our outfit, as regards fundamentals, though education has enormous practical bearings.

outer.

36.-OBSERVATION AND ATTENTION.

The limited quantity of bodily energy which can be devoted to neural functioning, explains the varied quality of observation, both inner and A man lives in the country, and scarcely knows the shape of a single kind of leaf. [Verify what follows.] Raising my eyes, the sycamore tree under which I write is guessed at rather than seen, while the other trees in the background appear still more indistinct. I meet with considerable difficulty in discerning a single leaf in full, for in most directions I can only see shapeless green patches. In a few places alone, though I am but a few feet off, can a leaf be clearly distinguished. Το observe a leaf unmistakably, means that we observe it in preference to others, that we assimilate its structure, its size, its form, its colour, and the relation of each of these to one another and to the whole. Besides, the shapes vary somewhat, as with the ivy, for instance; they also differ with the season in colour and size; and caterpillars, and sundry other factors, give rise to additional changes. If we wish to know more of the leaf, we must, in a critical manner, compare it with other leaves. Usually there is no attempt to attend carefully to any object; for, in the instance we have cited, such attention would imply that we stood still, that we had procured a convenient number of leaves, and that we had scrutinised them until we had satisfied ourselves as to the nature of the normal leaf. Glancing at trees in passing is inadequate for such purposes.

As I walk down a lane at the end of June I note a wealth of grasses and flowers along the roadside; but no glimpse can give one a reasonable notion of even a single blade. As the average person observes superficially, it follows that he has a scanty knowledge of botany and of things in general. He usually glances at the shape or colour of some leaf, and forgets it ast quickly.

In seeing a small square □, we see something primarily given in space. But with the majority of objects, time enters as a salient factor, e.g., a daffodil is a continually changing object, and to know this flower well we must observe in due order the changes through which it passes. [Watch the growth of some flower.] Fresh knowledge can only be acquired by strenuous endeavours, and when we neglect being strenuous, what is before us remains imperfectly known to us. If the outline of a tree strikes me as familiar, I already know something of that tree. If I can tell the name, size, shape, colour, structure, function and development of its leaves, branches, trunk and roots, then I know just a little more, that is all. There is only a question of degree in attention, or in the result of attentionknowledge. From the standpoint of attention there are ever higher syntheses; and, similarly, lower and lower. The vaguest feeling varies only in complexity from the most elaborate conception. We are constantly passing up and down the ladder of knowledge. The wildest dream, in its

several portions, has consistency, and the most careful thought has simply more of this consistency.

37. THE GROWTH OF KNOWLEDGE COMPLEXES.

At this juncture let us, from the standpoint of attention, trace the growth of knowledge complexes.

A man, say, often travels to a metropolitan station. The ticket collector there sees thousands of people pass by him whom he could not recognise if they presented themselves a few minutes later. How is it that he knows the man we are thinking of: his easy gait, his indifferent bearing, his peculiar voice, his dress, and most of his features and ways? Perhaps the man passed the ticket collector a score of times before he was noticed at all. Then some trifle, in an idle moment, caught the official's eye. Next time, when he observes that trifle again, he dimly re-collects that he has seen it previously. He connects it with the man, some vague personality. Then he takes account of the walk, then the bearing, then one of his features, then another and still another, then he hears the man utter a few words, then he becomes acquainted with his temper, his manners, the newspaper he reads, and the like. If we suppose a typical instance, the ticket collector's knowledge complex slowly grows. His attitude, as we have repeatedly seen, is that of restlessness. He notes some detail, and has it impressed upon him by repetition. Some waste of attention being thus avoided, he comes to be familiar with a second point; then with a third; and so with a fourth. His conception grows in this way for years. At the same time, the growth is not dependent on any express desire to possess a clear notion of the man. This case serves as a simple illustration of the development of a knowledge complex, stimulated mainly by the necessity of paying attention to unfamiliar details, and aided by the fact that when the attention is directed to the unfamiliar it gradually becomes familiar.

A striking instance of a similar character exemplifies the same principle. Some one is introduced to two brothers, who appear to him so very much alike that he cannot distinguish the younger from the older. In time he comes to know each intimately, and he can then scarcely conceive how he could ever have confounded the two. Their every feature, their every movement, their manner, their voice, seem peculiar to each. How did he come to see them in such a different light? He was in their company a good deal. Meeting them frequently, their appearance grew familiar and sharply defined. The constant play of attention selected detail after detail, and memory treasured these up. The homogeneous conception of the two brothers became more and more disparate. In this instance we encounter again growth from the relatively simple to the relatively complex.

Leaves, again, are but leaves to the countryman who walks frequently across a certain part of a wood. His attention employs itself tentatively with the objects surrounding him. In time the leaves of the familiar bushes come, in the fashion already delineated, to be more and more clearly discriminated. The shades of green of the hazel, the blackberry,

and the hornbeam, sink into the memory. From bush to bush he feels the differences. As with the shades of green, so with the normal size, outline and structure of the several classes of leaves. He has no express desire to know these intimately; though there may be now and then an interest in this or that aspect. Thus knowledge complexes are built up. He ends by knowing much where he knew little.

So with other objects. Being familiar with the full-grown robin, one finds that one is enabled to recognise, as a consequence, young robins. Knowing these vaguely, the knowledge, through unpremeditated observation, grows more defined, and one can tell the different stages in the development of young robins. In this way a great multitude of knowledge complexes come to be acquired.

Take the book which I was reading. Certain notions were embodied in it. These were not concentrated into a word or two. They had to be abstracted from the perusal of the whole volume. Perhaps the aim of the work is merely to impress one important truth or knowledge complex. Aspects of that truth are, for this purpose, continually introduced and illustrated. As I study the book closely, the central conception slowly takes shape. The same factors are still at work. Certain details, by being repeatedly attended to, grow more and more familiar, and thus separate facets of the truth are gradually detected. Then several of these are seen in relation to each other. At last, as the result of progressive activity, the truth, as such, flashes into existence. The process has been one of development; and attention, in its unobtrusive fashion, has been leading me towards the end desired. By reading a volume several times, more and more is re-membered. Attention is consequently set free, and we grapple with new aspects.

Often the notions latent in a book, or in a person, or in any form of knowledge complex, become apparent without being searched for. Let us say that the author I am interested in is Robert Browning. I read poem after poem, and many a one again and again. If the poet has a marked style of his own; if he shows certain mannerisms; if his stories are worked out in a fashion peculiar to himself; if he has a limited number of ideas which he seeks to inculcate, these idiosyncrasies gradually become transparent. Repetition forces what is like to the foreground; for it is his fundamental notes which he is ever repeating. Hence the memory retains these rather than the incidental items which have not the advantage of being rehearsed, provided that this process is not disturbed by theorising. In time we may know Browning well, without ever having made a deliberate attempt in that direction.*

38.-ATTENTION TO ONE OBJECT AT A TIME.

We have seen that the normal amount of attention is constant. We have learned how familiarity in one direction allows of additional functioning in

* While in one instance the notion of wishing to know Browning well is present, the same result is yet obtainable by a series of less comprehensive notions.

other directions.

We have also observed that attention does not deal so much with points as with fields. Hence we answer the question, "Can we attend to more than one thing at a time?" with a decided "Yes."

Indeed, there cannot be a "one thing" to attend to. All functioning implies breadth and plurality, and the field is not even limited to one notion or one act. While I was endeavouring to understand what I was reading, I was, of course, reading at the same time. The latter claimed some of my attention, and I was thus active in two sets of directions. I might have been reading the passages aloud, and walking while thus reading. In addition, I might have been playing with a key in my pocket, and so on. The field of attention is only restricted by the quantity of labour requisite for an act. Various activities are pursued, separately or conjointly,* as easily as one, if those activities collectively absorb no more than the normal amount of energy.

The attention is usually divided, as in the instance just referred to. It seems possible to speak as fast as one can, while, at the same time, reading an announcement on a street hoarding, and inwardly contemplating a landscape. [Test this.] Again, in any simple performance, a multiplicity of actions is carried out simultaneously. In lifting a heavy weight I do not need to choose first a convenient position, then stand firm, then adjust my hands and fingers, and then exert a strain. Many of the various movements are normally performed at one and the same time. [Repeat this.] The subdivisions of such an action can be again subdivided, if need be, for there is scarcely an ordinary movement so simple as to lack parts. We, therefore, find, as we might have anticipated, that, in learning, we generally proceed only with portions of a process at a time. After a period several portions are performed simultaneously. Sometimes, as in the case of lifting a weight, the activities form one connected whole. At other times, they are disconnected: the walking has nothing in common with my playing with the key, and my playing with the key is not thought of in connection with my reading aloud.

Let us re-member what we have already referred to, that the functioning of the central nervous system is due to the pressure of organic needs, or to functional readjustments. For this reason, if what we are occupied with requires less than the normal energy available, series after series will establish itself until the available energy is fully employed. Hence when we are engaged in routine occupations of a low order, i.e., occupations which absorb little attention, we always add to our immediate répertoire of thought or action. As a difficulty in the work arises, so the objects attended to decrease; as the work becomes easier, so we are occupied increasingly with what is not connected with the task. [Test this minutely.] In some matters alone do we encounter the fact that we cannot do more than one

* Stout (Psychology, 1896, i, p. 212) says that we can only attend simultaneously to the ringing of a bell and the swinging of a pendulum when the two are connected in thought. This is certainly not so with me. While I am continuously speaking, I see at the same time the trees outside my window and hear the tram cars passing by, without connecting these three processes.

thing at a time. I cannot, for example, sit here writing, and be, at the same time, strolling through the neighbouring wood. Such instances, however, prove little. Only a few days after I had written this, I overheard a remark illustrating the view which is here put forward. A builder said somewhat sarcastically to one of his men, as I was passing by, "You wouldn't do for a carman; you would pull up the horse every time you wanted to speak," plainly intimating that the man might do his work and talk at the same time. Of course, an untrained psychologist would be confused if he attempted to do deliberately what he constantly does without pointed deliberation. But time will soon prove to him that introspection is not bound to be a barrier to the direct observation of immediately traceable facts. As practice proceeds, he will be able to institute an "introspective series."

The problem involved in this section has been much debated. Brentano (Psychologie, 1874, pp. 204-32) holds that several things can be thought of at once, but they must form one whole. Hamilton (Metaphysics, 1877, i, p. 254) contends that five or six points can be discerned simultaneously. James (Psychology, 1890, i, pp. 405-9) seems to me ambiguous. Lipps (Grundtatsachen, 1883, p. 164) believes that “only one process of thought can proceed at a time without interruption." Paulhan (La Simultanéité des Actes Psychiques, 1887) recounts a number of most interesting experiments of his own which tend to prove our contention. Stewart (Elements, 1808, ch. 2) considers, as we have seen, that the minimum visibile is the time-atom of thought. Stout (Analytic Psychology, 1896, i) concurs with Brentano and Lipps, saying, in explanation, that "each mode of mental process tends to arrest and suppress others" (p. 196), a conclusion with which I cannot agree. The fact that effective introspection is generally denied, implies that thought is considered only one storey high.

39.-Do WE ATTEND IN HABIT.

This is not the place to face the question of routine; that is dealt with in ch. 3. We can here only consider the problem from the standpoint of attention. As an illustration take the compositor who is setting up this type. [Examine in detail some process familiar to you.] If he is not introspective, and he is asked how he does his work, he will be unable to re-collect more than a minute portion of the process. Why is that? It is because he does not, now at least, think of the different parts of the process as a whole and in relation to other things. He only regards the steps in connection with those that immediately precede and follow. Through continued improvement he has become an adept in doing the right thing at the right time. Being uninterested in the nature of his work and interested in other things, he has a tendency to crowd out of the total process whatever can be spared. He busies himself only with that which he is compelled to do, being employed otherwise in reflecting over pleasanter, and to him, more fascinating themes than setting up type. The gathering thoughts push aside all that they dare. As a result, attention to the work is reduced to a minimum. He just re-members what is necessary -no more and no less, roughly speaking-and what is not necessary falls a prey to oblivion. Each movement is involved in the one which precedes