these reasons that the attention is readily attracted and retained by the humorous, while its limitations are implied in our organic structure. The attention becomes tired of humour, as of everything else, if too prolonged. Humour is most effective where the process of attention is best gratified, as when we are skilfully prepared and preserved in a humorous mood. It depends for its existence on the peculiar nature of our attention mechanism. The humour of a bodiless being is, therefore, to us who are in the body, an amusing conception. Education, habit, false opinions, fallacious reasoning, insistence on or ignoring of certain aspects, the mingling of other factors, our views of right and wrong, must all be allowed for, as was done in our analysis of the beautiful.

The nature of the Comic has given rise to much discussion. Kant, in his Kritik der Urtheilskraft, 1790, $54, defines laughter as that "which results from the sudden transformation of strained expectancy into nothing." Such an explanation misses the whole of the facts; for the surprise is no more a nothing than a beautiful scene which we unexpectedly chance upon, or a stupid reply which has not the merit of causing laughter. In humour, we have to do with a relation of a particular class, and it is the business of science to discover that relation. It has already been shown that a genuinely humorous answer is never haphazard, stupid or meaningless.

Brown examines the nature of the ludicrous in Lecture 58. He holds, without venturing on an illustration, that "we laugh as readily at some brilliant conception of wit, where there are no infirmities of others displayed, as where they are displayed in any awkward blunder" (Lectures, 1824, iii, p. 186). In conformity with this he defines the sense of the ludicrous as "the pleasure arising from the discovery of unsuspected resemblance in objects formerly conceived to be known to us, or unsuspected difference in objects formerly regarded as highly similar" (ibid, iii, p. 188). It will be seen, therefore, that Brown denies the ever-presence of malice in humour. I feel, however, that the Comic always depends on levelling down, and never appears in levelling up. Unsuspected differences or resemblances, every one must admit, may exist entirely apart from the ludicrous; it is peculiarly the business of the scientist to disclose these. Brown's classification, moreover, of the ludicrous into the burlesque and mock-heroic, the unexpected, the awkward, and bulls or blunders (pp. 197-203) shows that loss of dignity is an essential. Spencer (vol. 3 of Essays, "The Physiology of Laughter," first published 1860) has the following Kantian explanation. Our thoughts, he argues, are engaged intently along one line; there follows now an interruption which is not sufficient to occupy the place of that which has engaged us; hence the discharge goes along physical lines. This explanation does not commend itself to me; it seems forced throughout. We need not in humour be engaged intently, and an irrelevant interruption is usually ignored or causes annoyance. Dumont (La Sensibilité, 1875) argues that it is the unexpected and contradictory which occasions laughter. He also draws attention to the fact that "we laugh when other people tickle us; but that we do not laugh when we tickle ourselves " (p. 206); and this he would explain by saying that there is no adjustment possible when others tickle us. Yet laughter is by no means an invariable concomitant to tickling, however unexpected, and tickling may be followed by convulsions without laughter. In his Des Causes du Rire, 1862, he says: "The Comic may be defined as . . . that which determines our understanding to form simultaneously two contradictory statements" (p. 48). Bain (Emotions and the Will, 1875) argues that "the occasion of the ludicrous is the degradation of some person or interest possessing dignity, in circumstances that excite no other strong emotion" (p. 257). Here, also, we may readily imagine a case where there is degradation without the presence of any strong emotion or of the sense of the ludicrous, while the definition scarcely distinguishes between humour and malice. Baldwin (Feelings and Will, 1891) claims that "a joke turns on a misplaced

grammatical or logical relation which, if properly placed, would have been æsthetic" (p. 242). Lastly, Sully (Human Mind, 1892, ii) affirms, as I have done, that “it seems certain that the feeling of glory, or of superiority, is a common ingredient in comic laughter" (p. 150); that "we have in the feeling of the ludicrous a transferred and refined form of the primitive brutal laughter of triumph" (pp. 150-1); and that "the most characteristic form of modern humour occurs where there is a touch of kindly or humane feeling" (p. 152). Mirth presupposes that what surprises us shall not affect us seriously either in body or in reputation; and hence the very same remarks under different conditions appear now as comic and now as tragic. Thus the ambassador who, being intoxicated, fell down before Majesty instead of kneeling, might have caused laughter if the king had been in good humour, or indignation if he had been in an irritable mood.. Probably the onlookers were inwardly convulsed with amusement.*

246. THE IMAGINATION.

It is possible to imagine the whole of our thought to be infra-conscious or neural, as part of it is. Deliberation and reflection would then be indicated by a time gulf. We should have immediate knowledge of results; but we should be deprived of active thought in every form. There being no necessity for secondary reflections, the play of thought would, of course, be entirely physical, and hence this section would be left to the neurologist. As the matter stands, the secondary world does not ordinarily lack continuity, nor signs that the central nervous system is busy. A need being given, it is possible that its satisfaction shall be compassed instantaneously. The brain occasionally works thus, and it is imaginable that at some future period the man-machine will generally reach that high level. However, as this is not yet an accomplished fact, we must inquire as to the mode of satisfying a need. The process, we learn, has at least three aspects, and follows the method of cross-classification (sec. 102). [Is this so?] We redevelop what is to the point; we think of what the future has in store; or we analyse the instance before us. As to the first, when some difficult problem presents itself, we attempt to overcome it by bringing the past to our assistance. We consider whether similar incidents have occurred in our life or in another's, so far as our knowledge extends. We recall cases, and dismiss them if they are not pertinent. Thus we let the light of the past illuminate the present and the future.

Again, we may be aware of a problem which we shall be compelled to face in the future. What shall we do? We think of what X. will say, what action Y. will take, or how circumstances will shape themselves. We picture to ourselves a variety of situations and consider how we shall modify them by our action. We endeavour to divine all that can possibly happen, so that we may be equal to the occasion. We also consider how we may create conditions favourable to us.

Lastly, we have to deal with the intimate present. We do not now wander far and wide, for the notion to be embodied in a piece of work requires repeated attention. We stop again and again for a few moments to consider a problem which requires immediate solution. Or we wish to

On the subject of the Comic, see also Fischer, Ueber den Witz, 1889, and Bergson, Le Rire, 1900, which has a bibliography of the Comic.

make ourselves well understood, and proceed deliberately to use more or less explanatory illustrations. When we thus conjure up the past, or anticipate the future, or move cautiously along in the present, we are said to employ the imagination. [Observe carefully.]

Given serious work-a-day reflection, and we at once learn that under the peculiar circumstances of our attention mechanism, a play of thought is certain to result if the situation be appropriate. What we pursue under the limitations of effort, we willingly do when restraint is thrown to the winds. When purposely summoning up the past, we treat ourselves with monkish severity; the topic in hand brooks no indiscriminate re-developments; and we think only of what serves our end. A time comes, however, when no necessities press upon us. We then wander about at will over the plains of the past. As a child which is bathing in the sea, rushes now this way and now that, shouts and splashes the water, bound by no law of reason or decorum, so we revel in our vivid fancies. Now we laugh in imagination, now we are sad, now we are excited, now we discern a lovely face or a fine character, now we travel abroad or revisit the scenes of our childhood. Our only purpose is to remain in this restful mood, and we use effort only in turning away from what has ceased to be attractive. The series of images is not a firmly connected one, as when re-development serves a serious purpose. We make no desperate effort to re-develop certain things in preference to others. We do not try to curtail the life of a scene, or to dismiss it, because it is wasting our time. Effort of an acute kind is absent. We drift, and delight in drifting. The attention mechanism, as in all æsthetic activity, is exploiting for its own ends an activity otherwise seriously employed. It wants to be occupied; but not to be tired or distressed. [Experimentally test the working of the imagination.]

The future also we are apt to treat dreamily. It is a relief to cut the conventional moorings-a delight to discard rudder and sail, and leave the boat of life to take care of itself. If we cannot attain to a royal crown, our fancy depicts us as the rulers of the world. If the laurel be tardy in coming, we see in imagination the whole earth bow to our genius. If we are scoffed at, we dream of the sincere repentance of the scoffers. On the other hand, we worry ourselves pitilessly. Perhaps we are dullards after all. Perhaps we deserve contempt. Perhaps we are chasing a phantom. Perhaps we are but weaklings. Or, again, in imagination, we successively walk, run, climb, soar, delve and grope. Pleasant or unpleasant the mood may be; but as long as the thoughts move along readily, and require no marshalling, so long is the attention satisfied.

Once more, our own imagination is assisted by those of others. Our thoughts are perhaps not sufficiently prolific to satisfy our demand, so we sit down and read novels, biography, history and poetry. The treasures which the community in this way offers are so great that many are tempted to effeminately dream away a life time in a harem of fiction. The imagination, the normal object of which is to assist us in meeting emergencies and in overcoming difficulties, is degraded into a purposeless fancy. Instead of

pleasant rest from arduous labour, we indulge in emasculating lassitude. Leisure should be the complement of work; unconnected with work it ceases to be æsthetically gratifying.

In conversation, in artistic endeavour, and in all kinds of amateur undertakings, there is a play of thought. The well shaped sentences which are to assist clearness, are often formed for the pleasure of forming them. The ready response which is to cover our retreat or prepare an attack, is cultivated frequently for its own sake. The weighty pronouncement which is to help on the progress of humanity, is sometimes uttered for the sake of complaisance. Metaphor, necessary in primitive life and useful in modern civilisation, is at times employed without ulterior motive. [Observe the process in the creation of metaphors.] As children play at school, so adults play at life and work. The tools of the pioneers of humanity

become our playthings.

The practical imagination, owing to the nature of the attention, gives birth to fancy-winged thought. Every power we develop is, in this manner, expanded into a capacity which is of itself desirable, until our light-born fantasies appear to us in a shaded or sober light. At bottom, they are a continuation of the child's playfulness. Our imagination roams hither and thither, according to the stage of its development. The spaces between the occasions for necessary work must be filled up, and how else can that be done except by continuing in play what we began in earnest? Undoubtedly, too, the very play assists us to a limited extent in keeping the memory fresh and bright and our various capacities in good order; but, if we are prudent, we shall not lay much stress on these secondary advantages. Smooth thought, for such is normal thought play, forms a doubtful preparation for arduous work.

The play of thought in children, which is normally so abundant, finds its explanation in the fact that they are incapable of much effort. With them the play has a valuable side. They live in the present, and absorb the elementary social knowledge of things and their qualities. They learn the nature of the world they will have to face. Hence their indifference to the most perfect doll which, by reason of its perfection, offers so little to the attention, and their preference for a whip or a broom. Hence their contempt of such playthings as crowing cocks, roaring lions, and other perverse mechanisms whose simplicity exasperates them. The attention is a born traveller, and, especially with children, hates to be detained since it has to perform an educational mission in the dark interior.

All that has been said of secondary influences when dealing with visual forms applies here. We define attention-determined thought as needsatisfying development which, of itself, occupies the attention.

Playful effort of thought is cultivated in several ways. In such games as chess, neural strain is courted. Similarly many parlour games have a predominantly intellectual character. In the same way, we readily pursue favourite studies, though the neural effort required may be considerable. In all these, and related instances, however, the efforts

made possess scarcely any value outside the immediate field of application. Ideal intellectual games, which shall rival field sports, are yet to be invented.

Only space and time have prevented the expansion of this important section into a chapter. It would be interesting, for instance, to analyse the visual imagination. When I attempt to think of a golden mountain, I tend to re-integrate some rugged piece of gold or some sun-lit mountain. I can imagine no golden mountain similar to the ordinary mountains I have seen. So also I cannot think of a man whose face is violet in colour. On the other hand, I can imagine printer's types of all sizes and classes. If I wish to think of a church on a hill with its steeple downward, I succeed after a while, probably by picturing a reflection from a pond or river. With me at least memory largely supplies the imagination, while variety in observation is necessary to give the imagination elasticity to transcend the known. Imagination through the medium of language, where varying combinations are the rule, proceeds readily, and organised reaction has made lingual thought almost free. Nevertheless, if we compare the different kinds of stage plays of the same and of various periods, we shall see how the field even of verbal imagination is very much restricted, and is in general determined socially. [Some advanced students should make a close study of the nature of the imagination, applying, of course, all the rules mentioned in sec. 136.] It may be noted in passing that, given all sensations to be fundamentally alike (sec. 189); given a possibility of constructive imagination; given also a single sensation; and imagination could develop the whole world.

247.-PLAY.

It need hardly be said that motor activity is essential to a normal life. Without the aid of the muscles, action would be paralysed, the environment acting on us without our being able to react. Yet it is rare for the complete wants of the muscular system to be satisfied by our ordinary activities, while the child's work consists principally in play. Muscular exercise of a rational kind stands on a different basis from the exercise of the imagination, for in the latter case the useful results are, at best, very limited, while in the former, they are often ideally satisfactory. Motor play emphatically fits us for motor work.

The play of muscle is not based on the same necessity for continued exercise as the play of thought. In motor action we have the alternative of rest for a prolonged period, an alternative which is wanting in thought proper.* Nevertheless, only appropriate and varied employment preserves the physical tone. If we neglect exercise, the muscles grow flabby and dwindle, and if our work only makes demands on a few muscles, these alone are kept in a state of elasticity. So also over-exercise has the unwholesome effects with which we have become acquainted in our study of thought. Muscle play is distinguished in yet another way from thought play. We have seen how uniformly strain is discouraged in the latter case, while we know that physical effort is a salient feature in the former. This is an additional illustration of the organic basis of our nature. Where effort is genial, we greet it with delight; where it is tiring, we recoil. Hence what is pleasant in motor culture is generally shunned in neural culture. Two additional differences moreover must be observed. The muscular system is normally more inured to effort than the neural system. Just as

We have seen, however, that complete muscular inactivity produces almost immediate sleep (sec. 220).