, having reduced all cona- 
1 “Principles,” Vol. II, p. 450. 2 Op. cit., p. 452. 3 Op. cit., p. 453. 328 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
tive experience, all “sense of effort,” all feeling of impulse, all experience of 
striving, to motor “sensations,” includes these motor “sensations” with the 
mass of organic “sensations” that are supposed to constitute the emotional 
experience. I have already argued that conative experience cannot be re- 
duced to or identified with sensory experience. And I have pointed out that 
the felt impulse is an essential part of all instinctive reactions. If, then, as 
James suggests in the second italicized passage, all the sensational qualities were 
cut out of an emotional experience through anaesthesia of the whole body, 
the remaining experience would not be, as he says, purely cognitive in form; 
and this for two reasons: first, it might retain the specific emotional quality, 
because this might be centrally excited; secondly, the experience would 
remain strongly conative as well as cognitive; that is to say, the subject would 
continue to be aware of a strong impulse to action of some kind. This cona- 
tive factor in emotional experience is perhaps its most essential mark. If this 
could be subtracted, leaving the specific emotional quality, we should perhaps 
recognize the emotion, but it would seem as though all the life and strength 
and all that constitutes its urgency and vital significance were gone out of it.1 
Putting these criticisms together, I would say that, while James’s theory is 
fundamentally correct, his statement of it errs in implying a more intimate 
dependence of our mental process upon bodily changes than is actually the 
case. Further, he ignores the conative factor, the part of impulse in emotion, 
considered either as a phase of experience or as a phase of behavior. He 
ignores the fact that an impulsive striving toward a goal is the essence of 
every emotional reaction. When we say “ I feel angry,” or explain our strik- 
ing at an offender by saying “ I struck because I was angry,” we do not mean 
that the emotional quality of our experience was the active agent that caused 
the striking; rather, we mean quite properly that the being angry does, as a 
matter of empirical fact and experience, involve an impulsive tendency to 
strike; and our explanation is true and valid; we implicitly use the emotional 
quality that we recognize as the indicator of the instinctive tendency that 
has been aroused in us. Hence the ordinary statement, “I struck because I 
was angry,” is essentially truer, gives a truer explanation of my action, than 
James’s inverted statement, “I am angry because I struck.” For the former 
statement means that the person whom I struck had so behaved as to provoke 
in me the impulse of the combative instinct; and to assign an action to the 
impulse of which it is the outcome and expression is the only valid proximate 
explanation of any of our actions. 
I do not propose to attempt any description of the emotional 
qualities nor of the bodily expressions of “the emotions.” If the 
reader does not know what it is to be afraid, or angry, or dis- 
gusted, if he does not recognize a quite peculiar quality of ex- 
perience when he hastens to comfort a little child sobbing in dis- 
tress, no amount of description, however eloquent, will enlighten 
1 It is probable that an approximation to this state of affairs does actually occur 
in those morbid conditions in which the patient complains of the unreality of all 
things. EMOTION 
329 
him. I will only remark that the confusions and misunder- 
standings in our discussions of “emotions” are due, no doubt, 
in some degree to differences of natural endowment. We are 
endowed with, or inherit, the various instincts in different de- 
grees of strength; and it seems probable that, in the innate con- 
stitution of some individuals, one or other of the normal human 
instincts may be completely lacking, or so feeble and so little 
strengthened by exercise that the corresponding primary quality 
of emotion is unknown to them. 
There is a curious dogma which crops up from time to time in the discussions 
of emotion and which requires a remark in passing. It asserts that emotions 
are experienced only when our natural tendencies to action are obstructed or 
in some way suspended.1 I have recognized that this is true of angry emo- 
tion; that such obstruction is the specific condition of excitement of the 
combative instinct; and that the impulse of this instinct serves to re-enforce 
all other impulses, when they are obstructed. But as regards other emotions, 
I can see no jot of valid evidence that supports this doctrine. It would seem 
to be a distortion of the simple truth that we do not become explicitly aware 
of our emotions, so long as we give ourselves wholly to action. We become 
self-consciously aware of the quality of our emotion only when we are not 
wholly absorbed in action, in the pursuit of our goal, and in the choice of means 
toward it. But that is not to say that the emotional quality is not there, 
qualifying all our experience while we strive. It would be equally false to 
assert that the sensory qualities of experience are not experienced in percep- 
tion of arf object, until we cease to think of the object and become intro- 
spectively interested in the qualities as such. 
Hitherto we have discussed only the emotional experiences 
that accompany our instinctive strivings. These perhaps may, 
without serious risk of misunderstanding, be spoken of as “emo- 
tions,” that is to say, as recognizable modes of experience, and 
they may be appropriately called “the primary emotions.” 
Beside these we have to recognize two other principal classes of 
emotions, namely, the blended or secondary emotions and the 
derived emotions. 
The Blended or Secondary Emotions 
We have already noted the fact that two instinctive impulses 
may be excited simultaneously; as when an animal’s behavior 
is clearly the expression of a conflict and alternation between 
1The latest exponent of this view is Doctor James Drever in his “Instinct in 
Man,” a book with which I am happy to find myself in general agreement. OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
the aversion of fear and the attraction of curiosity. Horses in a 
meadow often exhibit such behavior unmistakably. In our- 
selves the greater development of imagination and of the senti- 
ments renders us more liable than the animals to be moved 
simultaneously by more than one impulse; and the behavior of 
a cultivated adult expresses at almost all times more or less com- 
plex conjunctions of impulses. Some of the instinctive impulses 
are so directly opposed in tendency that they cannot harmoni- 
ously co-operate in the determination of behavior; if simultane- 
ously excited, they inevitably conflict; and the dominance of one 
necessarily inhibits the other. This is, perhaps, most clearly 
and invariably true of the impulse of disgust or repugnance and 
that of the food-instinct. The two instincts are directed to- 
ward two opposite goals; and the actions in which they naturally 
find expression are wholly incompatible with one another and 
cannot be combined. Hence the one impulse inevitably in- 
hibits the other. When we are seasick, we cannot even remotely 
imagine ourselves desirous of food. When we are replete, the 
sight of a beefsteak, the odor of the kitchen, or the least trace 
of dirt upon food, is apt to excite disgust; but, when we are hum 
gry, we cannot imagine how we could be so squeamish. 
No other two of the instinctive impulses are so utterly opposed 
as these; and some of them are quite capable of co-operating 
harmoniously to determine behavior which is a blend of the ac- 
tions proper to the several impulses at work. When two or more 
impulses cooperate in this way, we experience an emotional ex- 
citement whose quality is, in a sense, a blending of the primary 
qualities proper to the several instincts concerned. The case is 
parallel to the case of the complex sensory qualities. It is a con- 
venient, though not a correct, way of stating the facts to say that 
purple is a blending or fusion of the sensations of red and blue 
qualities; or that a musical clang or chord is a blending or fusion 
of the partial tones which we can discover in the complex by in- 
trospective analysis. It is more correct to say that the complex 
quality is the reaction of the mind to a complex of sensory im- 
pressions. In a similar way it is convenient, though not strictly 
correct, to say that, when we find our purpose obstructed by a 
mean dirty action, we experience an emotion which is a blending EMOTION 
of the primary emotions of anger and disgust. For, under these 
conditions, the impulses of the instincts of combat and of repug- 
nance are simultaneously excited, our actions tend to express 
both tendencies, and the emotional expressions proper to both 
tendencies are blended on our faces and in all our bodily reac- 
tions; at the same time we experience an emotional quality 
which is allied to both anger and disgust and which may vary 
from moment to moment, anger predominating at one moment, 
disgust at the next; according as we have more prominently in 
mind the obstruction of our purpose or the meanness and “dirti- 
ness” of the behavior of our opponent. At one moment we feel 
we would strike him down or tear him to pieces; at the next we 
shrink from contact with such a disgusting object. 
Such a complex emotional experience is not literally formed by 
the separate excitement, the coming together, and the subsequent 
blending of the two emotions, anger and disgust; rather it is the 
immediate response to the complex situation. But, with this un- 
derstanding, it seems legitimate, in order to avoid a cumbrous 
phraseology, to speak of such complex emotional reactions as 
blended emotions, or as emotional compounds formed by the 
blending of two or more of the primary qualities of emotion.1 
It is obvious that, if the primary emotional qualities may be 
blended (in the sense defined above) to form binary, tertiary, and 
even more complex qualities, the variety of emotional experiences 
which we may learn to recognize and to name must be very large. 
It is obvious also that, since the various qualities may be blended 
in various proportions, these complex emotional qualities cannot 
be enumerated as an array of distinct qualities; but rather that, 
like the color qualities of the solar spectrum, they form a con- 
tinuous quality series in which the transition from one part to 
another is gradual. It is natural therefore that, as with the color 
series, our nomenclature is confused, shifting, and uncertain. 
Yet for some of these qualities we have names which serve to 
suggest them with some degree of accuracy. The quality in 
which we detect affinity to both anger and disgust is well sug- 
11 have dwelt tediously on this point because some of the critics of my “ Social 
Psychology” have complained that my treatment of the secondary emotions is 
guilty of the errors of Mills’ “Mental Chemistry.” 332 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
gested to most of us by the name “scorn.” Other emotional 
qualities of similar complex nature are denoted by such names 
as contempt, loathing, horror, awe, admiration, reverence, grati- 
tude, reproach, envy, resentment, vengeful emotion, embarrass- 
ment, shame, jealousy, and many others. It would be an in- 
structive exercise to attempt to analyze each of these complex 
qualities, supplementing our introspection by observation of 
the bodily expressions and actions proper to each of the emo- 
tions so named. But I must be content to cite a few examples 
of such analysis from an earlier work.1 
“Scorn is very apt to be complicated by positive self-feeling (or elation); 
we feel ourselves magnified by the presence of the moral weakness or littleness 
of the other, just as on a lower plane the physical weakness or smallness of 
those about one excites this positive self-feeling, with its tendency to expand 
the chest, throw up the head, and strut in easy confidence. The name ‘scorn ’ 
is often applied to an affective state of which this emotion is an element; 
but if this element is dominant, we are said to despise the object, and the 
name commonly given to the emotion is ‘contempt,’ the substantive corre- 
sponding to the verb ‘despise’; scorn, then, is a binary compound of anger 
and disgust, or a tertiary compound, if positive self-feeling is added to these; 
while contempt is a binary compound of disgust and positive self-feeling, 
differing from scorn in the absence of the element of anger. 
“Fear and disgust are very apt to be combined, as on the near view of a 
snake or an alligator; and in some persons this binary emotion is provoked 
by a large number of animals, rats, moths, worms, spiders, and so on, and 
also by the mere appearance of some men, though more often by their char- 
acters. It is the emotion we call ‘loathing,’ and, in its most intense form, 
‘horror.’ 
“Admiration is certainly a true emotion, and is as certainly not primary. 
It is distinctly a complex affective state and implies a considerable degree of 
mental development. We can hardly suppose any of the animals to be capa- 
ble of admiration in the proper sense of the word, nor is it displayed by very 
young children. It is not merely a pleasurable perception or contemplation. 
One may get a certain pleasure from the perception or contemplation of an 
object without feeling any admiration for it; e. g., a popular ditty played on 
a barrel-organ may give one pleasure, though one admires neither the ditty 
nor the mode of its production, and though one may a little despise oneself 
on account of the pleasure one feels. Nor is it merely intellectual and plea- 
surable appreciation of the greatness or excellence of the object. There seem 
to be two primary emotions essentially involved in the complex state provoked 
by the contemplation of the admired object, namely, wonder and negative 
self-feeling or the emotion of submission. Wonder is revealed by the impulse 
to approach and to continue to contemplate the admired object; for, as we 
saw, this is the characteristic impulse of the instinct of curiosity, and wonder 
'The reader may find others in my “Social Psychology,” Chap. V, from which 
these passages are taken. EMOTION 
333 
is clearly expressed on the face in intense admiration. In children one may 
observe the element of wonder very clearly expressed and dominant. ‘Oh, 
how wonderful!’ or ‘Oh, how clever!’ or ‘How did you do it?’ are phrases 
in which a child naturally expresses its admiration and by which the element 
of wonder and the impulse of curiosity are clearly revealed. And as soon as 
we feel that we completely understand the object we have admired and can 
wholly account for it, our wonder ceases and the emotion evoked by it is no 
longer admiration. 
“But admiration is more than wonder. We do not simply proceed to ex- 
amine the admired object, as we should one that provokes merely our curiosity 
or wonder. We approach it slowly, with a certain hesitation; we are humbled 
by its presence, and, in the case of a person whom we intensely admire we 
become shy, like a child in the presence of an adult stranger; we have the 
impulse to shrink together, to be still, and to avoid attracting his attention; 
that is to say, the instinct of submission, of self-abasement, is excited, with 
its corresponding emotion of negative self-feeling, by the perception that we 
are in the presence of a superior power, something greater than ourselves. 
Now, this instinct and this emotion are primarily and essentially social. 
The primary condition of their excitement is the presence of a person bigger 
and more powerful than oneself; and when we admire such an object as a 
picture or a machine, or other work of art, the emotion still has this social 
character and personal reference; the creator of the work of art is more or 
less clearly present to our minds as the object of our emotion, and often we 
say, ‘What a wonderful man he is!’ 
“Is, then, the emotion of admiration capable of being evoked in us only 
by other persons and their works? It is obviously true that we admire 
natural objects, a beautiful flower or landscape, or a shell, or the perfect 
structure of an animal and its nice adaptation to its mode of life. In these 
cases no known person is called to mind as the object of our admiration; but, 
just because admiration implies and refers to another person, is essentially, 
in so far as it involves negative self-feeling, an attitude toward a person, it 
leads us to postulate a person or personal power as the creator of the object 
that calls it forth. Hence, in all ages the admiration of men for natural 
objects has led them to personify the power, or powers, that have brought 
those objects into being, either as superhuman beings who have created, and 
who preside over, particular classes of objects, or as a supreme Creator of all 
things; and, if the intellect rejects all such conceptions as anthropomorphic 
survivals from a ruder age, the admiration of natural objects still leads men 
to personify, under the name of Nature, the power that has produced them. 
It is, I think, true that, if this sense of a personal power is not suggested by 
any object that we contemplate, the emotion we experience is merely wonder, 
or at least is not admiration. It is because negative self-feeling is an essential 
element in admiration that the extremely confident, self-satisfied, and thor- 
oughly conceited person is incapable of admiration, and that genuine admira- 
tion implies a certain humility and generosity. It may be added that much 
admiration—all aesthetic admiration, in fact—includes also an element of 
pleasure, the conditions of which may be very complex. 
“As an example of the further complication of an emotion, let us consider 
the nature of our emotion if the object that excites our admiration is also of 
a threatening or mysterious nature and, therefore, capable of exciting fear— 
a tremendous force in action, such as the Victoria Falls, or a display of the 334 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
aurora borealis, or a magnificent thunderstorm. The impulse of admiration 
to draw near humbly and to contemplate the object is more or less neutral- 
ized by an impulse to withdraw, to run away—the impulse of fear. We are 
kept suspended in the middle distance, neither approaching very near nor 
going quite away; admiration is blended with fear, and we experience the 
emotion we call awe. 
“Awe is of many shades, ranging from that in which admiration is but 
slightly tinged with fear to that in which fear is but slightly tinged with 
admiration. Admiration is, then, a binary compound, awe a tertiary com- 
pound. And awe may be further blended to form a still more complex emo- 
tion. Suppose that the power that excites awe is also one that we have 
reason to regard as beneficent, one that, while capable of annihilating us in 
a moment, yet works for our good, sustains and protects us, one that evokes 
our gratitude. Awe then becomes compounded with gratitude and we experi- 
ence the highly compound emotion of reverence. Reverence is the religious 
emotion par excellence; few merely human powers are capable of exciting 
reverence, this blend of wonder, fear, gratitude, and negative self-feeling. 
Those human beings who inspire reverence, or who are by custom and con- 
vention considered to be entitled to inspire it, usually owe their reverend 
character to their being regarded as the ministers and dispensers of Divine 
power. 
“What, then, is gratitude, which enters into the emotion of reverence for 
the Divine power? Gratitude is itself complex. It is a binary compound of 
tender emotion and negative self-feeling. To this view it may be objected— 
If tender emotion is the emotion of the parental instinct whose impulse is to 
protect, how can this emotion be evoked by the Divine power? The answer 
to this question is—In the same way as the child’s tender emotion toward 
the parent is evoked, namely, by sympathy. Tender emotion occupies a 
peculiar position among the primary emotions, in that, being directed toward 
some other person and its impulse directly making for the good of that other, 
it is peculiarly apt to evoke by sympathetic reaction, of the kind we studied 
in Chapter IV, the same emotion in its object; and this sympathetically evoked 
tender emotion then finds its object most readily in the person to whom it 
owes its rise. But gratitude is not simply tender emotion sympathetically 
excited; a child or even an animal may excite our tender emotion in this 
way; e. g., it may give us something that is utterly useless or embarrassing to 
us, and by doing so may touch our hearts, as we say; but I do not think that 
we then feel gratitude, even if the gift involves self-sacrifice on the part of 
the giver. Mr. Shand maintains that into gratitude there enters some sym- 
pathetic sorrow for the person who excites it, on account of the loss or sacrifice 
sustained by him in giving us that for which we are grateful. It is in this way 
he would account for the tender element in gratitude; for, according to his 
view, all tenderness is a blending of joy and sorrow, which are for him primary 
emotions. But surely we may experience gratitude for a kindness done to 
us that involves no loss or sacrifice for the giver, but is for him an act of 
purely pleasurable beneficence. I submit, then, that the other element in 
gratitude, the element that renders it different from, and more complex than, 
simple tenderness, is that negative self-feeling which is evoked by the sense 
of the superior power of another. The act that is to inspire gratitude must 
make us aware not only of the kindly feeling, the tender emotion, of the 
other toward us; it must also make us aware of his power, we must see that EMOTION 
335 
he is able to do for us something that we cannot do for ourselves. This ele- 
ment of negative self-feeling, then, is blended with tenderness in true grati- 
tude, and its impulse, the impulse to withdraw from the attention of, or to 
humble oneself in the presence of, its object, more or less neutralizes the 
impulse of the tender emotion to approach its object; the attitude typical and 
symbolical of gratitude is that of kneeling to kiss the hand that gives. This 
element of negative self-feeling renders gratitude an emotion that is not 
purely pleasurable to many natures, makes it one that a proud man does not 
easily experience, and one that does less to develop a sentiment of affection 
than the giver of good things is apt to expect. And if the seemingly benefi- 
cent act is done, not from pure kindliness or tenderness, but with conde- 
scension, if positive self-feeling and a gratified sense of power accompany or 
enter into the motive of the act, it is apt to evoke negative self-feeling with- 
out tenderness, a negative self-feeling painful in quality that may lead to the 
growth of a sentiment of dislike rather than of love. 
“ Into reverence of the kind we have considered negative self-feeling enters 
from two sources, as an element of admiration and again as an element of 
gratitude. But there is a different kind of reverence into which tenderness 
enters directly, and not merely as an element of gratitude. Let us imagine 
ourselves standing before a great Gothic cathedral whose delicate and beau- 
tiful stonework is crumbling to dust. We shall probably feel admiration for 
it; and the spectacle of its decay, or of its delicate and perishable nature, 
awakens directly our tender emotion and protective impulse; i. e., we experi- 
ence a tender admiration, a complex emotion for which we have no special 
name. Now let us imagine ourselves entering the cathedral, passing between 
vast columns of stone where the dim mysterious light is lost in dark recesses 
and where reign a stillness and a gloom like that of a great forest; an element 
of fear is added to our emotion of tender admiration, and this converts it to 
reverence (or, if our tender emotion does not persist, to awe). This is a 
reverence that has less of the personal note, because less of negative self- 
feeling, than that of which gratitude is a component.”1 
An emotion of the first importance which belongs to this 
group is “pity.” We feel pity for those who are in pain or dis- 
tress; and we feel pity the more readily the more fragile, delicate, 
and helpless is the object we contemplate. Of all persons the 
most easily moved to pity are tender-hearted women; and the 
object which moves them most quickly and strongly to pity is 
the spectacle of a mother distressed or burdened by the care of 
her offspring. So ready are they to pity and so subtly does their 
imagination work that “as a father pitieth his children,” so 
they pity even the happy young mother absorbed in the care of 
1 One is tempted to ask, Was it because the external aspect of the Gothic cathe- 
dral is apt to fall short of exciting the fear which is essential to reverence that in 
so many cases the artists of the Middle Ages covered the exterior with grotesque 
and horrible figures, like those of Notre Dame of Paris ? 336 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
her infant. For they know well the pains and anxieties through 
which she has passed and still must pass, before she shall ac- 
complish that task which ends only with the grave, a task which, 
though it may bring much joy, is yet a series of self-sacrificing 
and often painful efforts. Watch such a woman as she sees the 
mother bird hovering anxiously near the nest, while strangers 
peep at her brood, or sees the cow whose calf is kept from her. 
“Poor thing!” is her inevitable cry; and she will take endless 
pains to prevent or cut short the suffering that she so delicately 
shares and understands, or will blaze out into fierce anger 
against him who needlessly prolongs it. But, of all objects, the 
little child, in pain or fear or distress of any kind, is the surest 
most universal provocative of pity. These facts give us the clue 
to the nature of pity. Pity is the tender emotion of the parental 
or protective instinct, tinged with sympathetic pain or distress. 
If the object pitied is one we love and whose pain we can promptly 
relieve, pity is a sweet and joyful emotion, in which our sym- 
pathetic pain becomes swallowed up in, and overcome by, the 
satisfaction of successful ministration. But, if the suffering is 
severe and of such a nature that we are helpless to relieve it, then 
pity is a very painful emotion; for our sympathetic pain is aug- 
mented by the pain that comes from the thwarting of the pro- 
tective impulse. And so it happens that the tender heart that 
pities helplessly may suffer more acutely than the object of its 
pity.1 
Some of the secondary emotions can hardly be experienced 
save in relation to objects for which we have acquired senti- 
ments or enduring affective-conative attitudes. Reproach may 
serve as the type of such emotions. It seems to be essentially a 
blend (in the sense defined above) of tender feeling with anger. 
The impulses of the two instincts concerned are so opposed in 
tendency that they necessarily conflict; each tends to exclude 
the other. Hence we hardly feel reproach toward a stranger. 
If a strange child upsets the ink over our manuscript, or persists 
*The word “sympathy” is popularly used as almost synonymous with “pity” ; 
but it seems better for psychological purposes to restrict “sympathy” to the 
primitive passive sympathy and to the active sympathy which I have discussed 
on other pages. EMOTION 
337 
in making noises that interrupt our work, we are apt to feel 
merely angry and to act accordingly. But, if the child is one 
whom we have learned to love, one whom we cannot see or 
think of, without the stirring of the parental impulse with its 
tender emotion; then our angry impulse is checked by this very 
different impulse, its expressions are modified, and the quality 
of our emotion is that complex one we call reproach; in this 
the blended qualities of anger and tender feeling are further 
complicated by the pain that arises from the conflict of their im- 
pulses.1 Jealousy, shame, and vengeful emotion are other mem- 
bers of this class; for their analysis I must again refer the stu- 
dent to the same work. 
1 “A more complex form (of reproach) arises when the sentiment is reciprocated, 
or supposed to be reciprocated, and its object acts in a way that seems to show 
indifference to us. In this case the pain of the wound given to our self-regarding 
sentiment and of the check to our tender emotion is the prominent feature of the 
affective state and overshadows anger; perhaps the name ‘reproach’ is most prop- 
erly given to this more complex state.” (“Social Psychology,” p. 137.) CHAPTER XII 
THE DERIVED EMOTIONS 
Literature and common speech recognize and name as distinct 
emotions a number of states of mind or modes of experience 
which can be classed neither with the primary nor with the 
blended emotions, as defined in the foregoing pages. The chief 
of these are joy, sorrow, chagrin, disappointment, surprise, re- 
gret, remorse, confidence, hope, anxiety, despondency, despair. 
None of these can be shown by analytic introspection to be a 
blend of any two or more of the primary emotional qualities. 
Nor do they conform to the type of the primary emotion. For 
it is impossible to point out any one instinctive impulse with 
which any one of these “emotions” is constantly conjoined, as 
anger with the impulse of aggression, fear with the impulse of 
escape, curiosity with the impulse to draw near and examine. 
It is, I think, largely owing to the fact that the emotions of this 
class cannot be brought under the formula relating the primary 
emotions with the instincts that so many psychologists hesitate 
to accept that formulation. It would be useless to suggest that 
the emotions of this class should not be called “emotions” but 
rather varieties of feeling ; the usage is now too firmly established 
in common speech. The best we can do by way of avoiding the 
confusion and marking the difference between the two classes, 
on the one hand the true emotions, the primary and the blended, 
and on the other hand the varieties of feeling we are now con- 
sidering, is to speak of the latter as emotions of a third distinct 
class, that of the derived emotions. The word derived is here used 
to denote the fact that an emotion of this class is not constantly 
correlated with any one impulse or tendency, but rather may arise 
in the course of the operation of any strong impulse or tendency; 
the emotion being dependent upon or derived from the working 
of the impulse under certain conditions which we have now to 
specify. THE DERIVED EMOTIONS 
339 
Prospective Emotions of Desire 
Let us consider first the following five emotions: confidence, 
hope, anxiety, despondency, and despair. All these presuppose 
the operation of some strong impulse or desire; and, since they 
presuppose also a certain level of development of intelligence, 
namely, that level upon which the goal of impulse is more or 
less clearly imagined and impulse takes the form of desire, we 
may say that they presuppose desire and arise only in the course 
of activity prompted and sustained by desire. The desire itself 
is independent of, and must come into operation before, the rise 
of these emotions. And during the working of any one strong 
desire (no matter what may be the nature of the instinctive 
impulse at work and what the nature of the object or goal to 
which it is directed) all these five emotions are apt to be 
experienced. They are, in fact, only so many named points in 
a scale of feeling or emotion of which confidence and despair 
are the two extremes. The transition from one point in the 
scale to another is perfectly gradual; though it may be effected, 
according to circumstances, either rapidly or slowly. 
I have cited in an earlier chapter, as illustrating the working 
of desire, Major Priestly’s description of a party of Polar 
explorers tormented by desire for a good meal. Let us take 
this type of crude but strong desire, springing directly from an 
instinct, and develop imaginatively the emotional experience of 
such a party; we may suppose it to have used up its supply of 
food, while returning on foot from the Pole and still separated 
by fifty miles of snow-covered ice from a store of food, deposited 
on the outward journey. All members of the party strongly 
desire to reach this store of food. This strong desire springs 
primarily from the food-instinct; but it is reinforced by the in- 
tellectual understanding that the survival of the party depends 
upon their reaching this goal; for this understanding brings to 
the support of the primitive hunger-impulse many remoter de- 
sires, the desire to see wife and child again, to report the scien- 
tific results of their labors, to announce their success to an ad- 
miring world; in fact, all those desires which together constitute 
what common speech calls “the love of life” or “the fear of 
death.” All members of the party are strong, the weather is OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
good, the snow under foot is hard, the position and distance of 
the food-store are well known. Impelled by strong desire they 
tramp on with confidence. That is to say, they see no reason 
to doubt their ability to reach their immediate goal, the store of 
food, which means not only a good meal but also safety. 
When they have travelled but half-way to their goal, an ad- 
verse wind springs up, bringing clouds and a threat of snow. 
Each man knows that, if the wind should blow stronger and the 
snow fall thickly, they will need all their strength to achieve 
their goal. Success no longer seems certain. Their confidence 
is no longer sure and untroubled. But they hope for the best. 
That is to say, the prospect of possible failure converts confi- 
dence to hope. 
As they march on hopefully, the adverse wind grows stronger, 
and the snow falls more thickly. Each man secretly becomes 
a prey to anxiety. He still does his best to be and to appear 
hopeful. But now his desire prompts not only the imagina- 
tion of a good meal and of a successful issue to all their labors, 
but also a careful consideration of all the possibilities and 
chances of failure as well as of success. During the phases of 
confidence and of hope, their striving was sustained and re- 
inforced by the pleasurable anticipation of success; perhaps 
they joked about the enormous meal they were presently to 
enjoy. Now, if they converse at all, it is only to discuss the 
prospect of the wind and snow abating; and the painful contem- 
plation of possible failure depresses their energies. But the 
transition from confidence to hope and to anxiety is gradual; 
hope and anxiety alternate with every veering of the wind and 
every gust of snow; there is no sharp line to be drawn between 
the two states. We might recognize finer divisions of the 
emotional scale by speaking of anxious hope and hopeful anx- 
iety. 
The weather grows still worse; the men feel their strength 
ebbing; every step is a painful effort. At length one blurts 
out: “We shall never make it!” And all in their hearts know 
that there is but too good ground for his remark. “Oh ! Shut 
up!” they say, “We must make it.” And they trudge on. 
But now anxiety passes into despondency. Presently they agree 
to sit on their sledge to rest awhile; and the attitude of de- THE DERIVED EMOTIONS 
spondency is clearly expressed by each relaxed figure, the bent 
back, the drooping head, the eyes staring vacantly. Their 
imaginations now are filled with painful depressing anticipa- 
tions of final failure. They rise and struggle on, with utmost 
exertions of will-power. 
But now they come upon a wide opening in the ice, stretching 
indefinitely far in either direction across their course. Now 
they know that they cannot reach their goal. In consequence, 
despondency passes into despair; and they fall on the snow, con- 
tent to pass into that last sleep which will end their labors. 
The five derived emotions we have depicted above have been 
well named by Mr. A. F. Shand “ the prospective emotions of 
desire”;1 for all of them imply desire that looks forward to a 
goal. In the instance we have imagined, these “emotions ” would 
occur in great intensity; for the desire from which they derive 
was, we assumed, of great strength or urgency. But a similar 
gamut of “emotions” may be experienced in the course of the 
working of any sustained desire. Thus, if you set out on foot 
to catch a train at the railroad station, you may pass through, 
or up and down, this scale of “emotions,” according as your 
prospect of catching the train appears to you to vary from a 
certainty of success to a certainty of failure. And the “emo- 
tions” will be strong in proportion to the strength of your de- 
sire. If your desire to catch the train derives from the desire 
to keep some trivial appointment or perform some trivial errand, 
the prospective emotions of desire will be faint and hardly recog- 
nizable. But, if you have given your word of honor to keep that 
appointment or punctually to perform that errand, or if you are 
to meet a much-loved friend, long unseen, and the catching of 
that train is the indispensable means to your goal, your desire 
to catch it will be strong and your prospective emotions of desire 
correspondingly intense. 
Retrospective Emotions of Desire 
Although primitively desire looks only toward some goal 
imagined as lying in the future, yet, in the developed mind, desire 
may be directed towards the past. Hence we must recognize 
1 “The Foundations of Character,” Second Edition, London, 1921. 342 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
also retrospective emotions of desire. Of this group of derived 
emotions regret, remorse, and sorrow are the principal mem- 
bers. Regret naturally follows upon despair, when the attain- 
ment of the desired goal is no longer possible, when the possibil- 
ity of attaining that goal lies wholly in the past. For then 
desire still prompts the imagination to dwell upon the goal; but 
the desire is wholly retrospective and, being futile and neces- 
sarily thwarted, is painful in proportion to its strength. Such 
painful retrospective desire is regret. 
In regret we dwell longingly upon what might have been. In 
our Polar explorers regret will succeed despair, if they retain 
sufficient vitality to be mentally active as they lie awaiting 
death. They will regret that they did not do this or that, did 
not make their food-stores at shorter intervals, did not push on 
a little more rapidly while the weather was good; a thousand 
regrets, as we say, or one painful retrospective desire after an- 
other, may occupy their minds. And if the leader, or any mem- 
ber of the party, sees clearly that the disaster was due to some 
fault of his, some misjudgment, some failure of moral or physical 
strength on his part, then self-reproach or angry humiliation or 
shame will complicate his regret and so generate that most pain- 
ful and very complex state of feeling we call remorse. 
Sorrow is a retrospective emotion of desire, for it is essen- 
tially tender regret. By a loose usage the word is sometimes 
extended to cover that primary emotion which we have called dis- 
tress (p. 163). But sorrow, in the proper sense of the word, can 
be experienced only by the subject who is sufficiently developed 
to have acquired a sentiment of love or devotion. We have to 
discuss the nature and formation of such sentiments in a later 
chapter. Here it must suffice to say that the sentiment of love 
for an object consists essentially in the habitual direction of the 
parental impulse upon that object; though every sentiment of 
love tends to become complex, through the inclusion within its 
system of other impulses. 
The purest type of love is the love of the mother for her child; 
and the very type of sorrow is the emotion of the mother bereft 
of her much-loved child. Imagine the emotions of a mother 
who loses her child through a fatal sickness. During the course THE DERIVED EMOTIONS 
343 
of the sickness she will pass through all the prospective emotions 
of desire, the desires of love to protect, to relieve, to preserve 
its object. At the time of the fatal issue, distress may be the 
dominant emotion; the mother, having exhausted all her re- 
sources in vain, gives herself up to weeping and to crying on God 
and man for help. This phase soon gives place to pure sorrow 
or tender regret; the tender emotion and impulse of her love 
bring its object frequently, almost constantly, to mind; and in 
imagination she dwells upon all that she would do, if the object 
still were with her, and on all that she might have done before 
she lost it. All such retrospective desires are painful, because 
they are necessarily thwarted; but, with the passage of time, the 
tender impulse learns to find some degree of satisfaction in rec- 
ollections of past joys, of tender services given and recipro- 
cated, and by expressing itself in speech and in such acts as tend 
to keep alive and do honor to the memory of the lost one. 
Thus the sorrow becomes sweetened by partial satisfaction of 
the desires of love and by the discovery of new ways of attain- 
ing such satisfaction. 
It is an undesirably loose usage to extend tne name ‘sorrow” 
indiscriminately to all painful retrospective desires; for sorrow 
essentially involves the tender emotion. The painful retrospec- 
tive desire of hate should therefore not be called sorrow, but is 
more properly called chagrin; it is that state in which we regret 
the success of the hated person or the failure of our striving to 
thwart him. The name grief is properly used to denote an 
emotion closely allied to sorrow, but differing from it in that, in 
the sentiment from which it springs, the tender protective im- 
pulse is subordinated to the impulses of extended self-regard. 
(Cf. Chapter XVII.) 
Joy a Derived Emotion 
Joy also is one of the derived emotions; for, like the others, it 
implies or presupposes the working within us of some strong 
desire; and, like sorrow, joy, in the full sense of the word, is de- 
rived from the desires of some strong and enduring sentiment. 
We may sometimes speak of the joy of a hungry man when din- 
ner is announced, or of the joy of a child in a new toy. But this 344 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
again is a loose usage which degrades the word. For “pleasure” 
is the appropriate word for such occasions; and joy is more than 
the pleasure that comes with the satisfaction, or the anticipation 
of satisfaction, of our unorganized desires and sporadic impulses. 
The joy that springs from love is the true opposite of sorrow in 
respect of its conditions; for, as sorrow comes from the baffling 
of the tender desires of love, joy attends the success of our ten- 
der efforts on behalf of the loved person; it is essentially the 
progressive satisfaction of the desires of love. But joy differs 
from sorrow not only in that it comes with the success, while 
sorrow comes with the baffling, of the desires of love, but in two 
other respects also. Sorrow is essentially an emotion of retro- 
spective desire; but joy derives from both retrospective and 
prospective desires. Further, while sorrow derives from the de- 
sires of love only, joy attends the success (or the recollection or 
the prospect of success) of the desires of hate, as well as of those 
of love, especially perhaps the desires of the complex form of 
hate properly called revenge. 
A kind of joy, which in some natures is apt to be peculiarly 
intense, springs from the desires of the sentiment commonly 
spoken of as “self-love,” but more properly called “self-regard.” 
Joy of this kind is perhaps more properly called “elation.” Its 
main condition is the regard of other persons who admire (or 
are imagined by us as admiring) our achievements or the ex- 
cellencies of our persons. Its essence is the gratification of the 
self-assertive impulse organized within the self-regarding sen- 
timent. 
Surprise is an emotional experience concerning which I must 
confess to some perplexity. Like Joy and Sorrow, it has usually 
been classed with the primary emotions, ever since Descartes 
distinguished primary and secondary or blended emotions. But 
it seems clear that surprise presupposes some more or less defi- 
nite anticipation of the course of events; surprise is experienced 
only when we suddenly apprehend a state of affairs that contra- 
dicts-our anticipation. Now the anticipation or expectation im- 
plies, as we have seen, the working of some impulse, some desire 
Surprise THE DERIVED EMOTIONS 
345 
or aversion, that prompts us to anticipate. Surprise therefore 
is dependent upon, or derived from, the anticipating desire; it 
is therefore a derived emotion. In nearly all cases of intense 
surprise, the derived emotion is complicated by fear or by curi- 
osity, or by both of these; and it is very apt to pass over into 
one or other of these primary emotions. It is this complication 
of surprise that tends to obscure the fact that it belongs to the 
class of derived emotions.1 
The Distinction Between Primary and Derived Emotions 
We have now discussed the principal varieties of derived emo- 
tion. The student should clearly grasp the distinction between 
them and the primary emotions. The principal points of dis- 
tinction are these: (i) The primary emotion arises as the imme- 
diate consequence of thinking of some object or situation; and it 
does not presuppose, is not conditioned by, any impulse already 
operative, when that object or situation is apprehended.2 The 
derived emotion, on the other hand, in all cases presupposes and 
is conditioned by some impulse, some desire or aversion, already 
at work within us, and is the product of the influence of a new 
cognition concerning the object to which that impulse is directed. 
(2) Secondly, each primary emotion springs from, and is the in- 
dication of the excitement of, a corresponding instinctive dis- 
position; whereas each derived emotion bears no such constant 
relation to any one instinctive disposition, but, rather, may arise 
in the developed mind in the course of the operation of any one 
of the instinctive impulses. (3) The primary emotion may be 
spoken of (somewhat loosely but without serious error) as a force, 
since it is constantly accompanied by an impulse toward some 
specific goal, an impulse which, as we have seen, is an essential 
feature of what we commonly speak of as the emotion; and 
common speech and literary tradition, as well as the language 
of many psychologists, recognize the propriety of regarding the 
primary emotions as driving forces or energies. The derived 
11 doubt whether the most skilful artist could depict “surprise” in a way that 
would be surely distinguishable from both fear and curiosity. 
2 With the exception of anger. 346 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
emotions, on the other hand, cannot properly be regarded as 
forces. They are merely incidents in the working of the in- 
stinctive impulses, which are the only true forces that prompt 
and sustain thought and action.1 
The force or energy which literary convention and common 
speech attribute to such emotions as hope or anxiety or joy is in 
reality the energy of the desire from which the derived emotion 
springs; this energy is reinforced in hope and joy by the pleasura- 
ble anticipation of success; moderated or checked in anxiety and 
despondency by the anticipation of failure; and rendered painful 
in sorrow by the baffling of all action.2 
(4) Fourthly, since each of the primary emotions springs from 
a disposition which is an enduring feature of the constitution of 
the organism, it is not gravely misleading to speak of such emo- 
tions as becoming organized within the sentiments; although it 
is more strictly correct to say that the affective-conative dispo- 
sition of the corresponding instinct becomes thus organized or 
incorporated. (Cf. Chapter XVII.) On the other hand, it would 
be a grave error to assume that any derived emotion (or any dis- 
position corresponding to any derived emotion) can become thus 
organized within the structure of the mind; for no derived emo- 
? It is true that in common speech and still more in literature the derived emo- 
tions are recognized as forces. The poets especially are apt to personify such 
emotions as hope, despondency, joy, sorrow, and surprise, as agents that gov- 
ern our thought and action, just as they personify the primary emotions. But, 
though the psychologist should give heed to the poets, he should not slavishly 
submit to the poetic conventions. There is probably no quality of character or 
conduct that has not been personified by some poet, painter, or sculptor. We 
may admire Shelley’s magnificent ode, “Adonais,” without accepting as an inde- 
pendent force or element of personality each of the figures so beautifully depicted 
by him. We may see confirmation of the distinction made in these pages between 
the primary and the derived emotions in the fact that artists, while they have no 
difficulty in representing by facial expressions, the principal primary emotions, 
have to resort to indirect means for the suggestion of the derived emotions. Thus, 
when so great an artist as G. F. Watts depicted Hope, he painted a maiden whose 
face was veiled and whose significance was suggested symbolically by her position 
and attitude and by her broken lyre. 
2 What then of “the energy of despair” ? the reader may ask. I reply that this 
is a misleading phrase, that despair has no energy; that if, in despair, any energy of 
desire persists, it turns to regret. The so-called “energy of despair” is the energy 
of the man who, when his situation becomes “desperate,” throws aside all pre- 
cautions, all self-control, all previously conceived plan of action, and abandons 
himself to the crude instinctive impulse and the primary emotion. THE DERIVED EMOTIONS 
347 
tion springs from any one enduring disposition; rather, as we 
have seen, each of them is incidental to the operation of any 
one, or all, of the conative dispositions.1 
Pleasure and pain are, by common consent, the true types of 
feeling. The word “feeling” has been used by some psycholo- 
gists in a very wide loose way. Many of the atomists or mosaic 
psychologists have, like Herbert Spencer, used “feeling” as the 
most general name for the hypothetical elements of which they 
assumed “consciousness” to be composed, by processes of juxta- 
position, cohesion, association, fusion, synthesis, or what not. 
Other atomists have described feelings, not as themselves ele- 
ments or substantial atoms of “consciousness,” or of mind stuff, 
but as attributes of such elements, all the latter being called 
“sensations.” Feelings are then, according to this school, attri- 
butes of “sensations,” and every “sensation” is said to have 
the attribute of feeling or feeling-tone, as it is said to have the 
attribute of intensity. This is a clumsy and unprofitable man- 
ner of describing the facts of feeling. As we have seen, it is 
always a subject, you or I, he, she, or it, who feels, who experi- 
ences pleasure or pain, enjoys or suffers; and the notion of an 
atom of sensation, with a particle of pleasure or of pain adhering 
to it, or endowed with the attribute of pleasure or of pain, is a 
radical absurdity; in spite of all the eminence of such psycholo- 
gists as Wundt and Mxinsterberg and Titchener, who have coun- 
tenanced such modes of description. It is in relation to the facts 
of feeling that the ineffectiveness and insuperable difficulties of 
the mosaic psychology become most obvious. 
The Use of the Word “ Feeling ” 
Varieties of Feeling 
Some authorities recognize only two qualities of feeling, 
namely, pleasure and pain. Others, while using “feeling” in 
the strict sense, would recognize a larger variety of qualities of 
1 What, then, of the phrase “hopeful disposition” ? Here again we must beware 
of being misled by the loose and indiscriminating usage of common speech. The 
quality of a personality commonly implied by this term should more properly be 
called “hopeful temper.” For “temper” see following section. 348 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
feeling. Wundt, for example, proposed to distinguish, in addi- 
tion to pleasure and pain, feelings of strain and relaxation, and 
of excitement and depression. It seems to me that by these 
terms he made confused recognition of the reality of conative 
experience as an irreducible mode. 
We have seen that pleasure and pain are conditioned by the 
interplay of cognition and conation; appreciation of the progress 
or success of conation determining pleasure, of its thwarting or 
failure, pain. Now, the derived emotions are conditioned in a 
similar manner; they are in all cases the consequences of imagi- 
native appreciation of the probabilities of success or failure of 
the conations, the desires, from which they derive. And, like 
pleasure and pain, they are not in any sense sensational (i. e., 
they do not, like the primary emotions, owe their specific quali- 
ties to sense-impressions, visceral, kinaesthetic, or other) but are 
truly subjective; they cannot by any stretch of the imagination 
be assigned to the objects of our thinking. I may contemplate 
hopefully a despairing or despondent student, or despondently a 
hopeful student, or hopefully a hopeful student; and, though 
common speech uses these words ambiguously, it is clear that, 
even in this last case, my hope is so clearly mine and the stu- 
dent’s so clearly his own, that the most perverse philosopher will 
hardly succeed in confusing them for us. 
The derived emotions are, then, affections or feelings in the 
strict sense of the word. They may with some plausibility be 
regarded as resulting from a differentiation of the fundamental 
forms of feeling, pleasure and pain. This differentiation accom- 
panies the development of the powers of imagination and the 
increase of capacity for the conjunction of pleasure with pain 
that goes with mental development. 
Blending of Pleasure and Pain 
The last remark requires further explanation. It has been 
widely asserted that pleasure and pain are antagonists which 
cannot coexist, because each destroys or neutralizes the other, 
like acid and alkali in solution; or, otherwise stated, that they 
are quantities of opposite signs which undergo algebraic summa- THE DERIVED EMOTIONS 
349 
tion, so that the feeling-tone of the subject is always one of 
pleasure or of pain, or, if the pleasurable and painful influences 
are equally balanced, neutral (i. e., non-existent). I have no 
hesitation in rejecting this doctrine and in following Professor 
Stout, in recognizing states of feeling in which pleasure and pain 
are conjoined. The fact is most clearly illustrated perhaps by 
such emotions as pity and sorrow. In both of these emotions, 
pleasure and pain would seem to be blended in all proportions, 
from the very painful pity of the tender-hearted person who can 
do nothing to relieve the suffering he witnesses and sympatheti- 
cally shares, to the sweet pity of the ministering angel who finds 
a supreme satisfaction in relieving the suffering which still, so 
long as it is not wholly relieved, she shares in some degree. Or, 
again, the feeling of the mother who kisses away the pain of the 
little one’s bruise. “Parting is such sweet sorrow ” said a great 
master of the secrets of the human heart; for the pain of the 
lovers at parting was sweetened by the anticipation of reunion.1 
Feelings and Emotions Disentangled 
We are now in a position to understand why there have been 
so much confusion and uncertainty in respect of the terms “feel- 
ing” and “emotion”; and we are able to disentangle this con- 
fusion. We have seen that the primary emotions largely owe 
1 By a very elaborate experimental study of feeling (“Pleasure and Unpleasure,” 
Brit. Jour, of Psychol., Monog. Suppl., No. VI) Doctor A. Wohlgemuth has arrived 
at the conclusion not only that pleasure and pain may coexist as blended states of 
feeling, but also that pleasures (as also pains) of different origins may coexist with- 
out blending, and that pleasure and pain may also coexist without blending. These 
latter statements are perhaps open to question, but I can see no reason to doubt 
that pleasure and pain may coexist and blend in some degree. As one quick boy 
retorted to my question, the fact may be described in three words, “eating a lemon.” 
And another suggested “the pleasure of expecting dessert and the pain of waiting 
for it.” Our emotional reactions to very beautiful scenes illustrate the fact no 
less well than pity and sorrow. Many of us find a strange pain in very beautiful 
scenes, at the same time that we delight in them. The poets have expressed the 
fact again and again; thus Tennyson: 
“Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, 
Tears from the depths of some divine despair 
Rise to the heart and gather to the eyes 
In gazing on the happy autumn fields, 
In thinking of the days that are no more.” OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
their specific qualities to the visceral sense-impressions made by 
the bodily adjustments that accompany instinctive strivings. So 
much of truth we have conceded to the James-Lange theory. 
But, in the developed mind, every excitement of a primary emo- 
tion (or of any conj unction of primary emotions) involves cona- 
tion and also cognition of the degree and the probability of suc- 
cess or failure of conation. Hence, in all our concrete experiences 
of the primary and blended emotions, these are complicated by 
the derived emotions or feelings; they are tinged with hope, 
anxiety, joy, sorrow, surprise, or simple pleasure or pain. That 
is to say, such experiences are feelings as well as emotions; hence 
common speech uses the two words almost interchangeably. CHAPTER XIII 
DISPOSITION, TEMPER, TEMPERAMENT, AND MOODS 
These four words are in common use and, like all such words, 
they require some definition and restriction, if they are to be 
used in scientific discourse. We require the first three words, in 
order to distinguish three ways in which individuals, in spite 
of inheriting the same instinctive dispositions and the same de- 
gree and type of intelligence, and in spite of closely similar en- 
vironmental and educational influences, may yet differ widely 
from one another. 
Disposition 
A man’s “disposition” is the sum total of his instinctive ten- 
dencies. It is possible that in some individuals one or more of 
the instincts may be wholly lacking, as seems to be the case in 
some domesticated animals.1 But apart from that possibility, it 
seems clear that individuals inherit the instinctive impulses in 
very different degrees of strength. Thus there are men and 
races of men in which the instinct of curiosity seems to be 
innately feeble, others in which it is innately strong. The same 
seems to be true of other instinctive impulses, notably sex, fear, 
anger, self-assertion, and submission, and the gregarious im- 
pulse.2 When some one of the instinctive tendencies is dispro- 
portionately strong, that one characterizes the individual’s “dis- 
position.” Thus, when a man is by nature extremely pugna- 
cious, we say that he has a pugnacious disposition. We may 
conveniently illustrate the facts, by drawing up the list of 
instincts, and writing opposite each one the adjective we 
11 remind the reader that instincts are very possibly Mendelian units. 
2 In a little book, “Is America Safe for Democracy?” I have put together some 
evidences of racial differences of this kind. 352 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
commonly use to denote the kind of disposition characterized 
by excessive strength of that tendency, as follows: 
Instinctive Impulse 
Disposition 
Impulse of Anger 
. .Irascible or pugnacious. 
44 
Curiosity 
. . Curious, inquisitive, or inquiring. 
44 
Fear 
. .Timid, cautious, or fearful. 
44 
Reproduction 
..Lustful or amorous. 
44 
Food-seeking 
. . Gluttonous or greedy. 
44 
Self-assertion 
. .Vain, proud, conceited, showy, or ambitious. 
44 
Submission 
. .Humble, meek, submissive, or docile. 
44 
Gregariousness.... 
. .Sociable. 
44 
Repulsion 
. .Fastidious or dainty. 
44 
Acquisition 
. .Acquisitive, miserly, or thrifty. 
44 
1 .aughter 
.. Merry, gay. 
44 
Distress . 
. . Complaining, tearful, or dependent. 
These alternative adjectives are used not as strictly synony- 
mous, but as implying different modes of habitual manifestation 
of the dominant impulse. Since the instinctive impulses, like 
all other features of our organization, are subject to the law of 
increase through use and of atrophy through disuse, it is clear 
that, in a person endowed by nature with excessive strength of 
any one of the instinctive tendencies, that tendency will be apt 
to increase in strength relatively to the rest, if it is not checked 
and inhibited by discipline and wise self-control, aiming at a due 
balance of tendencies. This is one of the most frequent sources 
of inharmonious and unbalanced personalities; in some such 
instances, the personality may seem to be little more than a 
mass of gluttony or of lust, of vanity or of irritability. The 
student should notice that in this usage the word “disposition” 
has a meaning very different from, though allied to, that with 
which it has been used in the preceding chapters. The two 
meanings should lead to no confusion. 
Temper 
By the temper of a man we mean something allied to, though 
distinct from, both disposition and temperament. We properly 
speak of a man as having a fiery or steadfast or fickle or impul- 
sive or hopeful or despondent temper. The peculiarities of the 
personality denoted by such phrases cannot be explained by DISPOSITION, TEMPER, TEMPERAMENT, MOODS 
353 
reference to the relative strength of the several instinctive ten- 
dencies. Fickleness, steadfastness, hopefulness, impulsiveness, 
and despondency, each of these is a quality which is apt to be 
manifested by its possessor in situations of all kinds, no matter 
what motive, what impulse or desire may be operative in him. 
The temper of a man seems to be the expression of the way in 
which the conative impulses work within him. There are, I 
think, three principal ways in which this working of the impulses 
varies from one man to another, namely, in respect of (i) 
strength, intensity, or urgency; (2) of persistency; (3) of affect- 
ability. By “affectability” I mean the degree to which the im- 
pulses are influenced by pleasure and by pain. It seems clear 
that some men are more liable than others to be checked and 
diverted from their course of action, and to be prevented from 
returning to any similar line of action, by the pain of difficulty 
and thwarting encountered; and to be more strongly sustained 
in their striving, and stimulated to further and renewed efforts 
along similar lines, by the pleasure that comes with progress and 
success; the temper of such men is of high affectability. 
That men differ widely in respect of the strength or urgency 
of their impulses seems clear. The fiery, impatient, energetic 
man who, when once moved by impulse or desire, cannot rest 
until he has attained his goal does not differ from the placid or 
sluggish man merely in having less self-control. Patience is a 
virtue which may be cultivated; but it is one which is achieved 
much more easily by some men than by others, just because in 
them the impulses and desires are less urgent than in other men. 
It seems equally clear that men differ widely also in respect 
of the persistency of their impulses and desires; and that persis- 
tency does not vary with, is not closely correlated with, strength 
or urgency. There are men whose impulses seem to be very 
urgent and who yet show little perseverance. Such a man sets 
out energetically to accomplish his desires or impatiently awaits 
his opportunity; but, if circumstances prevent immediate ac- 
complishment, the impulse does not renew itself, but dies away, 
leaving him indifferent to, or oblivious of, the goal so strongly 
desired but a little time ago, while he turns to some new object. 
On the other hand, there are men whose impulses seem to be 354 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
not very urgent, who are not easily excited to desire and action, 
and yet who, once set upon a goal, hold their course tenaciously 
or return to it again and again after every diversion. Such 
persistency can be cultivated in some degree; but it seems clear 
that, like urgency and affectability, it is given in the innate con- 
stitution of some men in a much higher degree than to others. 
The average man no doubt is endowed with these three fac- 
tors of temper in an average degree; and such a man has a temper 
which can only be characterized as equable or average or or- 
dinary. It is when one or two or all three factors are natively 
present in exceptionally high or low degree that the temper of a 
man becomes a prominent and noticeable feature of his person- 
ality. The reader will easily see how the various combinations 
of these three factors in different degrees constitute the large 
variety of tempers that we denote by such adjectives as fiery, 
placid, sluggish, despondent, hopeful, anxious, dogged, obstinate, 
steadfast, or fickle. 
It is a fair question whether these three factors of temper are 
quite general; whether, that is to say, all of a man’s impulses 
exhibit corresponding degrees of the three factors; or whether in 
the same man some impulses may show these factors in high de- 
gree, others only in low degree. There can, I think, be little 
doubt that they are general, that, for example, the man who is 
naturally steadfast and persistent in respect of some impulses 
will show the same quality no matter what motives be at work 
in him. It is probable, however, that we ought to recognize a 
further ground of differences of temper in that degrees of af- 
fectability by pleasure and by pain do not go strictly together, 
are not closely correlated. Some men seem to be much influenced 
by pleasure and but little by pain; others much by pain and but 
little by pleasure. It is only by recognizing this possibility that 
we can explain the difference between the hopeful and the de- 
spondent tempers. 
Temperament 
The temperament of a man may be provisionally defined as 
the sum of the effects upon his mental life of the metabolic or 
chemical changes that are constantly going on in all the tissues DISPOSITION, TEMPER, TEMPERAMENT, MOODS 
355 
of his body. Some of these effects are produced through chem- 
ical substances which pass into the blood from the tissues and 
are then carried to the brain, where they act upon the nervous 
tissues, modifying their processes. Some of these chemical sub- 
stances seem to influence all parts of the nervous system; others 
seem to be highly selective, influencing some special parts or 
centres exclusively or much more powerfully than others. 
That profound effects on mental life may be exerted by very 
small amounts of chemical substances in the blood is best illus- 
trated by narcotic or anaesthetic drugs, such as alcohol and 
chloroform. When vapor of chloroform is mixed with the air we 
breathe, the drug passes very quickly into the blood and thence 
into the tissue of the brain; and, after a few breaths have been 
taken, we become aware of a profound disorder of our mental 
processes, a disorder which becomes more and more clearly a 
lowering of our mental activity, until complete arrest seems to 
supervene.1 If a man possessed an organ whose metabolism 
generated alcohol he would, whenever this organ was stirred to 
increased activity, exhibit a change of temperament of the nature 
of alcoholic intoxication; for drunkenness in its milder degrees 
is nothing but a temporary modification of temperament through 
the influence of alcohol on the processses of the brain. 
It is probable that every tissue of the body contributes to de- 
termine temperament in this chemical fashion. But certain 
tissues are of vastly greater influence than others. Chief among 
these are certain ductless glands which were long thought to be 
relatively inert and of the nature of vestigial remnants. Recent 
research has, however, revealed that the secretions (known as 
hormones or endocrines) passed into the blood by some of the 
ductless glands, exert profound effects upon the growth and 
metabolism of other tissues, and especially upon the processes of 
the nervous system. 
The facts are most fully ascertained perhaps in the case of 
the thyroid gland, a mass of soft tissue that clusters about the 
windpipe at the base of the neck. When the hormone secreted 
by this gland is excessive in quantity, the processes of the nervous 
system, and those of many other tissues also, are accelerated; the 
1 For more detailed study of such effects see section on Alcohol in Part II. 356 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
patient becomes unduly excitable, and therefore, unless he be 
shielded as much as possible from impressions and contacts of 
all kinds, he is constantly restless and agitated, and soon wears 
himself into a condition of emaciation. On the other hand, if 
the secretion of the thyroid gland becomes deficient in quantity, 
the patient becomes sluggish and unduly calm; his mental proc- 
esses are slowed until, in extreme cases, he is almost torpid. 
If the defect occurs in a young child, bodily and mental develop- 
ment proceeds unduly slowly; so that in extreme cases the pa- 
tient becomes a cretinous idiot. That all these profound effects 
are produced by the excess or defect of the secretion is proved 
by the fact that they may be completely counteracted; excess 
by removing a part of the gland; defect by mixing the hormone 
(obtained from thyroid glands of sheep) with the patient’s 
food. 
Other glands which exert influences hardly less profound are 
the pituitary (at the base of the brain, whose secretion plays a 
great part in regulating the growth of the whole body) and the 
suprarenal gland which caps the kidney. The secretion of the 
latter, even in minute quantities, influences the muscles of the 
small arteries and thus plays a great part in regulating the cir- 
culation of the blood; besides producing other effects, which in 
the main are such as to prepare the organs of the body for intense 
and sustained activity. 
The sex glands also, the testes of the male, the ovaries of the 
female, produce hormones whose effects are more specialized. 
They determine in the young organism the development of the 
secondary sexual characters, such as the beard, the deep voice, 
and the bony prominences of the skeleton in the male; and, 
what is of primary importance from the psychological point of 
view, the hormone serves, in some way that we do not fully 
understand, as sensitizer of the reproductive instinct, and thus 
plays a principal part in determining the degree of sexual appe- 
tite of the individual. 
To some minds the contemplation of the facts of this order is 
profoundly disturbing. Others complacently look forward to 
the time when further knowledge of them may enable us to inter- 
vene in the processes of development, to improve upon the work DISPOSITION, TEMPER, TEMPERAMENT, MOODS 
357 
of Nature.1 But the facts are of profound importance and must 
be faced and taken fully into account by the psychologist. 
Various organs of the body influence our mental life in another 
way, namely, by contributing almost constantly faint sense- 
impressions that make themselves only obscurely felt during 
health as the coenesthesis, a vague background that colors or 
tones our thinking more or less favorably or unfavorably. Thus, 
a perfectly working digestive system tends to a cheerful and 
contented tone of mind; one which works sluggishly and imper- 
fectly may give a peevish, hypochondriacal, or melancholy tone 
to the temperament of its possessor. In a similar way an active 
and efficient muscular system tends to a general alertness and 
efficiency of mental life. 
These factors of temperament are in the main determined in 
the innate constitution of each man. Yet they are capable of 
being modified in some degree by such influences as diet, cli- 
mate, and drugs, and, it would seem, by mental attitudes and 
experiences. Thus, repeated fear may lead to chronic excess of 
the chemical activity of the thyroid gland. It is here that men- 
tal influences play their chief role in affecting health and disease, 
and here that suggestion and various other forms of mental 
healing find possibilities of whose limits we are very ignorant. 
It seems proper to include under factors of temperament cer- 
tain general constitutional peculiarities of the nervous system. 
Of these, degrees of liability to fatigue, and ease and rapidity of 
recuperation from fatigue, and* probably, facility in generating 
an antitoxin of fatigue,2 are important in determining the general 
efficiency of the personality. 
Very important, also, in determining the course of mental de- 
velopment, is a factor which has been recently brought into 
prominence by Doctor C. G. Jung, namely, the degree of in- 
troversion. Doctor Jung distinguishes introversion and extrover- 
1 As, for example, Doctor L. Berman, who (in “Glands Regulating Personality”) 
has drawn with great skill a very highly colored picture of the part played by the 
endocrine secretions, and who would almost seem to suppose that psychology is 
about to be superseded by endocrinology. 
2Cf. “The Effect of Alcohol and Other Drugs During Normal and Fatigued 
Conditions,” by May Smith and W. McDougall. H. M. Stationery Office, Lon- 
don, 1920. 358 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
sion as the extremes of a continuous scale formed by degrees of 
introversion. It is uncertain whether introversion or extrover- 
sion should be considered a positive quality, and the other ex- 
treme as merely the lowest degree of this positive quality. How- 
ever this may be, the position of a man’s temperament in this 
scale seems to be in the main a matter of native constitution, 
though, like other factors of temperament, it is susceptible to 
environmental and disciplinary influences, especially in early 
youth. The problem must be discussed in more detail in Part 
II of this work. Here it must suffice to say that the well-marked 
extrovert is the man whose emotions and impulses readily and 
freely express themselves in action, in words, gestures, and all 
the natural channels of emotional expression. The introvert, 
on the other hand, is the man whose impulses and emotional 
stirrings are apt to remain bottled up within him, determining 
brooding and reflection rather than expression and action. 
Enough has been said to show that temperament is a com- 
plex resultant of many factors, each of which is in the main 
natively determined, though susceptible in various degrees to 
modification by environmental influences and mental discipline. 
The mental development of the individual is constantly biassed 
in this or that direction by the peculiarities of his temperament; 
the trend of the selective activity of the mind, in all its processes 
of assimilation, discrimination, apperception, and habit forma- 
tion, is largely determined by temperament; so that two indi- 
viduals, similarly endowed as regards disposition and intellectual 
capacities, would develop very differently if they were of widely 
different temperament. Temperament largely influences the 
growth both of intellect and of character. 
Temperaments being resultants of so many diverse factors, it 
necessarily follows that the varieties of temperament are innu- 
merable, and that the temperament of any man cannot be ade- 
quately characterized by one or a few adjectives. And, in fact, 
our terminology is here most inadequate. We have only a few 
appropriate terms, which partially characterize certain types of 
temperament, adjectives such as buoyant, quick, slow, nervous, 
active, excitable, sluggish, melancholic, stable, and expecially 
introvert and extrovert. DISPOSITION, TEMPER, TEMPERAMENT, MOODS 
359 
Disposition, temper, and temperament are the raw materials 
of personality provided by heredity. From them character is 
built, under the touch of experience and the guidance of increas- 
ing knowledge and intelligence. 
Throughout mental development and, in fact, throughout 
life, they reciprocally influence one another. Though they are 
laid down in the native constitution, they are modifiable by wise 
guidance and self-discipline. Wise education consists largely in 
the continued influencing of these three complex constitutional 
factors; it may do much to correct any native defect or lack 
of balance among them. 
Moods 
Before bringing this chapter to an end, a word must be said 
about moods. Moods clearly are related in some way to emo- 
tions. We speak of angry, cautious, sociable, appreciative, help- 
ful, despondent, respectful, contrary, submissive, and many other 
moods. 
That is to say, in speaking of moods we use the names by 
which we distinguish emotions and impulses. The mood is 
clearly an affective-conative fact of immediate experience. We 
not only display moods by our attitude and behavior, but often 
we are immediately aware of the mood. Yet we recognize that 
a mood may persist, even when some emotion of an entirely dif- 
ferent quality and tendency dominates the scene. Thus, when 
in an angry mood, I may be provoked to laughter or to pity, 
without the angry mood being wholly dispelled. As soon as the 
intercurrent emotion is spent, the mood may reassert itself. A 
mood is most commonly engendered by the evocation of some 
strong emotion which is for any reason denied free expression.1 
When we cease to think of the object or situation that has ex- 
cited emotion, without having freely expressed the emotion and 
achieved the natural goal of its impulse, the mood remains, a 
resonating echo, as it were, of the emotion. 
Primarily the mood implies a more or less subconscious per- 
sistence of the conation and the emotion, a subexcitement of 
the affective-conative disposition. No doubt this subexcite- 
1 Hence the introvert is more subject to moods than the extrovert. 360 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
ment is commonly aided and abetted by some persistence of the 
organic resonance of the emotion, in some cases probably by a 
chemical residue. In fact, we can draw no sharp line between 
the emotion and the corresponding mood; we can only distin- 
guish them by agreeing to call the affective-conative excitement 
an “emotion,” so long as we continue to think of the object 
that excites it, and to call it a mood, if it still persists when we 
cease to think of the object. If we do this, then we must rec- 
ognize that emotion normally subsides into a mood, before the 
excitement wholly passes away. 
The mood renders us peculiarly susceptible to the reexcitement 
of the corresponding emotion. Thus, if you have recently been 
startled or frightened, you will be more readily startled again: 
for the persisting subexcitement of the fear-disposition renders 
it more susceptible to a new excitement than it is when com- 
pletely quiescent. Or, if you have recently been angered and 
have not worked off your anger in free action and expression, 
you will remain unusually irritable, or in an irritable mood, as 
we say, for some little time. So long as the mood persists, the 
impulse is, as it were, seeking an object, and is apt to fasten 
upon, and receive new stimulus from, objects which at other times 
would fail to excite the emotion; as when, in an angry mood, 
your anger bursts forth afresh at the slightest obstruction of 
any action, a door-handle that sticks, a pen that splutters, a fly 
that distracts you from your book by tickling your nose or buzz- 
ing on the window-pane. 
The most persistent moods, which border upon the morbid, 
are those which are due to some unresolved conflict of emotional 
tendencies. Thus, if you have been hurt or offended by some 
one dear to you, you will be apt to suffer a vague discomfort so 
long as you have not resolved the conflict between your anger 
and the habitual tendencies which constitute your sentiment of 
love for that person. Still more, if, through lack of self-control, 
you unjustly reproach or blame or scold one you love, you will 
carry with you a disturbing mood that may cloud all your day 
and clog all your activities, until you take measures to “put 
yourself right” with that person by frankly apologizing or in 
some way expressing your contrition. DISPOSITION, TEMPER, TEMPERAMENT, MOODS 
361 
It is probable that some moods are largely due to organic 
conditions which, in the chemical and other ways considered 
under temperament, strongly predispose the subject to this or 
that kind of emotional excitement. Thus indigestion and gout 
and diabetes notoriously favor the irascible mood; and excess of 
thyroid activity favors the fearful or timid mood. In other 
cases of long-persistent morbid moods, we naturally suspect the 
presence of an organic factor, as in the mood which is the lead- 
ing symptom of the melancholic phase of manic-depressive in- 
sanity. Such morbid moods, like those which do not pass the 
limits of the normal, tend to find suitable objects, and, indeed, 
create such objects in the form of delusions and hallucinations. 
This is a process allied to “rationalization.” 1 
JCf. Part II. CHAPTER XIV 
BELIEF AND DOUBT 
We have seen that the complex feelings which* in deference to 
established usage, we have called “derived emotions,” are pro- 
duced by the interplay of cognition and conation. Belief and 
doubt are states of feeling which are similarly conditioned. 
They also are derived “emotions”; but, because of the excep- 
tional importance and difficulty of the psychology of belief and 
doubt, I treat of them in a separate chapter. In the past, owing 
to the dominance in psychology of the intellectualist tradition, 
they have usually been treated as purely intellectual facts or 
states of mind, produced by purely intellectual or cognitive 
processes. 
The Association Psychology described and explained belief as 
the persistence of an “inseparable association.” It was said 
that if two “ideas” succeed one another again and again in 
“consciousness,” they become more and more firmly linked to- 
gether, until at last it is impossible for one of them to come to 
“consciousness” without being followed immediately by the 
other. For example, on innumerable occasions I have grasped 
my left wrist with my right hand, and on every such occasion I 
have found it to be solid, or resistant to compression; therefore 
the “idea” of my left wrist is “inseparably associated” with 
the “idea” of solidity, and no sooner does the “idea” of my 
wrist come to “consciousness” than the “idea” of solidity fol- 
lows it; which is to say that I believe my wrist to be solid. The 
absurdity of any such account is manifest, if we reflect that the 
theory demands that, whenever the “idea” of solidity comes to 
“consciousness” it shall at once be followed by the idea of my 
left wrist; for this obviously does not occur. 
Or again, whatever appears colored and opaque to the eye BELIEF AND DOUBT 
363 
has invariably been found to offer some degree of resistance to 
touch; hence, opaque color becomes inseparably associated with 
solidity, and, whenever I see an opaque colored surface, I believe 
it to be in some degree solid or massive, to occupy space. Or, 
every time I have come up against a solid resisting surface, I 
have found that there is space, or possibility of further move- 
ment, beyond it; hence the “idea” of further space is inseparably 
associated with every experience of a resistant surface, and I 
inevitably believe in every case that there is more space beyond 
it, and cannot conceive of any limit to space. Whereas, if I had 
always lived in a completely closed chamber, I should as inevita- 
bly believe (even though its walls were transparent) that space 
was limited by my prison walls. 
James and a few other psychologists, on the other hand, have 
asserted that belief is an emotion. But James wisely made no 
attempt to apply to it his famous theory, did not attempt the 
impossible task of resolving belief into any complex of organic 
sensations. Since belief and doubt are closely allied to those 
modes of feeling (confidence, hope, anxiety, etc.) which in a 
foregoing chapter we have classed as “derived emotions,” we 
must admit the propriety of calling them emotions; but with 
the reservation implied by our recognition of the distinction and 
difference of nature between the emotions proper (the primary 
and secondary emotions) and the derived “emotions.” 
How, then, are belief and doubt related to the derived “emo- 
tions” which we have already considered? We must first no- 
tice that the terms “belief” and “doubt” are properly applicable 
only to experiences of the developed mind. We cannot prop- 
erly speak of belief in the young child or in animals. The dog 
who recognizes his master, or the young child who recognizes his 
father at sight and promptly greets him, cannot properly be 
said to believe that the approaching figure is his master (or 
father). He can, however, be said to greet him, or approach 
him, with confidence. All primitive perception, being recogni- 
tion, involves confidence; “seeing is believing,” says the old 
adage. In a similar way the dog (or young child) who hesitates 
on the approach of the familiar person, oscillating uncertainly 
between attitudes of welcome and of retreat or antagonism, can- 364 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
not properly be said to doubt; but he may be said to be in a 
state of anxiety or of hope.1 
Belief is, then, confidence on the intellectual plane; and doubt 
is hesitation or anxiety on the same plane of explicitly formu- 
lated propositions. Belief grows up gradually out of confidence 
with intellectual development, and there is no sharp line to be 
drawn between them. Belief, in the fullest sense of the word, 
must be preceded by doubt, by the questioning attitude which 
issues in judgment, returning the answer “Yes” or “No” to 
the question. 
Imagine yourself going out to meet an expected friend. A 
figure approaches in the distance, but you cannot certainly rec- 
ognize your friend. Like the dog or the young child, you hesi- 
tate, moved by contradictory impulses. But, unlike the dog, 
you formulate your question—Is it, or is it not, A ? And you 
suspend judgment; you are not merely anxious, but you are in 
doubt. And when, on nearer approach, your recognition be- 
comes definite, your doubt is suddenly resolved into belief, by 
perceptual judgment. Definite perception is only one of three 
ways in which doubt may be supplanted by belief. The second 
way in which judgment may be determined and doubt resolved 
into belief is by communication from another person. If, at the 
moment of doubtful recognition, a friend, of better eyesight 
than your own, or provided with a telescope, stands beside you 
and says “Yes, it’s A,” or “No, it’s not A” your suspended 
judgment may be determined by your friend’s communication 
and your doubt converted to belief. 
Thirdly, doubt may be converted to belief by reasoning. It 
may be that the distant figure suggests to your mind your friend 
A, and you are in doubt. Then you remember that an hour ago 
you said farewell to A, as he stood on a steamship, leaving the 
dockside for a distant country. At once your doubt is resolved 
11 have many times been greeted by my dog in this fashion. He would be lying 
before the door of my house, as I entered the garden gate some seventy yards away. 
He would bark and approach threateningly. If I made no sign, at a certain dis- 
tance he would oscillate between threats and signs of welcome; and at the sound 
of my voice his hesitation would be instantly resolved. Such hesitation, with con- 
flict of opposed impulses, is the state which in the animal or young child corre- 
sponds to the doubt of the developed mind. BELIEF AND DOUBT 
365 
into negative belief—this is not A. And if, on nearer approach, 
the figure looks exactly like A, you conclude that it must be a 
“double” or a twin brother of A. This belief would normally 
be determined by a process of implicit reasoning. But, if the 
friend beside you questions your new belief, and says, “It cer- 
tainly is A,” you explicate your reasoning in some such way as 
this: “I believe that A is on that ship far out on the sea. I 
believe a man cannot be in two places at the same time. There- 
fore I believe this is not A. 
Conation and Belief 
In one or other of these three ways all beliefs are established, 
all judgments are determined—by perception, by communica- 
tion, by reasoning from previously established beliefs. All these 
are eminently cognitive processes; hence the purely intellectualis- 
tic accounts of belief that have commonly been accepted. But 
notice now that, as in all thinking, the conative factor plays an 
essential part in each of these processes. If you are not inter- 
ested in A and his whereabouts or in the identity of the approach- 
ing figure, you neither believe nor doubt nor disbelieve. And 
the more keenly interested you are in the identity of the ap- 
proaching figure, the more intense will be your doubt or your 
belief. Suppose that it is for you a question of life and death; 
suppose that you are scouting in a hostile country; then your 
question will be: Is this approaching figure friend or enemy? 
And your doubt may be agonizingly intense; and your belief 
correspondingly intense, when your doubt is resolved. 
Let us go back in imagination to the party of Arctic explorers. 
Let us imagine that they are nearly exhausted and their supplies 
of food used up; but they have reached a spot at which their 
comrades have promised to meet them with new supplies. The 
appointed time is already past; hour after hour they scan the 
snowfield anxiously for some sign of their comrades’ approach. 
At last, in the distance, several dark figures are seen moving 
slowly over the surface. The man of hopeful temper, A, springs 
up, crying, “Here they are!” The man of despondent temper, 
B, says, “No, those are penguins, you fool!” 1 The third man, 
1A mistake often made, Major Priestly tells us. (Loc. cit.) 366 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
of placid temper, C, scrutinizes the distant specks anxiously. 
His judgment is suspended; he remains in doubt; he neither 
affirms nor denies. Thus the three men react very differently; 
but none of them remains indifferent, for they all strongly desire 
that the distant specks may prove to be their comrades; hence 
they are mentally active. All of them are impelled to exert 
judgment about the object and to answer the question, “Are 
those our comrades?” A affirms; B denies; C suspends judg- 
ment. The affirmative judgment of A initiates belief. B's de- 
nial initiates disbelief. C’s continued suspension of judgment 
is the state of doubt. The sensory pattern presented by the dis- 
tant object is insufficient to determine recognition. But in A 
desire, strengthened by pleasurable anticipation, prompts the 
imagination to fill out the vague pattern, so that he clearly sees 
the human forms and even identifies the individuals by name, 
imagination working upon and supplementing the slightest sen- 
sory cues. 
A and B begin to argue; each stoutly asserts and defends his 
view; in each the self-assertive impulse begins to work and con- 
firms him in his attitude of belief or disbelief. C, on the other 
hand, remains in doubt. He weighs the arguments of A and B; 
but none convinces him. B ceases to argue and sits down, de- 
spondent or despairing. A continues to affirm his belief and 
says confidently, “Come on, C, let’s go to meet them!” 
confident masterly bearing influences C; it evokes his submis- 
sive impulse, which works on the side of affirmation; that is to 
say, A works on C by suggestion. C half believes, and as A 
strides forward in confidence, C goes behind him, alternating 
between hope and anxiety, his doubt not quite resolved. 
Here we have illustration of the three modes in which belief is 
determined, and also of the fact that belief is the feeling or 
“emotion” of confidence on the intellectual plane of formulated 
propositions, while doubt is the emotion of anixety on the same 
plane. In belief and confidence, desire is reinforced by pleas- 
urable anticipation of the desired goal, and works simply to- 
ward its goal in bodily or mental action. In doubt and anxiety, 
impulse or desire is checked by painful anticipation of failure, 
and the imagination, instead of depicting only the goal and the 
means toward it, depicts various alternatives. BELIEF AND DOUBT 
367 
Belief is then confidence in respect of a proposition. Doubt 
is anxiety in respect of a proposition. Neither is determined 
merely by cognition; they result from the interplay of cogni- 
tion and conative impulse—both are essential. And the stronger 
the impulse or desire, the more intense the emotion of belief or 
of doubt. 
Judgment Converts Doubt to Belief 
How, then, is doubt resolved ? How is it supplanted by be- 
lief ? By a process of positive or negative judgment, by affirma- 
tion or denial. 
Suggestion1 may evoke the submissive impulse on the side of 
affirmation. In the hypnotic state, when suggestibility is greatly 
increased, repeated assertion may lead the subject to accept and 
affirm the most improbable propositions and to make grossly 
false recognition and even hallucinatory recognition; just as an- 
ticipation, determined by strong desire of any kind, may deter- 
mine false recognition, illusion, and even, in some persons, hallu- 
cination. 
Secondly, the desire may sustain a process of investigation 
on the practical plane of action and perception. We continue 
to examine the object according to the method of trial and er- 
ror, that is, we look for marks not hitherto perceived, we an- 
ticipate these imaginatively and seek to verify them perceptu- 
ally. Thirdly, we may conduct the process of investigation by 
the method of trial and error on the plane of imagination; and this 
is reasoning. In both these cases we form an hypothesis, a ten- 
tative plan of action. In the one case, we work it out to suc- 
cess or failure by bodily movement and perception. In the 
other, we work out the plan to success or failure in imagina- 
tion alone. In the two cases, the method is essentially similar; 
and often our procedure is partly perceptual, partly imaginative. 
“If this is X, it will show F,” we say; and we proceed to dis- 
cover whether it shows F. For example, in the case of the 
Arctic explorers, the process may run: “Men move steadily on- 
ward toward their goal; these figures do not; therefore they are 
not men, but penguins.” 
1 Suggestion will be discussed in more detail in Part II. It affords the most 
striking evidence of the predominance of the conative factor in judgment. 368 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
Notice that in all cases belief implies memory in the wider 
sense of the word. It always implies reference to past experi- 
ence. This is obvious in the belief that results from perceptual 
judgment or recognition. When I recognize a man, and say and 
believe “This is X,” the term X has meaning only by reference 
to the X I have previously seen or thought of. And, even if my 
belief is determined by suggestion, it still refers to a previously 
thought of X. The same is true, if my judgment and con- 
sequent belief are determined by reasoning. 
Some beliefs are established by judgments which rest wholly 
on memory; as when I am asked “When did you last see X?” 
After a moment’s reflection, I reply “Yesterday morning.” If 
this belief is challenged, or my assertion contradicted, I may 
yield to the suggestion, make a new judgment, and believe 
“No, I did not see him yesterday”; or I may fall into doubt. 
Then I may seek to resolve my doubt by remembering various 
attendant circumstances. If these circumstances all hang to- 
gether consistently, I cease to doubt; my first judgment is re- 
peated and belief established.1 
Note that, even in these beliefs determined by memory, inseparable associa- 
tion, determined by many repetitions of the conjunction of two impressions or 
ideas, has nothing to do with the case. The question may be—Did you see 
X yesterday at noon? And if I clearly remember seeing X at the moment 
the clock struck twelve at noon of yesterday, I answer confidently “Yes.” 
Yet here my belief is determined by a perceptual experience which in the 
nature of things could not be repeated. 
1 Further evidence of the great importance of the conative factor in the deter- 
mination of belief is afforded by the process of “rationalization.” This, although 
in its milder forms it plays a great part in normal life, in its extremer degrees gives 
rise to grave symptoms of disorder, especially delusions. It will therefore be dis- 
cussed in Part II. But the principle may be illustrated here by a simple instance. 
A subject who passes into hypnosis and afterwards remembers nothing of the 
events of the hypnotic period, may be given some simple “post-hypnotic sugges- 
tion,” for example, may be told that, at a certain signal after waking, he will per- 
form some simple train of action, such as rising from his chair, opening the win- 
dow, and looking up and down the street. At the prescribed signal, the subject 
gets up in the most natural way, performs the actions, and returns to his seat. 
You then ask him—Why did you look out of the window ? In all probability he 
will give a perfectly “rational” explanation of his action. For example, he may 
say: “It occurred to me that So-and-So was likely to be calling for me here, and 
he might be unable to find the house.” That is to say, not knowing the nature 
and source of the impulse by which he was moved (the submissive impulse directed BELIEF AND DOUBT 
369 
Belief in Reality of Things 
But a deeper question remains. When we make a judgment, 
express it in a proposition, and believe that proposition to be 
true, we always imply the reality of the subject of the proposi- 
tion, in the sense that we conceive this subject as something 
that has a certain continuity of existence, that remains self- 
identical in spite of changes. 
How do we arrive at this belief in things, in entities which 
endure even though they may change in certain respects, ex- 
hibiting different qualities on different occasions ? 
If the physical world about us were in perpetual change, so 
rapid that nothing remained stable and unchanging to our per- 
ception (resembling a series of “dissolving views” or the land- 
scape seen from the window of an express-train), should we ever 
achieve this belief in things as realities that continue to exist? 
The answer seems to be that we should still be able to con- 
ceive at least qualities and to make judgments of sameness and 
difference in respect of them. Though we should not achieve 
belief in things. 
But this would only be possible in virtue of the continuity of 
oneself as the subject of experience. Oneself is the type of 
enduring reality amidst change; and our belief in the continu- 
ity and self-identity of other things and persons that we con- 
ceive is founded upon our belief in our own continuity and self- 
identity. 
How, then, is this belief founded ? The sensationist account 
of this belief runs roughly as follows: Experience is a perpetual 
flux of sensations; but, no matter how unstable and fluctuating 
to this train of action by the “suggestion” of the hypnotist) he invents an ex- 
planation and puts forward a plausible motive in place of the true one, in perfectly 
good faith. Such instances illustrate vividly the fact that the motives of our 
actions and of our beliefs are apt to be very obscure to us, so that we easily fall into 
error when we seek, however honestly, to state our motives or the grounds of our 
belief. In doing so, we naturally seek a “rational” explanation of our action or 
belief, i. e., one which may seem reasonable or rationally defensible; we often act 
or believe from motives of which we have no understanding; but we always seek 
to explain our action or belief according to the principle of “sufficient reason.” 
The fact that our motives are commonly so obscure to us gives plausibility to that 
kind of psychology which explains everything by invoking “The Unconscious.” OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
the sensations we get from the outer world, we experience a mass 
of sensations that remains relatively stable in spite of minor 
changes. This is the mass of bodily sensations, the coenesthesis, 
consisting of sensations from all our bodily organs, but especially 
our visceral organs. This relatively stable mass of sensations 
is the core of our personality; it is the foundation of our belief 
in our personal identity and continuance. And it is argued that, 
if this mass of sensations, the coenesthesis, were to undergo 
radical and rapid change, we should lose our belief in our own 
identity. In support of this view, cases are cited in which the 
patient denies his identity, speaks of his former self as dead or 
distant, and assumes a new name.1 Now it is true that in some 
such cases there is evidence of profound alteration of the coen- 
esthesis; for example, there may be wide-spread anaesthesia of 
bodily organs. Yet the doctrine is not established thereby. 
There are many other instances in which great change of the 
coenesthesis does not appreciably disturb the belief in one’s 
identity. Thus in sea-sickness and in some organic diseases, and 
in every violent emotional excitement, the coenesthesis is pro- 
foundly modified. Yet, though we may say “I hardly feel like 
the same man,” this is but a picturesque expression; we believe 
ourselves to be the same, in spite of the change. 
Clearly, memory is here fundamental. We can only relate the 
present to the past by memory. Without memory we should 
not be aware of change, no matter how violent and complete or 
slight and partial it might be. And memory is not merely hav- 
ing the same “sensations” over again. 
Add, then, memory to the power of experiencing the flux of 
“sensations,” and grant the coenesthesis as a relatively stable 
core that enters into all experience. Will that account for our 
belief in the identity and reality first of ourselves and secondarily 
of other persons and things ? 
This is where the sensationist and the hormic psychologies 
reach their most fundamental issue. The sensationist psychology 
replies “Yes.” The hormic psychology says “No.” It maintains 
that the core of personal identity, the foundation of our belief in 
our own reality and continuity, is the experience of purposive 
1 Cf. account of such cases in Part II. BELIEF AND DOUBT 
striving, of doing, of putting forth effort or energy, of resolving 
and acting, of pursuing a goal; which experience is fundamental 
and unique and not to be resolved into, or identified with, any 
qualities of sensation. This immediate awareness of the tides 
of life surging through the organism, together with memory, the 
memory of our past strivings, is the ground of our belief in our 
reality as enduring entities. 
What is the evidence for this view ? First, like the sensation- 
ist doctrine, but with more success, we may invoke the evidence 
of pathology. In cases of dual or alternating personality of the 
fully developed kind, we always find two changes: first, a dis- 
continuity of memory; secondly, some radical alteration of the 
conative tendencies. The changed or secondary personality may 
have knowledge of some of the past experience of the normal 
personality, but does not remember it as his own experience; he 
knows of it merely as he may know of yours or mine. And his 
system of impulses and desires is quite other. He has a dis- 
tinct system of sentiments or conative trends. He desires and 
s.trives to achieve other goals. It is, in fact, the rise of some sys- 
tem of desire, incompatible with the system that constitutes the 
core and essence of the normal personality, that leads to the con- 
flict which issues in dual personality.1 
We may realize something of this imaginatively. Suppose that 
you woke up one morning, with all your conative trends and set- 
tings completely transformed or redirected, hating all those you 
had loved, disliking all things you had liked, caring nothing for 
money or reputation, turning your other cheek to the smiter, 
and loving those that despitefully used you, angry and scornful 
where you had been tender, pitiful, and sympathetic. Then, 
indeed, you would feel yourself to be another man, even in spite 
of continuity of memory, if such continuity were possible under 
those conditions. Something like this is what happens in the 
sudden conversion of sinner to saint; the saint looks back with 
horror upon all the ways and tendencies that made him a sinner, 
and regards the sinner as a stranger. 
Pathology illustrates our point in another way. There are 
patients who become afflicted with a “sense of unreality.” Such 
1 Cf. Part II. 3 72 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
a patient feels that nothing is real, not even himself. This seems 
to be due, not to any change of the coenesthesis, nor to any lack 
of sensational vividness, but to lack of desire, of impulse, of cona- 
tive energy. Through exhaustion (perhaps by reason of internal 
conflict) the patient’s conative energies are sapped; he no longer 
responds with strong impulses or desires, and all things become 
unreal. 
We may arrive at the same conclusion by a different line of 
reasoning. Suppose that you were capable of satisfying immedi- 
ately every desire, every impulse, by mere wishing; every de- 
sired change in the world about you at once realizing itself, as 
soon as your desire was formulated. No doubt you would be- 
lieve in the reality of yourself; but you would not believe in the 
reality of the world about you: it would be a world of fantasy, 
such as children are apt to create and dwell in; or such as some 
adults also create, when the real world becomes too hard for 
them. And you would inevitably be a solipsist.1 It is the re- 
sistance offered by things to our desires and our efforts that is 
the foundation of our belief in their reality. 
The sensationist says that the foundation of all belief in the 
reality of things is the vividness of sensory experience, which is 
lacking in imagination or imagined things; and that, when we 
assert our belief in the real existence of the thing we imagine, 
what we mean is that under suitable conditions we could per- 
ceive it with sensory vividness. 
But what we really mean, when we assert the reality of a 
thing, is that the thing has a nature of its own which reveals 
itself in the resistance it offers when we strive to change it, com- 
pelling us to think out a plan and to exert ourselves for the 
realization of our desire. 
Here is the difference between fantasy and dreaming. In 
fantasy, our objects are moulded by our desires and changed at 
will. In dreaming, our objects resist our efforts; often we strug- 
gle in vain against them; hence we believe in their reality. 
The hallucinated patient in an early stage of his trouble may 
dismiss by an effort the phantom figure or the voice whispering 
1 A metaphysician who asserts that his experience is alone real and therefore 
constitutes the whole of reality. BELIEF AND DOUBT 
373 
of threats and persecution. And, so long as he can do this, he 
does not believe them real, in spite of their sensory vividness. 
But, in a more advanced stage of the disorder, he cannot dismiss 
them; the phantom or the voice is insistent, resists his best ef- 
forts to dismiss it; it is then he begins to believe in its reality. 
And the most complete proof of the reality of any object is the 
resistance offered by it to our bodily effort to move or change it. 
Solidity is overwhelming evidence of reality. There is only 
one evidence still more convincing; and that is the exertion 
by the object of active pressure against our efforts. Weight or 
gravitational pressure is the simplest form of this. More con- 
vincing still is the active varied resistance to our manipulations 
offered by other persons and by animals. No one can doubt 
the reality of the opponent with whom he wrestles in a life-and- 
death struggle; or of the enemy who lays a heavy hand upon his 
neck and forces him to his knees. Opposition, physical or purely 
moral, offered by other persons to the realization of our desire 
is what gives us the most complete belief in their reality. 
Belief in reality of other things is determined by a projection 
of one’s own reality; and that reality is at bottom one’s power 
of striving, of exerting an effort, of persisting toward a goal. 
The animal accepts as real whatever object evokes any in- 
stinctive impulse. Primitive man does likewise. This is primi- 
tive credulity. We all retain in a measure such primitive cred- 
ulity. We tend to believe in the reality of whatever evokes an 
instinctive impulse. A sound in the night evokes fear and is 
interpreted as the movement of a beast of prey; the beast is 
imagined and accepted as real, in virtue of the strong impulse 
evoked. 
The primitive credulity of savage man leads him to accept 
as real whatever exerts strong influence on him, influence that 
he cannot resist; such things he accepts as real in the fullest 
sense; that is to say, he regards them as real in the same sense 
as himself, as active agents of purposive striving. Hence he 
personifies the sun, the wind, the river, storms, floods, the vol- 
cano, pestilences, pests, and all powerful beasts. This is the 
root of “primitive animism.” 
On a higher plane of imagination, we tend to believe in the 374 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
reality of whatever we strongly desire. “The wish is father to 
the thought”; that is to say, desire tends to make us believe in 
that which we desire, whether it be in perception, memory, or 
anticipation. But aversion may have similar effects; we tend 
to believe in what we strongly dread. Hell fire and the devil 
and witches were real to the old Puritans, because they feared 
these creatures of the imagination. 
On the plane of reproductive thinking, the same law governs 
our believing. In reproductive imagination, or remembering, if 
we are interested in the question of the reality of that which we 
remember, the truth of our recollection, we believe it in so far 
as our imagination of the past is stable and offers resistance to 
our effort to change it. Consider how your belief in the reality 
of some past action of yours is founded, if, say in a court of law, 
your testimony to it is required and challenged. The question 
is raised—Did you, or did you not, lock the door on leaving your 
apartment ? The ground of your belief in the reality of your 
locking the door is not the vividness with which you can picture 
yourself doing it; it is rather the fact that, as you depict your 
exit on that occasion, the imagination of the act hangs obsti- 
nately together with the rest of the sequence of behavior which 
you depict. If you attempt to excise it from the sequence, you 
remain aware of the gap which you have made. This again is 
not the result of an inseparable association, a habit set up by 
many repetitions. It is rather due to the fact that memory 
works according to its own law, reproducing the past events in 
the order of their occurrence, a law or tendency which we can 
only partially control, which offers resistance to our efforts. 
On the highest plane of mental life, that of reasoning, the 
same law of belief holds good. When we reason from believed 
premises to a conclusion, our belief in the conclusion derives from 
our belief in the premises; the former belief arises because in 
reasoning the mind works according to laws of its own, and 
resists in some degree our efforts to avoid the conclusion. 
One’s own self is believed in as real, because we desire and 
strive and achieve, or fail; any other thing is believed to be real 
in so far as it seems to us to be like ourselves, that is to say, in 
so far as it seems to have a determinate nature of its own which BELIEF AND DOUBT 
375 
resists us; and all our beliefs are dependent upon such beliefs in 
realities. The universal formula of belief is—this is X. And 
the word “is” means real existence, something of determinate 
nature which is independent of our desire and will, because it 
resists. Descartes’ famous dictum, then, needs revision; not 
“I think, therefore I am,” but “I strive, therefore I exist,” is 
the foundation of all belief. Our conception of force is derived 
from our experience of exertion of force, of striving against 
resistance. That which resists us is credited with a similar force 
or power of striving; and whatever is real has such force. Hence 
we properly speak of the force of a convincing argument, the 
force of the sun, the force of gravity, the force of inertia, or of 
impact, the force of personality. We see, then, the truth of 
Professor Stout’s statement that belief is conditioned by limita- 
tion of activity. “Wherever belief or judgment exists, it involves 
the control of our activity as thinking beings by conditions 
which are fixed for us and not by us. In so far as we are left 
free to think otherwise than we do think, belief is absent; in so 
far as it is present, the range of subjective selection is confined 
within definite limits. . . . Our inability to attain ends other- 
wise than through certain means constitutes a restriction of 
mental activity within definite channels. If wishing were identi- 
cal with having, our freedom would be absolute, and there would 
be no such thing as belief.”1 
Simple Apprehension Without Belief 
Some authors, notably Brentano, have maintained that simple 
apprehension and judgment are two equally fundamental and 
original modes of cognition. We are now in a position to see 
that this is not correct. Judgment is not cognitive merely. It 
is the interplay of cognition and conation. Without interest 
(i. e., without impulse, conation, or desire, for we have seen 
that all interest is fundamentally conative) we do not doubt or 
judge and believe. Primitively, implicit judgment and that 
lowly form of belief which is more properly called “confidence” 
accompany all cognition. It is only gradually that we learn to 
1 “Analytic Psychology,” Vol. II, p. 239. 376 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
suspend judgment, to doubt, to inquire; then, when judgment, 
affirmation, or denial follows, belief becomes explicit. 
It is of the essence of the aesthetic attitude that we do not in- 
quire into the reality of that which we contemplate. We are 
content to contemplate without belief or doubt; we accept and 
enjoy the appearance, without inquiry into the reality of that 
which appears, just because the appearance yields an immediate 
satisfaction and is so presented as to avoid stirring us to desire 
and action. How this is achieved—whether by balance of con- 
flicting impulses, by restraint, by the preservation of psychical 
distance, by detachment from reality—this is the artist’s secret. 
In aesthetic perception we are fully occupied in mere apprehen- 
sion; conation is, relatively at least, in suspense, and therefore, 
also, judgment and belief.1 This attitude is not easily attained; 
nor can it be maintained for long by those who attain it. Simple 
apprehension is, then, a late acquired attitude which we maintain 
but rarely and briefly. Affirmation or denial, acceptance or re- 
jection, appetition or aversion, normally results from and accom- 
panies cognition. 
Beliefs 
In this chapter we have discussed belief and doubt as modes of 
experience; and we have found that they are feelings of the kind 
we have agreed to call “derived emotions.” But, by a well-estab- 
lished usage, the word “belief” may convey a second very differ- 
ent meaning. We speak of “a belief” or of a system of beliefs; 
or we say that a man holds contradictory beliefs, or that his life 
is governed by certain beliefs. In all such cases we clearly do 
not mean merely the feeling or derived emotion of belief with 
which we utter or accept a proposition. The man who holds 
certain beliefs, in this sense of the word, does not cease to hold 
them, when he thinks of topics quite unconnected with them. 
I believe that the earth is “an oblate spheroid”; this belief sel- 
dom comes to mind, though I have held it more than forty years; 
1 Professor J. A. Stewart has argued in his book on “The Myths of Plato” that 
in sesthetic contemplation the individual passes into a state of actual dissociation. 
This view is based on the consideration of the more extreme cases of rapt con- 
templation. Some such supposition seems to be required to account for the 
divorce of cognition from conation in aesthetic apprehension. BELIEF AND DOUBT 
yet, when occasion arises, it duly plays its part in determining 
the course of my thinking. Beliefs, in this sense of the word, 
are enduring features of my mental structure; and the develop- 
ment of my mind through experience largely consists in the 
acquiring of beliefs and in the more or less logical organization of 
these beliefs in systems and systems of systems. Beliefs, then, 
are equivalent to “ideas” in one of the many senses of that most 
ambiguous of words. True beliefs are knowledge, and false be- 
liefs are false knowledge or delusions; and both alike are features 
of the enduring structure of the mind, the development of which 
we have now to consider more nearly. 
377 CHAPTER XV 
GROWTH OF MENTAL STRUCTURE—DEVELOPMENT OF 
COGNITIVE STRUCTURE OR INTELLECT 
On earlier pages it was pointed out that we must conceive any- 
developed mind, not as consisting of a bundle or loose heap of 
“ideas,” but as a highly complex organized structure. I said 
we might use the old word “idea” to denote distinguishable 
parts of this structure, and that, if “idea” is to be used at all in 
psychology, this probably is the best usage. But, I said, in view 
of the many different senses in which the word “idea” has been 
used, we shall do better to avoid it and to use the neutral non- 
committal term “disposition,” meaning by “disposition” any 
enduring part of the structure of the mind which renders possi- 
ble some particular mode of mental activity. 
Further, I have pointed out that we may properly, nay, must 
distinguish two principal kinds of disposition, the cognitive and 
the conative. The mind or the subject has three fundamental 
faculties—the cognitive, the conative, and the affective—the 
faculties of knowing, of striving, and of feeling. The ways in 
which the faculties of knowing and striving are exercised are 
determined by the dispositions; the cognitive dispositions deter- 
mine the contents of our knowing, the conative dispositions the 
forms of our striving. 
We have to try to build up the best possible account of the 
structure of the mind and of the way it develops, in terms of 
dispositions of these two kinds and of their relations or func- 
tional connections. This requires a sustained effort of construc- 
tive imagination. 
Common speech rightly distinguishes two aspects or sides of 
the structure of the mind by the words “intellect” and “char- 
acter.” And common experience shows that these two sides, 
the cognitive and the conative, are, though intimately related, 
yet relatively distinct organizations. We know, for example, GROWTH OF MENTAL STRUCTURE 
379 
how in one man the intellect may be highly developed and well 
organized; though his character may be poor, ill organized, and 
unstable. While in another man character may be strongly 
organized; though his intellect remains comparatively unde- 
veloped.1 Further, we see how, in old age or disease, intellect 
and character may become unequally disordered or decayed. In 
such a man as the poet Coleridge, character seems to decay 
under the influence of drugs, while intellect remains rich and 
brilliantly effective; and in some old men the intellect seems to 
decay, while character remains firm and well knit. 
It is then permissible to consider separately the growth of 
intellect and of character. It was said in Chapter VIII that 
the intellect, or cognitive structure of the developed human 
mind, comprises a vast number of dispositions, one for every dis- 
tinct object and class of objects (concrete, abstract, or general) 
which that mind is capable of conceiving (i. e., thinking of), 
either in the way of perceiving it, or recollecting, anticipating, or 
1 The student should notice the distinction between intellect and intelligence. 
Intelligence is essentially the capacity for making new adaptations; it cannot be 
described in terms of structure. Intellect includes intelligence and much more 
besides; for “a good intellect” implies good intelligence that works through and 
by means of rich and well-organized cognitive structure. A man may have good 
intelligence, i. e., high capacity for making new adaptations, while yet his intellect 
is poor, because he has not enriched it by acquiring much knowledge, or has not 
logically organized his knowledge as systems of beliefs. On the other hand, a 
man may become very learned, may possess much knowledge and yet remain 
comparatively unintelligent, because, lacking native intelligence, though having a 
retentive memory, he remains relatively incapable of making new adaptations, 
owing, first, to his native lack of intelligence; secondly, to the lack of systematic 
organization of his knowledge, which organization is the work of intelligence. 
Thus, high native intelligence is capable, as it were, of multiplying itself or its 
efficiency; for the more it is exercised, the more it perfects the instruments through 
which it works, namely, the cognitive structure of the mind. Thus, the cultiva- 
tion of intelligence is the most profitable of all exercises; for, unlike the using of a 
machine, it does not wear out the instrument with which it works, but, rather, like 
the use of our muscles, strengthens them. Further, it not only strengthens its in- 
struments, as we strengthen and increase the bulk of our muscles by use, but, also, 
it perpetually differentiates, specializes, and reorganizes the whole system of instru- 
ments, the cognitive structure, thus rendering its operations more and more effec- 
tive. This is the explanation of the vast importance of the comparatively small 
differences of native intelligence displayed by young children. The small superi- 
ority of the more intelligent child may, by cultivation and the development of in- 
tellect, become the vast superiority of the man of great intellect to the ordinary 
man. 380 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
merely imagining it; further, I said, we must regard these cogni- 
tive dispositions as connected to form systems, and these again 
as connected in larger systems; so that the whole organization 
is a treelike structure. 
We must repudiate as false an old-fashioned way of describing 
the growth of the mind, which consists in assuming that the 
mind begins by acquiring “ideas” of distinct particular objects 
through perceiving them as such, and that it then associates its 
“ideas” of these particulars to form more complex “ideas.” This 
is the associationist doctrine. It assumes that we begin by get- 
ting, through sense-impressions, distinct “ideas” of the various 
sensory qualities; that these then become linked or associated 
together in various groupings, to constitute “ideas” of complex 
objects or “compound ideas.” That, for example, the child gets 
through sense-impressions an “idea” of red color, an “idea” of 
roundness, an “idea” of weight, an “idea” of solidity, and then 
puts these together to form the “idea” of an apple; that in a 
similar way it forms an “idea” of an orange, of a pear, and of a 
plum; that later all these particular “ideas” become associated 
together to form a generic “idea” of an edible fruit, the differ- 
ences becoming vague through neutralization, the common fea- 
tures becoming accentuated in virtue of their similarity and con- 
sequent repetition of similar impressions. This is the doctrine 
of the “generic image” as a stage in the formation of the “gen- 
eral idea.” 
It is said that by a similar process, carried to a further stage, 
the “generic image” may fuse or coalesce with “ideas” or 
“generic images” of edible things of other kinds; until even- 
tually we arrive at the “general idea” of something edible, 
in which all special qualities are suppressed or vague, and only 
the common feature of edibility stands out in consciousness. 
This alleged process has been likened to composite photog- 
raphy. Suppose that you made a composite photograph of 
a number of horses; the result would show clearly the features 
common to all horses, and vaguely or not at all the features 
peculiar to any one horse. This would be comparable to the 
generic image of the horse which, according to this purely fanci- 
ful account, occupies consciousness when we speak or think of GROWTH OF MENTAL STRUCTURE 
381 
horses in general, or make or understand any proposition refer- 
ring to horses in general; and it constitutes the “meaning” in 
consciousness of the word “horse,” when the word is used to refer 
to horses in general.1 
“Generic images” do occur, in the sense that you may picture 
or visualize an object in a way which combines features per- 
ceived on various occasions, or combines in one picture of, say, 
a horse features perceived in a number of different horses. But 
that this is not the way in which we arrive at “general ideas”—• 
that the view of mental growth implied by this theory is falla- 
cious, becomes clear, if we try to carry the account further. 
Thus, the theory would account for the genesis of “the idea of 
quadruped” by supposing that the generic images of horses and 
of dogs, cows and cats and camels become superimposed to form 
a composite in which the only clear features are the four legs; 
while all the specific features, the cow’s horns, the camel’s hump, 
and the dog’s tail, become blurred and vanishingly faint. And 
it is similarly driven to assume that, when we become able to 
think of animals in general, this process of blurring is carried 
still further; until we have a highly general “idea” which is a 
picture in which the generic images of quadrupeds and birds, 
fishes and reptiles, crabs and insects, and sea-urchins and sponges 
and worms, are superimposed and blended to a mere blur of 
variegated color. This is the reductio ad absurdum both of the 
theory which identifies “meaning” with imagery and of the 
theory of mental growth by the accretion of distinct entities, 
sensations, impressions, or images, to form “ideas,” according 
to the principle of association. 
This theory of mental growth by association and accretion, 
which is an inevitable corollary of the mosaic or atomistic psy- 
chology, really inverts the true order of events. It describes 
mental development as beginning with the cognition of particu- 
lars and advancing to cognition of the more general; whereas, 
in reality, we begin by cognition of the highly general and pro- 
gress gradually to the cognition of particulars. 
1 The late Professors T. H. Huxley and Th. Ribot were leading exponents of 
this doctrine. Ribot expounded it in his “Evolution of General Ideas” in a less 
crude form than Huxley in his essay on David Hume. 382 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
The advance of intellect is from knowledge of a few objects 
of very highly general type, towards knowledge of the mul- 
titude of concrete individual objects and their peculiar qualities 
and relations. 
The animal perceives, knows, or recognizes few, if any, individ- 
ual objects as such; rather, it perceives and reacts to objects of 
certain kinds, those which it is prepared by native constitu- 
tion to perceive; and each such object is, for the animal, merely 
a representative of its class, and is marked as such by some rel- 
atively simple feature or sensory pattern, corresponding to one 
of the few cognitive dispositions possessed by the animal. On 
the other hand, the most richly endowed and perfectly organized 
mind would be a microcosm which faithfully reflected the macro- 
cosm, the world in which it dwelt and which it was concerned 
to know. It would comprise a multitude of cognitive disposi- 
tions, corresponding, one for one, to every object in its world, 
every quality and every form of relation. And these disposi- 
tions would not merely coexist; rather they would form a log- 
ically ordered system, reflecting in its organization all the re- 
lations of the world of objects. The cognitive dispositions of 
such a mind would form a coherent system; because in the main 
they are evolved by differentiation from a few primitive systems, 
as a tree evolves by growth and differentiation of its stem into 
branches, twigs, and leaves. That is to say, each cognitive dis- 
position of the developed mind is not an independent new forma- 
tion deposited by some sense-impression, but is formed by a 
gradual growth and differentiation from preexisting dispositions. 
The processes of growth are of three principal types, namely, 
discrimination, apperception, and association. Let us consider 
them in turn. 
Discrimination 
The child learns at an early age to discriminate between edible 
and inedible objects. Consider how such discrimination is ef- 
fected. His native food-seeking instinct reacts to all small ob- 
jects presented to the eye with an impulse to grasp the object, 
carry it to the mouth, and bite it. At first, it is safe to say, the 
child does not discriminate between a red apple and a ripe to- GROWTH OF MENTAL STRUCTURE 
383 
mato. When he bites the apple, the sense-impression of taste 
stimulates him to continue and complete the process of inges- 
tion. When he bites the tomato, the sense-impression of taste 
excites a new impulse, that of disgust; and he spews out and 
throws down the tomato. After one or more experiences of this 
kind, he will reject a tomato at sight, but will seize and devour 
an apple with increased gusto. The cognitive disposition by 
means of which he at first perceived both kinds of fruit has be- 
come differentiated into two; of these two, the one corresponding 
to apples continues to be connected with the conative disposi- 
tion that impels to eating; the other, that which corresponds to 
tomato, has become connected with the conative disposition of 
disgust. Thus the child has learned to discriminate through 
the bad consequences of his failure to discriminate; and in this 
his progress is typical of all advance of discrimination; we learn 
by making mistakes, as we say. 
Consider again the way in which a child learns to discriminate 
between living beings. At first he responds to all large moving 
objects with vague signs of interest, which we cannot confidently 
interpret. Then he learns to discriminate between human beings 
and animals; later between individuals, mother, nurse, father, 
and brother, and between dog and cat and bird. The making 
of these discriminations is only possible in so far as the several 
individuals and classes of objects present different sensory pat- 
terns; but the differences of sensory pattern will not in themselves 
suffice; the passive reception of the various complex sense-im- 
pressions would lead to no discrimination. It is only in so far 
as the child strives to achieve certain goals in relation to the 
objects, that he learns to discriminate between them. As in the 
case of the apple and tomato, so in the case of dog and cat, or of 
mother and sister; the objects, while not discriminated, are dif- 
ferent, and they yield or respond to the child’s efforts differ- 
ently, according to their natures, provoking in him, upon nearer 
acquaintance, different reactions; the differences of reaction thus 
provoked in the child are the ground of his subsequent discrimi- 
nation. The undeveloped mind may require few or many repe- 
titions, according to the prominence of the differences of sensory 
pattern presented by the objects and the strength or urgency 384 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
of the differential reactions evoked by them. Thus the child 
may be slow to discriminate at sight between hard green apples 
and ripe sweet ones; but quickly learns to distinguish tomato 
from apple, because the former provokes a strong disgust impulse. 
The isolated individual child, however well endowed, would 
make comparatively little progress in such discrimination. The 
normal child is immensely aided by example, instruction, and 
the use of names. Successive generations of men have made 
finer and finer discriminations, and have given conventional or 
traditional permanence to the discriminated classes and objects 
by labelling or naming them. And the child is led and aided to 
repeat these discriminations; is led to split up the flux of sense- 
impressions, which is the world as presented to its senses, along 
the traditional lines, to discriminate those kinds of objects which 
the experience of mankind has found to be of greatest prac- 
tical importance. Thus the child is guided to differentiate in 
his own mind, by successive acts of discrimination, the few in- 
nately given cognitive dispositions into systems of dispositions 
corresponding to these classes of practically important objects. 
At a later stage the child develops special interests which lead 
him to effect finer discriminations within special classes of ob- 
jects, still largely under the guidance of language and of other 
specialists. For example, he may become an epicure or a wine 
taster, may develop immensely his discrimination in one or 
more such spheres. Then, where the average man can hardly 
distinguish one kind of drink from another, does not know 
whether a particular wine is port or claret, the specialist can dis- 
tinguish and recognize perhaps fifty varieties of claret and as 
many of port, accurately naming each one. 
In this process the names serve not only to aid and guide dis- 
crimination, by accentuating the differences between objects; 
but also they enable us to continue to think of a class of objects, 
after we have learned to discriminate and recognize sub-classes 
and individual objects within the class. In the process of differ- 
entiation of dispositions by discrimination, the name serves to 
preserve as a system the original disposition within which differ- 
entiation takes place. For the hearing of the name of an object 
fulfils the same function as the sense-impressions of peculiar 
pattern received from it; namely, it brings the corresponding GROWTH OF MENTAL STRUCTURE 
385 
disposition into activity, and thus enables us to continue to con- 
ceive as a whole the class within which we have distinguished 
kinds or individuals; whereas, in the absence of the class-name, 
so soon as we had learned to react differently to the objects or 
varieties of objects within the class, we should cease to think of 
the class. Thus a child, having learned, through contact with 
various dogs, to think of dog in general, goes on to discriminate 
collie dogs and terriers; and we may suppose that he adopts very 
different attitudes toward the two breeds, owing to the friendli- 
ness of the collies and the snappishness of the terriers. Such a 
child, if deprived altogether of the use of language, would sharply 
distinguish the two classes and would tend to lose the power of 
thinking of dog in general. But a child who has first learned to 
give the name “dog” to dogs of both breeds will continue to 
think of this more general object on hearing the word “dog,” 
after he has learned to discriminate between collies and terriers. 
In this connection it is of interest to note that many primitive languages 
are very deficient in names for more general objects; though they may have a 
profusion of names for special classes of objects of practical importance. It 
is said, for example, that one tribe of American Indians had names for the 
white, the black, the red, and the burr oak, but none for oak in general. 
Another tribe used thirty different words to denote different kinds of wash- 
ing—washing one’s own face, washing the face of another, washing hands, 
washing clothing, etc., but no word to express washing in general. The 
Australian aborigines, it is said, had no names for general or abstract objects; 
they had a distinct name for each of many species of trees, but no name for 
tree in general, and no names for such abstract objects as hardness, softness, 
warmth, cold, shortness, or roundness. Facts of this order have been mis- 
takenly invoked to support the theory of the formation of “general ideas” 
by accretion of “particular ideas.” 
This lack of names for general and abstract objects in the 
languages of various primitive peoples indicates rather a defect 
of capacity for the second great type of process by which our 
mental structure grows and becomes logically organized. This 
capacity, the most important factor in high intelligence, we must 
now consider. 
The function of comparing two things, or making a comparative judgment, 
is explicit discrimination. It is discrimination preceded by suspense of judg- 
ment, doubt, and explicit inquiry. The young child who has learned to dis- 
criminate the tomato from the apple, i. e., has learned to react differently on 
sight of apple and tomato, may later have occasion to discriminate between 
two such objects by explicit comparison. This is not fully achieved, until he 386 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
learns to name the two objects, and to formulate his doubt in the form of a 
question and the result of his judgment in the form of a proposition. Shortly 
stated, comparison which discovers difference is discrimination on the plane 
of explicit judgment; and comparison which discovers likeness is explicit 
recognition. 
Apperception or Apperceptive Synthesis 
If a human mind were developed by means of a perfect series 
of discriminations, under the guidance of a perfect language, it 
would achieve a structure which would be a perfect microcosm 
or mirror of the world. But this never actually occurs. The 
course of development by discrimination diverges widely from 
such a perfect course; because the human mind is not governed 
solely or predominatingly by the impulse or desire for complete 
and perfect knowledge, but rather by a variety of instinctive 
impulses adapted to secure the survival of the organism in a 
hostile world and to secure satisfaction of its practical needs. 
Hence the process of differentiation of mental structure by 
successive discriminations requires to be rectified by another 
process, if the mind is to acquire a high level of effective organi- 
zation; and this other process is apperception. 
Apperception involves the discerning of essential similarities 
between objects and classes of objects which we have learned to 
discriminate and distinguish from one another. As an example of 
this process, take the case of a child who has grown up without 
learning to regard plants as living beings, but nevertheless has 
learned to think of them as a distinct class of things. Suddenly 
it is borne in on him that plants also, like the animals, are alive. 
At that moment two mental systems (systems of cognitive dis- 
positions) become conjoined in his mind, and thereafter form a 
single larger system; the living-being system, which had been 
formed by experience of animals only, incorporates the plant- 
system with itself. In terms of the analogy between the struc- 
ture of the mind and the growing family-tree, we may say that 
two differing stocks or branches of the system become blended 
by intermarriage.1 
1 Some authors (e. g., Professor Stout, in his “Analytic Psychology”) would 
say that the one mental system apperceives the other. But that usage seems to 
me undesirable. It seems better to describe the fact by saying that the subject 
apperceives the object, and to understand that apperception involves the con- 
junction of systems. GROWTH OF MENTAL STRUCTURE 
387 
As an example of a slightly different mode of this process we 
may take the young student of physics, who, having learned to 
think of gases and of liquids as very different states of matter, 
suddenly becomes aware of those points of similarity in virtue 
of which they are classed together as fluid matter. The two 
systems, built up by his observations of gases and of liquids re- 
spectively, become conjoined in a new system, the possession of 
which thereafter enables him to think of a fluid as matter having 
the properties common to liquid and gases, to the neglect of or 
in abstraction from those properties in which they differ. 
Or, again, a child is familiar with the eggs of animals and with 
the seeds of plants; but has never thought of their similarities, 
until he is led to do so by hearing the word “egg” applied to the 
seed of a plant, or the word “germ” applied to both eggs and 
seeds. From this time on, the word “germ” will be used by him 
to mean the properties common to both eggs and seeds. 
It is clear from these examples that language here, as in dis- 
crimination, plays a great part; that it leads the developing 
mind to effect processes of appercetive synthesis. Language 
embodies in a traditional form the mental achievements of our 
predecessors. The words which lead us to effect such syntheses 
embody the achievements of original minds of bygone genera- 
tions, who in each case achieved the synthesis by some act of 
independent or original apperception. A classical instance of 
such original apperception is Newton’s discovery of the essen- 
tial similarity between the motion of the moon about the earth 
and that of a falling body. The application by him of the 
name “gravitation,” to both these superficially unlike types of 
phenomena, enables us, who come after him, to repeat his 
original stroke and to effect a similar synthesis in our mental 
structure. 
The process of apperceptive synthesis thus produces a sim- 
plification of the structure of the mind and of the language 
which reflects it, a simplification by which they are rendered 
more effective instruments of thinking. Instead of having a 
separate name and a separate disposition for every class of ob- 
jects which are essentially similar (or the same in so far as they 
concern our practical needs) we have names and mental systems 388 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
corresponding to larger classes the members of which resemble 
one another less obviously or in less immediately and practically 
important respects. In this way primitive man’s rough classi- 
fication of the animal world has been refined by successive 
apperceptions, involving the discovery of a multitude of 
homologies, until the present scientific classification has been 
evolved.1 
Apperceptive synthesis is thus a process of the greatest impor- 
tance for the higher development of the intellect. It may be 
said to rectify the failures and imperfections of the process of 
differentiation of mental structure by successive discriminations. 
Discrimination is the discovery of differences; apperception is 
the discovery of similarities. 
In the traditional association psychology, the process of apper- 
ception was recognized, though very inadequately, and named 
“association by similarity.” Professor Stout2 has clearly pointed 
out that, under this term, two essentially different processes of 
very unequal intellectual value have been confused together. 
He proposes to distinguish them by the terms “reproduction or 
revival by similars” and “reproduction of similars.” The for- 
mer is a very commonplace function. The latter is essentially 
the process of apperceptive synthesis which we are discussing; 
it is the main instrument of scientific discovery, the essence of 
all that can properly be called wit and reasoning, and the soul 
of poetry. By this operation are discovered all remoter resem- 
blances, all analogies, homologies, similes, and metaphors. In 
fact, it is an essential part of all the higher operations of the 
mind.3 
1 E. g., the discovery of the segmental nature of the skull of vertebrates and its 
homology with the vertebrate column; of the homology of the auditory meatus 
or ear-hole with a gill cleft; or that between forelegs, arms, and wings. The ap- 
perception of the skull as a segmental structure seems to have been an original 
stroke of the poet Goethe. 
* “Groundwork of Psychology,” p. 123. 
3 The capacity or facility for the exercise of this function is a native endowment 
in respect of which individuals differ greatly. Without possessing it in consider- 
able degree, a man cannot achieve intellectual work of an original kind. He may 
become a paragon of learning, but not a wit, a discoverer, a poet, or a creator in 
any field. Doctor Maxwell Garnet has produced an ingenious mathematical argu- 
ment for the view that all such operations depend upon a single factor or pecu- 
liarity of our constitution. (“Education and World Citizenship,” London, 1920.) GROWTH OF MENTAL STRUCTURE 
389 
Let us note a very simple instance of its operation, used by Stout to illustrate 
the propriety of his description of it as “reproduction of similars.” You 
meet a stranger, A, and you are at once reminded of a friend, B, who resem- 
bles him. That is “reproduction of similars.” You do not mistake A for B. 
That would be “reproduction by similars.” The similarity may be of a gross 
and obvious kind. It may be that both A and B have lost an eye, or have 
a prominent white forelock in a dark pate. No high degree of apperceptive 
delicacy is then required, in order that the sight of A may remind you of B. 
But the similarity may be very much more subtle; it may be a mere slight 
intonation, the play of some facial muscle, a turn of the head, something 
perhaps that you cannot single out and define; yet it suffices to make you 
think of B. 
If, on the other hand, on sight of A you mistake him for B and address him 
as B, that is merely a failure of discrimination, permitting the sight of A to 
work upon you in the same way as the sight of B would do. To some extent 
all association on perception is a case of reproduction by similars; for even 
when you see the same man (or a thing) on successive occasions and recognize 
and name him, the sense-impression is never quite the same on the successive 
occasions. Reproduction by similars merely brings back in succession two 
things already associated in the mind; reproduction of similars brings together 
things not previously thought of together. 
Now notice that this process of apperception works in two 
ways: The one way is the reproduction of similars—as when 
the perception of A leads you to think explicitly of B, or of a 
class of men all of whom have some quality, physical or moral, 
in common with A; or when the bearing and appearance of a 
girl lead you to think of a lily or a rosebud or a peacock; or 
foam-crested breakers suggest galloping white horses; or when 
the poet, roaming idly over the countryside, likens himself to a 
cloud, the perfect image of leisurely loneliness.1 Thousands 
of such resemblances have been embodied in forms of speech 
which have become familiar to us all, and which guide us to 
detect them. But every such resemblance, embodied in any 
simile or metaphor or parable, was first detected by some origi- 
nal mind by the process of reproduction of similars—a process 
which, in respect of its effect on mental structure, is the apper- 
ceptive synthesis of systems. 
The same process is involved in what is called “forming ab- 
stract ideas.” Some quality of one thing suggests another very 
unlike thing that has the same or a similar quality. We then 
discriminate this quality and give it a name, and thus become 
1 “I wandered lonely as a cloud that floats on high o’er vales and hills.” 390 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
capable of thinking of the quality in detachment from all par- 
ticular things; for example, the grace of a birch-tree, of a woman, 
of a swan, of a deer, of a landscape. The abstracting of the 
common quality from many different things and its fixation, as 
an object of thought, by the aid of a name are the completion and 
perfection of the process of apperceptive synthesis. The total 
process involves all three processes of growth, namely, discrim- 
ination, apperception, and association. When we use such an 
abstract word as "grace” or "graceful,” all our experience of 
the things in which we have appreciated this quality, which have 
influenced or affected us in virtue of this quality, is operative de- 
termining the meaning of the word. That is to say, the various 
mental systems, built up by experience of things presenting this 
quality and united by apperceptive synthesis to form a single 
functional system, now function as one system. 
The use of the word, or the understanding of it when heard or 
read, brings this system into operation, and this operation, this 
activity, is the "meaning” of the word as you utter or hear it. 
No imagery is essential; though the image of any one of the 
objects (or of several of them in turn) in which this quality has 
been perceived may break into consciousness, if we dwell for a 
moment on the word and explicate its meaning. But for the 
most part in the ordinary use of language, we take the meaning 
of such words and use them appropriately with awareness of 
their meaning, without imagery of the concrete objects. That 
is to say, a vast amount of mental structure becomes active 
in the thinking of these abstract qualities, without any coming 
to consciousness of the concrete objects from which the quality 
has been abstracted. When you read of "the tender grace of 
a day that is dead,” you take the meaning of the poet more or 
less adequately; although it is impossible to visual a graceful 
day or, indeed, any kind of a day; and though you do not, as a 
matter of fact, visualize a graceful object of any kind as you 
become aware of the meaning. 
Here we get a glimpse of the fact that, in discourse carried on 
largely in abstract terms, a vast extent of mental structure be- 
comes active and participates in determining the course of our 
thinking, without throwing up to consciousness the images which GROWTH OF MENTAL STRUCTURE 
would arise, if we dwelt upon the abstract words in order to ex- 
plicate their meanings. 
Such are the nature and results of explicit apperception. But 
apperception works also in an implicit fashion, on a lower plane 
of intellectuality. And apperception of this kind also is of great 
importance and subtlety. Let us go back to the example of 
meeting a stranger, A. He does not bring to mind any known 
person; yet, on seeing him, you get an impression of a certain 
indefinable quality. Perhaps you say: “I wouldn’t trust that 
man”; or, without even so much formulation, you react toward 
him in the way implied by those words. In this case, some 
quality, some subtle conjunction of sense-impressions, works 
upon you, leading you to react to him as you have learned, by 
experience of their actions, to react to other men who presented 
similar conjunctions of sensory cues. You may be quite un- 
able, even if challenged to do so, to point to the details of fea- 
ture, bearing, or intonation which produce this effect, or to de- 
fine in words the quality to which you react. The effect is a 
synthetic product; you cannot analyze it, nor state its conditions; 
yet it may be strong and definite and may determine all your 
dealings with the man in question. The similarity or resemblance 
to other persons or things is too subtle for your powers of an- 
alysis or explicit abstraction; and yet it works upon you to de- 
termine your conative emotional reaction. 
Such implicit apperception is, I think, properly called “intui- 
tion.” Some minds, even of persons who have little power of 
abstract thinking and little command of abstract terms, work 
in this way with marvellous subtlety; they are properly said to 
be gifted with intuition. I know of no other mental function 
to which this term can be as properly applied. And in its or- 
dinary usage the word does, I think, imply this type of mental 
operation. Some women possess it in very high degree; young 
children, whose command of language is very slight, may exhibit 
it; and even in the higher animals, especially the dog, it is not 
altogether lacking. As it occurs in them, it may be regarded 
as the germ from which the power of abstract thinking develops. 
391 
The student should notice that, in nearly all cases, the similarity that deter- 
mines intuitive understanding (implicit apperception) or is discovered by 392 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
explicit apperception (reproduction of similars) is a similarity of form of 
combination, rather than simple similarity of sensory qualities. In the chap- 
ter on perception I pointed out how the form of the whole object perceived 
may determine the meanings of the several parts, as in all perception of com- 
plex spatial relations. This influence of the meaning or form of the whole 
upon the meaning of the part was called “relative suggestion.” The form of 
the whole object constitutes what has been called “an object of a higher 
order” or a “form-quality.” 1 It is similarities of such forms or “objects of 
higher order” that in the main determine apperception. Thus a verse or 
poem may remind you of another poem, all the words and meanings of which 
are very different, in virtue of similarity of metrical form. The same is true 
in even higher degree of musical compositions. Again one play (or novel, or 
biography) may bring to mind another, not in virtue of any similarity be- 
tween the personalities or situations of the two plays, but because they are 
alike in general form or plot; the system of relations is alike in the two plays, 
though all details and actual relations are different. The construction of an 
original allegory or parable is clearly due to the co-operation of relative sug- 
gestion with apperception. Thus, in the construction of John Bunyan’s great 
allegory, apperception revealed to Bunyan the similarity between the Chris- 
tian life and a journey through a strange country beset with snares and dan- 
gers; relative suggestion then filled out the details of the story in accordance 
with the scheme common to the two wholes. 
The two processes of growth we have discussed, namely, dis- 
crimination and apperception, produce the logical structure of 
the mind; that is to say, the structure of the mind, in so far as 
it mirrors the world of things and qualities, their differences and 
resemblances. A mind developed by these two processes only 
would have knowledge of the nature of things and of the like- 
nesses and differences between them; and it would be able to 
reason logically about their relations. But it would have no 
knowledge of the relations of time and place between concrete 
things; that is to say, it would have no knowledge of the his- 
torical order of events. Such historical knowledge is built up 
by association. Association binds together the dispositions of 
the logical structure by a system of cross-connections which mir- 
ror the historical relations as perceived. 
Development of Mental Structure by Association 
The traditional association psychology tended to reduce all 
the alleged varieties of association to the form of association by 
succession in time or “temporal contiguity”; and this is, in fact, 
1 “Gestalt-qualitat,” by German writers. GROWTH OF MENTAL STRUCTURE 
393 
the one fundamental form of association. It also represented 
this as the only mode of all mental development. The universal 
formula of mental growth was—“ideas” or impressions that im- 
mediately succeed one another in consciousness become asso- 
ciated together, and associated the more firmly the more fre- 
quently the succession is repeated. And it was attempted to 
represent all association as identical with the process of forma- 
tion of bodily habits by repetition of trains of movement. I 
have pointed out in Chapter X that we must look with suspicion 
on this attempt, as one that unduly simplifies the problems of 
association. I illustrated the difference between formation of 
habit, on the one hand, and association by meaning, on the other, 
and the immensely superior efficiency of the latter; admitting 
that, in much of what we call learning by association, as in the 
learning of a verse, both factors are operative in various degrees, 
the true thought factor or association by meaning, and the 
habit factor. 
The speaking of a word is the exercise of a habit of the speech 
organs, a habit acquired by repetition. And the power of speech 
implies the formation of a great array of such habits. But intel- 
ligent speech is not merely the play of these motor mechanisms. 
The order in which they are brought into play is determined by 
the play of meanings, as we see in the recital of the verse; and 
“the play of meanings” means the play of mental dispositions 
sustained by purpose or conation. Thus, in reciting a familiar 
verse, associations of two orders come into play, the associations 
of the verbal motor mechanisms (as when I recite “Ena meena 
mina mo)” and the associations between the mental dispositions 
corresponding to the objects referred to by the verse: 
“Among the ungathered rice he lay, his sickle in his hand, 
His breast was bare, his matted hair was buried in the sand.” 
In the recital of such a verse by different persons, the two 
factors may operate in very different proportions. A dull-witted 
young child, of little more intelligence than an idiot, may learn 
the verse by many repetitions and gabble it off with a minimum 
of appreciation of its meaning. That is little more than the 394 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
exercise of a chain of motor speech-habits.1 A person who in- 
telligently appreciates the meaning, with or without the aid of 
visual imagery, may repeat it by heart after a single reading; 
the meanings of the various words have, by interplay, generated 
a total meaning which binds them together and which governs 
the reproduction of the successive partial meanings and of the 
words which express them. 
The former reciter may substitute words of similar sound without becom- 
ing aware of the error, as follows: 
“Beside the ungathered rice he lay, his sickle in his sand 
His crest was care, his hatted hair was buried in the band." 
This example will serve to show how in verse, as in a lesser degree in all 
verbal reproduction, there are operative associations not merely of one level 
or kind, but of at least three levels. For, beside the simple links of associa- 
tion which bind the words together as motor mechanisms, and beside the 
association of meanings, there is a mid-level association which connects the 
parts in a formal whole or scheme, independently of their meanings; and any 
words which will satisfy or fill out this scheme are liable to be substituted, 
when the process of reproduction is not guided by the meanings of the words. 
The production of such a nonsense parody verse is a case of relative sugges- 
tion in which the schema of rhyme, metre, and rhythm is the governing 
factor. Association and associative reproduction are then, even in relatively 
simple instances, far from simple processes easily understood in terms of low- 
ered synaptic resistances. 
It may be that the difference between true mental association 
and habit formation is only a matter of difference of level in the 
nervous system, and that both depend upon changes of nervous 
structure of essentially similar type. That, however, is a very 
speculative question. Whatever the true answer to that ques- 
tion may be, we must recognize association between mental dis- 
positions and systems as a real and important process of growth 
of mental structure. 
Of course, every one acquires much knowledge of historical 
sequences indirectly, from the descriptions given by others; but 
we may neglect that kind of knowledge; it involves merely some 
complication of the principles concerned in the acquisition of 
knowledge of the order of one’s own past experience. Consider, 
1 Some children of very low intelligence are remarkably capable in the formation 
of such quasi-mechanical or habit associations. GROWTH OF MENTAL STRUCTURE 
395 
then, the work of association as revealed by a simple recital of 
some train of events, as by a witness in a law court. “I saw 
the prisoner step into the road and hold up his hand to stop an 
approaching car. The car stopped, the driver got out, the pris- 
oner shot him down, stepped in, and drove away.” 
The recital depends upon the faithfulness of association of the 
succession of events as perceived, and on the working of associa- 
tive reproduction, reviving the events in imagination in the 
order of their perception; that is to say, it depends on simple 
redintegration. I can think of, or imagine, the various objects, 
because I have the necessary cognitive dispositions; but the 
thinking of them in an order which reproduces the order of the 
events is due to association by temporal contiguity; but not to 
this alone. It is due also to conative continuity. I paid atten- 
tion to the events, because for some reason I was interested; 
perhaps the unusual behavior of the prisoner had aroused my 
curiosity, and I watched to see what would happen. That is, I 
perceived the events as significant parts of one train, having 
continuity of interest and meaning for me. This conative con- 
tinuity was an essential condition of the formation of the asso- 
ciations; and the keener was my attention then, the stronger 
are the associative links now, and the more surely do they work 
in the reproduction of the series in imagination or retrospect. 
The structure of the mind is full of such associative links 
between cognitive dispositions; and these links reflect the tem- 
poral sequences of its past experiences. But such association 
begins to work at a relatively late stage of development only. 
Using the language of “ideas,” we may say that association 
can only work when “ideas” have been constituted, i. e., when 
many mental dispositions have become differentiated and organ- 
ized in systems. The mistake of the association psychology was 
to assign to association also the work of making “ideas.” 
Association makes nothing new; it merely connects together 
“ideas” or dispositions previously formed, previously differen- 
tiated by discrimination and logically ordered by apperception. 
It sets up a rich network of cross-connections between the multi- 
tude of dispositions; a network of connecting threads, the woof 
formed by the shuttle of time, which, shooting to and fro across 396 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
the warp of mental structure formed by the proliferating systems 
of dispositions, weaves them into a connected mass. 
■ This connecting thread may be started into activity by some 
sense-impression or perception, at any point corresponding to 
some moment of past time; then in its simplest cases, namely, in 
simple redintegration, it operates like a fuse which, ignited at 
any point, conducts the exciting spark in one direction only, 
namely, in the direction from the past toward the present, ignit- 
ing one disposition after another, and so bringing to mind the 
corresponding objects in the order of their perception, the order 
in which the shuttle reached them. 
But this process of redintegration never continues long with- 
out interruption, for two reasons. First, in weaving the pattern 
of associations, the shuttle of experience returns again and again 
to the same dispositions, crossing and recrossing its old paths; 
that is to say, sense-impressions lead us to think of the same 
object in different temporal and spatial connections upon suc- 
cessive occasions; and so the woof of connecting threads, or 
associations, becomes immensely tangled; each disposition be- 
comes associated with many others, so that the spreading spark, 
on reaching any one disposition, may have many alternative 
routes open to it. If, then, it follows any route other than the 
original path of the shuttle, we have divergent reproduction. 
If, for example, the same person, X, has figured twice in my 
experience in two different connections, A and B; then, when 
the redintegrating spark reaches the disposition, X, it may follow 
either the route representing the original order of my thinking 
or perception, on the occasion a; or it may diverge along the 
route of my thought on the occasion b. The more varied the 
experience of the subject, the more numerous will be these alter- 
native lines of association, diverging from each disposition. 
The facts of mental structure thus require for their diagram- 
matic representation a three-dimensional diagram. As such a 
diagram we may take a bush woven over by a multitude of 
spider’s threads, stretching from leaf to leaf; each leaf being 
directly connected with many others by these threads. Such is 
the crude picture we may form of the structure of the mind and 
of the way the branches, twigs, and leaves of the tree of logical GROWTH OF MENTAL STRUCTURE 
3 97 
knowledge are woven together by the threads of historical 
association. 
And, in the working of the system, the quasi-mechanical ten- 
dency of the associative threads is not left without control. In 
simple reminiscence, no doubt, there is approximation to such 
free play of association. But, in proportion as our thinking is 
purposive, is a striving to a goal, the solution of a problem, cona- 
tion interferes with and largely overrules association, accentuat- 
ing, as a selective factor, the chances of revival of whatever is 
relevant to the governing purpose. Thus, in reciting a train 
of incidents, if our purpose is to tell the truth, the whole truth, 
and nothing but the truth, this purpose may reinforce the re- 
dintegrative tendency of pure associative reproduction. But in 
nearly all cases some other motive is at work. We desire to 
bring out the guilty or the innocent intention of the person whose 
actions we describe; or we aim at making the story dramatic 
and interesting to our hearers; or we desire to put in a good light 
our own share in the events. And, according to the strength of 
these motives, of which we may be not explicitly aware, we select, 
emphasize, and omit, in a way that shapes the course of repro- 
duction, to serve our implicit purpose. And, if we are not aware 
of the operation of such motives and of the nature of our im- 
plicit purpose, we may in all good faith recite a story which 
grotesquely distorts the actual order of the events we profess to 
describe. 
Assimilation 
By some psychologists who followed Locke’s way of “ideas,” 
yet saw that “ideas” cannot be generated by association alone, 
that we do not begin our mental life with a multitude of discrete 
sensations or simple “ideas” and proceed to associate them 
together to form complex “ideas,” assimilation was made the 
fundamental mode of growth. An “idea” or “percept” was 
said to assimilate new elements, when we perceive an object like 
some familiar object, but yet different in certain respects. In 
simple recognition of an object as the same, it would seem that 
no growth or differentiation of mental structure is involved; 
there results presumably merely a consolidation of structure 398 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
already formed, as in all merely repetitive process, in the simple 
repetition of action and in simple reproduction or redintegra- 
tion. If, on the other hand, an object is recognized as like a 
familiar object, but yet different in some respects, the process, 
in so far as it results in mental growth, would seem to be essen- 
tially one of discrimination. I cannot see, therefore, that assim- 
ilation can properly be regarded as one of the fundamental 
modes of development of mental structure. CHAPTER XVI 
REASONING AND THE SYSTEM OF BELIEFS 
We have seen that the feeling or emotion of belief (positive or 
negative) results from judgment. We have now to discuss be- 
liefs, rather than belief as a mode of experience.. A belief is an 
enduring (though not necessarily permanent) feature in the 
structure of the mind; judgment produces the structural change 
which persists as a belief, after we cease to think of the topic 
and the feeling of belief has died away. We have seen that per- 
ception normally involves judgment and establishes belief. In 
primitive perception the judgment is implicit only; as when the 
dog recognizes his master at sight. And the belief established by 
primitive perception is merely a confident anticipation; as when 
the dog, hearing his master’s whistle, confidently anticipates his 
appearance. 
Explicit judgment, giving rise to definite belief, follows upon 
suspension of judgment in the attitude of doubt and inquiry. 
It takes place only on that level of mental life at which belief is 
expressed in the form of a proposition. But, although fully ex- 
plicit judgment and definite belief may be clearly distinguished 
from implicit judgment and mere confident anticipation, there 
is no sharp line to be drawn between them. In our own experi- 
ence we may recognize many intermediate grades. When I 
hear the voice of a long-absent friend, I may merely leap to my 
feet and run to the window; as the dog does on hearing his mas- 
ter’s voice without. Or I may exclaim, as I do so, “There’s 
A.” Or I may listen a moment in doubt, before springing up; 
the familiar quality of the voice merely arresting my attention 
and throwing me into the attitude, “What’s that?” Or I may 
formulate my doubt in a question, “ Is that A ?” and then, after 
listening again, decide “Yes, that’s A.” 
A large number of beliefs about particular things result im- 
mediately from perception. Others are arrived at by associa- 400 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
tive reproduction or memory of perception; as when you are 
asked of a past event, “Did he speak loudly?” or “Did he sing 
out of tune?” If you answer this question with a confident 
“Yes” or “No,” you are either calling to mind a belief estab- 
lished by explicit judgment at the time of hearing the voice; or 
you recall the voice as heard and now base your explicit judg- 
ment upon this recollection, making explicit that which had 
remained implicit in your perception, namely, the degree of 
loudness of the voice or trueness of pitch. 
We have seen also that judgment and consequent belief may 
be determined by communication. In the simplest of such in- 
stances, the other person’s assertion determines my judgment, 
either on perception or recollection, merely in virtue of his pres- 
tige and my docility; that is to say, my attitude toward him is 
submissive, and, when he expresses a belief, my submissive im- 
pulse works as a force to determine my judgment in conformity 
with his assertion. This is “suggestion” in the technical sense. 
It works much more effectively on judgments of recollection 
than on judgments of perception. Thus, if the question is, “Is 
he singing out of tune?” your judgment will be less easily de- 
termined by suggestion than when the question is, “Did he 
sing out of tune?” But all communication is by sense-percep- 
tion,1 and, therefore, although determination of judgment by 
suggestion is the source of many beliefs, such beliefs, like those 
established by judgments of recollection, are directly derived 
from sense-perception, and involve no principles of mental action 
radically distinct from those of sense-perception. 
Almost all the beliefs of a simple-minded person are derived 
from sense-perception in one or other of these three ways—per- 
ceptual judgment, judgments of recollection, and judgments on 
suggestion. But there is another great process by which beliefs 
are established, namely, reasoning. 
Most of the more general beliefs of a developed mind are the 
product of a process in which suggestion is mixed with reason- 
ing. Thus my belief that “this orange is round” is the product 
of perceptual judgment; but my belief that “this earth is round” 
is due in the main to communication; and, though those commu- 
1 With the possible exception before noted of telepathic communication. REASONING AND THE SYSTEM OF BELIEFS 
401 
nications worked upon me originally by suggestion, they have 
been supported or reinforced by reasoning processes, so that 
my belief, as I now hold it, is, in part at least, rational, or the 
product of reasoning. When suggestion and reasoning work 
together, we properly speak of persuasion. The rational factor 
in persuasion may remain implicit; as when I believe the asser- 
tion of another man, because I believe him to be a trustworthy 
witness and narrator and could rationally justify this belief, 
although I do not stop to do so; or it may be explicit, as when 
he reasons or argues effectively in support of his assertion. 
The peculiarity of reasoning which justly excites anew in 
every generation wonder and admiration is that, by means of it, 
we attain to true beliefs, independently of new perceptions and 
independently of reproductive imagination or specific recollec- 
tions. So marvellous is this process that in every age philoso- 
phers have been inclined to set “Reason” apart from all other 
mental functions, on a throne by itself. Aristotle set the fashion 
with his doctrine of the “creative reason,” which, it seemed to 
him, must be regarded as an influx from some superior realm; 
whereas all other mental processes were essentially functions of 
the bodily organism. And long discussions of this topic through- 
out the middle ages culminated in the nineteenth-century dis- 
putes in which, though it became generally admitted that 
animals share in all the other mental powers of men, some think- 
ers continued to deny that they have “Reason,” and to regard 
reasoning as a process wholly different in kind from all others. 
And philosophers and psychologists are by no means agreed 
as to the essential marks of reasoning; they continue to put 
forward views of reasoning differing as widely as Plato’s differed 
from the theory of the early Greek materialists. On the one 
hand are those for whom Reason is a quasi-divine and alto- 
gether spiritual function; on the other hand, the frank material- 
ists and the modern near materialists, such as Messrs. C. A. 
Strong, G. Santayana, Bertrand Russell, and other Neo-Realists. 
For most of these, reasoning is merely a complex process of 
associative reproduction, and is essentially determined by the 
play of physico-chemical processes in the brain, proceeding ac- 
cording to purely mechanistic laws of habit. 402 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
From the point of view of psychology we may best define 
reasoning broadly as follows. 
The essence of all reasoning is that judgment and a new 
belief are determined by beliefs already established in the mind. 
If these old beliefs are true and the reasoning process correct, 
then the new belief is true and becomes an effective guide to 
action. In the most striking cases, the new belief is derived 
by a complex chain of processes from a number of previously 
established beliefs; as when the astronomer Adams arrived at 
the belief that a hitherto unseen planet would be seen at a cer- 
tain position in the heavens, if a sufficiently powerful telescope 
were directed to that spot. 
But some reasonings are very simple. We may distinguish 
three principal types of reasoning: (i) First, reasoning from two 
particular beliefs to a third particular belief. (2) Secondly, rea- 
soning from several or many particular beliefs to a general belief. 
(3) Thirdly, reasoning from a general belief and a particular 
belief to a particular belief. The first is not commonly admitted 
to deserve the lofty title of reasoning. The second, known as 
inductive reasoning, is also regarded by some logicians as hardly 
worthy of the name. The third, known as deductive reasoning, 
has been generally held to be reasoning in the full and perfect 
sense, the process in which the mystery of mind culminates. 
Although these three modes of reasoning are perfectly distinct 
in simple and typical instances, much reasoning partakes of the 
nature of all three types. But we may confine our attention to 
the three typical modes. Reasoning of each mode may be used 
either as a process of discovering new truth, or as a process of 
establishing, of demonstrating, truth, of justifying belief in the 
truth of a proposition which we are already inclined to accept. 
The former is the more important use of reasoning; it may be 
called scientific reasoning. The latter is a simpler process, and 
may be called argumentative reasoning; but here again there 
is no sharp line. 
Let us dispose at once of the contention that reasoning is nothing but 
associative reproduction. This is the traditional associationist view, which 
hangs together with the view that belief is inseparable association. We have 
seen that association is not belief—no matter how inseparable; I must now REASONING AND THE SYSTEM OF BELIEFS 
403 
insist again that associative reproduction is not judgment, though it may 
determine judgment and consequently belief. The formula of association is 
“this and that”; the formula of belief is “this is that.” From the point of 
view of mental structure, association is the linkage of distinct dispositions; 
judgment, on the other hand, produces either differentiation of dispositions 
(discriminative judgment which, when explicit, results in negative belief— 
“this is not that”) or synthesis of dispositions (apperceptive judgments). In 
terms of the association psychology, the “idea” of black is very strongly 
associated in my mind with the “idea” of white; but I have no belief that 
black is white, and no increase of the strength of association between the 
two “ideas” would generate or constitute that belief. So, also, I have seen 
innumerable horses, each of which had four legs and a tail, and I have never 
seen a horse otherwise equipped; yet I do not believe that every horse has 
four legs and a tail. And if I believe that every full-grown horse has a mouth, 
that is not due to association, but to reasoning. 
Reasoning from Particulars 
When we reason from two particular beliefs to a third, our 
mental process is essentially one of imaginative manipulation or 
experimentation. For example, I believe that the city B is 
north of the city A, and also that C is north of B. The question 
may then arise—is C north of A ? By imagining the relative posi- 
tions of B and A and of C and B, on a map or scheme, however 
vaguely (just as I might draw them on a sheet of paper), I at 
once arrive at the belief that C is north of A. This is a simple 
mode of reasoning applicable to all questions of less and more, 
of serial order in space, time, or quality. In practice we often 
make use of it in determining the relative order in time of past 
events. 
Notice that the mere coexistence in my mind of the two parent 
beliefs does not suffice to generate the third. It is not until 
the question arises and I desire to know the answer that judg- 
ment takes place and the new belief is established. But, when 
established, it is no less strong than the parent beliefs. 
Closely allied to these judgments of serial order are judg- 
ments of identity derived from two previous beliefs. For ex- 
ample, my friend the physician, A, remarks one day that his 
first patient was a dipsomaniac. Another day my much-trusted 
lawyer, B, remarks casually that he was first patient. I fully 
believe both assertions (by persuasion). The two beliefs dwell 
in my mind without interaction; until at a later date some event, 404 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
or some remark of a third person, raises in me doubt of the trust- 
worthiness of my lawyer. Perhaps immediately, perhaps at a 
later time, I suddenly realize—B was a dipsomaniac. I have 
derived a new and important belief from the two previously co- 
existing beliefs. This is what is commonly called “putting two 
and two together.” Processes of this kind play a great part in 
detective work. 
It may be said that this is merely an instance of mediate association. My 
“idea” of the lawyer and my “idea” of a dipsomaniac are both associated 
with my “idea” of Doctor A’s first patient; and through this common associa- 
tion they are brought to consciousness in immediate succession and so become 
associated. But this process of reasoning differs from and is more than 
association in two respects: First, association is not judgment. The lawyer 
might be most closely associated in my mind with dipsomania (perhaps be- 
cause his son or wife is a dipsomaniac) without any belief that he suffered 
from that affliction. Secondly, the process is highly selective; the two latent 
beliefs are brought forward in conjunction, because there has been roused in 
me the desire to know the answer to the question—Is he trustworthy? In 
this respect the mental process of “experimenting” is not essentially different 
from experimental observation. I might have set about to find an answer 
to the question by keeping a close watch on the lawyer. In both cases my 
mental process would be guided by my desire, would be selective in accord- 
ance with my purpose. Both would be processes of “trial and error”; but 
neither would be entirely random; just as the movements of an animal striv- 
ing to get out of a cage are not entirely random, but selective because pur- 
posive. And they would be effective in proportion as this selectivity of pur- 
pose was effective in guiding me to relevant facts; in the one case facts already 
known or believed; or, in the other case, new facts of observation. As Doctor 
Rignano1 remarks: “The simple mechanical association of ideas . . . does 
not suffice to render the least account of that association, guided and canalized, 
which constitutes reasoning. Something more is necessary in order that for 
the associative chaos, for the spontaneous and natural incoherence of ideas, 
there shall be substituted order, connection, and coherence. And this some- 
thing more is precisely affectivity. James Mill himself . . . found himself 
compelled, in order to account for the coherence of a process of thought, to 
have recourse to the predominance and control, during all the process, of the 
idea of the end . . . which in reality is no other than the affectivity for the 
end. From this results the very great importance for the maintenance of 
coherence during a long process of reasoning of the capacity for persistence 
and resistance of the affective tendency, which pursues its proper goal among 
all the successive circumstances simply thought of.” 
1“Qu’est-ce que le raisonnement ?” Scientia, Vol. XIII. Rignano maintains 
that all reasoning is of this type, namely, imaginative experimentation. He writes: 
“Le raisonnement tout entier, sous quelque forme qu’il se presente, n’est pas autre 
chose, en substance, qu’un veritable et propre ‘Gedanken—experiment,’ c’est-a- 
dire . . . une combinaison mentale d’experiences imaginees.” REASONING AND THE SYSTEM OF BELIEFS 
405 
What Rignano here calls “the affective tendency” is what throughout 
these pages has been called the conative tendency, the impulse or desire 
striving toward a goal. The desire which sustains and guides the reasoning 
process is the desire to know the answer to the question on which we are in 
doubt; such desire may spring directly from the instinct of curiosity, or it 
may be derived from desires for other goals for the attainment of which 
the particular knowledge sought in the reasoning process is a necessary means. 
The selectivity of this desire is what James has well named sagacity, that fac- 
tor which distinguishes the good from the poor reasoner. Two men may have 
equally rich stores of knowledge or true beliefs; yet in the more sagacious man 
the governing purpose selects among those stores the items that are rele- 
vant; he “puts two and two together”; while the less sagacious man does 
not reach the conclusion, because the relevant facts are not brought to bear 
on the problem. 
This selectivity or sagacity, which is the all-important factor in reasoning 
of this kind, is not, then, a new factor. It is the same kind of factor which, 
on the plane of practical trial and error, makes the process, whether in men 
or animals, other than a purely random process. It is the factor which at 
all levels, from Amoeba to Man, is the essence of Intelligent adaptation. 
Inductive Reasoning 
Consider now the second type of reasoning, the inductive. 
From various observations and communications, I have learned 
that this and that and the other species of ungulate mammals 
are herbivorous. Then I come across or capture an ungulate 
mammal of a kind I have never seen or heard of, such as the 
Okapi. The question arises, “What does he eat?” I go over 
in my mind various instances of such mammals known to me. 
They are all herbivores; and I conclude that this creature also 
is a herbivore. This instance is instructive, because in reality, 
like so many of our actual reasonings, (i) it involves both induc- 
tion and deduction: (2) it yields, not a positive belief, but rather 
a tentative belief, an hypothesis, which serves as a guide to ac- 
tion ; the conclusion of the process is “He is probably herbivorous; 
try him with grass”: (3) the steps of the reasoning process are 
more or less implicit rather than explicit. 
The inductive part of the reasoning is the going over in my 
mind instances of other ungulates, which process, if all the 
instances are concordant, leads me to judge, “All ungulates are 
(probably) herbivorous.” The deductive part is “This is an 
ungulate, therefore he is herbivorous.” The inductive process 
may vary from the perception or recollection of a single instance 406 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
to a very extensive enumeration. My native huntsman may say 
“He’s rather like a mule; give him some grass.” My scientific 
companion may enumerate all the species of ungulates known to 
science. 
The simplest form of the inductive process, or the germ 
of it from which it develops in a perfectly gradual manner, 
is confident anticipation founded upon a single experience; as 
when the burnt child dreads the fire, or the animal, hurt and 
frightened by one man, runs away in fear from any other man. 
The logician who is painfully bitten by a strange animal on tak- 
ing it into his hand, and who, on meeting a second specimen of 
the same species, shrinks from it in fear, might justify his beha- 
vior by explicating his mental process and displaying it at length 
as a process of induction followed by deduction. He might rea- 
son as follows: “This animal looks very like that other; animals 
that look very much alike belong to the same species; all ani- 
mals of the same species are likely to behave in the same way 
under similar circumstances; that one bit me, therefore this one 
will bite me; therefore it is wise to get out of his way.” 
Very many of our reasonings are such attempts to justify our 
expectations, or our actions, by such explication of the grounds 
of them.1 A single experience of an object suffices to determine 
expectation, if that object has excited a strong conative reac- 
tion. If the reaction is less strong, repetition of the experience 
may be necessary; and the more frequent the repetition, the 
stronger becomes our expectation. Thus, after every occasion 
of eating cheese, I suffer discomfort; in the end I make the induc- 
tion: every eating of cheese is followed by discomfort. And, 
when I am offered a dish and am told that it contains cheese, I 
refuse it; that is to say, I deduce from my general rule the con- 
clusion that this dish will be followed by discomfort. My re- 
fusal is reasonable and rational. The mental process which 
leads to the refusal can hardly be denied the name of reasoning; 
for it involves explicit judgments and the derivation of a new 
1 As Mr. Alfred Sidgwich, one of the most reasonable of the logicians, says: “In 
ordinary life and in science we normally suspect a truth before we prove it; our 
reasonings lag behind our guesses, and are an attempt to review the grounds of a 
belief which has already begun to take shape.”—“The Use of Words in Reasoning.” REASONING AND THE SYSTEM OF BELIEFS 
407 
belief from others previously established. Yet the inductive part 
of the reasoning by which I reach my generalization is a simple 
enumeration. It is a going over in my mind of past instances; 
it is imaginative arraying of few or many particular instances. 
Pure induction is always and essentially of this nature.1 
Efficiency in induction depends, as in the first form of reason- 
ing, on the effective selectivity of the reproductive imagination 
in bringing to mind relevant instances; that is to say, on that 
same factor of sagacity. Inductive reasoning is, then, in its pure 
form nothing more than the use of language to raise confident ex- 
pectation (determined by past experiences) to the level of explic- 
itly formulated belief. It involves no principles of mental ac- 
tivity not found at lower levels. 
It is both a merit and a weakness of our minds that we are so readily led to 
expect that any sequence of impressions will repeat itself, when the initial 
members of the series recur, especially when any strong impulse is aroused 
by them. This tendency leads us to avoid hurtful things and to pursue 
gratifying things, after one or few experiences of them. But the same ten- 
dency leads to those hasty and imperfect generalizations which are the 
commonest flaws in our reasonings and lead us often to false conclusions. 
In both these respects the use of language greatly accentuates our natural 
tendency. To use any common noun or name is to generalize, is to assert 
that the thing named has essentially the same nature as other things so 
named, and that we may and should and do form the same expectations of 
it as we have of those other things. Thus, in the example used above, as 
soon as I accept the assertion, “This is cheese,” I expect from this dish the 
consequence I have observed to follow on eating of cheese in other forms. 
And the use of the noun has played a great part in facilitating my generaliza- 
tion (implicit or explicit) that cheese does not agree with me. Applying com- 
mon names is thus essentially a process of inductive generalization. It works 
admirably, when we are dealing with pure chemical substances, and very 
tolerably in respect to such standard common “elements” as earth, air, fire, 
1 In scientific induction the process is much complicated by metaphysical assump- 
tions about identity or sameness and causation, which in the physical sciences are 
found to be good working hypotheses. We are apt to assume that the same 
assumptions may be safely used in the biological sciences; and that is the essence 
of the mechanistic dogma. As a matter of fact, some of the most generally ac- 
cepted biological generalizations are founded on simple enumeration; e. g., the 
generalization that all animals are mortal or must die. This purely inductive 
generalization seemed well established, until Weismann pointed out that some 
animals (certain protozoa) do not die or are not mortal. The rule that all bodies 
fall to the ground when unsupported, or that every particle of matter attracts every 
other, is and remains, I believe, a purely inductive generalization based on enu- 
meration of many instances. 408 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
and water. It works well also in respect of animals and plants; just because 
Nature has grouped these in species and distinguished all the members of 
each species by marks that are in general easily recognizable by us. But it is 
very much less effective, when we deal with classes of things constituted by 
human convention; then common names are apt to imply generalizations that 
are very misleading; as when we call a particular man a rational animal, a so- 
cialist, a philanthropist, a rogue, or a conservative. To react to a new mem- 
ber of a class of objects as we have learned to react to another member (as 
when the burnt child dreads the fire, or the puppy flees from Tommy because he 
was kicked by Billy) is to exercise inductive generalization at the lowest level. 
To apply a common name to an object (as to say “This is fire” or “This is a 
boy”) is to exercise the same function at a higher level. To think of a num- 
ber of examples of the class (either perceptually or imaginatively) and note 
in each the presence of the quality in which we are interested (burning or 
cruelty) and then to say, “All fire burns” or “All boys are cruel,” is to exer- 
cise the function at a still higher level. What we do in scientific induction 
is, not to attempt to examine and enumerate all members of the class, but to 
find marks which suffice to indicate essential similarity of all members of the 
class, and then to appeal to the principle of causation—like causes produce 
like effects—and use this as a major premise of a deductive reasoning. 
This tendency to inductive generalization is, then, fundamen- 
tal and is exhibited at all levels of mental life. At the lower 
levels, it is merely the tendency to react to similar things, things 
presenting similar sensory cues, as though they were essentially 
the same thing over again; and, because the world is so full of 
a number of things which do fall into natural classes, the mem- 
bers of each of which present similar sensory cues and are es- 
sentially similar for our purposes, this tendency in.the main 
serves us well; and, in spite of the errors to which it gives rise, 
it is the source of our highest scientific generalizations or laws. 
Deductive Reasoning 
It is, then, in the deductive stage of the reasoning process, if 
anywhere, that we must expect to find the distinctively human 
or quasi-divine or supernatural factor which is implied when 
Reason is set over against all other mental functions, as radically 
different and incapable of evolution from them. 
Suppose we come upon a strange organism, say a sea-cucum- 
ber, and we dispute whether it is animal or plant. Suppose, 
further, we both believe that all organisms that breathe air are 
animals. We examine the creature, and I point out that it has REASONING AND THE SYSTEM OF BELIEFS 
409 
organs which are unmistakably of the nature of gills for the 
breathing of air. “Therefore” I say “ This is an animal.” For 
your mind the reasoning process evoked by my words is simple 
and pure deduction of a new belief from the two parent beliefs, 
namely: (i) All air-breathers are animals. (2) This is an air- 
breather. It matters not how you have come by these beliefs, 
nor that the former is not strictly true.1 If they are established 
in your mind and if you desire to know the answer to our ques- 
tion, my demonstration is conclusive; you cannot refuse to 
assent; and the assenting is judgment which establishes the new 
belief.2 
Your parent belief (1), expressed as the major premise of tne 
argument, is the existence in your mind of a mental system (an 
“ idea”), formed by the apperceptive synthesis of two other sys- 
1 None of our general beliefs, outside of mathematics, are strictly true. They 
are at the best good working hypotheses. In reasoning about abstract number 
and space, we are able to reach conclusions that are strictly true, because the terms 
of our reasoning are adequately and exhaustively defined. This is true of no other 
reasoning involving general assertions. In physical science we are able to make 
general assertions and hence reasonings which are very nearly strictly true, as 
when we are concerned with the volume of a gas under various conditions of pres- 
sure and temperature; or as when we say that ten quarts of water weigh ten times 
as much as one quart. Such a statement as the last is only true, if all the water is 
pure, and if the conditions of temperature, distance from the earth’s centre, and so 
forth, are strictly the same. But as these conditions are never strictly realized, 
our reasonings are never strictly true. 
In biology, psychology, and all the human sciences, and especially in metaphysics, 
we are in much worse case. In vain philosophers have attempted to formulate 
certain general assertions which shall be strictly true without being tautological, 
and which, like the axioms of geometry, may serve as major premises to syllogisms 
which will lead to new and strictly true assertions. In these spheres our knowledge 
is incurably empirical, and our general terms or “universals” are wofully lacking 
in definition. Hence, at the best, our reasonings do but lead to assertions having 
an indefinable degree of probability; that is to say, to hypotheses which serve as 
guides to action, working hypotheses which are held to be true in proportion as they 
work well. Men of science have long recognized that this is the nature of their 
general truths, laws, or principles. When the late William James pointed out that 
the general assertions of other disciplines, such as history, ethics, and metaphysics, 
are of similar nature and that, in fact, the adjective “true” applied to general 
assertions can only mean that such assertions are good working hypotheses, 
this simple extension of scientific insight was generally repudiated and denounced 
as a philosophical heresy under the name of Pragmatism. 
2 If you are dominated by a strong desire for some state of affairs inconsistent 
with the conclusion, and if this prevents you from desiring to know the truth, the 
argument has no compelling power over you. 410 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
terns (“ideas”), corresponding to “all air-breathers” and to 
“animals” respectively. Call these a and b and call the combined 
system ab. Your parent belief (2), expressed as the minor premise 
of the argument, is similarly the existence in your mind of a 
system (an “idea”) formed by the synthesis of two systems 
(“ideas”), one, c, corresponding to “this organism,” and the 
other, a, to “air-breather.” That is to say, the system a (“air- 
breather”) is fused on the one side with the system b (“animals ”) 
and on the other side with the system c (“this organism”); and 
the result of bringing the three systems into play in immediate 
succession is that a new apperceptive synthesis takes place be- 
tween c and b. From the point of view of mental structure, 
deductive reasoning is thus a process of mediate apperception. 
Apperceptive synthesis of c with b takes place, because both are 
already fused with a. 
It may be said that this deductive process is then, after all, merely associa- 
tion. We have three “ideas,” a, b, and c: a is associated with both b and c; and 
when a is reproduced first with b and then with c, b and c become associated. 
But, I repeat, association is not belief, and associative reproduction is not 
judgment. Note that synthesis of two systems does not involve their fusion to 
the point of loss of all distinction between them. The mere fact that, after ap- 
perceptive synthesis, we can still think and speak of the two objects as dis- 
tinct, although we partially identify them when we say “this is that” (“air- 
breathers are animals”), this fact shows that the apperceptive process is not 
a complete, but rather a partial, fusing of systems. However we may conceive 
of the association and of the synthesis of systems (or “ideas”), we must recog- 
nize that they are very different processes, and that they result in very different 
relations between the systems concerned, relations which are expressed by the 
formulae “c and b” (association) and “c is b” (apperceptive synthesis) re- 
spectively. 
Notice now the importance of the word “all” in the argu- 
ment, and the important part played by its meaning in the play 
of meanings which is the reasoning process. The word “all” 
may be omitted from the verbal statement, which then runs 
a’s are b’s 
c is an a 
Therefore c is b 
This verbal formulation leaves it unclear whether all a's, or 
only some a’s, are meant. In the latter case we have an “un- REASONING AND THE SYSTEM OF BELIEFS 
distributed middle term,” and the argument is inconclusive. It 
is only by introducing the word “all” in the major premise (by 
making the assertion universal) that the argument is made com- 
pulsive. 
In ordinary reasoning we often omit the word “all,” though 
we may mean “all.” The explication of the reasoning, by 
throwing it into the form of a syllogistic argument, serves to 
bring forward more prominently the meaning “all.” The uni- 
versality expressed by the word “all” is sometimes made much 
of, as the essential and peculiar feature of reasoning; and man is 
set apart from the animals, on the ground that he thinks in 
“universals,” while the animal thinks only of particular objects. 
This involves an error which we have already noticed,1 namely, 
the error of supposing that the primitive mind perceives particu- 
lar individual objects as such, and that development proceeds 
by the coalescence of particular “ideas” to form general “ideas.” 
As we have noticed, the universal is already implicit in the 
thinking of the burnt child who dreads the fire, and in that 
of the animal who flees from all men after maltreatment by 
one. 
It is when the argument is thrown into the hypothetical form 
that the deductive reasoning process acquires, in the highest 
degree, that character of detachment from, and superiority to, all 
content which has served to set it apart as something unlike all 
other mental functions. We say—if all x’s are y's, and if z is an x, 
then z is a y; no matter what x, y, and z stand for. Here, it may 
be said, we have a reasoning process which compels assent; and 
yet the conclusion cannot be said to proceed from beliefs already 
established; reasoning rises superior to all content, to all belief 
in matters of fact, and soars into the empyrean of pure thought; 
it operates, not with beliefs, but with forms of abstract thought. 
This is indeed evidence of the power of the mind to think in terms 
of abstract symbols; but still there is involved no essentially new 
principle or type of function, none not found in the lower forms 
of reasoning.2 
411 
1p- 38°- 
2 These highly abstract reasonings serve to illustrate forcibly the futility of the 
attempt to exhibit reasoning as merely the play of associative reproduction, as 
also the futility of the more recent reductio ad absurdum of that doctrine, which 412 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
Consider now the deductive process as it is used, not for the 
demonstration, but for the discovery of truth. When I point 
out to you—This organism is an air-breather, therefore it is an 
animal, I do more than merely state the argument. Under the 
impulse to find an answer to the question, “Is this an animal?” 
I select a relevant feature of the organism, either perceptually or 
imaginatively, namely, its air-breathing. That again is the 
exercise of the selective function which, following James, we 
have called sagacity. This, as we have seen, is essentially the 
same function which at all levels characterizes purposive activity 
and makes the process of trial and error other than a purely 
random process. This sagacious selection of the relevant belief 
is, then, the essential feature of the reasoning of discovery, in all 
our three main types of reasoning. 
And, though this selectivity characterizes mental or purposive activity at 
all levels, we may best hope to gain some insight into the essential nature of 
the function as it is displayed most explicitly at this highest level in the 
reasoning of discovery. Let us go back to our instance of “putting two and 
two together,” the case of the physician, A, and the dipsomaniac lawyer, B. 
I carry in the structure of my mind the two parent beliefs, hitherto unrelated 
to one another.- Then I am led to doubt B’s trustworthiness; and the desire 
to know, to find the answer to this question, springs up and works within 
me, whenever I think of B. The impulse, striving for satisfaction, keeps me 
mentally active; it brings up one memory after another connected with B, 
but not wholly at random; the various forms and evidences of untrustworthi- 
ness known to me are the objects of which I think. The dispositions corre- 
sponding to all these have been organized in a single system by apperceptive 
processes, in which language has played a leading part. My impulse, my 
desire to know, is led into this system and rummages within it, keeping the 
whole system in subconscious excitement, leading me to think more or less 
explicitly of the various forms of untrustworthiness in turn. When I think 
of secret drinking and dipsomania, the impulse strikes across to Doctor A's 
asserts that reasoning is the mere play of language mechanisms. Compare the two 
arguments: 
All #’s are y’s, z is x, therefore z is y 
All x’s are y’s, z is y, therefore z is x 
Any normally developed human mind can be brought to see that the former is 
a conclusive argument and that the latter is not. But no one not already familiar 
with abstract verbal formulae of this kind could make this distinction without tak- 
ing the meaning of the words, especially the meaning of “all” and of “is.” Yet 
for such a person there is nothing in the associations or verbal habits into which 
these words and letters (as mere sounds and motor mechanisms) have been worked 
up by previous hearing and speech that can account for the distinction he makes. REASONING AND THE SYSTEM OF BELIEFS 
413 
first patient, and then, because the whole system of activity is connected 
with B, the belief “B was A’s first patient” is stirred, judgment takes place, 
and my desire to know attains its goal in the new belief. 
All the types of reasoning, then, are processes of mediate ap- 
perception; they all make use of a “middle term,” an object 
which, being apperceived as partially identical with two others, 
serves to bring about apperception of some essential similarity 
between them. And this use of a “middle term” is the sole 
essential feature of reasoning, in which it differs from other men- 
tal processes. But this mark of the reasoning process does not 
enable us to draw any sharp line between reasoning and simpler 
processes of judgment; for the middle term, or mediating belief, 
may be used with all degrees of explicitness. When Robinson 
Crusoe saw the footprint on the sand, he started back in a 
state of highly complex and confused emotion. We naturally 
say that he inferred, from the footprint, the recent passage of a 
human visitant. For his emotion, though it might seem to be 
an instantaneous response to the visual impression, was the con- 
sequence of his belief that a man had stepped upon the beach. 
And that belief could be justified only by a considerable train of 
reasoning. If a similar print were uncovered to-morrow in a 
quarry of oolitic rocks, the world would be flooded with thick 
volumes of argument as to the significance of that print. I think 
we are bound to admit that in Crusoe’s mind a process of reason- 
ing preceded and determined his emotion. It was not merely 
the strangeness of the visual impression. He may have seen his 
own footprints on the sand many times every day for months. 
The reasoning by which he could have justified his emotion must 
have run somewhat as follows: “All such prints are made by 
men, therefore this was made by a man. I have not been here 
before, therefore it was not made by me, but by some other man. 
And it has been made recently, for last night the tide came over 
this sand. Therefore some other man is close at hand.” Yet 
no such train of explicit reasoning preceded and determined his 
emotional response. This is an instance of a not uncommon 
kind, which seems to justify the statement that reasoning, even 
reasoning of a complex kind, may go on very rapidly and ef- 
fectively without the use of language. 414 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
The many levels of explicitness of reasoning may be illus- 
trated by another quasi-historical incident. When the dove re- 
turned to the ark bearing a leafy twig, we may fairly suppose 
that his appearance provoked the following reactions: The ox 
lowed in vague anticipation of green fodder; the elephant lifted 
up his trunk and sniffed in all directions; the apes chattered ex- 
citedly and keenly scanned the horizon. Ham said “Well, I 
never; wherever did he get that?’' Shem said “I guess he’s 
found a tree somewhere.” Japhet said “Now we sha’n’t be 
long.” Mrs. Noah said “Heaven be thanked ! Those are young 
leaves, only just sprouted. I don’t mind admitting now that 
I’m sick and tired of this dirty old ark.” And Noah: “My 
children, the Lord has completed his work, the wicked are 
destroyed. Let us praise the Lord, and then make ready to 
disembark the animals.” Who shall say at which point in this 
scale of increasing explicitness we should recognize reasoning ? 
Systems of Beliefs 
The structure of every developed mind comprises a multitude 
of beliefs. Many of these concern particular things and events; 
these are either isolated or hang together merely in temporal 
sequences or spatial systems. When we speak of a man’s be- 
liefs, we usually mean beliefs of a more or less general nature; in 
every normal human mind, these are in some degree organized 
in systems. In the highly organized mind that we call a scien- 
tific intellect, this organization renders most of the general be- 
liefs coherent and reciprocally supporting,1 like the stones of a 
dome of masonry. The true description of the structure and 
mode of growth of this dome of scientific belief is the task of the 
logicians; and they are far from agreement. There are those, 
the empiricists, who assert that the dome stands on its wide 
base of a myriad facts or beliefs of observation, and tapers to 
its summit of general principles. Others maintain that the dome 
stands inverted upon one or a few keystones, which they describe 
1 The intimacy and mutual dependence of such general beliefs are often over- 
stated. The late Professor Miinsterberg, for example, was never tired of asserting 
that a proof of the occurrence of telepathy would shatter the whole system of his 
scientific beliefs. REASONING AND THE SYSTEM OF BELIEFS 
as the principle of causation, or an instinctive belief in causation, 
or the categories of the understanding, or innate ideas of time, 
space, cause and effect, identity, difference, and so on. 
There is no more difficult problem than this of the nature and 
extent of the intellectual equipment provided by nature or by 
heredity. Hitherto, in spite of centuries of controversy, we 
have hardly devised words with which the discussion can be 
profitably conducted. My own opinion is that both the ex- 
treme parties to the controversy are wrong, and that the truth 
lies somewhere in between. If that is so, the simile of the dome 
which I used just now is misleading; for the structure rests upon, 
and grows up from, neither a broad base of particular facts nor 
from a few keystones of general principle. Rather, the structure 
grows and expands in all directions like a marine organism, con- 
stantly in touch with its environment, growing by what it ab- 
sorbs from that environment, and shaped partly by the acci- 
dents of that environment; yet all the while shaping and organiz- 
ing its structure, according to the laws of its own nature, which 
laws are such as to adapt it to deal effectively with its environ- 
ment. Some such view was implied in what I have written on 
earlier pages of mental development and of spatial thinking. 
Leaving this deep question with only this hint, we may notice 
that few minds entertain one wholly coherent and consistent 
system of general beliefs. Returning to the imperfect simile, 
and likening the perfectly coherent system of a scientific intellect 
to a classical building surmounted by a single dome, we may 
liken the intellect of another man to a Gothic cathedral with 
twin spires, which stand independently without mutual support. 
Such is the man who builds up systems of religious and of scien- 
tific beliefs, in almost complete independence of one another. 
In terms of the same simile, the beliefs of the ordinary man may 
be likened to a Gothic building of great irregularity, lacking all 
unity or consistency of plan and covered with queer gables and 
towers, each of which may be pulled down or remodelled with- 
out seriously affecting the rest. 
Such more or less detached systems of belief, more or less 
logically incompatible with one another, are formed through the 
working of different conative tendencies organized in great sen- 
415 416 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
timents, such as the religious, the patriotic, and the family sen- 
timents. These we have to discuss in our next chapter. At 
present it must suffice to remark that the harmonization of be- 
liefs in a single consistent system is only approximately achieved 
by those persons who are moved, as we say, by a “disinterested 
love of truth.” This phrase is, of course, a contradiction in 
terms; as we see, if we transpose it into its equivalent—“a dis- 
interested interest in truth.” What is implied is a cultivated 
sentiment for true beliefs, or truth, which shall be strong enough 
to counteract or correct the strong bias, toward this or that sys- 
tem of beliefs, which springs from every other type of sentiment. CHAPTER XVII 
GROWTH OF MENTAL STRUCTURE (CONTINUED). 
THE DEVELOPMENT OF SENTIMENTS AND THE ORGAN- 
IZATION OF CHARACTER 
What is Character? 
We have discussed the processes of organization of intellect in 
artificial detachment from character, while recognizing that the 
intellect, or cognitive organization, is essentially the instrument 
of our purposes, that it is brought into play in the service of our 
desires, the driving forces of the organism. 
We have seen that desires are identical with the impulses, 
the conative tendencies of our instincts, working on the plane of 
imagination rather than of mere sense-perception. The organ- 
ized system of these tendencies, directed upon a variety of 
objects and toward the realization of various goals connected 
with these objects, constitutes what we call character. Charac- 
ter is the system of directed conative tendencies. It may be 
relatively simple or complex; it may be harmoniously organized 
or lacking in harmony; it may be firmly or loosely knit; it may 
be directed in the main toward lower or toward higher goals. 
Character of the finest type is that which is complex, strongly 
and harmoniously organized, and directed toward the realiza- 
tion of higher goals or ideals. Such character may be attained 
by the individual whose intellect is relatively simple and ordi- 
nary. But the better organized and richer the intellect, the 
more efficiently will character work toward the realization of 
its goals. 
The Nature of Sentiments 
The units of character are the sentiments or complexes. There 
is at the present time some lack of agreement among psycholo- 
gists as to the use of these two words. Some writers treat them 
as synonyms. Both are used to denote acquired trends, or the 
settings of our conative tendencies that are acquired through 
individual experience. The best usage, I think, restricts the 418 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
term "complex” to acquired conative settings which are in some 
degree morbid, by reason of their lack of harmony with the rest 
of the character. Adopting this usage, we shall have the word 
"sentiment” as the most general term to denote all acquired 
conative trends; and "complex” will be used to denote senti- 
ments that are in some manner and degree morbid or path- 
ological; while "instinct” remains our name for directed conative 
trends which are given as such in our innate constitution. 
The proposed usage of the word “sentiment” involves some 
specialization of the word, such as is necessary to render any of 
the psychological terms of common speech, or of the literary 
tradition, suitable for scientific discourse. In common speech 
and in much psychological writing, "sentiment” is not clearly 
distinguished from "emotion.” Yet common speech does vague- 
ly recognize a difference between them, a difference which is of 
the first importance. We speak of an emotion of anger, but of 
a sentiment of hatred; of a wave of patriotic emotion or an out- 
burst of patriotic activity, but of a sentiment of patriotism or love 
of country; an emotion of outraged honor or justice, but of a senti- 
ment of honor or of justice; of a gust of tender emotion for a 
person, but of a sentiment of love or affection or devotion to 
that person. In all these cases common speech properly recog- 
nizes the all-important distinction which I am trying to make 
clear, and which psychologists are very slow to recognize or ob- 
serve. The distinction is one on which I have insisted through- 
out these pages, namely, the distinction between facts of mental 
structure and facts of mental functioning or activity, between 
structure or enduring dispositions and systems of dispositions, on 
the one hand, and experiences or activities determined by struc- 
ture, on the other. The emotion is a mode of experience, a way 
of functioning, and a fact of activity; the sentiment is a fact 
of structure, an organized system of dispositions, which endures, 
in a more or less quiescent condition, between the occasions upon 
which it is brought into activity. 
It is the same distinction that we have drawn between a 
train of instinctive activity and an instinct as an enduring 
structure; between thinking of an object and the enduring cogni- 
tive disposition that enables us to think of that object, and which CHARACTER 
419 
is developed through every successive thinking of the object; be- 
tween belief as a feeling or “derived emotion” and “a belief,” 
which is the form into which our cognitive dispositions are de- 
veloped through explicit judgment and reasoning. 
A sentiment involves an individual tendency to experience 
certain emotions and desires in relation to some particular ob- 
ject. It is an enduring conative attitude toward an object set 
up by the experience of the individual. We have already seen 
that the higher animals are capable of acquiring very simple at- 
titudes of this sort. Consider the case of a puppy-dog that is re- 
peatedly teased and maltreated by a particular boy whom it 
meets on the streets. It quickly acquires the tendency to run 
away in fear, at the mere sight or sound of this boy in the dis- 
tance. We should do some violence to language, if we spoke of 
this as a sentiment of fear for the boy. It is merely an emotional 
habit. But it is a rudimentary sentiment. The dog does not 
show the behavior and symptoms of fear continuously; but he 
shows them, whenever he perceives the boy. In a similar way, 
a child may acquire a habit or a sentiment of fear for another 
person; as the small boy for the big bully. The main difference 
between the case of the dog and that of the boy will be that 
the boy, owing to his greater power of imagination, will be apt 
to be reminded of the bully, by conversation or otherwise, when 
the bully is not present; and, just because he has acquired this 
sentiment of fear for the bully, he will be apt to dwell upon him 
in imagination; and, as he imagines him, he will experience in 
some degree the emotion of fear, and the impulse of fear will de- 
termine him to work out in imagination plans for avoiding the 
bully. Such a most simple sentiment is formed through the re- 
peated evocation of some one instinctive response by some one 
object. It may be regarded as consisting of a single cognitive 
disposition associated or functionally linked with a single affec- 
tive-conative disposition—namely, that of the instinct of escape. 
If the small boy is not utterly lacking in spirit, not entirely 
without pugnacity, his sentiment for the bully will inevitably 
grow more complex. Sometimes he will angrily resent the 
The Sentiment of Hatred, 420 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
bully’s interference with his actions, perhaps actually by angry 
blows and words, perhaps only when the bully is remote; on 
thinking of the bully, the small boy rages within himself, plot- 
ting vengeance. In this way, the affective-conative disposition 
of the combative instinct becomes directed or set toward the 
bully; that is to say, in stricter language, this disposition also 
becomes functionally linked or associated with the cognitive 
disposition concerned in all thinking of the bully. Or, if we 
use the word “idea” as the more convenient name for a cogni- 
tive disposition or system, we may say that the “idea” of the 
bully has become associated with the affective-conative disposi- 
tions of two instincts, namely, those of escape and of combat. 
The conative dispositions of the two instincts are not directly 
connected with one another; they become parts of one system 
only because each becomes connected with the same cognitive 
disposition. The whole of this system, built up through repeated 
experiences of fear and anger, evoked by this one object, con- 
stitutes a sentiment of hatred for the bully. The sentiment 
cannot be identified with any one kind of emotion; because, when 
once formed, it is the enduring condition of a considerable range 
of emotions and desires; namely, fear and anger imperfectly 
blended in various proportions on different occasions, and always 
painful, because their tendencies or desires are always more or 
less in conflict; and also the whole range of the derived emotions 
of these two fundamental desires, confidence, hope, anxiety, de- 
spondency, despair, regret, and chagrin. The particular com- 
plex blend of emotional qualities, experienced upon perceiving or 
imagining the object on any one occasion, will depend upon the 
particular situation of the object (perceived or imagined) in rela- 
tion to the subject.1 We touched on all this before, in describing 
1 Common speech seems to recognize an emotion of hate distinct from both fear 
and anger; it may, for example, describe a man as showing at once anger, fear, and 
hate. But this is mere loose redundancy. If “hate” can be appropriately used 
to denote emotional experiences of any one kind, those are experiences in which 
the qualities of fear and anger are blended. The importance of this simple truth 
as an aid to clear thinking was abundantly illustrated during the war. We had 
endless discussions of the question whether we hated, or should hate, the enemy. 
And the moralists who admitted that we might rightly be angry with the enemy 
for his wanton destruction in Belgium and France, and who could hardly deny us 
the right to fear him, when he was murdering our women and children by throwing CHARACTER 
421 
the life of the natural man. I dwell tediously upon it here, be- 
cause experience has shown me that it is very difficult to get 
students and even many professed psychologists to grasp clearly 
these simple fundamental facts of the nature and mode of forma- 
tion of sentiments. The sentiment of hatred or dislike is one of 
the great types of sentiment. 
The Sentiment of Love 
Now consider the formation of a sentiment of another princi- 
pal type—the sentiment of love. Suppose that you are a lonely 
student, living the life of a recluse, absorbed in your studies, 
with few human contacts and those more or less cold and for- 
mal. One winter day, as you return to your lonely lodging, you 
notice, crouching against the wall, a miserable-looking dog, dirty, 
cold, and emaciated. You stop and look at him, perhaps out of 
mere curiosity, wondering where he has come from. He looks 
up at you, shrinking timidly; and you are moved by the emo- 
tion we call pity.1 You speak gently, look more closely, and 
see that he has a crushed foot. “Poor beast,” you say; and 
your voice and gesture express your emotion and tendency. The 
dog responds with a faint movement of his tail and eyes. You 
feel you can’t leave him like this, huddled in misery and pain. 
You gently coax him to follow you home. There you make him 
a warm bed, give him meat and drink, and bind up his wounded 
foot. The dog accepts all your help in pathetic submission. 
He licks your hand; his eyes follow you about; he feebly wags 
his tail when you come near. You find a strange satisfaction in 
all your kindly actions. You take infinite trouble to make him 
comfortable, although it interferes with your work, breaks your 
bombs and shells upon our open cities, pretended that it was wrong to hate him. 
The truth of the position here taken is well illustrated by the changing attitude of 
the German masses. During the earlier stages of the war they were properly said 
to hate the British, but not the French. For they both feared the power of British 
arms and angrily resented the British intervention, which, they felt, had prevented 
the rapid realization of their designs upon France. They did not hate the French, 
because they felt themselves able to crush them, and therefore neither feared nor 
were angry with them. But since 1918 they have learned to hate France, because 
France has had the power and the will to thwart their plans and to inflict punish- 
ment upon them. 
xCf. p. 335. 422 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
night’s rest, and altogether upsets your calm routine. And so it 
goes on. The dog becomes more and more responsive. His 
timid shrinking gives place to joyous welcoming. He responds 
to your every action, emotion, and mood. When you sit de- 
spondent, he puts his head on your knee, gazing intently into 
your eyes; and the world seems less dark. When you take up 
your hat, he dashes to the door. When the neighbor’s big dog 
attacks him, you rush furiously to his defense. When your 
neighbor complains of the noise he makes, you resent his asper- 
sions and find extravagant excuses. You have become his god; 
and he is your child. And one day, as he bounds out on the 
street, careless in his delighted anticipation of a walk with you, 
the wheel of a motor-lorry goes over his little body. You pick 
him up and tenderly carry him into the house, and, as he licks 
your hand for the last time, you are blind with rage and with 
pain that is greater than his own. And, when he lies stiff and 
cold, a mere dead dog, you know the pangs of sorrow. You 
cannot bring yourself to throw him into the dust-bin. Half- 
ashamed of your actions, you bury him tenderly in the garden 
and plant a bush upon his grave; and his photo stands on the 
shelf over your fireplace, till it is faded and worn out, a reminder 
that love and loyalty are real and that the world is not whollv 
evil. 
Such is the sentiment of love in its simplest form.1 In this 
instance, the tender impulse of the protective or parental instinct 
is first directed to the object in the form of pitiful ministrations, 
and is evoked by the same object again and again. The affective- 
conative disposition from which it springs becomes in conse- 
quence firmly linked with the growing cognitive system of knowl- 
edge and belief about your little friend; so that every thought of 
him is tinged with that emotion; and, even when he angers you, 
your emotion is reproach, rather than crude anger. But the 
system becomes more complex by the linkage to it of other 
conative dispositions. Especially, your responsibility for the dog 
requires you to exert authority over him; and his submission to 
11 have chosen for description the love of a dog, in part because this may serve 
as a reductio ad absurdum of the Freudian dogma that all love essentially involves 
the sexual instinct. CHARACTER 
423 
your commands gratifies your self-assertive impulse; so that this 
disposition can hardly fail to enter into the sentiment.1 Again, 
the dog’s companionship brings into play and gratifies your 
need of company, that is to say, your gregarious impulse; and 
his unfailing responsiveness to your emotions and moods sets up 
between you the relation of active sympathy.2 
In these ways the sentiment of love, which began merely as 
pity, rendered habitual by repeated evocation, grows more com- 
plex and becomes the source of many and various emotional 
experiences, in which the primary and secondary emotional quali- 
ties are blended with the derived emotions in a multitude of 
different combinations 
Notice that, when any conative disposition has entered into 
the composition of a sentiment for one object, it is not monopo- 
lized by that sentiment; it remains, as before, ready to be brought 
into play sporadically by any appropriate object; and it is not 
precluded from becoming habitually directed upon other ob- 
jects, that is to say, from entering into other sentiments. A 
man may love his dog, without ceasing to love his wife or chil- 
dren; and his love for each such object is a distinct and separate 
sentiment, unique in composition and in the relative prominence 
of the several conative tendencies that are comprised in its sys- 
tem. Though it must be admitted that similar sentiments for 
distinct objects are to some extent rivals; because they draw 
upon or derive their energy from the same springs. Hence the 
man of a single love, or hate, is apt to manifest a more passionate 
intensity of emotion and to expend a greater quantity of energy 
in the service of the desires of his one sentiment, than the man of 
many loves, or hates, puts forth in relation to any one object. 
Sentiments of Contempt and Respect 
Beside love and hatred, we must notice two other great types 
of personal sentiment, namely, contempt and respect. 
1 In the attitude of some men toward their dogs this is the principal factor. 
They have little or no tenderness and a minimum of sympathy. When you see a 
man flourishing a long dog-whip, while several large and expensive dogs run at 
his heels, you may safely infer a crude sentiment of this kind. 
2 Cf. pp. 424 and 432. 424 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
Contempt, which in its milder forms may be called condescen- 
sion, is an habitual attitude of self-assertion and self-display 
over against the object of the sentiment. It may involve no 
other conative disposition than that of the self-assertive in- 
stinct; but it is apt to be associated with, and partly blended 
with, the form of self-regarding sentiment that is properly called 
pride, to form a bipolar sentiment of pride in oneself and con- 
tempt or condescension toward others.1 
Respect is the opposite of contempt. Imagine a fellow-student 
toward whom you have been indifferent or, perhaps, inclined to 
be faintly contemptuous. He is ill-dressed, has few friends, and 
no outward signs of distinction. Then you discover that he is 
a student of unusual brilliance; that he has worked his way 
through college in face of great difficulties, perhaps helping to 
support his mother at the same time, and that, before transfer- 
ring to this college, he has run a mile in four minutes and thirty- 
two seconds. Your attitude becomes one of enduring respect, 
or even of admiration. It is a sentiment of which the essential 
attitude is that of looking up to the object, the impulse is that 
of the submissive instinct; for he has shown, in certain regards, 
powers that are greater than your own. You have acquired an 
habitual deference or docility toward his opinions, admiration 
for his achievements, and respect for his personality as a whole. 
Sentiment of Friendship 
If, now, you are thrown together by your studies, you begin 
to rely upon one another, you exchange courtesies and services, 
you are mutually helpful; and, especially, you begin to find in him 
satisfaction of your social or gregarious impulse. When you get 
good or bad news, or think of a good joke, or see an exciting in- 
cident or a good play, you feel the need of telling it to some one; 
and, if your fellow-student responds to these communications 
by sharing in some degree your emotional reaction, you derive 
satisfaction from the fact, an increase of enjoyment or a diminu- 
tion of pain. In this way you gradually establish a relation of 
active sympathy with him. You no longer merely respect him, 
1 Cf. pp. 426 and 437. CHARACTER 
425 
and casually share in some degree his emotional reactions; but 
you actively seek to share your experiences with him. Further, 
in his time of trouble, you pity him; and you repeatedly have 
occasion to feel some gratitude for the services he renders you. 
In this way the tender impulse may find a subordinate place in 
your sentiment. That is the sentiment of friendship. It natu- 
rally tends to grow stronger and more enduring the greater the 
mass of memories that you have in common, especially mem- 
ories of events in which you have co-operated sympathetically. 
Whether all such memories should be regarded as forming a 
part of the sentiment, as entering into its constitution, it is not 
easy to say. But, certainly, in so far as you have exerted judg- 
ment and established beliefs about him, such as that he is the 
best fellow in the world, such beliefs are part of the system of 
the sentiment. 
The Tender Passion 
If this fellow-student is of the opposite sex, this sentiment 
may easily become more complex, chiefly by the association of 
two other impulses with the object, the inclusion of the affective- 
conative dispositions of two other instincts within the system of 
the sentiment. A certain physical weakness and delicacy (prob- 
ably moral also) about the normal young woman or girl con- 
stitute in her a resemblance to a child. This resemblance, 
working in the way that we have called intuition or implicit ap- 
perception,1 throws the man habitually into the protective atti- 
tude, evokes the impulse and emotion of the parental instinct. 
He feels that he wants to protect and shield and help her in 
every way. 
Lastly,2 the sexual impulse may add its immense energy to the 
system. Then, though kept in check by the tenderness and 
respect which are already established, it is apt to dominate the 
1 Cf. p. 391. 
2 It may be lastly, it may be firstly. Those attachments in which the sexual 
impulse begins to play its part in the relation late rather than early are, no doubt, 
the safer, the more likely to run a prosperous and enduring course. But it would 
be foolish to deny that, in some cases, a sentiment of the best type begins with an 
attraction which is predominantly sexual. 426 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
scene, for a time at least, becoming the principal source of the 
desires from which the whole gamut of the derived emotions 
repeatedly springs, and determining judgment and belief in the 
familiar way expressed in the dictum that love is blind. 
The Sentiment of Self-Regard 
We cannot fully describe the sentiment of love, in all the 
complexity of the most developed types, until we have con- 
sidered the sentiment of self-regard. This is the most import- 
ant of all the sentiments, by reason both of its strength and the 
frequency and far-reaching nature of its operations. 
A few words must be said about “self-consciousness” in gen- 
eral. Some psychologists make a great mystery of “conscious- 
ness of self.” But whatever mystery is involved in thinking of 
oneself is the mystery of thinking in general, of consciousness or 
awareness of anything. The mystery of self-consciousness is not 
a new and additional mystery. We have seen that our belief in 
things of all kinds, in continuously existing self-identical reali- 
ties, is founded upon our experiences of striving, of effort, of 
putting forth power or energy in the pursuit of our goals. One 
thinks of oneself as that which knows and strives, enjoys and 
suffers, remembers and expects. 
No doubt, this object is thought of very vaguely by the young 
child; but language quickly comes to his aid; and his own proper 
name becomes a handle by aid of which he gets hold of himself, 
acquires facility in thinking and speaking of himself as an agent, 
a striver, a desirer, a refuser. He learns to think of his limbs 
and other organs, as he learns to think of his toys and tools; but 
they are his in a peculiarly intimate sense. He controls them 
more easily than other things; and they are always with him; 
and his hurts and pains seem to be in them. But they remain 
his, not him; mine, not me; baby’s finger or foot, not baby him- 
self. Above all, other persons interest him; because they satisfy 
his wants, relieve his distress or fear, yield to or refuse his de- 
mands, or compel him against his best efforts. Hence they are 
very real to him; and his thinking of himself becomes richer in 
meaning, as he learns to think of them more adequately, to ex- CHARACTER 
427 
pect and remember, to yield, or to assert himself against them 
more effectively. 
Presently, these other persons begin to bring him rewards and 
punishments, praise and blame, approval and disapproval, ad- 
miration and contempt, reproach and ridicule. To these in- 
fluences he responds appropriately, asserting himself where he 
can, yielding submissively where he must, because he has within 
him the instincts of self-assertion and of submission. And, as 
he learns the meaning of his own emotional excitements in terms 
of the tendencies to action that go with them, so he learns to 
interpret the emotional expressions of others and to give, both 
to them and to his own stirrings, more or less appropriate names. 
Gradually he learns his own capacities and limitations, in rela- 
tion to things, to animals and to persons, learns his enduring 
likes and dislikes, his main tendencies, his strength and his 
weakness. 
Gradually he becomes extremely sensitive to the expressions 
of other persons toward himself; both because these expressions 
are significant of satisfactions and of pains to come, and because 
they bring immediate satisfactions and pains; the elation of 
praise and admiration, augmenting all his satisfactions of suc- 
cess; the pain of thwarted self-assertion and self-display, in- 
creasing the pains of failure. And, as he grows older, he real- 
izes that moral approval and moral censure represent, not only 
the attitudes of the person who administers them by word or 
glance, but also the attitudes of the world at large, of organ- 
ized society, with its fixed traditional code of right and wrong 
and its system of rewards and punishments; an immense vague 
power, which, when it confronts him with its “thou shalt not,” 
its vague threats, and its vague promises of great rewards, can 
hardly fail to evoke the submissive impulse. 
At last he learns, under the guidance, the suggestions, and the 
persuasions of those toward whom he is docile, to pass judgment 
upon himself as upon others, and so to build up a system of 
beliefs about himself and about conduct and character in general. 
In these ways the word “I” or “me” grows richer in meaning, 
as he builds up a system of beliefs about his own nature, a 
system of beliefs which is rooted in, because in the main sprung 428 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
from, the two great conative dispositions of self-assertion and 
submission.1 
This object “me” thus becomes represented in the structure 
of the mind by a system of dispositions of extraordinary extent 
and complexity, a system also which is associated with a multi- 
tude of past events and objects, located more or less definitely 
in time and place. And the conative dispositions of the system, 
being brought into play so frequently, by every social contact, 
whether actual or only imagined, become delicately responsive 
in an extraordinary degree, as well as very strong through much 
exercise. Such is the sentiment of self-regard. In the normal 
man, the two main tendencies of the sentiment, the impulses 
of self-assertion and submission, are duly balanced, and the 
sentiment is properly called “self-respect.” When the self- 
assertive tendency is unduly preponderant and takes the rela- 
tively passive form of finding satisfaction in merely contemplat- 
ing the superiorities of the self, of enjoying the elation brought 
by the deference and homage of others (whether actual or fancied 
only), we call the sentiment “pride ”; and when the superiorities 
(fancied or real) in which satisfaction is chiefly found are trivial 
or of the body merely, we call it “vanity.” When this impulse 
assumes a more active role and seeks progressively and insatiably 
to compel the admiration, deference, homage, and submission of 
an ever larger number of men, we call the sentiment “ambition” 
or the “will-to-power,” or, in extreme cases, “megalomania.” 
The Extension of Self-Regard 
Now notice how the impulses and desires of self-regard be- 
come extended beyond the actual bodily and mental self. One’s 
clothes, which so largely determine one’s appearance in the eyes 
of others, and which commonly do express in some degree one’s 
1 It is natural that this thinking of self, so rich in meaning and rooted in so ex- 
tensive a system of dispositions, one built up by a multitude of experiences, this 
“idea” of self, should present a special difficulty to those psychologists for whom 
“an idea” is merely a cluster of sensations and images. This banal doctrine 
seems threadbare to the point of absurdity, when we are told that the “meaning” 
of the words “my mother” or “my wife” is merely a cluster of images; and it 
collapses spontaneously when applied to that most complex of all “meanings,” 
the meaning of the word “myself.” CHARACTER 
429 
personality, are subject to the regards of others, their praise, 
admiration, approval, their ridicule, censure, or disapproval. 
Most of us are very sensitive to such regards; we react to them 
as we react to similar regards paid to our actual selves—with 
pleased elation in response to admiration and approval; in re- 
sponse to contempt or disapproval, with the pain of thwarted 
desire, or with that inharmonious and therefore unpleasant 
blend of self-assertion and submission which we call embarrass- 
ment. And, in this sphere also, the individual is felt to voice 
the opinion of the mass; so that, for many of us, conformity to 
the prevailing fashion in clothes becomes a prime essential for 
peace of mind. 
Again, the works of our hands and brains, whether it be a 
house, a picture, a book, or a furnished room, are subject to 
judgments which affect us hardly less than those passed upon 
our persons. And all our possessions, in so far as we have chosen 
or made them, or in any way expressed ourselves in them, are 
judged as such expressions. Hence our sentiment of self-regard 
is sensitive to all such judgments and attitudes expressed by 
others. This is the fact sometimes expressed by saying that all 
such things become part of the larger self, or are identified with 
oneself. 
The most important objects to which a man’s self-regard 
normally becomes extended are his family (especially his chil- 
dren) and other social groups of which he is a member, his 
school, his college, his city, his profession, his nation. For each 
such object, individual or collective, he may form some special 
sentiment; but, in each case, the person or group is a part also 
of his larger self, is more or less identified with himself and he 
with it, both in his own mind and by the world at large, and 
therefore is an object also of his self-regarding sentiment. For 
each such object he may be said, then, to acquire a compound 
sentiment.1 This is most obviously and generally true of a man’s 
children. The sentiment of love, which in its purest form is 
1 An ego-altruistic sentiment, which is both a form of self-regard and a love of 
the object. Such extensions of self-regard are facts of prime importance for all 
social life and for social psychology, as shown in my “Group Mind,” New York, 
1920. OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
wholly "disinterested,” that is to say altruistic, its main impulse 
being to protect and cherish its object, is complicated by the 
extension of self-regard to its object; for the child is rightly held 
by the world to express the parent, who therefore can hardly 
fail to be elated by the acknowledgment of its excellencies and 
pained and shamed on the display of its defects. In the loves 
of parents for their children these altruistic and egoistic con- 
stituents are present in very various degrees. 
We see, then, how very complex the sentiment of love nor- 
mally becomes: for even the already complex sentiment of the 
lover is apt to undergo this complication; especially when the 
loved person becomes his wife, the chosen embodiment of his 
ideals and, as the old phrase has it, the guardian of his honor. 
In those countries in which it is not unusual for a man to give 
his love to a mistress but to extend his self-respect to his wife, a 
man who follows this fashion runs the risk of disturbing inner 
conflicts which may easily prove disastrous. 
In common speech the word "love” is used with amazing 
laxity. Two ambiguities are chiefly noteworthy. First, com- 
mon speech does not distinguish clearly between the sentiment 
of love and the various emotional excitements which it calls 
"love.” It is clear, I think, that it is apt to give the name 
"love” to every emotional excitement in which the quality of 
"tender emotion” is prominent.1 
Secondly, common speech and thought, with that deep-lying 
tendency to accept as essentially alike whatever things are given 
the same name, fail to recognize the great variety of sentiments 
all of which may properly be called "love.” We speak of "the 
1 This ambiguity and the fact here indicated are well illustrated by that beauti- 
ful old sentence, “As a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that 
fear Him.” This element of tender emotion, with its impulse to cherish, succor, 
and protect, which enters into pity, gratitude, reverence, sorrow, and what is 
popularly called “sympathy,” and is the active root of all such qualities as charity, 
kindness, benevolence, mercy, and philanthropy, is what Schopenhauer called 
“loving-kindness” and rightly designated as the essential basis of all altruism, and 
hence of all true morality. For it is the one and only strictly altruistic element in 
human nature. Without it, a man might possibly learn to obey “the categorical 
imperative,” and even become a slave to duty; he might be just and upright and 
loyal to the group with which he was identified; but his justice would be untempered 
by mercy, his uprightness would be the honesty of the best policy, and his loyalty CHARACTER 
love of the mother for her child,” as though this phrase implied a 
sentiment of a perfectly definite type, the same in all instances; 
and the phrase has some justification, for it implies that type of 
love in which the tender protective impulse vastly predominates 
over all other factors. But we must recognize that each sen- 
timent for each object is unique. Even the mother of many 
children loves each child in a different way; her sentiment for 
each child is a distinct formation, having its own unique balance 
of tendencies. We see this clearly, if we contrast her love for 
her brilliant, masterful, successful son with her more purely ten- 
der and altruistic love for her little, crippled and, perhaps, men- 
tally defective daughter.1 
In respect not only of the self proper, but also of all the many objects that 
become “included in the larger self” or, more exactly, all the objects to which 
the sentiment of self-regard is extended, we are apt to be very sensitive to 
the collective voice of society, of the group, of public opinion, however ex- 
pressed. This is true, no matter what particular form the sentiment may 
take, whether pride, vanity, ambition, undue humility, or a well-balanced 
self-respect. To have the sentiment in any form is ipso facto to be sensitive 
to public opinion; for the two fundamental impulses of the sentiment are 
evoked not merely by the contemplation of the self, but by the attitudes of 
other men toward oneself; they are primitively, in their simplest and crudest 
operation, reactions towards other men; they are fundamentally social. It is, 
then, a serious error to pretend, as some writers do, to distinguish between 
our self-regarding tendencies and our regard for public opinion or the judg- 
would never prompt him to postpone his own good to that of his fellow-men. It 
is remarkable that Schopenhauer, after brilliantly vindicating the reality of this 
altruistic element in man against all the cynics and the pedants, ruined his psy- 
chologically true account by seeking an extravagant metaphysical explanation of 
the facts. Instead of identifying this altruistic element of human nature with 
that parental impulse which is so powerful in the higher animals, and which I have 
called Nature’s brightest invention, because it, and it alone, rendered possible all 
the higher development of mankind (cf. p. 130), Schopenhauer revoked his defense 
of the reality of altruism by explaining it away metaphysically, saying that, when 
we are moved to act on behalf of a fellow-creature, it is because we know uncon- 
sciously that all living creatures are one being. (Cf. “The Basis of Morals.”) 
11 do not delay to criticise in detail the popular Freudian dogma that all love is 
sexual. I reject it, not because it offends my “moral sense,” but because it is so 
obviously untrue and is based upon implicit reasoning which is so obviously falla- 
cious. The main fallacy is the common one that whatever things have the same 
name are essentially similar. Another is that, because children are produced 
through the agency of the sexual instinct, therefore all interest in them is sexual. 
These are supported by a number of false assertions, such as that the love between 
the parent and child of the opposite sex is always or usually stronger than between 432 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
ments of society upon us. Professor A. G. Tansley1 has elaborated this com- 
mon error most explicity. Using the word “complex” where I should use 
the word “sentiment,” he states that we must recognize in all normal men 
three great universal complexes, besides various minor complexes more or less 
peculiar to individuals. These three are said to be the “ego complex,” the 
“herd complex, ’ and the “sex complex”; and the two former are discussed 
as though they were entirely separate formations, with distinct spheres of 
operation and influence. Mr. Tansley seems to have fallen into this error 
through the persuasive influence of Mr. W. Trotter’s brilliant but “popular” 
little book, “The Instincts of the Herd,” in which all social phenomena, and 
especially all influences of society on the individual, are explained by uttering 
the blessed word, “herd-instinct.” I have recognized (Chapter V) that the 
human species has the gregarious instinct, and that the self-assertive and sub- 
missive impulses were presumably evolved or acquired by the race secondarily 
to the gregarious tendency. And I recognize that the gregarious instinct 
does play a part in giving society its great hold upon us, namely, as follows: Its 
impulse becomes on the human plane the desire, not only for the physical 
proximity of other human beings and for intercourse with them, but also for 
the sharing of our emotions with other men; for it is only then that the gre- 
garious impulse attains its fullest satisfaction. On the primitive human 
plane, this satisfaction is attained by physical immersion in the crowd; for 
then the primitive sympathetic tendencies2 secure uniformity of emotion in 
all members. On a higher and imaginative plane this desire for community 
of emotion becomes what I have called “the principle of active sympathy ”; 
that is to say, it prompts us to desire to be in emotional harmony with those 
about us, and it renders us uneasy and dissatisfied, so long as we feel that in 
any matter our emotional attitude is widely different from that of our group 
parent and child of the same sex. Again, all human relations are either relations 
between persons of opposite sex or between persons of the same sex; that is to say, 
all human relations are either heterosexual or homosexual; therefore all human 
relations are sexual and it is mere prudery (due to a repressed incestuous desire) 
to deny that your affection for your father or grandmother or your little daughter 
or grandson is sexual. The way in which such “reasonings” are accepted and 
repeated (for the most part implicitly) is melancholy evidence of the weakness of 
the human intellect. The sensational psychology, based on such rotten founda- 
tions as these, serves to sell the books which contain it by the hundred thousand; 
but I am not sure that the popular interest in psychology of this kind gives ground 
for rejoicing. It is useless to attempt to argue with a Freudian; he is a devotee of 
a sect, not a man of science, and, like all sectarian enthusiasts, he is impervious to 
the shafts of reason. If he is an unusually open-minded specimen, you may suc- 
ceed in pinning him down to the admission of the fallacies by which the sexual 
dogma is defended; but he will always elude you in the end, by retorting that 
Freud does not use the word sexual in the ordinary sense. And neither he nor 
Professor Freud himself will ever tell you in what sense he does use the word. The 
Freudian reasoning is in the main a peculiar process which can only be character- 
ized as “persuasion by innuendo.” I say this, while freely admitting that Pro- 
fessor Freud has rendered great services to psychology. What those services are 
I shall try to show in Part II. 
1 In his otherwise excellent book, “The New Psychology;” 2 Cf. p. 155. CHARACTER 
433 
or social circle. In matters in which society at large, including all the minor 
groups or circles of which we are members, expresses unmistakably a common 
emotional attitude, as in the fundamentals of common morality, this desire 
to be at one with our fellows works in fullest strength; and, if we find ourselves 
out of harmony with such general emotional attitudes, we cannot avoid some 
enduring uneasiness.1 In this accessory fashion, the impulse of the gregarious 
instinct works within the system of self-regard; the conative disposition of 
that instinct becoming incorporated in the sentiment. The self-regarding 
sentiment has, then, always as its object the self-in-its-social-setting, rather 
than a self thought of in isolation. This is true even of those persons who 
fail to develop any group loyalty, any sentiment of attachment to any group. 
But in the normal child, brought up in a reasonably harmonious family, some 
such sentiment of devotion to the family group can hardly fail to grow up, 
and to prepare the way for the development of similar sentiments for the larger 
groups of which the adult naturally becomes a member. And, when a man 
is a citizen of a nation that has a proud history and a great place in the world, 
he can hardly fail to develop some sentiment of devotion to that comprehen- 
sive group, some patriotic sentiment. In the patriotic sentiment, the pro- 
tective impulse and tender emotion may play so subordinate a part that it 
hardly can be called love. Yet, even then, patriotism is a potent factor; be- 
cause it is a form of extended self-regard, and because it is in some sense a 
synthesis of all a man’s loyalties to lesser groups—the crown of a system of 
group sentiments, all of which contribute something of their strength to this 
sentiment for the major object, the nation, which is seen and felt, more or 
less obscurely, to comprise and to be the guardian and preserver of all those 
lesser objects.2 
These group-sentiments, then, essentially involving extension of self-regard 
to the group, carry yet further that intimate connection in the mind which 
makes it impossible to think of the self apart from its social setting; a fact of 
fundamental importance which is ignored and implicitly denied by those who, 
like Messrs. Tansley and Trotter, describe the “ego complex” as one thing 
and the “herd complex” as another. 
This rapid sketch of the sentiment of self-regard and its many 
ramifications will serve to indicate how in the normal adult the 
fundamental impulses of the sentiment, those of self-assertion 
and submission, which on the plane of merely instinctive life are 
of relatively feeble and infrequent operation, become extremely 
sensitive and powerful and all-pervasive; for they are brought 
into play through so many channels, and so are strengthened by 
almost perpetual exercise. We see, then, why these impulses 
1 Perhaps the best illustrations of this are afforded by certain instances of high- 
minded persons who have decided that they were justified in defying the custom 
and moral code of their society in respect to marriage. 
21 have discussed the role of the group sentiments in more detail in my “Group 
Mind.” 434 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
become dominating factors of our personality; the sources of our 
most acute pains and of our most intense and enduring satisfac- 
tions; why disgrace and social ostracism are the severest penal- 
ties, and social esteem the most prized reward and the dearest 
and most enduring goal of our desire. It is said that some sav- 
ages have lain down and simply died under disgrace; and we 
know that many a man of higher culture has preferred death 
to dishonor, and that many another has sacrificed every other 
good in order to retrieve his position in the eyes of his fellows.1 
We see also why the desire for revenge is a so powerful and per- 
sistent motive of human action, at all levels of culture; for this 
desire, with its painful emotional excitement, which is sometimes 
called “ the emotion of revenge” (not mere anger, but anger 
rendered painful by an admixture of thwarted self-feeling, and 
perhaps also of fear) is essentially the desire "to get even with ” 
the adversary. It springs from the sentiment of self-regard, 
and is evoked, not by mere injury or aggression or obstruction, 
but by the injury that is combined with insult, that is to say, 
the injury which lowers us in our own eyes and in the eyes of 
the world. 
1 We may see also why the literary man and the artist so generally are extremely 
“touchy” or sensitive to all indications of approval and disapproval, so profoundly 
disturbed by disapproval, so absurdly elated by praise or appreciation. For men 
of these callings devote their best energies to work which is wholly designed to 
win the approval of their fellows and whose value can only be determined by the 
appraisal of the public. The carpenter, the engineer, or the chemist may find 
satisfaction in knowing that the creation of his hands and brain is being used by 
his fellow-men and contributing to their welfare, though they know nothing of his 
share in its production. But, if the public remains indifferent to the works of the 
writer or the artist, he can only console himself with the desperate hope that pos- 
terity will appreciate them. What writer of books has not lain awake long hours, 
in consequence of some depreciatory remark of an unknown critic; or has not felt 
half-ashamed of his own elation on finding some word of appreciation? We see 
also why ambition is “the last infirmity of noble minds.” The enormous power 
and imaginative range of this motive, the self-assertive impulse, are illustrated, in 
the most striking way of all, by the immense labors that are sustained by the desire 
of posthumous fame. If any reader is inclined to think that I overestimate the 
role of this impulse in human life, he should read Mr. Lytton Strachey’s “Emi- 
nent Victorians.” There he may learn how, in the most pious and philanthropic 
personalities, this protean impulse plays its subtle part in energizing action, sus- 
taining immense undertakings, and complicating the most admirable and altruistic 
motives. He should also reflect upon the dictum, “hell has no fury like a woman 
scorned.” CHARACTER 
435 
The Moral Sentiments 
Moralists have written many chapters about the moral sen- 
timents; but, with their confused popular terminology and their 
lack of psychology, they have not succeeded in throwing much 
light upon them. Yet the moral sentiments are real and im- 
portant constituents of character; not of all character, but of 
moral character. We speak of love of justice or of truth, hatred 
of cruelty or dishonesty, dislike of untidiness, and so on. These 
are not empty forms of speech. They denote real concrete sen- 
timents for abstract objects. It is possible to acquire a senti- 
ment for any object of which one can think, be it particular and 
concrete, or general or abstract. And any object, of any of these 
classes, of which we have occasion to think again and again with 
similar emotional stirrings, inevitably becomes the object of a 
sentiment of some sort, however rudimentary. Even our sen- 
timents may become objects of sentiments; that is the pecu- 
liarity of the “sentimentalist,” the “man of sentiment,” who 
cultivates and cherishes his sentiments, his patriotism, his reli- 
gion, his “honor,” his love of this or his hatred of that, for its 
own sake, because he has reason to think it a fine thing, a mark 
of distinction on which he prides himself. 
How, then, do we acquire these sentiments of like and dislike 
for moral qualities, qualities of character and conduct. In order 
to understand the process, we must realize that a large number 
of such moral sentiments are traditional in every nation; and 
that each social group within the nation that continues to exist 
from generation to generation has its own peculiar moral tradi- 
tion, consisting of the moral sentiments common to the whole 
nation, but modified by special emphasis on this or that senti- 
ment and by comparative indifference to other qualities. Thus, 
as is well known, every great profession has its own peculiarly 
modified form of the common moral tradition; and the same is 
true in less degree of every enduring community, such as a reli- 
gious sect or a great school or college. 
The isolated individual could never acquire more than the most 
rudimentary moral sentiments. In the first place, he needs the 
aid of language to enable him to think of the various moral 436 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
qualities as such. And as, with the aid of language, he learns to 
think of these abstract objects, he almost inevitably begins to 
build up sentiments about them: for the traditional emotional 
attitudes toward these objects are generally expressed by his 
fellows in words, in tone of voice, in gesture, or in other more 
energetic ways, whenever the objects are mentioned. Further, 
the child, when he comes into practical relations with persons 
by whom the various moral qualities are prominently displayed, 
experiences in his own person pleasant and unpleasant effects. 
Such experiences give richer meaning and emotional reality to 
the words by which the moral qualities are denoted. 
But, in the main, it is by sympathetic contagion and by 
suggestion from admired personalities that the child’s moral 
sentiments are shaped. Admiration for a person is itself a sen- 
timent, one which is apt to develop into love or reverence, 
though it does not necessarily do so.1 It is an habitual attitude 
of submission and of wonder in face of the admired person; and 
the child who has acquired this sentiment for an older person 
can hardly fail to share contagiously his emotional reactions to 
acts and qualities of character, and to accept his judgments 
upon them; and also he will in all probability desire to be, or to 
become, like the admired person, and therefore to cultivate, 
more or less deliberately, the moral as well as the physical atti- 
tudes of that person. As the child becomes acquainted with 
literature and art, his range and choice of models for admiration 
are vastly increased; and he may find his moral hero in some 
legendary or historical personality, in Socrates or Jesus, St. Francis 
of Assisi or Robert the Bruce, Washington or Lincoln or Flor- 
ence Nightingale, Buffalo Bill or Jack Kelly. The influence of 
such personalities may, for a time, far outweigh that of all the 
persons with whom he comes into actual contact. But, in the 
end, the moral sentiments of the group in which his life is mainly 
passed tend to mould his into conformity with themselves; for 
his group enforces its traditional code with rewards or punish- 
ments, praise or blame, admiration or scorn and ridicule, accord- 
ing as he conforms in word and deed, or rebels and stands apart. 
And, if a man belongs to several groups, each having a distinct 
*Cf. pp. 333 and 424. CHARACTER 
437 
code, he will, as it is picturesquely said, be liable to develop 
as many distinct selves; or, more accurately, he will, in each of 
these moral atmospheres, be liable to conform to it by empha- 
sizing this or that member of his system of moral sentiments. 
It is a peculiarity of our moral sentiments that each one is apt 
to be bipolar. For each moral quality that we name and recog- 
nize has its opposite; and, in learning to love the one, we can 
hardly fail to learn to hate in some degree its opposite. Justice 
and injustice, kindness and cruelty, honesty and dishonesty, truth 
and falsity, loyalty and disloyalty, are such pairs of opposites. 
According to a man’s native disposition and the course of his ex- 
perience, his moral sentiments will tend to be more of the positive 
nature of love, or of the negative nature of hate; but he can 
hardly love justice without in some degree hating injustice; 
though perhaps the converse proposition is not generally true. 
And our bipolar moral sentiments are apt to manifest themselves 
more energetically at the negative pole, as impulses of anger, 
disgust, and contempt, than as positive efforts on behalf of the 
esteemed qualities. 
Consider a single instance the formation of a bipolar senti- 
ment of hatred of cruelty and love of kindliness. The child en- 
counters cruelty, at an age when he is already familiar with 
kindliness under many forms; it may be cruelty directed toward 
himself or toward some animal, perhaps his cherished kitten. 
In either case, he angrily resents it; in the former case, because it 
thwarts him in some way (and in this case probably fear mingles 
with his anger); in the second case, because it thwarts his tender 
protective impulse. Repetitions of such experiences confirm 
and render habitual these emotional attitudes toward the per- 
son or persons whose cruelties he encounters. He soon learns to 
apply the adjective “cruel”; and, from this, it is a small step, 
under the guidance of language and precept and example, to think 
of cruelty in the abstract as something hateful, something the 
mere thinking of which suffices to stir his emotional resentment; 
thus he becomes able to say truly “I can’t bear cruel people,” 
or “I hate cruelty.” In similar ways, he soon learns to say 
“That is a kind man; I like people who are kind.” And then, 
as he realizes that cruelty and kindliness are opposite and in- 438 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
compatible qualities, the two incipient sentiments co-operate, 
and, in co-operating, become fused to one. 
The moral sentiments give to conduct a greater consistency 
than it could have in their absence. The child with a tender 
heart will generally be kindly; yet he may be found by an elder 
curiously tearing to pieces a living fly, or making dreadful experi- 
ments on a frog or a worm, or even on his own pet kitten. Then, 
when he is told, “That’s cruel,” or “That’s cruelty,” he will, if 
he has learned the meaning of the words and acquired in some 
degree a hatred of cruelty, realize the truth of their application 
to his own action and will not so readily, so “thoughtlessly,” 
as we say, repeat such actions. 
This stabilizing influence of the moral sentiments has been 
made the subject of experiments which reveal instructively how 
importantly they contribute to consistency of right conduct and 
how insufficient is the “habit theory,” which so many practical 
moralists unduly stress, and which so many psychologists would 
falsely make the key to all problems of human conduct and ani- 
mal behavior. A mere habit of action is specific, peculiar to the 
particular circumstances under which it has been induced. A 
sentiment for a particular quality of conduct or character is 
perfectly general in its application and influence; for language 
and the powers of abstraction and induction here perform for 
the moral nature a service similar to that rendered by them to 
the intellect. 
The experiment I refer to consisted in developing assiduously, 
in a class of school-children, a habit of neatness and tidiness in 
respect of one particular task. The habit was readily acquired 
in various degrees by all the children; but it was observed that, 
as might be expected, it had no “spread”; the quality of tidiness 
did not transfer itself to other tasks and daily actions. In re- 
spect of these, the children remained as untidy as before. Then 
a sentiment for tidiness as a general quality was cultivated in 
them; and soon its effect was manifest throughout a wide range 
of behavior: for the average child can readily apply for himself 
such an abstract term to kinds of behavior and to situations to 
which he has not heard it applied, and so can bring his growing 
sentiment into play.1 
1 Cf. W. C. Ruediger, “ Educational Review,” Vol. XXXIV. CHARACTER 
439 
Every man, then, inevitably acquires a number of moral senti- 
ments; and moral culture largely consists in the refinement and 
harmonization of these sentiments by reflection and reasoning 
upon the various qualities of character and conduct; for, by such 
reflection and reasoning, we become able to think of these quali- 
ties with greater precision and to form well-grounded beliefs as 
to their relative values or importance. 
Moral Character 
In comparison with the great sentiments of self-regard and 
of love and hate for persons and with the stronger of the crude 
instinctive promptings, the impulses of anger, fear, hunger, and 
lust, in comparison with any of these, the moral sentiments are 
but feeble springs of action. We have, then, still to inquire, 
“How is the conduct of a good man constantly regulated in ac- 
cordance with his moral sentiments ? By what magic do these 
relatively weak tendencies of the moral sentiments control those 
immensely powerful impulses? How are we to explain the fact 
that in some cases men have been able, when perishing of thirst 
or hunger, to pass the cup or the crust to another, saying “His 
need is greater than mine”; or to forgive a gross and wanton in- 
jury; or to stand fast when shaken by horrible fear; or to resist 
a fierce sexual temptation ? 
This is the crux of the problem of moral conduct.1 Shall we 
be content to say, with Plato and some modern moralists,2 that 
Divine Reason sits in the head, controlling fierce passions that 
reside in the belly, as a charioteer controls with whip and rein 
a team of savage steeds ? Hardly! Reasoning plays an im- 
portant part, as we have recognized, in refining and harmonizing 
the moral sentiments. And reasoning may help us to acquire a 
moral creed, a belief that some one formula may express the ulti- 
mate goal of moral effort; such as “the greatest happiness of the 
1 It was well defined by William James as follows: Ideal impulse Instinctive 
propensity; Ideal impulse + X Instinctive propensity. The problem then is— 
What is this X which turns the scale of the moral conflict in favor of the ideal 
impulse, the prompting of a moral sentiment, and enables it to triumph over the 
far stronger instinctive propensity ? 
2 Cf. Dean Hastings Rashdall’s “Is Conscience an Emotion?” and my reply 
in The Hibbert Journal, 1920. 440 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
greatest number”; or “self-development”; or “the promotion of 
the good”; or “the realization of the good life”; or “the promo- 
tion of the higher culture”; or “the realization of the perfect 
State.” And reasoning also helps us to determine what forms of 
conduct and what qualities of character are most conducive to 
the realization of the highest good, however we may have de- 
fined it. But “Reason” is not a conative energy that may be 
thrown on this side or that, in our moral conflicts.1 Reason is 
not that X of which we are in search; though it plays an import- 
ant part in bringing that X to bear. 
Shall we say, with the utilitarian divines of the eighteenth 
century, that fear of punishment or desire of reward in the life 
after death is this moral X? The doctrine is sufficiently ex- 
ploded; though it has some truth as applied to particular cases. 
Shall we say, with Shaftesbury, that this X is “good taste”? 
Or, with Bishop Butler, that it is “conscience” ? Or, with Adam 
Smith, that it is “the impartial spectator within the breast”? 
Or, with James and many others, that it is “ the fiat of the Will ” ? 
No one of these statements can be said to be wholly false. But, 
recognizing that each of them is vaguely true, we still have to 
ask, “What is ‘good taste’? What is ‘Conscience’? What is 
this ‘man within the breast’? What is the ‘will’ and what is 
its ‘ fiat ’ ? And how do these agents effect these marvels of the 
moral life?” 
The approximately true answer to these questions has been 
given, I believe, in my “Social Psychology.” I will restate it 
here very briefly. The X, the unknown quantity of which we 
are in search, is always an impulse awakened within the senti- 
ment of self-regard. It is the desire that I, the precious self, 
that being which I conceive proudly or humbly, more or less 
adequately, more or less truly, and more or less clearly, accord- 
1 As well say that the Reason of Marshal Foch was the force which, in the last 
stage of the Great War, gave victory to the Allies. The forces concerned were the 
vital energies of the armies and the physical energies of the mechanisms of war. 
The Reason or intellect of Foch, by directing those energies, assembled and applied 
them in the most effective manner, without being itself an energy that could by 
mere addition make an appreciable difference. It is the paradox of Intelligence 
that it directs forces or energies without being itself a force or energy. This point 
will be developed in the chapter on “Body and Mind” in Part II. CHARACTER 
441 
ing to the degree of development of my powers, the desire that 
this self shall realize in action the ideal of conduct which it has 
formulated and accepted. 
The way in which moral sentiments are built up has been suf- 
ficiently indicated. The ideal of character is the synthesis or 
harmonized system of moral sentiments. We have seen, also, 
why it is that a man is swayed so powerfully by the regards of 
his fellow-men, and strives to conform, or to appear to conform, 
to the standards demanded by his social group. The only seri- 
ous problem that remains is: How is it possible that, in the 
highest flights of moral effort, a man may stand apart from his 
group and from the whole of organized society, defying the gen- 
eral opinion and the forcibly expressed common sentiments, and 
saying “You are mistaken; this is right and I will do it, though 
I go to prison and disgrace, or to hell” ?1 
It is, I think, true to say that, even in the most extreme of 
such cases, the explanation is not in principle other than that 
we have found for the more ordinary type of moral struggle, in 
which a man’s self-regard is thrown on the side of some generally 
approved moral sentiment and carries it to victory over some 
stronger cruder tendency. The difference is in the nature of the 
social group, the body of spectators, the tribunal, before which 
the subject imaginatively displays himself, in whose eyes he de- 
sires to stand well. The man who stands up against the pre- 
vailing public opinion and sentiment is the man who has found 
some higher court of appeal, the verdict of which he esteems 
more highly, whose disapproval he shrinks from more sensitively, 
and whose approval he desires more strongly, than that of the 
mass of mankind. 
This court, this tribunal, may be his particular moral hero or 
select group of heroes; it may be his dead mother, or his best 
friend; it may be what he believes to be the group consisting of 
the best men of all ages; it may be the Christian saints; or it 
may be God. And, when he resists the temptation to follow the 
1 However strongly we may disagree with the ultra-pacifists, we must, I think, 
recognize that some of the “conscientious objectors” of the Great War nearly 
achieved this sublime superiority to the opinion of the mass of their fellow-men. 
Of course, each of them knew that he was not entirely alone, that there were others 
like himself who approved his line of conduct. 442 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
easier way, he believes that, though his chosen line of conduct 
may never become known to this tribunal, yet, if it were known, 
it would be approved; and he believes that its opposite would be 
condemned or regretted. In short, he has learned to judge his 
conduct as it would appear to a purely ideal spectator, and to be 
moved to assert himself as that which this spectator would ap- 
prove. In this way, by the construction of an ideal in which his 
moral sentiments are synthesized and harmonized, a man may 
become, as it is said, a “law unto himself.” This is not the 
place to discuss the ethical status of such conduct, its advantages 
and its very real dangers. We are here only concerned with 
the psychological principles involved in such moral autonomy. 
Volition 
Conduct of the type we have last discussed is generally ad- 
mitted to involve volition in the fullest sense. It is decision 
and action in the line of most resistance, after moral conflict and 
deliberation. The student may ask “What, then, is the Will? 
And what is Conscience?” The answer is that neither “the 
Will” nor “Conscience” is a faculty, an entity of any kind, dis- 
tinct from the rest of the personality. “The Will” is character 
in action; and “Conscience” is moral character—character de- 
veloped under moral guidance, character in which the moral 
sentiments are duly incorporated in the system of the sentiments 
and, through the medium of the sentiment of self-regard, are 
given due weight in all moral issues; character consolidated by 
habitual and consistent decision and action, in accordance with 
the promptings of the moral sentiments and of an unyielding 
self-respect. 
It is worth while to support this brief account of moral char- 
acter and volition, by considering certain defects of character 
and some peculiar and lower forms of volition. Notice first that 
character goes to pieces and volition is undermined, if self-respect 
is destroyed. This is what so often happens to the man who 
becomes the victim of alcohol or of other such drugs. In the 
good old days, when every gentleman was carried to bed in his 
boots five nights a week, a man could drink heavily with little CHARACTER 
443 
loss of self-respect; and he was under no temptation to take to 
secret drinking; and might remain a reasonably efficient mem- 
ber of society, so long as his liver and his brain-cells withstood 
the chronic poison. In the modern world there are but few 
social circles which will continue to approve or to tolerate the 
habitual drunkard; his self-respect is therefore in more dan- 
ger than his liver. The loss of will-power that necessarily fol- 
lows a severe blow to a man’s self-respect was one of the strik- 
ing features of the so-called “shell-shock” cases so frequent in 
the War. In all such cases, the only means of retrieving char- 
acter and will-power is to restore self-respect; everything that 
contributes to that is good; everything that makes in the other 
direction confirms the condition. The beachcomber of the 
magic isles of the Pacific is the extreme type of the man who has 
lost self-respect and therefore has no “Will.” To lose the respect 
of others is only the first step on this path of disintegration of 
character. So long as a man still believes in himself and is 
capable of shame and of resenting an insult, his case is not 
hopeless. But, as soon as he can say “ I’m a rotter,” and doesn’t 
care who knows it, he is beyond the power of human aid. 
At the other end of the scale of sheer will-power, is the man 
who has made a cult of self-control, the man who habitually 
and ostentatiously denies himself every indulgence, who in win- 
ter daily breaks the ice of the public pond to take his morning 
bath, who can always be relied upon to tackle the disagreeable 
task shunned by others, who finds his chief satisfaction in prov- 
ing to himself and to the world that he can do the hard thing. 
Such moral athletes are the victims of an ideal of character 
which, admirable as it is, tends to make a narrow, hard, and 
unintelligent personality. Some such ideal seems to have been 
traditional in those tribes of North American Indians whose 
young men subjected themselves publicly to bodily tortures. 
The same geographical area seems now to be producing a some- 
what similar ideal, the ideal of “aggressiveness,” the ideal of 
the “hustler,” who, without knowing what he wants, is deter- 
mined to get it at all costs. 
Another type of strong will-power is that of the naturally 
self-assertive man who is but little given to reflection upon him- 444 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
self and who has no clearly formulated ideal. He may be slow 
to undertake any task; but, once set upon it, he pursues his goal 
with the utmost tenacity, not merely because he is by nature of 
steadfast temper,1 of that constitution in which all conations 
are persistent, but also because his self-assertive tendency is 
evoked by every difficulty. To such a man, every check, whether 
from human or other source, is an immediate challenge and 
stimulus to increased effort. Recently, after a rainy day, I set 
out for an evening stroll, in company with a square-jawed extro- 
vert. Our purpose was merely to get a little exercise and fresh 
air. Sighting a deserted farm-house, on a hill a little way from 
the road, we turned toward it, moved merely by a very mild 
curiosity. Very soon we had lost our direction among the trees. 
The mosquitoes swarmed, it was unpleasantly damp underfoot, 
and the undergrowth was dense. But in vain I suggested a 
return to the road. My companion kept trying one direction 
after another. At last I put it to him, “Why are you so set on 
finding that house?” At once the reply came, “Oh ! I hate to 
be beaten.” And, pace our Freudian friends, I believe his reply 
expressed the whole truth. Of this type is the inveterate rock- 
climber, who, caring nothing for scenery and bored by a walk 
over the hilltops, spends every holiday in scrambling up “chim- 
neys” and precipices and in devising new and more difficult ways 
of getting to the top of a mountain. 
Somewhat similar is the motive of the financier or business 
man who sets out to make a fortune and who, having made it, 
cannot rest or take up any rational mode of life, but persists in 
seeking new worlds to conquer. The repeated satisfactions of 
his self-assertive impulse, attained along the one line of activity, 
have confirmed him in that line; and he can anticipate no suc- 
cess along any other. 
Yet another type of specialized and unbalanced character is 
that formed under the influence of a master sentiment for some 
one object. The object may be a person, or an animal, or a 
house; it may be “the single-tax” or “prohibition”; it may be 
old china, or pewter, or first editions, or beetles. In respect of all 
other goals, the man may be vacillating and weak; but in respect 
1 cf. p. 352. CHARACTER 
445 
of his one hobby, he shows the utmost persistence. Such activity 
in its simpler forms can hardly be called volitional; yet the mas- 
ter-sentiment serves to give consistency to conduct and a cer- 
tain firmness to character. 
The contrast between the man of the last type and the moral 
athlete illustrates an important fact, namely, that the self- 
assertive impulse is unique in that it is a motive of universal 
applicability; whereas every other motive is more or less restricted 
in the range of objects and situations by which it may be brought 
into play. Even a universal love for mankind, or for all living 
things, may leave a man irresolute and weak in many situations. 
But the self-assertive impulse, made strong and delicately respon- 
sive by much and varied exercise, may come to the reinforcement 
of any other motive and may support us to the bitter end in any 
task, trivial or serious, to which we have once set our hands. 
Resolve 
Some authors have asserted that volition always involves ex- 
plicit judgment, the judgment “I will do this.” This seems to 
me to restrict the term “volition” unduly. There are many 
actions, even among those that succeed to deliberation, which, 
as it seems to me, may properly be called volitional (because the 
issue of a balance or conflict of desires is determined by the 
accession of an impulse from the sentiment of self-regard) and 
which nevertheless are preceded by no explicit judgment. Never- 
theless, in the most developed or complete volitions, explicit 
judgment does precede action. This is most clear in respect of 
deliberate decision or choice of alternative goals, with resolve to 
act in a certain manner when and if the occasion shall arise. In 
such cases of decision preceded by reasoned deliberation, we 
have the most intimate and subtle interplay of the cognitive 
and the conative processes. 
Without conflicting motives, we do not deliberate on our 
choice of goal; though we may deliberate on choice of means to a 
goal already adopted. In such cases the choice of means is a 
process as nearly purely intellectual as any can be; our desire is 
simply to know what are the best means for the purpose in hand. 446 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
The choice of a goal, on the other hand, is always a process in 
which desire largely determines judgment; and in this case every 
anticipated circumstance or result of action influences us, accord- 
ing as it promises to promote or thwart our conation, strengthen- 
ing or checking our inclination toward this or that goal. Yet, 
when the decision is reached, the process of deliberation ter- 
minates in an explicit judgment, expressed in some such assertion 
as “That is my line,” “That’s what I will aim at.” By such 
judgment a belief is established, a belief which, like all beliefs, 
tends to endure in its own right. But, if the moment for action 
is long postponed, the volitional process may renew itself to 
sustain and confirm this belief. The appeal is again to the senti- 
ment of self-regard; and we say “No, I must not change my 
mind; that would be weak. I must be resolute and hold to my 
choice, or I shall seem like a poor volatile creature.” In some 
persons this form of volition gives rise to an unintelligent ob- 
stinacy. 
The role of judgment and belief in volition may also be illus- 
trated negatively. If, in the process of deliberation as to the 
choice of goals, I become persuaded in any way that one of the 
alternative goals is impossible of attainment, then I am thereby 
prevented from judging that I shall attain it; then also I am pre- 
vented from willing that goal, no matter how strongly the mo- 
tives urging me toward it may predominate over all others. If, 
on the other hand, I am led to believe, whether by pure sugges- 
tion (as in the hypnotic subject) or by reasoning or persuasion, 
that I shall strive for a certain goal or shall perform a certain 
action at a given moment in the future, this belief will greatly 
facilitate such action when the time comes, rendering effective a 
motive which otherwise might be too weak to determine action. 
Freedom of the Will 
I have made it clear, I hope, that in my view the resolutions of 
the will are not “bolts from the blue,” of a nature unconnected 
with the lower or more primitive functions of the organism. 
Will, as I have said, is character in action; and in our most com- 
plete volitions, following upon deliberation, the intellect co- CHARACTER 
447 
operates fully with character. Volition then becomes the ex- 
pression of the whole personality. But it is still the working of 
the conative impulses that spring from the instinctive disposi- 
tions, impulses working, not sporadically and in detachment from 
one another, but within a delicately balanced and more or less 
harmonious and unitary system. Does it then follow that we 
must accept the determinist position, must deny completely all 
freedom of the will, all power of voluntary decision to influence 
a course of events which has been predetermined from the begin- 
ning of the world ? Or may we believe that the course of things 
is not strictly determined and predictable, and that human de- 
cisions are what they seem to be, real determinants, new begin- 
nings from which new lines of determination run on into the 
future ? To me it seems that all we know of Nature and of the 
human mind justifies the latter alternative. The only ground 
for doubting it, offered by the strict determinists, is their belief 
in the universality of “the law of causation.” But this belief, 
however stated, is not susceptible of being proved. 
The determinist argument explicitly stated runs in some such 
way as follows: Similar (or the same) causes produce similar (or 
the same) effects. This human decision is a similar effect, there- 
fore it has a similar cause. This syllogism is obviously foolish. 
Both its premises are gratuitous assumptions; and in no way can 
we establish premises from which the determinist conclusion fol- 
lows. If it be said that some such major premise as “all events 
are strictly determined or caused ” is a necessity of thought, we 
may point to the various scientists and philosophers who tell us 
that any such assumption is ridiculous, that the notion of 
cause and effect always has been obscure and muddled, incapa- 
ble of being clearly thought or expressed, and that, however use- 
ful it may have been and still may be in a limited way, it has 
had its day and now is merely a clog on speculation. 
That the human mind, in its highest flights, creates new things, 
thinks in ways that have never been thought before, seems un- 
deniable in face of any of the great works of genius. Those who 
tell us that the mere shuffling of the letters of the alphabet in a 
dice-box will produce a great work of literary art, or even a single 
perfect verse, may be speaking literal truth, if we grant them 448 
OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
the continuation of the process through unlimited time. But 
the striking peculiarity of the human race is that, in the last few 
thousand years, it has produced such things, created such novel- 
ties, over and over again. 
If, then, the human mind is greatly creative in its highest 
forms and flights, how can we deny that it may be creative, in 
a small way, in the moral struggles of the common man. By 
a long series of such creative acts on the part of men both 
great and small, the moral tradition, the highest product of 
organic evolution, has been painfully and slowly evolved. Why 
should we doubt that organic evolution is a creative process 
and that Mind is the creative agency? We have no theory of 
organic evolution remotely adequate to the problem. But it 
seems clear that any theory which ignores Mind condemns itself 
to triviality. 
The belief in a certain creative power of original determina- 
tion is a necessity of our moral nature. Without it, we are 
paralyzed; unless we suffer a degree of dissociation which per- 
mits us to hold, like the insane patient, incompatible beliefs. 
The belief in “strict determinism’’ on the part of a man who 
actively pursues his goals and puts forth strenuous efforts is, 
then, merely a symptom of mental disorder of so mild a nature 
that there may be good hope of his recovery. 
The Main Stages of Evolution 
I have tried to show my reader that the modes of purposive 
striving form a continuously graded series, from the pursuit of 
its prey by the Amoeba to the moral struggles of Man. Never- 
theless, it is useful to distinguish a number of stages in this evo- 
lutionary scale, as follows: (i) The vague, almost undifferenti- 
ated striving of the animalcule in pursuit of his prey. (2) The 
strivings of animals in which the instincts are sharply differen- 
tiated and directed toward specific goals that are vaguely antici- 
pated by the creature. (3) The instinctive strivings of primi- 
tive man toward goals more fully imagined and anticipated; the 
strivings of instinctive desire. (4) The strivings of men 
prompted by desire for instinctive goals, but directed also to CHARACTER 
449 
goals which are conceived and desired only as means to the 
instinctive goal. (5) Conduct of the lower level; that is, in- 
stinctive desire regulated and controlled, in the choice of means, 
by anticipation of rewards and punishments. (6) Conduct of 
the middle level; that is, the same instinctive impulses regulated 
in the choice of goals and of means by anticipation of social 
approval and disapproval. (7) Conduct of the higher level; 
that is, striving regulated in the choice of goals and means by 
the desire to realize an ideal of character and conduct, a desire 
which itself springs from an instinctive disposition whose im- 
pulse is turned to higher uses by the subtle influences of organ- 
ized society embodying a moral tradition. 
Such are the seven ages of life through which we all must 
pass, as our ancestors have passed before us. Does the future 
hold further and higher stages of evolution ? Who shall say ? 
Some Problems of the Future 
In the foregoing pages I may seem to the reader to have writ- 
ten dogmatically and arrogantly; as though I believed that my 
account of mental process and mental structure is true, or truer 
than any other. But I believe only that it is the best I have 
been able to achieve by thirty years of strenuous study. I 
know that my conclusions are only working hypotheses, which 
may be far more wrong than right, and which at the best are 
only the crude foundations for psychology. It may help the 
student, if I try to define here some urgent problems in respect 
of which, as it seems to me, we are still almost wholly in the 
dark. For I am anxious above all to avoid giving the impres- 
sion that psychology has hitherto done more than make a fair 
beginning. And in this science, more than in most others, the 
adequate statement of problems is difficult and important. 
i. What are the nature and extent of the innate basis of the 
mind ? This problem has two main divisions: (a) What are the 
nature and extent of the conative basis? If the account I have 
given of the instinctive basis is in the main on the right lines, 
are the instinctive dispositions inherited as simple unit factors? 
Or are they in some degree organized, or predisposed by heredity OUTLINE OF PSYCHOLOGY 
to become organized, in the great sentiments common in some 
degree to all men ? And, especially, is there any innate predis- 
position to the growth of moral sentiments ? (b) Is there any 
innate basis of intellectual development other than the instincts, 
the plasticity of the nervous system, and that general power of 
adaptation to novel conditions which in these pages has been 
called “ Intelligence” or, in its higher manifestations, “sagacity” ? 
Is there some inborn impulse, distinct from the impulses of the 
instincts, which functions in some general way to promote intel- 
lectual growth ? Is there anything in our innate endowment 
that in any manner or degree justifies the old doctrine of “innate 
ideas”? Are there any innate cognitive dispositions, beyond 
those involved in the structure of the instincts ? The same prob- 
lems may be stated in a more concrete fashion, as follows: What 
is the innate basis of the special intellectual aptitudes which dis- 
tinguish one man from another and often seem to run in families 
and to crop out in various members of successive generations ? 
It does not seem probable that these differences and likenesses 
can be explained in terms either of environmental influences or 
of accidents of the spontaneous developmental processes. 
The doctrine of association of “ideas,” from Locke and Hume 
onward, has masked and confused these fundamental questions. 
These and many other problems are bound up with that major 
problem which, throughout this book, I have consistently 
avoided, namely, the problem of the relation of mind to matter, 
of soul to body. I have aimed only at inducing in the student 
an open mind toward this master problem, so central for both 
psychology and philosophy, insisting only that, so far as we can 
at all see at present, purposive action cannot profitably or 
plausibly be regarded as a special case of mechanical process. 
The disorders of mental life, the abnormal and quasi-abnormal 
modes of mental functioning, have very intimate bearing upon 
this great problem: therefore I have postponed all discussion of 
it to the final chapters of the book on abnormal mental proc- 
esses which, I hope, may follow and supplement this volume. INDEX 
Acquisitive instinct, 161 
Active sympathy, 424, 432 
Admiration, 332, 436 
Adrenalin, 323 
.Esthetic attitude, 376 
Affectability, 353 
Affection, 266 
Alms-giving, 122 
Altruistic factor, 138, 430 
Ambition, 428 
Ammophila, 87, 90 
Amnesia, 311 
Amoeba, 64 
“An instinct” justified, 103, 166 
Animal and human minds, 57 
Anoetic experience, 268 
Anthropology and psychology, 12 
Anticipation, 45, 198, 291 
Anxiety, 339 
Apes, 136, 138, 153, 155, 162, 200, 201 
Appeal, instinct of, 163 
Apperception, 386 
Appetite, 101 
Applications of psychology, 9 
Arey and Crozier, 8s 
Aristotle, 269, 401 
Assimilation, 397 
Association, 392 
Association psychology, 20; and percep- 
tion, 248 
Associative reproduction, 397 
Atomistic psychology, 16, 18 
Attention, 265; is conative, 271; degrees 
of, 278; reversion of, 281; distribution 
of, 281 
Aversion, 148 
Awe, 334 
Bain, A., 20, 269 
Beavers, 183 
Bee’s homing, 83 
Beggar, 122 
Behavior, marks of, 43 
Behaviorists, 26, 30 
Belief, 362; and conation, 365, 368; in 
reality, 369; in things, 369; and pur- 
pose, 371; and resistance, 372, 374; in 
dreams, 372; and desire, 376 
Beliefs, 376; and mental structure, 377; 
general, 400; systems of, 414; incon- 
sistent, 415; in sentiments, 425 
Bentham, j., 268 
Bergson, 39, 87, 298; on instinct, 70; on 
laughter, 166 
Berkeley and ideas, 13 
Bethe, A., on homing, 81 
Bipolar sentiments, 437 
Birds, adaptability of, 95 
Birds’ homing, 86 
Bodily adjustments in emotion, 321 
Bouvier, 84, 90 
Box experiment, 196 
Brown, W., 302 
Byron, 169 
Cage experiment, 194 
Cannon, W. B., 322 
Cathedrals, 335 
Cave and Mowgli, 209 
Chagrin, 343 
Chain-instinct, 75 
Character, 379, 417, 439 
Chimpanzees, 136, 138, 153, 155, 201 
Choice of goal, 446 
Claparede, 165 
Coenesthesis, 357 
Cognition, pure, 255; a faculty, 260, 262 
Cognitive dispositions, 247, 259; struc- 
ture, 259, 379 
Coleridge, S. T., 245 
Color-vision, 224 
Comparison, 309, 385 
Competition, 172 
Complexes, 417 
Conation and feeling, 267; outlasts cog- 
nition, 282; and emotion, 320 
Conative unity, 277; experience, 317 
Concentration, 278 
Conception, 254 
Condescension, 424 
Conditional reflexes, 25, 55 
Confidence, 339 
Conflict, 330 
Conscience, 422, 440 
Conscientious objectors, 441 INDEX 
452 
Consciousness as a light, 15, 17; science 
of, 16; and experience, 16; as stuff, 18; 
as spectator, 21 
Consistency, 438 
Constructive instinct, 162 
Contempt, 423 
Courageous action, 2x7 
Courtship of Mowgli, 211 
Craig, W., on doves, 97; on combat, 139, 
14i 
Cravings, 149 
Crayfish, 187 
Creation and mechanism, 447 
Creative power, 447 
Crusoe, Robinson, 413 
Curiosity, 142 
Curve of obliviscence, 295 
Cycle of mental activity, 265 
Darwin, C., 321 
Darwinism, 31 
Deductive reasoning, 408 
Defects of character, 442 
Definition of psychology, 1, 37 
Delayed reaction, 201 
Deliberation, 445 
Derived emotions, 338 
Descartes, 311, 344; and reflex action, 5 
Desire, 206; and imagination, 312 
Despair, 339; energy of, 346 
Despondency, 339 
Determinism, 447 
Dewey, J., 176 
Direction toward an end, 45 
Discipline by fear, 183 
Discrimination, 148, 382; and language, 
384 
Disgrace, 434 
Disgust, 148 
Displeasure, 267 
Disposition, 351; varieties of, 352 
Dissociated determinists, 448 
Divergent reproduction, 346 
Divisions of psychology, 37 
Docility, 185, 400 
Dog and sugar, 147; and box, 196; and 
judgment, 199 
Doubt, 364 
Drever, J., on appetites, 103, 329 
Driesch, H., 32 
Drives, 181 
Earthworm, 67 
Ebbinghaus, 294 
Elberfeld, horses, 199 
Economy of imagination, 293 
Eddington, A. S., 33 
Effort, sense of, 318 
Ego-complex, 432 
Elation, 344 
Embarrassment, 429 
Emotion and instinct in dogs, 122 
Emotion, terminology of, 314; function 
of, 326; and obstruction, 329 
Emotional qualities, 316 
Emotions, and instincts, 324; blended, 
329; derived, 338 
Endocrines, 102 
Epiphenomenalism, 32 
Escape, instinct of, 149 
Evolution, instinct and emotion, 129; of 
intelligence, 202 
Experiment in psychology, 4 
Explanation of conduct, 124 
Expression of emotions, 322 
Extensity, 238 
Extroversion, 358 
Fabre, H., 77, 87 
Faculty psychology, 12 
Fashions, 429 
Feeling, 266; and conation, 267 
“Feelings of innervation,” 319 
Feelings, terminology of, 347; varieties 
of, 347; and derived emotions, 348; 
and emotions disentangled, 349 
Fishes’ intelligence, 94 
Food-seeking instinct, 144 
Foresight, 48 
Franz, S. I., 32 
Freedom of will, 446 
Freud, S., on sex, 160, 431 
Freudian reasoning, 432 
Friendship, 424 
Gall, 20 
Gambler, 162 
Games, 172 
Garnet, M., 388 
Generic images, 380 
Genetic theories, 236 
Gluttony, 270 
Goethe, 388 
Gratitude, 334 
Gregarious instinct, 153, 432 
Grief, 343 
Groos, K., 170 
Group influence, 432 
Group-sentiments, 429, 433 
Habit, and instinct, 112, 154; and mem- 
ory, 298, 301 
Habits, of mind and body, 179; percep- 
tual, 186; and sentiments, 438 
Haggerty, M. E., 174 INDEX 
453 
Haldane, J. S., 31 
Hallucinations, 373 
Hartley, 20 
Hartmann, von, 269 
Hasty generalization, 407 
Hatred, 209, 419: of cruelty, 437 
Head, H., 52, 264 
Hedonism, 192, 193, 219, 268 
Herbartianism, 258, 275 
Herd-complex, 432 
Herd instinct, 154, 432 
Historical knowledge, 392 
Historical hypotheses, 11 
Hobbes on laughter, 165 
Hobhouse, L. T., 195 
Holmes, S. J., 67, 86, 195, 202 
Holt, E. B., 26 
Honor, 434 
Hormic theory, 71, 213, 218, 269 
Hormones, 102, 103, 139, 336 
Hornaday, W. T., 143 
Hope, 339 
Human nature and psychology, 1; and 
animal nature, 130 
Hume and ideas, 14 
Humor, 168 
Hunger, 146, 279 
Hunter, W. S., 201 
“Hunting instinct,” 146 
Huxley, T. H., 29, 381 
Hustler, 443 
Hypotheses, necessary, 10 
Idea psychology, 13, 15, 18 
Idealism, 18 
Ideas, 259; in cells, 20; as structure, 380; 
general and particular, 382 
Ideo-motor theory, 290 
Illusion and desire, 287 
Imagery, 249 
Imagination, in animals, 201; in man, 
206 
Imagining, 284; and conation, 293 
Imitation, 173 
Impulses, 108 
Inductive reasoning, 405 
Induction in naming, 408 
Inhibition by drainage, 179, 280 
Innate endowments, 450 
Insect behavior, 69 
Inseparable association, 362 
Instinct, defined, 71, no, 118; and in- 
telligence co-operate, 81, 89, 93; and 
emotion, no, 127, 142, 324; of com- 
bat, 139; life-history of, in; transi- 
toriness of, in; and habit, 112, 154; 
and evolution, 113 
Instinctive responses extended, 137 
Instincts, and faculties, 103,119; energy 
of, 105; structure of, 106; and bodily 
structure, 112; specificity of, 113; and 
motor mechanisms, 117, 186; ripening 
of, 133 
Intellect, 378; and intelligence, 379; sci- 
entific, 414; a dome, 414 
Intelligence, defined, 71; of carnivores, 
132, i3S; essence of, 405 
Intensity of sense-impressions, 272 
Interest, 273; and knowledge, 276 
Interests extended, 276 
Interference between processes, 289 
Introspection, 3; and meaning, 253 
Introversion, 357 
Intuition, 70, 391 
James, W., in, 180, 238, 251, 259, 296, 
318, 327, 363, 409, 439 
Jennings, H. S., 64, 66, 67 
Joy, 343 . 
Judgment, 367; implicit, 375; and voli- 
tion, 445 
Jung, C. G., 113, 176, 357 
Kafka, G., 69 
Keys of instincts, 98 
Kohler, W., 136, 138, 153, 155, 201 
Lange-James theory, 310, 326 
Language, inadequate, 4; and imitation, 
174; and imagination, 237; primitive, 
385; mechanisms and reasoning, 411 
Laughter, 165 
Learning, primitive, 187 
Limpet’s homing, 85 
Literary psychology, 7 
Lloyd Morgan, 74, 116 
Local signs, 240 
Localization in brain, 20 
Locke and ideas, 13 
Locks of instincts, 98 
Loeb, J., 60, 62 
Logical entities, 309 
Lotze, R. H., 240 
Love, 421 
Ludicrous, nature of, 167 
Martyrs, 268 
Master sentiment, 444 
Maternal adoption, 137 
Mating instinct, 159 
Maze, learning, 189 
Meaning in perception, 246; and im- 
agery, 250, 256, 381, 428; theories of, 
252; and memory, 302 454 
INDEX 
Mechanical conduct, 27; analogy for in- 
stinct, 109 
Mechanism and purpose, 203 
Mechanistic psychologies, 30 
Mediate apperception, 413 
Megalomania, 428 
Mental structure, 41; chemistry, 237; 
evolution, 309; growth of. 378 
Memory, and the reflex, 24; experi- 
ments, 293; and habit, 298, 301; im- 
provement of, 295; pure, 299; and 
conation, 303, 3x0; marks of time, 
308 
Meumann, 296 
Microcosm, 263 
Mind, and brain, 36; dust, 17; hypoth- 
esis, 35; is creative, 448 
Minor instincts, 163 
Mixed motives, 123 
Moods, 359 
Moore, T. V., 255 
Moral autonomy, 442; creed, 439; ap- 
proval, 427; sentiments, 435; tradi- 
tion, 435; culture, 439; character, 439, 
442; effort, 441; athletes, 443 
Mosaic psychology, 16 
Mother-love, 421 
Motives and intention, 121, 217; and 
common sense, 125 
Motor habits, 182; mechanisms, 114, 
175, 180 
Movement and thinking, 289 
Mowgli, 205 
Muller, G. E., 294 
Munsterberg, 28, 244 
Musician’s imagining, 290 
Names, 284, 384 
Narcotics, 355 
Nativistic theories, 236 
Natural man, 204 
Nausea, 148 
Neo-realism, 26 
Nervous systems, 58 
Nietzsche, 169 
Nightingale, 95 
Noah, Mr. and Mrs., 414 
Nonsense-syllables, 296 
Nunn, T. P., 72 
Object, defined, 221 
Objects, present and remote, 207, 221; 
and sensory qualities, 225; of higher 
order, 231,392; solid, perception of,248 
Observation, of three kinds in psychol- 
ogy, 3; of conditions of experience, 6; 
of behavior, 6 
Obstinacy, 446 
Onchidium, homing, 85 
Orange, perception of, 254 
Overlap of sciences, 1 
Pain, bodily and mental, 267 
Paramoecium, 65 
Parental indifference, 139; instinct, 130, 
135 
Patriotism, 433 
Peacock’s tail, 97 
Peckham, Mr. and Mrs., 77, 87 
Penguins, 367 
Perception, 221 
Perceptual response of instinct, 77, 99 
Personification of emotions, 346 
Persuasion, 401 
Perversions of appetite, 149 
Phototropism, 61 
Phrenology, 20 
Physiology, influence of, 19, 23, 34; and 
psychology, 38 
Pictorial thinking, 284 
Pi6ron, H., 85 
Pigeons’ reproductive cycle, 100 
Pity, 335 5 and love, 421 
Planning, 208 
Play, 170 
Pleasure and desire, 271 
Pleasure and pain blend, 348 
Pleasure-pain theory, 193, 2x9 
Pleasure-seekers, 270 
Polar explorers, 279, 339, 365 
Popular psychology, 7 
Pragmatism, 409 
Preperception, 285, 287 
Pride, 428 
Priestly, R. E., 279, 339 
Primary emotions, 128, 325; and de- 
rived, 345 
Primary memory image, 292 
Primitive credulity, 373 
Primordial thinking, 261 
Problems of future, 449 
Profiting by experience, 46 
Prospective emotions, 339 
Protozoa, behavior of, 64 
Psychic stimulus theory, 236, 287 
Psychology, as science of mind, 3; as a 
game, 9 
Public opinion, 431 
Pure instinct, 74 
Purposive and reflex action, 51 
Purposiveness, 48, 195, 198 
Qualitative patterns, 228; complexity of, INDEX 
455 
Qualities of conduct, 215 
Random movements, 182 
Rashdall, H., 439 
Rationalization, 361, 368 
Reason, of animals, 200; theories of, 401; 
and conduct, 439 
Reasoning, 400; essence of, 410; ab- 
stract, 411 
Recognition, 227, 306, 308; marks, 95, 
96 
Recollection, 311 
Redintegration, 396 
Reflex action, 23, 52; theory, 21, 26, 28, 
30; and instinct, 75, 119, 142 
Regret, 342 
Related words, 303 
Relative suggestion, 244, 392 
Remembering, 305, 309 
Remorse, 342 
Remote objects, 207 
Reproach, 337 
Reproduction of similars, 389 
Reproductive imagination, 291, 294 
Repulsion, instinct of, 147 
Resolve, 445 
Respect, 423 
Response to stimulus, 24 
Retentiveness, 296, 297 
Retrospective emotions, 341 
Revenge, 434 
Reverence, 334 
Reversion of attention, 281 
Ribot, Th., 381 
Rignano, E., 404 
Rivers, W. H. R., 108, 142, 150 
Rudimentary mind, 260 
Ruedinger, 438 
Sagacity, 405 
Schematic apprehension, 259 
Schopenhauer, 431 
Scorn, 332 
Scottish school, 269 
Scratch reflex, 56 
Sedgwick, A., 406 
Selectivity of purpose, 412 
Self-assertion, instinct of, 157 
Self-consciousness, 426 
Self-display, 160 
Self-regard, 426; extended, 428 
Self-respect, 428; loss of, 442 
Sensationism, 21 
Sensations as elements, 17 
Sense-organs, selective, 223 
Sensory patterns, 227; qualities, varie- 
ties of, 233; qualities as signs, 225 
Sentiment and emotion, 418 
Sentimentality, 435 
Sentiments, 209, 418; formation of, 420 
Seven ages of man, 449 
Sex characters, 159 
Sexual impulse, 425 
Shand, A. F., 116, 334, 341 
Sherrington, Sir C., 52 
Sidis, B., 319 
Simple apprehension, 375 
Simple enumeration, 407 
Simplified world, 227 
Sledge-party, 279 
Stentor, 66 
Smiles and laughter, 167 
Smith, Adam, 440 
Smith, M., 297, 301, 357 
Sorrow, 342 
Soul hypothesis, 12 
Space a meaning, 243 
Spatial perception, 235; patterns, 231 
Spearman, 301 
Specific nervous energies, 224 
Speech and thinking, 290 
Speech-habits, 394 
Spencer, H., 29, 165 
Spontaneity, 44 
Sport, 219 
Stages of evolution, 448 
Stewart, Dugald, 269 
Stewart, J. A., 376 
Stimulus-response formula, 69, 77, 97 
Stout, G. F., 245, 254, 375, 386, 388 
Strachey, Lytton, 434 
Stratton, G. M., 244 
Strong, C. A., 32 
Structure and function, 418 
Subject indispensable, 39 
Submission, instinct of, 157 
Suckling, 130 
Sudden sense impressions, 273 
Suggestion, 366, 436 
Surprise, 344 
Sympathetic interpretation, 136; con- 
tagion, 436 
Sympathy, 336; primitive, 155 
Synthetic activity in perception, 76, 96, 
99, 263 
System of sentiments, 441 
Tausley, A. G., 432 
Temper, 352 
Temperament, 354 
Tenacity, 444 
Tender passion, 425 
Theories, influence of, 8; of action, 126 
Thinker, who is the?, 21 456 
INDEX 
Thirst, 146 
Thorndike, E. L., 142, 193 
Threshold of consciousness, 15 
Thyroid gland, 355 
Tics, 182 
Tidiness, 438 
Titchener, E. B., 28, 252 
Tolman, E. C., 255 
Total reaction, 56, 109 
Touchiness, 434 
Traditions, 204 
Tree of knowledge, 261 
Trial and error, 193 
Tribunals, 441 
Tropisms, 59; insufficiency of, 63; and 
homing, 81 
Trotter, W., 154, 432 
“Two and two together,” 405 
Types of psychology, 12 
Unreality, sense of, 371 
Utilitarianism, 268 
Van Buttel Reepen, 83 
Vanity, 428 
Variation of behavior, 45 
Vaughan, E. K., 83 
Victims of drugs, 442 
Vision of insects, 84 
Visual perception, 223 
Volition, 442; and belief, 446 
Ward, J., 245 
Wasps, 77 
Wasp’s tool, 91; judgment, 90; homing, 
81; locality study, 80; topography, 79; 
reproductive cycle, 77 
Watson, J. B., 26, 173, 190 
Wertheimer, M., 240 
Wheeler, R. M., 252 
Wild duck, 112 
Will, 442 
Will-power, 443 
Will-to-power, 428 
Wohlgemuth, A., 349 
Woodworth, R., 180, 275 
Words, primitive, 288 
Wundt, W., 180, 348 
Yerkes, R. M., 187 
Young, Thomas, 224 
Youth, hi, 132, 134 
Yucca moth, 74, 76