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THE DOCTRIKE
HUMAN- AUTOMATISM.
A LECTURE
(WITH ADDITIONS}
delivered before
THE SUNDAY LECTURE SOCIETY,
On Sunday Afternoon, 7th March, 1875.
BY
w. B. CARPENTER, LL.D., M.D.,
F.R.S., F.L.S., F.G.S.
CORRESPONDING MEMBER OF THE INSTITUTE OF FRANCE,
AND REGISTRAR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF LONDON. 1
LONDON:
PUBLISHED BY THE SUNDAY LECTUBE SOCIETY,
18 75,'
Price Threepence.
�SUNDAY LECTURE SOCIETY,
To provide for the delivery on Sundays in the Metropolis, and to
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physical, intellectual, and moral,—History, Literature, and
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social well-being of mankind.
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On SUNDAY Afternoons, at FOUR o’clock precisely
(Annually—from November to May).
Twenty-eour Lectures (in three series), ending 2nd May, 1875, will
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�IS MAN AN AUTOMATON?
Ladies and Gentlemen,—In. introducing to you the
■question which is to be the subject of my address this
evening—the question, Is Man an Automaton ?■—it is
perhaps well that I should define, at the commencement,
the sense in which I intend to use these words ; and it will
be more convenient to take the second first—What do I
mean by an Automaton ? The word automaton is derived
■from two Greek words, which mean self-moving. Well, of
•course, man is a self-moving being, and in that sense he is
an automaton. But the word automaton, as we use it, has
& different signification. It means a structure which moves
by a mechanism, and which can only move in a certain
way. I.might take as illustrations various automata which
are exhibited from time to time—I remember to have seen
in my boyhood many remarkable collections. But I will
draw my illustration from this very hall in which we are
met. The great organ behind me is blown, I understand,
by water power. You know, I daresay, that formerly
organs were blown by manual or human power. The
bellows-blower had before him what is called a “ tell-tale,”
a little weight so hung as to indicate the amount of wind in
the organ; and his business was to work the bellows so as
■always to keep the “ tell-tale ” below a certain point On
the other hand, by a piece of mechanism constructed for
the purpose with a great deal of skill, the organ is now
blown by water-pressure. The water-pressure so acts, that
when the organist requires a large supply of wind, as when
he is playing loud through a great many pipes, the bellows
�4
move faster ancl supply that wind ; while, on the otherhand, when he plays softly, and little wind is required, the
bellows move more slowly. If that apparatus were incased
in the frame of a human figure, and made to work the
bellows-handle up and down, we should call it an auto
maton.
.
Now, let us see on what the working of that automaton
depends. It depends, in the first place, upon its structure.
The mechanist who has constructed that apparatus has soarranged the play of its various parts, that it shall work
with the' power communicated to it, in accordance with the
oro-anist’s requirements. Then its working depends upon
the force supplied by the water-pressure; that force being •
made, by the construction of the machine, to exert itself
in moving the bellows at the rate determined by the playing
of the organist. Without a sufficient water-pressure the
machine will not work; and when the organist ceases to
touch the keys, the movement of the ■ bellows comes to a>
stand. There you have then a machine which is moved,
on the one hand, by a certain power, and the action of
which is regulated by another set of circumstances external
to itself. Now that is, I think, what we mean by an
automaton—a machine which has within itself the power
of motion, under conditions fixed for it, but not by it A
watch, for instance, is an automaton. You wind it upand give it the power of movement; while you make it
regulate itself by its balance, which you can so adjust as to
make it keep accurate time. Any piece of mechanism of
that sort, self-moving and self-regulating, is an automaton.
But then all these machines are made to answer certain
purposes, and cannot go beyond. They are entirely de
pendent, first, upon their original construction, secondly,
upon the force which is applied to them, and thirdly, upon
the conditions under which that force is .made to act. -^he
question then is, whether Man is a machine of that kind .
his original constitution, derived from his ancestry, in the
first place, shaping the mechanism of his body; and in the
second place, the circumstances acting upon him through the
whole period of his growth, and modifying the formation ot
his body, also, in the same manner, determining the con
stitution of his mind. Are we to regard the whole subse-
�5
(mental aS Wel1 as bodily) of eacp individual,
with his course of action in the world, as a necessary
consequence or resultant of these conditions—as strictly
•determined by his inherited and acquired organisation, and
-by the external circumstances which act upon it?
We must now consider what we understand by Man. I
do not mean Man according to the zoologist’s definition—
• a Vertebrate animal, belonging to the class Mammalia,
older Bimana, genus and species Homo sapiens ; but Man
as he is familiarly known to us, and as we have to regard
him m our present inquiry-the bodily man and the mental
man. We cannot help separating these two existences in
thought, although my own course of study has been directed
o the investigation of the nature of their relation. The
-metaphysician considers man simply in his mental aspect;
ih/^
eltCiallng With the organs of sensation;
d the mode in which man acquires his knowledge of the
external wor d through those organs; nor can°he help
cea mg with the subject of voluntary action, and with the
movements which express mental emotions. The physio
logist, on the other hand, looks simply at the body of man-and yet he cannot help dealing with the physiological con
ditions of mental activity—the way in which we become
conscious of the impressions made upon the organs of sense
appatatim °dVritl111011
Upon the muscu1^
appaiatus. A little consideration will shew that we mav
justly regard the body of man as the instrument by which
ns mind comes into relation with the external world. We
exteraTworld Z m/3a.ns/omething distinct from the
personalitZ
convenieilt to call that
feels think?7?
^tm term Ago. This Ego-which
eels thinks, reasons judges, and determines—receives
all its impressions of the external world through the
Ze ZZ Z °f
Again’ a11
action of
e E^o upon the external world—including in that term
the mmds m other men—is exerted through the instru
mentality of the body. What am I doing "at the ZseZ
time?—endeavouring to excite in your minds certain Ideas
meais ?f paSSmg throufh W own. How do I do so?—by
means of my organs of speech, which are regulated bv
my nervous system; that apparatus being the instrument
' '
�6
through which my mind expresses my ideas in spoken
laimuao'e. The sounds I utter, transmitted to you by
vibrations of the air falling upon your ears, excite m the
nerves with which those organs are supplied certain changes
which are propagated through them to the sensonum, that
wonderful organ through the medium of which a certain
state of consciousness is aroused in your minds; and my aim
is, by the use of appropriate words, to suggest to your minds
the ideas I desire to implant in them.
Such is the aspect under which I would have you con
sider Man’s body this evening. I do not say it is the only
aspect: but it best suits our present discussion to consider
the body as the instrument by which the mind of each
individual is made conscious of what is taking place
around him, and by which he is able to act upon the ex
ternal world; thus becoming the instrument of communi
cation between one mind and another. To illustrate what
I would have you keep before you strongly—that the Mind
is the essential Ego—I will ask your attention to one or
two facts of very familiar experience. It must have hap
pened to most of you to have formed impressions of other
individuals without any knowledge of their bodily appear
ance. We do not know them m the flesh at all, but we
know them intimately, or think we do, in the spirit.. 1
remember, in the year 1851, the year of the first, great
. Exhibition, being told that a number of the Telegraph
establishments in the country having given their clerks a
free ticket to London, to enable them to go up and see
the world’s fair—as it was called—m Hyde Park almost
every clerk on first coming to Town before going; to the
great Exhibition, went down to the telegraph office in
city to fraternise with his chum. You P^^ably know that
telegraph clerks very soon find out who is at the o
end.” Several clerks occasionally work a particulai ^s
ment, and each comes to know in half a dozen
w
has - gone on.” They recognise the style of telegjaphm,,
just as you would recognise the handwilting
+o i;ve
After a'little there is some one whom eachcomess wlike
better than others; A communicates individually with_ ,
and B with A; and beginning with the exchange>of lrttfe
friendly messages at odd times, intimacies, I have been
�7
assured, of the most fraternal kind, frequently spring up
between those who have never seen each other. I daresay,
now that young ladies are employed in telegraphing—and
a most fitting employment it is for them—some more
tender relations may spring up in the same manner.
Take again another illustration—the way in which our
sympathies are aroused with an author, when we come to
. know his mind as presented in his writings. A great many
of you felt when Dickens died, as if you had lost a personal
friend—one with whose mind your own had grown into
dose relation, whose thoughts had exercised a most valu
able influence on yours, and whom you felt to be nearer
to you than many so-called friends.
Let me give you an instance from my own experience.
I have been for some years a great admirer of an American
writer, whose books I have read with the deepest interest,
because I found in these books expressions of some of my
own best thoughts, a great deal better put forth than I
could put them forth myself—the products of a similar
course of scientific inquiry, worked out with the aid of
great poetic insight and a great fund of human sympathy,
—a large human capacity altogether. In his writings I
have felt as if I had one of my nearest and truest friends.
Circumstances lately drew forth a letter from him to myself,
in which he did me the honour to say that I had been his
teacher in science; but I felt he was completely my master
in everything that gives the best expression to scientific
thoughts. Now if I were to go to America, the first man
with whom I should seek to make acquaintance, with the cer
tainty that we should meet as old personal friends, is Oliver
Wendel Holmes.—I do not speak of Ralph Waldo Emer
son, because we have long been personal friends. In the
preface to a book I have lately received from him, he'sums
up all I have been now saying in these pregnant words—
“ Thoughts rule the world.”
Thus it is the mind that reciprocates the mind, much
more than the body reciprocates the body. The body is
the symbol of the mind, just as spoken or written words
are symbols of ideas ; and when we think of a friend whom
we know personally, we combine with the conception of
his personality our whole knowledge and conception of his
�8
character. When yon say, “ I met my friend so and so in
the street,” you do not mean you met simply his body, but
that you met the man—the whole man. But when you
say that you know a man “ by sight” only, you mean that
you know his outside body and nothing more.
In considering the body as the instrument of the mind,
I shall shew you, first, the large amount of automatism in
the human body, as to which I want you to have clear
ideas. I do not wish, for any purpose whatever, to lead
you away from this truth. I wish that you should be in the
position yourselves to appreciate facts, so as not to be led
away by one-sided statements. I desire particularly that
my statements should not be one-sided; and so far as time
will allow, I will place before you the whole of the moat
important considerations relating to this subject.
We must separate our body into two parts; and shall
first consider the part that is most important as the instru
ment of our mind—that which physiologists call the apparratus of animal life. This takes in the nervous system—
the recipient of impressions made by the external world
upon our organs of sense, the instrument through which
these impressions are enabled to affect our conscious minds,
and conversely the medium through which our minds ex
press themselves in action on our bodies. Then, again,
there is the muscular apparatus, which is called into action
through the nervous system, and the framework of bones
and joints by which this muscular apparatus gives move
ment to the several parts of the body.
But this “apparatus of animal life” cannot be maintained
in its integrity, and cannot perform the actions which it is
adapted to execute, without certain conditions. It must be
maintained by nutrition, because it is always wearing and
wasting by its very action, and is. in constant need of
repair; and the material for this repair must be supplied
by the blood-circulation. Again, the power it puts forth is
dependent upon the operation of oxygen on the material of
its tissues or of the blood which circulates through them;
and this is as essential a condition as the pressure of water
is upon the bellows of the organ.
Then the circulation of the blood involves the prepara
tion of the blood from food, and its exposure to the atmo-
�9
■sphere in the lungs, so as to get rid of the carbonic
■acid which is the product of the chemical change that
generates nervo-muscular energy, and may take in a fresh
supply of oxygen ; and hence there is required an apparatus
of organic life. This apparatus consists of all the organs
which take in the food, which digest it, prepare it, and
convert it into blood, those which circulate the blood, and
also those which subject the blood to the influence of the
air. The working of this apparatus in man involves the
action of certain nerves and muscles•, though it is not so with
many of the lower animals, which are provided with a much
simpler mechanism. In the case of man we have the need
of muscles to take in and swallow the food, and of muscles
to move the coats of the stomach in the process of its
digestion; and we require a powerful muscle—the heart
•—to circulate the blood through the body by the alternate
contraction of its several chambers; while powerful muscles
of respiration alternately fill and empty the lungs.
Now, the first point I would lay stress upon is, that
all these actions are essentially and originally automatic.
When I say originally, I mean from the very beginning—
from the moment when the child comes into the world, or
oven before. We know that the first thing the new-born
infant does is to draw a long breath; and from that time
breathing never ceases,—the cessation of breathing being
the cessation of life. The heart’s action has been going
on for months before birth; and its entire suspension for
■& very short time, whether before or after birth, would
bring the whole vital activity of the body to an end.
These motions are executed by the nervo-muscular
apparatus, in a way that does not involve our conscious
ness at all. We do not even know of our heart’s action
unless it be very violent, or we be in such a position that
we feel it knocking against our side. But still it is going
on regularly and tranquilly, though it may not be felt
from one day’s end to another. We cannot stop it, if we
would, by-any effort of the will; but it is affected by our
'©motional states.
So, again, we do not know that we are breathing, unless
we attend to it. The moment that we direct our attention
to it, we become aware of the fact; but if we are studying
a2
�10
closely, or listening to a discourse, or attending to some
piece of music, or, indeed, doing anything that engages our
consciousness, we are no more aware of our breathing than
we are during sleep. This shews you, then, that when
breathing goes on regularly the action is purely automatic.
But we have a very considerable control over our muscles
of respiration. If my respiratory movements were as purely
automatic as those of an insect, I could not be addressing
vou to-night; because the whole act of speech depends upon
the regulation of those movements. We must have such
power over the muscles, as to be able to breathe forth succes
sive jets, as it were, of air, which, by the apparatus of arti
culation, are converted into sounding words. Though we
have power over the respiratory organs to a certain extent,
we cannot “ hold our breath” many seconds. In the West
Indies the overworked negroes used formerly to try to
commit suicide by holding their breath, but could not do
it, except by doubling their tongues back so as to stop the
aperture of the glottis; for the impulse and' necessity forbreathing became so imperative, that they could no longer
resist the tendency to draw in a breath. Thus, whilst, we
have a certain voluntary control over this act of breathing,
so as to be enabled to regulate it to our purposes, we can
not suspend its automatic performance long enough to
interfere seriously with the aeration of the blood.
Let me briefly notice some of our other automatic
actions. In the act of swallowing, which properly begins
at the back of the throat, the “swallow” lays hold of the
food or the drink brought to it by the muscles of the mouth,,
and carries this down into the stomach. We are quit®
unconscious of its passage thither, unless we have taken
a larger morsel or something hotter or colder than ordinary.
This is an instance of purely automatic action. If you
carry a feather, for instance, a little way clown into the
“swallow,” it is laid hold of and carried down involuntarily,
unless drawn back with your fingers.
Take as another instance, the act of coughing. What
does that proceed from ? You may have allowed a drop of
water or a crumb of bread to “go the wrong way,” and get
into the air-passages. It has no business there, and will
excite a cough. This consists, in the first place, in the-
�closure of the glottis—the narrow fissure which gives
passage to the air—and then in a sort of convulsive action
of the expiratory muscles, which sends a blast of air
through the aperture, that serves to carry away the
offending substance. Nothing can be more purpose-like
than that action, yet it is purely automatic. You cannot
help it. You may try to stifle a cough for the sake of the
audience or the lecturer, but the impulse is too strong for
you. You see, then, the purely involuntary nature of this
action. The person who feels inclined to cough may
endeavour to overcome the automatic tendency by an
effort of his will. He may succeed to a certain degree,
but cannot always do so.
Now, although we cannot voluntarily stifle a cough when
it is strongly excited, we can cough voluntarily, with no
excitement at all. You can cough, if you choose, to interrupt
the lecturer, as in the House of Commons coughing is some
times used to put down a troublesome speaker; and little
coughs are sometimes got up to give signals to some friend
privately. Or, again, the lecturer, who may feel his voice
husky in consequence of some little mucus in his throat,
wishes to clear it away; its presence does not excite the
movement, but he coughs intentionally to get rid of it.
Now, I would have you fix your attention on these two
points : in the first place, coughing as an involuntary move
ment excited by a stimulus in the throat; and in the second
place, as a voluntary movement executed by a determinate
effort. This distinction is the key to the whole study of
the nature of the relation between the mind of man and
his muscular apparatus.
The automatic movements of which I have been speaking
depend upon a certain part of the nervous centres, which
does not enter into the structure of the brain properly so
called; namely, the medulla oblongata, or the upward
prolongation of the spinal marrow—the spinal cord, as
physiologists call it—into the skull (a, figs. 1, 2).
The effect of the stimulus or irritation in the windpipe
may not be felt as tickling; for coughing will take place in
a state of profound insensibility. An impression is made
upon the nerves which go to the medulla oblongata, and
in that centre' excites a change. It is the fashion now to call
�12-
this change a “movement of moleculesbut it is nothing ■
more than a name for
the action excited there,
;of the nature of which
we know very little. I
• do not think that this
expression is really very
much better than the old
doctrine of “vibrations”
put forth by Hartley
& more than a century ago.
The change thus excited
produces a converse ac
tion in the mo tor.nerves
which go to the muscles,
and thus calls forth the
combined muscular move
ment of which I have
spoken. This is a typi
Fig. 1.—Under Surface oe Brain.— cal example of what the
a. Medulla oblongata, cut off from physiologist terms
the spinal cord; b, pons varolii; c, “reflex action.”
infundibulum; d, portion of the
The whole Spinal Cord
convoluted surface of the cerebrum;
■ e, portion of the same laid open, is a centre of “ reflex
shewing the difference between the action,” in virtue of the
grey or ganglionic substance of the grey or ganglionic mat
convolutions, and the white or fibrous
substance; /, cerebellum; 1, olfac ter it contains, in addi
tory ganglion; 2, optic nerves; 3-9, tion to the white strands
which form the connec
successive cranial nerves.
tion between the spinal nerves and the brain j and this grey
matter is present in different parts of the cord in different
amounts, in proportion to the size of the nerves connected
with each. Each ordinary spinal nerve contains both
sensory and motor fibres, bound up in the same trunk, blit
these are separate at its roots (fig. 3) ; and a part of each
set of fibres has its centre in the grey matter of the spinal
cord itself, whilst another part is continued into its white
strands. Although, however, we speak of “ sensory
fibres, we do not mean that impressions on them always
call forth sensations. For in the case of many involuntary
acts, ascertain impression is made on the sensory nerve,
�■:I3
.and a reflex influence excited by this. acts through the
corresponding motor nerve without calling forth any sen
sation. Ah impression is conveyed towards the ganglionic
centre, which possesses a
• power of reflexion — not
reflection in the mental
sense, but in the optical
sense of the reflection of fffy'
rays from a mirror. If we
break any part' of this
a nervous circle,” ‘ as Sir
Charles Bell called it, its
action is destroyed.' Cut
the sensory ' nerves, and
no reflex action can be
excited. Cut the motor
nerves? and no muscular
contraction can be called
forth. Destroy the centre, Fig. 2.—Vertical Section of Brain
THROUGH ITS MIDDLE PLANE;
and you will not have the shewing the relation of the Cere
reflexion. The complete brum A and the Cerebellum B, to
nervous circle is necessary the Sensori-motor Tract, which
for the performance of may be considered as the upward
extension of the
every one of these reflex a, and includes medulla oblongata,
the parts lettered
actions. • ■
cl, e,f -, at h is shewn in section the
What I want first to corpus callosum, or great transverse
impress upon you is, that commissure uniting the two cere
the reflex movements im bral hemispheres; and at g the
longitudinal
connect
mediately concerned in the ing the frontcommissure, parts of
and back
maintenance of Organic ’ each; i, optic nerve.
life all take place through
this lower portion of the nervous system, which has no
necessary connection with either sensation or will. That
is to say, that if there were no higher part of the nervous
System than the spinal cord, we should still have reflex
action without the Ego having anything to do with it.
■ -I may illustrate this by the act of sucking, which in
volves a curious combination of respiratory movements with
movements of the lips. This act can be performed without
any brain at all; for infants have come into the world with. out the brain, properly so-called—with nothing higher than.
�14
the prolongation of the spinal cord—and have sacked,
-pibreathed, and even cried
for some hours; and all the
true brain has beenremoved
experimentally from new
born puppies, which still
Fig. 3.—Transvep.se Section of
Spinal Cord ; shewing its grey or sucked at the finger when
ganglionic core, enclosed in its moistened with milk and
white strands; a, r, anterior or put between their lips. This
motor roots;
r, posterior or shews how purely automatic
sensory roots.
these actions are.
But we now come to that other class of movements—
namely, those properly belonging to the apparatus of
Animal life—which are concerned in the obtaining of food and in carrying on ordinary
locomotion. I have to shew you to what a
large extent, among some of the lower ani
mals, these movements are originally auto
matic ; and, on the other hand, to inquire
into their nature in Man.
We will go to the class of Insects and their
allies the Centipedes, as giving the best illus
tration of the primary automatic movements
of animal life. Here (fig. 4) is a diagram of a
Centipede. Every child who has dug in the
ground knows the “ hundred-legs,” and is
pretty sure to have chopped one in two, and.
noticed that each half continues to run. This
is in virtue of the ganglion existing in every
joint of the body, which is the centre of the
reflex action of the legs belonging to it, and
which keeps each joint in motion even after
it is separated from the body. If one of these
creatures is cut into half a dozen pieces, every
one of them will continue to run along. But,
again, if we divide the nervous cord which
connects the ganglia, the sight of an obstacle
Fig. 4.—Gan may cause the animal to stop the movement
gliated Ner of its fore legs, yet the hind legs will continue
vous Cord of to push it on. If you take out the middle por
Centipede.
tion of the chain of ganglia, the legs of that
�15
part will not move J but the legs of the front part will move
or not, according to the direction of the ganglia of the head,
•which seem to control the action of the other ganglia in vir
tue of their connection with the eyes; and the legs of the
hind part will continue to move as before.
When one of these creatures goes out of the way of an
•object before it, we may assume that it sees the object;
for although we have no absolute proof that insects do
see anything, I cannot see that there is any disproof of a
conclusion to which all analogy points. Certainly it seems
to me that if I try to catch a fly, and if it jumps or flies
away, or if I go out and try to catch a butterfly with a
net, and it flies off, it does so because it sees the net.
Those who have watched bees, when a storm is coming on,
flying straight down from many yards’ distance to the en
trance of the hive, can scarcely help concluding that they see
the entrance. At any rate, it is not proved that they do not.
Well, then, the Centipede avoids an obstacle. A visual
impression is made on the eyes, and by their agency is.com
municated to the large ganglia in the head; the reflex
action of which controls that of the other ganglia, and
directs the movement of the body.
We find that the size of these cephalic ganglia in flying
Insects has a very close relation to the development of their
eyes; the eyes being most highly developed in the most
active insects, and the ganglia connected with them the
largest; while the general movements of these insects are
most obviously guided by their sight. Here is a clear case
of Original or primary automatism; because these actions
are all performed by the insect almost immediately that it
comes forth from the chrysalis or pupa state; as soon as
its wings have dried, it begins to fly; and obviously sees
and avoids obstacles just as well as if it had been practising
these movements all its life.
Then, in the case of Insects, we notice that very remark
able uniformity of action, which we characterise as “instinc
tive.” They execute most remarkable constructions after a
Certain plan or pattern, with such extraordinary uniformity
and absence of guidance from experience, that we infer
that they must have inherent in them a tendency to
perform those actions.
�16
We see this in the case of hive bees, which are distin
guished for theii* elaborate architecture, and for their rem arkable domestic economy. I do not say that there is no
rationality in insects, and that there is nothing done with
conception and purpose; because some of their actions seem
to indicate this, especially those which are described in
recent accounts of ants given by Mr. Belt in his “ Naturalist
in Nicaragua.” Sir John Lubbock’s experiments also cer
tainly do seem to indicate a power of adaptation to changes of
circumstances that were not likely to have frequently oc
curred naturally in the history of the race, so as to have
become habitual—changes brought about by human agency,
so foreign to the ordinary habits and instincts of the crea
tures, that we can scarcely attribute their consequent action
to anything but a conscious adaptation to these ends. Bub
this is a matter to be still cleared up—how far experience
modifies the actions of insects. As a general fact, I may say
that they carry Automatism to its very highest extreme. .
To give another illustration—the Mantis religiosa (fig. 5),.
an insect which is allied to the crickets and grasshoppers, but
which does not habitu
ally either jump or fly.
It is a very savage insect,
and lies in wait for its
prey like a tiger. You
can see the curious form
of the long fore-legs,
which act as arms, and
are waved about in the
air; and it rests on the
two hinder pairs of legs.
Now, observe that the
front pair are supported^,
upon a very long first
segment of the thorax;
the two other segments
bearing the wings and
the two other pairs of
legs. Each of these
he centre of the move
ments of the limbs attached to it. The insect is always
�IT
lying in wait; and if any unlucky insect comes sufficiently
near, the arms dose round it and dig-in a pair of hooks,
with which the feet are furnished. By this act the unfor
tunate victim is soon put out of existence. Now if the
head Of this Mantis be cut off, the arms still go on moviim
-the
aild if anything is brought
Wife! their reach, they impress the hooks upon whatever
&SSSP’ Fhe 6FS Simply direct their action>the a^ion
itself being dependent on the ganglion from which the
nerves of these members proceed. Further, if we cut off that
«Vision and separate it from the hind part of the bodyithe
same thing will go on If anything is put within its grasp,
the arms close round it and impress the hooks with just
W game automatic action as we see in the Venus’s fly-trap.
Not only
but if you try to upset the body, it will
balance, and rise again upon the hind kgs.
Ibis shews you how completely automatic the move
ments are. The name of Mantis religiosa is derived from
the curious attitude in which this insect habitually livesT? -tS TT prayer’ We have not this insect
Britain; but the French call it the Prie Dieu
is equivalent to religiosa. •
’
C°nie thS 10A7r Vertebrate animals, of which
We my take the Frog as the best illustration. Its Spinal
’V
�18
Cord may be considered as the representative of the chain
of ganglia in the centipede ; the principal difference being
that its ganglionic matter forms a continuous tract, instead
of being broken up into distinct segments. But we find in the
head, instead of the one pair of ganglia connected with the
eyes, a series of ganglia connected with the several Organs
of sense, together with two masses of which we have no
distinct represent*
It
atives among the
lower animals —
namely, the cere
brum and the cere
bellum. The rela
tion of these to the
other
ganglion»
centres is shewn in
tig. 6, which represents the brain oi
the Turtle; A being
the olfactive lobe,,
or ganglion of smell,
from which proceed
the olfactory nerve»;
B the cerebrum; C
the optic lobe or
ganglion of sight,
from which proceed
the optic nerves;
D, the cerebellum;
and E, the spinal
cord. In mOTi
fishes the cerebrum
is actually smaller
Tig. 7.—Diagram of Brain, shewing the than the optic lobes;
relations of its principal parts: a, spinal but as we ascend in
cord; b, b, cerebellum divided so as to lay the series towards
open the fourth ventricle, 4, which sepa man, we find it borates it from the medulla oblongata ;
c, corpora quadrigemina ; d, optic thalami; coming relatively
f, corpora striata, forming the sensori-motor larger and larger;
tract; g, g, cerebral hemispheres ; h, corpus so that it covers-in
callosum; i, fornix; 1,1, lateral ventricles;
piJes the series
Hr
3, third ventricle; 5, fifth ventricle.
�19
«f ganglionic centres lying along the floor of the skull.
These sensori-motor ganglia, (fig. 7, c, d, f), though com
monly regarded as appendages to the cerebrum, really con
stitute the fundamental portion of the brain; they may be
regarded as an upward continuation of the spinal cord; and
I have been accustomed to designate this whole series of
centres (excluding the cerebrum and cerebellum) as the
axial cord In this all the nerves of sense terminate, and
irom it all the nerves of motion arise, the cerebrum having
only an indirect connection with either.
°
The proportional size of the Cerebrum in different animals
compared with that of their axial cord, corresponds so
closely with the manifestations of intelligence (that is, the
'^itentional adaptation of means to ends, under the Guid
ance o experience) as contrasted with blind unreasoning
instinct, that there can be no doubt of its being the instn”
Xnent of the reasoning faculty. The cerebrum attains its
maximum size and complexity in Man ; on the other hand,
111} froS it is relatively much smaller than in the turtle •
and it would seem that the actions of this animal are pro
wled for almost entirely by the reflex power of its auto
matic apparatus—namely, the spinal cord with the ganglia
Z-ITe’rJ.1Su?P°?e that we divide tlie spinal cord in the
»Welle of the back, between the fore legs and the hind le^s
•what nappens? We find that the animal can no longer move
tte hind legs by any power of its own, but that they can be
made to move by pinching the skin of the foot. If acid
SS put on one leg, the other will try to wipe it off: and a
Wimber of movements of that kind are called forth by
»famuli of various kinds. Yet we feel justified in saying
A® frog does not feel them. We know, as a matter of
penence that if a man receives a severe injury to his
—
Wy Often in
Md also, I
through his^tT5’ am0I1S tlle.slliPPing “ ‘he docks&h his stukmg some projecting object in falling
8o,T oomF,eteIy paralysed. He hal no feeling £
tat shock
power of moving them. But after the
S a„fe?„?fl, hera7dent has passed off- if y°u “»He
the lei »™fnhlS feet’ or aPPly a hot plate to them,
« +u-e£S a^e drawn UP- The man will tell you he feels
othmg whatever, and would not know what had taken
�20
■ place if he did not see the movement. A case of this bir d
occurred to the celebrated surgeon, John Hunter, who asked
a man, 11 Do you feel this in your legs'?”“ No, sir,” he
replied, (e but my legs do.” That was not scientifically
correct, because his legs could not be properly said to feel
that of which the Ego was unconscious ; but it expressed
the fact that the irritation called’forth a respondent motion.
■ • There is only one other mode of explaining this action';
namely, that by dividing the spinal cord.we have made a
second Ego—a new centre of sensation—in the lower part
of the cord. In that case we make as many Egos in the
centipede as we cut the body in pieces; and we might make
three separate Egos in the frog—the head, the upper part of
the trunk with the fore-legs, and the lower part with the
hind legs, each acting independently. This seems, to me
inconceivable; I entirely go with those who maintain that
these actions are provided for by a purely automatic
mechanism.
' .
. - A” still more remarkable fact is, that if we remove
• the higher nervous centres, leaving only the Spinal Cord,
and with it the Cerebellum (which appears to have the
■ power of combining or co-ordinating the movements), we
find that the general actions of locomotion are per
formed as in the uninjured animal. Thus the frog will
continue to sit up in its natural position ; and if we throw
it into the water it will strike out with its limbs and swim,
just as if the whole nervous system.was intact. * This is
■ the case also with the Dytiscus marginalis, a water-beetle,
which, when the ganglia of the head have been removed,
' will remain unon a hard substance without any movement;
' yet, if dropped into water, will begin to strike out, swim
ming in the usual way, but without any. avoidance o±
obstacles. So the frog, if a stimulus is applied, will jump
- just as if the brain had been left. If put on the hand it sits
. there perfectly quiet, and would remain so unless stimulated
to action; but if the hand be inclined very gently and slowly,
so that the frog would naturally slip oil', the creature s *pre"
feet are shifted on to the edge of the hand until he can just
prevent himself from falling. If. the turning of the hand be
■ slowly continued, he mounts up with great care and deli
beration, putting first one leg forward and then the other,
�.21;
nnial he balances himself with perfect precision upon the
edge; ancl if the turning of the hand is continued, over he
goes through the opposite set of operations, until he comes
to be seated in security upon the back of the hand. All
this is done after the brain proper has been removed,
shewing how completely automatic this action is. Another
remarkable fact is, that if you stroke one particular part of
the skin, the frog will croak.
*
.. .
Precisely parallel experiments were made by Flourens.
By removing the brain of a Pigeon he found that the anwal
retained its position, and would fly when thrown into the
air* If the optic ganglia were left, he found evidence that
animal either saw, or that its movements were guided by
impressions received through its eyes. The head of the
pigeon would move round and round if a light was moved
round in front of the eyes. So in the frog it was found that,
if the optic ganglia were left, it would avoid obstacles placed
in front of it, when excited to jump.
Thus we see how completely automatic these movements,
are, and how entirely they are dependent on the reflex
■action of the axial cord, the Cerebrum not being necessary
for their performance. The removal of that organ, how
ever, seems to deprive the animal of all spontaneity; it
remains at rest unless excited to move, and seems to do
nothing with a purpose.
Let us now go to Man, and examine the nature of his
movements. You have all seen a child learning to walk.
You know that it does not get upon its legs to walk all at
©nee, like a newly-dropped lamb ; but that its muscles have
to be trained, and this training is a very long process. The
child learning to walk, as Paley says, is the greatest
posture-master in the world. It requires a long course
■bf experience to acquire the power of moving its limbs in
® proper .manner to execute the successive steps; but far
more training is required in balancing. This balancing
of the body is one of the most curious things in our
mechanism. No automaton has ever been made to walk.
I once saw an automaton that professed to walk; but it had
only a gliding motion; and upon looking at the feet I found
some concealed springs beneath, so that neither foot was
ever really lifted.
�22
The act of walking requires a. continual shifting, of the
centre of gravity from side to side, so as to keep it over
the base during every step; and it is this shifting from side
to side, that constitutes the great difficulty, in. the act of
walking. Almost every muscle in the body is in action in
the maintenance of our balance and in the forward move
ment. The muscles of the eyes, even, are in operation in
keeping our gaze fixed upon what is before us, and thus
guiding our onward movement. But when this movement
has been once acquired, it goes on unconsciously. If you.are
walking with a friend and engaged in earnest conversation,
you may walk a mile and not be the least conscious all the
time of your having been successively advancing one leg
after another; and you do exactly the same thing, while
walking in a state of mental abstraction. So, again, you
are guided by your sight, when you have once set out,
along the line you are accustomed to take. I am in the
habit of walking down the Regent’s Park every lawful, day,
as you call it in Scotland, to my office at the University of
London. I frequently fall into some train of thought—as
latelv about this lecture; and I follow on that train of
thought, not only unconscious of the movements of my legs,
but unaware of the directing action of my vision. Yet I
know that my eyes have been directing me. When I have
come into the crowded streets, I have not. run against my
fellow passengers, or knocked myself against a lamp-post.
My legs have been moving the whole time, and have
brought me to my destination, sometimes to my surprise.
This must have been the experience of all of you who are
accustomed frequently to walk along a certain line. It has
even been the case that when you have set out with the
intention of departing from your accustomed line, for some
little business or other, and have , fallen into a tram ot
thought, through pre-formed association you keep m the
habitual line. After getting half way down a street you
suddenlv find that you have not gone out of your way, as
you intended to do. I regard such habitual action as
purely automatic; not primarily, but secondarily automatic,
the automatism not being original but acquired. . Ihis. is
the most universal of all forms of acquired automatic action
�23
in Man—not only the motion of the limbs, but the direction
of their movements by the sight.
The act of walking may become so automatic as to be
performed during sleep. Soldiers fatigued by a long march
continue to plod onward when sound asleep. If there are
Bo obstacles they go steadily onwards, just like the centi
pede when its head has been cut off. The Indian punkahpullers—men who are engaged the whole day pulling a
string backwards and forwards, to move the great fan
which produces a current of air in every room—often go
on as well when they are asleep as when they are awak®.
These are two instances of acquired automatism; and I
might add a great many more, because everything that
becomes habitual to a man is occasionally performed auto
matically in the state called absence of mind. Thus when
& gentleman goes up to his dressing-room to dress for a
party, the first thing he commonly does is to take out his
Wtch and lay it on the table. The next thing he often
does— I have done it myself—is to wind up his watch,
as if he was retiring for the night. I have known a
case in which the gentleman completed his undressing
and then went to bed-; so that when his wife came in
Search of him, he was comfortably resting from his day’s
Work. That was a case of pure automatism ; and I could
relate many more instances of the same kind, but you
must all have noticed such things in your own experience.
A particular manual operation can be done, if it is one not
requiring the constant direction of the mind, quite autoinatically. A man can plane a board, for instance, or work
his loom, while his mind is entirely occupied in another
direction. A musician will play a piece of music, and yet
maintain a continuous conversation at the same time.
There is a very amusing and suggestive book which I
recommend you to peruse, “ The Autobiography of Robert
Moudin, the Conjurer,” who describes the training by which
he prepared himself for the performance of various of his
feats of dexterity. Amongst other things, he tells us that
he devoted a great deal of time and attention in early life
to the acquirement of the faculty of being able to read a
book continuously, and at the same time to keep up balls
in the air. He brought himself to be able to keep up four
�24'
balls in the air, without detaching his mind from his book
for a moment. He could continue the tram of thought
that the book suggested, without giving his attention at
all to the keeping up of the balls; this action being only
a more elaborate form of the trained automatism that 1
have spoken of. The thought occurred to him, when
writing his autobiography, that he would try whether,
after thirtv years’ cessation from this performance, he
could still execute it. He stops, and then continues his
memoii-: “ I have tried this, and find I can keep up three
balls ” There, I believe, the nervo-muscular combination
that was required, had come by early training to be a part of
his physical constitution, and had been kept up by nutrition.
Whatever, in fact, we learn to do in the period of growth, .
we can continue to do without practice after the growth
has been completed; whilst acquirements that we make
subsequently are more easily lost when we are out o
practice.” I think all experience shews that; and I believe it
is for this physiological reason—that the bodily and mental
constitution'acquired during the period of growth becomes
“a second nature,” and is maintained throughout life,
whilst any modification it may undergo afterwards is some
thing superadded to that basis, and is the first to decline
when the habit of action ceases.
.
We now pass to the other part of our subject—the rela
tion between the higher part of our nature, the Ego, and
these automatic actions. What I shall endeavour to shew
you very briefly is this, that the whole of the neryomuscular apparatus concerned in executing the mandates
of the mind acts as a framed automaton. Anything which
' we mentally determine to do “we will, as we say. In
using the word “will” I do not mean a separate faculty,
I mean the Ego in a state of action. The Ego determines
to do a certain action, and commands the automaton to do it
*The will does not, as physiologists used to believe, thio
itself into a particular set of muscles; but says to the auto
maton, “do this,” and it does it. There are manF
which the Ego desires to do, but which he cannot make the
automaton do for want of training. For instance, manyof
you may strongly desire to be able to play a musical instru
ment. You may be able to read the music, and by watchmo
�25
a performer may see precisely how to do it, but you cannot
do it, simply for want of training. The same is the case with
a great many other actions which we can only acquire by
practice. Again, you may wish to do something physicallv
impossible. The Ego may earnestly desire and intend to
make some great effort—to take a great leap, for instance, to
save his life. He may will to hang on to a cord as long as
xaay be necessary to prevent his falling from a height.
The Ego wills this with all his energy; but his muscles will
not. obey him, because it is not in their nature to maintain
their tension for longer than a certain period.
Let me give you a little experiment that I think every
One will find instruction in performing on himself; it
occurred to me while lecturing on physiology as suited to
conduct my students exactly to the idea I wished to impress
upon them. There happened to be a bust opposite me,
and I said, “ Now, I will to look at that bust, and I will
at the same time to move my head from side to side.” I
told, them to watch my eyes, and they could all see them
rolling from side to side in their sockets,—as you can see
for yourselves by looking at your own eyes in a lookingglasSj and turning your head from side to side. You do not
feel that you are using the slightest exertion, and would not
be aware of the motion of your eyes unless you knew it
as a matter of fact, or some one else told you that you were
<at>ing so. You have said to your automaton, “Look at it”
(whatever it may be), and at the same time “ move your
head round.; ’ and the automaton rolls its eyes in the conteary direction, and thus keeps the image on the same part
•of the retina.
r
That is what I maintain to be the general doctrine of
the automatism of the body, directed and controlled by the
will;—the Ego willing the result, and leaving it to the
automaton to work it out; as when I set my automaton to
walk to a certain place, and direct my thoughts to some
thing altogether different.
kave now, in the last place, to consider how far the
Mind of man acts automatically. This is a subject con
fessedly of very great difficulty. There are those who consider that the mind of man is essentially and entirely
c ependent upon his bodily organisation, although they may
�26
still hold the separate existence of the mind. They find.it,.
indeed, very difficult to conceive that there can be anything
else than automatic action; because they see to what a
very large extent our mental activity is conditioned by the
physical constitution of the body.
The Physiologist can have no more doubt that there is a
mechanism of thought and feeling, of intellect and imagina
tion, of which the Cerebrum is the instrument, than that
there is a mechanism of instinct of which the Axial Cord is
the instrument. "When one idea suggests a second, in accor
dance with a preformed association, the second a third, and
so on, constituting what we call a “train of thought,” without
any order from ourselves, we seem fully justified by a large
body of evidence in affirming that this is the mental ex
pression of a succession of automatic changes, each causing
the next, in the ganglionic matter which forms the con
voluted surface-layer of the Cerebrum. These changes may
or may not result in bodily motion. What we call the
“ movements of expression,” are the involuntary signs of
the state of our feelings ; and so the movements executed
by sleep-walkers are the expressions of the ideas with
which their minds are possessed. So great talkers, like
Coleridge, sometimes run on automatically, when they have
got patient listeners; one subject suggesting another, with
no more exertion or direction of the will than we use in
walking along a course that has become habitual. All this
may be regarded, physiologically, as the “reflex action of
the cerebrum,” the physical mechanism of which is partly
shaped by its inherited constitution, and partly by the
training to which it has been subjected, whether by inten
tional education, or by the education of. circumstances—the
brain “ crowing to” the mode in which it is habiuually
worked, &just a's the mechanism of our bodily movement
shapes itself to the work we habitually call on it to peiform.
We constantly see that mental faculties are inherited, as
well as bodily powers ; that children brought up after the
parents’ death, shew most remarkably the mental tendencies
of one or both of them. They do a number.of things in
exactly the same manner that the parent did, have the
same moral and intellectual tendencies, and present an
extraordinarily striking resemblance in general character.
�27
This principle of the hereditary transmission of facultiesthrough the physical organisation is now generally admitted;,
and what is more, I think it is clear that many of these
Acuities and tendencies have been acquired and superin
duced, as it were, in the constitution of the parent, upon
what it originally possessed. There is one very remarkable
and too common example of this hereditary transmission,
namely, the tendency to alcoholic excess. I remember
a friend telling me he had known a man who for forty years
got up every morning with the strong apprehension of being
unable to resist that craving, which was an essential and
inherent part of his nature, inherited from the unhappy
indulgence of his father. That man fought a most heroic
fight every day of his life. Every now and then he fell,
but recovered himself; and, to my mind, fall as he did, his
recovery shewed him to possess a far higher moral nature
than that of the man who never yieids because he is never
tempted. I cite this merely as one example of acquired
tendency hereditarily transmitted; all of us are familiar
with cases more or less resembling it.
But the question is, whether the Ego is completely
under the necessary domination of his original or inherited
tendencies, modified by subsequent education ; or whether
he possesses within himself any power of directing ancl
controlling these tendencies ? It is urged by some that as
the physical structure of his Cerebrum at any one moment
is the resultant of its whole previous activity, so its reflex
action, determined by that physical structure, must be
really automatic; the only difference between a voluntary
oi’ rational, and an involuntary or instinctive action, lying
in the complexity of the antecedent conditions in the
former case, as distinguished from their simplicity in the
latter. And it is held, in like manner, by many who
look at the question from the mental side, and who do
not trouble themselves at all about the physiological aspect
of it, that a man cannot act in any other way than in
accordance with his character; and that his character at
any one moment is the general resultant of his whole
previous mental life. But even John Stuart Mill, the
most able and conspicuous advocate of this doctrine, felt
that in making every man entirely dependent upon his in
�28
herited constitution, and his subsequent “circumstances,” it
excluded all possibility of real seZ/-direction, all hope of selfimprovement ; and this, he tells us in his autobiography,
■weighed on his existence like an incubus. “ I felt,” he
says, “ as if I was scientifically proved to be the helpless
slave of antecedent circumstances, as if my character and
that of all others had been formed for us by agencies •
beyond our control, and was wholly out of our own power.”
'The way out of this darkness he found in what seems to
have struck him as a new discovery, although it was
fa.mil 13,r enough to many who had previously studied the
action of the mind,—“that we have real power over the
formation of our own character; that our will, by influenc
ing some of our circumstances, can modify our future
"habits or capacities of willing.”
Now, this I hold to be accordant with the experience of
every one who has thought and observed, without troubling
himself with philosophical theories. "VVe all perceive that
in the earlier period of our lives, our characters have been
formed for us, rather than by us. But we also recognise
the fact, that there comes a time when each Ego 'may
take in hand thé formation of his own character ; and that
it thenceforth depends mainly upon himself what course
its development shall take,-—the most valuable result of
early training being that which prepares him to be his
own master, keeping in subjection his lower appetites and
passions, and giving the most favourable direction to the
exercise of his higher faculties. And I shall now explain
to you what seems to me the process by which this is
■ effected.
Every one knows that he can determinately fix h%s
attention upon some one object of sense, to the. more or
less complete exclusion of all others. In looking at a
picture, for instance, he can examine each part of it sepa
rately; or, if he has a “musical ear,” he can single out any
one instrument in an orchestra, and follow it through its
whole performance. Now, just in the same manner we
can fix our attention upon one state of consciousness (a
thought or feeling) to the exclusion of others. Supposing
that you are endeavouring to fix your mind upon a certain
object of study, or are reading a book that requires much
�29
thought to follow it, or are trying to master a mathe
matical problem, or are desiring to work out a certain
question as to the conduct of your own lives, and you are
attracted by the coming-in of a book or a newspaper which
you would like to look at, or are distracted by noises or
the playing of a musical instrument, you feel that it is in
your power to fix and maintain your attention by a suffi
cient effort. That determinate effort is what we call an
act of the will; and I believe that the power of so fixing.
Our attention is the source of all that is highest and best
in our intellectual self-education, as, in another direction, it.
is the source of all our moral self-improvement.
The automatist will say that your doing so is merely
the result of the preponderance of one motive over the
other,—the desire to go on with your study being stronger
than the attractive or distracting influence. But if this
be the whole account of the matter, why should we have
to “ make an effort,”—to struggle against that influence ?We choose, as it seems to me, which is the thing that we
deem preferable; and we then throw the force of the Ego
into the doing of it, just like a man who makes a powerful
muscular exertion to free himself from some restraint.
And I hold that just as the Ego can turn to his own
account the automatic action of his nervo-muscular appa
ratus, regulating and directing his bodily movements, .so
ha can turn to his own account the automatic activity of
his cerebrum, regulating and directing the succession of
his thoughts, the play of his emotions. That succession
is in itself automatic; you cannot produce anything, other
wise than by utilising what may spontaneously present,
itself; and you do so by the selective attention of which I
have spoken, intensifying your mental gaze so as to make ,
the object before you call up some other, until you get
what you are seeking for. This you may readily trace
out for yourselves if you will observe your own mental
experiences, in trying to recollect something. And what
shews the essentially automatic action of the cerebral
mechanism in this familiar operation, is that after you
have been for some time trying in vain to recall some
forgotten name or some recent occurrence which has
“ escaped your memory,” it will often flash into your mind
�30
some little time afterwards, when yon have turned your
attention to something else. In the same manner many
important inventions and discoveries have proceeded from
the automatic working of the Cerebrum, set going in the
first place by the determinate fixation of the attention on
the object to be attained; the success of the result being
due to the whole previous “ training” of the organ.
The act of fixing the attention, in my belief, lies at the
foundation of all education, and is one to be fostered and
encouraged in every child. It is better to begin with only
a few minutes at a time; gradually, by encouragement, the
child comes to feel that it has a power of its own to pro
long its attention; and at last the encouragement is no
longer needed, for the child that has been judiciously
trained will exert all its determination to learn its lesson,
in spite of temptations to go out and play or to amuse itself
in any other mode. But if this determination were simply
the expression of a preponderance of motive, I do not see
why an effort should have to be made. If the motive to fix
the attention be stronger than the attraction of any other
object, or the prospective influence of the good to be
gained be more powerful than the distracting influence, the
mere preponderance of the one over the other would produce
the result. But we know and feel that the making such a
determinate effort, involves more expenditure, “ takes more
out of you,” than the continuous sustained attention when
there is no distracting influence; therefore, I say there
is something here beyond the automatic preponderance of
motive—the mark and measure of the independent exertion
of the will.
Now this power, call it what we may, is capable of being
strengthened by exercise—no power more so; neglected
children being generally most deficient in it, and most
carried away by their own impulses. No doubt a greater
power of concentration is natural to some, and a greater
mobility to others. But still I believe there is no healthy
mind in which this power is not capable of being developed
by training, just like the power of the limbs in walking. Its
possession is the foundation of all intellectual discipline;
without it we can do nothing good in intellectual study.
Look, now, at the moral side, and see how it operates
�there. We begin by saying, “ I ought not” to do so and
SOj*—assuming a moral standard. Take the case, which is
unfortunately so common a one, of a man who has a strong
temptation to alcoholic indulgence. He .knows perfectly
well that an habitual yielding to that temptation will be
his ruin. I have heard of a man who said that if a glass
of spirits was put before him, and he knew that the pit of
hell was yawning between, he must take it. This is an
instance of the overpowering attraction it has for some
individuals ; but this generally results from habit; and it
is over the formation of habits that the will can exert its
greatest power, by fixing the attention on one set of motives
to the exclusion of other motives. I do not say that a man
can bring motives before his mind. He cannot do that—
we can only take what comes into our minds; but he can
direct his thoughts in a certain line, as it were, so as to
find them. He can think of his family or the future, and
80 exclusively fix his attention on the consequences, as to
withdraw it from the immediate attraction. That I take
to be the best mode. A struggle goes on in the mind of
many a man subject to temptation; but if he has strength
of principle enough to resist the immediate tendency to
wrong action, and so gets time to deliberate, he may thus
Herve himself for the conflict. Many good resolutions are
formed—we know what place is said to be paved with them
and we hope to realise them. We determine in ourselves
that we will avoid particular indulgences. We may have
Some strong disposition to apply our powers to ill uses, to
play some mean trick, or something of that kind. Most of
us have temptations of self-interest—not less strong be
cause not pecuniary,-—as to gain credit that does not belong
to us, and so on. We hold back—•“ puli ourselves together ”
is the phrase of the present time—and summon all our
resolution and determination not to yield. There is some
thing more, here, than mere preponderance of motive; for
we determinately direct our attention to the reasons why
we should or should not do the particular act. I believe
that in such cases the mind is best withdrawn from the
temptation, fixing the attention upon something else. That
is the real secret of victory. By fixing our mind upon the
object, and saying “I won’t do it.” the temptation still
�32
keeps haunting us. I have known many a struggle of this
kind relieved by the determination to follow an entirely
different course. We know that in cases of insanity, where
a man is led by, physical disorder to take a miserable view
of everything relating to himself, the medical man sends
him abroad, where he is attracted by a new set of objects
—something which prevents his mind from brooding over
his gloomy thoughts; and in that way, as his physical health
improves, the man comes to feel that he can voluntarily
transfer his attention from them to objects of interest
round him. This, I believe, is the manner in which we
should distract our minds from anything we feel and know
to be unworthy of our attention;—we should find out
something more worthy, and pursue it with determination.
I ask you to take as your guiding star, as it were, in the
conduct of your lives, these four words—“I am,” “ I ought,”
“I can,” “I will.”—“I am” is the expression of reflection
and self-consciousness, the looking-in upon our own trains
of thought. If we do not feel “ I am" we do not think of
ourselves and our own nature—we surrender ourselves. “ I
ought"—expresses the sense of moral obligation. By steadily
fixing our attention on the “I ought,” the course of action
is first directed right, and its continuance m that path
becomes habitual. “ Turn to the right and keep straight
on,” and you will find the doing so easy in proportion.
Every right act, every struggle of the will against wrong, is
the exercise of a power which strengthens with use, and
will make the next act easier to you. On the other hand,
every time you surrender your will to the temptations of
self-interest, or sensual gratification, or anything that turns
you from the straight path, there is a loss of power which
makes the next effort more difficult. Then, “I can"—the
consciousness of power, is the foundation of all effort.
And, lastly, it is not enough to say, “ I ought to do it, and
I can do it,” but we must will to do it. The “ I am,” “ I
ought,” “I can,” “I will,” of the Ego, can train the
mental as well as the bodily Automaton, and make it do
anything it is capable of executing.
�
Dublin Core
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Title
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Victorian Blogging
Description
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A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
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2018
Publisher
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
Text
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Pamphlet
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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The doctrine of human automatism : a lecture (with additions) delivered before the Sunday Lecture Society, on Sunday afternoon, 7th March, 1875
Creator
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Carpenter, William Benjamin
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: London
Collation: 32 p. : ill. ; 18 cm.
Notes: Part of the NSS pamphlet collection.
Publisher
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Sunday Lecture Society
Date
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1875
Identifier
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N116
Subject
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Free will
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<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (The doctrine of human automatism : a lecture (with additions) delivered before the Sunday Lecture Society, on Sunday afternoon, 7th March, 1875), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
Format
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application/pdf
Type
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Text
Language
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English
Automatism
NSS