After this explanation I shall venture to regard under a single aspect a great series of phenomena which apparently have nothing to do with one another, and which belong partly to the conscious and partly to the unconscious life of organised beings. I shall regard them as the outcome of one and the same primary force of organised matter—namely, its memory or power of reproduction.
The word “memory” is often understood as though it meant nothing more than our faculty of intentionally reproducing ideas or series of ideas. But when the figures and events of bygone days rise up again unbidden in our minds, is not this also an act of recollection or memory? We have a perfect right to extend our conception of memory so as to make it embrace involuntary reproductions, of sensations, ideas, perceptions, and efforts; but we find, on having done so, that we have so far enlarged her boundaries that she proves to be an ultimate and original power, the source, and at the same time the unifying bond, of our whole conscious life.
We know that when an impression, or a series of impressions, has been made upon our senses for a long time, and always in the same way, it may come to impress itself in such a manner upon the so-called sense-memory that hours afterwards, and though a hundred other things have occupied our attention meanwhile, it will yet return suddenly to our consciousness with all the force and freshness of the original sensation. A whole group of sensations is sometimes reproduced in its due sequence as regards time and space, with so much reality that it illudes us, as though things were actually present which have long ceased to be so. We have here a striking proof of the fact that after both conscious sensation and perception have been extinguished, their material vestiges yet remain in our nervous system by way of a change in its molecular or atomic disposition,[69]that enables the nerve substance to reproduce all the physical processes of the original sensation, and with these the corresponding psychical processes of sensation and perception.
Every hour the phenomena of sense-memory are present with each one of us, but in a less degree than this. We are all at times aware of a host of more or less faded recollections of earlier impressions, which we either summon intentionally or which come upon us involuntarily. Visions of absent people come and go before us as faint and fleeting shadows, and the notes of long-forgotten melodies float around us, not actually heard, but yet perceptible.
Some things and occurrences, especially if they have happened to us only once and hurriedly, will be reproducible by the memory in respect only of a few conspicuous qualities; in other cases those details alone will recur to us which we have met with elsewhere, and for the reception of which the brain is, so to speak, attuned. These last recollections find themselves in fuller accord with our consciousness, and enter upon it more easily and energetically; hence also their aptitude for reproduction is enhanced; so that what is common to many things, and is therefore felt and perceived with exceptional frequency, becomes reproduced so easily that eventually the actual presence of the corresponding externalstimuliis no longer necessary, and it will recur on the vibrations set up by faintstimulifrom within.[70]Sensations arising in this way from within, as, for example, an idea of whiteness, are not, indeed, perceived with the full freshness of those raised by the actual presence of white light without us, but they are of the same kind; they are feeble repetitions of one and the same material brain process—of one and the same conscious sensation. Thus the idea of whiteness arises in our mind as a faint, almost extinct, sensation.
In this way those qualities which are common to many things become separated, as it were, in our memory from the objects with which they were originally associated, and attain an independent existence in our consciousness asideasandconceptions, and thus the whole rich superstructure of our ideas and conceptions is built up from materials supplied by memory.
On examining more closely, we see plainly that memory is a faculty not only of our conscious states, but also, and much more so, of our unconscious ones. I was conscious of this or that yesterday, and am again conscious of it to-day. Where has it been meanwhile? It does not remain continuously within my consciousness, nevertheless it returns after having quitted it. Our ideas tread but for a moment upon the stage of consciousness, and then go back again behind the scenes, to make way for others in their place. As the player is only a king when he is on the stage, so they too exist as ideas so long only as they are recognised. How do they live when they are off the stage? For we know that they are living somewhere; give them their cue and they reappear immediately. They do not exist continuously as ideas; what is continuous is the special disposition of nerve substance in virtue of which this substance gives out to-day the same sound which it gave yesterday if it is rightly struck.[71]Countless reproductions of organic processes of our brain connect themselves orderly together, so that one acts as a stimulus to the next, but a phenomenon of consciousness is not necessarily attached to every link in the chain. From this it arises that a series of ideas may appear to disregard the order that would be observed in purely material processes of brain substance unaccompanied by consciousness; but on the other hand it becomes possible for a long chain of recollections to have its due development without each link in the chain being necessarily perceived by ourselves. One may emerge from the bosom of our unconscious thoughts without fully entering upon the stage of conscious perception; another dies away in unconsciousness, leaving no successor to take its place. Between the “me” of to-day and the “me” of yesterday lie night and sleep, abysses of unconsciousness; nor is there any bridge but memory with which to span them. Who can hope after this to disentangle the infinite intricacy of our inner life? For we can only follow its threads so far as they have strayed over within the bounds of consciousness. We might as well hope to familiarise ourselves with the world of forms that teem within the bosom of the sea by observing the few that now and again come to the surface and soon return into the deep.
The bond of union, therefore, which connects the individual phenomena of our consciousness lies in our unconscious world; and as we know nothing of this but what investigation into the laws of matter teach us—as, in fact, for purely experimental purposes, “matter” and the “unconscious” must be one and the same thing—so the physiologist has a full right to denote memory as, in the wider sense of the word, a function of brain substance, whose results, it is true, fall, as regards one part of them, into the domain of consciousness, while another and not less essential part escapes unperceived as purely material processes.
The perception of a body in space is a very complicated process. I see suddenly before me, for example, a white ball. This has the effect of conveying to me more than a mere sensation of whiteness. I deduce the spherical character of the ball from the gradations of light and shade upon its surface. I form a correct appreciation of its distance from my eye, and hence again I deduce an inference as to the size of the ball. What an expenditure of sensations, ideas, and inferences is found to be necessary before all this can be brought about; yet the production of a correct perception of the ball was the work only of a few seconds, and I was unconscious of the individual processes by means of which it was effected, the result as a whole being alone present in my consciousness.
The nerve substance preserves faithfully the memory of habitual actions.[72]Perceptions which were once long and difficult, requiring constant and conscious attention, come to reproduce themselves in transient and abridged guise, without such duration and intensity that each link has to pass over the threshold of our consciousness.
We have chains of material nerve processes to which eventually a link becomes attached that is attended with conscious perception. This is sufficiently established from the standpoint of the physiologist, and is also proved by our unconsciousness of many whole series of ideas and of the inferences we draw from them. If the soul is not to ship through the fingers of physiology, she must hold fast to the considerations suggested by our unconscious states. As far, however, as the investigations of the pure physicist are concerned, the unconscious and matter are one and the same thing, and the physiology of the unconscious is no “philosophy of the unconscious.”
By far the greater number of our movements are the result of long and arduous practice. The harmonious cooperation of the separate muscles, the finely adjusted measure of participation which each contributes to the working of the whole, must, as a rule, have been laboriously acquired, in respect of most of the movements that are necessary in order to effect it. How long does it not take each note to find its way from the eyes to the fingers of one who is beginning to learn the pianoforte; and, on the other hand, what an astonishing performance is the playing of the professional pianist. The sight of each note occasions the corresponding movement of the fingers with the speed of thought—a hurried glance at the page of music before him suffices to give rise to a whole series of harmonies; nay, when a melody has been long practised, it can be played even while the player’s attention is being given to something of a perfectly different character over and above his music.
The will need now no longer wend its way to each individual finger before the desired movements can be extorted from it; no longer now does a sustained attention keep watch over the movements of each limb; the will need exercise a supervising control only. At the word of command the muscles become active, with a due regard to time and proportion, and go on working, so long as they are bidden to keep in their accustomed groove, while a slight hint on the part of the will, will indicate to them their further journey. How could all this be if every part of the central nerve system, by means of which movement is effected, were not able[74a]to reproduce whole series of vibrations, which at an earlier date required the constant and continuous participation of consciousness, but which are now set in motion automatically on a mere touch, as it were, from consciousness—if it were not able to reproduce them the more quickly and easily in proportion to the frequency of the repetitions—if, in fact, there was no power of recollecting earlier performances? Our perceptive faculties must have remained always at their lowest stage if we had been compelled to build up consciously every process from the details of the sensation-causing materials tendered to us by our senses; nor could our voluntary movements have got beyond the helplessness of the child, if the necessary impulses could only be imparted to every movement through effort of the will and conscious reproduction of all the corresponding ideas—if, in a word, the motor nerve system had not also its memory,[74b]though that memory is unperceived by ourselves. The power of this memory is what is called “the force of habit.”
It seems, then, that we owe to memory almost all that we either have or are; that our ideas and conceptions are its work, and that our every perception, thought, and movement is derived from this source. Memory collects the countless phenomena of our existence into a single whole; and as our bodies would be scattered into the dust of their component atoms if they were not held together by the attraction of matter, so our consciousness would be broken up into as many fragments as we had lived seconds but for the binding and unifying force of memory.
We have already repeatedly seen that the reproductions of organic processes, brought about by means of the memory of the nervous system, enter but partly within the domain of consciousness, remaining unperceived in other and not less important respects. This is also confirmed by numerous facts in the life of that part of the nervous system which ministers almost exclusively to our unconscious life processes. For the memory of the so-called sympathetic ganglionic system is no less rich than that of the brain and spinal marrow, and a great part of the medical art consists in making wise use of the assistance thus afforded us.
To bring, however, this part of my observations to a close, I will take leave of the nervous system, and glance hurriedly at other phases of organised matter, where we meet with the same powers of reproduction, but in simpler guise.
Daily experience teaches us that a muscle becomes the stronger the more we use it. The muscular fibre, which in the first instance may have answered but feebly to the stimulus conducted to it by the motor nerve, does so with the greater energy the more often it is stimulated, provided, of course, that reasonable times are allowed for repose. After each individual action it becomes more capable, more disposed towards the same kind of work, and has a greater aptitude for repetition of the same organic processes. It gains also in weight, for it assimilates more matter than when constantly at rest. We have here, in its simplest form, and in a phase which comes home most closely to the comprehension of the physicist, the same power of reproduction which we encountered when we were dealing with nerve substance, but under such far more complicated conditions. And what is known thus certainly from muscle substance holds good with greater or less plainness for all our organs. More especially may we note the fact, that after increased use, alternated with times of repose, there accrues to the organ in all animal economy an increased power of execution with an increased power of assimilation and a gain in size.
This gain in size consists not only in the enlargement of the individual cells or fibres of which the organ is composed, but in the multiplication of their number; for when cells have grown to a certain size they give rise to others, which inherit more or less completely the qualities of those from which they came, and therefore appear to be repetitions of the same cell. This growth, and multiplication of cells is only a special phase of those manifold functions which characterise organised matter, and which consist not only in what goes on within the cell substance as alterations or undulatory movement of the molecular disposition, but also in that which becomes visible outside the cells as change of shape, enlargement, or subdivision. Reproduction of performance, therefore, manifests itself to us as reproduction of the cells themselves, as may be seen most plainly in the case of plants, whose chief work consists in growth, whereas with animal organism other faculties greatly preponderate.
Let us now take a brief survey of a class of facts in the case of which we may most abundantly observe the power of memory in organised matter. We have ample evidence of the fact that characteristics of an organism may descend to offspring which the organism did not inherit, but which it acquired owing to the special circumstances under which it lived; and that, in consequence, every organism imparts to the germ that issues from it a small heritage of acquisitions which it has added during its own lifetime to the gross inheritance of its race.
When we reflect that we are dealing with the heredity of acquired qualities which came to development in the most diverse parts of the parent organism, it must seem in a high degree mysterious how those parts can have any kind of influence upon a germ which develops itself in an entirely different place. Many mystical theories have been propounded for the elucidation of this question, but the following reflections may serve to bring the cause nearer to the comprehension of the physiologist.
The nerve substance, in spite of its thousandfold subdivision as cells and fibres, forms, nevertheless, a united whole, which is present directly in all organs—nay, as more recent histology conjectures, in each cell of the more important organs—or is at least in ready communication with them by means of the living, irritable, and therefore highly conductive substance of other cells. Through the connection thus established all organs find themselves in such a condition of more or less mutual interdependence upon one another, that events which happen to one are repeated in others, and a notification, however slight, of a vibration set up[77]in one quarter is at once conveyed even to the farthest parts of the body. With this easy and rapid intercourse between all parts is associated the more difficult communication that goes on by way of the circulation of sap or blood.
We see, further, that the process of the development of all germs that are marked out for independent existence causes a powerful reaction, even from the very beginning of that existence, on both the conscious and unconscious life of the whole organism. We may see this from the fact that the organ of reproduction stands in closer and more important relation to the remaining parts, and especially to the nervous system, than do the other organs; and, inversely, that both the perceived and unperceived events affecting the whole organism find a more marked response in the reproductive system than elsewhere.
We can now see with sufficient plainness in what the material connection is established between the acquired peculiarities of an organism, and the proclivity on the part of the germ in virtue of which it develops the special characteristics of its parent.
The microscope teaches us that no difference can be perceived between one germ and another; it cannot, however, be objected on this account that the determining cause of its ulterior development must be something immaterial, rather than the specific kind of its material constitution.
The curves and surfaces which the mathematician conceives, or finds conceivable, are more varied and infinite than the forms of animal life. Let us suppose an infinitely small segment to be taken from every possible curve; each one of these will appear as like every other as one germ is to another, yet the whole of every curve lies dormant, as it were, in each of them, and if the mathematician chooses to develop it, it will take the path indicated by the elements of each segment.
It is an error, therefore, to suppose that such fine distinctions as physiology must assume lie beyond the limits of what is conceivable by the human mind. An infinitely small change of position on the part of a point, or in the relations of the parts of a segment of a curve to one another, suffices to alter the law of its whole path, and so in like manner an infinitely small influence exercised by the parent organism on the molecular disposition of the germ[78]may suffice to produce a determining effect upon its whole farther development.
What is the descent of special peculiarities but a reproduction on the part of organised matter of processes in which it once took part as a germ in the germ-containing organs of its parent, and of which it seems still to retain a recollection that reappears when time and the occasion serve, inasmuch as it responds to the same or like stimuli in a like way to that in which the parent organism responded, of which it was once part, and in the events of whose history it was itself also an accomplice?[79]When an action through long habit or continual practice has become so much a second nature to any organisation that its effects will penetrate, though ever so faintly, into the germ that lies within it, and when this last comes to find itself in a new sphere, to extend itself, and develop into a new creature—(the individual parts of which are still always the creature itself and flesh of its flesh, so that what is reproduced is the same being as that in company with which the germ once lived, and of which it was once actually a part)—all this is as wonderful as when a grey-haired man remembers the events of his own childhood; but it is not more so. Whether we say that the same organised substance is again reproducing its past experience, or whether we prefer to hold that an offshoot or part of the original substance has waxed and developed itself since separation from the parent stock, it is plain that this will constitute a difference of degree, not kind.
When we reflect upon the fact that unimportant acquired characteristics can be reproduced in offspring, we are apt to forget that offspring is only a full-sized reproduction of the parent—a reproduction, moreover, that goes as far as possible into detail. We are so accustomed to consider family resemblance a matter of course, that we are sometimes surprised when a child is in some respect unlike its parent; surely, however, the infinite number of points in respect of which parents and children resemble one another is a more reasonable ground for our surprise.
But if the substance of the germ can reproduce characteristics acquired by the parent during its single life, how much more will it not be able to reproduce those that were congenital to the parent, and which have happened through countless generations to the organised matter of which the germ of to-day is a fragment? We cannot wonder that action already taken on innumerable past occasions by organised matter is more deeply impressed upon the recollection of the germ to which it gives rise than action taken once only during a single lifetime.[80a]
We must bear in mind that every organised being now in existence represents the last link of an inconceivably long series of organisms, which come down in a direct line of descent, and of which each has inherited a part of the acquired characteristics of its predecessor. Everything, furthermore, points in the direction of our believing that at the beginning of this chain there existed an organism of the very simplest kind, something, in fact, like those which we call organised germs. The chain of living beings thus appears to be the magnificent achievement of the reproductive power of the original organic structure from which they have all descended. As this subdivided itself and transmitted its characteristics[80b]to its descendants, these acquired new ones, and in their turn transmitted them—all new germs transmitting the chief part of what had happened to their predecessors, while the remaining part lapsed out of their memory, circumstances not stimulating it to reproduce itself.
An organised being, therefore, stands before us a product of the unconscious memory of organised matter, which, ever increasing and ever dividing itself, ever assimilating new matter and returning it in changed shape to the inorganic world, ever receiving some new thing into its memory, and transmitting its acquisitions by the way of reproduction, grows continually richer and richer the longer it lives.
Thus regarded, the development of one of the more highly organised animals represents a continuous series of organised recollections concerning the past development of the great chain of living forms, the last link of which stands before us in the particular animal we may be considering. As a complicated perception may arise by means of a rapid and superficial reproduction of long and laboriously practised brain processes, so a germ in the course of its development hurries through a series of phases, hinting at them only. Often and long foreshadowed in theories of varied characters, this conception has only now found correct exposition from a naturalist of our own time.[81]For Truth hides herself under many disguises from those who seek her, but in the end stands unveiled before the eyes of him whom she has chosen.
Not only is there a reproduction of form, outward and inner conformation of body, organs, and cells, but the habitual actions of the parent are also reproduced. The chicken on emerging from the eggshell runs off as its mother ran off before it; yet what an extraordinary complication of emotions and sensations is necessary in order to preserve equilibrium in running. Surely the supposition of an inborn capacity for the reproduction of these intricate actions can alone explain the facts. As habitual practice becomes a second nature to the individual during his single lifetime, so the often-repeated action of each generation becomes a second nature to the race.
The chicken not only displays great dexterity in the performance of movements for the effecting of which it has an innate capacity, but it exhibits also a tolerably high perceptive power. It immediately picks up any grain that may be thrown to it. Yet, in order to do this, more is wanted than a mere visual perception of the grains; there must be an accurate apprehension of the direction and distance of the precise spot in which each grain is lying, and there must be no less accuracy in the adjustment of the movements of the head and of the whole body. The chicken cannot have gained experience in these respects while it was still in the egg. It gained it rather from the thousands of thousands of beings that have lived before it, and from which it is directly descended.
The memory of organised substance displays itself here in the most surprising fashion. The gentle stimulus of the light proceeding from the grain that affects the retina of the chicken,[82]gives occasion for the reproduction of a many-linked chain of sensations, perceptions, and emotions, which were never yet brought together in the case of the individual before us. We are accustomed to regard these surprising performances of animals as manifestations of what we call instinct, and the mysticism of natural philosophy has ever shown a predilection for this theme; but if we regard instinct as the outcome of the memory or reproductive power of organised substance, and if we ascribe a memory to the race as we already ascribe it to the individual, then instinct becomes at once intelligible, and the physiologist at the same time finds a point of contact which will bring it into connection with the great series of facts indicated above as phenomena of the reproductive faculty. Here, then, we have a physical explanation which has not, indeed, been given yet, but the time for which appears to be rapidly approaching.
When, in accordance with its instinct, the caterpillar becomes a chrysalis, or the bird builds its nest, or the bee its cell, these creatures act consciously and not as blind machines. They know how to vary their proceedings within certain limits in conformity with altered circumstances, and they are thus liable to make mistakes. They feel pleasure when their work advances and pain if it is hindered; they learn by the experience thus acquired, and build on a second occasion better than on the first; but that even in the outset they hit so readily upon the most judicious way of achieving their purpose, and that their movements adapt themselves so admirably and automatically to the end they have in view—surely this is owing to the inherited acquisitions of the memory of their nerve substance, which requires but a touch and it will fall at once to the most appropriate kind of activity, thinking always, and directly, of whatever it is that may be wanted.
Man can readily acquire surprising kinds of dexterity if he confines his attention to their acquisition. Specialisation is the mother of proficiency. He who marvels at the skill with which the spider weaves her web should bear in mind that she did not learn her art all on a sudden, but that innumerable generations of spiders acquired it toilsomely and step by step—this being about all that, as a general rule, they did acquire. Man took to bows and arrows if his nets failed him—the spider starved. Thus we see the body and—what most concerns us—the whole nervous system of the new-born animal constructed beforehand, and, as it were, ready attuned for intercourse with the outside world in which it is about to play its part, by means of its tendency to respond to external stimuli in the same manner as it has often heretofore responded in the persons of its ancestors.
We naturally ask whether the brain and nervous system of the human infant are subjected to the principles we have laid down above? Man certainly finds it difficult to acquire arts of which the lower animals are born masters; but the brain of man at birth is much farther from its highest development than is the brain of an animal. It not only grows for a longer time, but it becomes stronger than that of other living beings. The brain of man may be said to be exceptionally young at birth. The lower animal is born precocious, and acts precociously; it resembles those infant prodigies whose brain, as it were, is born old into the world, but who, in spite of, or rather in addition to, their rich endowment at birth, in after life develop as much mental power as others who were less splendidly furnished to start with, but born with greater freshness of youth. Man’s brain, and indeed his whole body, affords greater scope for individuality, inasmuch as a relatively greater part of it is of post-natal growth. It develops under the influence of impressions made by the environment upon its senses, and thus makes its acquisitions in a more special and individual manner, whereas the animal receives them ready made, and of a more final, stereotyped character.
Nevertheless, it is plain we must ascribe both to the brain and body of the new-born infant a far-reaching power of remembering or reproducing things which have already come to their development thousands of times over in the persons of its ancestors. It is in virtue of this that it acquires proficiency in the actions necessary for its existence—so far as it was not already at birth proficient in them—much more quickly and easily than would be otherwise possible; but what we call instinct in the case of animals takes in man the looser form of aptitude, talent, and genius.[84]Granted that certain ideas are not innate, yet the fact of their taking form so easily and certainly from out of the chaos of his sensations, is due not to his own labour, but to that of the brain substance of the thousands of thousands of generations from whom he is descended. Theories concerning the development of individual consciousness which deny heredity or the power of transmission, and insist upon an entirely fresh start for every human soul, as though the infinite number of generations that have gone before us might as well have never lived for all the effect they have had upon ourselves,—such theories will contradict the facts of our daily experience at every touch and turn.
The brain processes and phenomena of consciousness which ennoble man in the eyes of his fellows have had a less ancient history than those connected with his physical needs. Hunger and the reproductive instinct affected the oldest and simplest forms of the organic world. It is in respect of these instincts, therefore, and of the means to gratify them, that the memory of organised substance is strongest—the impulses and instincts that arise hence having still paramount power over the minds of men. The spiritual life has been superadded slowly; its most splendid outcome belongs to the latest epoch in the history of organised matter, nor has any very great length of time elapsed since the nervous system was first crowned with the glory of a large and well-developed brain.
Oral tradition and written history have been called the memory of man, and this is not without its truth. But there is another and a living memory in the innate reproductive power of brain substance, and without this both writings and oral tradition would be without significance to posterity. The most sublime ideas, though never so immortalised in speech or letters, are yet nothing for heads that are out of harmony with them; they must be not only heard, but reproduced; and both speech and writing would be in vain were there not an inheritance of inward and outward brain development, growing in correspondence with the inheritance of ideas that are handed down from age to age, and did not an enhanced capacity for their reproduction on the part of each succeeding generation accompany the thoughts that have been preserved in writing. Man’s conscious memory comes to an end at death, but the unconscious memory of Nature is true and ineradicable: whoever succeeds in stamping upon her the impress of his work, she will remember him to the end of time.
Introduction to a translation of the chapter upon instinct in Von Hartmann’s “Philosophy of the Unconscious.”
Iamafraid my readers will find the chapter on instinct from Von Hartmann’s “Philosophy of the Unconscious,” which will now follow, as distasteful to read as I did to translate, and would gladly have spared it them if I could. At present, the works of Mr. Sully, who has treated of the “Philosophy of the Unconscious” both in theWestminster Review(vol. xlix.N.S.) and in his work “Pessimism,” are the best source to which English readers can have recourse for information concerning Von Hartmann. Giving him all credit for the pains he has taken with an ungrateful, if not impossible subject, I think that a sufficient sample of Von Hartmann’s own words will be a useful adjunct to Mr. Sully’s work, and may perhaps save some readers trouble by resolving them to look no farther into the “Philosophy of the Unconscious.” Over and above this, I have been so often told that the views concerning unconscious action contained in the foregoing lecture and in “Life and Habit” are only the very fallacy of Von Hartmann over again, that I should like to give the public an opportunity of seeing whether this is so or no, by placing the two contending theories of unconscious action side by side. I hope that it will thus be seen that neither Professor Hering nor I have fallen into the fallacy of Von Hartmann, but that rather Von Hartmann has fallen into his fallacy through failure to grasp the principle which Professor Hering has insisted upon, and to connect heredity with memory.
Professor Hering’s philosophy of the unconscious is of extreme simplicity. He rests upon a fact of daily and hourly experience, namely, that practice makes things easy that were once difficult, and often results in their being done without any consciousness of effort. But if the repetition of an act tends ultimately, under certain circumstances, to its being done unconsciously, so also is the fact of an intricate and difficult action being done unconsciously an argument that it must have been done repeatedly already. As I said in “Life and Habit,” it is more easy to suppose that occasions on which such an action has been performed have not been wanting, even though we do not see when and where they were, than that the facility which we observe should have been attained without practice and memory (p. 56).
There can be nothing better established or more easy, whether to understand or verify, than the unconsciousness with which habitual actions come to be performed. If, however, it is once conceded that it is the manner of habitual action generally, then allà prioriobjection to Professor Hering’s philosophy of the unconscious is at an end. The question becomes one of fact in individual cases, and of degree.
How far, then, does the principle of the convertibility, as it were, of practice and unconsciousness extend? Can any line be drawn beyond which it shall cease to operate? If not, may it not have operated and be operating to a vast and hitherto unsuspected extent? This is all, and certainly it is sufficiently simple. I sometimes think it has found its greatest stumbling-block in its total want of mystery, as though we must be like those conjurers whose stock in trade is a small deal table and a kitchen-chair with bare legs, and who, with their parade of “no deception” and “examine everything for yourselves,” deceive worse than others who make use of all manner of elaborate paraphernalia. It is true we require no paraphernalia, and we produce unexpected results, but we are not conjuring.
To turn now to Von Hartmann. When I read Mr. Sully’s article in theWestminster Review, I did not know whether the sense of mystification which it produced in me was wholly due to Von Hartmann or no; but on making acquaintance with Von Hartmann himself, I found that Mr. Sully has erred, if at all, in making him more intelligible than he actually is. Von Hartmann has not got a meaning. Give him Professor Hering’s key and he might get one, but it would be at the expense of seeing what approach he had made to a system fallen to pieces. Granted that in his details and subordinate passages he often both has and conveys a meaning, there is, nevertheless, no coherence between these details, and the nearest approach to a broad conception covering the work which the reader can carry away with him is at once so incomprehensible and repulsive, that it is difficult to write about it without saying more perhaps than those who have not seen the original will accept as likely to be true. The idea to which I refer is that of an unconscious clairvoyance, which, from the language continually used concerning it, must be of the nature of a person, and which is supposed to take possession of living beings so fully as to be the very essence of their nature, the promoter of their embryonic development, and the instigator of their instinctive actions. This approaches closely to the personal God of Mosaic and Christian theology, with the exception that the word “clairvoyance”[89]is substituted for God, and that the God is supposed to be unconscious.
Mr. Sully says:—
“When we grasp it [the philosophy of Von Hartmann] as a whole, it amounts to nothing more than this, that all or nearly all the phenomena of the material and spiritual world rest upon and result from a mysterious, unconscious being, though to call it being is really to add on an idea not immediately contained within the all-sufficient principle. But what difference is there between this and saying that the phenomena of the world at large come we know not whence? . . . The unconscious, therefore, tends to be simple phrase and nothing more . . . No doubt there are a number of mental processes . . . of which we are unconscious . . . but to infer from this that they are due to an unconscious power, and to proceed to demonstrate them in the presence of the unconscious through all nature, is to make an unwarrantablesaltusin reasoning. What, in fact, is this ‘unconscious’ but a high-sounding name to veil our ignorance? Is the unconscious any better explanation of phenomena we do not understand than the ‘devil-devil’ by which Australian tribes explain the Leyden jar and its phenomena? Does it increase our knowledge to know that we do not know the origin of language or the cause of instinct? . . . Alike in organic creation and the evolution of history ‘performances and actions’—the words are those of Strauss—are ascribed to an unconscious, which can only belong to a conscious being.[90a]. . . . .“The difficulties of the system advance as we proceed.[90b]Subtract this questionable factor—the unconscious from Hartmann’s ‘Biology and Psychology,’ and the chapters remain pleasant and instructive reading. But with the third part of his work—the Metaphysic of the Unconscious—our feet are clogged at every step. We are encircled by the merest play of words, the most unsatisfactory demonstrations, and most inconsistent inferences. The theory of final causes has been hitherto employed to show the wisdom of the world; with our Pessimist philosopher it shows nothing but its irrationality and misery. Consciousness has been generally supposed to be the condition of all happiness and interest in life; here it simply awakens us to misery, and the lower an animal lies in the scale of conscious life, the better and the pleasanter its lot.. . . . .“Thus, then, the universe, as an emanation of the unconscious, has been constructed.[90c]Throughout it has been marked by design, by purpose, by finality; throughout a wonderful adaptation of means to ends, a wonderful adjustment and relativity in different portions has been noticed—and all this for what conclusion? Not, as in the hands of the natural theologians of the eighteenth century, to show that the world is the result of design, of an intelligent, beneficent Creator, but the manifestation of a Being whose only predicates are negatives, whose very essence is to be unconscious. It is not only like ancient Athens, to an unknown, but to an unknowing God, that modern Pessimism rears its altar. Yet surely the fact that the motive principle of existence moves in a mysterious way outside our consciousness no way requires that the All-one Being should be himself unconscious.”
“When we grasp it [the philosophy of Von Hartmann] as a whole, it amounts to nothing more than this, that all or nearly all the phenomena of the material and spiritual world rest upon and result from a mysterious, unconscious being, though to call it being is really to add on an idea not immediately contained within the all-sufficient principle. But what difference is there between this and saying that the phenomena of the world at large come we know not whence? . . . The unconscious, therefore, tends to be simple phrase and nothing more . . . No doubt there are a number of mental processes . . . of which we are unconscious . . . but to infer from this that they are due to an unconscious power, and to proceed to demonstrate them in the presence of the unconscious through all nature, is to make an unwarrantablesaltusin reasoning. What, in fact, is this ‘unconscious’ but a high-sounding name to veil our ignorance? Is the unconscious any better explanation of phenomena we do not understand than the ‘devil-devil’ by which Australian tribes explain the Leyden jar and its phenomena? Does it increase our knowledge to know that we do not know the origin of language or the cause of instinct? . . . Alike in organic creation and the evolution of history ‘performances and actions’—the words are those of Strauss—are ascribed to an unconscious, which can only belong to a conscious being.[90a]
. . . . .
“The difficulties of the system advance as we proceed.[90b]Subtract this questionable factor—the unconscious from Hartmann’s ‘Biology and Psychology,’ and the chapters remain pleasant and instructive reading. But with the third part of his work—the Metaphysic of the Unconscious—our feet are clogged at every step. We are encircled by the merest play of words, the most unsatisfactory demonstrations, and most inconsistent inferences. The theory of final causes has been hitherto employed to show the wisdom of the world; with our Pessimist philosopher it shows nothing but its irrationality and misery. Consciousness has been generally supposed to be the condition of all happiness and interest in life; here it simply awakens us to misery, and the lower an animal lies in the scale of conscious life, the better and the pleasanter its lot.
. . . . .
“Thus, then, the universe, as an emanation of the unconscious, has been constructed.[90c]Throughout it has been marked by design, by purpose, by finality; throughout a wonderful adaptation of means to ends, a wonderful adjustment and relativity in different portions has been noticed—and all this for what conclusion? Not, as in the hands of the natural theologians of the eighteenth century, to show that the world is the result of design, of an intelligent, beneficent Creator, but the manifestation of a Being whose only predicates are negatives, whose very essence is to be unconscious. It is not only like ancient Athens, to an unknown, but to an unknowing God, that modern Pessimism rears its altar. Yet surely the fact that the motive principle of existence moves in a mysterious way outside our consciousness no way requires that the All-one Being should be himself unconscious.”
I believe the foregoing to convey as correct an idea of Von Hartmann’s system as it is possible to convey, and will leave it to the reader to say how much in common there is between this and the lecture given in the preceding chapter, beyond the fact that both touch upon unconscious actions. The extract which will form my next chapter is only about a thirtieth part of the entire “Philosophy of the Unconscious,” but it will, I believe, suffice to substantiate the justice of what Mr. Sully has said in the passages above quoted.
As regards the accuracy of the translation, I have submitted all passages about which I was in the least doubtful to the same gentleman who revised my translation of Professor Hering’s lecture; I have also given the German wherever I thought the reader might be glad to see it.
Translation of the chapter on “The Unconscious in Instinct,” from Von Hartmann’s “Philosophy of the Unconscious.”
Von Hartmann’schapter on instinct is as follows:—
Instinct is action taken in pursuance of a purpose but without conscious perception of what the purpose is.[92a]
A purposive action, with consciousness of the purpose and where the course taken is the result of deliberation is not said to be instinctive; nor yet, again, is blind aimless action, such as outbreaks of fury on the part of offended or otherwise enraged animals. I see no occasion for disturbing the commonly received definition of instinct as given above; for those who think they can refer all the so-called ordinary instincts of animals to conscious deliberationipso factodeny that there is such a thing as instinct at all, and should strike the word out of their vocabulary. But of this more hereafter.
Assuming, then, the existence of instinctive action as above defined, it can be explained as—
I. A mere necessary consequence of bodily organisation.[92b]
II. A mechanism of brain or mind contrived by nature.
III. The outcome of an unconscious activity of mind.
In neither of the two first cases is there any scope for the idea of purpose; in the third, purpose must be present immediately before the action. In the two first cases, action is supposed to be brought about by means of an initial arrangement, either of bodily or mental mechanism, purpose being conceived of as existing on a single occasion only—that is to say, in the determination of the initial arrangement. In the third, purpose is conceived as present in every individual instance. Let us proceed to the consideration of these three cases.
Instinct is not a mere consequence of bodily organisation; for—
(a.) Bodies may be alike, yet they may be endowed with different instincts.
All spiders have the same spinning apparatus, but one kind weaves radiating webs, another irregular ones, while a third makes none at all, but lives in holes, whose walls it overspins, and whose entrance it closes with a door. Almost all birds have a like organisation for the construction of their nests (a beak and feet), but how infinitely do their nests vary in appearance, mode of construction, attachment to surrounding objects (they stand, are glued on, hang, &c.), selection of site (caves, holes, corners, forks of trees, shrubs, the ground), and excellence of workmanship; how often, too, are they not varied in the species of a single genus, as ofparus. Many birds, moreover, build no nest at all. The difference in the songs of birds are in like manner independent of the special construction of their voice apparatus, nor do the modes of nest construction that obtain among ants and bees depend upon their bodily organisation. Organisation, as a general rule, only renders the bird capable of singing, as giving it an apparatus with which to sing at all, but it has nothing to do with the specific character of the execution . . . The nursing, defence, and education of offspring cannot be considered as in any way more dependent upon bodily organisation; nor yet the sites which insects choose for the laying of their eggs; nor, again, the selection of deposits of spawn, of their own species, by male fish for impregnation. The rabbit burrows, the hare does not, though both have the same burrowing apparatus. The hare, however, has less need of a subterranean place of refuge by reason of its greater swiftness. Some birds, with excellent powers of flight, are nevertheless stationary in their habits, as the secretary falcon and certain other birds of prey; while even such moderate fliers as quails are sometimes known to make very distant migrations.
(b.) Like instincts may be found associated with unlike organs.
Birds with and without feet adapted for climbing live in trees; so also do monkeys with and without flexible tails, squirrels, sloths, pumas, &c. Mole-crickets dig with a well-pronounced spade upon their fore-feet, while the burying-beetle does the same thing though it has no special apparatus whatever. The mole conveys its winter provender in pockets, an inch wide, long and half an inch wide within its cheeks; the field-mouse does so without the help of any such contrivance. The migratory instinct displays itself with equal strength in animals of widely different form, by whatever means they may pursue their journey, whether by water, land, or air.
It is clear, therefore, that instinct is in great measure independent of bodily organisation. Granted, indeed, that a certain amount of bodily apparatus is asine quâ nonfor any power of execution at all—as, for example, that there would be no ingenious nest without organs more or less adapted for its construction, no spinning of a web without spinning glands—nevertheless, it is impossible to maintain that instinct is a consequence of organisation. The mere existence of the organ does not constitute even the smallest incentive to any corresponding habitual activity. A sensation of pleasure must at least accompany the use of the organ before its existence can incite to its employment. And even so when a sensation of pleasure has given the impulse which is to render it active, it is only the fact of there being activity at all, and not the special characteristics of the activity, that can be due to organisation. The reason for the special mode of the activity is the very problem that we have to solve. No one will call the action of the spider instinctive in voiding the fluid from her spinning gland when it is too full, and therefore painful to her; nor that of the male fish when it does what amounts to much the same thing as this. The instinct and the marvel lie in the fact that the spider spins threads, and proceeds to weave her web with them, and that the male fish will only impregnate ova of his own species.
Another proof that the pleasure felt in the employment of an organ is wholly inadequate to account for this employment is to be found in the fact that the moral greatness of instinct, the point in respect of which it most commands our admiration, consists in the obedience paid to its behests, to the postponement of all personal well-being, and at the cost, it may be, of life itself. If the mere pleasure of relieving certain glands from overfulness were the reason why caterpillars generally spin webs, they would go on spinning until they had relieved these glands, but they would not repair their work as often as any one destroyed it, and do this again and again until they die of exhaustion. The same holds good with the other instincts that at first sight appear to be inspired only by a sensation of pleasure; for if we change the circumstances, so as to put self-sacrifice in the place of self-interest, it becomes at once apparent that they have a higher source than this. We think, for example, that birds pair for the sake of mere sexual gratification; why, then, do they leave off pairing as soon as they have laid the requisite number of eggs? That there is a reproductive instinct over and above the desire for sexual gratification appears from the fact that if a man takes an egg out of the nest, the birds will come together again and the hen will lay another egg; or, if they belong to some of the more wary species, they will desert their nest, and make preparation for an entirely new brood. A female wryneck, whose nest was daily robbed of the egg she laid in it, continued to lay a new one, which grew smaller and smaller, till, when she had laid her twenty-ninth egg, she was found dead upon her nest. If an instinct cannot stand the test of self-sacrifice—if it is the simple outcome of a desire for bodily gratification—then it is no true instinct, and is only so called erroneously.
Instinct is not a mechanism of brain or mind implanted in living beings by nature; for, if it were, then instinctive action without any, even unconscious, activity of mind, and with no conception concerning the purpose of the action, would be executed mechanically, the purpose having been once for all thought out by Nature or Providence, which has so organised the individual that it acts henceforth as a purely mechanical medium. We are now dealing with a psychical organisation as the cause instinct, as we were above dealing with a physical. A psychical organisation would be a conceivable explanation and we need look no farther if every instinct once belonging to an animal discharged its functions in an unvarying manner. But this is never found to be the case, for instincts vary when there arises a sufficient motive for varying them. This proves that special exterior circumstances enter into the matter, and that these circumstances are the very things that render the attainment of the purpose possible through means selected by the instinct. Here first do we find instinct acting as though it were actually design with action following at its heels, for until the arrival of the motive, the instinct remains late and discharges no function whatever. The motive enters by way of an idea received into the mind through the instrumentality of the senses, and there is a constant connection between instinct in action and all sensual images which give information that an opportunity has arisen for attaining the ends proposed to itself by the instinct.
The psychical mechanism of this constant connection must also be looked for. It may help us here to turn to the piano for an illustration. The struck keys are the motives, the notes that sound in consequence are the instincts in action. This illustration might perhaps be allowed to pass (if we also suppose that entirely different keys can give out the same sound) if instincts could only be compared withdistinctly tunednotes, so that one and the same instinct acted always in the same manner on the rising of the motive which should set it in action. This, however, is not so; for it is the blind unconscious purpose of the instinct that is alone constant, the instinct itself—that is to say, the will to make use of certain means—varying as the means that can be most suitably employed vary under varying circumstances.
In this we condemn the theory which refuses to recognise unconscious purpose as present in each individual case of instinctive action. For he who maintains instinct to be the result of a mechanism of mind, must suppose a special and constant mechanism for each variation and modification of the instinct in accordance with exterior circumstances,[97]that is to say, a new string giving a note with a new tone must be inserted, and this would involve the mechanism in endless complication. But the fact that the purpose is constant notwithstanding all manner of variation in the means chosen by the instinct, proves that there is no necessity for the supposition of such an elaborate mental mechanism—the presence of an unconscious purpose being sufficient to explain the facts. The purpose of the bird, for example, that has laid her eggs is constant, and consists in the desire to bring her young to maturity. When the temperature of the air is insufficient to effect this, she sits upon her eggs, and only intermits her sittings in the warmest countries; the mammal, on the other hand, attains the fulfilment of its instinctive purpose without any co-operation on its own part. In warm climates many birds only sit by night, and small exotic birds that have built in aviaries kept at a high temperature sit little upon their eggs or not at all. How inconceivable is the supposition of a mechanism that impels the bird to sit as soon as the temperature falls below a certain height! How clear and simple, on the other hand, is the view that there is an unconscious purpose constraining the volition of the bird to the use of the fitting means, of which process, however, only the last link, that is to say, the will immediately preceding the action falls within the consciousness of the bird!
In South Africa the sparrow surrounds her nest with thorns as a defence against apes and serpents. The eggs of the cuckoo, as regards size, colour, and marking, invariably resemble those of the birds in whose nests she lays. Sylviaruja, for example, lays a white egg with violet spots;Sylvia hippolais, a red one with black spots;Regulus ignicapellus, a cloudy red; but the cuckoo’s egg is in each case so deceptive an imitation of its model, that it can hardly be distinguished except by the structure of its shell.
Huber contrived that his bees should be unable to build in their usual instinctive manner, beginning from above and working downwards; on this they began building from below, and again horizontally. The outermost cells that spring from the top of the hive or abut against its sides are not hexagonal, but pentagonal, so as to gain in strength, being attached with one base instead of two sides. In autumn bees lengthen their existing honey cells if these are insufficient, but in the ensuing spring they again shorten them in order to get greater roadway between the combs. When the full combs have become too heavy, they strengthen the walls of the uppermost or bearing cells by thickening them with wax and propolis. If larvæ of working bees are introduced into the cells set apart for drones, the working bees will cover these cells with the flat lids usual for this kind of larvæ, and not with the round ones that are proper for drones. In autumn, as a general rule, bees kill their drones, but they refrain from doing this when they have lost their queen, and keep them to fertilise the young queen, who will be developed from larvæ that would otherwise have become working bees. Huber observed that they defend the entrance of their hive against the inroads of the sphinx moth by means of skilful constructions made of wax and propolis. They only introduce propolis when they want it for the execution of repairs, or for some other special purpose. Spiders and caterpillars also display marvellous dexterity in the repair of their webs if they have been damaged, and this requires powers perfectly distinct from those requisite for the construction of a new one.
The above examples might be multiplied indefinitely, but they are sufficient to establish the fact that instincts are not capacities rolled, as it were, off a reel mechanically, according to an invariable system, but that they adapt themselves most closely to the circumstances of each case, and are capable of such great modification and variation that at times they almost appear to cease to be instinctive.
Many will, indeed, ascribe these modifications to conscious deliberation on the part of the animals themselves, and it is impossible to deny that in the case of the more intellectually gifted animals there may be such a thing as a combination of instinctive faculty and conscious reflection. I think, however, the examples already cited are enough to show that often where the normal and the abnormal action springs from the same source, without any complication with conscious deliberation, they are either both instinctive or both deliberative.[99]Or is that which prompts the bee to build hexagonal prisms in the middle of her comb something of an actually distinct character from that which impels her to build pentagonal ones at the sides? Are there two separate kinds of thing, one of which induces birds under certain circumstances to sit upon their eggs, while another leads them under certain other circumstances to refrain from doing so? And does this hold good also with bees when they at one time kill their brethren without mercy and at another grant them their lives? Or with birds when they construct the kind of nest peculiar to their race, and, again, any special provision which they may think fit under certain circumstances to take? If it is once granted that the normal and the abnormal manifestations of instinct—and they are often incapable of being distinguished—spring from a single source, then the objection that the modification is due to conscious knowledge will be found to be a suicidal one later on, so far as it is directed against instinct generally. It may be sufficient here to point out, in anticipation of remarks that will be found in later chapters, that instinct and the power of organic development involve the same essential principle, though operating under different circumstances—the two melting into one another without any definite boundary between them. Here, then, we have conclusive proof that instinct does not depend upon organisation of body or brain, but that, more truly, the organisation is due to the nature and manner of the instinct.
On the other hand, we must now return to a closer consideration of the conception of a psychical mechanism.[100]And here we find that this mechanism, in spite of its explaining so much, is itself so obscure that we can hardly form any idea concerning it. The motive enters the mind by way of a conscious sensual impression; this is the first link of the process; the last link[101]appears as the conscious motive of an action. Both, however, are entirely unlike, and neither has anything to do with ordinary motivation, which consists exclusively in the desire that springs from a conception either of pleasure or dislike—the former prompting to the attainment of any object, the latter to its avoidance. In the case of instinct, pleasure is for the most part a concomitant phenomenon; but it is not so always, as we have already seen, inasmuch as the consummation and highest moral development of instinct displays itself in self-sacrifice.
The true problem, however, lies far deeper than this. For every conception of a pleasure proves that we have experienced this pleasure already. But it follows from this, that when the pleasure was first felt there must have been will present, in the gratification of which will the pleasure consisted; the question, therefore, arises, whence did the will come before the pleasure that would follow on its gratification was known, and before bodily pain, as, for example, of hunger, rendered relief imperative? Yet we may see that even though an animal has grown up apart from any others of its kind, it will yet none the less manifest the instinctive impulses of its race, though experience can have taught it nothing whatever concerning the pleasure that will ensue upon their gratification. As regards instinct, therefore, there must be a causal connection between the motivating sensual conception and the will to perform the instinctive action, and the pleasure of the subsequent gratification has nothing to do with the matter. We know by the experience of our own instincts that this causal connection does not lie within our consciousness;[102a]therefore, if it is to be a mechanism of any kind, it can only be either an unconscious mechanical induction and metamorphosis of the vibrations of the conceived motive into the vibrations of the conscious action in the brain, or an unconscious spiritual mechanism.
In the first case, it is surely strange that this process should go on unconsciously, though it is so powerful in its effects that the will resulting from it overpowers every other consideration, every other kind of will, and that vibrations of this kind, when set up in the brain, become always consciously perceived; nor is it easy to conceive in what way this metamorphosis can take place so that the constant purpose can be attained under varying circumstances by the resulting will in modes that vary with variation of the special features of each individual case.
But if we take the other alternative, and suppose an unconscious mental mechanism, we cannot legitimately conceive of the process going on in this as other than what prevails in all mental mechanism, namely, than as by way of idea and will. We are, therefore, compelled to imagine a causal connection between the consciously recognised motive and the will to do the instinctive action, through unconscious idea and will; nor do I know how this connection can be conceived as being brought about more simply than through a conceived and willed purpose.[102b]Arrived at this point, however, we have attained the logical mechanism peculiar to and inseparable from all mind, and find unconscious purpose to be an indispensable link in every instinctive action. With this, therefore, the conception of a mental mechanism, dead and predestined from without, has disappeared, and has become transformed into the spiritual life inseparable from logic, so that we have reached the sole remaining requirement for the conception of an actual instinct, which proves to be a conscious willing of the means towards an unconsciously willed purpose. This conception explains clearly and without violence all the problems which instinct presents to us; or more truly, all that was problematical about instinct disappears when its true nature has been thus declared. If this work were confined to the consideration of instinct alone, the conception of an unconscious activity of mind might excite opposition, inasmuch as it is one with which our educated public is not yet familiar; but in a work like the present, every chapter of which adduces fresh facts in support of the existence of such an activity and of its remarkable consequences, the novelty of the theory should be taken no farther into consideration.
Though I so confidently deny that instinct is the simple action of a mechanism which has been contrived once for all, I by no means exclude the supposition that in the constitution of the brain, the ganglia, and the whole body, in respect of morphological as well as molecular-physiological condition, certain predispositions can be established which direct the unconscious intermediaries more readily into one channel than into another. This predisposition is either the result of a habit which keeps continually cutting for itself a deeper and deeper channel, until in the end it leaves indelible traces whether in the individual or in the race, or it is expressly called into being by the unconscious formative principle in generation, so as to facilitate action in a given direction. This last will be the case more frequently in respect of exterior organisation—as, for example, with the weapons or working organs of animals—while to the former must be referred the molecular condition of brain and ganglia which bring about the perpetually recurring elements of an instinct such as the hexagonal shape of the cells of bees. We shall presently see that by individual character we mean the sum of the individual methods of reaction against all possible motives, and that this character depends essentially upon a constitution of mind and body acquired in some measure through habit by the individual, but for the most part inherited. But an instinct is also a mode of reaction against certain motives; here, too, then, we are dealing with character, though perhaps not so much with that of the individual as of the race; for by character in regard to instinct we do not intend the differences that distinguish individuals, but races from one another. If any one chooses to maintain that such a predisposition for certain kinds of activity on the part of brain and body constitutes a mechanism, this may in one sense be admitted; but as against this view it must be remarked—
1. That such deviations from the normal scheme of an instinct as cannot be referred to conscious deliberation are not provided for by any predisposition in this mechanism.
2. That heredity is only possible under the circumstances of a constant superintendence of the embryonic development by a purposive unconscious activity of growth. It must be admitted, however, that this is influenced in return by the predisposition existing in the germ.
3. That the impressing of the predisposition upon the individual from whom it is inherited can only be effected by long practice, consequently the instinct without auxiliary mechanism[105a]is the originating cause of the auxiliary mechanism.
4. That none of those instinctive actions that are performed rarely, or perhaps once only, in the lifetime of any individual—as, for example, those connected with the propagation and metamorphoses of the lower forms of life, and none of those instinctive omissions of action, neglect of which necessarily entails death—can be conceived as having become engrained into the character through habit; the ganglionic constitution, therefore, that predisposes the animal towards them must have been fashioned purposively.
5. That even the presence of an auxiliary mechanism[105b]does not compel the unconscious to a particular corresponding mode of instinctive action, but only predisposes it. This is shown by the possibility of departure from the normal type of action, so that the unconscious purpose is always stronger than the ganglionic constitution, and takes any opportunity of choosing from several similar possible courses the one that is handiest and most convenient to the constitution of the individual.
We now approach the question that I have reserved for our final one,—Is there, namely, actually such a thing as instinct,[105c]or are all so-called instinctive actions only the results of conscious deliberation?
In support of the second of these two views, it may be alleged that the more limited is the range of the conscious mental activity of any living being, the more fully developed in proportion to its entire mental power is its performance commonly found to be in respect of its own limited and special instinctive department. This holds as good with the lower animals as with men, and is explained by the fact that perfection of proficiency is only partly dependent upon natural capacity, but is in great measure due to practice and cultivation of the original faculty. A philologist, for example, is unskilled in questions of jurisprudence; a natural philosopher or mathematician, in philology; an abstract philosopher, in poetical criticism. Nor has this anything to do with the natural talents of the several persons, but follows as a consequence of their special training. The more special, therefore, is the direction in which the mental activity of any living being is exercised, the more will the whole developing and practising power of the mind be brought to bear upon this one branch, so that it is not surprising if the special power comes ultimately to bear an increased proportion to the total power of the individual, through the contraction of the range within which it is exercised.
Those, however, who apply this to the elucidation of instinct should not forget the words, “in proportion to the entire mental power of the animal in question,” and should bear in mind that the entire mental power becomes less and less continually as we descend the scale of animal life, whereas proficiency in the performance of an instinctive action seems to be much of a muchness in all grades of the animal world. As, therefore, those performances which indisputably proceed from conscious deliberation decrease proportionately with decrease of mental power, while nothing of the kind is observable in the case of instinct—it follows that instinct must involve some other principle than that of conscious intelligence. We see, moreover, that actions which have their source in conscious intelligence are of one and the same kind, whether among the lower animals or with mankind—that is to say, that they are acquired by apprenticeship or instruction and perfected by practice; so that the saying, “Age brings wisdom,” holds good with the brutes as much as with ourselves. Instinctive actions, on the contrary, have a special and distinct character, in that they are performed with no less proficiency by animals that have been reared in solitude than by those that have been instructed by their parents, the first essays of a hitherto unpractised animal being as successful as its later ones. There is a difference in principle here which cannot be mistaken. Again, we know by experience that the feebler and more limited an intelligence is, the more slowly do ideas act upon it, that is to say, the slower and more laborious is its conscious thought. So long as instinct does not come into play, this holds good both in the case of men of different powers of comprehension and with animals; but with instinct all is changed, for it is the speciality of instinct never to hesitate or loiter, but to take action instantly upon perceiving that the stimulating motive has made its appearance. This rapidity in arriving at a resolution is common to the instinctive actions both of the highest and the lowest animals, and indicates an essential difference between instinct and conscious deliberation.
Finally, as regards perfection of the power of execution, a glance will suffice to show the disproportion that exists between this and the grade of intellectual activity on which an animal may be standing. Take, for instance, the caterpillar of the emperor moth (Saturnia pavonia minor). It eats the leaves of the bush upon which it was born; at the utmost has just enough sense to get on to the lower sides of the leaves if it begins to rain, and from time to time changes its skin. This is its whole existence, which certainly does not lead us to expect a display of any, even the most limited, intellectual power. When, however, the time comes for the larva of this moth to become a chrysalis, it spins for itself a double cocoon, fortified with bristles that point outwards, so that it can be opened easily from within, though it is sufficiently impenetrable from without. If this contrivance were the result of conscious reflection, we should have to suppose some such reasoning process as the following to take place in the mind of the caterpillar:—“I am about to become a chrysalis, and, motionless as I must be, shall be exposed to many different kinds of attack. I must therefore weave myself a web. But when I am a moth I shall not be able, as some moths are, to find my way out of it by chemical or mechanical means; therefore I must leave a way open for myself. In order, however, that my enemies may not take advantage of this, I will close it with elastic bristles, which I can easily push asunder from within, but which, upon the principle of the arch, will resist all pressure from without.” Surely this is asking rather too much from a poor caterpillar; yet the whole of the foregoing must be thought out if a correct result is to be arrived at.