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THE PLAY OF MAN

BY

KARL GROOS

PROFESSOR OF PHILOSOPHY IN THE
UNIVERSITY OF BASEL
AUTHOR OF THE PLAY OF ANIMALS

TRANSLATED WITH THE AUTHOR’S CO-OPERATION

By ELIZABETH L. BALDWIN

WITH A PREFACE BY

J. MARK BALDWIN, PH. D., HON. D. SC. (OXON.)

PROFESSOR IN PRINCETON UNIVERSITY

[Illustration]

NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1901

COPYRIGHT, 1901,
BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.




EDITOR’S PREFACE


The present writer contributed a somewhat lengthy preface and also an
appendix to the translation of the author’s earlier volume, The Play
of Animals, mainly because—apart from the expressed wish of Professor
Groos—he wanted to say something about the book. It is a pleasure to
him now to have the justification for it which comes from the adoption
by Professor Groos in this volume of the suggestions made in the
translation of the earlier one. The main points have all been accepted
and used by the author (see pp. 265, 376, 395, of this volume, for
example), and further discussions of them have been brought out. This
is said in view of the opinion of many that “introductions” are always
out of place.

A notable thing about the present volume, considered in relation to the
Play of Animals, is the modification of the theory of play as respects
its criteria—a point fully explained by the author in his Introduction
(see especially p. 5).

The present writer’s editorial function has been confined to the
insertion of various notes, and the suggesting to the translator
of certain renderings; both mainly of a terminological sort (see
pp. 5, 122, 133, 264, for examples). In this connection it has been
found possible to anticipate and follow the recommendations made in
the present writer’s Dictionary of Philosophy and Psychology (now
in press), seeing that Professor Groos is in active co-operation
with the committee engaged upon the German-English equivalents of
that work, in so far adopted here. A particular case is the group
of renderings: “Preparation” (Vorübung), “Habituation” (Einübung),
“Exercise” (Ausübung), all terms of the “Practice” (Uebung) theory
of play. Another case is the set of terms applied to the various
reactions of “Shyness”—e. g., “Bashfulness” (Schüchternheit), “Coyness”
(Sprödigkeit), “Modesty” (Bescheidenheit), “Shame” (Scham), etc.
Biologists will note the adoption of “Rudiment” for Anlage in its
biological sense.

Intrinsically the work will be found a worthy companion to The Play of
Animals, a book which has already become famous.

J. MARK BALDWIN.

PRINCETON UNIVERSITY, _February, 1901_.




AUTHOR’S PREFACE


In this work my aim is to present the anthropological aspects of the
same subject treated of in my psychological investigation of animal
play, published in 1896, which may be said to have been a pioneer
attempt in its department. In the discussion of human play, however, I
am supported by valuable philosophical works, among which I acknowledge
myself especially indebted to those of Schaller, Lazarus, and Colozza.
In regard to the standpoint from which I approach the general problem
of play, it is hardly necessary for me to speak at length here. It is
the same practice theory on which I intrenched myself in the earlier
work. The difficulties in its way, arising from our as yet imperfect
understanding of human impulse life, are fully allowed for in the
introduction to the first section, and I am convinced that the results
attained by its adoption will, on the whole, justify the method of
treatment which I have chosen.

Since it was my interest in æsthetics which first induced me to turn
my attention to the subject of play, it is natural that the æsthetic
phase of the question should be conspicuous in this volume. Still,
I wish it to be distinctly understood that my inquiry has not been
conducted solely in obedience to such leadings, nor should it be judged
exclusively by æsthetic criteria. I have intentionally left many
questions open for more mature consideration, at some future time, when
I can give to them more thought than was possible in the year’s study
which I have devoted to play phenomena.

KARL GROOS.

BASEL, _December, 1898_.




CONTENTS


                                                          PAGE

EDITOR’S PREFACE                                           iii

AUTHOR’S PREFACE                                             v

THE SYSTEM OF PLAY—INTRODUCTION                              1


PART I

_PLAYFUL EXPERIMENTATION_

I. PLAYFUL ACTIVITY OF THE SENSORY APPARATUS                 7

  1. Sensations of contact                                   7

  2. Sensations of temperature                              14

  3. Sensations of taste                                    14

  4. Sensations of smell                                    16

  5. Sensations of hearing                                  18

    (_a_) Receptive sound-play                              19

    (_b_) Productive sound-play                             31

  6. Sensations of sight                                    48

    (_a_) Sensations of brightness                          50

    (_b_) The perception of colour                          54

    (_c_) Perception of form                                60

    (_d_) Perception of movement                            67


II. PLAYFUL USE OF THE MOTOR APPARATUS                      74

  A. Playful movement of the bodily organs                  75

  B. Playful movement of foreign bodies                     95

    1. Hustling things about                                95

    2. Destructive (analytic) movement-play                 97

    3. Constructive (synthetic) movement-play               99

    4. Playful exercise of endurance                       101

    5. Throwing plays                                      103

      (_a_) Simple throwing                                105

      (_b_) Throwing with the help of a stroke or
              blow                                         107

      (_c_) Rolling, spinning, shoving, and skipping
              foreign bodies                               110

      (_d_) Throwing at a mark                             114

    6. Catching                                            118


III. PLAYFUL USE OF THE HIGHER MENTAL POWERS               121

  A. Experimentation with the mental powers                122

    1. Memory                                              122

      (_a_) Recognition                                    122

      (_b_) Reflective memory                              128

    2. Imagination                                         131

      (_a_) Playful illusion                               131

      (_b_) Playful transformation of the memory-content   135

    3. Attention                                           144

    4. Reason                                              152

  B. Experimentation with the feelings                     158

    1. Physical pain                                       159

    2. Mental suffering                                    160

    3. Surprise                                            163

    4. Fear                                                166

C. Experimentation with the will                           169


PART II

_THE PLAYFUL EXERCISE OF IMPULSES OF THE SECOND
OR SOCIONOMIC ORDER_


I. FIGHTING PLAY                                           173

  1. Direct physical fighting play                         174

  2. Direct mental contests                                186

  3. Physical rivalry                                      197

  4. Mental rivalry                                        201

  5. The destructive impulse                               217

  6. Teasing                                               220

  7. Enjoyment of the comic                                232

  8. Hunting play                                          237

  9. Witnessing fights end fighting plays. The tragic      244


II. LOVE PLAY                                              252

  1. Natural courtship play                                254

  2. Love play in art                                      268

  3. Sex in the comic                                      278


III. IMITATIVE PLAY                                        280

  1. Playful imitation of simple movements                 291

    (_a_) Optical percepts                                 291

    (_b_) Playful imitation of acoustic percepts           294

  2. Dramatic imitation in play                            300

  3. Plastic or constructive imitative play                313

  4. Inner imitation                                       322


IV. SOCIAL PLAY                                            334


PART III

_THE THEORY Of PLAY_

1. The physiological standpoint                            361

2. The biological standpoint                               369

3. The psychological standpoint                            379

4. The æsthetic standpoint                                 389

5. The sociological standpoint                             395

6. The pedagogical standpoint                              398

INDEX                                                      407


THE PLAY OF MAN




THE SYSTEM OF PLAY




INTRODUCTION


While many have undertaken, by various methods, to classify human
play satisfactorily, in no single case has the result been entirely
fortunate. Grasberger remarked, a quarter of a century ago, that
a permanent classification of play had not up to that time been
achieved,[1] and in my opinion the present decade finds the situation
essentially unchanged.

Under these circumstances, I can hardly hope that my own classification
will satisfy all demands, but I reassure myself with the reflection
that absolute systematization is and must remain, in the vast majority
of cases, a mere logical ideal. Yet even an imperfect classification
may justify itself in two ways: it may be very comprehensive and
practical, or its aptly chosen grounds of distinction may serve to open
at once to the reader the inmost core of the subject under discussion.
My special effort has been directed to the second of these uses,
adopting as I do the conception of impulse life as a starting point;
how far I may have attained to the first as well is for others to judge.

I consider the governing force of instinct as having been fully
established in the study of animal play. In the book[2] which deals
with this subject I reached the conclusion that among higher animals
certain instincts are present which, especially in youth, but also
in maturity, produce activity that is without serious intent, and so
give rise to the various phenomena which we include in the word “play.”
I shall treat of the biological significance of this fact in the
second, the theoretical section of this book. Here I confine myself to
remarking briefly that in child’s play (which, according to one theory
of our subject, is of the utmost importance) opportunity is given to
the animal, through the exercise of inborn dispositions, to strengthen
and increase his inheritance in the acquisition of adaptations to his
complicated environment, an achievement which would be unattainable by
mere mechanical instinct alone. The fact that youth is _par excellence_
the period of play is in thorough harmony with this theory.

An analogous position is tenable in the treatment of human play,
although the word instinct, while generally applicable, is not
universally so—a difficulty which is much more conspicuous here than
in the classification of animal play. We lack a comprehensive and yet
specific term for those unacquired tendencies which are grounded in our
<DW43>-physical organism as such. The word instinct does not cover the
ground with its commonly accepted definition as inherited association
between stimuli and particular bodily reactions. Even the imitative
impulse, which is responsible for the important group of imitative
plays, is not easily included in this idea, because no specific
reaction characterizes it.[3] It is safer, therefore, to speak of
such play as the product of “natural or hereditary impulse,” although
even that is not entirely satisfactory, since many psychologists
connect the idea of impulse with a tendency to physical movement.
There are undoubtedly deep-rooted requirements of our nature which
this definition does not include, and which must be given due weight
in our study of play. Thus, as Jodl, in agreement with Beaunis and
others, maintains, every sensory tract has not only the ability to
receive and act upon certain stimuli, but betrays itself originally
through desire for their realization.[4] And if we keep in mind the
tension toward special sensation, always present even in a state of
comparative rest and distraction of the sense organ, as well as those
external movements which are no longer the particular object of desire,
we find ourselves still further from the narrow idea of instinct in
relation to <DW43>-physical processes. In this dilemma we can only
hold fast to the fact of the primal need for activity, which, while
it can not, any more than the other, be included in the narrower use
of the terms, has nevertheless an unmistakable relation to the life
of impulse and instinct. And while it is true that mere intellectual
fiat is not adequate to the establishment of such causal connections,
one might be tempted, under the stress of dire need, to coin some
such term as “central instinct,” did not any added burden threaten to
plunge the already over-weighted term into a very chaos of obscurity.
The case is much the same, too, with other mental attributes. Who
is to decide whether it is lawful to assume a universal “impulse to
activity” (Ribot approaches such an assumption)[5] which may, according
to circumstances, become now effort after emotional excitement, now
desire for logical expression and the like? Or who shall pass on the
legitimacy of a revival of the hereditary central-impulse theory which
directs attention not to external physical movement, but exclusively
to such internal dispositions as are dependent on the <DW43>-physical
organization? Should this latter view prevail, biological psychology
will have before it the task of linking an ancient idea—it was
developed in Ulrici’s Leib und Seele in 1866—to the body of modern
science.

As it is likely to be some time yet before scientific terminology shall
have attained such clearness and perfection in a sphere by no means
easily accessible, that we may count on banishing all obscurity, I
must content myself with the term “natural or inherited impulse”[6]
as the basis of my classification. In far the greater number of cases
it is equivalent to simple instinct. But in the imitative impulse we
have something which is _analogous_ only to instinct, and in reference
to the higher mental dispositions to activity, the term “impulse” must
be expanded beyond its usual significance. I am well aware that my
classification lacks precision, but I venture to think that it affords
deeper insight into the problem than may be had by other means and that
some aspects of the subject, not evident from other standpoints, may be
brought out by this method of treatment.

The first important distinction made is that between the impulses
by which the individual wins supremacy over his own <DW43>-physical
organism without regard to other individuals prominent in his
environment, and such other impulses as are directly concerned with
his relations to others. To the first group belong all the manifold
impulses which issue in human activity, those controlling his sensory
and motor apparatus[7] as well as the higher mental dispositions which
impel him to corresponding acts. To the second group we assign the
fighting and sexual impulses, imitation, and the social dispositions
closely connected with these. Each of these manifests its own peculiar
play activity. Unfortunately, an adequate terminology here, too, is
wanting, and as the opposites “egotism and altruism,” “individualism
and socialism,” are not admissible in our classification, it is
difficult to designate the two groups with propriety. While awaiting
better names for them, I am forced to the very unsatisfactory expedient
of calling them impulses of the first order and impulses of the
second order.[8] To denote the playful exercise of the first order of
impulses, I shall use the expression “playful experimentation,” which
is already adopted in child-psychology, and also, by myself at least,
in animal psychology.

As all further subdivisions will be effected without difficulty in
the course of our investigation, I add here only a brief note on the
general characteristics of the playful exercise of these impulses. The
biological criterion of play is that it shall deal not with the serious
exercise of the special instinct, but with practice preparatory to it.
Such practice always responds to definite needs, and is accompanied
by pleasurable feelings. The psychological criterion corresponds with
it; thus, when an act is performed solely because of the pleasure it
affords, there is play. Yet, the consciousness of engaging in sham
occupation is not a universal criterion of play.




PART I

_PLAYFUL EXPERIMENTATION_




I. PLAYFUL ACTIVITY OF THE SENSORY APPARATUS


1. _Sensations of Contact_

The newborn infant is susceptible to touch sensations. Movements
and loud cries can be induced directly after it has for the first
time become quiet, by pinching the skin or slapping the thigh.[9]
Experiments with the hands and mouth are most satisfactory, as these
organs are extremely sensitive from the first. During its first week
the child makes many purely automatic motions with its hands, and
frequently touches its face. When contact is had in this way with the
lips, they react with gentle sucking movements, and later follows
the playful sucking of the fingers so common among children. It is,
of course, difficult to say when such movements are conscious or
when they are the result of taste stimuli.[10] According to Perez, a
two-months-old babe enjoys being stroked softly, and from that moment
it is possible that it may seek, by its own movements, to provide touch
stimuli for itself. Here play begins. “Touch now controls. At three
months the child begins to reach out for the purpose of grasping with
his hand; he handles like an amateur connoisseur, and the tendency
to seek and to test muscular sensations develops in him from day to
day.”[11]

_a._ We will first notice grasping with the hand as it is connected
with taste stimuli. The merely instinctive movements of the first
few days are multiplied and fixed, by means of inherited adaptation,
progressively from the beginning of the second quarter year. The child
begins by handling every object which comes within his reach, even his
own body, and especially his feet, and one hand with the other.[12] In
all this not only the motor element, of which we will speak later, but
also the sensor stimulus becomes an object of interest, as Preyer’s
observation shows. “In the eighteenth week, whenever the effort to
grasp was unsuccessful its fingers were attentively regarded. Evidently
the child expected the sensation of contact, and when it was not
forthcoming wondered at the absence of the feeling.”[13] This practice
in grasping promotes the opposition of the thumb, which first appears
toward the end of the first quarter, and from that time the refinement
of the sense of contact progresses rapidly. At eight months Strümpell’s
little daughter took great pleasure in picking up very small objects,
like bread crumbs or pearls.[14] This illustrates the familiar fact
that play leads up from what is easy to more difficult tasks, since
only deliberate conquest can produce the feeling of pleasure in
success. At about this time, too, the child’s explorations of its own
body are extended, and their conclusions confirmed by the recognition
of constant local signs. “As soon as she discovered her ear,” says
Strümpell of his now ten-months-old daughter, “she seized upon it as if
she wished to tear it off.” In her third year Marie G—— found on the
back of her ear two little projections of cartilage, which she examined
with the greatest interest, calling them balls, and wanting everybody
to feel them. The nose, too, is repeatedly investigated. Although it
is seldom large enough to be grasped, still, as Stanley Hall says, it
is handled with unmistakable signs of curiosity, and often pulled or
rubbed “in an investigating way.”[15]

The value of the sense of touch for the earliest mental development is
testified to by the fact that the child, like doubting Thomas, trusts
more to it than to his sight. Sikorski says: “At tea I turn to my
eleven-months baby, point to the cracker jar, which she knows, and ask
her to give me one. I open the empty jar and the child looks in, but,
not satisfied with that, sticks her hand in and explores. The evidence
of her eyes does not convince her of the absence of what she wants.”[16]

In Wolfdietrich one verse runs:

  “Die Augen in ihren (der Wölfe) Häuptern, die brannten wie ein
     Licht,
   Der Knabe war noch thöricht und zagt vor Feinden nicht.
   Es ging zu einem jeden und griff ihm mit der Hand,
   Wo er die lichten Augen in ihren Köpfen fand.”[17]

Older children lose the habit of playful investigation quite as little
as any of the other manifestations of experimentation, even when
the sensations encountered are not particularly agreeable. Richard
Wagner liked to handle satin, and Sacher Masoch delighted in soft fur.
In later life as well, Perez continues, all the senses strive for
satisfaction; when the adult is not forced by necessity to put all his
faculties at the service of “attention utile” he becomes a child again.
He easily falls back into the habit of gazing instead of looking,
of listening instead of hearing, of handling instead of touching,
of moving about merely for the sake of sensations agreeable or even
indifferent which are produced by these automatic acts.[18] We all know
how hard it is for school children to keep their hands still during
recitation. “I knew a little girl,” says Compayré, “who would undertake
to recite only on condition that she be allowed to use her fingers
at the same time, and she would sew and thread her needle while she
was spelling.”[19] The knitting of women while they listen is perhaps
of the same nature. Wölfflin remarks: “We all know that many people,
especially students, in order to think clearly need a sharp-pointed
pencil, which they pass back and forth through the fingers, sharpening
their wits by the sensation of contact.”[20] Then, too, there are the
innumerable toying movements of adults, such as rolling bread crumbs
and the like, all of which serves to introduce a short ethnological
digression. “In the year 1881,” relates the brilliant W. Joest, “when
I was travelling through Siberia, ... I noticed that many of the men,
requiring some occupation for their nervous hands during leisure hours,
played absently with walnuts, which had become highly polished from
constant use.” He saw stones, brass and iron balls, and the Turkish
_tespi_, whose original use is devotional, employed for the same
purpose; indeed, Levantines, who are not Mohammedans, often regard
these latter as special instruments of gaming and vice.[21]

Carrying a walking-stick is another playful satisfaction in which the
hand’s sensation of contact has a part, while the lead pencil, small
as it is, will sometimes satisfy the demand for “something in the
hand.” This is a genuine craving, which betrays itself in all sorts
of awkward movements if we try to deny its indulgence. Carrying a
cane is a remarkably widespread custom, and some think that the very
small stone hatchets so common in ethnological museums as relics of
a prehistoric time were used as cane handles in the stone age. Joest
says, in the article cited above, that walking-sticks are used in
millions of forms, on every continent and island of our earth. The
naked Kaffir uses a slender, fragile cane of unusual length, and,
according to P. Reichard,[22] his ideal of peace and prosperity is
embodied in “going to walk with a cane,” since this implies freedom
from the necessity of bearing arms. I close this digression with an
instance which borders on the pathological. Sheridan was waiting for
the celebrated Samuel Johnson, well known to be eccentric, to dine with
him, and saw the doctor approaching from a distance, “walking along
with a peculiar solemnity of deportment and an awkward sort of measured
step. At that time the broad flagging at each side of the streets was
not universally adopted, and stone posts were in use to prevent the
annoying of carriages. Upon every post, as he passed along, I could
observe he deliberately laid his hand, but, missing one of them, when
he had got at some distance he seemed suddenly to recollect himself,
and, immediately returning back, carefully performed the accustomed
ceremony and resumed his former course, not omitting one till he gained
the crossing. This, Mr. Sheridan assured me, however odd it might
appear, was his constant practice.”[23]

_b._ The mouth of an infant is, of course, very sensitive to touch
stimuli, and the lips and tongue are especially so. When Preyer put
the end of an ivory pencil into the mouth of a child whose head only
was born as yet, it began to suck, opened its eyes and seemed, to
judge from its countenance, “to be very agreeably affected.”[24] It
happens very soon that automatic arm movements accidentally bring the
fingers near the mouth, and such automatic sucking results. From it
the familiar habit of thumb sucking is formed, as well as the practice
of carrying every possible object to the mouth. “Your finger, a scrap
of cloth, a bottle, fruit, flowers, insects, vases, objects large and
small, attractive or repulsive, all seek the same goal.”[25] I think
Compayré is right when he says that it is not merely a case of duped
appetite which Preyer points out. “The child enjoys the mere contact;
it gives him pleasure to test with his lips everything that offers an
occasion for the use of his nerves and muscles.”[26] We find that in
later life many persons like to play about the lips with fingers,
penholder, etc. Many, too, who have outgrown the fascinations of thumb
sucking, still lay a finger lightly on the lips when going to sleep or
when half awake.[27] The pleasure derived from smoking is due perhaps
more than we realize to this instinct, and the common habit of holding
in the mouth a broken twig, a leaf, a stalk of grass or hay, so far as
it is not practice in chewing, belongs here. In K. E. Edler’s romance,
Die neue Herrin (Berlin, 1897, p. 137), portraits of the extinct
species of young lady are described. “In this one the lips pressed a
cigarette, while in other pictures a rose stalk, the head of a riding
crop, or some other object, not excluding her own dainty finger, was
held against them, showing that in those days the mouth must have
something to do as well as the hands, feet, eyes, and all the rest of
the body.”

Finally, it must be remembered that much of the enjoyment of delicate
food is due to the sense of contact. When certain viands are consumed
without hunger, because “they slip down so easily,” we have play
with touch sensations. This has something to do with the popularity
of oysters and of effervescing drinks. “It tastes like your foot’s
asleep,” said a small maiden on being allowed to taste something of the
kind—a proof of the close connection with touch stimuli.

A few words may suffice in regard to playful use of touch sensations
in other parts of the body. We have seen that an infant enjoys being
softly stroked, and we may assume that a soft bed is appreciated
early in life. The question is, whether the child or the adult
voluntarily produces such sensations for the sake of the pleasure they
afford. Perhaps this is why we like to roll about on a soft bed, and
more unmistakably playful is the fondness of children for throwing
themselves repeatedly into a well-filled feather bed or on piles of
hay, to feel themselves sink into the elastic mass. Violent contact
is indulged in in many dances. In the Siederstanz, which I myself
learned in the Gymnasium, the thighs were beaten with the hands.
Somewhat similar, but decidedly more violent, is the Haxenschlagen
of the Bavarian dances, and the ancients practised the ῥαθαπυγίζειν,
an alternate striking of the foot soles on the back. A verse is
preserved, written in praise of a Spartan maiden who succeeded in
keeping this up longer than any one else—one thousand times.[28]

Water affords delightful sensations of touch; in the bath, of course,
enjoyment of the movements and temperature is more conspicuous, but the
soothing gentleness of the moist element is not to be despised. For
confirmation I will cite Mörike’s beautiful verses:

  “O Fluss, mein Fluss im Morgenstrahl!
     Empfange nun, empfange
   Den sehnsuchtvollen Leib einmal
     Und küsse Brust und Wange!
   Er fühlt mir schon her auf die
   Brust,
   Er kühlt mit Liebesschauerlust
     Und jaucbzendem Gesange.

  “Es schlüpft der goldne Sonnenschein
     In Tropfen an mir wider.
   Die Woge wieget aus und ein
     Die hingegebnen Glieder;
   Die Arme hab’ ich ausgespannt,
   Sie kommt auf mich herzugerannt,
     Sie fasst und lässt mich wieder.”

  “O stream, my stream in the
   morning beam!
   Receive me now, receive
   Me thrilling, longing as I am,
   And kiss my breast and cheek;
   I feel already in my breast
   The cooling, soothing influence
   Of fresh, delicious showers
   And joyous, rippling song.

  “The golden sunshine rains on me
   In glittering drops. Soft waves
   Caress my yielding limbs,
   My outstretched arms receive
   them
   As they hasten up to clasp
   And then release me.”

Here, as in all specialized pleasures, intensive emotion betrays
itself. In sea bathing the principal stimulus is found in the sharp
blow from the waves as they break repeatedly over one. Last of all, we
notice the sensation of movement in the air. We take off our hats to
let the wind play with our hair, and fanning is not always indulged in
merely for the sake of cooling off, but also for the sake of the touch
stimuli excited by the soft contact with waves of air.


2. _Sensations of Temperature_

There is a scarcity of material under this head, since the occasions
to produce such sensations, except for the serious purposes of cooling
or warming ourselves, are comparatively rare. Among the few that may
safely be called playful, the most prominent is the seeking for strong
stimuli for their very intensities’ sake, and because like all powerful
excitation, they give us the feeling of “heightened reality” (Lessing).
When we court the stinging cold of a winter day, or sit in spring
sunshine to get “baked through for once,”[29] we are as much playing,
I think, as when watching rippling water, or gazing at heaven’s blue
dome.[30] Cool air has the same refreshing effect as a cold bath, while
even in a warm bath the pleasantness of the temperature sensation is a
satisfaction quite apart from its cleansing and sanitary effects, and
most bathers will stretch themselves out to enjoy it for a little while
after soap and sponge have done their duty. Among the refinements of
the sense of taste, too, the stimulus of heat and cold is conspicuous,
as ices and peppermint, hot grog, spices, and spirits witness.


3. _Sensations of Taste_

Brevity of treatment is accorded to this class of sensations as well,
though in this case from no lack of data.

Kussmaul’s investigations[31] show that, as a rule, the child prefers
sweets from its birth, and will reject anything bitter, sour, or salt,
although, until the later developed sense of smell is perfected, it
is incapable of more delicate taste distinctions.[32] On the whole,
we find that with children such distinctions are less varied than
among adults, the sweet of candy and the acid of fruits furnishing the
staple material for their playful use of the sense. It is true that the
pleasure which they derive from these is extreme. I well remember what
unheard-of quantities of these viands were consumed at our birthday
_fêtes_ at school in Heidelberg, by children from six to nine years
of age, not at all because they were hungry, but from mere pleasure
in the taste. For we find even in children that enjoyment of eating
is no more confined to the satisfaction of hunger than is æsthetic
pleasure limited to the contemplation of the beautiful. When Marie G——
was barely three years old she displayed an unmistakable preference
for piquant flavours; even those which were evidently disagreeable in
themselves she enjoyed, trying them again and again for the sake of the
stimulus they afforded—a taste which is much more common among adults
than with children.

A review of the pleasures and practices of the table at various periods
and among various peoples is an alluring but here impracticable
undertaking. Let it suffice to cite one example from the ancients,
that most celebrated of all descriptions of revelry at the board,
the cœna Trimalchionis of Petronius, which W. A. Becker has made
use of in his Gallus. The following will serve as a characteristic
ethnological instance of the enjoyment of flavours, which are, to
put it mildly, decidedly equivocal. In Java the durian tree bears
green prickly fruit, about the size of cocoanuts and with a flavour
which, according to Wallace, furnishes a new sensation well worth
journeying to the Orient for. The smell of it is something frightful—a
cross between musk and garlic, with suggestions of carrion and
“overripe” cheese. The taste is aromatic, satisfying, and nutty,
like a combination of cream cheese, onion sauce, and burnt sherry.
This fruit is rigidly excluded from the hotels, as its odour would
instantaneously pervade every room, but it is sought elsewhere by the
guests and eaten with avidity. Semon says of it: “This fruit, like
our strong, rich cheeses, is detested by those who are not fond of
it.”[33] What various associations are connected with the pleasures
of the palate is shown by the _epitheta ornantia_ of a wine list,
such as strong, fiery, soft, fresh, lovely, sharp, elegant, hard,
spicy, fruity, and smooth. Huysmans, in his novel A Rebours, gives a
pathological example of amusement derived from taste association in the
following passage. After describing the life of the nervously diseased
Des Esseintes, he goes on: “In his dining room was a closet containing
miniature casks on dainty sandalwood stands, each one fitted with a
silver cock. Des Esseintes called this collection his mouth organ. A
rod connected all the cocks, and they could be turned with a single
movement answering to the pressure of a knob concealed in the woodwork,
filling all the little glasses at once. The organ was standing open,
the register with the inscriptions of flûte, cor, voix céleste, etc.,
displayed, and all was ready for use. Des Esseintes sipped here and
there a few drops, playing an inner symphony and deriving from the
sensations of his palate pleasure like that produced on the ear by
music.”


4. _Sensations of Smell_

The ability to distinguish the character of odours seems to be a
later development than taste differentiation. At least this is the
case with regard to the enjoyment of agreeable smells. Among children
of various ages experimented on by Perez, one of ten months showed
some appreciation of the perfume of a rose,[34] but most children are
probably first rendered susceptible to pleasure from scents by their
association with flavours. Girls, however, seem to enjoy sweet smells
as such more than boys do, though M. Guyan relates that he recalls
vividly the _émotion penetrante_ which he experienced on inhaling for
the first time the perfume of a lily.[35]

With reference to adults, the same writer may be cited: “In spite of
its relative incompleteness, the sense of smell has much to do with our
enjoyment of landscape, whether actually viewed or vividly portrayed.
No portrayal of Italy is complete without the softened atmosphere
which recalls the perfume of its oranges, nor of Brittany or Gascony
without the crisp sea air which Victor Hugo has so justly celebrated,
nor of pine forests without suggestions of its aroma.” “The passion
for smoking,” says Pilo (I give this to show how complicated our
apparently simple enjoyments may be), “is so general because almost all
the senses are flattered impartially by it; visceral, muscular, and
taste sensations are involved in the use of the lungs which it calls
for, the lips, tongue, teeth, and salivary glands through feelings
of temperature; the senses of taste and smell through the piquant,
aromatic flavour; hearing, in a very direct and intimate way, through
the crackling of the leaves and the rhythmic inhaling and exhaling of
the breath; and, finally, the sense of sight in gazing at the glowing
cigar and soft, gray ashes and curling smoke which winds and glides
upward in a fantastic spiral; while the brain, under the soothing
influence of the narcotic, enjoys a repose enlivened by dreams and
visions.”[36] Complete as this description appears, it yet misses one
point—namely, the sucking movements which, from the recollections of
the earliest months of life, we associate with pleasurable feeling.
We may find the Des Esseintes of Huysmans’s romance useful once more.
“Wishing now to enjoy a beautiful and varied landscape, he began to
play full, sonorous chords, which at once called up before the vision
a perspective of boundless prairie lands. By means of his vaporizer,
the room was filled with an essence skilfully compounded by an artist
hand and well deserving of its name—Extract of the Flowery Plain....
Having completed his background, which now stretched itself before
his closed eyes in bold lines, he breathed over it all a light spray
of essences, ... such as powdered and painted ladies use—stephanotis,
ayapapa, opoponax, chypre, champaka, sarkanthus—and added a suspicion
of lilac, to lend to this artificial life a touch of natural bloom and
warmth of genuine sunshine. Soon, however, he threw open a ventilator,
and allowed these waves of heavy odour to pass out, retaining only
the fragrance of the fields, whose accent and rhythmical recurrence
emphasized the harmony like a _ritornelle_ in poetry. The ladies
vanished instantly, the landscape alone remained; after an interval,
low roofs appeared along the horizon with tall chimneys silhouetted
against the sky, an odour of chemicals and of factory smoke was borne
on the breeze his fans now produced, yet Nature’s sweet perfumes
penetrated even this heavily weighted atmosphere.”


5. _Sensations of Hearing_[37]

In the consideration of this important sphere of play activity we
encounter one of the special problems of our subject. Since Darwin’s
time it has been customary to explain the art of tone and the musical
element in poetry as an effect of sexual selection. But while I am
convinced that these arts do on one side bear the very closest relation
to sexual life, yet I believe that Spencer is right in warning us that
the exclusive reference of such phenomena to sexual selection is hardly
warranted. The courtship arts of birds, it is true, are sufficiently
striking, yet we must remember, aside from the fact that prominent
investigators have raised serious objections to the application of the
theory even to them, that birds have but a distant kinship to man. As
regards our closer relatives in the animal world, Darwin himself says,
“With mammals the male appears to win the female much more through the
law of battle than through the display of his charms.”[38] And among
mammals, again, monkeys are not distinguished by any special arts of
courtship. The acoustic phenomena cited by Darwin are summed up in the
cry of the howling ape and the musical notes of the species of Gibbon
from Borneo and the Sumatran ape described by Selenka.[39] Of other
such arts, only one is noteworthy in monkeys as being also practised by
man, and even that not directly in connection with love-making—namely,
the disposition to display the back. It has not yet been proved that
the monkey’s wonderful dexterity serves him especially in courtship.
The supposition has much in its favour, it is true, but finds little
support from what we know of his sexual life. Brehm covers the ground
pretty well when he says, “Knightly courtesy serves him little
with the weaker sex; he must take by force the rewards of love.”
Ethnology shows us, too, that an exclusive or even a preferential
reference of music and poetry to sexuality can not be assumed among
primitive races. Having thus stated the doubts in advance, it may be
interesting to glance once more over the psychology of play, with a
view to discovering which arts and æsthetic pleasures may have arisen
independently of sex. In such a review of hearing plays we are likely
to find much which tends to expand and also to limit the Darwinian
theory—nothing which will refute it.

Hearing plays may serve merely as a means for the satisfaction of
acoustic impulses, or to give necessary exercise to motor apparatus,
and, while this whole inquiry can not be said to penetrate further than
to the antechamber of æsthetic perception and artistic production, an
obvious distinction at once becomes apparent—namely, that between the
receptive or hearing function and the production of sounds and tones.
From the suckling’s delight in his own guttural gurglings to the most
refined enjoyment of a concert-goer, from the uncouth efforts of the
small child to produce all sorts of sounds, to the creative impulse
which controls the musical genius, there is, in the light of history, a
progressive and consistent development.


(_a_) Receptive Sound-Play

Pleasure in listening to tones and noises shows itself remarkably
early, although, as is well known, the child is born deaf. Infants
but two or three days old will stop crying in response to a loud
whistle, and Perez has noted signs of enjoyment of vocal and
instrumental music during the first month. Preyer reports of the
seventh and eighth weeks: “There seems to be a marked sensitiveness
to tone, and perhaps to melody as well, for an expression of the
most lively satisfaction is discernible on the child’s face when its
mother soothes it with lullabys softly sung. Even when it is crying
from hunger a gentle sing-song will cause a cessation such as spoken
words can not effect. In the eighth week the baby heard music for the
first time—that is, piano playing. Unusual intentness of expression
appeared in his eyes, while vigorous movements of his arms and legs
and laughter at every loud note testified to his satisfaction in this
new sensation. The higher and softer notes, however, made no such
impression.”[40] The little boy in Sully’s Extracts from a Father’s
Diary manifested displeasure at first on hearing piano playing, but
soon became reconciled to it, and his mother noticed that while his
father was playing the child became heavier in her lap, “as if all
his muscles were relaxed in a delicious self-abandonment.”[41] Perez
relates of a child six months old, on a visit to two aunts: “As the
first of the young women began to sing he listened with evident
delight, and when the other one joined in with a rich and melodious
voice the child turned toward her, his face expressing the utmost
pleasure, mingled with wonder and astonishment.”[42] This seems to
indicate that agreeable tones and variety of movement are at first
more appreciated than is the actual beauty of the melody. According to
Gurney, appreciation of melody as such first appears in the fourth or
fifth year.[43] It is otherwise with rhythm. Just as ethnology shows
us that from the first inception of music rhythm was more prominent
than melody, so it seems that the child too, as a rule, is sensitive
to rhythmical cadence even when the beauty of melody is lost upon him.
The regular ticking of a watch excites lively interest in the merest
infant. Sigismund says: “I have often seen three- and four-year-old
children skip about when they heard enlivening band music, as if they
wished to catch the time of the rhythmic movement, an impulse which
indeed affects adults as well,[44] as all well know.” Here we have
inner imitation, the central fact of æsthetic enjoyment, displayed by
the veriest babes. Children show their enjoyment of rhythm, too, in
their preference for strongly accented poetry.[45] Even half-grown boys
and girls take but little note of sense, compared with the interest
which they bestow on rhythm and rhyme. That a normally endowed girl
could interpret the words of a poem, Singing on its Way to the Sea, as
Singing on its Waiter, etc., without having her curiosity aroused, can
only be explained by this fact.[46] Is it not a frequent experience of
full-grown men to be suddenly struck with the profound truth hidden
in some epigrammatic form of expression whose euphony has a hundred
times delighted them? They have actually failed up to that time to
grasp the clear, logical meaning of the verse or passage. Indifference
to the words of their songs is most marked among primitive peoples,
while with children an instinctive demand for some employment of their
organs of hearing has much to do with their pleasure in harmony and
rhythm. The following facts justify this statement: The disposition
toward acoustic expression is particularly susceptible to satisfaction
from sensuously agreeable stimuli, such as are responsive to harmony,
melody and rhythm, partly on known and partly on unknown grounds.
Here Fechner’s principle of co-operation is applicable—namely, that
two pleasure-exciting causes working together produce a result which
is greater than their sum—and is so strong, in fact, as to extend the
sphere of sound-play far beyond that of the sensuously agreeable.
Absolute silence makes us uncomfortable, and, when it is lasting,
conveys to the mind a special quality of emotion, as in optics there is
a positive feeling of blackness. So it happens that we take pleasure in
noise as such even when it is not agreeable. This applies especially to
children. “Les bruits choquants, aigus, glappissants, grondant,” says
Perez, “ne leur sont pas désagréable de la même manière qu-aux grandes
personnes.” Marie G—— manifested in her third year the liveliest joy in
the grinding and squeaking of an iron ring in her swing. To small boys
it is a treat to hear a teamster crack his whip. My brother-in-law when
a boy cherished for years the ambition to make all the electric clocks
in our house chime in concert with a great musical clock. A sense of
discomfort is produced sooner, however, by a variety of discordant
sounds to which we are passively listening, than when the din is
self-produced—a distinction which extends into the domain of art, as
testifies many a piano virtuoso.

Among adults it is probably true that sound-play is either entirely
or in part connected with the pleasure we derive from ringing and
resonance, subject to much the same limitations as we have applied to
children. Underlying it all we find, though it is not always easily
recognisable, enjoyment of the stimulus as such. I would instance the
cheery crackling of flames in a fireplace, the _frou-frou_ of silken
garments, the singing of caged birds, the sound of wind, howling of
storms, rolling of thunder, rustling of leaves, splashing of brooks,
seething of waves, etc. Most of these, it is true, contain elements
of intellectual pleasure as well, and so through association link
themselves to genuine æsthetic enjoyments. Yet the satisfaction in mere
sound as such is also unmistakably present, being most evident perhaps
where strong stimuli are involved, since these have a directly exciting
effect, while weaker ones, on the contrary, are soothing. Edler’s
romance, Die neue Herrin, gives a good instance of this emotional
sensibility abnormally exaggerated. “Thomasine was exactly like a child
in her dread of silence, and spared no effort to enjoy pleasant sounds,
whether produced by herself or from other sources.... When her birds
were silent she resorted to the music room, with its musical box and
two grand pianos.” This seems to confirm the idea that mere desire
for sound as such is an important element in the attention given to
music. The art of primitive races illustrates this as well as our own
marches, dances, etc. Gurney distinguishes two methods of listening
to music: the one accompanied by intelligent appreciation, the other
“the indefinite way of hearing music,” which is only cognizant of
the agreeable jingle or harmony. I think there is a form of the
satisfaction still more crude; when we note the indifference of many
habitual concert-goers to fine chamber music we must infer that the
power of stimulus is the principal source of their apparently absorbed
enjoyment. Gurney, too, seems to recognise this elementary factor when
he says: “While it is natural to consider as unmusical those persons in
whom a musical ear is lacking or is only imperfectly developed, and who
therefore can not at all reproduce or perhaps recognise melodies, such
persons often derive extreme pleasure of a vague kind from fine sound,
more especially when it rushes through the ear in large masses.”[47]

Not to penetrate too far into the realm of æsthetics, we will attempt
to answer but two of its more obvious questions, which, however,
are by no means simple ones. Whence is derived the strong emotional
effect (1) of rhythm and (2) of melody? (Some thoughts on the acoustic
effects of poetry will be presented in the next section.) Rhythm may
be regarded as the most salient quality of music, and seems to have
antedated melody considerably among primitive peoples. While nothing
is easier than to recognise the pleasure it affords, the derivation
of its exciting effect on the emotions is most difficult to trace.
Widely diverse theories have been advanced in the various attempts
to solve this riddle. Rhythm is a conspicuous instance of the unity
in variety which characterizes beauty. It satisfies this intellect,
and is calculated to rivet the attention by exciting expectation. It
answers to our own organization; the step, the heart-beat, breathing,
the natural physical processes, are all rhythmic, as well as the
alternation of waste and repair in the nervous system. But while these
facts undoubtedly contribute to our enjoyment of rhythm, they can
hardly account adequately for its intense emotional effects.

At this point the Darwinist comes to the rescue, and says that its
employment in courtship sufficiently explains these effects, taking
into account their hereditary association. He dwells on the sexual
excitation which quivers in the purest enjoyment of music, and is
“likely to excite in us in a vague and indefinite manner the strong
emotions of a long-past age.”[48] Far be it from me to discard this
hypothesis hastily, particularly as I have no better one to offer, but
since it appears to afford but a meagre chance of solving the problem,
we may venture to seek enlightenment in another supposition. It is
to be found in Souriau’s system of æsthetics, which in my opinion
is not yet fully appreciated. As Nietzsche has said, “As in art, so
with any æsthetic fact or appearance, a physiological condition of
transport is essential,”[49] so, too, Souriau insists that art employs
every possible means to induce in us a semi-trance or hypnotic state,
and through it renders us approachable to a degree which would be
impossible when we are normally alert.[50]

Now, rhythm is to the last degree such a transporting agency, owing to
its strong hold on the attention. Weinhold and Heidenhain have induced
hypnosis by means of the ticking of a watch, and in so doing have only
employed an agency which has similar uses the world over. Just as most
of the inhabitants of the earth have learned the use of narcotics,
so too are they eager to adapt such an intoxicant as rhythm proves to
be.[51]

We may read numberless statements of hypnotic conditions being turned
to account for religious and magical ends. Next to measured movements
of one’s own body, we find that listening to rhythmic sounds and
the monotonous repetition of incantations is the surest key to this
state of dreamy consciousness.[52] In Salvation Army methods the
catchy, swinging songs are an indispensable means of eliciting the
ecstatic condition, though, through the power of auto-suggestion,
the expectation of the state is also strongly influential. It is the
singing, however, as Souriau says, which throws the hearer into a state
of mild hypnosis and renders him accessible to any suggestion.[53] When
the end in view is a religious one, the ecstatic subject sees all sorts
of visions, and can swear to the appearance of saints or gods. When the
measure is martial in its suggestions, the subject becomes belligerent;
when it excites sexual feeling, he responds in that direction; in
short, his soul, being entirely under the influence of the hypnotist,
will reflect, and involuntarily respond to, every suggestion. We
see, then, that these intense emotional effects are only in part
attributable to sound as such; rhythm is not entirely responsible for
them, but figures rather as a contingent cause through which suitable
suggestions act as the immediate cause of emotional disturbances.
“Hypnotism,” says Souriau, “is but a means, never an end. Art employs
this means the better to control our minds and keep our imagination in
the limits prescribed by her suggestions. What we owe to her is not
sleep, but the dream.”[54]

This view seems to correspond with the facts. When we drum a familiar
air with the fingers the regular time-beat is not at all stirring,
indeed it is sometimes quite the contrary. When, however, agreeable
or interesting associations are connected with it the rhythm at
once induces in us a condition of the utmost susceptibility to
suggestion. Any change in intensity or time then calls forth our
capacity for “embodiment” (_Einfühlung_) or inner imitation in such
force and completeness as would be altogether unattainable without
this deep-seated propensity of ours for measured rhythm. In many
cities it is customary, when fire breaks out, to ring a church bell
in quicker time than its usual stroke, and by reason of the indirect
factor—namely, their significance as a warning—the uniform sounds
produce the most profound effect on æsthetically sensitive persons.
Even those who would be unaffected by the announcement that another
part of the city was in flames are deeply moved on hearing the tolling
bell. The harmless tones become appalling. They seem to proclaim the
destruction of the world, and the imagination dwells on the idea that
nothing will be left in existence but these terrific, all-pervading
waves of sound. The intense feeling aroused by drum-beats is similar to
this. Since every loud sound is calculated to arouse our involuntary
attention, a rhythmical succession of loud sounds irresistibly
holds our consciousness, and, in the case of martial or festive
music, association aids in casting the spell and, with the acoustic
pulsations, forms a strong combination to which for the moment our
whole being is subjected.

It is, however, when rhythm develops into melody that we experience
the utmost force of its suggestive power.[55] It is interesting to
see how well Hanslick describes this preliminary condition of musical
enjoyment—this trance-like state—only to censure it. “The elements of
music, sound, and movement hold many emotional music lovers willing
captives. It is surprising how large the number is of those who hear,
or rather feel, music in this way. Since they are susceptible only
to what is elementary, they attain but a vague supersensuous and
yet sensuous excitement, answering to the commonplace character of
the music which appeals to them. Lounging half asleep in the boxes,
they yield themselves to the swing of the melody without taking note
of the exalted passages which may swell, yearn, jubilate, and throb
with increasing appeal. These people, sitting in a state of undefined
ecstasy, form the body of ‘the appreciative public,’ and do more than
any other class to discredit what is best in music. Science can now
supply these hearers who are void of spirituality and seek only the
effects of rhythm in music with what they need, by means of an agency
which far surpasses art in this effect—namely, chloroform. It will
plunge the whole organism into a lethargy pervaded by lovely dreams,
and, without the vulgarity of drinking, will produce an intoxication
which is not unlike its effect.”[56] Hanslick is quite right in one
respect: the trance condition as such is not confined to musical
enjoyment; but he overlooks what Nietzsche makes so clear, that it is
an indispensable physiological condition of the most intense form of
æsthetic pleasure. His position is more that of the critic than that
of the pleasure seeker. His saying that “the laity ‘feel’ music most
and the cultivated artist least” shows this. First and foremost to him
is his “intellectual satisfaction in following and anticipating the
motive of the composition, in being confirmed in his judgment here or
agreeably disappointed there.”[57] The element of æsthetic enjoyment
in this I have characterized, in my Einleitung in die Aesthetik (p.
187), as internal imitative creation. But the purest, highest, and
most spontaneous pleasure is that in which we have no thought for the
artist, but yield ourselves whole-heartedly to the beautiful object.
Here is the essence of the problem, and here the condition of transport
becomes most prominent, though it is never entirely wanting, even
in the outer circles of æsthetics, where it becomes comparatively
unimportant, as, for instance, in the satisfaction afforded us by the
happy arrangement of the heads of a discourse.

In trying to find out just what it is that rhythm suggests to us in
simple tones that succeed one another at agreeable intervals we may
advance the hypothesis—to use a somewhat strained expression—namely,
that it makes the impression of a dancing voice. By this I mean that
in the enjoyment of melody there is a mental fusion of two kinds of
association, one the analogue of pleasing movement in space, and
the other the analogue of vocal expression of mental and emotional
processes. The two are so incorporated as to produce a new entity
which, as a whole, is unlike any other. The fact that we represent
tone-beats by up-and-down motion in space has never been satisfactorily
explained, although the greatest variety of reasons has been
advanced.[58] Yet it is unquestionable that we do, and that the act is
one of our most cherished mental recreations; to use Schopenhauer’s
expression, nothing else produces the “idea of movement” in such purity
and freedom as do tone-beats. A series of tones more or less rapid,
says Siebeck, can adequately reproduce the rhythm of movement “without
a visible physical basis, which, by reason of its relation to other
associated images, would tend to destroy the impression of movement
considered purely as such.”[59] On this, too, depends the extraordinary
facility of tone movement, of which Köstlin says that it “glides,
turns, twists, hops, leaps, jumps up and down, dances, bows, sways,
climbs, quivers, blusters, and storms, all with equal ease, while in
order to reproduce it in the physical world a man would have to dash
himself to pieces or in some way become imponderable.”[60] All this
goes to prove that our pleasure in the realization of movement is never
more perfectly ministered to than in music. Spellbound by the magic
of rhythm, our consciousness repeats, voluntarily and persistently,
the varying dance of tones, and, freed from all incumbrances, floats
blissfully in boundless space, like Musa in Keller’s dance legend.

But melody is more than a mere alternation of tone. It is also a
kind of language, by means of which the soul’s deepest emotions seek
expression. While it does suggest up-and-down motion in space, at the
same time it stands for the audible expression of our mental life. It
would be misleading to attempt to explain this illusion from simple
analogies between speech and music, since it is itself primarily a mode
of expression, and we involuntarily make known our feelings and desires
by means of it; by such association of tone with voice the former comes
to point for us to life and its manifestations. There are, however,
many points of resemblance between melody and the verbal expression of
feeling. Dubos has devoted some attention to this relation, and, among
contemporary writers, Spencer has most clearly set forth the analogy.
But he makes the mistake of applying it to the origin of music, rather
than as an explanation of our enjoyment of it, and is decidedly at
fault in the statement that music originated in passionate and excited
speech.[61] It can attain reflection only by means of the changing
time and stress of melodic and rhythmic movement, as well as the
appropriation of the numerous sounds and intervals which are hidden in
feeling speech, and which take effect on the listener. Yet even this
statement must not be interpreted too literally. Just as scenery often
owes its impressiveness to vague suggestions of human interest, just as
thunder sounds like an angry voice without being an exact copy of it,
so the analogy between music and speech may be very real without their
becoming identical at any point. The song of birds will perhaps best
illustrate my meaning. Why does the nightingale’s note seem plaintive
and that of other birds cheerful or bold? Certainly not because we
know the bird’s feelings, but because there is an indefinable likeness
between our own vocal expression of emotion and the bird’s song,
which, in spite of its vagueness, calls forth in us the most direct
response. And it is exactly so in the other case. We can not expect to
change an emotional declamation into the same kind of melody simply by
fixing the pitch and regulating the intervals, for melody has its own
laws, to which speech is not amenable. We see, then, that though the
analogy is a real one and a constant, it must not be carried too far.
How far variation of stress is concerned with emotional expression is
interestingly shown in Wundt’s attempt to classify temperament on this
basis:

    ———-—+—-——————-—-—-—+—-—-—-—————
         │   Strong.    │  Weak.
    ———-—+—-——————-—-—-—+—-—-—-—————
    Fast │ Choleric.    │ Sanguine.
    Slow │ Melancholic. │ Phlegmatic.
    ———-—+—-—-—-——————-—+—-—-—-—————

With regard to intervals, let any one attempt a mournful “O dear!” and
a jubilant “All right!” in the major and minor thirds, and he will
not remain in doubt for a moment as to which is the suitable one for
each occasion. Gurney’s experiments with children resulted in the same
emotional effects when the piano was very much out of tune as when
it was correct,[62] and the attempt of Helmholtz to find a physical
explanation signally failed. All these facts point to the independence
of the musical interval.

In concluding, I repeat that these two analogies are capable of
fusion, as my figure of “dancing voice” implies.[63] If we try, for
instance, to determine what constitutes the masculine, almost harsh,
quality of Bach’s melodies, we will find on inspection that his best
arias have a variety of formal qualities of which it is difficult
to say whether they pertain more to movement in space or to voice
expression. There is pre-eminently a fulness of accent which imparts
even to the weaker notes a certain impetus (_Béreíté dích Zîón_).
Moreover, his propensity to begin with two strong accents directly
contiguous (_Méin gläúbiges Heize_, _In Déine Hände_), which impart to
the whole a massive character from the very first, as well as the many
repetitions abruptly introduced in a different pitch, and the strongly
accented final syllables where again two frequently come together;
all these are characteristics which tell in two directions. Here is
melody governed by the laws of harmony in its forceful, clear, and
irresistibly progressive movement, as well as in the expression which
it gives to a purely masculine personality, full of earnest purpose and
sure of himself and his aims. Only by the fusion of these two lines of
association do we get at the full significance of the piece.


(_b_) Productive Sound-Play

An embarrassing copiousness of material greets us when we turn to
the subject of sounds and tones spontaneously produced. In them too
we recognise the beginnings of, or rather the introduction to, art.
Adherence to facts requires our classification to distinguish between
vocal and instrumental music, and we will first consider voice practice
and afterward the production of acoustic effects by means of other
agencies, both in their playful aspects.

The child’s first voice practice consists in screaming. So far as it is
a merely reflex expression of discomfort it does not concern us, but
it is probable that the crying of children becomes practice for the
organs of speech. Discomfort may still be its first occasion, but the
continuation of the cry is playful. “L’enfant qui crie,” says Compayré,
“a souvent plaiser à crier.”[64] Children of two and three years
show this very plainly; the howl begun in earnest is often prolonged
from playful experimentation.[65] And the same is probably true of
the customary moaning wail of women over their dead. O. Ludwig says
somewhere that a woman subdues pain when she can not escape it by means
of the sensuous relief which she finds in noisy moaning.

More important than crying are the babbling, chattering, and gurgling
of infants, which begin about the middle of the first three months.
This instinctive tendency to motor discharge produces movements of the
larynx, mouth, and tongue muscles, and the child that attains now to
the voluntary production of tone is fairly launched in experimentation.
Without this playful practice he could not become master of his voice,
and the imperative impulse to imitation which is developed later would
lack its most essential foundation. From among the numerous reports
of the first efforts of infants in the direction of speech we will
select Preyer’s very satisfactory observations: “At first, when the
lall-monologue begins the mouth assumes an almost infinite variety of
forms. The lips, the tongue, lower jaw, and larynx are all active, and
more variously so than in later life; at the same time the breath is
expelled loudly, so that now one, now another sound is accidentally
produced. The child hears these new sounds, hears his own voice,
and delights in making a noise as he enjoys moving his limbs in the
bath.[66]... On the forty-third day I heard the first consonants. The
child, being comfortably seated, gave utterance to numerous incoherent
sounds, but at last said clearly _am-ma_. Of the vowels, only _a_
and _o_ could be distinguished then, but on the following day the
baby astonished us by pronouncing the syllables _ta-hu_ with perfect
clearness. On the forty-sixth day I heard _gö_, _örö_, and five days
later _ara_. On the sixty-fifth day _a-omb_ sounded in his babbling,
and on the seventy-first, at a time when he was most contented, the
combination _ra-a-ao_. On the seventy-eighth day, with unmistakable
signs of satisfaction, _habu_ was pronounced. At five months he said
_ögö_, _ma-ö-ĕ_, _hӑ_, _ŏ_, _ho_, _ich_. The rare _i_ (English
_e_) was clearer here than in the third month, and at about this time
began the loud crowing as an expression of delight. The unusually loud
breathing and the clearly voiced _h_ in connection with the labial _r_
in _brrr-hà_, are specially indicative of pleasure, as are also the
_aja_, _örrgö ā-ā-i ŏā_ sounds which, toward the end of
the first half year, a child lying comfortably, indulges in. To this
list, too, should be added the constantly repeated _eu_ and _oeu_ of
the French _heure_ and _cœur_, and the German modified vowels _ä_
and _ö_. It often happens that the mouth is partly or entirely closed
by the various movements of the tongue, causing the imprisoned breath
to seek any possible outlet and giving rise to many sounds that are not
employed in our speech, such as a clearly sounded consonant between
_b_ and _p_ or _b_ and _d_, and also the labial _brr_ and _m_, all
of which evidently please the child. It is noteworthy that without
exception these sounds are expiratory, and I have never known any
attempt to produce similar inspiratory ones.[67] In the eleventh month
the child began to whisper; he also produced strong, high, and full
notes of varying tone, as if he were speaking in a language strange
to us. In his monologue a vowel sound would be repeated, sometimes
alone, sometimes in a syllable, as many as five times without a pause,
but usually three or four times.[68] The mechanical repetition of the
same syllable such as _papapa_, occurs oftener than alternation with
another, as _pata_, and the child will frequently stop short when
he notices in the midst of his complicated lip and tongue movements
and the expansion and contraction of his mouth that such a variation
of acoustic effects is being produced. He actually appears to take
pleasure in systematically exercising himself in all sorts of symmetric
and asymmetric mouth movements, both silently and vocally.”[69]

Not to prolong this section unduly, I devote only cursory notice to
the various voice plays of older children and adults, which may be said
to correspond with the lall-monologue of infants and give expression to
delight by shouting, whistling, yelling, crowing, humming, smacking,
clicking, and the like. An example from the ancients is the “stloppus”:
“C’est un amusement qui consiste à enfler see joues et à les faire
crever avec explosion en les frappant avec les mains.”[70]

Another example, which, however, distorts the idea of play and makes
it border on the pathological, is given in Boswell’s Life of Johnson:
“In the intervals of articulating he made various sounds with his
mouth, ... sometimes making his tongue play backward from the roof
of his mouth, as if clucking like a hen, and sometimes protruding it
against his upper gums in front, as if pronouncing quickly, under his
breath, _loo_, _too_, _too_; all this accompanied sometimes with a
thoughtful look, but more frequently with a smile. Generally, when he
had concluded a period in the course of a dispute by which he was a
good deal exhausted by violence and vociferation, he used to blow out
his breath like a whale.”[71]

Two specially interesting motives are operative in producing playful
voice practice—namely, the stimulus of what is agreeable and the
stimulus of difficulty—and these we will find introducing us to
the formal side of poetry. The pleasurable stimulus here takes the
form of enjoyment of the repetition of like and similar sounds of a
particular stress. This pleasure in repetition is a remarkable thing
from many points of view; on the motor side there is a tendency to
use the original sound as a model for the new one (Baldwin’s circular
reaction), while in listening to self-originated tones and sounds
primary memory is employed, that lingering of what has been heard in
the consciousness which makes it possible to secure harmony of the new
note with the previous one. The rhythm which we have been investigating
is a simple form of such repetition, and a child will enjoy it in
poetry as much as in music. At about the beginning of the fourth year
children are often observed to make the attempt to talk in measure and
assume the rôle of the productive artist. In general, the result is a
senseless succession of words and syllables arranged rhythmically.[72]
Marie G—— frequently pretended to read such jingles to her dolls.
The measure most popular with children seems to be the trochaic.[73]
This partiality still earlier takes in whole groups of sounds, as the
mechanically measured repetition of the lall-monologue bears witness.
Perez gives two good examples. “A little girl,” he says, “repeated from
morning till night, for fourteen days, _toro_, _toro_, _toro_, or else
_rapapi_, _rapapi_, _rapapi_, and took great delight in the monotonous
rhythm. Another child, nearly three years old, kept up these refrains
in speaking or crying, and would take a great deal of trouble to use
them in answering questions, although his parents made every effort to
rid him of this vagary. For three months this little parrot continued
to repeat in a loud voice the syllables, unintelligible to himself
or any one else,[74] _tabillè_, _tabillè_, _tabillè_.” R. M. Meyer,
who sees in the meaningless refrain the germ of poetry, will find in
such extraordinary persistence a confirmation of his view.[75] It is
difficult to say whether there is not an inherited tendency connected
with courtship in the instinctive impulse toward the gratification of
such motor and sensor apparatus as is involved in this.

Be that as it may, it is undeniable that the repetition of meaningless
rhymes, as well as of reasonable words and passages, is important
to poetry as a whole. I would refer in this connection to Grosse’s
Beginnings of Art, and for my own part confine myself to selecting a
few interesting examples. The first is the chain rhyme, such as always
delights a child. The following is from a favourite song of theirs:

  “Reben trägt der Weinstock;
   Hörner hat der Ziegenbock;
   Die Ziegenbock hat Hörner;
   Im Wald der wachsen Dörner,
   Dörner wachsen im Wald.
   Im Winter ist es kalt,
   Kalt ist’s im Winter,” etc.

  “Vines bear grapes;
   Billy-goats have horns;
   Horns has the billy-goat;
   In the woods grow thorns,
   Thorns grow in the woods.
   In winter it is cold,
   It is cold in winter,” etc.

A negative form is:

  “Ein, zwei, drei,
   Alt ist nicht neu,
   Neu ist nicht alt,
   Warm ist nicht kalt,
   Kalt ist nicht warm,
   Reich ist nicht arm,
   Arm ist nicht reich,” etc.

  “One, two, three,
   Old is not new,
   New is not old.
   Warm is not cold,
   Cold is not warm,
   Rich is not poor,
   Poor is not rich,” etc.

A chain rhyme which dates back to the fourteenth century has this same
echoing effect, and, as Zingerle remarks, “affords a striking proof
that the children’s verses of that period had the same form as our
own.”[76]

A striking analogue of this is found in many poems of the Molukken
dwellers. They consist of four-lined strophes, whose first and third
lines form the second and fourth of each preceding one. This often
results in absolutely inconsequent insertions, whose only office is to
promote the echo effect and onward[77] swing, yet sometimes the thought
is well sustained. Here is an instance:

  “Jene taube mit ausgebreiteten Flügeln,
   Sie fliegt in schräger Lage nach dem Fluss.
   Ich bin ein Fremder,
   Ich komme hierher in die Verbannung.

  “Sie fliegt in schräger Lage nach dem Fluss.
   Tot wird sie mitten im Meere aufgefischt.

  “Ich komme hierher in die Verbannung,
   Weil ich es wegen meiner elenden Lage so will.

  “Tot wird sie mitten im Meere aufgefischt,” etc.[78]

  “The dove with wide-spread wings
   Flies along the winding stream.
   I am a stranger,
   I come an exile here.

  “She files along the winding stream
   And is drawn up dead from the sea.
   I come an exile here,
   Since that is my bitter fate.

  “She is drawn up dead from the sea,” etc.

While the genuine refrain originated in the chiming in of the chorus
with the other singers, this chain singing must have begun from new
voices taking up the verse where others dropped it. For a last word on
the subject, take this exquisite poem of Goethe’s, which combines the
chain repetition with the charm of a refrain:

   “O gieb vom weichen Pfühle
     Träumend ein halb Gehör!
   Bei meinem Saitenspiele
     Schlafe! Was willst du mehr?

   “Bei meinem Saitenspiele
     Segnet der Sterne Heer
   Die ewigen Gefühle.
     Schlafe! Was willst du mehr?

  “Die ewigen Gefühle
     Heben mich hoch und hehr
   Aus irdischem Gewühle.
     Schlafe! Was willst du mehr?

  “Vom irdischem Gewühle,” etc.


  “O from that soft couch
   Dreamily lend an ear!
   Lulled by my violin’s music
   Sleep! What do you wish for more?

  “Lulled by my violin’s music
   Like the spell of the starry skies,
   A sense of the infinite moves you.
   Sleep! What do you wish for more?

  “A sense of the infinite moves you
   And me to loftier heights,
   Away from earth’s striving tumult,
   Sleep! What do you wish for more?

  “Away from earth’s striving tumult,” etc.

When the repetition is of single letters and syllables, instead of
whole sentences, we call it alliteration and rhyme. A few examples
will suffice to show that both are as important to the sound plays
of children as to the poetry of adults. The alliteration may be mere
repetition, as even the babbling babe loves to duplicate sounds, and
while sometimes logical connection of ideas is conveyed as well (Haus
und Hof, hearth and home), children enjoy meaningless sound-play quite
as well.

  “Hinters’ Hanse Hinterhaus
   Haut Haus Holderholz
   Hetzt Hund und Hühnerhund
   Hart hinter’m Hase her.”

  “Meiner Mutter Magd macht mir mein mus mit meiner Mutter Mehl.”

  “Können Kaiser Karls’ Köch
   Kalbsköpf und Kabisköpf kochen?”

  “Round the rugged riven rock the ragged rascal rapid ran.”

  “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.”

  “Didon dina, dit-on, du dos d’un dodu dindon.”

As an example of original production, take this composition of Willie
F——’s, which he liked to recite as he pushed his wagon about the room:

  “Wein, wein, wein, wein, wein, wein, wam,
   Wein, wein, wein, wein, wein, wein, wam,” etc.

The verse of Ennius, “O Tyte, tuti Tati, tibi tanta, tyranne tulisti,”
shows that adults, too, enjoy such alliteration, not only as a promoter
of poetic beauty, but also for the mere play of sound.

Rhyme is often mere reduplication,[79] its agreeableness being due to
the actual musical quality to which identity and variety contribute,
to repetition as such, and to its unifying effect on the two words
or lines concerned. Children show enjoyment of rhyme at a very early
age, and as soon as they can talk often amuse themselves with such
combinations as Emma-bemma, Mutter-Butter, Wagon-Pagon, Hester-pester,
and the like.[80] And there are many counting out rhymes where the
original meaning of the words is lost, and only the jingle remains, as:

  “Ane-Kane, Hacke-Packe,
   Relle-Belle, Rädli-Bägli,
   Zinke-Pinke, Uff-Puff:
   Das fûle, futze Galgevögeli
   Hocket hinten ûff.”

  “Wonary, uary, icary, Ann,
   Philison, folison, Nicholas, John,
   Quimby, quamby, Virgin Mary,
   Stringulum, strangulum, Buck!”

  “Eindli-Beindli. Drittmann-Eindli,
   Silberhauke, Finggefauke,
   Pärli, puff, Bettel duss.”

  “Anige hanige, Sarege-sirige,
   Ripeti-pipeti-knoll!”[81]

To regard these rhymes as the direct inventions of the children
themselves would be as mistaken as to attribute folk poetry to the
masses. Most songs for children originate with grown people, yet they
are childish and contain only what children can appreciate, for the
principle of selection decides their fate. At the same time, original
artistic production is exhibited by children in alliteration and rhythm
as well as in rhyme. Thus, I noticed in Marie G——, when she was about
three years old, a disposition to sportive variation of familiar rhymes
appearing simultaneously with the rhythmic arrangement of words. The
first rhyme evolved entirely from the profundities of her own genius
came to light at the beginning of her fourth year, in the shape of this
strange couplet, which she repeated untiringly:

  “Naseweis vom Wasser weg
   Welches da liegt noch mehr Dreck.”

Another child, Rudolf F——, also in his fourth year, declaimed
persistently this original poem:

  “Hennemäs’che, Weideidäs’che,
   Sind ja lauter Käsebäs’che.”

Pleasure in overcoming difficulties is an essential feature of all
play. The determined onset against opposition, which is so conspicuous
in play, shows how important is the fighting instinct, so deeply rooted
in us all. Even in the lall-monologue, when the child accidentally
produces a new sound by means of some unusual muscular effort, he
intentionally repeats it (Baldwin’s persistent imitation[82]). Older
children playfully cultivate dexterity of articulation by repeating
rapidly difficult combinations of sounds. The commonest are those where
the difficulty is mainly physiological, as Wachs-Maske, Mess-Wechsel;
Der Postkutscher putzt den Postkutschkasten; L’origine ne se
desoriginalisera jamais de son originalité; Si six scies scient six
cyprès; She stood at the door of Burgess’s fish-sauce shop welcoming
him in; If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, where is the
peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked? And many similar ones.
Others require quickness of wits as well, as in these verses:

  “This is the key to the gate
   Where the beautiful maidens wait.
   The first is called Binka,
   The second Bibiabinka,
   The third Senkkrenkknokiabibiabinka.
   Binka took a stone,
   And for Senkkrenkknokiabibiabinka broke a bone,
   So that Senkkrenkknokiabibiabinka began to moan.”[83]

Occasionally some obscurity in the language used involves a comic
element, as—

  “Basanneli, Basanneli,
   Schlag ’uff und stand a Licht
   Es geht a Haus im Geist herum,
   Ich greif, er fürcht mich an.
   Zünd’s Kühele an, zünds Kühele an,
   S’Lauternle will a Kälble han,
   Und wie der Teig am Himmel steht,
     Da schiesst der Tag in Ofa.”[84]

A. Bastian relates of the Siamese children that they delight in
repeating difficult sentences and alter their meaning while speaking
rapidly, as Pho Pu Khün Me Pu (The grandfather near the grandmother) is
changed to Pho Ku Khün Me Ku (My father near me, his mother), or Pit
Patu Thöt, Pit Patu Thot (Shut the door, Shut the temple door), Mo Loi
Ma Ha Phe, Phe Loi Pai Ha Mo (The floating pot bumped against the boat,
and _vice versa_), etc.[85] “<DW64> mothers on the Loango coast,” says
Pechnel-Loesche, “teach their children verses which trip the tongue
when spoken rapidly.”[86]

A similar sport for adults is afforded by the students’ song, Der Abt
von Philippsbronn, in which the syllable “bronn” must be repeated four
times. After the first time there is a “Pst!” sound, after the second a
“Pfiff!” after the third a “Click!” and after the fourth a snore, all
given as rapidly as possible. The accelerated _tempo_ in the country
song in Don Juan and in the wedding feast of the dwarfs in Goethe’s
Hochzeitslied are of the same character.

Other instruments besides the human voice are employed in sound-play.
Even parrots and monkeys have found pleasure in other noises than the
practice of their own voices. The young gorilla, in his exuberance of
spirits, drums on his own breast, or, with even more satisfaction,
on any available hollow object, such as a bowl, a cask, etc. The
child’s first auditory satisfaction derived from any act of his own
is probably the splashing of water; another is the rustling of paper.
Preyer says: “The first sound produced by himself which gave the child
evident satisfaction was the rattling of paper. He often indulged in
this, especially in his nineteenth week.”[87] Strümpell noticed the
same thing at six months, and also that it gave his little daughter
pleasure to pat the table with the palm of her hand[88] (rhythmic
repetition again). The boy observed by Sully was in the beginning of
his eighth month when he one day accidentally dropped a spoon from
the table where he was playing with it. “He immediately repeated the
action, now, no doubt, with the purpose of gaining the agreeable shock
for his ear. After this, when the spoon was put into his hand he
deliberately dropped it. Not only so, like a true artist, he went on
improving on the first effect, raising the spoon higher and higher, so
as to get more sound, and at last using force in dashing and banging
it down.”[89] At nine months Preyer’s child beat twelve times on
the stopper of a large caraffe with increasing force. “On the three
hundred and nineteenth day,” he goes on, “occurred a notable acoustic
experiment which denoted much intellectual progress. He struck the
spoon on his tray just as his other hand accidentally moved it. The
sound was deadened, and the child noticed the difference. He took
the spoon in his other hand and struck the tray, deadening the sound
intentionally, and so on repeatedly. In the evening the experiment
was repeated, with the same result.”[90] Possibly Preyer is right
in regarding this as a sort of scientific experiment on the part of
the child to investigate the causes of the deadening of the sound,
but Perez thinks the child’s action is accounted for by his desire
to feel in both hands alternately the effect of the blow and of the
shock.[91] However that may be, we are forced to agree with the German
student entirely when, from these observations, he finally draws the
conclusion: “The restless experimentation of little children and of
infants in their first attempts at accommodation, and even their
apparently insignificant acts (such as the rattling of paper in the
second quarter), are not only useful for the development of their
intelligence, but are indispensable as a means of determining reality
in a literal sense. We can never estimate how much of the common
knowledge of mankind is attained in this way.”[92]

Without pausing to enumerate the various instrumentalities employed in
childish sound-play, we will leave the infant and pass on to consider
the insatiate demands of our sensory organism. It seems that, in order
to maintain our present life, an incessant rain of outer stimuli
must beat upon us, like that atomic storm which many believe pours
constantly upon the heavenly bodies and accounts for gravitation.
Indeed, the opinion has been advanced, and apparently supported by some
pathological phenomena, that the cessation of all peripheral stimuli
marks the dissolution of psychic existence. Certainly the sense of
hearing has large claims to notice in this connection—we all know the
gruesomeness of absolute silence. This may be why children are so
indefatigable in making noises, patting their hands, cracking their
knuckles,[93] snapping and drumming with the fingers, stamping and
beating with the feet, dragging sticks about, creaking and slamming
doors, beating hollow objects, blowing in keys, banging on waiters,
clinking glasses, snapping whips, and, in short, delighting in tearing
and smashing noises generally.[94] And adults are not much behind
them. These same sounds in other forms please us too, as, for example,
the clinking of spurs, snapping a riding whip, rattling sabres, the
tinkling of tassels and fringe, the rustle of flowing draperies. The
versatile walking cane, too, comes in for a thousand uses here—in
striking, beating, and whistling through the air. Going for a walk
one winter day, I fell behind two worthy scholars who were deep in
an earnest discussion. We came to a place where the drain beside
the road was filled with beautiful milk-white ice. Crack! went the
older man’s cane through the inviting crust, in the very midst of his
learned disquisition. The student everywhere is a past master in such
sport, as his unfortunate neighbours find out to their sorrow in the
watches of the night. The measured hand clapping, which the child
learns so early, occurs in the dances of the people. I have mentioned
the maddening rapidity of the Haxenschlagen. Enjoyment of crushing or
rending destructible objects is characteristic of every age. I will
cite as an example Goethe’s famed boyish exploit. After throwing from a
window and smashing all his own store of breakable ware, incited by the
appreciative cheers of the neighbours, he descended to the kitchen and
seizing first upon a platter found that it made such a delightful crash
that he must needs try another. He continued the entertainment until
he had demolished all the dishes within his reach. In such a case, of
course, enjoyment of the sound is not the only source of pleasure. Joy
in being a cause is conspicuous when the clatter is self-originated,
and sometimes renders even unpleasant sounds attractive, like
scratching with a slate pencil, for instance. Besides, there is the
satisfaction of impulses to movement, and often, too, the destructive
impulse like that for overcoming difficulties is closely related to the
propensity for fighting.

In all this we have not yet touched on the subject of acoustic
playthings, and it is so large that I can only throw out a few
suggestions as to the likeness between primitive musical instruments
and the noise-producing toys of children. We have seen that even the
ape has discovered the principle of instrumental music, and puts it to
practice by pounding with his hand on a stick or some hollow object.
A baby does the same thing, and will take great delight in beating
persistently and with a certain regularity on a table with his hand,
on the floor with a stick, or on his tray with a spoon. If we regard
these sounds thus playfully produced by beating on some foreign object,
together with some notion of time, as affording probably the first
suggestion of a musical instrument, we are met by two possibilities:
either the stick itself is considered as the source of the noise or
else the object it strikes is so regarded. In the simple instruments
of savages both possibilities are realized. The Australian bell is a
thick, bottle-shaped club of hard wood which, on being struck, gives
forth a peculiar long note, and the drum with which the women accompany
the dancing of the men is only a tightly stretched opossum skin, which
they have been wearing on their shoulders.[95] Stringed instruments
were derived from the bow; Homer sang of the clear sound which Odysseus
drew from the tightly strung bow, and Heraclitus uses a complex figure
of speech involving the bow and the lyre. The South African “gora”
is only a modified form of this trusty weapon of the Bushman. The
modification consists in introducing on one side, between the end of
the cord and the bow, a trimmed, leaf-shaped, and flattened quill,
which is placed upon the lips of the performer and set in motion by his
breath.

How can we explain these inventions otherwise than as the results of
indefatigable experimentation on the part of either children or adults?
Wind instruments no doubt arose from contracting the lips and blowing
through the fist or from playful investigation of the properties of
arrows and the hollow ornaments worn on the neck, while vibratory ones,
like the gora, no doubt find their prototype in the blowing on leaves
and grass blades, which children are so fond of. Where there is no such
thing as scientific experimentation, playful experimentation becomes
the mother of invention and of discovery.

While it is thus not improbable on the whole that child’s play has
had much to do with the origination of primitive instruments, we
find, too, that children have borrowed many of their toys from the
grown people. Things which, from the crudest beginnings, have been
brought to a high degree of perfection are reproduced in miniature
and simplified form for the little ones. Instances of this are too
common and familiar to require illustration here. Even in remote ages
it was the custom to give children little bows, wagons, dolls, etc.,
as well as copies of musical instruments. In the province of Saxony
queer clay drums, shaped like an hourglass, have been unearthed; they
must belong to the stone age, and among them is a tiny specimen, which
can hardly be anything else than a toy.[96] It often happens that
instruments which have entirely gone out of use among adults continue
to be playthings for the children for thousands of years. This is the
case with the rattles which are now the merest plaything, having no
interest for grown people, except as a means of quieting an infant,
yet their original connection with it was probably much closer, as our
progenitors used such instruments at dances, feasts, etc., for the
pious purpose of driving off evil spirits.[97] There is a widespread
custom among savage tribes of frightening away the enemies of the
stars by noisy demonstrations, especially during the absence of the
moon. As these observances gradually become obsolete, the rattling
instruments are saved from oblivion by being handed down as toys to
the hospitable little people, without, however, entirely losing the
glamour of their religious office. Becq de Fouquières says, in speaking
of the many religious practices that are connected with children’s
toys: “Ses premiers joujoux dont en quelque sorte des talismans et
des amulettes.”[98] Many rattles have been found in the graves of
prehistoric children, together with clay figures of animals, marbles,
etc. Schliemann found a child’s rattle, ornamented with bits of metal,
in the “third city” at Hissarlik, and Squier found a snail shell filled
with tiny pebbles, with the mummy of a child, in Peru.[99] Amaranthes,
in the beginning of the eighteenth century, in his remarkable Woman’s
Lexigon, defines a child’s rattle as “a hollow instrument made of
silver, lead, wood, or wire, trimmed with bright coral and with little
bells either inclosed in it or attached to the outside.”[100] Older
boys make a rattle of a dried bladder, with peas in it.

As I have dwelt on the probability of the invention of the first
musical instruments by means of playful experimentation, I will now
touch briefly upon another view. Karl Bücher, in his admirable treatise
on Arbeit und Rhythmus, develops the hypothesis that rhythmic art is
derived from physical labour. Physical labour which employs the limbs
with perhaps some simple implement assumes spontaneously a rhythmical
character, since this tends to conserve psychic as well as physical
force. The sounds arising as the work proceeds suggest the germ idea
of instrumental music and lead to involuntary vocal imitation. Thus,
poetry and music are engendered in the very midst of toil, and only
later, when they attain to independent existence, are dance motions
substituted for the movements of physical labour, and frequently become
adaptations of them (as in pantomime dances, for instance).

Convinced as I am that this theory contains a genuine though perhaps
one-sided[101] contribution to the proper explanation of rhythmical
art, I am unable to concur in what Bücher regards as its logical
consequence—namely, that musical instruments are adaptations of the
labourer’s tools. “We know,” he says, “that labour rhythmically carried
on has a musical quality, and since savages, having no appreciation
of pitch or harmony,[102] value rhythm alone, it is only necessary
to strengthen and purify the tone produced by the implement and to
complicate the rhythm, in order to produce what is in their estimation
high art. Naturally, to accomplish this the tools were differentiated;
varying conditions, as they arose in their labours, became the occasion
of further efforts for the perfecting of tone and timbre, and the art
instinct, struggling for expression, first found it in such rude music.
So originated musical instruments from these tools of manual labour,
and it is a noteworthy fact that beaten instruments were the first to
appear, and are to-day the favourites of savages. We find among them
the drum, gong, and tam-tam, while with many tribes the only instrument
is the kettledrum, which clearly proclaims its origin, being in many
cases nothing more than a skin tightly stretched across the grain
mortar or a suitable pot or kettle. Primitive stringed instruments also
were struck, like the Greek pleptron, the tone of a violin and of the
strings themselves being a later discovery. Wind instruments, too, are
of very ancient origin, the commonest being the flute and reed pipe,
both of which are rhythmic. The ancient Greeks used them first to mark
time and as accompanying instruments.”[103]

I hardly think that this view will meet with general acceptance. The
wind instrument, whose importance to primitive peoples Bücher somewhat
underestimates, did indeed serve the purposes of rhythm principally,
but it would be difficult to trace its derivation from any manual
tool. Nor does it follow that rattles and flappers came from the use
of hammers; while the drum, whose prototype he finds in the grain
mortar, is in use by tribes who have no mortars. I conclude, therefore,
that musical instruments can, with more probability, be accounted for
as the result of instinctive sound-play and the experimentation with
noise-producing implements, which accompanies it.


6. _Sensations of Sight_

Turning his face toward the light is about the only manifestation of
sight sensation displayed by the infant during his first few days.
Many young animals find themselves very much at home in the outer
world as soon as they are born, but such is not the case with a child.
He must attain to a clear perception of external objects by toilsome
experimentation, which commonly requires about five months for its
completion, though the fifth week as well as the fifth month marks
an epoch in the practice of sight. “The average time is about the
fifth week,” says Raehlmann, “when the capacity to ‘fix’ an object is
attained—that is, to take cognizance of the retinal picture of what
comes within the line of his vision, as it is thrown on the macula
lutea. About this time, too, the eye movements, which till then are not
definitely co-ordinated, become regulated, while associated movements,
such as elevating and depressing the line of vision (the latter
somewhat later than the former), also appear.... But movements for the
purpose of directly subjecting to fixation objects which lie in the
periphery of the field of vision are entirely wanting at this period.
The second epoch, that at five months, is marked by the development
of orientation in the field of vision. At this time begin actual
glancing movements, which shift the line of vision and bring peripheral
retinal images on to the macula lutea. Contemporaneously with this, a
definite system of innervations is established, especially for those
muscles which are employed in shifting the line of vision. Secondly,
the winking reflex is perfected by the approach of objects from the
periphery of the field of vision. Thirdly, at this time the first
experiments in touch controlled by sight are instituted, and serve
to bring tactile perceptions into relation with those of sight. The
interval between birth and the fifth week, as well as that from this
time to the fifth month, is employed in the acquirement of such sense
perceptions as react collectively on the organ and commit it to special
uses and control. So, on the authority of repeated experience, whatever
is unsuitable is gradually excluded, and only those eye movements
are retained which further the proper convergence of the two retinal
images.”[104] Of course, the power of vision is by no means completely
developed at five months, though the technique of the function, so
to speak, is by that time essentially perfected. Now begin the real
tasks of visual practice: acquiring familiarity with external objects,
imprinting the visual images on the mind, and widening the scope of
association. On entering the subject of child’s play which is connected
with vision it is evident that there are four points for us to keep
in mind—brightness, colour, form, and movement. The inner images and
concepts, which go hand in hand with such perception (especially with
the notion of movement), do not, so far as I can see, form part of our
study, since while an effect of the highest importance they do not
constitute one of the objects of play.[105]


(_a_) Sensations of Brightness

Sensations of brilliance seem to arouse feelings of pleasure at a
remarkably early period. Thus Preyer says: “Long before the close of
the first day the facial expression of the babe held facing the window
changed suddenly when I shaded his eyes with my hand.... The darkened
face looked much less satisfied.”[106] Toward the end of the first week
the child turned his face toward the window when he had been placed
otherwise, and seemed pleased to see it again. During the second week
a child will sometimes cry when taken into the dark, and can only
be quieted by having the sensation of brightness restored. Thus, we
see that in the very first week there is at least a premonition of
experimentation. In his second month the infant will break out into
joyful cries at the sight of gilded picture frames or lighted lamps,
illuminated Christmas trees or shining mirrors. Even in Wolfdietrich
the delight of children in bright and shining things is recorded:—

  “Do vergaz es sînes frostes und spielte mit den ringen sîn.
   also daz kleine Kindel sîner sorgen gar vergaz,
   dô greif ez on die ringe und sprach: waz ist daz?
   des Halsperges schoene daz Kindel nie verdroz.”[107]

And it seems to grow with his growth in other directions. The following
are some of Sigismund’s notes on his daughter’s third quarter: “The
child is now passionately fond of light, and in the evening, when the
darkening room is lighted up, she regularly shouts aloud and dances
for joy.... This coincides with the fact that artificial illumination
stimulates adults also to a genuine and boisterous gaiety. Our feasts
and dances are always held at night, and indeed it is difficult to
attain the requisite dithyrambic pitch in the daytime.”[108] Nansen
wrote, when the electric light blazed for the first time on the
frozen-in Fram: “What a tremendous influence light has on the spirits
of men! This light enlivened us like a draught of good wine.”[109]

To what degree this feeling is universal is shown by the fact that
bright and shining objects are highly prized the world over. The school
child, the savage, the cultured man, display the same preference;
there is no essential difference whether it is a scrap of glass for
which the <DW64> gives a generous portion of his worldly goods, or
the blazing diamond coronet for which the lady in society parts with
hers. That our coins are made of gold and silver is attributable to
the high polish which they take, and which won great favour for them
in prehistoric times. Poets of all ages have celebrated the brightness
of the human eye, and because light makes us cheerful we speak of the
brilliancy of an entertainment, the beaming joyousness of the golden
day. The strongest light effects are produced by flame and by the
heavenly bodies. The strange attraction which flame exerts on insects,
fish, and birds is familiar to all. Romanes’s sister relates in the
journal which she kept, about a capuchin ape, that the clever little
fellow rolled strips of newspaper into lamplighters and stuck the end
into the fire, to amuse himself watching the flame.[110] Primitive
men must have experimented with fire in the same way when they came
in contact with it in lightning strokes and volcanic phenomena, and
in their earliest use of it for boring their stone hatchets. Without
playful experimentation, this most important acquisition of mankind,
the mastery of fire, could hardly have been attained. The little ones
in our homes would find playing with fire one of their favourite
diversions if we did not use every means to prevent it, on account
of the danger. In spite of all warnings, the untoward fate of little
Polly Flinders of nursery memory is daily becoming the experience of
numberless children.

With grown people the light and glow of fire are of the first
importance in both religious and secular festivities. I need only refer
once more to Sigismund’s saying, quoted above. The charm of moonlit and
starlit nights is one of the deepest joys that Nature affords us, which
only the regal splendour of sunshine can surpass. Perhaps it has never
been more worthily sung than in these verses of Mörike’s, which the
very spirit of Shakespeare seems to have dictated:

  “Dort, sich, am Horizont lüpft sich der Vorhang schon!
   Es träumt der Tag, nun sei die Nacht entfloh’n;
   Die Purperlippe, die geschlossen lag,
   Haucht, halbgeöffnet, süsse Athemzüge;
   Auf einmal blitzt das Aug’ und wie ein Gott, der Tag
   Beginnt im Sprung die königlichen Flüge!”[111]

The human longing for light is so strong that it becomes for him the
natural symbol for divinity, a fact on which we have not time to dwell,
except to note the significance of the heavenly bodies and of fire in
religion. The self-devised Nature worship of young Goethe, who greeted
the rising sun with an offering, is interesting, and still more so is
the statement of the deaf-mute Ballard that, as a boy of eight years,
he arrived by his own unaided efforts at some sort of metaphysical
and religious thought, and felt a kind of reverence for the sun and
moon.[112] This is the effect of light which has so great a part in
the mythology of all peoples. Even in the Old Testament account of the
creation light is the first thing which God called out of chaos. “And
God saw that the light was good.”

We find brightness of aspect especially affected in the industrial arts
and in painting, and the employment of shining and glowing substances
in decoration is too familiar to need comment. They are found in the
ornaments of the Stone period, such as necklaces of animals’ teeth,
bits of ivory and shells, as well as among savage tribes of the
present day. Grosse says: “The ornaments of these people may be called
brilliant not in a figurative, but in a literal sense, and there is
hardly any quality which contributes so much to the decorative effect
of an object in savage estimation as brightness. The natives of Fire
Island frequently hang fragments of a glass bottle on their neck band,
considering them very superior adornments, and Bushmen are happy when
they are made the proud possessors of iron or brass rings. However,
they are by no means dependent on such windfalls from a higher race,
and when the ornaments of civilized man and barbarian are both wanting
and precious stones are not available they betake themselves to Nature,
who can well supply their needs. The sea tosses up polished shells upon
the beach, vegetation furnishes bright seeds and shining stalks, and
animals give their shining teeth, as well as fur and feathers.”[113]

In painting, light effects in connection with colour are of the
greatest importance, and are skilfully managed by many masters of the
art. Rembrandt may be said to possess the highest genius for their
treatment. Without going into particulars of technique, I may note
that the pleasure which we derive from light effects in painting may
be referred to two opposite extremes. We know that it is out of the
question for the painter to transfer to his canvas Nature’s extremes
of light and shade, only about half of the eight hundred ascertained
degrees of brilliancy being available to him.[114] Helmholtz has
shown in an interesting manner how the artist may triumph over this
difficulty. It proves to be a special case for the application of
Weber’s law; the adjustment of intensities is not in proportion to
the actual force of the stimuli, but to their relative force. Thus,
when the painter tempers the brilliance of Nature he actually gives a
more faithful representation, because the toned-down light against the
deepened shadows of a picture produces the same effect on the senses as
the clear beams of sunlight in contrast with its luminous shadows.[115]
This so-called normal technique is objected to on diametrically
opposite grounds. Some painters, refusing to darken and falsify Nature,
seek to make their shadows as bright as are those in the diffused
light of day. As it is impossible, however, to represent the actual
intensity of the light, their attempt to reproduce the actual is only
half realized. The true contrast between light and dark fails, and
the result is the faded, obscure, hazy appearance which characterizes
the work of extremists of this school. In the other direction the
attempt is sometimes made to darken the shadows so excessively as
actually to make the difference between light and shade greater than
it is in Nature. Caravaggio and Ribera, Lenbach and Samberger, furnish
examples of this kind of painting. Their work is done on the principle
of darkening the shade, in order to bring out the light more sharply;
eyes, brow, and hands in their pictures seem to surpass the clearness
of Nature because of this difference, which is greater than that of
reality. These artists are true lovers of light.


(_b_) The Perception of Colour

The exact period in a child’s life when susceptibility to colour
impressions arises has not been determined. Preyer’s son seemed
interested in a rose- curtain, with the sun shining on it, on
his twenty-third day,[116] but who knows whether it was the colour
that pleased him or only the brightness? And the same doubt hangs over
a hundred other observations taken in the first months of life, as,
for example, this of Sully’s: “Like other children, he was greatly
attracted by brightly  objects. When just seven weeks old he
acquired a fondness for a cheap, showy card, with crudely brilliant
colouring and gilded border. When carried to the place where it hung,
... he would look up to it and greet his first love in the world of
art with a pretty smile.”[117] Since we can not be certain that it was
not the mere brilliancy which produced this effect, Sully is quite
right when he says: “The first delight in  objects is hardly
distinguishable from the primordial delight in brightness.”[118]
Raehlmann thinks, however, judging from the child’s positions and
actions, that one can—though not till considerably later than the fifth
week—be sure that it perceives a difference between objects of similar
form and complementary colour.[119] And it is probably quite safe to
assume that there is pleasure in gay colours by the end of the first
three months.

Here we are met at once by the question, Does the child prefer any
particular colours? Most observers agree that the child displays
more interest in the warm colours—red and yellow—than in the colder
ones.[120] Baldwin, on the contrary, found from his experiments
with a baby nine months old (not using yellow, however) that blue
was chosen oftenest.[121] Although Preyer denies the validity of
Baldwin’s experiment, it seems to me quite possible that here, as
well as elsewhere, there is room for the manifestation of individual
preference.[122] The choice of yellow and red can hardly be a necessary
one. For example, I find Grosse’s rule, that children will always
empty the vermilion cup in a paint box first and will, when allowed to
choose, always take a flaming red, by no means invariable. Marie G——
(five years old) turns oftener to the blue in her paint box than to
the red. She herself pointed out lilac as her favourite colour, and
weeks before my question she persisted in using bits of lilac silk in
her embroidery, though her mother had taken them away from her. Having
chosen the lilac, she however added, after a pause for reflection,
“Red is pretty, too.” Another little girl, Deti K——, at the same time
answered the question as to what colour she liked best, “Lilac too, but
bright.” Still another named first lilac, then rose, and after these
red and yellow. I consider it not improbable that in many children of
fine sensibility the stimulus of crude red and yellow is too strong
to be particularly agreeable. This supposition perhaps explains the
exceptions to the rule, and also seems to interfere with the likening
of children to savages, which was formerly so useful. Observations of
the children of such tribes have never been made, to my knowledge.

Before going on, however, to consider the case of savages, we must look
briefly into the problem suggested by the fact that there is choice of
any colour. The child’s susceptibility to the cooler colours, and even
its perception of them, especially blue and gray, has been questioned.
Preyer says: “The inability of my two-year-old child to recognise blue
and gray can be argued not only from his occasional failure to do so,
but also from the evident difficulty he encounters in connecting the
commonly used and familiar names ‘blue’ and ‘gray’ with any special
sensations, while ‘yellow’ and ‘red’ were correctly applied several
months ago. Were the sensations of blue and gray as clear as those of
red and yellow there would be no failure to recognise the colours.
The child does not know what green and blue mean, though he does know
red and yellow.... Even at four years blue was oftener called green
in the morning twilight, though to me it was clearly blue. The child
was greatly astonished to find that his blue stocking had become gray
overnight. For years very dark green was called black.”[123] These
striking observations seem indeed partially to confirm the hypothesis
of Geiger, Gladstone, and Magnus, who came to the conclusion, from the
study of ancient picture writing, that primeval man distinguished only
the three primary colours (the Young-Helmholtz theory)—red, green, and
violet. From these were derived orange and yellow, while blue was the
very last to be discovered. Yet, indeed, so far as any philological
support is concerned, the hypothesis can hardly be maintained either in
regard to the ancients or to modern low-standing tribes.

In the remains of buildings and plastic works, which are older than any
picture writings, traces are found of all the colours of the spectrum,
and the philological test, when applied to civilized peoples, does not
yield the confirmation which advocates of the theory desire. While it
is true that the Esthonians have no word of their own for blue (their
_sini_ is borrowed from the Russian), but the apparent deduction from
that fact is rendered doubtful, to say the least, by this passage from
Raehlmann: “Some time ago I tested an old Esthonian peasant woman with
a gray starling. She was not quite sure of the name of the colour, and
changed it often. On closer questioning about her ideas of colour, she
seemed to have the spectral series correctly in mind, distinguishing
the colours as blood, wax, grass, and sky. She had never needed other
terms with which to express her sensations, but she took pains to
convince me that she had perfectly clear ideas on the subject of
colour.”[124]

But how is it with the savage tribes? Here we find, indeed, that for
the painting of their bodies, as well as for other ornaments, the warm
colours are almost exclusively chosen. Besides black and white, hardly
any other colours than red and yellow are found at all. “The Australian
has always, in his bag of kangaroo skin, a supply of white clay and of
red and yellow ochre. For ordinary occasions he contents himself with
dabs on cheeks, shoulders, and breast; on holidays he paints his whole
body.”[125]

Bushmen rub their faces and hair with red ochre; red is the Fire
Islander’s favourite. Other savages use, with deep blue-black, a
blazing vermilion, a combination which imparts to their faces the
wildest and most forbidding expression. Among the famous discoveries
which Fraas has described so well[126] was a lump of kneaded paste
about as big as a nut, compounded of iron rust and reindeer fat, and
intensely red in colour. Probably every huntsman of the Ice period had
one of these to colour his body with. The same colours are chosen for
their other ornaments as well. The Australians stripe their girdles
and neck and brow bands with red, white, and yellow, and the same or
similar colours are in demand with the Bushmen and Fire Islanders.
Among the Botoku red feathers, as the most costly decoration, form
the insignia of rank. Others wear yellow feathers in the hair, and
the same ornament floats above the brow of the Australian hunter. The
cool colours are scarcely ever seen in primitive ornamentation, even
in combination with red and yellow. Blue decorations are extremely
rare, and the Eskimo’s lip wedge of green nephrite is quite unique
in colour.[127] From this brief survey we reach the conclusion
that primitive man is not so sensitive as we are to the stimulus
of the colder colours. In the painting of the body and some other
ornamentation the prevalence of red and yellow may be partly attributed
to the more general distribution of these pigments, but such a reason
can not be assigned in the case of feathers, and we can not therefore
deny the probability that for the savage simple green and blue lack
the charm which they possess for the cultivated eye.[128] That the
cooler colours are imperfectly perceived, however, is an unwarranted
supposition in the provisional stage which our knowledge of the subject
has up to the present time attained.[129] With them, as with children,
probably the cooler colours fail to arrest their attention and excite
their interest as they do ours. Whether this is the result of a kind of
colour blindness or whether it is due solely to the intensive emotional
effect of the warm colours it is difficult to say. The extraordinary
want of susceptibility to reflected colour displayed by educated
adults proves that the lack of æsthetic interest may assume the form of
partial colour blindness. There are thousands, for example, who have
never noticed the intense blue of a shaded cement road under a clear
sky, although they may have seen it a hundred times. And they will
complain bitterly of the gross inaccuracy of a picture which faithfully
reproduces what is actually before them.

We may not dwell on the pleasure that is derived from colour in natural
scenery, in ornament and in clothing, in the arts and industries, for
the theme is practically inexhaustible, and we would hardly have space
for even the baldest enumeration of its leading divisions. It would,
for example, be well worth while to trace the historical development
of the various standards of taste in such matters, to which this
pleasure has at different times conformed. The special emphasis given
to colour in the last decade has deeply influenced our poetry, and
is characteristically illustrated in the writings of Jacobsen and G.
Keller. The following passage from Martin Salander could hardly have
been written in any century before the present one: “The setting sun,
whose level rays shone through the handsome dining room, glittered on
the golden lining of a large beaker, which stood before him, freshly
filled with ruddy wine. The yellow gleam shot with indescribable beauty
through the heart of the rich red transparent fluid. Martin raised his
eyes from the glowing colour picture, which, coming direct from the
open sky, was like a flaming seal for his thoughts. A sprightly lady
sitting opposite him noticed that a rosy shimmer from the cup spread
over his animated face, and begged him to sit still, for he looked
beautiful. Flattered, he kept his face unmoved while the reflection
vibrated with the wine in the cup, for a slight tremor ran along the
table and disturbed the contents of the cups.” It is interesting, too,
to note that boys concern themselves much less about colour than girls
do, and yet the history of painting seems to show that the masculine
sex has a finer colour sense than the feminine. This is probably
explained by the fact that boys early develop the fighting instinct,
and the active motor side of their nature keeping perceptive play
activities more in the background, without necessarily depreciating
their inborn capacity for enjoyment of colour.

I now turn to the subject of play with colour, as it is practised by
adults. In his classification of the arts Kant has, strangely enough,
inserted a colour art besides painting, because he looks upon the
latter as pre-eminently linear. As a matter of fact, there are several
colour arts. Such, to a certain extent, was the glass tinting of the
middle ages, which resembles æsthetic tapestry weaving more than it
does painting. Pyrotechnics, too, produce very lively enjoyment by
means of the play of light and colour, and finally we have that modern
invention, the serpentine dance, which seems to be quite near to music
in the direction of sensuous gratification, while far below it as a
means of intellectual expression. Those modern painters who strive only
to impart colour-tone and harmony, to make the effect of their pictures
resemble that of music, are far surpassed by the serpentine dance (a
fact which is sufficient to prove that such an aim is mistaken). Here
is actual rhythmical movement, ecstasy terminating in itself, waving
and attenuation as of tone, and, above all, the thing that moves us so,
the succession of glowing colours on a dark background, whose intensity
takes hold of the beholder’s soul as only the noblest of musical
instruments or perfectly harmonious voices can.


(_c_) Perception of Form

Recognition, the first requirement for reproduction, is dependent on
perception of form. Later, in considering mental experimentation, I
shall return to this subject and treat it more fully. Here I will
make only the general statement that the visible form of objects is
of higher biological value to the exceedingly important faculty of
recognition than is colour or brilliancy. Evidently the child has a
very special interest in form, or he could not without great effort
distinguish the meaning of simple outline at the relatively early age
when we find him doing so. It is remarkable how indifferent little
children are to gay colour in pictures. Konrad Lange has treated the
subject exhaustively in his well-known book, and Sigismund says: “I
can not affirm that there is any preference for  pictures at
this age (two years). When I laid before the child copies of the same
picture done in colours and in black and white he seemed to regard
them with equal pleasure.”[130] This indifference is displayed, too,
by children who take the liveliest interest in a gaudy ribbon or
bright flowers; therefore it seems to me probable that the child is so
concentrated in the apperception of form that he has no attention left
to bestow on the colour—a legitimate argument for the importance of
form in recognition. Very striking, too, is the child’s extraordinary
capacity for illusion in the observation of form. When Souriau says,
“Regarder un dessin, c’est voir des chimères dans les nuages,” he
rightly adds that it applies with special force to children.[131] “Mere
outlines,” says Sigismund, “serve for any object of that general shape.
My little one calls a square a bonbon, and a circle a waiter.”[132]
Preyer’s son called a square drawn on paper with a red pencil a window,
a triangle was a roof, and a circle a ring.[133] All this goes to show
how strongly the child’s interest is concentrated on the apperception
of form.[134] Such a capacity for illusion often has notable results.
Thus Marie G——, when three years old, saw a painting which represented
the early morning just before sunrise, and asked me to turn the picture
round to see if the sun was on the other side.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Recognition and illusion are two of the threads from which the complex
web of æsthetic enjoyment is woven. When the child begins to take
pleasure in form it is difficult to say, and more difficult still to
determine, when the æsthetic personification, which is so important
to adults, arises. Experiment may, however, throw some light on
both questions. Marie G—— was five years old when I first attempted
something of the sort with her. I showed her a straight line, and
near it an irregular one, and, in order to excite her interest, told
her that I wanted to keep one of them and was in doubt as to which
it should be. She pointed at once to the straight one—“I should keep
that.” Well-drawn equilateral triangles were preferred to irregular
ones, but she gave a characteristic reason for choosing the uneven
quadrilateral instead of a perfect rectangle—because, she said, it
looked like a hat. Here the less pleasing form was preferred for
the sake of its meaning; she was still quite clear in her idea of
regularity. She asked me, for instance, to draw “some straight figures
and some of the other kind.” By straight she meant regular—she called
a perfect circle straight. We thus find in a child the æsthetic rule
operative—namely, that formal regularity is agreeable. Personification
of the figure by children is also a subject for experimentation.
German students of æsthetics found out long ago that the object of
our enjoyment is endowed by our imagination with personal attributes
analogous to our own. “We conceive of all natural objects,” says
Wölfflin, “as analogous to our physical organism.”[135] One of the
first requirements of our organism is that it shall maintain its
equilibrium, and accordingly an elementary fact in our personification
of natural objects is that a distorted figure causes us an unpleasant
feeling of disturbed equilibrium. I showed the five-year-old Marie
G—— these two figures, and asked which she would rather have.
Unhesitatingly she pointed to A. “Why?” I asked. “Because it stands
on the point.” “But the other one stands on its point too.” “Yes, but
this” (pointing to the angle _S_) “is so low.” She played with the
squares, and turned them so that they rested on the horizon line. “Now
they hang down,” she said; “but this one” (pointing to B) “is just
willing to come down.” That the child at play personifies all possible
objects is a familiar fact, and we here find that they can conceive of
even abstract figures according to physical analogies.

Savages manifest pleasure in form, more particularly in their
ornamentation. It was formerly believed that creative imagination was
responsible for some of their geometric patterns, but lately this idea
has more and more given place to the opinion that all their patterns,
without exception, are the product of imitation. The reports of
Ehrenreich and von den Steinen of the tribes of central Brazil go far
to confirm this view. With them animals almost invariably furnished
the models, their forms being reproduced in a conventionalized manner.
Thus a zigzag was derived from the markings of a snake, the cross from
those of a lizard, etc.[136] It is possible that this theory attempts
to prove too much, for basket work may well account for some patterns
which it would be difficult to find in Nature.[137] This possibility
being once granted there is no convincing proof that natural models
were used in the construction of conventional figures at all. Often the
resemblance may have been an afterthought, as a child calls a square a
window, though it may have been drawn with no such intention, or the
Eskimo explains the peculiar outlines of his characters by likening
them to animal forms. However this may be, it is at least certain that
these savage people offer a convincing proof that the pleasure which is
derived from form is primordial and universal. If geometric figures did
originate in imitation of natural models, still the persistence and
abstract conventionalizing of them points to a high valuation,
which is in one case at least independent of such accidental
association—namely, when ornamentation is applied to tools and
utensils, and especially if we consider their fine polish and
symmetrical form as belonging to the order of embellishments.
“Smoothness and good proportion,” says Grosse rightly, “are usually not
so much æsthetic as practical qualities. An awkwardly shaped weapon
does not reach the mark as surely as does a symmetrical one, and a
well-polished arrow or spear head penetrates farther than a roughly
finished weapon. Yet we find among primitive people articles which
have just as much care bestowed upon them, without any such evident
utility. The blubber lamp of the Eskimo need not be either so regular
in form or so highly polished in order to shed its light and heat;
the Fire Islander’s basket would no doubt be quite as useful were it
a little less evenly woven. Australians always carve their talismans
symmetrically, though, for all we know to the contrary, they might be
just as effective otherwise. In all such cases we may be sure that the
workman is satisfying an æsthetic as well as a practical demand.”[138]

Since we can devote but a passing glance to the significance of form
in the art of cultured man, I confine myself to some remarks on the
æsthetic effect of the simplest of all forms—the straight line. Fr.
Carstanjen, in his interesting paper on the developmental factors
of the early renaissance in the Netherlands,[139] advances the
opinion that progress and development in art are the direct result,
psychologically speaking, of dissatisfaction with contemporary art
and its productions with which the people have become satiated. As
concerns the evolution of form, the common process seems to be that,
by a naturalism more or less fortunate, something like style is
first acquired by means of the mastery of straight lines. From this
point development is in the direction of overcoming their stiffness
and angularity. The representation of form is constantly more free,
reaching thus a high degree of beauty, but passing on through a
period of extravagant exaltation of circles, spirals, swells, and
curves to final and inevitable decadence. In following out this
succession of styles it becomes apparent that separation from the
direct is, æsthetically speaking, separation from repose (as well as
from stiffness). So Wölfflin says, in pointing out emotional analogies
as they bear on form: “A line composed of short, delicate curves
is commonly called tremulous, while one with wider and shallower
vibrations indicates dull humming or buzzing. A zigzag rustles and
splashes like falling water, and when very pointed sounds shrill
like whistling. The straight line is quite still; in architecture
it suggests the quiet simplicity of the antique.”[140] It is a most
interesting study to note the almost illimitable force of this effect
of the straight line in an art which, having reached the pinnacle of
its development, allows full swing to the tendency toward rounded forms
as well. During the most flourishing period of the Italian renaissance
there was scarcely a single master who gloried more in the pride of
sensuous loveliness than did Titian, yet even in the midst of his
intoxicating triumphs he attained something of that quiet grandeur
which, according to Winckelmann, formed the basis of Greek art. How
can we account for this? In my opinion it was accomplished, in part
at least, though not entirely, by the use of the short straight line
which characterizes Titian’s style, and is repeated in the work of
many of his imitators—I mean the line that is formed by the peculiar
inclination of the head. It is found in the wonderful Madonna of the
house of Pesaro, in the Flora of the Uffizi, the Laura de Dianti in the
Louvre, in the so-called “Loves” and other works of the master. Their
chief common characteristic is a certain commanding dignity impossible
to describe. Among those artists influenced by Titian, Moretto has
followed him most successfully.

This same line may become almost unpleasing when the figure is too
much in profile and the head bends forward, as does Mary Magdalene’s
in Titian’s Dresden Madonna. I mention this because it is repeated
in the Medea by Feuerbach, who is very faithful to Titian’s ideal. He
is, moreover, one of the vanguard of German artists who are leading
the way to the new idealism—a thing as yet more hoped for than
realized. And just here I have a word to say. An essential of ideal
art is that, as opposed to naturalistic reproduction, it _plays_ with
conventionalized form and subordinates reality to it. While at the
height of the renaissance marvellous effects were achieved by mingled
and contrasted curves, such as astonish us in the work of Raphael
and sometimes of Rubens, of our modern idealism we may say: if we
are justified at all in calling its developments new, it is because,
from the standpoint of form, it does possess one unique and original
characteristic—namely, that in it for the first time straight lines,
and especially the perpendicular, are dominant in a well-mastered
technique, which is no longer primitive. There are many traces of this
principle in Feuerbach’s work, and it is still more strikingly shown in
that of Böcklin, who has close kinship with the Venetians. The tensely
upstretched necks of the swans in the Island of the Blest is a perfect
example of the new style. It comes out again in the stiff little trees
of his spring landscape, in the abrupt lines of the drapery of a Muse
at the Arethusan spring, in the perpendicular line extending from the
shoulder of the musical shepherd boy quite to his foot, and in many
other pictures. Max Klinger is partial to the horizontal, and much
of the characteristic power of his Pieta is due to his employment of
these lines; three stone steps, the outstretched body of the Redeemer,
the stretch of a wall in the background, the straight lines of a thick
wood, in contrast to these the upright half figures of John and Mary.
Many of our modern idealistic painters have unfortunately abandoned
the use of this “line of Praxiteles,” which imparts so finely poised a
position to the head and body and that peculiar mysterious dignity and
air of detachment to the whole figure—“schöne, stille Menschen.” In the
industrial arts this preference for straight lines is most conspicuous
in what we wish to appear as new and original, and even in the newest
styles for men it gives us the creased trousers, the waistless coat,
and the stiff, high hat. These phenomena, however, we will not presume
to attribute to the influence of ideal art.


(_d_) Perception of Movement

When sight is the medium of perception movement plays are at the same
time visual plays, otherwise consciousness is reached through the
sense of touch. We will here give special attention to experimental
exercise of the motor apparatus, as actual movement play is treated of
in detail in another section. After some general remarks, a few cases
will be cited whose most important feature is the pleasure derived
from the contemplation of the movement, as is especially the case
when it is not self-produced. The powerful attraction which movement
has for us is well grounded biologically, for evidently it is of
the utmost importance in the struggle for existence that attention
should be at once and instinctively aroused by any stir or change in
the environment.[141] But perception of movement by means of the eye
alone, and consequently the instinct of keeping absolutely motionless,
is of great importance to the pursued animal. Thus Edinger says: “I
have repeatedly seen a hungry snake pause in the midst of his pursuit
of a fleeing mouse, when it crouched down and was quiet. I have seen
it recoil from the frog, which it was trying to catch, as soon as
the creature kept still.”[142] Even our own involuntary attention to
motion has some analogy to instinct, and recalls the violent and sudden
reaction with which we respond to an unexpected touch on the bare
back.[143] As a matter of psychological fact, there is associated with
movement, as with sensations of hearing, a strong emotional effect.

It is no wonder, therefore, that all his life long man shows a
peculiar interest in movement, and acquires the capacity to detect
its intimations very early in life. Indeed, this capacity is one of
the first to be developed, and depends, apart from skin stimuli and
the so-called after images which reveal objective movement to the eye
at rest, principally on the ability to follow the moving object with
the glance. Practice is necessary for the mastery of this capacity.
The eyes accompany, in addition to the regular objective motion, a
constantly renewed backward movement as well, by means of which we
again grasp the escaping object, an effort requiring the simultaneous
exercise of volition and attention. “This process requiring continuous
and constantly renewed attention,” says L. W. Stern, “this lying in
wait that the object may not give us the slip (for any laxity would at
once be avenged by an increased difficulty in fixing the object), bears
witness to a condition and teaches us that the object with which we are
carrying on this game of ‘catcher’ is in motion.”[144] This explains
why little children so easily lose sight of a moving object which they
wish to follow with the eye.

Here again we find that playful experimentation is essential, and,
according to Raehlmann, it commonly appears toward the end of the
fifth week, rarely earlier.[145] That Preyer’s boy on the twenty-third
day followed with his eyes a slowly moving light was probably an
instance of forced development, as a result of much experimenting. On
the twenty-ninth day the same child crowed aloud at the sight of a
swaying tassel. On the sixty-second day he gazed at a swinging lamp
with constant manifestations of delight for nearly half an hour, but
his eyes did not follow the swing of the pendulum; they moved, it is
true, now left, now right, but not in time with the lamp. “On the
one hundred and first day a pendulum making forty complete swings in
a minute was for the first time followed with mechanical exactness
by his glance.”[146] As his capacity for following the movement
increased, the greater his interest in it became. A dog racing away
or leaping about the child, the fast horse, the hopping toad, the
crawling worm or gliding snake, running water, leaping flame, a rolling
wagon, and, more than all, the fast-rushing train, with its cloud of
steam—all these excite a really passionate sympathy. The smoke of a
cigar, too, gives great satisfaction, and if a father knows how to
make the beautiful blue rings he must at once renounce his peaceful
contemplative enjoyment of his own play, for the youngster will demand
a very different _tempo_ in the repetition than is agreeable to him.
In enumerating instances of animal motion I omitted one because it
deserves more extended notice—namely, the flight of insects, in which
children take such lively interest. The common illusion that an insect
which has been caught can be induced to fly away by the recital of a
form of words is highly interesting, in itself considered as well as in
view of its probable origin. May not such poetic formulæ be traceable
to a religious or at least superstitious origin? The commonest
of these rhymes are those addressed to the ladybird (_Coccinella
septempunctata_) and the June bug. Rochholz has made a collection of
the names of the former, and found that in India it was sacred to the
god Indra, and among the old Germans to Frega. I give two German forms
of the verse:

  “Muttergotteshühle, Mückenstühle,
   Fliege auf, fliege auf! Wohl über die Bussenberg,
   Dass es besser Wetter wird.”

  “Marienkäferchen, wann wird Sonne sein?
   Morgen oder heut?
   Flieg weg in den Himmel!”

An English one is:

  “Ladybird, ladybird,
     Fly away home;
   If you’ll be quick,
     The sunshine will come.”

All are familiar with the adjuration to the June bug.
French children sing:

  “Hanneton, vole, vole!
   Ton mari est a l’école,
   Il a dit qu’si tu volais,
   Tu aurais d’la soupe au lait
   Il a dit qu’si tu n’volais pas,
   Tu aurais la tête en bas.”

To the butterfly, which is not so easily caught, the invitation is to
alight:

  “Molketewer sett di,
   Kömmt e Pogg de frett di!”

And in Scotch:

  “Le, la, let,
   My bonnie pet!”

The snail, too, is addressed in a rhyme which favours the illusion that
he will put out his horns to order:

  “Schneck’ im Haus, kreich heraus,
   Strecke deine vier Hörner heraus!
   Sonst werf ich dich in Graben,
   Fressen dich die Raben.”

  “Snail, snail, put out your horn,
   Or I’ll kill your father and mother the morn.”[147]

As a final example, I will mention the gruesome custom which, according
to Papasliotis, obtains in modern Greece, and especially in Crete, of
attaching a small lighted taper to a beetle and releasing it amid the
acclamations of excited children. A passage in Aristophanes gives the
impression that the children of ancient Greece also indulged in this
cruel sport.[148]

The eye of the adult, too, delights in movement; absolute immobility
is as disturbing as absolute stillness. Here, as elsewhere, in
considering the playful indulgence of sensuous perceptions, we must
distinguish between pleasure in movement as such and pleasure in
sensuously agreeable movement. Even children seem to exhibit this
difference. Some weeks after the experiments in form described above
I drew irregular zigzags and some even, wavy lines in the air before
Marie G——, then five years old, and asked which she liked better.
She chose the latter, though the others were calculated to produce
a much more exciting impression, giving as her reason that the wavy
lines were “straighter”; evidently meaning, as in the case of the
figures, that these were more regular. In adults susceptibility to
sensuously agreeable movement is doubtless still stronger, yet with
them, too, there is a wide margin of pleasure in movement as such.
From the multiplicity of available examples of this I select first
the observation of street scenes, which I have already noticed in the
case of animals,[149] especially the dog. The pleasure which we find
in gazing out of our own windows or from behind the plate glass of a
_café_ at the bustle and swarm of a city’s traffic detaches itself from
all intellectual or even imaginative associations, and is gradually
merged into a dreamy consciousness of a sensation of movement, mingled
with mild enjoyment of its contrast with our own repose. With similar
sensations we observe the stir of an ant-hill, the swarming of gnats
in the evening glow, the confusion of snowflakes, and the whirling of
leaves in a wind. A special interest attaches to the witnessing of
skilful acrobatics where the feeling of inner imitation is strongly
excited, and well does the juggler know how to turn this interest to
account. The dexterous leaps which Amaranthus records at the beginning
of the eighteenth century furnishes us an historical example: “Many
are the leaps by which the jugglers cause the money of the spectators
to jump into their own purses, and they have names as strange as they
are ridiculous. There is the monkey jump, which throws one backward,
landing him on both feet; the trout leap, which does the same thing
twice in quick succession and with the legs crossed; twenty-two monkey
jumps without stopping; a great variety of table and board jumps; the
goat and hare leaps; the leap through eight rings, one from floor to
ceiling, over chairs, etc.”[150]

The enjoyment is of course strengthened when the already interesting
motion becomes sensuously agreeable; a low degree of such pleasure is
experienced in witnessing regular motion in a single direction, such
as that of a rushing stream or of clouds sailing across the heavens.
In one of his verses Gottfried Keller calls these latter the “friendly
companions of the dwellers on earth.” “As they wander on they attract
and distract the burdened soul of him who observes them with wonder,
and keep him amused all through the weary hours.” Gurgling springs
add to their upward gushing motion the soft underground murmur of
their waters, while the beauty of circling motion is perhaps never
more effectively shown than in the majestic floating of birds of prey.
Darwin says in his Voyage of the Beagle round the World: “When the
condors are wheeling in a flock round and round any spot their flight
is beautiful. Except when rising from the ground, I do not recollect
ever having seen one of these birds flap its wings. Near Lima I watched
several for nearly half an hour, without once taking off my eyes. They
moved in large curves, sweeping in circles, descending and ascending,
without giving a single flap.” Perhaps our pleasure is even greater in
wave motions, as they roll over the ocean or are produced by the wind
on a field of grain, or surge in the current of a rapid stream. These
noble verses of Mörike’s on the Rhine falls bear witness to the power
of the æsthetic feeling so aroused:

  “Halte dein Herz, o Wanderer, fest in gewaltigen Händen!
     Mir entstürzte vor Lust zitternd das meinige fast.
   Rastlos donnernde Massen auf donnernde Massen geworfen,
     Ohr und Auge wohin retten sie sich im Tumult?...

  “Rosse der Götter, im Schwung, eins über den Rücken des ander
     Stürmen herunter und streu’n silberne Mähnen umher;
   Herrliche Leiber, unzählbare, folgen sich, nimmer dieselben,
     Ewig dieselbigen—wer wartet das Ende wohl aus?”[151]

Finally, we will notice dancing movements. It is not only among birds
that the courted female gazes with interest at the dancing of the
male; we see it in all public dancing. This is one of the instances
where visual play is as important as the movement, for even among the
participants pleasure is heightened by the exciting spectacle of the
other dancers,[152] and it is true the world over that spectators of
a dance always become as passionately aroused as do the performers
themselves. The piercing trills with which the women of some <DW64>
tribes at intervals accompany the dance of the males are surely not
merely invitations to the latter, but indications as well of their own
excitement. For this reason many onlookers are impelled to keep time
with the rhythmic dance by clicking the tongue or clapping the hands.
“The feeling of pleasure which is kindled in the performer,” says
Grosse, “sheds its rays on the beholder as well.... In this way both
become passionately excited, intoxicated by the sounds and movements;
the transport constantly increasing, swells at last to veritable
madness, which often results in violent outbreaks.”[153] The solo
dances of primitive peoples presuppose an onlooking public more than
mass dances do. Among Bushmen and Eskimos the men dance alone, while,
according to Eyre, Australian women do it sometimes alone and sometimes
in companies to, arouse the men.[154] Among the civilized people of the
Orient professional dancing girls perform in the presence of men, in
which case the spectators alone can be said to play. And the same is
true of our ballet, which, indeed, except for its direct sexual effect,
possesses but little pleasurable quality.[155]


II. PLAYFUL USE OF THE MOTOR APPARATUS

In this new section we by no means cut loose from what is sensory
in a subjective sense, for of course we become conscious of our
own movements only through the sensory paths of sight and what is
collectively called touch, chiefly sensations of contact, and tendon
and joint sensations. Yet from an objective standpoint we must enter
upon the investigation of an entirely new province, where we shall be
concerned not so much with the senses as with the manifold co-ordinated
muscular movements of which our bodies are capable, and which are
necessary or at least useful for the accomplishment of the tasks of
life.

Since these movements are progressively acquired, the child’s first
efforts can hardly be said to be voluntary. Many that are instinctive
and automatic must be repeated over and over before voluntary ones
come, for will implies an image which is a memory picture of the
movement to be made. Preyer thinks that no intentional movements are
made before the end of the first quarter.[156] Vierordt, indeed, says
that their development is gradually progressive. “All indications point
to the arm as first becoming obedient to volition, and the sucking
movements, too, seem early to lose their reflex character. Then follow
intentional movements of the head and neck and some groups of face
muscles, and finally those of the lower limbs, which as late as the
sixth month still move in the most haphazard manner.”[157] Playful
experiment then promotes this acquisition of control over the bodily
movements by the will, and strengthens and renders it permanent after
it has been acquired.

Playful movements naturally fall into two great subdivisions, namely,
those belonging to the organs as such and those directed toward other
objects in connection with such organs—a distinction already familiar
to us in our study of the production of noises and tones. We will now
consider the first of these divisions, the most important phenomenon of
which is locomotion.


A. PLAYFUL MOVEMENT OF THE BODILY ORGANS

In other connections we have touched upon many movement plays, such as
voice practice and the production of sounds by means of various bodily
organs, experimentation with tactile stimuli, and watching moving
objects. This sort of exercise often combines motor with sensor play,
as has been frequently pointed out. Therefore, to avoid repetition,
I will in this section, after a few preliminary remarks suggested
by such bearings of the subject as I conceive to be essential,
proceed at once to consider the most important and obvious of all
movement-plays—namely, those connected with change of place.

In voice practice experiments with the larynx, tongue, lips, and
breathing muscles are involved. When children whisper, for example,
their enjoyment must be due as much to the lip movements as to the
slight sounds produced. The fact that the blind deaf-mute Laura
Bridgman[158] playfully indulged in the production of various sounds
seems to confirm this, and the principle is applicable too to other
noises. The child who claps his hands, splashes in the water, bangs on
the table with his fist, or puffs out his cheeks to blow a horn; the
grown man who shuffles his feet, drums on the table or window pane,
the noisy dancer, and even the piano or violin player who indulges
in movements now loud, now soft, now slow, now quick—all derive a
considerable part of their pleasure in the sport from the motor
discharge which is involved.

No exhaustive demonstration is needed to prove that the same conditions
prevail in experimentation with touch stimuli and the observation of
motion, which is so often connected with it. “In the first year,” says
Preyer, in speaking of the manifold and apparently aimless movements
of the infant, “exercise of the muscles is the _raison d’être_ of
all this activity which appears to be aimless. An adult lying on his
back could not repeat the commonest movements of a seven to twelve
months child without extreme fatigue.”[159] In arm movements the
development of right-handedness is of especial interest. Formerly it
was attributed to the mother’s or nurse’s method of carrying the child,
to the greater weight of one side of the body, and similar pretexts;
but Baldwin’s investigations show that such extraneous influences
have little to do with it, for he found on excluding such agencies a
marked preference for the right hand in the seventh and eighth months,
displayed first in strenuous grasping movements.[160] An entirely
satisfactory explanation has not yet been offered, though Sticker’s
theory, is perhaps most probable—namely, that the left brain hemisphere
has a better blood supply than the right.[161] When there is some
difficulty to overcome, some opportunity to display dexterity, there
are heightened stimulus and greater directness in the movements of arms
and hands. Older children delight to set themselves such tasks as, for
instance, clasping the hands behind the back, so that one arm crosses
the shoulder, or placing the open hand on a table and raising the
ring finger without any of the others, or laying the fingers over one
another, etc. When such efforts are overlooked and directed by parents
and teachers, we have the beginning of gymnastics, which remains a
play so long as the subject enjoys it. Free-hand movements, exercises
with dumb-bells and weights and the like, so far as the interest is
not centred in the foreign body, all belong here. The intense desire
for movement in many forms of mental disease should also be noted in
this connection, since they have an indirect playful character, and
by their very exaggeration are calculated to throw some light on the
conduct of normal humanity. No psychic derangement shows this more
clearly than does mania. The voice of such patients, says Kraepelin,
“is usually high-pitched.... They are contented, feel inclined to
all sorts of fun, and teasing, singing, and joking,” yet all this is
invariably followed by a sudden plunge into the contrary mood. “That
grave symptom of derangement, strong propensity to movement seems
to stand in the closest connection with liveliness of spirits. The
patient fairly revels in emotion; he is uneasy, can not long lie or sit
still, stirs about, skips, runs, dances. He gesticulates wildly, claps
his hands, makes faces, scribbles and rubs on the ground, walls, and
windows, beats and drums on the floor, strips off his clothes, tears
them to ribbons, etc.”[162] Since movement and its opposite are closely
connected, the question arises whether the strange rigidity of body
manifested in catalepsy is not referable to the same cause. There is
certainly often a certain designedness about it. “When any attempt is
made to change the position of the patient every muscle is found to be
tense. If the head is forced aside by pressure, it flies back to its
former position when released. To support the head hardly requires more
than the weight of a finger. We are best acquainted with the psychic
organ of this stubborn resistance in the common cases where the patient
responds contrarily to speech suggestions. He can be made to go forward
by being ordered back, and _vice versa_, will take a seat when told
not to, stand still when commanded to go on, etc.”[163]

Finally, before going on to our principal subject, we should glance
at the instinctive chewing motions which were mentioned among tactile
plays. When a full-grown man going for a walk sticks a twig in his
mouth and gnaws it the movements of his own jaw are of more interest
to him than is the stick, except as it promotes sensations of contact.
We take genuine pleasure in crunching toast and gnawing on a bone, and
the unfortunate habit of biting the finger nails is one form of such
play. Many smokers soon chew up the mouth pieces of their pipes and
cigar holders, and others constantly bite pencil or penholder, and are
unhappy when such indulgence is denied them. Betel-chewing, which, it
is true, has the attraction of a narcotic, is indulged in, according
to Von Bibra, by one hundred million human beings.[164] New Zealanders
use _kauri_, the resin of a certain tree. “In the northern part of
Sweden resin obtained from the trunk of a pine tree is very generally
chewed.”[165] Americans who twenty-five years ago chewed prepared resin
have adopted the chewing-gum habit. Material for it is brought chiefly
from Mexico; in 1895 four million pounds of _chicle_ gum was imported
for this purpose. Jules Legras says of Russia: “Gnawing sunflower seeds
is the favourite amusement of children and of the poorer classes. The
streets are full of shops where the beloved grain is sold, and the
common people stuff their pockets with it. They skilfully split open
the husk with the front teeth, discard it, and mechanically chew the
kernel. It is a national habit, inexplicable to an outsider, for the
seeds are tasteless; but the jaws are kept busy, and their motion forms
an accompaniment to the vague dreaming of the poor people.”[166]

Turning now to our subject proper—namely, playful locomotion or change
of place—we find the biological significance of play, the elaboration
of certain imperfect instincts, brought out with marked distinctness.
The child’s first practice in the direction of future walking is
found in the alternative kicking, which is so essential to muscular
development.[167] Further progress is marked by raising the body and
learning to sit, efforts marking the beginning of the struggle with
weights which Souriau regards as the leading stimulus to movement-play.
So long as this struggle to retain his equilibrium lasts, the child’s
behaviour betrays the direct intention of the play. Preyer says: “In
his fourteenth week my sturdy boy easily made his first attempt to
sit, having his back well propped. In his twenty-second week the child
could raise himself in the effort to reach my face, but not till the
thirty-ninth week could he sit alone, and still preferred a back. In
his carriage it was necessary for him to hold on even in the fortieth
and forty-first weeks. But when for a supreme moment he did manage to
sit up unassisted he was evidently delighted, and made the greatest
efforts to preserve his equilibrium.”[168]

Creeping is an imperfect though genuine sort of locomotion preparatory
to walking. “It is a treat,” says Sigismund, “to watch a creeping
child. The tiny creature, seated on the floor, longs for something
beyond his reach; straining to get it, he loses his balance and falls
over. In that position he still stretches his hand out, and notices
that he is nearer the object of his desire, and that a few more such
forward motions would attain it. Soon he becomes more active, sure,
and courageous, and learns to maintain his centre of gravity on three
supports while he lifts the fourth member for his next step forward,
for at first the child raises but one limb at a time, though he soon
learns to use the right hand and left foot together. I have never seen
one so use the hand and foot on the same side. Sometimes the child
crawls backward like a crab, even when there is nothing before him
which he wishes to shun.”[169] Fouquières gives two beautiful ancient
representations of creeping children, the first going toward some
fruit which lies on a footstool, and the other gazing at a vase on the
ground.[170]

Children who have a lively desire to roam before they are able to
walk invent many expedients which afford them great satisfaction; for
example, a little boy, Werner H——, has acquired remarkable skill in
getting about by stiffening his arms as he stretches them down at his
sides and swinging himself forward as if on crutches, as we sometimes
see the unfortunates do who have had both legs amputated.

Learning to stand is an essential step preliminary to talking, and
causes a child the liveliest satisfaction, giving him further control
over his own body, and responding as it does to an inborn impulse.
Sigismund places the first efforts in this direction in the eighteenth
or twentieth week. “If the nurse holds up a child of this age on her
lap, supporting it under the arms, it will dance, hop, and spring
perpetually like a hooked fish, bound like a grasshopper, draw up his
legs like a closed pocket knife, and twist his head and neck—in short,
he will exhibit the same mercurial exuberance of motion which pleases
us in young goats, lambs, and kittens. The child’s movements, however,
are naturally in the direction of the normal human attitude, and he
will make desperate attempts to pull himself up by his nurse’s dress or
the edge of a chair or his bath tub, and when by the exertion of this
utmost strength he succeeds he commonly breaks out into loud cries of
joy.”[171] The playful quality so clearly recognised here appears also
in Preyer’s remark that his boy in the fortieth week preferred to be
exercised in standing rather than in sitting, although the former was
more difficult.[172] This fact no doubt enhanced the pleasure. At the
end of the first year or beginning of the second the child is usually
far enough on to stand entirely alone. “He is amazed at his own daring,
standing anxiously with feet wide apart, and at last letting himself
down rather abruptly.”[173]

Coming now to actual walking, it is uncertain whether the alternating
kicks of the infant point to special instinctive impulses, but we may
be sure that when a child pushes forward on being held with the feet
touching the floor he feels the stirrings of instinct. “Champney’s
child,” says Preyer, “was held upright for the first time at the end of
the nineteenth week, so that his feet rested on the floor, and he was
moved forward; his legs worked with regularity, and each step was taken
accurately and without hesitation or wavering even when the feet were
lifted too high. Only in this case was the alternation interrupted,
and he made another effort to take the step with his feet in the air.
Resting the body sideways on one foot seemed to transfer the stimulus
to the other. These observations ground my belief that walking is an
instinctive act.”[174] This happens somewhat later if the child is not
moved forward on being held up; thus Baldwin, whose experiment included
no such motion, found that the “native walking reflex” suddenly
appeared in the ninth month, while previous to that only a single
alternation appeared, which might well be ascribed to chance.[175]
Independent experimentation begins when, having drawn himself up by a
chair, the child walks around it with the help of his hands, all the
time resting on the seat, in which progress the achievement of a corner
is as critical a movement as the rounding of a jutting crag in the path
of a mountain climber. Soon after this arrives the crucial test—the
terrible risk of the first step alone, which, when successfully
accomplished, throws both parent and child into a transport of joy.
The appreciative Sigismund gives a beautiful description of this too:
“Forward steps having been practised while the hands cling to some
fixed object, he is prepared to venture alone. This first step alone
of a little child makes one involuntarily hold his breath at the
sight. The small face reveals a conflict between the bold resolve to
venture all and the cautious counsels of conservatism. Suddenly one
little foot is shoved forward rather than lifted, and one hand at last
stretched out as a balance. Sometimes that one step is all, and the
little Icarus sinks down again. But often the child to whom the effort
is particularly difficult makes, like a boy learning to skate or a man
walking a rope, several steps in one direction, especially when the
haven of safety is near at hand. Many children make no further attempts
for weeks after the first; others, again, follow it up at once. Very
gradually walking loses its anxious, doubtful character, and becomes
an easy habit not requiring attention.” Froebel has well described
the pleasure in success which, together with the gratification of
instinctive impulse, makes learning to walk such a satisfaction. “The
fact is well established,” he says, “that walking, and especially
the first steps, give the child pleasure merely as a demonstration
of his strength, although this is soon followed by other elements of
enjoyment, such as the realization that it is means of arriving and of
obtaining.”[176] As it becomes mechanical, walking, of course, loses
its playful character. Pleasure in simple locomotion is experienced
by adults, as a rule, only when the discharge of their motor impulses
has been hindered by a sedentary life, and even then motion is not the
chief source of satisfaction. The regular rhythm of walking acts like
a narcotic on an excited mind, which reacts to it unconsciously. I
remember that Ibsen’s John Gabriel Borkmann paced up and down like a
sick wolf before the door of the wife from whom he was separated; and
we find a fearful reminder of the restless walking back and forth of
caged animals in the deep-worn footprints of the prisoner of Chillon.
We find, though, for all ages games whose object is the conquest of
some difficulty, great or small. We frequently see small dogs keep one
leg up in the air without any apparent reason and, run along on three,
and in the same way children try all sorts of experiments in walking.
Now one of them is lame in one foot, now one small leg is stiff, now
he drags his feet, now walks with a jerk or on tiptoe. Many of these
movements are turned to account in elementary gymnastics, and those
pathological subjects whose mania takes a playful turn show quite
similar peculiarities in walking.[177] Almost as soon as the child has
learned to preserve his equilibrium in ordinary walking he proceeds to
complicate the problem by trying to walk on curbstones, in a rut, on a
beam, on a balustrade or narrow wall. Unusual facility in these leads
on to rope walking, and afterward turns out to be of great service
to the mountain climber on narrow ridges and snow-covered ledges. A
famous architect was so foolhardy as to walk round the narrow leads of
the Königstuhl tower in Heidelberg, and it is recorded of the ancient
Norse king Olav Tryggvason that he possessed the accomplishment, among
others, of being able to run across the oars of a boat while the men
were rowing. Another form of self-imposed difficulty and consequent
conversion of locomotion into play is the attempt to step on all the
cracks in the pavement or floor or on certain figures in a carpet.
Something of this kind must have led to the game of Paradieshüpfen in
Germany, hop-scotch in England, la Marelle in France, in which certain
spaces are marked out in the sand or on a floor, on whose outlines the
foot must not be set.

Running games will form our next subject, and we find that the child’s
earliest efforts for locomotion are as much like running as walking.
His first steps alone are, it is true most hesitatingly made, but the
nearer the goal, especially if it happens to be his mother kneeling
with outstretched arms, the more rapid are his movements. Gradually the
distinction between running and walking becomes more marked. For an
example of genuine practice for a quick run Preyer’s observations may
again be cited. He says that on the four hundred and fifty-ninth day
the boy stopped short several times in his rapid course and stamped.
In his seventy-seventh week this child ran nineteen times without
stopping around a large table, calling out “mama,” and “bwa, bwa,
bwa,”[178] the while. This simple running soon loses its charm, and is
not much used later in play until it is transformed into a contest and
acquires a new and higher meaning, of which we shall speak presently.
Yet there are many running games whose attraction consists in the
difficulties to be overcome, and very rapid running is a delight in
itself, throwing us into a sort of transport and exciting in us “je ne
sais quelle idée d’infini, de désir sans mesure, de vie surabondante
et folle, je ne sais quel dedain de l’individualité quel besoin de se
sentir aller sans se retenir, de se perdre dans le tout.”[179]

Running down a smooth <DW72> is a diversion which easily tempts even
grown people, and boys at least find something like it in their game of
snapping the whip, in which game a chain is made with the strongest boy
in front. He has the task of moving the whole line in curves, so that
the end ones are obliged to run in dizzy haste. In both cases natural
forces, coming to the aid of the individual’s own efforts, add to the
enjoyment. Overcoming difficulties is prominent in the Hellenic
πιτυλίζειν, which it seems consisted in running on the tips of the
toes, as well as in the equally ancient ἐκπλεθρίζειν, which was a
peculiar varied running, without curves, in a straight line back and
forth, the line growing shorter and shorter till a central point
was reached, where, as only one step remained, the runner came to a
standstill.[180]

Hopping and skipping are also to be classed with running plays; the
body is suspended in the air for an instant in all these movements,
though in hopping and skipping the motion is more vertical. They
belong in the same category with the vagaries of locomotion which I
have pointed out, and any lively child finds it hard to dispense with
them when out for a walk, just as lambs and kids do. In the ordinary
skip one foot at a time comes with a slight shoving motion on the
ground and gives us the beginning of a galop and the principle of the
waltz, while hopping forms the foundation for the polka. This hop on
one foot is utilized in many plays, such as the hopscotch already
mentioned, and in chasing and fighting games, like “Cock Fight”
(German Hahnenkampf), “Fox in his Hole,” etc. In Greece the ἀσκωλιάζειν
was a popular game, and Grasberger says that their hopping was the
same as ours, and in some games he who accomplished the task with the
fewest hops won the prize. In a catching game the contestants hopped
on a circular line and attempted to touch one another with the free
foot. Finally, the drollest and most popular form of the game, which
never failed to excite laughter in all beholders, was the genuine
Askoliasmos. A skin well oiled on the outside and filled with air was
stepped on by the player, who attempted to stand on it while he went
through various dancing and hopping motions. The favourite circus trick
of running on a rolling cannon ball is a modern form of this.

Children begin to jump by leaping downward. Before the little
experimentor has halfway learned to go down steps he likes to reach
the ground by a jump from the last one, at first a difficult enough
exploit. But soon this palls, and something harder is at once
undertaken, just as the habitual drunkard attains to stronger and
stronger potations. The three-year-old can take two or three steps or
boldly leap from a chair on which he has laboriously clambered with
this intent. When some large stone pillars intended for a garden gate
lay in the street before my house all the children in the neighbourhood
collected to enjoy the pleasure of jumping off of them. Psychologically
this pleasure is derived not merely from the agreeable flying motion,
but from the stimulus of difficulty to be overcome and a feeling of
pride in encountering risks. Chamberlain tells of two small Americans
who had in their familiar speech a word for “the feeling you have just
before you jump, don’t you know, when you mean to jump and want to do
it and are just a little bit afraid to do it,” and another for “the way
you feel when you have just jumped and are awfully proud of it.”[181]
Perhaps the liveliest feeling of pleasure is caused by the leap into
water, because the soft, yielding, and yet resisting element furnishes
an unusually long trajectory. Many South Sea islanders have cultivated
this art to an astonishing degree. The pleasure of snowshoeing, too,
consists chiefly in the circumstance that the path ends suddenly in an
abrupt <DW72>, over which the skilful sportsman flies in a tremendous
leap amid a whir of soft snow. “To see,” says Nansen in his book on
Greenland, “how the practised runner makes his leap into the air is
one of the finest spectacles in the world. To see him whizzing boldly
down the mountain, collect himself in a few steps before the spring,
pause and take position, and then like a sea gull glide through the
air, striking the ground at a distance of twenty to twenty-five
metres immersed in a cloud of flying snow—all this sends a thrill
of sympathetic pleasure through one’s frame.” Later, children learn
high and long-distance jumps, the doorstep, a tiny stream and narrow
ditch affording opportunity for the first practice, and an older boy
leaps gaily over a low hedge, a wide brook, or his comrade’s back in
leap-frog. The element of danger exists here and some combativeness,
as though it were a sort of conquest of the object; these features are
especially prominent when the vault is made over a blazing fire, as
in the custom with some mountaineers’ games. It is first heard of in
the Palilia, a herdsman’s game of ancient Rome, commemorative of the
founding of the city, and the people of the Nicobar Islands believe
that leaping through fire is a sure cure for colds, fevers, etc.[182]
The salto mortale marked the highest degree of difficulty and danger—a
Greek vase shows it as a somersault in the midst of the high jump.
Norwegian youths can spring up so high as to touch the ceiling with one
foot and agilely regain their upright position. The Greeks used weights
of stone or lead, which they swung violently to intensify the force of
the leap, the springboard being apparently unknown to them. Grasberger
regards the statement that Phayllos of Crete could cover from fifty
to fifty-five feet[183] as well authenticated, but it was certainly a
prodigious leap. Similar incredible feats are reported of the ancient
Germans, one being that of the Viking Halfdan, who jumped over a gorge
thirty yards wide.[184] From this is but a step to the world-famed
contest between Brunhilde and Gunther, in which Brunhilde hurled a
mighty stone and then leaped after it as far as or farther than the
stone went, and Siegfried performed the same feat, carrying Gunther
with him.

Climbing is probably the outcome of a special instinct. The striking
fact that a newborn infant is at once able to cling with his hands
certainly points to this. It has been shown by Robinson that infants
may cling fast enough to a stick to be lifted from the ground and held
suspended in midair.

The first attempts at actual climbing occur in the second year in
conjunction with creeping, and are usually efforts to go upstairs.
Young animals whose future life demands skill in climbing also manifest
this upward tendency. Where Lenz says that the two-weeks-old kid
enjoys neck-breaking adventures and makes remarkable leaps, that he
always wants to go upon piles of wood or stone, on walls and rocks,
and that climbing upstairs is his chief delight,[185] he gives at
the same time a faithful picture of dawning human impulses. Little
George K——, a year and a half old, made his way in an unguarded moment
from the garden to the third story of his father’s house. Numberless
accidents have resulted from the climbing upon chairs and tables,
which is so indefatigably persisted in, and there are few plays which
afford so much pleasure to older children as climbing trees. It is
probable that, in spite of the danger of the situation, there is an
instinctive feeling of security and comfort when they are cosily
settled among the branches. We naturally attribute this, to the habits
of their progenitors, but a simpler explanation of their enjoyment
of the situation may be that their elders can not get to them. That
girls gladly participate in this supposedly masculine indulgence is
noteworthy. Marlitt and Mrs. Hungerford give amusing instances of
trying situations in which older girls have been placed through this
propensity. The tall and glossy beech tree, with all sorts of beauties
luring one to its topmost branches, presents special difficulties to
adventurers. Climbing steep cliffs, too, is a favourite pastime; one
of the pleasantest recollections of my own youth is of climbing a
wooded <DW72> in the neighbourhood of St. Blasien in the Black Forest,
where I spent half a day with two other children building a moss hut
on an almost inaccessible crag. The modern fad of making foolhardy
excursions to the highest peaks is too familiar to need enlarging on.
It clearly shows that the most difficult movement plays are combative.
Th. Wundt, the famous climber, is quite right when he says in his book
on the Jungfrau and the Bernese Oberland that the mountain climber
“takes Nature by storm; he does not expect that she will present a
smiling aspect; he measures strength with her; he seeks a contest which
will try him to the uttermost, and the longing for adventure is much
stronger than any mere passive enjoyment.” We find traces of this same
spirit in old German records, as witness thus: King Olaf Tryggvason,
to prove his prowess, climbed the Smalsarhorn, hitherto regarded as
unscalable, and fixed his shield to its summit.[186]

With only a passing mention of swimming movements, in which the South
Sea Islanders excel, I turn at once to the dance, or what may be called
the artistic form of locomotion, confining myself, however, strictly
to those forms of it which have to do with pure movement-play. We
must, I think, assume that elementary ideas of dancing are present
in childhood, but the developed art belongs to adults. Besides the
walking, running, hopping, and skipping of which we have spoken, the
child makes use of every imaginable turn and attitude of the head,
trunk, and limbs, and a careful study of the various gymnastic motions
of all times and peoples could hardly reveal greater variety than is
found among these little ones. A certain rhythm, too, is noticeable in
their ordinary hopping and skipping, but the essential feature of the
dance, the regulation of bodily movement by measured music, must be
acquired. Preyer’s statement that his child in its twenty-fourth month
danced in time with music,[187] it seems to me, is an exception to the
rule, for among the large number of small children whom I have seen
dancing to music I can not recall a single one who kept time regularly
and with assurance without some teaching and example. I myself learned
the polka step, moving forward in a straight line, when I was a
ten-year-old boy, and I can remember feeling that it was something new
and peculiar, and that many of my comrades had great difficulty in
achieving it. I am told by a woman teacher that she attempted to teach
some little girls between five and eight years old to walk in time to
a march played on the piano, and that not a single one of them could
do it successfully on the first trial. Yet, on the other hand, it is
certain that children learn dancing very quickly through imitation,
especially among savages. It is amazing to see with what assurance
these little ones can participate in the complicated dances of their
elders. I shall return to this in speaking of imitative plays. The ring
dances of European children, which we shall shortly refer to under
social plays, are derived from mediæval and ancient dances of adults.

To find the sources of pleasure in dancing we must go back to the
common ground of satisfaction in obeying the impulse for motion, yet it
is not easy to assign a general explanation for the peculiar charm of
rhythmical movement. Spencer holds that passionate excitement naturally
manifests itself in rhythmic repetition; while Minor, on the contrary,
sees in it the expression of a prudential instinct to restrain the fury
of passionate feeling.[188] As Schiller, too, says:

  “Es ist des Wohllauts mächtige Gottheit,
   Die zum geselligen Tanz ordnet den tobenden Sprung,
   Die der Nemesis Gleich, an des Rhythmus goldenem Zügel
   Lenkt die brausende Lust und die verwilderte zähmt.”[189]

This view is quite plausible when applied to the social effect of
dancing, as Grosse has pointed out. Rhythm does subdue and order
“riotous lust,” and afford a harmless outlet to the general need for
some expression of it. Yet it would be a mistake to suppose that its
effect is always subduing, since, as a matter of fact, it often leads
to the wildest tumult. “Oh, thou bold gamester,” an old song runs,
“Make for us a long row, Hip, hip, hurrah! how he can go! Heart, lungs,
and liver he will overthrow.”[190]

Spencer’s remark makes it clear, from the other point of view, that
rhythm is a most suitable instrument for the expression of passionate
emotion, be it sad or joyful, but fails to explain why it is in itself
intensely exciting and pleasurably so. Grosse justly says of Spencer’s
view: “According to this theory the rhythm of dancing movements seems
to be only a sharply and strongly intensified form of locomotion. It
does not at all explain the pleasurable quality of rhythm, and if we
are unwilling to accept description in lieu of explanation we can only
regard this statement of fact as introductory to further investigation.”

Since Darwin’s theory, mentioned above, has as yet found little
substantial proof, the intoxicating effects of rhythmic motion must
find some other explanation here. Such movements are employed among
most peoples as a means of producing ecstatic conditions. Selenkas
gives a simple instance from Borneo: “The candidate [for the office of
doctor] was led before the Manangs as they squatted on the ground. The
Dekan, or spokesman, addressed him, and, rising, anointed his forehead
with oil and ordered him to go around the ring bearing a lance to
which was hung a medicine bag. The Dekan followed him at a trot, and
their speed was constantly increased as the accompanying song of the
others grew louder, until at last the novitiate, gasping and stumbling
as if hypnotized, broke down.”[191]

Here we have in elementary form the kind of intoxication which is so
fruitful in the production of religious ecstasy as it is indulged
in by many Christian sects, notably the American Puritans in their
rolling exercise. Numerous descriptions, however, show that some dance
movements may produce the same effect; indeed, some investigators have
been led to the belief that all dancing was originally religious,
but this view is as one-sided as is the attempt to refer dancing
exclusively to courtship. It is safer to regard it rather as an
exciting movement-play which possesses, in common with other narcotics,
the magic power of abstracting us from commonplace existence and
transporting us to a self-created world of dreams. When accompanied by
special influences, which relate to fighting or love, the agitation
produced is sufficient to stir the soul to its depths; but even without
these associations the intoxicating power of movement is apparent,
its simplest effects being a kind of anæsthesia, relaxation of all
tension, unconsciousness of fatigue, and the illusion of being free
from bodily weight, like a spirit floating about in space. As Schiller
says, “Befreit von der Schwere des Leibes.” This illusion, in itself
productive of great enjoyment, explains our pleasure in such dances
as we are considering. Much has been said in criticism of the modern
round dance. Apart from sexual considerations, to which, after all, I
do not attach much weight, present-day dancing, is said to lack the
social effect of mass plays and the stimulus of mimic dances. But if we
look upon it as a simple movement-play, and consider it more from the
standpoint of the dancer than of the spectator, that criticism loses
its force. The slower time of old-fashioned waltzing was certainly
more effective, and made a much more dignified spectacle, but from the
dancer’s point of view it was a distinct advance when the tempo was
quickened, for the present method plunges the dancing pair more surely
and quickly into the delicious tumult and madness of motion.[192]

Since it would take too long even to glance at all the gymnastic
dances of times gone by, it will serve our purpose to point out those
which were controlled by rhythm. The wild leaping of mediæval ring
dancing, where it is said that even the ladies jumped a distance of
six feet, and flew through the air like birds; the Spartan βίβασις,
kept up until exhaustion ensued; the forward, sideward, and backward
springing, and the measured tramping of the Australian corroborris;
the squatting and kneeling of the Nicobar Islanders; bowing the body,
swinging the arms, and nodding the head in the Dajak war dance; the
clapping and “Haxenschlagen” of Europeans—all these are typical
phenomena. Sometimes, in the midst of the general agitation of the
body, one part will remain rigid, as in this instance, described by
Man: “The dancer bent his back and threw his whole weight on one
leg, whose knee was crooked; the hands were stretched out before his
breast, one thumb held between the other thumb and forefinger while
the other fingers were strained forward. In this position the dancer
turned round, hopping forward on the supporting leg, and with every hop
stamping on the floor with the free foot.[193] Similar spreading out
of the fingers is mentioned in Selenkas’s picture of a Malay woman’s
dancing in Sumatra,[194] and I saw a comic European dancer hold his
arm out horizontally, but turned up from the elbow in a stiff manner,
which made the immobility of the upper part of his body appear in
ridiculous contrast to the lively motion of his legs. It would seem
that the inhibition of all involuntary muscular innervation produces
more absolute surrender to the prescribed movements of the dance....”

Before entering on the second half of this section we must devote a
few words to artificial methods of moving the body, which are divided
into two classes, those which are passive and those employed in active
locomotion. Naturally the first implement of this kind to be mentioned
is the cradle, of whose use among the Greeks we find no evidence,
but the Romans had them since the time of Plautus. The oldest German
record of them is in the Saxon manuscript at Heidelberg.[195] Of
course, the cradle’s rocking motion and its soothing effect should be
included in our enumeration of agreeable movements. The same may be
said of swinging, which we find practised by many birds and by the ape;
indeed, one case is recorded where a monkey himself attached a rope
to the projection of a roof and swung himself on it. The human race,
too, probably without exception, enjoy the sport. The hammock is in
some cases the prototype of the swing. Von den Steinen relates of the
Brazilian Bakairi that the men when at home spend most of their time
swinging in hammocks.[196] Parkinson describes a still more primitive
sort of swing. It seems that the Gilbert Islanders select a stout,
well-grown cocoanut tree and attach a cord to it, on the other end of
which is a club. A young woman climbs on the trunk, and taking her seat
there is swung by a youth, who, watching his chance when the motion is
well under way, catches hold with his hands and swings with her.[197]
The Greeks had several forms of the swing, among them the joggling
board, consisting of a flexible plank supported at its ends on fixed
beams, and the rope swing which with its comfortable seat supported
by four cords was used by adults. The Berlin Museum possesses a bowl
ornamented with the figure of a fawn running under a young girl in such
a swing and sending her high in the air. Athens celebrated a special
holiday called after the swing, αἰῶραι.[198]

Pleasure in riding and driving being partly due to the control we
have over the horses, such enjoyment is a combination of active and
passive. Even when we are only steering a boat the illusion is easily
supported that we are to some extent responsible for its progress.
Riding has other elements of attraction: besides the forward motion
and lofty seat there is some peculiar enjoyment of each particular
gait, the sensuously agreeable canter and the hard shake of the trot,
which, so far as it can be pleasurable, furnishes an instance of more
vehement enjoyment. Among artificial means of locomotion, those are
most agreeable which afford a swift and yet smooth gliding or rocking
motion. Souriau says in his Esthétique du Mouvement that the chief
attraction of movement-plays lies in the overcoming of gravitation. But
in that case, as I pointed out in my earlier work, downward movement
would have no charm, since gravitation is there triumphant. The child’s
first jump is, as we have seen, downward, and the downward rush of a
sled fills us with exquisite delight. Souriau’s other supposition, that
perhaps it is the exemption from friction, from the slight hindrances
and detentions which commonly attend our movements, which accounts for
our pleasure,[199] seems more probable. It is to be hoped that among
the sports of the future, flying either in balloons or with flying
machines will be included. Lilienthal, in recounting his experiences
in these arts, assures us that gliding through the air in a slanting
direction affords a new and delightful sensation.

A long list of inventions, for the most part recreative, meet the
demand for aids to active locomotion, notably appliances for rowing
and the bicycle. Among ancient implements of this character I mention
but two: stilts and snowshoes. Running on stilts is a favourite sport
of children, both on account of the difficulties it presents and
because of the elevation it affords. It was practised by both Greeks
and Romans, and Pollux mentions a Spartan dance which was performed on
stilts, probably the kind which is bound to the foot.[200] In speaking
of the ethnological distribution of this custom Andree says that
stilts are found all over the world. “In China they are very skilfully
used, and are not unknown to Africa among many African tribes. The
<DW64> boys left of the Congo bind stilts to their ankles to appear
taller. They are well known to the Malays and the inhabitants of the
South Sea Islands. In Tahiti a limb of a tree is used, having a smaller
branch projecting at about a metre from the ground, and in this fork
the foot is placed. The beautifully carved stilts of the Marquise
Islanders have attained a certain celebrity.”[201] The snowshoe, which
has recently become popular once more, seems to be as ancient as the
skate.[202]

“In skating,” says Weinhold, “the men and boys emulated the example of
Ullr and Skadi, who must have been very gods of snow and ice. But they
did not use steel skates like ours, but stood on long boards and held
a staff to steady them. Many Norsemen became famous for this kind of
running; such sagas of their skill have come down to us.... The Finns
were teachers of this art, which was carried to great perfection among
them. In their peace treaties any violator of them was menaced with
being called a traitor as far as ships sailed or shields glittered, as
the sun shone or snow fell, or the Finn could skate.”[203]


B. PLAYFUL MOVING OF FOREIGN BODIES

The primitive impulse to extend the sphere of their power as far
as possible leads men to the conquest and control of objects lying
around them. We can distinguish six different groups of movement-plays
resulting from this impulse: 1, Mere “hustling” things about; 2,
destructive or analytic play; 3, constructive or synthetic play; 4,
plays of endurance; 5, throwing plays; 6, catching plays.


1. _Hustling Things about_

By this rather inelegant but expressive term we designate a kind of
play which belongs to early childhood. From the grasping impulse the
tendency is developed in the second quarter to push and pull things
about in all directions, to shake and test them with hands and lips,
to seize and to push away. External objects are all playthings to the
child, says Perez, all objects of his investigating tendencies. “Il les
manie, les tourne, les abat, les redresse, les jette, les reprend, les
poursuit à quatre pattes, quand il ne peut les atteindre, les attire
à lui, les frappe, les uns contre, les autres, fouille dans leurs
profondeurs, les entasse et les sépare, enfin joue ou s’instruit par
eux de mille manières.”[204] Tearing paper gives particular pleasure.
The child “seizes it with avidity, crumples it up in his hand as if
pleased to find that there is power enough in the tiny fist to change
the form of anything, or he polishes the tables with it as zealously as
a Dutch woman.”[205]

“A child delights to play with things that can be put in motion, takes
pleasure in shaking a well-filled purse, turning the handle of a
coffee mill, pulling out drawers, dabbling in water, and for the same
reason older children are fond of handling smooth sand and clay.”[206]
Autenrieth gives a good instance of what we call joy in being a cause,
which is conspicuous in all play of this class. “All small boys regard
it as a treat to be allowed to paddle in street puddles, where they can
produce a great effect with little effort.”[207]

Much that might suitably be classed here has already been mentioned in
connection with seeing, hearing, and tactile plays, since the impulse
to set surrounding objects in motion is very closely connected with
the desire for sensuous excitement. To avoid repetition I will simply
refer to what has been said, and content myself here with adding one
more play to the list, as it has special claim to be classed with
them—namely, flying kites and similar play with captive insects.
Although a little child can have but a very imperfect conception of the
difference between animate and inanimate objects, yet living creatures
certainly have a paramount interest for him. Everything which flies or
crawls is watched and questioned with an almost passionate interest,
and the desire to follow a flying insect and to possess it leads the
child to tie a string to some part of its body. K. von den Steinen
saw two Bororó boys in Brazil, one of whom had a bee and the other a
butterfly fluttering on a cord.[208] In Greece such sport was called
μηλολόνδη or μηλολάνδη. Gold beetles were attached to cords three yards
long, with pieces of wood on the end, and unmercifully pulled about
in the air—veritable “hustling” indeed.[209] Children sometimes treat
little birds in the same way. “When a boy catches a sparrow,” says
Geiler von Kaisersberg, “he ties a thread one or two ells long to it,
letting the bird fly while he holds the cord in his hand. If it darts
off and tries to get away the boy jerks the string, and the poor little
creature falls down again.”[210]

Paper kites in the form of birds and animals afford similar
entertainment, and have a remarkably lifelike appearance as they
sail aloft. They impart to their owners a pleasant sense of a widely
extended sphere of control. This fine sport originated in China, where
it is the national game. Bastion saw Siamese children[211] playing with
kites, and the Berlin Museum has paper ones from the Soudan. They are
in use also in the South Sea Islands as far down as New Zealand.

In concluding, I remark it was this faculty of busying one’s self with
all sorts of objects in this kind of play which first suggested to me
the term experimentation which I have found useful in a much wider
sense.


2. _Destructive (Analytic) Movement-Play_

The simplest and earliest handling of external objects exhibits
the fundamental principle which differentiates the forms of our
conscious activity, showing them to be such as make for division or
for concentration. Play which separates or analyzes easily acquires
a special character which allies it with the fighting instincts and
concerts it into wild destructiveness. The veriest infant shows its
beginnings in his desire to tear paper, pull the heads off of flowers,
rummage in boxes, and the like; and as the child grows older he
displays more clearly this analytic impulse—boys as a rule more than
girls, be it noted. They are constantly taking their toys to pieces,
dissecting tools, weapons, clocks, toys, etc.; and since the child,
like the savage, has not our clear perception of the difference between
what is living and the lifeless, he will pull to pieces a beetle, a
fly, or a bird with the same serenity which accompanies his demolition
of a flower. Perez tells this of a child hardly ten months old. “His
nurse put him on the grass and gave him a turtle to play with, and as
he seemed to be absorbed in watching it, left him for a moment. When
she came back one of the creature’s legs was torn half off, and the
zealous investigator was applying his powers to another.”[212] As far
back as Fischart’s time this was known to be different from actual
cruelty, and Keller in his Romeo und Julia auf dem Dorfe gives us a
classic instance. The boy and girl were playing together with a doll
which he suddenly jerked away from the little girl and mischievously
tossed up in the air. The doll came to grief in his hands, for a
little hole appeared in one of her knees and some bran was escaping.
The little girl did not seem to notice the hole, so the boy kept quite
still busily making it larger with his finger and increasing the flow
of bran. His silence at last aroused her suspicion, and she came closer
and beheld his wickedness with horror. “Just look at that!” he cried,
holding the leg so that some bran fell in her face; and when she tried
to reach the doll, he leaped away, and would not stop until the whole
leg hung limp and empty as a husk. Then follows a description of how
the offended child was finally won over to join the boy in the work of
destruction, helping to bore hole after hole in the body of the martyr.
Other examples of the workings of the destructive impulse will be
adduced under fighting plays.


3. _Constructive (Synthetic) Movement-Play_

Constructive play bears about the same relation to imitation that
analytic play bears to the fighting instinct. Circumstances under
which this relation can not be traced are comparatively rare and very
primitive. However, it is important to bear in mind that back of the
μίμησις, in which Aristotle finds the essence of artistic effort, and
back of the overflow of dammed-up energies which the new psychology
emphasizes, there is still something primeval. Ribot calls it “Le
besoin de créer,” or a demand for some external result of our
instinctive movements, which is, after all, but a specialized form
of joy in being a cause.[213] Pleasure in the work of our own hands,
which takes a negative form in destructive sport, here becomes positive
creation, the instinct for building, for uniting scattered elements
into a new whole. Its simplest form is found in the child’s moulding
new forms from some suitable material, their chief charm being their
newness. Moist sand is heaped up or dug away, snow tunnelled through
or rolled into a great ball, sticks of wood piled, water collected in
a pond, etc. Such things are always going on where there are children.
“I have a boy in mind,” says Michelet, “hardly eighteen months old, who
claps his hands joyously when he succeeds in laying one little stick
upon another. He admires his work, and, like a small creator, seems to
say: ‘See that? It is very good.’”[214] Marie G—— affords the following
pretty instance: One day, when she was about three, she sat on the
floor in great distress, with tears pouring down her cheeks. Soon she
noticed that the drops rolled down like silver balls on her woollen
dress, and at once began to collect the transparent pearls in a fold,
and so accumulated as she sobbed a little “heap of woe” in her lap.

We readily see how imitation brings about great variety in the
manifestations of the constructive tendency. The fun is not at its
height until the sand is converted into mountains, tunnels, moats,
and walls, the snow into the figure of a man, the mud to a similitude
of dolls, the woodpile to buildings, water to lakes, streams to
waterfalls, etc. Arranging the same or similar objects in rows is
a more advanced and yet primitive kind of constructiveness. Preyer
reports such arrangement of shells, pebbles, and buttons in the
twenty-first month.[215] Where this is not imitation of elders it may
be regarded as the forerunner of that preference for regular succession
which is so prominent in decoration.

Closely connected with all this is the disposition to make collections.
The disposition to appropriate and cling to whatever attracts the
attention (James[216] makes it a special instinct, which he calls
appropriation or acquisitiveness) is a feature of constructive
activity. Animals as well as children try to accumulate whatever
pleases them. Viscachas, woodrats, various members of the crow family,
and many other birds, have the habit of hoarding especially bright
objects. The inclination first shows itself in children in their
collecting in one place various things of only ordinary interest, as
in the pockets of a small boy,[217] or a girl’s bureau drawers; and
adults too often retain this habit. G. Keller, whose _metier_ for the
grotesque is well known,[218] gives exaggerated instances of the mania
for collecting, as in the case of the lacquered cabinet belonging to
Züs Bünzlin, one of his heroines. It contained a gilded and painted
Easter egg, a half dozen silver teaspoons, the Lord’s Prayer printed in
gold on a red transparent substance which she said was human skin, a
cherry stone on which a crucifix was carved, a broken ivory box lined
with red silk and containing a small mirror and a thimble, another
cherry stone inside of which a miniature game of skittles was going
on, a nut with a Madonna in it under glass and a silver heart inside,
and so on. But the passion for collecting reaches its height only
when some particular kind of thing forms its object. It is natural
to us all to get together as many things as we can of a kind which
especially attracts us. When the four-year-old girl who never tires
of picking flowers ties those she had plucked into a bouquet to
carry home, we have the beginning of discriminating collection; when
she searches for and hoards shells or  pebbles of unusually
perfect shape, she is really within the charmed circle. Munkacsy tells
us of his childhood: “Strange as it may seem, my chief enjoyment was
in gathering stones on the street, and many a box on the ear has the
habit earned for me. I stuffed my pockets so full that the integrity
of my trousers was seriously threatened; and besides, my father had
frequently forbidden it.”[219] Boys will collect anything, says James,
which they see other boys collect, “from pieces of chalk and peach
pits up to books and photographs.”[220] Of the hundred students whom
he questioned, only four or five had never collected anything. The
words “which they see other boys collect” intimate that imitation
and rivalry have much to do with this impulse. Any boy is admired
and envied who has very rare butterflies, beetles, eggs, stamps,
etc., or a large number of them; as indeed is any man, for the same
principle applies to adults. There are other manifestations, too, of
the combative emulative spirit which is active in almost all play. The
search for more specimens often leads to contests which place even
those who are otherwise honourable in an attitude of open hostility,
and admits the practice of deceit, treachery, and robbery. Kleptomania
is frequently nothing else than an overwhelming and imperative impulse
for collecting. Yet the fact that adults collect things which have
no intrinsic value shows that imitation and the combative spirit are
here only incidental, in spite of their seeming weight. In impulsive
insanity the patient carefully saves the refuse from his own body,
hair that has been cut off, finger nails, bits of skin, and even more
unpleasant things. This must have its origin in a deep-rooted demand
for synthetic activity.


4. _Playful Exercise of Endurance_

The play which we have been considering gains, as other kinds do, a
further charm when difficulties are associated with it, and it becomes
more like fighting play. When Strümpell’s little daughter learned to
grasp easily she was no longer satisfied with holding ordinary things,
and took to picking up objects so small as to be difficult to get hold
of.[221] When she was two and a half years old she enjoyed opening the
door of a little clock, and never tired of fitting the small snap into
its slot; she could also thread the finest needle. Animals, too, seem
to enjoy overcoming difficulties. Parrots like to take out screws, and
Miss Romanes says that her monkey tried with indefatigable perseverance
to put back the handle on a hearth brush which he had taken apart, and
turned away from it at once as soon as he succeeded.[222] There are all
sorts of puzzles which indulge this fancy, such as untying apparently
fast knots with a single jerk, disentangling intertwined rings, taking
balls or rings off an endless cord, taking two corks, held between the
thumb and forefinger of one hand, with the thumb and forefinger of
the other without leaving the hands joined, and many such things. The
Greek χαλκισμός is explained for the first time by Becker in the fifth
scene of his Charikles: “It was an attempt to bring a coin spinning on
its edge to a standstill by touching it from above with the finger.”
Rochholz thus describes the Swiss “Fadmen”: “A boy sitting in a basket
which is swung to and fro in the air gets a prize if he succeeds in
threading a needle during the process.... In Aargau the contestants
sit on a stout bottle with their feet crossed.”[223] Strutt gives
two English examples from the fourteenth century. A youth standing
on a light flexible pole stretched over water, attempted to put
out one candle with another.[224] The familiar Chinese game which
we call jackstraws was mentioned by Amaranthus in 1715.[225] The
Berlin Museum has many such puzzles from remote parts of the world.
O. Finsch mentions two (probably imported) much used in India: the
Chut-jueh-mudra, in which a cube is put together from tiny bits, and
the “five-horse game,” where two wooden rings strung on a cord are to
be removed without loosening the knot, and other such sports as are
common among ourselves.[226] The difficult task of forming various
figures with a string held stretched between the two hands (cat’s
cradle) affords entertainment for hours at a time to the Eskimos in
Baffin Land. They call the game _ajarorpoq_.[227] It is found also in
Australia, Borneo, New Guinea, New Zealand, and Java, where, Schmetz
says, the children play it too. Finally, I may add that von Hartmann
classes much of the ladies’ fancy work with such play, inasmuch as it
does not possess artistic value, and its intrinsic worth is out of all
proportion to the effort expended.[228]


5. _Throwing Plays_

Whereas the forms of movement-play which we have been considering are
more or less connected, throwing is regarded by many as a special
instinct. Preyer says that it is “undoubtedly instinctive.” When
monkeys get excited they throw anything they can get hold of; and
a five-year-old idiot whose brain structure was much like that of
a monkey did the same thing when he was teased.[229] In any case,
throwing is certainly an interesting phenomenon, which, if monkeys
did not indulge in it, we should claim as a prerogative of the human
race. At first it was defensive, the missile serving at a distance as a
substitute for one of the bodily members, and consequently first gave
the idea of a machine, if we take the word μηχανή in its more general
sense. The next step, and one which monkeys can not attain, is the
fashioning of the projectile into a work of art.

Accidental dropping of objects seems to introduce the idea of throwing
to the infant mind, and what we have called visual play furthers its
development, since the child from watching the falling object comes
to repeat the process intentionally, and so learns to throw. The
following report of Preyer’s traces this progression: “Thirtieth week:
Frequent dropping, but still not noticed. Thirty-fourth week: The
child looks after the object dropped, but indifferently. Forty-seventh
week: The child throws down anything that is given him after playing
with it a little, and often looks after it. On one occasion he threw
a book on the floor eight times in succession, and his pursed-up lips
indicated serious determination.”[230] Further developments were
hampered by the interference of his parents. Sigismund, too, gives
valuable notes, and adds some luminous remarks on the biological and
psychological significance of such play. “All children like to throw,”
he says, “and are often blamed for it very unjustly. We should remember
that although some window panes may be endangered by such play, it
lays the foundation for man’s supremacy over the other animals, and
that by means of it muscles are gradually developed and strengthened.
We should rejoice, then, with the children when a stone goes a long
way or bounds into the water with a splash. When children get out of
doors the desire to throw something takes possession of them; even the
yearling picks up pebbles and delights to roll them. The older boys
stand on the coping or carriage block, and are engrossed in testing
the force and directness of their aim. They are trying the power of
will over matter.”[231] This is the correct designation of the peculiar
satisfaction derived from throwing. It is that which comes from sending
the object from us and, as it were, projecting our individuality into
a wider sphere of action. Souriau says: “We take a special interest in
the extension of motion originated by ourselves. It becomes a part of
us. The force which we behold at work outside of us is our own.”[232]

If we include rolling or sliding in our definition of throwing, we
are confronted by a bewildering variety of games;[233] but since the
ends of a general psychology of play would not be furthered by an
enumeration of these, we will try to single out such as illustrate
the varied forms of satisfaction which throwing in general affords.
First of all let us keep in mind our principle, that inventive play
presupposes a complication of instinctive tendencies through the
satisfaction of which enjoyment is greatly enhanced. Usually it is
impulses for fighting and imitation which ally themselves with that
toward movement and render the play more varied and pleasurable.
There are, indeed, very few throwing plays that have not culminated
in contests of one kind or another, and many are at the same time
imitative, though whether they were originated by children or adults it
is difficult or even impossible to say. Our study of primitive acoustic
instruments showed that the child is sometimes actively inventive.
Trying, then, to keep clear as much as possible of fighting and
imitative play, we distinguish several kinds of throwing plays which
we may briefly characterize as follows: (_a_) Simple throwing, upward,
downward, or horizontally; (_b_) propulsion by means of a blow (_c_)
rolling, spinning, shoving, and skipping; (_d_) throwing at a target.


(_a_) Simple Throwing

Downward throwing is, as already said, the easiest and most natural
movement of the kind to a child, from the fact that he learns it by
letting things fall. It appeals at the same time to his sight, and
quite as much perhaps to his hearing. To send toys, spoons, trays, and
books rattling, crashing, and slamming on the floor is a pastime which
children will keep up as long as they dare, as the young Goethe tossed
the dishes and pots out of the window into the street and enjoyed the
clatter. A friend of mine was one day holding his two-year-old nephew
in his arms near an open window, and gave the child a silver cigarette
case to play with. He hurled it to the street below, to the alarm of
passers-by, and called out a loving farewell after it. Older children
enjoy throwing something down from a bridge or tower, and sometimes
in default of other ammunition make use of Nature’s supply of saliva,
as many of us perhaps remember from having our ears boxed for such
indulgence. The fascination of sending stones over a precipice appeals
to adults as well. Throwing forward is learned almost as early as the
other; as soon as he can toddle every child tries to throw pebbles
across a brook or into a neighbour’s yard, the larger the shot the
greater his satisfaction. Most of the toys, borrowed from long-disused
practices of adults, which cater to this impulse belong under another
head—Throwing at a target.

Among the earliest of these were the catapult, the ancient discus,
something like the English quoit, and the sling. We often find grown
men testing their strength and skill in throwing. Once when I was on
the banks of the Lünersee a young traveller used to try to throw stones
into the lake, which appeared to be but a few paces from the house but
was in reality much farther. Following his example, other tourists
would join in the game in spite of their fatigue, though generally
with but little success. At Swiss festivals the herdsmen keep up an
ancient Aelplerspiel, which consists in throwing heavy stones as far as
possible.[234]

That wonderful passage in the Odyssey where the godlike sufferer threw
the discus, the stone hummed loudly as the spectators bent to the
earth under the force of the blow, is a classic example of instinctive
æsthetic appreciation, and serves as a match for Gretchen’s remark,
“Then quivered at every throat the blade which I felt at mine.” Upward
throwing is acquired somewhat later, perhaps, because children easily
lose sight of the missile which goes far above them. Their first
efforts are usually to toss a ball a very little way up, but boys soon
acquire the uncomfortable but effective method of bending backward
before making the throwing motion. Homer refers to this too: “Behold!
He has hurled it [the ball] aloft to the shadowy clouds, bending
backward.” As a little fellow I often tried to throw over tall trees,
and my grandfather used to tell me how, when he was a young painter in
Rome, he used to vie with the street urchins in throwing stones over
the Arch of Titus. A favourite game of this kind is played by placing
a ball or pebble in a sling which is whirled so rapidly that it hums.
In Heidelberg, where many grounds are planted with plane trees, autumn
invites the children to a game with the long fruits which hang by
threads from their branches, a natural toy which the little ones are
quick to take advantage of. Among toys originating in imitation the bow
is sometimes used for sending arrows aloft for the simple pleasure of
watching their upward flight, though, of course, its chief use is for
aiming at a target.


(_b_) Throwing with the Help of a Stroke or Blow

Here we must consider the transference of motion to the missile by
means of a sudden blow, a method closely allied to simple throwing,
though in some of its modifications, as, for instance, when the radius
of the bodily movements is artificially lengthened and the communicated
force correspondingly increased, introducing a large circle of new
plays in most of which the arms are the only bodily organs employed.
I notice first the various games of skill played with rubber balls,
principally by girls. The descending ball is met and again impelled
upward by the open palm, the closed fist, or even one stiffened
outstretched finger. There are similar games requiring more powerful
strokes and better suited to masculine taste. Thus the Romans had two
kinds of balls, one very large, the follis, and the other smaller, the
folliculus, which were struck, the former with the forearm protected
with bandages or a wooden ring, and the latter with the fist.[235] The
first is still much liked in Italy under the name of giuoco del ballon
grosso, the player sheathing his arm in a sort of muff; the other game
is preserved in the English handball.[236] For an ethnological example
we may turn to the Gilbert Islands; in their game for men, “Oreanne,”
they use a cocoanut shell bound with cords, tossing it lightly into the
air and propelling it by a blow from the hand.[237] And we may also
cite the game carried to perfection in China, and called by the Greeks
κωρυκοβολία, in which a huge suspended ball is kept in motion by blows
from a number of players. A pretty contrast to this is found in the
Samoan game, where an orange instead of a ball is hung in the middle of
a room, about sixty centimetres from the floor. The players sit in a
circle around it, each being provided with a small pointed stick with
which in his turn he gives the orange a blow as it circles past.[238]

The human leg, with its fine muscular development and its long radius,
is a favourite and variously used propelling implement. Kicking is
a primitive method of fight which children make early use of, and
the famous incident in the French Council Chamber is sufficient to
establish its adaptability to the requirements of the highest culture.
The game of football proclaims its triumph as an instrument for
play, where, too, the value of movement-play is obvious. This game,
which Anglo-Saxons are wont to regard as their peculiar property,
is claimed by Mosso to have originated in Italy in the time of the
Renaissance, when physical exercise was a fad with high and low. It
is true that such a game was described in great detail in 1555 by
Scaino in his celebrated Trattato della Palla under the name of giuoco
del calcio, and the writer insists that shoes with soles of buffalo
hide are indispensable for the players. While our game of football
is a hotly fought contest, Forbes describes a form of it popular in
Sumatra which is nothing more than a skilful movement-play. During the
dance festivals, which last for several days, “the young people amuse
themselves on the village green with a ball game called Simpak, in
which they vie with one another in the display of measured and elegant
movements in the presence of the girls and the public generally. About
twenty youths arrange themselves in a circle and keep a large hollow
ball skilfully wrapped with ratan in the air by hitting it as it
descends with the side of the foot; they are not allowed to touch it
with anything else. In delivering the blow the leg is thrown almost
perpendicularly into the air, while the body assumes a horizontal
position, and the beauty of the movement consists in the fine swing
which restores the body to an upright position without upsetting the
player.”[239]

An innumerable variety of games depend on the principle of increasing
the arm radius, including many of the favourite amusements of young and
old. Golf,[240] cricket, tennis, and croquet may be mentioned as types.
Buildings[241] put up especially to play in, witness how much such
exercise—which, by the way, develops the body much more systematically
than any regular gymnastics can—was formerly valued in Germany. In
these buildings games using rackets and bats were most common; one,
which was hardly more than mere knocking the ball back and forth was
very popular and was called “Pelotieren.”[242]

The citation of primitive examples is more to our purpose, and I select
first two games in which bits of wood are employed in lieu of balls.
One in the Holstein Klink- or Klischspiel. A chip of a peculiar shape
is balanced on the end of a stake driven diagonally into the ground and
then hit from below with a sort of club. The other is simpler still: it
is called Porscheck in the game books.[243] A cigar-shaped bit of wood
is so placed that one end is free, and a blow on this free end sends it
whirling in the air. In Heidelberg, where this game is much cultivated,
and is dignified by frequent contests, the man about to strike asks
“Tenez?” whereupon his antagonist answers “Oui,” neither party having
the slightest suspicion that they are speaking French—a proof of the
power of tradition.[244] Similar games are played by children, one
being accompanied by singing as the piece of wood or arrow is shot into
the air, and Rochholz suspects that this is a survival of a religious
ceremony symbolic of the flight of winter before the fiery darts of
spring. If so, it is one of many games which originated in this way.
But how did the religious custom arise? Does not tracing its origin
lead us in a circle back to playful experimentation, as we found to be
in all probability the case with the discovery and application of some
musical instruments? It is most likely.


(_c_) Rolling, Spinning, Shoving, and Skipping Foreign Bodies

In this division I group together such plays as lend a special
character to the movement of the object, including them all, however,
in the general class of throwing play, since it would unnecessarily
complicate matters to make a separate class of them. In all plays with
rolling balls, such as tenpins and billiards, pleasure in motion as
such forms the undercurrent of the satisfaction afforded, even when
they develop into important contests. The thundering roll and crash of
the heavy wooden ball, and the noiseless, lightning-quick motion of
the elastic ivory one, each has its charm. In a billiard room it is
amusing to note how irresistible is the impulse to most players to take
the balls from their pockets and roll them on the green surface after
the game is over. Primitive forms of such games no doubt originated in
experimentation with the round or disc-shaped stones found in every
river or brook bed. Many fruits, too, are used in the same way—the
horse chestnut, for example, being a favourite plaything wherever
it grows. Yet the manufacture of artificial balls is no doubt very
ancient, but inquiry into that must not detain us here. After the first
years of life, when rolling in itself is an object, such balls are used
in relation to some goal, perhaps partly because they are constantly
getting lost when knocked aimlessly about, and the children do not wish
to risk their precious possessions.

Other rolling toys, such as wheels and hoops, whose motion is kept
up by means of continuous striking, offer a very different kind of
amusement. The violent running, combining as it does something of the
zest of the chase with the pleasure of overcoming a difficulty, forms
a delightful compound with the enjoyment of the rolling as such. The
Greeks called the hoop τροχός or κρίκος. They were rather large, and
made of metal studded with tinkling bells and propelled by a metal
rod. Ganymede is often represented with such a hoop. The Romans had
an extraordinary fondness for this sport, and Ovid, who refers to a
teacher of the art of hoop rolling, says in one of his enumerations of
the spring games:

  “Usus equi nunc est, levibus nunc luditur armis,
   Nunc pila, nunc celeri volvitur orbe trochus.”

Fouquières cites a passage from Martial about youths rolling hoops on
frozen streams. Another play with wheels consists of whirling a small
one on a string passed through its axis, a practice both ancient and
modern; and, too, there is the beautiful sport of rolling blazing
wheels downhill at night, as is the custom with many mountaineers.
Here, of course, the element of pursuit is wanting.

Single discs, such as coins, are used for the spinning of which we
have already spoken. Sometimes it was spun horizontally on a peg fixed
at its axis, forming the toy called by the Greeks στρόβιλος, and by
the Romans turben. But much more important is the conical top, whose
dance can be indefinitely prolonged by skilful whipping. There are
few plays which foster the illusion of our having a living thing at
our pleasure as effectually as this does. H. Wagner tells of a small
boy who liked to keep several tops spinning together. “Each had its
name, and he talked to them all. The one which spun longest was his
favourite, and he tested them by setting them all in violent motion
and leaving them while he ran down in the yard. When he came back he
rejoiced over those that were still spinning.”[245] This is a good deal
like a little girl’s behaviour to her dolls, though the boy’s relation
to his toys is rather that of a teacher than parent. This difference
comes out strongly when the children play with a puppy: the girl wants
to wash and pet it, while the boy will teach it tricks. The widespread
popularity of the top is an indication of its importance, and its
variety of names among the ancients witnesses to its high favour with
them (βέμβηξ, βέβιξ, ῥόμβος, στρόμβος, etc.). It was found in the third
city in the Trojan excavations. Boys threw their tops in the courts
and streets by a leather string, and accompanied with a monotonous cry
τὴν κατὰ σαυτὸν ἔλα, or στρέφου, μὴ ἴστασαι.[246] Tibullus likens
his lovesick heart to a top “which a restless child spins on smooth
ground with a jerk of the cord.”[247] Its German names are even more
numerous than are the antique (Ganzknopf, Topf, Topsch, Triesel,
Drudelmadam, Habergais, Krüselding, Schnurrprusel, etc.). In early
writings a top humming on ice was used as a figure of rapid motion,
and such comparisons are quite frequent with old German poets. This
one, which incidentally proves that top cords were used at the time, is
particularly striking:

  “Ez gewan ine topfe
   Vor geiseln solhen umbeswanc,
   Als sî mich âne minen danc
   Mit slegen umb und umle treip.”[248]

In the Indian archipelago many stone[249] as well as wooden tops are
used. Ten Kate gives illustrations of massive yellow painted wooden
ones from there. The conical shape is about the same as with our own
tops, but it lacks the horizontal grooves.[250] We have Andrée’s
authority for the statement that children in Egypt, China, Siam, and
Burmah are fond of spinning tops,[251] some Indians having top cords
with three thongs.[252]

Skipping stones on ice, as all boys love to do, is dignified in Bavaria
and Austria into a game called “Eisschiessen,” in which heavy and
carefully polished stone discs with a handle on top are slid over the
frozen surface. Gutsmuths says:[253] “This game is played zealously in
town and village, and the sturdy sportsmen allow no stress of weather,
no untoward circumstance, to interfere with this their winter’s fun.
Even the boys have their ice sticks to beguile the way to school. High
and low take part in the healthful sport; and as in the Tyrol the
village pastor must not fail in archery, so here he enters the lists
as a matador of the icy course.” The Scotch use for the same purpose
semispherical curling stones from twenty to thirty kilogrammes in
weight, and provided with an iron or wooden handle.[254]

Skipping and bouncing, which again call forth the impression of life
depending on our own exertions, are prominent in the two very popular
and primitive games in which the ball and disc show us another side
of their Protean adaptability. One consists of throwing the ball to
the floor with such force that it rebounds, and meeting it with a blow
as it comes up so that it is struck back again, and the process is
repeated indefinitely. Swiss girls sing a little verse in time with the
strokes:

  “Bälleli ufe, Bällile abe
   Gump mir nit in nasse Grabe!
   Gump mir an en trockne Fleck,
   Gump mir nit in nasse Dreck,” etc.[255]

Niebuhr saw the children on the Euphrates playing the same game.
The other amusement of this kind is skipping stones on water; the
Greeks called it ἐποστρακισμός. Minucius Felix describes it
graphically and with sympathetic insight: “Is lusus est: testam teretem
jactatione fluctuum levigatam, legere de litore; eam testam plano situ
digitis, comprehensam, inclinem ipsum atque humilem, quantum potest,
super undas inrotare; ut illud jaculum vel dorsum maris raderet; vel
enataret, dum leni impetu labitur; vel summis fluctibus tonsis emicaret
dum assiduo saltu sublevatur. Is se in pueris victorem ferebat, cujus
testula et procurreret longius et frequentibus exsiliret.”[256] As
many as fifty German names for this sport might be enumerated, some of
them showing pretty fancies and æsthetic personification. Fischart,
of course, makes his Gargantua a master in this art too. He says in
his quaint German, “Gargantua warff breyde Kiesestein am Gastaden
schlimms aufs Wasser, dass es ob dem Wasser weiss nicht wie viel Sprung
thaten.”[257]


(_d_) Throwing at a Mark

If throwing is, as many believe, an inherited impulse at bottom, then
it must belong with the fighting instincts, since it gives a man the
power to slay his enemy or his prey without actual contact with either.
However that may be, throwing at a mark must have originated in such
hostile use of the ability to throw at all, and it is significant
that by far the most numerous and popular games of the kind require a
target, and belong essentially to the male. Thus it may be questioned
whether the whole subject would not better be treated in connection
with fighting play; but it seems to me that consciousness of the fact
that the target is a symbol of an opponent or of prey hardly forms
any considerable element in the satisfaction derived from the sport,
and for that reason I deem it fitting to notice it briefly in this
connection. Moreover, its biological significance is more extensive
than is that of mere belligerence, for it promotes to a higher degree
than almost any other play the concentration of attention and the
capacity of the organism for swift and sure reaction.

It is easy to see how, with children, throwing at a mark naturally
follows simple forward throwing. Perhaps we get a hint of how this
comes about from their intentional throwing of objects to the floor
with a view to producing a noise, for the floor is then in some sense a
goal, though there is as yet no specialization. From my own observation
I should say that the first suggestion of the possibility of striking
intentionally often arises from the pretence of some older person
that he is badly hurt by the falling or rolling object, whereupon the
heartless little creature at once tries to repeat the attack, this
time with malice aforethought. Further development of this capacity is
rather hindered than furthered by the child’s learning to run about;
indeed, it is commonly the sixth year or later before he begins to be
interested in such games, a manifold variety of which is handed down by
tradition.

In this case, too, I can but touch upon a few principal groups, and
illustrate them with examples chosen from the wealth of material at
hand. In many games the object is to hit a comrade with a ball. In
one very popular at Heidelberg all the boys’ caps are placed in a
straight row on the ground, and the chosen king throws his ball on one
of them, whereupon its owner must instantly seize the ball and hurl it
after his fleeing comrades. This comes very near to fighting play, as
does another game, which takes the form of pelting some object set or
hung up for the purpose, or something in motion.[258] Many games are
founded on this principle, from throwing stones at a flowerpot or fruit
hanging on a tree up to tenpins, which has been introduced of late into
Egypt, and shooting at a target with blowpipe, lance, bow, crossbow,
or rifle. An early developed, though, it is true, not purely playful,
form of this sport is set forth in a beautiful Greek epigram called
the Plaint of the Fruit Tree, which may be thus paraphrased: “Truly
they have planted me here by the roadside as an unhappy target for all
the playful boys to throw stones at! And how the destroying shower has
rained down and torn my blooming crown and broken all my branches!
The tree can be of no more use to you with all its harvest ruined.
Alas! here have I, most miserable one, borne all this fruit to my own
undoing.”[259]

A modification of such plays consists in throwing one missile after
another of the same kind, as a ball after a ball, a quoit after a
quoit, etc. Thus Burmese children play Tschapieh-Kasah by throwing flat
seeds on one another,[260] and many of our own games are essentially
the same, especially those played with marbles. These little toys are
very generally used, and are quite ancient. Bastian saw them in Burmah
and Siam, where the game is called Leu Thoi-Kong.[261] It is popular
all through the Orient, and extends to Africa. In old German burial
urns, “with the bones of children are found polished round stones, such
as modern children play with.”[262] The Romans called marbles ocellata.
They are frequently mentioned, too, in old German literature,[263] one
instance being of pedagogical interest. In the sixteenth century the
sumptuary laws of Zurich included one forbidding marbles among other
plays, under penalty of the “Gätterei.” And what was this punishment?
The youthful criminal was placed in a revolving wooden machine and
whirled until the crisis of dizziness and nausea was reached![264]

Very common, too, are the games in which small discs are thrown one
after another. The Greek στρεπτίνδα was an attempt to propel a
quoit or coin lying on the floor by means of another thrown toward it.
Forbes describes a peculiar form of the game as practised in Sumatra:
“All day long the boys under my window amused themselves with a game
called Lepar, which interested me very much.... Each player had a sort
of quoit made of cocoanut shell, which he threw from a special stand
and tried to hit one or more (according to the number of players) of
the other quoits lying at a distance of forty or fifty feet.... The
manner of propelling the missiles was remarkable. The player turned
his back to the goal, laid his quoit flat on the ground, seized it
firmly between his heels, and with a rotary motion of his legs shot it
forward so that its rim described a cycloidal curve. It was amazing
to see with what certainty the best players reckoned on the amount of
force necessary for perfecting such a curve as would pass in among the
quoits and hit the ones aimed at.”[265]

In the Greek game κυνδαλισμός the object was to dig up with one pointed
stick another which was fixed in the ground, and to do it in such a
manner that the first stick was left standing up where the other had
been. Fischart and Rabelais mention this game.

Still another kind of play belonging to this class (and at this point
all connection with fighting play is severed) consists in rolling or
throwing the projectile into or through a hole. The familiar game of
marbles with holes was known to Greek children, and was called τρόπα.
The same principle, too, is employed in the old-fashioned billiards
in those games requiring a ring into which the ball is rolled. For
other games the ring is made on the ground, as in this described by
Nordenskiöld: “Several stand in a circle and take turns at throwing a
short tapering iron rod, the object being to cause the iron to fall on
its sharp end within the circle and stand upright.”[266] In croquet
the balls must roll through wickets. Throwing balls through the open
mouth of a figure carved in wood was a mediæval diversion, and Eneas
Silvius wrote in 1438 that the youths of Basel hung an iron ring on
their playground and amused themselves with batting balls through
it.[267] In Genf, little metal balls were tossed through holes bored in
the head of a cask.[268] We have a classic description of such a game
in Storm’s Schimmel-reiter, where Hauke Haien wins the victory under
the eyes of his beloved: “Then it flew like lightning to Hauke’s arms.
He stooped a little, turning the ball two or three times in his hand,
and as he took aim deathlike silence reigned. All eyes followed the
flying ball as it hummed along, cutting the air. Suddenly, far away,
the silvery wings of a seagull gleamed, and her thrilling cry sounded
from the dikes, but in the same instant the ball crashed into the
cask, and all the people cried out ‘Hurrah for Hauke!’ while the word
ran through the crowd, ‘Hauke Haien has won the game.’ But he, as they
all crowded toward him, reached out for but one hand. She cried, ‘What
is the matter, Hauke? The ball is in the cask!’ He only nodded, and did
not stir from the spot. It was not till he felt the little hand fast
clasped in his own that he spoke. ‘You must be right,’ he said, ‘I do
believe I have won.’” Finally, I will recall Ulysses’s marvellous feat
in the presence of the drunken suitors, when on his return home he sent
an arrow through the ears of twelve oxen standing in a row.

In our last division of this class of games the projectile must cling
to the target. Everybody has tried to throw his cap on his head or
a peg, and jugglers and clowns give us numberless examples of feats
belonging here. One game is played with rings hung on a stick, or
caught with a hook, or thrown on an upright stake. At fairs the lucky
player gets a prize for tossing rings on knives. Play of this kind has
been used by a brilliant American journal to point a satire on American
bidding for European titles. The ambitious damsels stand in front of
a brightly lighted booth, in which numerous manikins of repulsive
appearance, with their armorial bearings suspended round their necks,
are ranged on exhibition, and attempt to throw engagement rings over
the heads of these figures.


6. _Catching_

Catching and holding moving objects is the direct opposite of throwing,
and the two are best understood by being contrasted. Catching, too, is
the complement of throwing; the object which has been set in motion,
animated, as it were, by human power, comes to our hand to get new
life. In no way can our supremacy over matter find more satisfactory
expression. It is with difficulty that children learn to catch, for the
direction of their necessary motions by means of sight requires so much
time that the moving object passes to another place before the hand is
ready to seize it. The child usually practises catching a ball rolling
on the floor first, then holds up its dress or apron or two hands
placed together to form a cup into which the ball thrown skilfully
through the air will drop. Many such attempts are required before the
art is acquired of controlling the muscular innervation to meet the
still distant moving object.

While there are various objects employed in such play—as, for instance,
in the Greek πενταλιθίζειν there were five pebbles, bits of china,
or what we call jack-stones, thrown up with one hand and caught on
its back, and in the beautiful game of magic rings, and trials of
skill with sticks, knives, watches, etc.[269]—still the ball is the
most perfect and suitable plaything, partly because it is easy to
grasp from any direction and partly on account of its lightness and
elasticity. It is equally well adapted to solitary or social play.
When alone, the player throws it with a view to its return to the
starting point, whether its course be perpendicular or a rebound. A
game of skill popular with girls consists in throwing the ball, and
before it has time to descend taking another ball from a table, then
catching the first one with the same hand.[270] In bilboquet, which was
played by Henry III of France, and is known to many primitive peoples,
as, for instance the Eskimos, the ball is caught in a cup, to which
it is attached by a string. The games are much more varied when two
or more play together at throwing and catching, though in that case
experimentation is usually transformed into a contest. The kadokadoka
of the Gilbert Islanders illustrates a simple and universally known
form. Women play it by standing in two opposing lines and throw the
ball, which must never be allowed to drop, back and forth.[271] In
the Greek οὐφρανία σφᾶιρα the ball was thrown as high as possible,
and the contest was over who should catch it, or, if only two were
playing, in the agility of the leap for it, as in the Odyssey. The
victor must throw the ball aloft again before his feet touch the
earth. A game practised by the Indians is apparently of a similar
character. “The beginner of the game holds a rather hard ball in his
hand, throws it directly up, and attempts to catch it. This is by no
means an easy task, for around him stands an eager circle each with
hands outstretched to seize the ball. The successful one rushes to an
appointed goal, while the others try to hinder him.”[272] The game in
which one boy rides on another’s back to throw the ball is illustrated
in an Egyptian wall picture, and Bastion saw it also in Burmah. In
this, imitation becomes prominent, as does the element of rivalry,
where the boys vie with one another in clapping, kneeling, and going
through various motions before catching the ball. In most games where
the ball is struck the contest develops after it is caught. In playing
trapball, the ball is placed on a springboard and sent aloft. All try
to catch it, and the victor must bounce the ball until he is supplanted
by another. In England, trapball can be traced back to the fourteenth
century. Strutt gives an illustration of the spoon-shaped board then
used.[273]

In closing these remarks on movement-play we will notice briefly the
distinction implied in our use of the word “sport,” since many of the
games which we have been considering are so designated and practised
by adults. What is it that converts play into sport? Preeminently the
seriousness, the stress of earnestness with which it is pursued. Yet
this statement is too general, for children too, as every one knows,
are deeply earnest about their play, which does not on that account
become a sport; and a man may play billiards or chess with such
perseverance and zeal that his game becomes the principal event of his
daily life, and yet he is not called a sportsman. We must evidently
find a more specific definition. The fact that in the merest play all
sorts of acts and achievements are involved which are not, as such,
playful, but rather preparatory for play, may help us to this. In the
eyes of adults the interest of a game lies in the construction of a
theory for it; they busy themselves with perfection of form in play,
with the rules of the game, with practice and training, with the proper
outfit and suitable costume, etc. Only he who does so assiduously
busy himself is a genuine sportsman, according to this theory. We may
then define sport as play pursued reflectively, scientifically. This
accounts for the fact that children are never sportsmen, despite the
immense importance of their play to them, and that the mountain climber
whose highest ideal is to conquer the heights, or the chess player who
devotes all his spare time to the game, is still not a sportsman.


III. PLAYFUL USE OF THE HIGHER MENTAL POWERS

Rousseau, who dwells upon the fact that a man’s education begins at
his birth, illustrates clearly, if somewhat exaggeratedly (being under
the influence of Condillac), the threefold biological significance of
youth when he says in the first volume of Émile that if man came into
the world full grown he would be “un parfait imbécile, un automate, une
statue immobile et presque insensible.” These words exactly fit into
our subject and its classification. Having treated of the sensor and
motor aspects of experimentation, we now proceed to examine its value
to the higher mental life, where by its help man is rescued from the
danger of remaining “un parfait imbécile.”

The influence of experimentation is felt in the activity of intellect,
feeling, and will alike. Of course all play, including the limited
group which we have been considering, is of great importance to the
whole mental make-up, since it acts in all directions, sharpening
the intellect, exercising the will, and furnishing occasion for the
discharge of emotion. But the special aim of the present discussion
lies in the investigation of how far these powers of the mind are
themselves the subjects of experimental play, and accordingly in what
follows we shall not inquire as to the advantageous effect of play on
attention, imagination, reason, etc., but will examine cases where
these capacities are directly experimented with.


A. EXPERIMENTATION WITH THE MENTAL POWERS

If we ask ourselves what aspects of intellectual activity are most
conspicuously subjects of playful experimentation we naturally turn
to memory, imagination, attention, and reason. Our first subject for
consideration, then, is memory, where again we must distinguish between
simple recognition and reflective recollection.


1. _Memory_

(_a_) Recognition

Recognition is the link which connects the present with what we have
known in the past. The new psychology repudiates the common idea that
the present impression is compared with a memory picture of the past
and the two recognised as identical, since it is not borne out by
the facts. Neither the emergence of a genuine memory picture nor its
comparison with the present object is demonstrable. When I select my
own from a number of hats I simply recognise it, and can tell no more
about it. But a careful study of cases in which the recognition is
hesitating clearly distinguishes the two following stages. First there
is the simple knowledge: I have seen this before, the recognition
having been accomplished by the “Coefficient of Recognition”[274]
(Höffding) without our necessarily knowing why we recognise the object.
It is difficult to say what grounds this feeling. Physiologically there
may be special reasons for the accompanying nervous processes. Speaking
psychologically, there seem to be certain shadowy feelings of warmth
and intimacy. In any case the content of the memory picture is genuine,
though it does not stand alone, but blends with the impression of the
moment by the process of assimilation.[275] A second stage is reached
through the fact that we are able to place the object suitably; we know
that we have had something to do with it, and this is often facilitated
by a hasty reversion to its earlier psychic _milieu_ of space and time
relations, as well as of word and idea connections. When not too
mechanical, as sometimes when dressing we put on everything in its
right relation but without attention, recognition is pre-eminently
pleasurable. Even the mere coefficient of recognition is accompanied
with a mild satisfaction such as Faust experienced when after a foreign
sojourn he found himself once more in his study. “Ah, when in one’s own
narrow cell the friendly lamp is burning.” But much more intense is
the effect of the second stage, for here comes in joy in accomplishing
a task, in overcoming some difficulty, however slight. A short time
ago I found on my table a fragment of porcelain decorated with gold. I
knew it at once; the pattern was one I had often seen, but where? My
glance accidentally fell on the curtain cord, and immediately I felt
that the scrap must be from one of the porcelain knobs which it was
looped on. The result was lively, almost triumphant satisfaction. The
act of recognition being so pleasurable, we would naturally expect man
to make use of it for its own sake—that is, experimentally. Aristotle,
indeed, grounds appreciation of art in pleasurable recognition, and,
while not going to that length, we must admit that the idea deserves
consideration.

We have already spoken of visual recognition, which is a prominent
division, and will now consider play connected with it. The earliest
manifestations of pleasure in the perception of form recorded by child
psychologists are no other than acts of recognition. In its second
quarter the infant begins to recognise its mother and nurse. There is
nothing playful about this, of course, but very soon experimentation
becomes prominent as the same form appears in changed conditions
with consequent uncertainty involving the stimulus of difficulty to
be overcome. At six months Preyer’s baby saw his father’s reflection
in a mirror, and made a sudden motion toward it.[276] The little
girl observed by Pollock at thirteen months recognised pictures in a
newspaper, calling out “Wah, wah” to the animals, trees, etc.[277]
In Sully’s beautiful experiment, made in the seventeenth month, the
playful character is more evident. “The young thinker,” he says in
the diary, “achieved his first success in geometric abstraction, or
the consideration of pure form, when just seventeen months old. He had
learned the name of his rubber ball. Having securely grasped this,
he went on calling oranges ‘Bo.’ This left the father in some doubt
whether the child was attending exclusively to form, as a geometrician
should, for he was wont to make a toy of an orange, as when rolling
it on the floor. This uncertainty was, however, soon removed. One day
C—— was sitting at table beside his sire, while the latter was pouring
out a glass of beer. Instantly the ready namer of things pointed to
the bubbles on the surface, and exclaimed ‘Bo!’ This was repeated on
many subsequent occasions. As the child made no attempt to handle
the bubbles, it was evident that he did not view them as possible
playthings. As he got lost in contemplation, muttering ‘Bo, bo!’ his
father tells us that he had the satisfaction of feeling sure that the
young mind was already learning to turn away from the coarseness of
matter and fix itself on the refined attribute of form.”[278] At this
time, too, the child begins to enjoy recognising things from their mere
outline. Sigismund records progress in this direction at about the
end of the second year. “They already know many things by the simple
outline. My boy, who, by the way, has seen few pictures, recognised
my shadow in his twenty-first month, being frightened for the first
moment, then clearly delighted, calling out ‘Papa!’ and has probably
not been afraid of any shadow since. On the contrary, he, like other
children of his age, likes to watch shadow pictures,[279] especially
moving ones.” They soon learn to know the outlines of their own. How
deeply must the essence of individuality be impressed upon them when
these meagre outlines of a figure which they are accustomed to seeing
filled out are sufficient for recognition! Perhaps for children who
do not see pictures early, shadows serve to introduce the latter and
explain them, just as, according to the Greek fable, they led to the
art of drawing. Children are so fond of looking at pictures that they
often enjoy the representation more than the reality. “A house!”
exclaims the little picture gazer delightedly when he comes to one,
while he would hardly notice the real thing. Does this pleasure arise
from the solving of a riddle, as Aristotle seems to say?[280] This
would make the enjoyment of recognition identical with that derived
from overcoming difficulties, and there can be no doubt that this is an
important element in all art appreciation, if it be not, indeed, the
very kernel of æsthetic enjoyment. In the enjoyment of a landscape,
it is safe to say that for nine tenths of the observers the chief
satisfaction comes from recognising the various peaks, villages,
castles, etc., in the panorama. There is one more point. As soon as
anything like a contest is involved, a stronger shock, a sturdier
resistance to the act of recognition, a comic colouring is given to
the enjoyment. Marie G——, who from the time she was two years old had
a veritable passion for having things drawn for her, considered it a
great joke when she could not make out what was meant without some
effort. For older children and adults puzzle pictures are skilfully
prepared with a view to rendering recognition difficult, and success
is followed by triumphant laughter. Finally, it may be added that
primitive folk are sometimes unable to see the meaning of photographs
and other pictures,[281] a fact which makes their early recognition by
children the more wonderful. On the other hand, I recall Charles de
Lahitte’s observation of an imprisoned Guayaké, (a little-known and
utterly uncivilized tribe of southern Paraguay) which proves that the
very lowest savage may recognise a photograph and be overjoyed with
it. “He recognised his picture after some instruction, and broke out
with expressions of pleasure and astonishment, crying repeatedly as he
slapped his body, ‘Gon, gon!’ which equals ‘me!’”[282]

Acoustic recognition, too, is more important and significant for art
than one might at first suppose. We find even in children who repeat
a simple melody indefatigably that pleasure in repetition forms a
psychological basis for a physiological impulse, and in the musical
pleasures of adults this feeling is much stronger.[283] The playful
feature is emphasized when acoustic conditions vary, as in changed
pitch or some other modification, so that overcoming difficulty enters.
Potpourri and variations are instances. In Wagner’s music there is
a peculiar satisfaction in the emergence of a leading motive from
the overwhelming mass of tones; like a friendly island rising in the
midst of surging seas. All modern music, indeed, is evolved from the
intricacies and modifications of such acoustic play; to follow them
and identify the unity in variety is a pleasure which grows with the
hearer’s technical appreciation, until at last, in fuguelike movements,
actual beauty is subordinated to the artfully ordered formal features
of the composition.

In poetry, playful repetition takes manifold forms,[284] such as
rhyme, alliteration, and that chainlike reiteration of words referred
to earlier. But still more ingenious and charming is the device of
bringing the repetition so close on its own heels that the first
impression still dwells in the mind when the second demands attention.
Pure enjoyment of repetition as such is simplest when the same or
similar forms are separated by a long interval, allowing the first
impression to sink below the threshold of consciousness before its
analogue appears. A passage of this kind occurs in Goethe’s poem
quoted above, “O gieb vom weichen Pfuhle,” etc., and is still better
illustrated by the similarity of the second and eighth verses of a
triolet. Take this of Gleims:

  “Ein Triolet soll ich ihr singen?
     Ein Triolet ist viel zu klein,
   Ihr grosses Lob hineinzubringen.
   Ein Triolet soll ich ihr singen?
   Wie sollt ich mit der Kleinheit ringen,
     Es müsst’ ein grosser Hymnus sein!
   Ein Triolet soll ich ihr singen?
     Ein Triolet ist viel zu klein!”[285]

It is but a step from this to the familiar and primitive refrain.[286]
To serve this purpose, interjections, single sounds, words, and
sentences are repeated after so long an interval that there can be
no question of sensuous enjoyment; it becomes mere repetition. As
the soothing satisfaction of a melody is produced by dwelling on the
keynote, so with the refrain. This principle is even more strongly
brought out in the turn, which is so prominent a feature in much lyric
poetry, and also in the form originating in Spain and Portugal in which
a single verse of a familiar stanza is made the keynote of a new poem.
This is play to the producer and hearers as well. Such analogy of lyric
form to musical variation as is shown in the “freien Glosse” actually
deserves to be called variation itself.[287]

In the imitation of particular sounds poetry offers further indulgence
to the enjoyment of repetition, to the amusement of adults and delight
of children. This is really imitative play and as such belongs to a
later division of our subject; yet for the listener it is also an
exercise in repetition, and is conspicuous in many refrains. Minor
says: “The imitation of musical instruments by means of articulate
or nondescript sounds is common in folk songs. The shepherd’s pipe,
the horn, trumpet, and drum are introduced in pastoral, hunting, and
military pieces.”[288] Children are especially partial to the mimicry
of animals, and some of the formulæ have become traditional. The German
robin sings, it seems,

  “Buble witt witt witt,
   I will dir e Krüi-zerrle gean.”

The sparrow says “Twitter, twitter”; the quail “Bob White, peas ripe?”
the cackling hen in English, “Cut, cut, cadahcut,” and in German “Duck
di duck Alli Stuck Unter mî Ruck.”

Finally, we must not forget a very popular game founded on recognition.
A whole company will dance around a blindfolded person until he hits on
the floor with a stick, whereupon they all stand still, and he touches
one and attempts to identify him by the sound of his voice, having
three trials. Sometimes the sense of touch is allowed to assist the
recognition, as in blind-man’s-buff and the Greek μυίνδα.[289]


(_b_) Reflective Memory

Playful exercise of the recollective faculty, dependent on the
enjoyment of reproduction as such rather than on any quality of the
memory picture, is confined almost exclusively to children, and indeed
to those not yet of the school age. From about the third year[290]
to the end of the sixth, when enforced mental exercise is begun, we
find in children outspoken satisfaction in the voluntary exercise
of reproduction. During this time mental feats almost unachievable
by adults are performed, such as learning by heart thick books of
nursery rhymes, long poems, interminable stories—acquirements which
stir the proud parents with hope and mistaken conclusions as to the
extraordinary mental endowments of their offspring. That children
of this age often burden their minds with lists of unconnected
and meaningless words and take pride in reciting them, proves that
enjoyment of the mere ability to do it is the chief incentive. Thus,
when she was in her sixth year, Marie G—— learned to count in French
from one to one hundred, and enjoyed going over the numbers when
she supposed herself to be unobserved, as when lying in bed in the
morning. Carl Stumpf’s report of the prodigy Otto Poehler,[291] who
at two years of age had learned to read fluently without teaching, is
highly interesting in this connection. Stumpf says of the boy, then
four years old and in other respects normal, having, indeed, a decided
disinclination for systematic education when others tried to impose
it on him: “Reading is his greatest passion, and the most important
thing in his life. He knows the birth and death year of every German
Kaiser from Charles the Great, as well as of many poets, philosophers,
etc., and can tell the birthday and place of most of them. Besides, he
knows the capitals of most countries, and the rivers on which they are
situated, etc. He knows all about the Thirty Years’ War from beginning
to end, with the leading battles of this and other wars. According to
his mother’s statement, he has acquired all this without aid, and by
diligent study of a patriotic almanac and similar literature about
the house, and from deciphering monumental inscriptions in the city,
an amusement which he dotes on. I myself can witness to the lasting
impression which such facts make on his mind. At the Seminary I showed
him pictures of Fechner, Lotze, and Helmholtz, mentioning their full
names. Of each he asked at once when and where he was born and died,
and some days later could give not only name and surname of every one,
but the full date of birth and death, mentioning day, month, year, and
place.” Since Stumpf tells us that there was no trace of vanity or a
desire to show off, we must explain these accomplishments as the result
of the child’s desire to experiment playfully with his own mental
powers.

In assigning such play chiefly to the period between the third
and sixth years, I did not by any means intend to imply that it
is suspended thereafter. It is, indeed, often seriously impeded
by the compulsory methods common in our schools, yet it does not
entirely vanish. Lessing is a brilliant example of the scholar by
whom even erudition may be turned to playful account, and who is
able to assimilate every kind of pabulum that falls in the way of
his omnivorous brain. When the teacher is able to direct his pupils
to the discharge of their tasks with interest and pleasure, there
may still be something playful about the mental exercise of school
work. Subordination to authority does not exclude play so long as the
obedience is voluntary. Children never submit so absolutely to any one
else as to a leader among their playfellows. Fénelon was not far wrong
when he said: “The common way of educating is very mistaken—to place
everything that is pleasant on one side and all that is disagreeable on
the other, connecting the latter with industry and study and regarding
the former as waste of time. How can we expect anything else than
that the child will grow impatient of the restraint and run to his
play with the greatest eagerness?”[292] Those who, on the other hand,
protest against making play of instruction are mistaken in supposing
that it is thereby turned into a jest, for we well know that play
can be prosecuted with great zeal and earnestness. Yet they are not
altogether wrong, for it is most important to impress the necessity for
doing what is repugnant to us, and for this merely playful study, even
if it accomplished all else that we want, would always be inadequate.
Finally, with regard to the adult: it does occasionally happen even
in our rushing times that some one commits a poem to memory with the
avowed intention of giving exercise to his mind. Were this practical
end the only one, play, indeed, would not be involved; but, as a rule,
pleasure in acquisition as such is combined with the other motive.
Such exercise was formerly much more common, and at a time when few
could read surprising feats were performed. A survival of this may be
found now in the Balkan countries, where the heroic songs are still
orally preserved. In mental exercise of this kind it is difficult to
draw the line between the emotions aroused by the content of the piece
and what pleasure is derived from the act of learning, and we will not
here go into that phase of the subject, only mentioning, in closing
the section, that conjuring up one’s own past is another form of
memory-play with the feelings.


2. _Imagination_

The phenomena which the exigencies of language compel us to include
under the words imagination or fantasy naturally fall into two quite
clearly differentiated groups, namely, illusion, either playful or
serious, and the voluntary or involuntary transformation of our
mental content. Considerable controversy has arisen as to which of
these groups shall be taken as the basis of a definition, and it
is in opposition to the prevailing view that I have designated the
capacity for illusion as my choice for that purpose. Yet on reflection
I consider it more prudent not to attempt a comprehensive definition,
but rather to keep separate the two distinct departments of mental life
which the usages of language too closely associate, and which, while
they are closely interwoven in some of their aspects, are yet of so
heterogeneous a character that we may hope to distinguish between them
in all essentials.


(_a_) Playful Illusion

This heading includes all those manifold cases in which mental
presentation is accepted as actual, whether they are concerned with
genuine memory pictures or merely some mental content worked up for
the occasion. When a fever patient sees an absent friend bodily before
him, we call this imagination as well as when he seems to see absurd or
grotesque things. The distinguishing feature is whether the illusion
appears as a substitute for reality, as in dreams, delirium, hypnosis,
and insanity, or as the product of conscious self-deception (K. Lange’s
“bewusste Selbsttäuschung,” P. Souriau’s “illusion volontaire”), where
the knowledge that we have ourselves produced the illusion prevents
actual substitution, as in play and art. Transition from one to
the other of these states is easy. The dreamer or fever patient may
have the feeling that the fantasy in which he lives and suffers is,
after all, an unreal thing; and, on the other hand, illusion is often
so strong for playing children and artists that it forms a perfect
substitute for reality. Just now we are concerned with conscious
illusion only. In inquiring how far experimentation is involved in
it we must bear in mind that there are two sides to all illusion,
one which has reference to an internal image, and the other blending
with external phenomena. It is a distinction similar to that between
hallucination and illusion in the narrower pathological sense.

The illusion which depends on internal images can, as we have seen,
elevate actual memories as well as convertible mental contents to the
appearance of reality. So we see that the two kinds of mental activity
included under the name imagination are intimately and variously
related, while neither alone covers the entire ground. Enjoyment of
play with memory pictures which are more than ordinarily faithful to
fact is practised almost exclusively by adults, and more especially
by the aged. The psychological condition of this is that by means
of strong concentration of attention on the mental picture (we are
reminded again of hypnosis) the actual present is thrown very much into
the background, and the past thus conjured up loses many of the usual
characteristics of a past, since the memory picture, from lacking the
usual projection, assumes the expression of reality. The following is
a beautiful example of this distinction between mere reflective memory
and playful illusion where the differentiation was gradually built up.
When Goethe as a mature man took up his Faust manuscript, he said to
himself, “I thought over this subject a great deal ten years ago; but
that would be only a memory.” Yet as he lost himself in the joyful or
painful memories connected with that period, he came to ignore the
fact that they were long past, and more and more substituted them for
the present, which in its turn became gradually submerged. These words
reveal the play of his imagination:

  “My pulses thrill, tears flow without control,
   A tender mood my steadfast heart o’ersways;
   What I possess as from afar I see,
   What I have lost is the reality to me.”

                           _Miss Swanwick’s translation._

A strange characteristic of these playful reminiscences is that what
displeased us at the time of its occurrence may give pleasure when
revived by memory. When, for instance, a traveller recounts his
adventures on a mountain tour he takes pleasure in dwelling on the
hardships which he endured. Is this entirely due to the knowledge that
it is all over now? I think not. First comes self-congratulation on
having borne such grievous difficulties, i.e., the feeling of power
which we find to be the chief source of satisfaction in almost all play.

Playful pretence[293] that the personified and elaborated mental
contents are real is psychologically important to productive artists,
and still more so to the enjoyment of poetic creations. Artists often
refer to their as yet unembodied conceptions as to very real things,
and frequently these assume the rôle of relentless taskmasters or of
veritable demoniacal possessions. Then, of course, they cease to be
playful. A. Feuerbach writes: “If it were not for this Gastmahl I would
be happy; but it pervades everything and gets in my way. It haunts my
thoughts. It feeds on my heart’s blood and saps my inmost life.”[294]
Yet the artist often exults in the fact that he has a self-created
world all his own—he plays with the illusion. “It would concern the
reader little, perhaps,” says Dickens about his David Copperfield, “to
know how sorrowfully the pen is laid down at the close of a two years’
imaginative task; or how an author feels as if he were dismissing some
portion of himself into the shadowy world when a crowd of the creatures
of his own brain are going from him forever. Yet I have nothing else to
tell, unless, indeed, I were to confess (which might be of less moment
still) that no one can ever believe this narrative, in the reading,
more than I have believed it in the writing.” This sort of illusion is
essential to æsthetic enjoyment in hearing or reading poetic creations.
The child who listens absorbedly to a fairy story,[295] the boy for
whom the entire external world sinks and vanishes while he is lost in a
tale of adventure, or the adult who follows with breathless attention
the development of a captivating romance; all allow the authors’
creations to get possession of their consciousness to the exclusion of
reality, and yet not as an actual substitute for it.

In a second kind of conscious illusion the mental content blends with
actual external phenomena and shares in their reality. Here, according
to Wundt’s terminology, we have a kind of simultaneous association
which is very like the imagination that transforms reality. Each of
our ordinary concepts is a mixture of sensuous impression with its
associated memory picture, and it first becomes illusion when the
association assumes the character of hallucination, and is susceptible
of correction by an appeal to common experience. When a white spot
dimly revealed by the moonlight appears to me as unmistakably a towel,
I see more than sense-perception warrants; but when I firmly believe
that it is a white-robed figure, then I have fallen into an illusion,
and, as they say, my imagination has played me a trick. Yet there
are degrees of difference between serious illusion and the playful
kind which concerns us here. When I had fever, as a boy, I saw on the
bright coverlet the most marvellous feast spread out, and at the same
time had an amused consciousness that it was all an illusion caused by
my illness. Von Bibra’s experiences from hasheesh-smoking were quite
similar to this, as he tells us in his book previously cited. In this
are two distinct kinds of play, first the substitution of an image
for its original, and second the lending, as it were, of our own
personality. The first has been treated exhaustively by K. Lange in
his study of conscious illusion. Not only the little girl who makes a
favourite baby of a knotted handkerchief or some other formless object,
and the boy who calls a stick a horse, a pile of sand a mountain, a
collection of chairs a railroad train, etc., but also the adult in
his enjoyment of plastic art and scenic effect, using his own mental
content to verify the appearance, is making playful use of his capacity
for illusion, and he, too, takes pleasure in so doing. Lending one’s
own personality reveals illusion as operative in another direction;
here we impart our own mental states to the object under consideration;
we “lend” to it the emotions which we conceive would be ours under
like conditions (the shoe is made to fit the last). From our feeling
of sympathy or inner imitation we then experience all the resulting
states of mind, cheerfulness and brightness from what is attractive,
or solemnity from the sublime. In speaking of imitation we shall have
occasion to refer to this again.


(_b_) Playful Transformation of the Memory-Content

Simple recollective processes by no means give an adequate picture of
reality. In the tenth chapter of his book on illusions Sully gives such
a list and description of important mental illusions as is calculated
to shake our faith in the trustworthiness of memory. It seems that
our recollections are often mere fragments of a formerly well-known
whole (we may recall, for example, only one or two features of an
acquaintance), and as a result of this analytic process we are prone
to make new combinations of the detached elements. Thus, a short time
ago I thought that I could clearly picture to myself the house of my
brother-in-law by the power of association, but I afterward discovered
that I had conceived the bricks to be far too bright a red, and had
evidently substituted the colour of some other house. What we call
constructive imagination then turns out to be constantly renewed
manipulation of previously verified impressions. We need not here touch
upon the wide field of involuntary productive imagination, since it
is only play directed by the will that is engaging us; yet before
going on to concrete cases, it should be stated that in constructive
imagination as well the pictures formed are to a considerable extent
involuntary, the will aiding more by its influence in concentrating the
attention on the trend of the internal processes and in discriminating
between them, than in forming the picture itself. This is why the
efforts of great artists are so often like inspirations.

Building air castles is the simplest exercise of constructive
imagination.[296] It most commonly manifests itself as voluntary
playful forming of cheerful and ambitious images of ourselves or our
friends amid the most fortunate surroundings.[297] We may see how it
is done by watching little children who have enjoyed a new kind of
treat at a birthday party or some such occasion—how they will remember
and repeat it in their future plays. All the details will be copied
sometimes just as in the model, sometimes in new combinations, or
turned into a joke. The inestimable value of such play for making life
worth living is self-evident. It veils the sordidness of everyday
existence with a double illusion, the first being our conception of
the air castle as a reality, and so getting immediate possession of
this radiant dream (here the two kinds of imagination converge). Such
illusion supplies the psychological interest in Faust’s bargain; he
enjoys the “schönsten Augenblick,” although his present satisfaction is
merely premonitory. The second illusion is exemplified in our implicit
trust that the future will verify our hope,[298] that buoyant and
vivifying emotion which accompanies us all through life.

Conjuring up all sorts of hindrances, difficulties, and dangers is
a modification of this castle building, and gives more play to the
intellectual faculties as we weigh the varying possibilities of success
or failure, develop the probable consequences of a proposed step, and
try to find the best and easiest road to success. By such processes
the crude picture is moulded into shape. Here, again, the capacity for
illusion is of importance in connection with imaginative combination,
since each possibility that is considered has the appearance of
reality in its turn, but such mental activity is playful only when the
combinations as such are enjoyable. Every creative artist, statesman,
writer, or scholar must often work on an imaginative basis which he
knows he can never verify. Many persons like to take, with the help of
a Baedeker, long journeys which they can never hope to indulge in in
any other way, and to solve complicated problems based on hypothetical
games of chess.

Leaving castle building, let us see what other forms of constructive
fantasy can be practiced playfully. In speaking of illusions we have
noticed the blending of memories with external phenomena, which is
so conspicuous in child play and in æsthetic enjoyment. The process
of “assimilation” which grounds playful self-deception is so closely
related to constructive imagination that it is difficult to locate
the boundary between them. The psychic process which transforms a
splinter into a doll’s milk-bottle, a few chips stuck up into men
and trees, a cloud[299] into the greatest variety of faces, animals,
etc., which endows lifeless objects with our own spiritual capacities
of desire, emotion, and temper—all this is synthetic activity which
may quite as well be called assimilation as constructive imagination.
Its pleasurable quality is inherent,[300] especially where a perfect
imitation of reality would give us so little room for the exercise of
imagination as to be on the whole less satisfactory.

Constructiveness which is concerned purely with ideas, not blending
them with external objects, is quite as important. One of its uses,
though one not clearly defined, may be to direct the attention, when
there exists but a vague idea of the completed picture, to a choice
among the multifarious internal images which make up the material
supplied by memory. This process is of the greatest importance in
the origination of artistic compositions, but its relatively simple
beginnings may be clearly traced in the play of children. While we may
not hope to follow the imaginative process into all its ramifications
and refinements, nor to account for individual variations in memory
content, visual, motor, etc., three general, constantly recurring forms
of its constructive activity are distinguishable: 1. The conjunction
of concepts which are not connected, or not so connected in reality.
2. The abstraction of certain elements from a complex and their
transference to other combinations. 3. Exaggeration and depreciation.
It will be readily seen that these three forms of imaginative activity
are useful for playful experimentation as well as in actual artistic
production, which, however, rarely makes playful use of fantasy.

The first of these activities is often so capricious in children that
it can hardly be called experimentation; it seems a mere disconnected
succession of fancies and self-originated images, very much as in the
case of mania and other abnormal states. Strümpell’s little daughter,
aged one and a half years, is responsible for the following: “Go gramma
and buy a pretty doll gramma for me under the bed for me to play the
piano. Bring papa golden sheep; take mamma’s white sheep too. Go on,
there, driver, gramma is going. Get up, Klinglingling. Gramma comes up
the steps. Oh, oh, ah, ah, lying on the floor, all tied up, no cap on.
Theodosia [her doll] lie on the bed, bring yellow sheep to Theodosia.
Run, tap, tap, tap for Lina. Strawberries, gramma, wolf lie on bed.
Go to sleep, darling Theodosia, you are my dearest; everybody is fast
asleep. May makes the trees green—let me—on the brook violets are
blooming—I want to go to walk. A cat came in here, mamma caught it,
it had feet and black boots on—short cap, band on it. Papa ran—the
sky—gramma gone—grampa resting,” etc.[301] In this, attention seems
to be entirely lacking, so that there can not be said to be any aim,
however indefinite. Genuine constructive imagination is more apparent
in the attempts of small children to tell stories. I have the following
note on Marie G——, made at the age of three years and one month. She
insisted that I must lie on the lounge after she had gone through the
motions of “making the bed.” Then the little mother warmed the gruel
in a heavy cigar cutter, made me drink at the peril of my teeth, and
ordered me to shut my eyes. Then she seated herself, pretended to
sew, and told a story to put me to sleep: “The other day I went down
town. There were beautiful shops and there were flowers. Anna [her
doll] wanted to pick one, and a bear came up. All my six children were
dreadfully scared and hid in the bathroom stove, and I locked the door
and took out the key, and the bear went away; and I was so frightened!”
It was evidently her intention to make a connected story, although the
first situation, the scene down town, was transferred to a different
one without any proper transition. Yet the various processes are easily
traced in spite of their complexity. First, the idea of the city where
the romancer takes her doll, as she was often taken by her mother.
The memory picture of the florists’ shops which led to an overweening
desire on the part of the doll to take a flower. Then judicial wrath
appears in the frightful shape of the bear, and at once the whole
situation is changed; there are now the six children of the familiar
tale, who hide. But where? In our bathroom stove (an improvement on the
tale), which develops a lock and key for the occasion (confusion with
the attributes of a closet door). Here, then, are divisions 1 and 2
clearly defined—namely, the combining of complex presentations, and the
detachment and transposition of some features. Analogy with artistic
methods is too obvious to need enlarging upon.[302] An interesting
example of the inventiveness of an older child endowed with genius is
the voluminous romance which the young Goethe used to tell again and
again to his playmates, and has transcribed in his biography. It will
be seen that the imaginative process is much less easily traced in it
than in the earlier instance.[303]

One important branch of imaginative composition is the picturing of
the fantastic creatures of mythology, such as animals with human
heads, mermaids, and the grotesque blending of animal and vegetable
life, yet with the essential features taken from Nature. As Dickens
says of his characters, that, being made up of many people, they were
composite,[304] so with these creations. The following dialogue of
Marie G—— with her doll near the end of her fifth year will illustrate
the use of this faculty in the case of concepts which transcend the
limits of actuality. “So, little sister Olga, you have come in from
your walk. Tell me about everything that you saw. A little lamb, a cow,
a dog, a horse. Yes, and what else? Blue bells and green primroses and
red leaves—but that can not be; you are fibbing, my little sister.”
Such playful and grotesque combinations are often introduced in art,
but they no longer appeal to superstitious fear. In the temptations of
St. Anthony, in Oriental tales of strangely deformed men, in the taste
for grotesque gargoyles and other ornaments, we find instances. In some
fantastic creations the imagination is given unbridled license, with
the result that the production acquires more of the characteristics of
play.[305]

The third division of constructive fantasy, comprising exaggeration
and depreciation, is also an object of playful activity. All children
delight in giants and dwarfs, whether because they excite pleasurable
emotions by their disproportionateness, which appeals to the comic
sense, or whether it is the strong stimulus of what is unusual that
accounts for the attraction. Marie G—— improvised a rare tale when she
was five and a half years old, which well illustrates exaggeration, as
well as conscious illusion and imaginative combination. The child was
lying in bed in the early morning with a copy of Grimm’s tales, and
pretended to be reading from it. “Once upon a time there was a king
who had a little daughter. She lay in the cradle. He came in and knew
it was his daughter, and they both had a wedding. As they sat at the
table the king said, ‘Please draw me some beer in a big glass.’ Then
they brought a glass that was thirty yards high, and went to sleep;
only the king stayed up as a watchman. And if they are not dead they
are living there yet.” Of course the child had no clear idea of how
high this glass would be, but she evidently pictured one whose size
far transcended the limits of reality—of this I subsequently satisfied
myself. Adults are constantly using this sort of imaginative exercise
in a playful way in verbal exaggeration. The talk of students and of
girls abounds in superlatives, and they are employed by satirists with
telling effect—so much so that the recounter himself is sometimes
deceived by his own extravagance. Schneegans says in his interesting
book: “The grotesque satirist is often carried away by his own work,
and gradually loses sight of his original aim; ... and finally the
conclusion is forced upon us that the writer has yielded to his passion
for gross exaggeration.” This is certainly true of Rabelais, when he
says that Pantagruel had but to put out his tongue to protect his whole
army from the rain, or that his arrows were as large as the beams of
the bridge at Nantes, and yet with one of them he could shoot an oyster
from its shell without breaking the latter; or when he describes the
people who needed no tailor, since one of their ears served as hose,
doublet, and vest, while the other was used like a Spanish mantle. This
last morsel recalls some of the folk tales which have amused the masses
for more than two thousand years. While we may not lightly affirm that
the grotesque extravagance of some of these stories is always due to
imaginative play, yet we can trace it in such of them as the Greenland
myth of little Kagsagsuk, whom the men lifted by the nostrils until
they grew enormous, while the rest of his poorly fed body remained
as small as ever, and in the account of his subsequent marvellous
strength. Kagsagsuk divided the mob as though it had been made of
little fishes, and ran so vigorously that his heels hit the back of his
neck, and the snow flying up around him made shining rainbows.[306]

Playful lying should be mentioned along with other forms of
exaggeration. Children’s lies have been studied carefully of late
years, and the conclusion is general that they are usually playful.
Untruthfulness must be playful when it is indulged in merely to tease
others or to get amusement from their credulity, or to heighten the
recounter’s sense of the marvellous.[307] Only such examples are
useful for our purpose as find their chief incentive in the enjoyment
of invention. Compayré rightly calls this experimentation, and says
that children play with words as they do with sand or blocks.[308]
The real stimulus which lying affords to imaginative activity is
best demonstrated in the progressive lie: “I have thirty marbles;
no, fifty; no, a hundred; no, a thousand!” or “Je viens de voir un
papillon grand comme le chat, grand comme la maison.”[309] One of my
nephews, Heinrich, was a great romancer, and the same peculiar, almost
divergent fixing of his eyes characterized him then as when listening
to a marvellous tale. At three and a half years north Berlin was the
scene[310] of his inventions, a name which the little Stuttgarter
had in some way picked up. There he had seen fish resembling sharks
with boots on their feet. On one occasion he related the following:
“In north Berlin hares and hounds are on the roofs; they climb up on
ladders and play together, and then—and then—comes a telephone, a
long wire, you know, and on that they come to Stuttgart. That’s the
way they get here.”[311] It is easy to see the connection between
this and rudimentary artistic production. Guyan says:[312] “The lying
of children is usually the first exercise of their imagination, the
first evidence of the germ of art.” Such playful experimentation is,
of course, quite different from actual deception. Perhaps nowhere is
finer discrimination in this direction shown than in Goethe’s remarks
on his boyish story-telling: “It greatly rejoiced the other children
when I was the hero of my own story. They were delighted to know that
such wonderful things could befall one of their playfellows, and yet
they did not seem to marvel that I could play such tricks with time
and space as these adventures implied, for they were well aware of
my goings and comings and how I was occupied all day long. None the
less I must choose the scenes of these adventures, if not in another
world, at least in a distant place, and yet tell all as having taken
place to-day or yesterday. They therefore made for themselves greater
illusions than any I could have palmed off on them. If I had not
gradually learned from my natural bent to work up these visions and
conceits into artistic forms, such a vainglorious beginning could not
have been without injurious consequences to me.” Even when the playful
lie becomes artistic production there is always a leaning toward
genuine deception. Goethe says: “I took good care not to alter the
circumstances much, and by the uniformity of my narrative I converted
the fable into reality in the minds of my auditors. Yet,” he adds—and
this is proof that the deceit was playful—“I was averse to falsehood
and dissimulation, and would by no means lightly indulge in them.”[313]
The same remarks apply to the corresponding amusements of adults, such
as fishing and hunting stories, and Munchausen tales generally.

In concluding this subject the temptation is strong to go into some of
the special forms of fantasy, such as, for instance, the association
of sensuous impressions with abstract ideas. Poetry has the task
of justifying such combination, and this quatrain affords a simple
instance:

  “Woher kommt der Blutegel?
   Aus der Reisfeld treibt er in den Fluss.
   Woher kommt die Liebe?
   Aus dem Auge senkt sie sich in’s Herz.”

  “Whence comes the leech, then?
   Out of the rice field it turns to the stream.
   Whence comes love, then?
   From the eye it sinks down to the heart.”

From this doggerel to “Warte nur, balde ruhest du auch,” suggested
by a view of wooded hills standing in evening quiet, is but a matter
of development. Metaphor ensues when abstract form is superseded
by sensuous impression. The designer and novelist Töpffer gives a
beautiful instance of such materializing of the spiritual in this
interesting contribution to child psychology when he tells us how he
always conceived of conscience in the form of his teacher. “For a long
time I did not distinguish between the inner voice of conscience and
the admonitions of my instructor. When I felt the stirrings of the
former I pictured the latter before me in his black robes, with his
scholarly air, and his spectacles on his nose.”[314]


3. _Attention_

As I have attempted to set forth in former efforts,[315] attention
is probably in its earliest manifestations rather a means for the
furtherance of the struggle for life than a so-called faculty of the
mind. The instinct of lying in wait (by which we must understand
not merely holding one’s self in readiness to seize prey, but also
a preparedness for flight) is, as I conceive, the elementary form
of attention. Some sense-perception called forth by the prey or the
enemy, as the case may be, warns the animal to brace his organism for
the utmost swiftness and accuracy of aim in view of what is coming;
secondly, to hold his muscles tense and ready for lightning-quick
reaction to the approaching stimulus; and, thirdly, to keep such
restraint on his whole body as to repress all sounds and movements
which might betray him. Among the higher animals, and especially man,
“theoretic” attention has developed from this motor attention, which
reacts to the anticipated stimulus with special external movements. In
the former the reaction is an internal, brain process, not involving
the second of the steps given above; it is sufficient to seize and
master the object—to lie in wait apperceptively, as it were. The
characteristic holding of the powers in check seems to argue the
derivation of this sort of attention from the motor, thus grounding
both on instinct. Expectancy is not then a variation, but rather a
fundamental form of attention, and concentration on an object present
before it results from a succession of constantly renewed expectations.

Both forms of attention are of real importance in the world of play,
but we will note only those cases in which the effort of attending is
itself the subject of playful exercise. Sikorski has asserted forcibly
that children frequently make use in their play of the expectation of
a familiar impression whose memory picture is already present in the
mind; what Lewes calls “preperception,” and Sikorski “reproduction
préparatoire.” He says: “It is very interesting to notice how children
use attention in their play. It is one of the most salient features
of all the mental operations of children in all their busyness and
destructiveness. It may be called a sort of mental auxiliary which
gives variety to play.”[316] He goes on to instance Preyer’s son, who
opened and closed the cover of a can seventy-nine times in succession,
and evinced the closest attention all the while.[317] The expectation
of a resulting sound is no doubt an essential part of such play as
this. Alternate stress and relaxation of attention account for the
charm of hide and seek. Darwin says that his son on the one hundred
and tenth day was delighted when a handkerchief was put over his face
or his playfellow’s and then suddenly withdrawn.[318] While surprise
was probably the principal cause of this delight at first, on its
repetition expectation and the sudden revelation must play a part.
When a child throws stones in water or at a mark, batters an old pot,
awaits the tossed-up ball or watches a rolling one, we must reckon with
the pleasure which is derived from the exercise of close attention,
as well as that in movement as such, and in this kind of play the
comparison of memory pictures with present reality. “In all such play,”
says Sikorski, after instancing several examples, “a particular result
is expected and awaited as something desirable. The sound of the stone
striking the water, the direction taken by the soap bubble the moment
it is tossed off,[319] all such consequences are pictured in advance,
and the essence of the enjoyment consists in the coincidence of reality
with the mental image.”[320]

At this point we may again take up the process of recollection which
is attended with some difficulty. The progressive power of rhythmical
repetition, especially when musical or poetic, to whose chains we are
such willing captives, is nothing else than attention fixed on what is
to come. Still stronger is the tense expectation aroused by artistic
productions which require time for their presentation. In the drama
and recitation especially must we ascribe value to continuity, for
here true art consists not so much in taking the hearer or reader by
surprise—indeed, this is an insignificant element—as in contriving
to make him suspect the coming situation and await it with intense
concentration. On this depends not only the effectiveness of tragedy
(O. Harnack has compared Ibsen’s Ghosts in this respect with the
antique Œdipus), but in large measure that of all narrative poetry.
“The poor satisfaction of a surprise!” exclaims Lessing. “I am far
from thinking that the enjoyment we get from the work of a great
artist is due to concealment of the denouement. I believe, moreover,
that it would not transcend my powers to create a work in which the
climax shall be revealed in the first scene, and from that very
circumstance derive its strongest interest.” Finally, we must notice
the interesting phenomena of attention in its connection with gambling,
for the tremendous effects of which many diverse causes must conspire.
Ribot says of it, “C’est la complexité qui produit l’intensité.”[321]
The tension of interest in gaming depends on the two possibilities,
winning and losing. It must be one thing or the other, and this fact
differentiates it from our previous examples. Hope of winning usually
looms large in the foreground, the possibility of losing assuming
more the character of an auxiliary, adding intensity to the process.
“Gambling,” says Lazarus justly, “has ruined many, enriched few, yet
every player expects to be of the minority.”[322] As games of chance
will come up for more exhaustive treatment later, I merely mention here
that the effort of attention is one ground of their strong effect.

We now take up playful apperception of new impressions. The deep-rooted
impulse to bring everything within the sphere of our own powers is
especially powerful in the presence of novelty, of what is unfamiliar.
We experience an almost irresistible desire to examine closely any
strange object and make ourselves acquainted with its properties.
Curiosity is the name given to the playful manifestation of attention
which results from this tendency. Since I introduced it among the plays
in my work on animals I have been told that curiosity is no play; but
if we keep to our principle that the exercise of an impulse merely for
the sake of the pleasure we derive from it is to be called play, then
I am unable to see why curiosity should form an exception. It stands
midway between two kinds of perception as applied to what is new, but
is identical with neither. On one side is the impulse to inquire into
the practical use of the unfamiliar object, whether it is beneficial
or injurious; on the other side is thirst for knowledge, not entirely
with a view to appropriation, but more concerned with placing the
object properly in our system of things known. But curiosity, while it
does depend on the stimulus[323] of novelty, concerns itself primarily
neither with the practical value of the thing nor with its theoretic
significance. It simply enjoys the agreeable emotional effects which
arise when a new concept does not readily adjust itself to the beaten
track of the habitual, and requires paths at least partially new to be
opened before it. The interest attaching to scientific investigation
is logical and formal, but that excited by curiosity may be said to
be material. The freshness of the untried belongs to this new mental
heritage, and is as exhilarating as the mountain climber’s discovery
of a new path to some coveted summit. Where such pleasure becomes the
ground of activity, that activity is play. For illustrative purposes
let us suppose a landslide. Practical interest would at once apply to
the proper authorities to find out the extent of damage caused by the
catastrophe; scientific and learned curiosity would investigate the
causes; while the simply curious would run from all directions just to
see what was happening, using their powers of attention playfully.

In The Play of Animals I have presented quite a collection of examples,
and I insert another here, which was not at that time available. When
Nansen was on his north polar expedition a valuable gun accidentally
fell into the sea. As the water at that place was but ten metres deep
an attempt was made to recover the weapon. “While we were so engaged
a bearded seal constantly swam around us, regarding us wonderingly,
stretching his great head now to this side and now to that side of
us, and drawing nearer and nearer as if he were making efforts to
discern in what sort of nocturnal labour we were engaged.”[324] When
we read such reports and see how widespread these phenomena are in
the animal world, we naturally expect to find them universal among
men. Yet it has been maintained by some that the lowest orders of
savages have extremely little or no curiosity at all. Spencer has
published a note in his Data of Sociology to the effect that it is
entirely wanting among such peoples: “Where curiosity exists we find
it among races of not so low a grade.”[325] I do not think that this
can be substantiated. The numerous reports of travellers which seem
to give colour to it can, I believe, be explained in two ways: First,
the savage is too suspicious to show his curiosity; and, secondly,
many reporters in speaking of the lack of curiosity refer rather to
scientific curiosity, or thirst for knowledge. The Bakaïri of central
Brazil, who are certainly primitive enough, displayed, according to K.
von den Steinen, lively curiosity, while they had absolutely no desire
for knowledge. “Our clothes,” he says, “were as strange to these good
people as their nakedness was to us. I was escorted to the bath by both
men and women, and it was amusing to see with what interest my clothes
were examined. It never seemed to occur to them that I might resent the
inspection. They showed some interest in my Polynesian tattooing, but
were evidently disappointed not to find something marvellous concealed
under all this careful and unheard-of wrapping.”[326] Just as curiously
they investigated the contents of his pockets; admired his watch,
which they called “moon,” because it did not sleep at night. A genuine
desire for knowledge was nowhere shown, only a playful curiosity. K.
von den Steinen has also recognised this distinction. “Nothing could
be more mistaken,” he says, “than to suppose that frank curiosity is a
genuine desire for knowledge or a longing to understand the cause of
things.”[327] He is a firm upholder of the other view, having lived
for some time alone among the Bakaïri, and says that much which he had
observed as characteristic of them vanished when the larger company
arrived; the perfect _naïveté_ disappeared, and their manner became
more and more that of the savage as usually described to us.[328] That
the higher standing races are extremely curious is a familiar fact,
admitted and illustrated by Spencer himself. I instance only Semon’s
humorous account of the Ambonese. “A committee from the village made
visits lasting for hours on the ship where he was busy with his men.
All hints that they might be needed on shore were unavailing, and for
two days I bore it uncomplainingly when they crowded into my tiny
cabin. On the third day I thought it best to speak to them plainly,
and asked them in Malay to sit before the cabin door.... And the rest
were just as curious, although they did not come on board ship. My
morning dip in the sea was a treat to the whole village. A crowd of
spectators gathered to witness the show, observing every detail, and
not scrupling to express their criticisms.”[329]

In children, curiosity is useful as an antidote to instinctive shyness
in the presence of what is new and strange, and as an introduction
to the general desire for knowledge. It is stimulated by surprise,
but can be called true curiosity only when the perception of what
is unusual has a directly pleasurable effect, as, for example, when
an infant six months old regards a veiled face with close attention
and signs of delight. Tiedemann reports as early as the end of the
second month: “He makes more and more unmistakable efforts to add to
his store of ideas, for new objects never seen before are followed
longer with the eye.”[330] “All little children,” says Preyer, “make
ineffective sympathetic movements of various kinds when they hear new
sounds, music or songs. They like to move their arms up and down.
The child, on hearing, seeing, or tasting something new, directs his
attention toward it, and experiences a pleasant sensation of gratified
curiosity which induces motor discharge.”[331] Sully regards curiosity
as the best offset to fear in children, and considers it a fortunate
circumstance that the commonest causes of fear—namely, new and strange
phenomena—are also the originators of a feeling such as curiosity, with
its attendant impulses to follow and to examine. It would indeed be
detrimental to intellectual development if new things roused feelings
of fear exclusively. Yet in spite of these differences, fear and
curiosity are probably closely related, since the caution and suspicion
which characterize fear may be the point of departure for curiosity.
Caution impels the animal to examine with careful attention every
unusual object which makes its way into his environment, with an eye
to its possible injurious or useful character. Assuming that this
impulse is emancipated gradually from its double practical aim, we see
it converted into curiosity before our eyes, while ontogenetically it
is the antecedent of the thirst for knowledge, just as the practical
aim precedes it phylogenetically. Perez has described this evolution
beautifully. Playful exercise of the sensor and motor apparatus,
which is at first mere obscure impulse toward sensation and movement,
achieves more and more the clearness of intellectual activity as it
becomes associated with curiosity. Yet all this results “not so much
from the necessity for knowing what things are and what they can do, as
from the demand for new and fresh impressions.”[332] Veritable thirst
for knowledge, with its unappeasable questioning, gradually develops
from this, making without difficulty the transition from the realm of
play to that of genuine scientific investigation.

This demand for novelty plays a conspicuous rôle in the life of an
adult as well. The masculine half of the race exhibits a praiseworthy
self-denial in ascribing this quality to the other sex exclusively, but
the women are about right when they say that men are quite as curious
as themselves. Without going into the merits of this controversy, we
will confine our discussion to the province of curiosity in æsthetic
enjoyment. It is no doubt true that the highest and most complete
æsthetic pleasure is independent of the stimulus of novelty, as
is proved by the fact that our appreciation of a work of art is
undiminished by repeated examination, and it remains “herrlich wie am
ersten Tag.” Yet there is a peculiar charm attaching to a first view of
even the most perfect work of genius, which E. von Hartmann has likened
to that of the first kiss, and which must be at least in part due to
novelty. This advantage depends not entirely on the diminishing of the
satisfaction by use, but also on a positive, independent pleasure in
the apperception of a new thing, and new, original, in the sense of
being a revelation, are the productions of genius. In the development
of art, too, a disinclination to get into ruts, together with positive
enjoyment of original work, is a decidedly progressive force, as
opposed to the multiplication of reproductions and imitations. Before
the revolution caused by a new thing has become an accomplished fact,
behold! it is no longer new, and the danger is of achieving only the
pre-classical, as it were, and not the classical. Of following the
prophets, perhaps, but not the Messiah.


4. _Reason_

We need no chain of reasoning to prove that the logical faculty is
involved in very many plays, even those of simple movement; but now,
as heretofore, we will strictly exclude all uses of it except those in
which it is the very object of the play, those in which it is playfully
experimented with. Two bearings of the subject will engage our
attention: first, causality; and, second, inherence. Both are prominent
in the playful use of reason, while some special forms involve the use
of judgment as well, as in the play of wit, for instance.

How far the gratification afforded by play is dependent on causality
is strikingly shown by the fact that there is not a single form of it
which does not exhibit in one shape or another the joy of being a cause
as the germ of its attractiveness. It is true that this universal fact
directs the attention more to the feeling of being a cause than to the
logical idea of causal connection, yet we find enjoyment of logical
activity prominent in the categories which we have designated as
“hustling things about,” and as destructive and constructive movement
play. The tendency toward such play was chosen for our point of
departure, and the indications are that it is of the first importance
to the child, and that only through frequent repetitions of the _post
hoc_ does independent interest in the _propter hoc_ gradually arise.
Still, it can not be denied that the true characteristics of play are
in inverse ratio to the intensity of the desire for knowledge, and it
should be clearly stated that we are now on the frontier territory of
play and earnest. The steps by which we have reached this point can be
clearly traced by every reader of what goes before; therefore, without
stopping to recapitulate, I cite this striking remark of Preyer’s as a
fitting climax. He says in reference to the evolution of a feeling of
individuality: “Another important factor is the perception of change
brought about by his own activity, in the familiar objects by which
he is surrounded, and, psychologically speaking, or, indeed, from
any standpoint, a red-letter day in the infant’s life is the one on
which he first grasps the connection between his own movements and the
sense-perceptions caused by them. The sound produced by tearing and
crumpling paper was still unrecognised by this child till in his fifth
month he discovered that it gave him a new sensation, and he repeated
the experiment day after day most energetically until the stimulus of
novelty wore away. Still, there was no clear apprehension of causality,
but the child had now had the experience of being an originator, and
of combined sight and sound perceptions, regular in so far that when
he tore paper it became smaller for one thing, and sound resulted for
another. Other such amusements were shaking keys on a ring, opening
and shutting a box or purse (thirteen months), repeatedly filling and
emptying a table drawer, piling up and scattering sand and gravel,
rustling the pages of a book (thirteenth to nineteenth month), digging
in sand, pulling footstools back and forth, laying stones, shells,
and buttons in rows (twenty-one months), pouring water in and out
of bottles, cups, and cans (thirty-first to thirty-third month) and
throwing stones in water.”[333] Miss Shinn also gives a pretty example
in the case of her little niece: “In the twentieth month (five hundred
and ninetieth day) I saw her outdoors, especially when driving, cover
her eyes several times with her hands. I thought the sunlight might be
too brilliant, but it is more likely that she was experimenting, for in
the following weeks she would often cover her eyes with her hands, and
take them away, hide her face in a cushion or on her own arms, often
saying ‘Dark,’ then look up, ‘Light now.’”[334] Tormenting animals
is another direction in which the quest for a causal connection is
evident. When André Theuriet was a four-year-old boy he threw a newborn
puppy in the water just “pour voir,” and then wept bitterly because he
could not rescue it.[335] As these demands of reason become prominent
we can clearly see that we are approaching the limits of play.

There are other cases, however, where the search for a causal
connection can more assuredly be called playful. An essential feature
of the enjoyment derived from mental contests is the calculation of the
result. Several possibilities are before the player, and he enjoys the
intellectual effort of testing each and using the most advantageous. In
the solution of whist and chess problems and such like, rivalry becomes
an insignificant feature, and logical experimentation forms the central
interest. Just so with the common and often ancient mechanical and
mathematical puzzles. Pleasure in conquering their logical difficulties
is derived from the gratification of a “general impulse or general
instinct to exercise the intelligence as such.”[336] Causality plays
a prominent part in poetry, too, since we require it to reveal to us
the inner relations of the events set forth and to exhibit cause and
effect in clearer and more orderly sequence than the complexities of
reality admit of.[337] Especially is this the case with tragedy. In my
Einleitung in die Aesthetik I expressed the opinion that the treatment
of tragical climaxes as logical necessities is an important means of
bracing us for the increasingly painful inner imitation which is so
essential, without weakening or modifying its effect. “When the course
of the tragic tale is so far developed as to suggest that a catastrophe
is imminent, it should also appear inevitable. Stern necessity must
urge the hero toward the fearful goal so persistently that escape shall
be unthinkable, a logical impossibility. This feeling of necessity is
calculated to fix the æsthetic illusion, and consequently help on the
effect by rendering more strenuous the mental tension and directing
it so forcibly toward the climax that consciousness is a captive to
inner imitation until the tragedy has culminated. In other words, fear
of the catastrophe is so absorbing as to create the illusion that the
apprehended event is just at hand, and consequently all sense of the
painfulness of the situation is merged in the stress of this illusion,
since it alone is competent to relieve the tension.”[338] I might
have continued to the effect that such manifestations of the law of
cause afford us a positive logical satisfaction, and in spite of the
impression forced upon us by the crushing blows of Fate, weave some
threads into the intricate texture of æsthetic enjoyment, because in
them we recognise a proof of the existence of a universal causal nexus.

A glance over the sphere of inherence, too, will help us to a proper
orientation for this inquiry. By the word inherence we signify the
relation of a thing to its qualities, or, abstractly speaking, the
relation of a concept to its characteristics. A common and well-nigh
universal form of play depends on this principle—namely, the making
and solving of riddles. The large majority of them involve an effort
to find the concept whose characteristics are given, and the task is
intentionally rendered difficult, with the result that the solution
is attended with a proud sense of success. The exercise easily
leads to a contest, but it is grounded in experimentation with the
logical faculty, and many persons enjoy the amusement for this reason
alone.[339]

Children as young as four years sometimes indulge in a sort of
preliminary exercise in riddle solving, such as the simple game in
which one child, noticing the peculiar colour of some object in the
room, says, “I see something you don’t see, and it’s yellow,” and
his comrade must guess it. The play here is connected with sense
perception by the relations of things to their qualities, and there
are many games for large companies much like it. In a genuine riddle
the enumeration of characteristics must be imperfect or in some way
misleading to render the solution troublesome, and still sufficiently
complete to make it possible; many are made sufficiently puzzling by
the lack of logical ὁριδκός without the introduction of other means of
mystification; such, for example, as—

  “Drufg’schloh,
   Ufg’ deckt,
   Usse g’nô,
   Dra gschmöckt,
   Und dann wiederum versteckt.”
                        (Tabakdose.)

  “Inside whole,
   Outside full of many holes.”
                          (Thimble.)

  “Two legs sits on three legs
   And milks four legs.”
                     (Milkmaid.)

  “Oben spitz und unten breit
   Durch und durch voll Süssigkeit.”
                         (Zuckerhut.)

  “First white as snow,
   Then green as clover,
   Then red as blood,
   They taste to all children good.”
                        (Cherries.)

The play is more genuine, however, when the characteristics are more
veiled, as in (1) metaphor and (2) apparent contradiction. The riddles
which follow are evidently calculated to put one on the wrong scent.
On the coast of Malabar two familiar riddles are “Little man, strong
voice,” and “A little pig in the woods.” The answer to the former is
Grasshopper, and to the latter Pediculus cervicalis.

  “There is a little man
   With a stomach of stone;
   He has a red cloak
   And a black cap on.”
                  (Haw.)

  “S’itzt etwas amme Rainle,
   Es wackelt ihm sein Beinle;
   Vor Angst und Noth
   Wird ihm sein Köpfle feuerroth.”
                            (Erdbeere.)

  “An iron steed with silken reins,
   The faster runs the horse the shorter grow the reins.”
                                      (Needle and thread.)

Apparent contradiction is a favourite means of mystification, as in the
questions “What teaches without speaking?” A book. “What two things
are together early and late, and yet never touch each other?” Parallel
lines. The East African Schamlala have a riddle which is metaphorical.
“My grandfather’s cattle low when they are driven away, and are quiet
coming home.” This refers to the water gourds carried by the women,
which clatter when taken away empty, and are silent as they come back
filled.[340] A German riddle of this kind is:

  “Ich hab’ einen Rücken und kann nicht liegen;
   Ich hab zwei Flügel und kann nicht fliegen;
   Ich hab ein Bein und kann nicht stehen;
   Ich kann wohl laufen, aber nicht gehen.”
                                    (Nase.)

I can not here examine other forms of logical experimentation with
the exception of the phenomena of wit, which are too important to be
omitted from our review. Primarily wit should be classed with the
comic, of which we shall speak in another connection, but at times it
overreaches these limits, and more general grounds must be assigned
for it in logical experimentation. When wit is free from sarcasm and
assumes the form of playful judgment, as Kuno Fischer says, then
its most natural expression is in the riddle and the proverb. The
evolution of such serious wit as Jean Paul’s is possible only to a
highly cultured people, and Nietzsche, the most brilliant German
exponent of modern witticism, displays a certain tendency to proverb.
“To be stiff to his inferiors is wisdom for the hedgehog” has the
true flavour of the terse sayings found among all primitive people.
The satisfaction afforded by true wit is due to the playful conquest
of logical difficulties; some statement is made which confuses by its
unusual conjunction of ideas, and we hail as a victory the sudden
emergence of the hidden meaning. Therefore it would be a mistake to
call the pleasure produced by wit exclusively a play with reason, since
constructive imagination and the formulation of the abstract are also
involved. When the <DW64> produces this—“God keeps the flies off the
ox that has no tail”—he gives us an expression of wit illustrating
abstract judgment which may be accompanied by the stronger emotion.


B. EXPERIMENTATION WITH THE FEELINGS

That a man may play with his emotions is a well-known fact, but one
which has not to my knowledge been adequately investigated in all
its ramifications. While the “luxury of grief” is often referred to,
the interesting distinction of its varying degrees has not been gone
into. It can not be labelled, I think, simple play with pleasurable
sensations, partly because the concentration of attention on the
feeling itself instead of on the accompanying sensations and ideas
tends to weaken the very feeling in question, and also because the
division of consciousness which attends such a survey of one’s own
emotional life is less operative in the sphere of pleasure.[341] There
must be a distinct recognition that it is genuine pain which we are
enjoying before the sense of being a spectator arises, and we can
become conscious that we are playing with our emotions. The various
feelings which may be involved in this process are physical pain,
mental suffering, surprise, and fear. Besides these four, the mixed
feeling of suspension between pain and pleasure might be mentioned, but
as it has already been referred to it will be included in our treatment
of surprise.


1. _Physical Pain_

I have frequently had occasion to note that we commonly enjoy stimuli
whose effect is distinctly disagreeable because they are calculated
to satisfy our craving for intense impressions. A sensitive tooth
is constantly visited by the tongue, a stiff neck is constantly
experimented with, any slight wound is repeatedly pressed and rubbed,
etc. Hall[342] and Allin testify that this is especially the case in
childhood. We have already noticed the shock of a cold bath and the
sting of sharp drinks. The pleasure which we derive from eating pungent
horseradish, which brings tears to the eyes, is a relative, distant and
humble it is true, but still unmistakably a relative of our enjoyment
of tragedy. Our satisfaction in strong, self-produced excitement is
so intense as to make physical pain to a great extent enjoyable. It
is true that while these phenomena are so far quite normal, secret
but direct paths connect them with the realm of pathology. While some
individuals display this in a somewhat anomalous desire for taste
stimuli, in others pleasure in petty self-torture develops into a
sort of sport, having as its object not merely a test of their power
of endurance (of that we shall speak in the section on will) but some
obscure delight in actual suffering as well. Cardanus confesses in
his autobiography to a diseased condition which could not dispense
with pain, so that if he found himself perfectly comfortable he was
at once moved by an irresistible impulse to torture his body until
tears came. Mantegazza tells of a veteran who took a strange delight
in scratching the inflamed edges of an old wound in his leg.[343] In
some forms of insanity the patient maltreats his person, inflicting the
most frightful wounds and mutilations, which would be incredible if
his sensibilities were not to a great degree blunted. In the attempt
to explain these phenomena some have thought them an exception to the
rule that pleasure accompanies only what is in some way useful, but
it seems to me that a sufficient explanation of normal cases is found
in the utility of the experimental impulse, which in seeking strong
stimuli takes a certain amount of pain with the rest. So long as
pleasure predominates over pain in the experience, play is possible.
In pathological cases sexual excitement is often aroused sufficiently
to neutralize the suffering, and where this is not the case we must
suppose a perverse directing of the fighting instinct against one’s own
body, furthered by the deadening of sensibility to pain.


2. _Mental Suffering_

Psychologists have given special attention to the enjoyment which is
derived from contemplating unpleasant images and subjects. Perhaps
the most familiar passage on the subject is that of Spencer’s on the
luxury of grief, yet, as he himself admits, his idea of self-pity does
not clear it up, and he goes on: “It seems possible that the sentiment
which makes a sufferer wish to be alone with his grief, and makes him
resist all distraction from it, may arise from dwelling on the contrast
between his own worth as he conceives it, and the treatment he has
received—either from his fellow-beings or from a power which he is
prone to think of anthropomorphically. If he feels that he has deserved
much while he has received little, and still more if instead of good
there has come evil, the consciousness of this evil is qualified by the
consciousness of worth, made pleasurably dominant by the contrast....
That this explanation is the true one, I feel by no means clear.
I throw it out simply as a suggestion, confessing that this is a
peculiar emotion which neither analysis nor synthesis enables me to
understand.”[344] This is indeed an unsatisfactory explanation, and the
play idea seems to bring us nearer to one, for here, as in the case of
physical pain, it is the deep-rooted need of our nature for intense
stimuli which enables us to enjoy our own suffering. That unassuageable
longing of Faust which had exhausted the meagre emotional recourses of
study, and now dragged him out in search of life and experience, was
a longing for both pleasure and pain, since both could stir up life’s
deep sea, which now lay stagnant:

  “Sturzen wer uns in das Rauschen der Zeit,
   Ins Rollen der Begebenheit!
   Da mag denn Schmerz und Genuss,
   Gelingen und Verdruss
   Mit einander wechseln, wie es kann
   Nur raselos bethätigt sich der Mann.”

Contemplative natures, not given to activity, have a tendency to play
with their suffering, and by a strange division of consciousness stand
as on some rocky height, beholding with pleased appreciation the
foaming torrent of their own feelings. In the closing chapter of my
Play of Animals I treated the subject of divided consciousness at some
length, and will not here repeat what is said there. For a specific
instance we need only point to the artist who brings a tragic tale to
a close with real regret, and, in spite of the suffering it has caused
him, is filled with the joy in being a cause, in his power to create.
When Kleist finished Penthesilia in Dresden he went to his friend
Pfuel in tears. “She is dead!” he wailed, and yet, in spite of his
deep and genuine grief over the death of his heroine, in the depths
of his soul he was conscious of joy in his creation. This is a good
example of play with mental suffering, and Marie Bashkirtseff furnishes
another illustration which I have cited in my earlier work. “Can one
believe it?” she writes in her journal, at the age of thirteen; “I find
everything good and beautiful, even tears and pain. I love to weep,
I love to despair, I love to be sad. I love life in spite of all; I
wish to live. I must be happy, and am happy to be miserable. My body
weeps and moans, but something in me that is above me enjoys it all.”
By these words she reveals most clearly that division of consciousness
in which, behind the suffering I, another seems to stand, which has
the power to change the grief to bliss. Goethe, too, seems often to
have felt the same. His Werther blames himself because he is prone to
cower before petty ills. Further than this there is such a thing as
emotional pessimism founded on temperament. For Schopenhauer it was an
evident satisfaction to work himself up to a condition of the utmost
indignation over the evils of the world. Kuno Fischer has sharply
exposed this playful characteristic of his pessimism. It is true, he
says, that Schopenhauer takes a serious and even tragic view of the
world, but, after all, it is only a view, a spectacle, a picture.
“The world tragedy is played in a theatre; he sits in the audience on
a comfortable divan commanding the stage, using his opera glass with
discretion. Many of the spectators forget the suffering world at the
buffet, none follow the tragedy with such close attention, such deep
earnestness, such a comprehensive glance as his. Then, deeply moved and
soul-satisfied, he goes home and writes down what he has seen.”[345]
Melancholy, too, in the ordinary sense, not the pathological, belongs
here, the melancholy of lovers, poets, and artists, the condition
typified by the phrase “dégustation complaisante de la tristesse.”[346]

Finally, pleasure in the tragic, of which we have spoken in another
connection, should be mentioned here. Augustine, the great prober into
the problems of the soul, has set forth this question with inimitable
clearness in the third book of his Confessions. “Why,” says he, “should
a man sadden himself by voluntarily witnessing what is painful? The
spectator does undeniably feel sad, and the very sadness is a pleasure.
How can we explain this sympathy with unreal, theatrical sorrows? The
hope of ultimate rescue is not the only thing that appeals to him—it
is the actual accumulation of misery as well, and he praises the play
in proportion as it moves him. When common woes are so represented as
not to affect the hearer, he goes away dissatisfied and complaining.
If he is affected, on the contrary, he listens attentively, and weeps
with delight.” If I understand Augustine aright, he finds the solution
of the puzzle in the idea of a sort of sympathy which he distinguishes
from real or moral sympathy, and which is at bottom nothing else than
the play of inner imitation, that æsthetic feeling of fellowship
of which we shall hear more later. He puts his finger on the real
reason why fellow-feeling for the sufferer has a special charm when
he admits that tragic representation affected him with sharp, creepy
sensations, like the scratching of a finger nail. Thus he concludes,
as we have done, that the foundation of enjoyment of tragedy is the
result of intensive stimuli. As Du Bos[347] remarks, we take the pain
accompanying the emotion in the bargain because we like the emotion,
the agitation of feeling, so well. This recalls the Aristotelian dogma
of the catharsis, but the objection to this theory lies, as its name
implies, in the fact that it seeks a practical end for the play of
æsthetic pleasure. For Aristotle the question is to establish the
purifying effects of a thunderstorm, not the enjoyment of its grandeur,
and for this reason the doctrine of the catharsis, however clear it
may be, does not directly answer our question. Delight in the tragic
element is not concerned with the lull after the storm, but only with
the surging might of the tempest itself, in which we are playfully
involved. Weil and Bernays seem to me to have the right idea when they
speak of the need for violent emotional play, and of enjoyment of
ecstatic conditions. And Lessing also, when he says that strong passion
gives more reality to feeling. But it is doubtful whether Aristotle
considered this side of the question in forming his theory.


3. _Surprise_

Surprise is connected with fear, and for this reason is in itself a
disagreeable sensation; yet, on account of its strong psychophysical
effect—namely, the shock which it produces—it becomes highly enjoyable
in play, and displays, perhaps more clearly than any of the other
cases, the charm of strong stimuli. Children indulge very early in play
involving the shock of surprise, and its effectiveness as a means of
giving pleasure becomes more and more intense. Darwin relates that his
son, from the one hundred and tenth day, was wildly delighted when a
handkerchief was laid over his face and then suddenly withdrawn, or
when his father’s face was hidden and revealed in this way. “He then
uttered a little noise, which was an incipient laugh.” I referred
to this in speaking of expectancy, which, indeed, goes hand in hand
with surprise, however opposed they may appear, since surprise which
is entirely unexpected is of course no part of play. There is always
playful experimentation with the shock when we expect it, but do not
know when or in what form it will appear. It is just this combination
which makes the emotional effect of surprise greater than it would
otherwise be. When, for example, we hold a lighted match over a lamp,
we are the more startled by the slight explosion because we have
attentively awaited it; and there are many games for children in which
the combined effect of expectation and surprise furnish an essential
part of the pleasure, such as those where persons or objects are
hidden. The excitement, too, which is caused by loud and sudden sounds
is of the same character. M. Reischle, in his fine paper on child’s
play, distinguishes a special group of expectation and surprise games,
and points out that the little ones peek while their comrades are
hiding, and yet are overjoyed to find them, and apparently surprised.
In many throwing and catching games both elements are influential in
heightening the stimulus, and special plays grow out of them, such
as “Hide-and-Seek,” “Blind-Man’s Buff,” “Drop the Handkerchief,” as
well as many games of chance. Indeed, in the last named the stimulus
of surprise is often of special importance,[348] and one of the chief
sources of pleasure is the tension of expectancy followed by the
sudden decision on the fall of dice.

Yet more interesting is the significance of surprise in relation to the
comic. While the latter is more than a play with surprise, this feature
becomes a factor that should by no means be overlooked in studying
comic effects, especially when we reflect that previous efforts to
explain this modification of aesthetic enjoyment have proved abortive,
possibly through failure to give due weight to this very element. E.
Hecker advances the theory, it is true, that laughter from tickling
accounts for the origin of enjoyment of the comic, but in this purely
physiological explanation he seems to overlook the fact that as a rule
we laugh only when we are tickled, not when we tickle ourselves—that
is to say, that contact with finger tips becomes tickling only when
the hand is a strange one. Even in physical tickling, then, there must
be some psychic factors, of which surprise may be one, even though it
is inadequate alone to explain the phenomena. The fact that surprise
not carried far enough to frighten is one of the first causes of
laughter in children gives colour to this idea. Zeising has shown
conclusively that there is a double surprise in the comic, the first
being the intuitive start at something unusual, and contrasted with
what is normal and typic, be it occasioned by some anomaly in the
object itself or depending only on the momentary _milieu_—such, for
instance, as the ridiculous appearance of a tiny cottage in a row of
palatial residences.[349] This first shock is followed by a moment of
suspense. “When the entirely unexpected happens,” says Goethe in Tasso,
“the mind stands still for a moment,” which again is interrupted by
the new surprise of finding the first one negatived or reversed.[350]
Here we have the counter shock, whose pleasurable effect is strong
enough to more than neutralize the first, and render their combined
result agreeable.[351] As Kant, with his unrivalled penetration, has
remarked, we play with the error as with a ball, tossing it back
and forth and looking after it each time; in this way we are hurried
through a succession of tensions and relaxations.

While this illustration shows clearly how the essence of comicality is
due to the peculiar character of the double shock, yet it remains true
that even in this case surprise as such is pleasurable, and plays its
part in the complicated effect.


4. _Fear_

That even fear, the most abject of all affections, may become the
object of playful experimentation is one of the riddles of soul
life. Here, too, we can only apply the theory of pleasure in intense
stimulus to that of divided consciousness. When Lukrez dwells upon
the pleasure of gazing on a stormy sea from the vantage ground of
a rocky crag he illustrates this state, only here the soul is both
in the midst of the storm and on the rocks as well. Apart from and
above the terror-stricken personality stands another, safe and free,
and enjoying the fascination of painful excitement. For the power
of fear is fascinating, even benumbing in its effect. Souriau says:
“I remember, as a child, seeing a snake, cut in two by a spade,
convulsively writhing on the garden walk. The sight filled me with
terror, which rooted me to the spot. Fascinated, I stood perfectly
still, my eyes following the agonized twisting of the creature while
I felt waves of pain surging through my own body.”[352] Of course,
such a condition can be playful only in case of an æsthetic illusion
when the fear is but apparent, and may be dispelled at will, and when
pleasure is stronger than pain in the experience. Nevertheless, there
are transitions between real and apparent fear which are particularly
operative when curiosity becomes the counter irritant. Every one’s
childhood will furnish an example of this. George Sand tells us how
she as a little girl tried with a playmate to get a glimpse into the
spirit world by means of mystic oaths and incantations. The children
waited long in fear and trembling, for blue flames, protruding devil’s
horns, etc. This was only a play, “but a play that set our hearts
beating.”[353] Although fear in this instance has more the character of
a necessary accompaniment than of an object of play, real delight in
the gruesome is undeniably evident in the world of art. In the first
place, there are legends and stories with horrible fantasies. The
child is wrapped in breathless interest in accounts of ghosts, wicked
magicians, werewolves, etc., and while safe in his own home enjoys
the terrors which these ideas excite. As a small boy I listened with
nameless horror to the crude account of the fate of Faust secretly
read to me by our gardener out of a popular book. I remember how, when
the devil led Faust through the ceiling, his skull was broken and his
brains spattered on the wall. For some time after that I was afraid to
pass shady places in the garden, even in the daytime. With older boys
descriptions of battles and adventures, and, above all, Indian stories,
take the place of fairy tales. The Leather Stocking Tales were my chief
delight, especially The Pathfinder, and I can still recall the rapt
attention with which I followed the frightful perils which threatened
my hero, whenever I could get a quarter of an hour off. How meagre is
our capacity for æsthetic enjoyment in later years compared with the
absolute, unconditional surrender to it of a youthful soul! Adults
enjoy the gruesome in poetic creations such as those of Hoffman and
Victor Hugo. When we read of the struggle with the polypus in Toilers
of the Sea the strong stimulus imparted by fear is certainly the chief
source of pleasure. My grandfather in extreme old age liked nothing
better than to read such thrilling tales of hairbreadth escapes, and
the strong preference for detective stories evinced by the masses is
based on the same grounds. Savages, too, like children, always prefer
tales which deal with demons and magic.

Finally, we must notice an æsthetic phase which is related to
fear—namely, exaltation. Since Kant’s thoroughgoing elucidation the
principle is fixed that exaltation is the result of a rebound from
fear. First depression, then exaltation. At first, the object of our
reverence oppresses us, and for a moment we are painfully conscious of
our impotence and nothingness; then comes a reaction; we throw off the
oppression and begin to study the revered object with serious pleasure.
In my Einleitung in die Aesthetik I did not attribute the first part of
this process to æsthetic pleasure, because I found that inner imitation
on which I based my investigation only in the second stage.[354]
While I still regard it as the highest and most important element in
æsthetics, yet I am aware that my view as there presented was somewhat
one-sided, as is almost unavoidably the case if one attempts to
carry out a theory systematically. As I shall return to this point,
let it suffice to say here that probably the depression itself is
pleasurable, and so forms a part of the æsthetic satisfaction. It is
characteristic of our complex natures that along with our demand to
control our surroundings we also feel the need of the domination of a
higher power. When we encounter an incontestably overpowering force we
gladly surrender unconditionally, and take pleasure in acknowledging
that we are insignificant and helpless. The significance of this spirit
for religion is apparent. Schiller has designated awe as the noblest
human trait, and Schleiermacher found the springs of religion in the
feeling of dependence. The first stage in the satisfaction derived from
exaltation is akin to this when we enjoy our self-abasement in order to
render more conspicuous the subsequent expansion of an individuality,
in the second stage when by the exercise of inner imitation we identify
ourselves with the revered object, thus partaking of the greatness
which at first overawed us. While it is true that only the second
part of this process attains the summit of enjoyment, the first, too,
is playful. “How felt I myself so small—so great?” asks Faust, and
attributes both sentiments to the selfsame moment. This play with
depression is facilitated by repeating the whole process frequently.
The mind is not only attracted to the object, but alternately repelled
from it, and in this process of repetition depression assumes more and
more the character of play.


C. EXPERIMENTATION WITH THE WILL

Since our inquiry in this closing section is not as to the general use
of the will in play, but rather into playful experimentation with the
will itself, we must direct our attention to the control of movement.
Play requires that those movements which depend on both inherited and
acquired brain paths shall be under voluntary control. The pleasure
accompanying this control is founded on the feeling of freedom and of
mastery over self; and it is to be specially noted that almost all the
related phenomena take the form of contests and appeal to the fighting
instincts. The majority of cases require the suppression of emotional
expression or of such reflexes as are connected with them. Thus, for
example, winking is not an expression of emotion in the ordinary sense,
and yet when it follows closely on the sudden presentation of some
object before the eyes it seems to indicate that the person is startled
or even terrified. Children often play with this refractory reflex, one
moving his hand rapidly before the eyes of another, who makes desperate
efforts to keep them open, and a forfeit game is played as follows: Two
persons sit or stand opposite one another; one moves his hand close to
the other’s eyes while the following colloquy takes place: “Are you
going in the woods?” “Yes.” “Going to take some bread with you?” “Yes.”
“And you want some salt on it?” “Yes.” “Are you afraid of the wolf?” If
he holds his eyes open all the time he is not afraid, but if he winks
he must pay a forfeit.[355] The attempt is often made, too, to resist
the impulse to laugh while two persons gaze into each other’s eyes.
Indeed, such games are too numerous to mention. The effort to repress
the expression of pain is still more interesting. Self-control during
the suffering of physical pain is everywhere regarded as a proof of
manliness, and is earnestly cultivated by savages as by our own boys.
The quiet submission to painful tattooing, the endurance displayed by
Indian children often in gruesome ways, the effort of our schoolboys to
bear corporal punishment unflinchingly, the self-control of students
who joke while their wounds are being sewed, and—to carry the struggle
against self-betrayal into the field of mental suffering as well—the
apparent indifference of gamblers to the reverses of fortune; while
all of these can by no means be called playful, still the cases are
sufficiently numerous in which there is actual playful experimentation
with the powers of endurance. For example, Rochholz describes this
test: Two persons strike the knuckles of the doubled-up fists together,
and measure their will power by the length of time that they can
endure the pain. Another is to strike the first and middle fingers
against those of the other person. A friend of mine told me that as a
boy (probably after reading some Indian tales) he once wagered with
a comrade as to how long they could hold lighted matches in their
fingers. He won the bet, but had to go with a bandaged hand for a long
time.

A playful exercise of the will which suppresses not only every
admission of suffering, but the fighting instinct as well, is related
by Goethe of his youth. After remarking that “very many sports of youth
depend on a rivalry in such endurance, as, for example, when they
strike with two fingers or the whole hand until the limbs are numb,” he
goes on: “As I made a sort of boast of this endurance, the others were
piqued, and as rude barbarity knows no limits, they managed to push me
beyond my bounds. Let one instance serve to illustrate. It happened one
morning that the teacher did not appear at the hour of recitation. As
long as all the children were together we entertained ourselves very
well, but when my friends left after waiting the usual time, the others
took it into their heads to torment and shame me and to drive me away.
Leaving the room for a moment, they came back with switches from a
broom. I saw what they meant to do, and, supposing the end of the hour
to be near, I at once resolved to resist them until the clock struck.
They lashed my legs unmercifully, and in a way that was actually
cruel. I did not stir, but soon found that I had miscalculated the
time, and that pain greatly lengthened the minutes. My rage swelled
the more I endured, and at the first stroke of the clock I grasped my
most unsuspecting assailant by the hair, hurled him to the floor in an
instant, pressing my knee upon his back. The second, who was younger
and weaker, and who attacked me in the rear, I held with his head under
my arm. The last, and not the weakest, remained, and only my left hand
was free, but I caught hold of his clothes, and by a dexterous twist on
my part and an awkward slip on his, I brought him down too, striking
his face on the floor.”

Another impulse whose suppression is sometimes an end in play is
imitation. Perhaps the most familiar game illustrating it is “All
Birds Fly,” in which one of the children says “Pigeons fly, ducks fly,
bears fly,” etc., and raises her hands in the air each time, while
the others must follow her example only when a bird is mentioned. The
Mufti-comme-ça described by Wagner is similar. All stand in a circle
except the one who is in the centre making various motions. When he
calls out “Mufti,” all stand still; but when he continues “comme ça,”
they imitate him. In the English “Simon says,” the players make all
the gestures that he commands, regardless of those which he may be
making.[356]

All these examples are concerned with the repression of inborn
reflexes, expressive movements, and instincts, but acquired habits
are no less difficult to withstand. Many games are founded on the
assumption that the ability to do so is a proof of will power,
and emphasizes the freedom and self-control of the subject. It is
particularly well illustrated in vocal exercises. To omit a particular
syllable in a familiar rhythmic verse, or possibly several verses,
requires a sudden check to the accustomed movements. A well-known
German example is the song—

  “Europa hat Ruhe,
   Europa hat Ruh’,
   Und wenn Europa Ruhe hat,
   So hat Europa Ruh’”—

in which the first, second, or third syllable of the word Europa, or
even the word or all the other words, are omitted. Kreis mentions a
similar play for children. It consists simply in substituting other
meanings for the words (stretching for bending, for example), so that
when the order is given “Bend,” the arm is stretched out, etc.[357]
There is such a thing, too, as playful resistance of old habits. How
many smokers resolve as a sort of jest to do without cigars for a week!
It is the merest playful experimentation; they want to see if they are
really absolute slaves of the pleasant vice, or whether the habit is
still under the control of their will. If the experiment succeeds, they
contentedly go back to their cigars; it is not at all a serious effort
to reform. Many frivolous persons play thus with their habits, and take
a childish delight in the little conquests achieved by their will, yet
without permanently or seriously altering their manner of living.




PART II

_THE PLAYFUL EXERCISE OF IMPULSES OF
THE SECOND OR SOCIONOMIC[358] ORDER_


I. FIGHTING PLAY

Our conception of experimentation includes a large number of phenomena
having the common tendency to bring into action the manifold inborn
predispositions of the organism, but without reference to those
instincts by means of which the relation of the individual to other
living creatures is regulated. In experimentation only the more general
needs, such as are indubitably grounded in the nature of the organism,
are allowed expression, in such a manner as to bring into action the
sensor and motor apparatus as well as the higher mental faculties. The
individual would exhibit similar qualities in isolation; he plays with
himself, not with his relations to others, and even when association
exists, as, for instance, in ball-catching, he recognises at the same
time that experimental play is involved. Now, however, we enter on
the consideration of such play as is intentionally directed toward
other beings, and first on our list is the inborn impulse to fight.
Walther von der Vogelweide has shown the power of this instinct in the
impressive lines:

  “Des Stromes Wellen rauschten kühl;
   Ich sah darin der Fische Spiel.
   Ich sah, was ringsum in der Welt:
   Den Wald, das Laub, Rohr, Gras und Feld,
   Und was da alles kriecht und fliegt
   Und seine Bein’ zur Erde biegt.
   Dis sah ich, und ich sag’ Euch das
   Keins lebt von ihnen ohne Hass.”

  “The stream’s waves murmured oolly;
   I saw the fishes playing there;
   I saw all that was in the whole round world;
   In wood, and bower, and marsh and mead, and field,
   All things which creep and fly,
   And put a foot to earth.
   All these I saw, and say to you,
   That nothing lives among them without hate.”

In our common speech, too, life is referred to as a battle, and is
in reality too often a general struggle for money or power. It is
but natural, then, to find the fighting impulse developed early in
childhood and practised in play. Indeed, the demand for its exercise is
so strong that there is scarcely any form of play which may not take on
the character of a contest. Especially is this the case when there is
any difficulty to overcome or danger to be encountered. “Both danger
and difficulty,” says Lazarus, “appear as incarnated opponents over
whom it is possible to gain a victory.”[359] In the same way play with
lifeless objects is easily converted into a contest by the force of
æsthetic illusion. As numerous examples of such intensive stimulation
of the fighting impulse have already been given, I shall here mention
only the mountain climber’s struggle with lofty peaks. In this chapter
such collateral themes must be avoided, as we shall find our immediate
problem very wide. In order to discriminate as to the relative
importance of the various fighting plays the following division of the
subject will prove convenient: First, there are direct fighting plays
in which the contestants immediately measure their strength, whether
mental or physical. The second group is composed of indirect fighting
plays where the victory is sought through means of conducting the
contest. Among the mental phases of this we find betting and gambling.
In the third group we place merely offensive sports in which no defence
is possible or availing, such as playful destructiveness, teasing, and
the enjoyment of the comic (so far as it is connected with fighting at
all). After disposing of all these, two subdivisions yet remain: first,
playful chasing, fleeing, and hiding (hunting plays); and, second, the
enjoyment of witnessing a contest.


1. _Direct Physical Fighting Play_

Any one who takes the hand of a two-year-old child and strikes himself
with it, pretending to be much hurt, can not doubt after seeing the
delight displayed by the little creature, the pleasurable effect of the
discharge of this impulse so deeply seated in human nature. Yet the
fighting instinct seems to be comparatively late in assuming the form
of regular independent playful contests. Unprovoked tussling merely
for the fun of the thing seldom appears earlier than the third year,
while young bears, dogs, and other animals begin such play almost
at once. In this youthful tussling the chief aim is to throw one’s
opponent to the ground and to hold him in this helpless position. So
far as my observation goes in this little-investigated sphere, very
small boys seldom stand for their combats. Usually one already seated
seizes his comrade, who may be standing near, by the foot, pulls him
down, and they fight, rolling over on the floor, and each seeking to
keep the upper hand. The effort is constantly made to keep the enemy’s
head down, a position so distasteful to the party concerned that the
scene threatens to end in noisy and serious strife. As the children
grow older they gradually formulate rules for their contests partly
through imitation of their elders and partly as the result of their
own experience. As with adults, the proper grip of the opponent’s
body is an important point. “He caught him by the waist, where he was
weakest” is quoted as far back as the Hildebrandslied. For throwing,
it is often necessary to slip the hand through the other’s arms and
give him a sudden twist, or to place one arm on his neck and push him
backward. The legs, too, have their part to do. Sometimes a boy is
thrown across a projected knee, or a leg is thrust outward to check
the fall when the attempt is made to throw sideways by lifting. Or the
method adopted by Odysseus in an extremity may be employed—a sudden
blow dealt at the bend of his opponent’s knee being the cause of his
overthrow. Usually the fight ends at this point,[360] but sometimes
the tussling is continued on the ground, as described above, and the
playful character is very apt to be lost. Sometimes it happens, on the
contrary, that the fight is over before either contestant is thrown.
I saw two boys wrestling, when one of them was lucky enough to get a
good grip on his opponent’s body, but the latter could bend his head
back, whereupon they desisted and called it a tie. There is often an
effort to take the enemy unawares, as when a boy leaps unexpectedly
on his opponent’s back, gives him a violent push, or runs against him
forcibly. Suddenly dousing one another with water is another favourite
if not very pleasant youthful sport.

Prize fighting by adults seems to have been generally practised in
Europe as well as in other parts of the world from remote antiquity.
The ancient Egyptians were zealous wrestlers. Among the Greeks, where
the art was extraordinarily developed, it often became brutal; breaking
the fingers and throttling were allowed, and a familiar sculptured
group shows a cruel twisting of the arms to hold down the thrown
wrestler. Ring fighting was practised by both boys and men among early
Germans, as numerous ethnological remains demonstrate. In Japan, prize
fighting is as much a national sport as is bull baiting in Spain.
Bastian saw it in Burma, Ratzel among the Eskimos, Indians, Hawaiians,
etc., and other observers in remote parts of the earth. Among the
Brazilian Bororó friendly contests are governed by the following rules:
“To seize a man by his right wrist is a challenge. The two contestants
face one another, and each places his hands on the other’s shoulders
or on the small of the back. In this position they must stand with
bodies perfectly erect,[361] their feet wide apart, and each looking
toward the other’s back. They maintain a good-humoured silence for some
time, and then suddenly become very much in earnest, and make desperate
efforts to throw one another by tripping. One usually opens the attack
by thrusting one of his heels into the knee hollow of his opponent
and trying to bend it, but the other is prepared, and sets his sturdy
leg so far back that the effort is fruitless. Attack and resistance
on both sides follow in rapid succession until one of the contestants
falls.”[362]

Here, too, is opportunity for the application of the wiles practised
by Odysseus when the mighty Ajax lifted him off his feet.

           “... Still his craft not deserted Odysseus:
   He dealt a blow from the back and loosened the joint of his knee
   So that backward he fell and Odysseus sank down above him
   Right on his broad chest. And the people around were amazed.”

In von den Steinen’s description of the Brazilian customs, the effort
to pull down the head, mentioned above in connection with childish
wrestling, is dwelt upon as the chief aim instead of the grip on the
waist. “The contestants, representatives of different tribes, come
forward in pairs, their bodies smeared with yellowish red _uruku_,
and with black. They stoop, catch up a handful of sand, and in a
crouching position, with hands hanging down, they rapidly circle round
each other, casting angry glances at their opponents, and calling out
threateningly, ‘Húuha! húuha!’ Then one touches his right hand to his
adversary’s left, and at this signal they all leap to the attack,
springing up and down as fast as possible on the same spot, not unlike
angry apes, each seeking to seize and bend down the other’s head. This
violent exercise goes on for some time without any direct attempt to
throw one another. They are very friendly after it is over, and may be
seen walking about with their arms around each other’s shoulders.”

As a last example I quote Berlepsch’s graphic description of the
Schwingen as practised in the Swiss Alps. Shirt and trunks are the
only articles of clothing allowed, and the latter expose half the
thigh, and must be made of stout, strong drilling. Every man grasps
with his right hand the waistband of his opponent, and with his left
the rolled-up trouser leg, and now begin, either standing or kneeling,
violent efforts to overthrow one another. For a complete conquest this
must be accomplished twice.[363] The struggle is especially exciting
when the contestants represent different valleys, and on them rests
the responsibility of maintaining the honour of their native place.
“As soon as the two athletes have taken the proper grip they sink on
their right knees and withdraw the lower part of the body as far as a
good hold will permit. If one has reason to fear that he is about to
be lifted, he lies flat down on his stomach and the other must follow
suit. In this unnatural position they torment one another for half an
hour at a time, writhing on the ground like snakes, and stretching
sinews and muscles until their faces grow dark with the strain. If
neither can manage to overcome his opponent by endurance, superior
strength, or strategy, they at last voluntarily abandon the conflict,
utterly exhausted, and shake hands on their prowess, but neither can
claim a victory.”[364] So-called tests of strength are similar to
this.[365] In pulling contests the attempt is made to draw the opponent
toward one, sometimes by the hands—in the Bavarian mountains it is done
by hooking the middle fingers together—sometimes by seizing a stick
at its ends or across, sometimes with a rope, as the Greek boys did,
sometimes by a band around the neck, which serves to strengthen the
muscles of the back,[366] and sometimes by hooking one knee of each
together, so that the contestants can only hop about on one foot until
the contest is decided. Another test of strength is the pushing which
children usually take up of themselves, as many schoolroom benches
could testify. In Japanese contests pushing across a line seems to
be a leading feature. Zettler gives the following description of it:
“Japanese prize fighters are trained to their profession through
centuries of inheritance from father to son, and by every conceivable
means calculated to produce perfect specimens of their kind. In stature
they are veritable giants, not only in height but in the development
of all the limbs and masses of fat, which would not lead one to expect
special adroitness or muscular force. In their ring contests the effort
is made either to throw or to push one another off the arena, which is
an elevated circular platform thickly strewn with sand and surrounded
with a double ring of straw. Whoever makes one step over the edge is
lost. Weight is of great use in this contest.” Children frequently make
use of a combination of pulling and pushing, which is really imitative
play. One child, for instance, takes his position on a sand heap and
defends himself against another who represents the enemy storming his
castle. From the well-nigh innumerable tests of strength we may select
the following as typical: The players stand with outstretched arms
opposite one another, seize hands and pull, or one stands firm with
stiffened arms while the other tries to stir him, or they sit in such
a way that the knees of one are caught between those of the other, and
the effort is made to force the legs apart; or sometimes it is to open
the rolled-up fist, etc.[367]

Fighting with fists leads the way to fighting with weapons, though the
rolled-up fist is used by the angry child as a weapon earlier than the
open hand. In playful fighting, however, the blow with the fist is not
much used. Sometimes a little playful boxing is indulged in, but it is
difficult to keep within the bounds of play in a fisticuff. Gymnastic
exercises of this kind as practised by the Greeks and English are more
important. Among the former blows were aimed at the head, and, “to
strengthen the blow,” says Fedde, “the fist and forearm were wrapped
with thongs of oxhide, which left the fingers free to double up the
fist. Later a strip or ring of hard leather was added, which, as it
was held around the ball of the fist, inflicted severe wounds, being
sometimes studded with nails or lead knobs. The soft leather thongs
of earlier times were called friends (μείλιγαι), while the dangerous
knobs in later use received the name of bullets (σφαῖραι), and a
specially cruel kind of gloves were ants (μύρμηκες).”[368] That not
only practised athletes used these, and that they were donned in the
playful contests of mere boys, is proved by the speech of Lucien’s
Scythian, Anacharsis. “And those standing so straight there,” he says
as he is observing the youthful sports, “beat one another and kick
with the feet. There is one who has been hit on the chin, and his
mouth is full of blood and sand, and his teeth almost knocked out,
poor fellow, and yet the archon does not separate them and end the
strife. On the contrary, he urges them on and praises the one who gives
the blow.”[369] Raydt says of English boxing: “An English specialty
in physical exercise is boxing, practised methodically and with all
possible skill. The fists are incased in thickly wadded gloves, which
render the blows harmless, and a distinction is made between extreme
severity and lighter strokes, the tactics admitting of felling an
opponent by the former or exhausting him with the latter. The boxing
which I have seen was carried on in an orderly and decorous manner, and
still I was convinced that it is a very severe exercise, and should not
be introduced into the schools.”[370] Regular boxing matches, requiring
seconds and an umpire, as they are given by the students, are fought
either to settle some dispute—“Fighting with fists is the natural and
English way for English boys to settle their quarrels,” is said in Tom
Brown’s School Days—or as a spectacle for a large audience to witness.
In both cases it is fighting play only when the belligerent instinct
as such forms the chief motive, and when, too, the quarrel in one
case, or the prize offered and desire for self-display in the other,
gives occasion for the exercise of the fighting instinct. There can be
no doubt that this is often the case. Like our own students, English
youths often fight, not because they have any quarrel, but because they
seek one, because they want to fight, and the struggle thus becomes not
the means but actually the end. The case is frequently the same with
prize fighting. Professional boxers at the beginning of the nineteenth
century were to a great extent rough fellows, who were only after
money, or at best notoriety. But Conan Doyle has recently given us in
his Rodney Stone a masterly description of a blacksmith who was a good
husband and a skilful workman, yet even in his old age could not resist
an invitation to take part in a public prize fight. What primarily
influenced this man was a deep-rooted manly enjoyment of fighting for
the fight’s sake, and many Greek and English athletes have felt as he
did.

Another primitive method of fighting is by throwing missiles; even
monkeys throw stones, dry branches, and fruit. Miss Romanes’s ape was
very sensitive to ridicule. One day the tailoress came into the room,
and a nut was given to the monkey to open with his hammer, as he knew
how to do. The nut proved to be empty, and the woman could not help
laughing at the monkey’s blank expression. “He then became very angry,
and threw at her everything he could lay his hands on—first the nut,
then the hammer, then a coffee-pot, which he seized out of the grate,
and lastly all his own shawls. He threw things with great force and
precision by holding them in both hands and extending his long arms
well back over his head before projecting the missile, standing erect
the while.”[371]

The child begins very early to throw things to the ground, as we have
seen, and seems to delight in watching their motion as well as in the
noise. Later the child turns the skill thus acquired to the account
of his fighting instinct, and in this way genuine offensive throwing
begins as soon as he is able to tumble about alone. The enjoyment is
doubled when it becomes not only a question of hitting the enemy, but
of dodging his missiles as well. The prettiest and most harmless form
of such sport is snowballing; but also fruit, cherry stones, clods
of earth, pebbles, hay in the meadows, pillows from the beds, etc.,
all serve the same purpose. Some games of ball, too, are of a similar
character. K. Weinhold tells us how he as a boy played against his
comrades with a six-pound cannon ball. The wonder is that no bones
were broken. “Less fortunate,” he continues, “were the islanders who
indulged in this mad folly, for in their case it was punished. On a
holiday the contest between boatmen and landsmen was begun, and after
several days the latter retired as victors. The boatmen, stung by
the taunts of their conquerors, took counsel with their friend Hard
Grimkelssohn, who advised them to make balls of horn and challenge
the shore people to another game. That evening six of the latter lay
dead, while the boatmen lost not a single man.”[372] In many ball
games, however, the players do not themselves catch the ball, which
is sent to a base or home, as in the English game of football. Behind
each party is a base consisting of two upright posts and a connecting
rod, and each side endeavours to get the ball over the other’s base
or to prevent such a result when it threatens their own. This is a
specialized form of reciprocal mass contest, since the enemy is not
attacked in person, but the effort is made to wrest from him a symbolic
stronghold, as is common in mental contests. There are many similar
ball games—for instance, baseball—where the ball is thrown by hand
and its analogue found among the North American Indians; and cricket,
where a single player, armed with a bat, defends the easily approached
wicket. The idea is carried further when the ball which is thrown
becomes the goal as well, so that the same instrument is at once weapon
and symbol of the enemy. Playful pelting is indulged in in carnival
times, when berries and confetti are thrown about promiscuously; in
former times there were many occasions for this lively sort of play.
Travellers experience the primitive impulse which makes it hard for
them to resist the temptation to throw when in midsummer they stand in
a little snow field, and students are universally given to throwing
beer mugs, in spite of its being occasionally dangerous. The principle
of returning offensive missiles is not much applied in play, and yet I
remember that as a boy I enjoyed shooting with bow and arrow at another
boy similarly armed. We stood about fifteen feet apart and tried to hit
each other with light and harmless cane arrows. A still more innocent
battle was fought with popgun and berries.

It is doubtful whether children really play with thrusting weapons;
they rather exercise than fight with their wooden swords and spears,
but when it comes to an offensive use of the weapons play turns
to earnest, and, as with the young Goethe, ends disastrously in
quarrelling and blows. Boys who are much older engage in actual
fighting plays with such weapons, but it is left to the students’
duels to exhibit its highly developed form. Some years ago the
half-grown sons of a professor in a university town went to a fencing
hall and fought out a regular contest in a perfectly friendly spirit,
although it was by no means bloodless. Many readers will no doubt
recall such incidents. Such contests between boys and young men are
very interesting, and in Germany we distinguish between them and real
duels in that they are playful, while the latter are brought about by
some serious offence. That serious wounds sometimes result from these
fencing matches is no argument against their playful character, for
many games are dangerous, and these contests certainly come within
our definition of a play, the satisfaction afforded by them being
not in conquest but in fighting as such. When, indeed, one student
provokes another intentionally from dislike or anger, the fighting
which results is not a play; but the elaborately arranged appointments
and the fencing matches which result from some remarks made, perhaps,
in all courtesy, though it may end in injury to one or both parties,
undoubtedly is of this character.[373] In the same way must have been
managed the jousts and tourneys of the middle ages, the knightly
combats of ancient Teutons, and youthful trials at arms and many
similar contests as practised by various peoples[374] where, so long as
there is no evidence of a quarrel, but only a natural demand to satisfy
an inborn impulse to fight, it is all playful. We must not forget,
however, that the desire for self-exhibition, to display one’s skill
and courage, is also conspicuous.

This subject brings us to a question which I touched upon in The
Play of Animals. In reviewing the fighting plays of animals we found
that many mammals and birds fight hotly in youth who seldom beard
an enemy in later life, habitually taking to flight when attacked.
The supposition in such cases must be that fighting play serves as
practice for the mating contest, since even the peaceful ruminants
engage in bitter combat with rivals. This supposition granted, we
may further assume that the fighting plays of the fiercer animals
are also connected with the sexual life, and may it not be true
with men as well? It is indisputable, of course, that human combat
with wild beasts and other enemies is often a struggle for food and
ownership, and accordingly, in considering play as preparatory for
serious fighting, its aim must be considered as only partially sexual.
Still, the connection is sufficiently close to deserve a few words
of mention.[375] A great difference is observable in the tussling
of boys as they approach maturity. While the games of six-year-olds
are uniformly harmless, and proceed amid laughter and fun, as the
age of puberty approaches fighting play assumes a much more serious
character, and even when only play is intended the whole bearing of the
participants is greatly modified. Genuine make-believe, the innocent
measuring of strength, is no longer practised; the youth desires to
prove that he can play with danger, too; he assumes an offensive and
boastful air, and regards each of his contemporaries as a rival. The
inward restlessness which characterizes this time of life is directed
by instinct toward belligerence, and every opportunity to fight is
welcomed. It is at this time that the weapons, properly blunted or
otherwise rendered less effective, may still be dangerous, for youths
of all vigorous peoples will engage in some kind of spirited combat.
Take, for example, the description of London boys, by Fitz Stephen,
who lived in the time of Henry II. We find not only the nobility, but
the merchant class as well, exercising themselves at all times of the
year in armed contests, which, in spite of their playful character,
often had serious results. In the dead of winter, often on ice, they
assembled for this purpose, with staves for lances, held jousts “from
which they did not always escape uninjured, for many were the legs and
arms broken in the fray. But the youths, in their desire for glory,
delighted in such practice, which served as a preparation for the time
when they should go to war.”[376]

While we are obliged to attribute a very general significance to such
dangerous indulgence of daring warlike spirit, still we can not fail to
trace its connection with sexual life. Without the youth’s necessarily
knowing it, there is something similar to the bellicose tendency
exhibited by animals in their pairing season, in the feeling of rivalry
which possesses him at this time. The same thing is shown in the spirit
of adventure, which at first is only a general desire for change,
and delight in struggle and risk, but in its manifestations that are
most closely connected with play appears in many mediæval knights in
close conjunction with courtship. “The heroic deeds of adventurous
knights,” says Alwin Schultz, “should be included in the category of
fighting plays. Thus Ulrich von Lichtenstein, in his open letter to
all knights, promised to every knight who would break a lance with him
on his homeward journey from Venice to Bohemia a gold ring for his
sweetheart, and to any one who should unhorse him the steed on which
he rode; while in case he himself came out conqueror all he required
was that the vanquished knight should pay homage to his lady.” Another
knight, Waltman von Lättelstedt, took with him on a ride from Merseberg
to Eisenach a damsel on a palfrey, having with her a sparrowhawk and
a hunting dog. “Waltman proclaimed that on his arrival at Eisenach he
would be ready to fight all comers, and that whoever should overcome
him could have the girl, the palfrey, the sparrowhawk, and even the dog
and harness, but must permit the girl to ransom herself if she chose
with a guilder and a gold ring. Whomsoever he should overthrow must
give to him, as well as to the maiden, a ring of equal value. When she
came back from Eisenach this young girl had gold rings enough to bestow
one on every maid of high degree in all the town of Merseberg.”[377]
Such contests were more formidable with the North Germans. Among these
warriors it was common for a hero to travel to a distant land, and when
a woman there pleased him, to demand her surrender from husband or
father or brother in two weeks’ time, the demand to be supported in the
lists.[378]

And finally it may be mentioned that the tourney, which was at first
practised chiefly as preparatory for war, became later as often a
contest for a woman. In one English tilt the king promised the kiss of
an eight-year-old girl as the reward of success, and Eastern tourneys
were often instituted to win the hand of a princess.[379] What was
there done with intention may often unconsciously ground the various
contests of young men.


2. _Direct Mental Contests_

The impulse to opposition is a quality which is usually regarded as
a very unpleasant disposition of mind, but which is in reality, when
kept within proper bounds, the very leaven of human life. We shall
see later that rivalry taken in connection with the imitative impulse
is one of the mainsprings of advance of culture, and the oppositional
force connected with the fighting instinct is also necessary for the
mental development of mankind. The great newcomers in the various
departments of learning are almost invariably either friendly or
bitter opponents of long standing authorities, and any project which
meets with no opposition sinks to sleep. For the individual, too, it
is quite as important, since a man without it would be entirely too
hospitable to suggestion; indeed, abnormal suggestibility rests finally
on the suspension of this instinct. Children early show a playful as
well as an earnest resistance to authority. While Sully is right when
he says that an attitude of absolute hostility to law on the part of
the child would make education impossible, still he admits that the
best children—from a biological standpoint—have “most of the rebel”
in them.[380] The sweetness of forbidden fruit is imparted largely
by the combative instinct. Such a spirit is manifested playfully,
not when disobedience is attended with cries and struggles or sulky
behaviour, but when it is enjoyed for its own sake, as a source of
triumphant satisfaction. When a two-year-old child who has been told
not to throw his spoon under the table repeats the action, not in
anger but with twinkling eyes, he is acting playfully. Some of their
speeches, however, exhibit this spirit most clearly. For instance,
a small boy who had been rather rough with his younger brother
and was remonstrated with by his mother, asked, “Is he not my own
brother?” and then cried triumphantly, when his mother admitted the
undeniable fact, “Well, then, you said I could do what I please with
my own things!”[381] Another child of three years and nine months
answered his nurse who called him: “I can’t come; I have to look for
a flea!” and pretended to be doing so while he broke out in a roguish
laugh.[382] A three-year-old Italian girl said to her grandmother under
similar circumstances, “Non posso venire, la piccolina [her doll] mi
succhia!”[383]

With children of school age, playful resistance to authority is
naturally directed chiefly against the teacher. As an example I
regretfully recall a piece of mischief of which I myself was guilty. I
had looked back during a recitation to speak to the boy behind me, when
the teacher called out to me to turn around. At that I turned around
so completely as to be able to continue my conversation from the other
side. The indulgent teacher was so amused at my impudence that he did
not punish me as I deserved. Hans Hoffman has shown in his Ivan the
Terrible how ill-mannered schoolboys can take advantage of a teacher
who does not possess the secret of command; and Carl Vogt says of his
school days at the gymnasium: “Study and work were for the majority
secondary considerations. Most of the boys stayed there for the purpose
of tormenting their fellow-students and enraging their teachers. By
studying the peculiarities of character possessed by our tyrants we
soon found a weak side to each of them and tried such experiments with
these weaknesses as their owners could not avenge by punishment. Thus
the whole school was leagued against the professoriat, and now single
combat or skirmishing, now slyly preconcerted mass operations were for
the time in favour, and there were occasional truces, but no lasting
peace.”[384] E. Eckstein’s humorous sketches, too, are especially
popular because of their celebration of this warfare against the
teachers.

We have yet to notice adult opposition to political, scientific,
artistic, social, and religious authority. It is of course usually
serious, and yet it seems to me that in spite of its practical side
there is often something playful in it, something of enjoyment of the
conflict for its own sake. The obstructionist in legislation, the
opponents of time-honoured regulations, customs, doctrines, rules
of art and dogmas, all take, if they are born fighters, a peculiar
pleasure in the excitement of resistance to authority. They like to
blend their voices in the war cries of spiritual combat. It is one of
the pleasures of life.

Contradiction is another form of opposition. I once snapped the fingers
of my four-year-old nephew, Heinrich K., for some misbehaviour. After
he had been quiet for a while, as was his habit, this dialogue passed
between us, evidently soon becoming playful to the child: “Uncle,
I’ll shut you up in a room so you can never get out.” “Oh, I’ll climb
out of a window.” “Then I will shut the blinds.” “But I will open
them.” “But I’ll nail them shut.” “Then I’ll saw a hole in the door.”
“But I’ll have an iron door, very strong.” “Then I’ll make a hole
in the floor.” “But I will go underneath and make iron walls to the
whole house.” And so it went on until I gave up the struggle with
childish inventiveness. Enjoyment of such playful dispute often lasts
a lifetime. As a fourteen-year-old boy I once argued for hours with a
friend as to whether the beauty of colour was relative or absolute.
One of us contended that a blue embroidered chair might be positively
ugly, however attractive the colour, while the other maintained that
the beauty of the blue would make the chair admirable. I mention this
trivial example only because it shows so plainly the playful character
of such talk, for without any personal interest in the matter we waxed
warm over our respective views and presented them with great energy.
The heated discussion gave us quite as much satisfaction as solving the
problem could have done; in fact, the charm of conversation is largely
to be attributed to the enjoyment of disputation. On examining closely
into what constitutes the attraction of such entertainment for us we
find that besides relating and listening to anecdotes and gossip about
acquaintances (this is also play) our chief pleasure is in more or less
playful combating of opposite opinion. People who have no interest or
talent for these three things are at a loss in society.

We now take up such intellectual contests as are commonly included
in the lists of fighting plays, including the solution of riddles,
to which we alluded under experimentation. The measuring of mental
readiness between individuals when the problem is given orally by a
third person, and this is the original and natural method, is a genuine
intellectual duel. It was a favourite entertainment of the ancient
Germans which Rückert has celebrated in his beautiful poem. Another
form is the putting of difficult questions alternately to opposed
parties, as in our modern spelling bee. There are examples of this in
the Eddas, such as the intellectual duels between Odin and a giant, and
between Thor and the dwarf Alvis. Romantic troubadour songs belong here
too. Uhland and Rückert once engaged in a metrical debate as to whether
it is worse to find one’s lover dead or faithless. Uhland preferred
death, while Rückert attempted to sustain the thesis “better false than
dead.”[385] Rivalry is conspicuous in such contests, as we shall have
occasion to note later.

In our common forfeit games, too, mental contest often forms the
basis of the fun. For instance, it is a distinct attack and parry
when a handkerchief is thrown to a player and a word pronounced to
which he must find a rhyme. In English, where the spoken and written
words are so unlike, the spelling of unfamiliar words is turned into
a game; and another idea is to introduce into a story some object or
incident suggesting the name of one of the players, whereupon he must
continue the recital, passing it on to another in the same way. Or a
passage from some great author may be cited and his name guessed, and
many similar devices. Finally, we mention the important group of plays
for which the stimulus is partly intellectual experimentation, but is
primarily attributable to the combative instinct, such as board and
card games, both of which are symbolic of physical contests in which
the players appear as leaders of opposing forces and originators of
strategic operations. A genuine battle ground is afforded by the board,
and the great object is to have the right man in the right place at
the right time. In cards strategy is exhausted in the choice of the
right champion at the right moment, but is rendered much more difficult
by the fact that the former contestants have disappeared from view,
while the reserve is concealed. Thus it results that board games afford
opportunity for the display of skill in arrangement and card games
especially cultivate memory, while both are important promoters of
the logical faculty and of imaginative foresight.[386] An important
distinction between them is that in board games the strength of the
contestants is exactly equal at the start, and the material chances are
identical, while in cards inequality is the rule.

Board plays (the name is not very fortunate, for the battlefield is
by no means always a board) are older and more generally distributed
than the others. When Lazarus points out reasoning games in distinction
from games of chance as indicative of a higher state of culture[387]
he can not be referring to board games in general, since some of the
lowest and most savage tribes indulge in them. There are three distinct
varieties of these plays. In the first kind one, or possibly two,
stand opposed to a large party, but the conditions are equalized by
the rule that all the party must act together while the smaller side
is rendered more formidable by various advantages, such as greater
freedom of motion and capacity for lying in wait and taking prisoners.
The object is to dislodge the single fighter from his stronghold and
cut off his retreat, or to surround him in the open field and take
him captive. The prototype of the former is the beleaguered fortress,
and of the latter combats with dangerous beasts of prey. The Malay
Rîman-Riman, or Tiger-play, is a good example of the latter. The arena
is somewhat of this form and appearance, the figure being simply traced
on the sand, or stamped with red and white on boards or cloth. The
single player has twenty-four stones, the men, ôrang-ôrang. The other
players have a single large one or sometimes two, the tiger, _rîman_.
The tiger is governed by fixed rules, and the men seek to pen him up so
that he can not move.[388]

[Illustration:]

[Illustration]

In the second kind the parties, being numerically equal, stand opposed
as in checkers, where a hot struggle goes on to get three men in a
row—at least this is one of the simplest forms of the game as described
by Ovid. Among German antiquities there is a representation of two men
with a board set with stones. Schuster at least considers this a game
similar to checkers.[389] And besides, there are groups engaged in the
Damen-Spiele, which was probably known to the ancient Egyptians as well
as the Greeks and Romans, although we can not be certain as to the
rules of these ancient games, πόλις, _ludus latrunculorum_.
In mediæval times elaborately ornamented boards were used for this
game. “Especially noteworthy,” says Weinhold, “is one that is used as
a reliquary on the altar at Asschaffenburg. It is set with jasper and
beryl crystals, beneath which various figures are inlaid in the Roman
manner on a gold ground.”[390] Büttikofer brought with him from Liberia
a very interesting ethnological specimen, almost unique in character.
The game played in that region does not require a board or other flat
surface, but wooden cases into which rods are inserted like arrows in a
quiver. This represents the placing of the men on a board. Each player
has ten rods, of which only four are placed at the beginning of the
game. The dots in the cut show their position. The object is to get
into the enemy’s country by judicious jumping, the reserve ammunition
being placed as occasion requires until the supply is exhausted.[391]
Another form of this kind of game is the Oriental Mangale, which is
now becoming quite general.[392] In Damascus, where, according to
Petermann, it is constantly played in all the coffee houses, a board
two feet by six inches is used. It is over an inch thick and has in its
upper side two parallel rows of holes, seven in number in Damascus;
other places have six, eight, or nine. In these holes tiny pebbles,
gathered in a particular valley by pilgrims to Mecca, are laid; usually
seven in each. The player removes the stones from the first depression
on his right, and throws them one by one toward the left and into the
holes on his opponent’s side. This play is kept up under certain rules
and conditions, of course, and with the aid of much counting[393]
of winnings, and whoever gets the most stones has the game.[394] In
concluding we must not fail to notice the noblest of all board games,
chess, which, on account of the great variety of men employed and their
complicated moves, is the most difficult of games, as well as the most
entertaining. Many are of the opinion that some ancient games are of
the same character, but it is probable that real chess is of Indian
origin, whence it spread to the Persians and Arabians, and through them
into northern Africa, Sicily, Sardinia, and Spain. In the last-named
country we hear of it as early as the ninth century, and it appeared
in Italy and Germany certainly not later than the eleventh, soon
becoming the favourite game of the educated classes. This is proved
by the fact that in a book of sermons published in the latter half of
the thirteenth century one Jacobus de Cessoles, a Dominican, attempts
to set forth a system of rules for right living founded on the rules
of the _ludus scaccorum_.[395] The game has naturally undergone many
changes in the course of time; for instance, the Arabians originally
had elephants in the place of our bishops; but it has always preserved
the character of a battle, and is so represented in old Arabian
manuscripts.[396]

[Illustration:]

Our third group of board plays is comprised of those which add the
attraction of chance to intellectual enjoyment of the contest. It
is true that to a certain degree chance is an element in the purest
games of reason, since the most skilful player can not foresee all the
consequences of a move, and various uncontrollable influences[397]
may interfere with the best-laid plans; but in the games which we are
now considering there is a blending of risk with calculation, which
has a peculiar charm. Perhaps the most familiar game of this kind is
backgammon, which was certainly known to the Greeks and Romans, and
possibly to the Egyptians and Phœnicians. In this game and kindred
ones the object is to throw away men whose value is determined chiefly
by chance, while the advance to advantageous points is a matter of
calculation, thus affording a combination of direct and indirect
fighting. Backgammon is of peculiar ethnologic interest because of
the prominent part it plays in the controversy as to whether Asiatic
influence is traceable in primitive American civilization. E. B. Tylor
has stated in several passages[398] that a kind of backgammon played
on a cruciform board is a favourite amusement of the East Indians, and
is called by them Patschisi (in Burmah: Patschit), and a very similar
form of the game was known to the pre-Columbian Mexicans under the
name of Patolli. Tylor considers the complicated nature of the game as
a sufficient disproof of its independent origin, and from this, and a
certain kinship to chess which is apparent in it, he concludes that
the whole group of games furnishes an important argument in favour of
Asiatic influence on American life before the time of Columbus.

Dominoes may serve as the connecting link between such games as we
have been considering and card games, since the lack of a prescribed
field, the concealed store of each player, and the chance distribution
at the beginning, as well as the acquisition of new ammunition during
the game are common features. Playing cards are supposed to be a
comparatively recent invention of the Chinese, which, like chess, was
carried into Spain by the Saracens, and thence spread all over Europe
in the fourteenth century. Many are of the opinion that they are a
modification of chess, and in fact the oldest game known to be played
with them is one of the most complicated that we have—namely, Taroc,
which requires seventy-eight cards. It was played in Bologna in the
beginning of the fifteenth century.

Since the victory in card games is not won by virtue of the position
of the cards, but by their succession and value, the faculty of memory
is largely concerned, as victor and vanquished at once disappear and
the men yet unengaged are concealed. This and the inequality of the
players’ forces at the beginning constitute the distinguishing feature
of cards. Lazarus’s penetrating glance has descried the point which
differentiates the various games, placing them in the varying relation
of accident and calculation. “Not all games,” he says, “are alike in
this. There are some in which chance is predominant—as poker, for
example, or the new game of bluff, so popular in America, where so much
depends on the dealing, and the play is not so much a calculation as
an attempt to exhaust one’s opponent.... The stronger games, however,
such as whist, Boston, l’hombre, solitaire, piquet, Skat, euchre, etc.,
depend on the sustained influence of both chance and calculation. After
the cards are once distributed calculation begins, but chance continues
to be powerful,[399] for at every play a new card enters into the
combination and must be given its due weight, whether from the hand of
friend or enemy. This is more obvious in the cases where the original
force is recruited by drawing from the pack; yet even here attentive
following of the progress of the game will furnish data for determining
the probable situation of a third card, and thus, after all, skill has
as much to do with it as chance. And in such a game as whist _en deux_
in which all the cards are dealt, and each player knows exactly the
strength of his opponent, the whole thing depends on calculation, and
consequently is not so attractive. It would be a game of chess with
cards but for its inferiority in variety and combination.”[400] Lazarus
goes on to say why chance is indispensable in card games—namely,
because, as there is no such thing as space combination, the monotony
would be wearisome, and continued playing well-nigh impossible. Without
Fortune’s reverses, too, the games would necessarily be begun with
equal forces, and it is easy to see how little enthusiasm such games
would excite. Only in connection with chance, then, can Reason find
in cards a task worthy of her powers, and, indeed, a small prize is
a stimulus sometimes needed to keep up our interest. This may be a
suitable place to mention that it was formerly the custom to play for
money or some stake with all games of chance and even with chess.

I close this review of contests which are purely intellectual with
two brief remarks, the first of which concerns the invention of board
games. It is difficult to find a perfectly satisfactory answer to
the question of their origin. However, their complication points to
adults rather than children as their probable inventors, and to me
the following consideration seems important: The primitive races, who
find it difficult to convey their thoughts in speech, naturally take
to marking on the sand, and hence the figures might arise.[401] If the
leader of one of the more intelligent peoples wished to instruct them
concerning some past or future combat, it would be a simple method
of illustrating his meaning to draw an outline on the ground and
represent the position of the hostile forces by small stones or similar
objects whose movements would symbolize the manœuvres of the forces
or the advances of knights for single combat. This would, no doubt,
be exceedingly interesting to those conducting it, and also to the
spectators, and might easily be repeated for the sake of the amusement
afforded until some inventive genius turned it into a veritable play
with board and men. To show that there is nothing improbable in this
supposition we may point to the fact that such play is actually carried
on by our own officers (Italian, _manovra sulla carta_).

The second remark relates to the pleasurable quality of games involving
use of the reasoning faculty. We have already shown that play with
reason takes the form of experimentation with imagination and the other
intellectual faculties in their capacity of illusion workers as well
as in their more constructive activity; now we find further that its
recreative effect is much greater than is realized during the progress
of the game, and that the consciousness of standing voluntarily in a
world of our own creation may be a feature in the interest excited
by the game.[402] The chief source of satisfaction, however, is
enjoyment of the fight, in the playful intellectual duel, where bold
attack and skilful parry, systematic advance and stubborn resistance,
crafty manœuvring and direct assault, single combat and the general
skirmish, as well as pursuit and demolition, succeed one another in
ever-renewed combinations. In those games which add the charm of
uncertainty to the mental contest the effect is of course still more
complicated. As I shall have occasion later to speak exhaustively
of games of chance, I confine myself here to Lazarus’s significant
conclusion from the union of these contrasted forces. “That men, and,
indeed, the same man can take pleasure in such opposite and absolutely
contradictory principles of play seems wonderful, and yet it is most
natural, for both are elements of human nature grounded in the very
essence of his being and the normal manner of using his powers. In
his serious, moral life, directed by the mandates of duty, he is also
controlled by two contrary forces, freedom and necessity. He must bow
to Fate and yet strive and struggle for what is his own. He expends
his energies according to his own behests, and must then await success
and reward till the turn of Fortune’s wheel. Both disappointment and
struggle, receiving and expending, suffering and toiling, are woven
into the texture of his life and character, and become the sources of
his volition as well as the arbiters of his fortune. He obeys both
forces; to pursue and hold to what is good is his dual impulse, both in
life and in play.”[403]


3. _Physical Rivalry_

In playful competition indirect conquest of an opponent is aimed at,
since the effort is to show that one can perform the task better than
another. In it the fighting instinct assumes the form of rivalry. “No
entreaties or commands,” says Lazarus, “nor even tips, could arouse our
coachman to such a display of skill and speed as could another coachman
who showed a disposition to race with him. Apart from the fighting
instinct itself, jealousy is the prime cause of rivalry”. Spinoza
defines it as “the desire for a thing aroused in us by the belief
that others want it.” One of the first manifestations of jealousy in
children is with regard to the love and caresses of its parents; we
all know at what an early age the infant expresses his disapproval
when his mother pets another child—sometimes as early as the second
quarter. If he shows it simply as anger he is plainly jealous, as
older children are; but if (as a dog often does when the hand he loves
strokes another) he tries to win to himself by all sorts of cajoleries
the maternal tenderness, then he enters upon a sort of rivalry.
True emulation, however, is first developed when the aim is to win
approbation and admiration when praise rather than love is the alluring
reward—in short, when the child becomes ambitious. Say to a three- or
four-year-old boy, “Your friend Otto can draw beautifully,” and it is
ten to one that he will answer, “But I can draw better.” This desire
to surpass others is what leads to the indirect contest which we call
rivalry.

Imitation, too, plays the part of a first cause here, as Spinoza
points out in pursuance of his definition of emulation. As, however,
this subject will come up for discussion later, let it suffice to
say here that imitation is exceedingly important for all mental and
physical development, and is accordingly especially conspicuous in
the play of children. The effort to say “I can, too,” easily takes on
a certain hostile character when there is difficulty in attainment,
and so imitation becomes actual rivalry as soon as the effort is for
“I can do better,” and the struggle becomes sharper in proportion to
the consciousness of a desire to surpass. Thus we are justified in
regarding the impulse of jealousy which is related to the fighting
instinct as the foundation of rivalry as well.

Before going on to investigate this playful rivalry it may be useful
to inquire into its social significance. G. Tarde, in his interesting
sociological study, Les lois de l’imitation,[404] attempts to prove
that imitation is the mainspring of social evolution. But along
with the peaceful operations of imitation, the fighting instinct,
too, makes itself felt in manifold ways, as a principle of progress
(as I remarked above in discussing combativeness), in conjunction
it is true with imitation and usually under the form of rivalry. It
is evident that social progress would be slow indeed if men only
imitated and never opposed what is done in their presence. Rivalry in
ownership, power, and authority is the force which urges each to do
his utmost in the struggle for life, and which has produced the most
advanced civilizations. A people without ambition is lost; not merely
stationary, but actually decadent. As in art bald imitation of even the
best models results in weakness, so in society. Men must will to do
better in order to do as well.

In spite of their variety we can very quickly review the physical
imitative games, since under movement-plays we have already noticed
a considerable number belonging to this class, and since it is their
psychological side alone that chiefly appeals to us. The following
examples, then, are merely chosen to show by means of their variety
the great importance of imitation in human play.[405] Children learn
most of their bodily movements by such play in a way which clearly
illustrates the mingled effects of imitation and emulation. When
one child jumps off the second step, another child who sees him
immediately tries to cover three; and when boys are practising their
leaps each makes a mark in the sand beyond the others as his goal.
To lift a heavier weight, to throw farther, to run faster, to jump
higher, to make a top spin longer, to stay longer under water, to
shoot higher, farther, and with better aim than his comrades can, is
the burning wish of every childish heart. In order to see the same
enthusiastic rivalry in physical prowess exhibited by adults, we
must turn to the half-civilized peoples to whom such acquirements
are of surpassing value in the struggle for life. Among the ancient
Germans, for example, such contests were carried to the highest degree
of perfection, and, in spite of their avowedly playful character,
conducted with such seriousness that they often became matters of
life and death. Skill, prowess, and endurance in leaping, running,
lifting and throwing huge stones, the use of bow and arrow, diving
and swimming, riding and rowing, were all the subjects of contest,
and each victor sought to surpass the achievements of the former one.
All warlike peoples of whom ethnology is cognizant show much the
same picture, and highly civilized nations, too, accord an important
position to athletic contests, as the Greek and Roman games bear
witness, as well as the championships and records of our own day.
Rivalry enters, too, into such games as tenpins, billiards, croquet,
golf, etc., all of which are favourite amusements. The pleasure they
afford is complicated, including display of one’s own strength and
skill, the pleasure of watching others, the stimulus of rivalry and the
satisfaction of overcoming an opponent. Sometimes, and especially in
croquet and billiards, the contest closely approaches fighting play,
since the participants not only try to attain the object of the game,
but are apt to engage in direct hostilities.

We now turn to some examples that are better calculated to exhibit the
many-sidedness of rivalry, which is, of course, an element in all the
games of skill which we have mentioned. We are not so well prepared to
find it in games requiring patient effort, yet even the Eskimos, in
their Fadenfiguren, indulge in fierce emulation,[406] and a play as
peaceful as kite-flying is not exempt. “The Hervey Islanders believe
that once the god Tane challenged the god Rongo to a kite-flying
contest, in which the latter won because his cord was longer.”[407]
In drinking there is rivalry in the effort to withstand the power of
alcohol, and students have a time-honoured tradition that the man
is a fine fellow and worthy of all respect who can drink the rest
of the company under the table. It is more charitable to attribute
this practice to rivalry rather than to love of drunkenness.[408]
The instance of the two boys holding burning matches illustrates how
readily the ability to suppress any manifestation of pain lends itself
to rivalry. The old Germans tested their endurance by sitting at
feasts after their battles, and when they were covered with wounds.
In a grotesquely exaggerated saga it is related of the wounded sons
of Thorbrand: “Thorodd got such a blow in the neck that his head hung
sideways; his hose were all bloody and would not meet. Snorri could
see and feel that a sword was sticking in his thigh, but Thorodd said
nothing. Among the gayest of the gay is Snorri, son of Thorbrand, who
sits with the others at table, but eats little and looks white. When
asked what ails him he says, ‘When the vulture has won the fight he is
not in haste to eat.’ Then Gode looks at his neck and finds an arrow
head at the root of his tongue.”[409] The jeering of Walthar and Hagen,
who vie with one another in mocking at their wounds, is another case in
point. Finally, the passion for making collections, which is so strong
in both children and adults, may be considered as a form of competitive
rivalry which reaches its climax in the miser.


4. _Mental Rivalry_

The space devoted to the more general kinds of emulation has purposely
been curtailed in order to devote more to the special case of gaming,
as much of the ground has been covered already.

Children are fond of displaying their mental acquirements even before
they are old enough to go to school, but it is there, of course, that
the best opportunity is afforded them. Colozza tells us how the Italian
children use their recess time for contests over the multiplication
table.[410] During school hours recitation is easily transformed to
emulation which can be turned to account by the judicious teacher with
better results than are attained by one who tries to draw the line too
rigidly between work and play.

The intellectual rivalries of adults are exceedingly varied. Music
offers unlimited opportunities when people are far enough advanced to
have any sort of society, and even primitive tribes indulge in this
sort of entertainment. Among the Eskimos the contestants compete in
public for the prize for singing, and then fall into actual combat,
thus combining the two forms of rivalry. Grosse quotes from Rink the
following musical dialogue between two East Greenlanders. “Savdlat:
‘The south, the south, oh, the south over there! As I stood on the
headland I saw Pulangitsissok, who had grown fat upon halibut. The
people of this land know not how to speak. Therefore they are ashamed
of their language. They are dumb over there; their speech is not like
ours. In the north we speak in one way, different from those in the
south. Therefore we can not understand their talk.’” To this challenge
Pulangitsissok responds: “‘There was a time, as Savdlat knows, when I
was a good sledger, when I could take a heavy load on my kajak. Four
years ago he found this out. That was the time when Savdlat bound his
kajak to mine for fear he might capsize. Then he could carry a good
load on his kajak, too. As I was tugging along you cried out pitifully,
and were afraid and almost overturned. I had to hold on to my ropes
to keep us up.’”[411] Such sarcastic dialogue often leads to direct
contests, in which the singers try to rout one another by means of
their witty improvisations. A later form is the contest in oratory and
song on an assigned theme, opening with a direct challenge between the
contestants. The poem of Wartburg-Krieg is especially famed, while
Plata’s symposium may be instanced as a fine example of competitive
oratory on a given theme.

Other kinds of rivalry frequently arise in social gatherings, such
as recounting experiences in love, hunting, and battle, as was
pre-eminently the custom among the ancient Germans. “One after
another,” says Weinhold,[412] “boasted of his prowess and sought to
prove it by tales of his wonderful deeds. To heighten the effect, each
chose an opponent worthy of his mettle. Thus it happened that Eystein
and Sigurd, the crusader, both Norwegian kings, once had a controversy
in court. Eystein advanced the proposition that it was impossible
to live aright in society, and called on his brother to sustain the
contrary. Then the travelled warrior Sigurd, who had filled all lands
with the fame of his deeds, and the peace-loving, home-staying Eystein,
each related what he had done and could do: the one his battles, his
fame in the East; the other that he had built huts for poor fishers,
made roads over rugged mountains, opened harbours, widened Christendom,
and strengthened the Church—in short, extended his kingdom by every
peaceable method. The talk became warm, and the silence which followed
was ominous, but as they were both noble-hearted no harm came of it.”
Very characteristic, too, is the Harbardhslied in the Edda, where the
gods Wotan (under the name Harbardh) and Donar emulously recount their
achievements:

      _Donar_: “Do you ask what I did to Rungner,
                  The giant with sturdy heart and head of stone?
                  I felled him then, he lies at my feet.
                  And what did you, Harbardh, the while?”

  _Harbardh_:  “For more than five full winters
                  Was I on an island that is called Allgrün;
                  There I found men to fight and enemies to fell,
                  Many things to prove, and many maids to free,” etc.

Singing the praise of one’s future deeds is another form of such
boasting. A company of carousing men have need of a wild boar or some
other sin offering to go through their midst as they perjure themselves
with oaths concerning the hazardous and difficult deeds which they mean
to perform.

Before taking up games of chance again I mention once more the fact
that many reasoning games are also rivalries—dominoes, for example,
and backgammon[413]—since the chief effort is to reach a certain
goal first and direct efforts are made to embarrass and <DW44> the
adversary, so that genuine fighting play results.

In chance games proper, however, the contestants do not attack one
another directly, but seek to conquer by the better solution of some
problem, the point of departure from other rivalries being that the
reward of solution, at least in games of pure chance, is entirely
accidental, and not dependent on the player’s strength or skill. We
will now attempt to review the more important phenomena connected with
such games, and later study the question in its psychological bearings.

The wager is akin to play with chance and arises from the holding of
opposite opinions, which can only be settled by future events. Even
if the bet concerns something which is past or present, still the
decision must be in the future, and the fighting element comes in in
the striving of each to prove his superiority, the interest being
much enhanced by pooling the stakes. The bettor’s conviction as to
the correctness of his opinion may be strong or weak[414]—absolute
certainty destroys the validity of the bet, while absolute uncertainty
makes it a mere game of chance, whereas it should depend, like the
best card games, on a union of reasoning and hazard. For this reason
future events are the proper subjects of the wager, and we will confine
ourselves for brevity’s sake to such bets. Schaller says rightly: “The
future is pre-eminently the object of conjecture, of the reckoning of
probabilities. Even when present circumstances seem to tend inevitably
to a certain result, there are still infinite possibilities that other
results may transpire. Therefore the wager should concern something yet
to come.”[415]

One of the earliest forms of betting was on physical or mental
superiority, and the stakes formerly so common in reasoning games may
be regarded in the same light. There was much betting on the victor
in the old German riddle contests and life itself was sometimes
staked, if we may depend on the ancient accounts. More often, though,
physical prowess was the subject of the wager. “Indeed, Tacitus may
be right,” says Schuster, “when he records that the Germans disdained
to be praised for ordinary physical vigour, yet they gave prizes to
the victors in their contests and liked to claim the glory when it set
them above others. Reputation with them must not be mere empty words;
one must work for it to the full extent of his powers. Many examples
illustrate this spirit; for instance, Welent and Amilias, the smiths,
each boasted that he could not be surpassed in his art. The latter
offered to bet on it, and Welent replied, ‘I have not much property,
but I will stake it all.’ Then said Amilias, ‘If you have nothing else,
stake your head, and I will stake mine, and whichever of us is the
better man shall cut the other’s head off.’ Two of Olaf Trygvason’s
retainers boasted of being superior mountain climbers, one wagering
his ring on it, and the other his head.”[416] Schuster cites, too, the
famous contest in the Nibelungenlied, to which Brunhild thus challenges
King Gunther:

  “She said: If he is your lord and you are in his hire,
   Tell him that I have sworn that whoever can resist my play,
   And prove himself my master there, him will I wed,
   While if I win you must go alone from hence.”

Fable makes animals wager in the same way; the old tale of the hare and
the hedgehog is found even in Africa, although there the hedgehog has
become a tortoise.[417]

The stakes are not always, however, on one’s own ability, but quite as
often on the performances of others, or on the speed and endurance of
animals. This is indeed the most popular form of the sport, doubtless
because the agreeable tension of expectation is thus prolonged until
the very moment of the _dénouement_, as it is not likely to be in
the more personal contests. In riding, rowing, sailing, and running
contests spectators, as well as participants, bet on the result.[418]
“Betting on races,” says E. v. Hartmann, “is the most dangerous and
exciting form of gambling, being dependent purely on chance, and
yet offering a false appearance of being essentially influenced by
intelligence and judgment. The custom is fostered of raising the stakes
at the last moment under the influence of artificial stimulation to
interest during the race itself. Immature boys, sons of respectable
labourers, are thus initiated in the fascinations of the passion for
gaming who would otherwise have little inclination for it.”[419] In
various parts of the world wagers are laid on the result of fights
between animals. In ancient Greece gamecocks were bred with special
care, and Tanagra, Rhodes, Chalcis, and Delos were famous for the
achievements of their respective breeds. The birds were fed with garlic
before the fight to augment their excitement, and were armed with
artificial spurs. The stakes were often enormous.[420] Cock-fights
in which betting seemed to be the principal feature were held during
the middle ages in most European cities, and in some localities have
survived to the present day. Malays are especially devoted to this
sport. It only remains to add in conclusion that lifeless things,
too, may be the subject of bets. The Gilbert Islanders set two
sailboats, about four feet long, afloat, and bet as to which will sail
fastest.[421] This is very near to being play with pure chance, and
the wager of Canning with an English duke is even more so. They staked
a hundred pounds on the question of who should meet most cats on a
certain road.

There is but one opinion as to the origin of games of pure
chance—namely, that they grew out of the serious questioning of Fate in
the form of oracles, and colour is given to the theory by the custom of
jesting with the oracle. The Greek custom of pouring wine into a metal
cup and from the sound it made reading one’s prospects in love, drawing
straws—a practice which Walther von der Vogelweide has made famous—the
various flower oracles, counting the cuckoo calls, observing the
flight of birds—as, for example, how many times the kite circles—and
many other such customs[422] were originally conducted seriously, with
a view to gaining some knowledge of the future, and even when playfully
practised smack of superstition. Tylor says, in his admirable study of
this subject: “Soothsaying and games of chance are so closely allied
that the instruments of each are used interchangeably, as among the
clever Polynesian magicians cocoanuts are skilfully rolled about in
a circle. In the Tonga Islands the chief use made of a holiday is to
inquire whether the sick will be cured. They offered loud prayers
to the family deity that he would place the nuts aright, then spun
them, and from their position judged of the god’s will. Under other
circumstances, when the cocoanuts are rolled simply for amusement, no
prayer is offered and no significance attached to the result. The Rev.
G. Turner found the same custom in the Samoan Islands in another stage
of development. There a company sits in a circle, the nuts are rolled
about among them, and the oracle’s answer depends on whether the monkey
face of the nut is turned toward the questioner when it stops rolling.
The Samoans formerly used this method to detect a thief, but now it is
a forfeit game.”[423] In this sort of play with chance there is nothing
special at stake, yet it is no doubt closely connected with those forms
which have this feature.

Another of the earliest of the manifold forms of chance games is the
casting of lots. New Zealand wizards decide the fortunes of war by
throwing staffs. If the stick which represents their own tribe falls on
that of another, then a favourable outcome may be confidently expected
to the battle. The Zulus have a similar ceremony, and the Hindus
cast lots before the temple and supplicate the gods for victory. In
the Iliad the crowd prayed with outstretched hands while the dice in
Agamemnon’s helmet decided who should be the first to fight Hector.
Tacitus tells us that the German priests tossed three dice on a white
cloth before they attempted to reveal the future.[424] The origin,
then, of the use of dice in games of chance is indubitable. The
ancient form of backgammon common in India and Mexico was played with
lots instead of dice, as was also the case with the Arabian Tâb. Some
Indian tribes use the simple casting of lots for gambling purposes. The
Arabian does not throw, but draws lots as a substitute for the Meisir
forbidden in the Koran.[425] The complicated Chinese game lotto is
well known, and Bastian found a similar one used in Siam.[426] E. von
Hartmann refers repeatedly in his Tagesfragen to our European lottery,
combating the popular idea that it is reprehensible, and should not
be fostered by the state. He sees in a well-conducted state lottery
the best means of directing the ineradicable tendency to play games of
chance into harmless channels. Money speculation is, as a rule, little
different from a lottery, since the great majority of speculators
have no more intimation of the outcome than is furnished by the law
of probabilities which governs pure games of chance. Returning now to
simpler manifestations, we find many which are closely related to the
use of lots. North American Indians, who are zealous gamblers, use
marked or  stones, seeds, and teeth, and stake their clothing,
furniture, weapons, and, in fact, all that they possess. In Burmah a
favourite game is played with beans, and in many of the villages a
thrashing floor is erected for the express purpose of supplying the
demand.[427] In Siam the children play with shells, and everything
depends on whether the opening falls up or down.[428] A similar game
was known to the Greeks, and in Rome a coin was tossed with the cry,
“Caput aut navis!” equal to our “Heads or tails!” We must suppose that
such play by children is derived from adult games of chance.

Astragalus and dice were the implements used in many such games. The
former are peculiarly shaped bones from the ankles of sheep, goats,
or calves, and their use for such purposes is very ancient. They are
capable of resting on any one of four sides which may vary in value, as
the six sides of dice. The Schliemann collection in the Berlin Museum
contains some of them which were found in the “second city.” In ancient
Greece four astragali were used in the games of adults, and were thrown
either from the free hand or from a cup. Special names were given to
the various throws, such as Aphrodite, Midas, Solon, Euripides, etc.,
and the worst throw was called, there as in Rome, the dog. The children
of antiquity also played with these bones a game partly of chance and
partly of skill, and Hellenic children use them to this day. Ulrichs
saw them at Arachola on Parnassus. “The children there,” he says, “play
with the astragalus, which is a small four-sided bone rounded at the
end and so shaped as to be capable of resting on any of its sides. In
the game the uppermost side is read, the commonest throw being that
which brings the round end up and is called the baker or the donkey.
Then follow the thief, the vizier, and, rarest of all, the king, the
side which looks like an ear and is opposite the vizier.”[429]

The name vizier seems to point to Mohammedan influence, and indeed the
children of Damascus have a special game of chance with astragalus
in which the terms vizier and thief are both used.[430] Some think
that ordinary dice are derived from the astragalus, but it would be
difficult to prove, though their imitation in other materials seems to
suggest it, as in the case of the oblong dice used by the Romans with
cubical ones, and several hundred prehistoric dice found in Bohemia are
of similar form. The Berlin Museum, too, has oblong dice from India
and China, showing that they were widely used in the Orient, and
Hyde points out in his history of games of chance that the Greek word
κύβος is related to the Arabic _Kab_, which meant simply made of lamb’s
bones. On the other hand, cubical dice with spots like ours are found
in Theban graves, so that we can not be positive as to the priority of
the astragalus.

Possibly cocoanut rolling was the primitive form of roulette as we
have seen it used in half-religious, half-playful manner by the South
Sea Islanders. The Berlin Museum has Chinese rolling dice through
which a peg passes, projecting on each side or with the peg on one
side only, and the ball tapering to a point on the other. According
to Egede, Greenlanders have a sort of roulette, an oblong ball about
which the players sit with the stake before them.[431] Another form
of chance game is the morra, which was probably known to the ancient
Egyptians, and was in all likelihood at first a clever method of
calculating.[432] As a play the hands of all the players are thrown
simultaneously into the air, and each must guess at the number of
outstretched fingers without taking time to count. This amusement,
still very popular among Italian peasants, was called by the Achæans
“micare digitis.” In China, where it is zealously cultivated, it
bears the name of “tsoey-moey.”[433] The North American Indians have
a modification of it in their cane guessing—namely, the effort to
locate a small object passed quickly about in a company. It is used
for gambling purposes, the Indians staking all that they have, even
to their wives sometimes.[434] The “Kyohzvay” play is taken quite as
seriously in Burmah. For this a stick is fixed among the folds of a
tightly wrapped cord, and the game is won or lost[435] according as it
is or is not successfully concealed.[436] The various games of cards
afford by far the most important instances of play with chance, and
their name is legion. We have not time even to glance at such games as
faro, lansquenet, rouge et noir, trente et quarante, etc., except to
say that they all depend on a combination of reason with chance, and so
more speedily put an end to suspense as to who is the victor than do
purely chance plays. We are now confronted by the difficult question
of what it is that constitutes the demoniacal charm of gaming, whose
power is demonstrated by the value of the stakes with which a man will
tempt Fate. Every one is familiar with Tacitus’s description of the
ancient Germans who, when they had lost everything else, staked their
freedom and their life on the last throw. H. M. Schuster gives a long
list of examples of Germans staking freedom, wife, and children, the
clothes on their backs, life itself, yes, even their souls’ salvation
when their passion for play was at its height. That this is a universal
Aryan trait is shown by the Indian poem of Nala and Damayanti. The
former, under the power of a hostile demon, loses at play with Pushkara
his ornaments, jewelry, horses, wagons, and clothes. In vain his wife
and followers seek to restrain his madness; for many months the ruinous
play goes on until Nala has lost all his property and even his kingdom.
Then as Pushkara, with loud laughing at the unlucky fellow, cried out
that now he must put up his wife Damayanti, Nala rose from the table
and walked away with his faithful wife, stripped as he was of all else.
The Chinese, Siamese, and Burmese, too, are all passionate gamblers,
and the Malays are famous for their wagers on animal fights. This
is sufficient to show that the wonderfully strong attractive power
of gaming, “le jeu-passion, dont le rôle tragique est vieux comme
l’humanité,”[437] is the result of numerous causes whose aggregate,
according to Fechner’s principle, is far greater than their numerical
sum. Taking account of the essentials only, we still have a threefold
phenomenon; these are, desire to win the stake, the stimulus of strong
effects, and the impulse given by the fighting instinct.

Winning the stake is so important that without it games of chance
become very flat and most unimpressive, as forms of entertainment. How
is this to be explained? Sometimes it appears as veritable cupidity,
the “fascination d’acquérir d’un bloc, sans peine, en un instant.”[438]
The seductive chink of gold pieces is heard and visions of new names
of wealth open before us, promising to deliver us from all burdens and
dangers which in spite of their distance and vagueness we strive to get
possession of by a single turn of Fortune’s wheel; the gold fever is
at home in gambling dens. Yet—and I think this is important—as a rule,
it is not mere greed for gain as such, but a feeling more refined. It
is boundless delight in sudden good fortune that makes the unearned
winnings so enticing. That inward striving after the absolute, which is
so deeply rooted in the human breast, is concerned in the longing to
experience at least one moment of exhilarating joy with which a single
stroke of Fortune’s wand sets our hearts aflame:

  “From the clouds it must fall,
   Such is the gift of the gods;
   And the strongest power of all
   Is that which belongs to the moment.”

It would be misleading to suppose that all wagers in a game of chance
are attributable to a desire to win, even in this refined sense. In so
far as it is the chief motive, there is no real play at all, for it
constitutes a serious aim wholly outside the sphere of play. There must
be some other meaning to the intense delight in winning, and Lazarus,
as usual, puts his finger on it. “Even for an onlooker, not pecuniarily
interested, the charm increases with the value of the stake.”[439] The
stake serves not only to enhance the thought of winning the game, but
intensifies the decisive moment.[440] A gambler must have excitement at
any price, and he also wants to risk something; betting satisfies both
demands.

The need for intense stimuli which we are so constantly encountering
in the course of this inquiry appears as the second motive in our
classification, and it is met by a storm of effects which betting
excites. Consequently gambling is pre-eminently suited to supply this
demand. I have already pointed out that betting on the performances
of others is an especially popular form of gambling, since in this
way alone can the excitement be enjoyed unimpaired by personal
considerations. So, too, in games of pure chance, which relegate the
player to comparative inactivity and impart a feeling of externality
among its other effects. By far the most important of these effects
is the contrast of the emotions of hope and fear, and often this
simultaneous action of opposing passions is sufficient to stir the soul
to its depths, since, as Lazarus penetratingly remarks, the result is
in either case positive; the question is not, winning or not winning,
it is winning or losing. This is another point which renders games of
chance peculiarly fit for the production of exciting effects. Also
besides fear and hope there is the tension of expectation and the shock
of surprise to render the mental agitation more intense and varied.
This explains why gambling is the last resort of the dissipated,
worn-out man who needs sharp stimuli to arouse his exhausted
powers.[441]

Gambling is, moreover, a fighting play, and this is doubtless one
of its most important phases. There is no other form of play which
displays in so many-sided a fashion the combativeness of human nature
and with so slight expenditure of time and strength. There is the charm
of danger as such, enjoyment of bold betting which in the changing
course of the game is constantly renewed, and further indirect as well
as direct battle with an opponent, for he who makes the best throw gets
the best card. Besides all this there is the desire to win his wager,
and by means of the steady augmenting of stakes it differs from all
other fighting plays in affording at the last moment, when all seems
lost, an opportunity of retrieving everything by a sudden overwhelming
victory. And finally there is the defiance of the power of chance, or
rather, if a religious rearing makes one scruple to put it in this
form, we may call it a struggle with the powers of darkness.

The question now arises whether this is properly called a fight when
the player can not influence the outcome, but must submit absolutely to
the incalculable hazards of fortune. What right has he to congratulate
himself on a victory for which he is in no way responsible? To this
it may be answered that in addition to this subjective, psychological
condition there is an active contest; for an illusion exists in
connection with every game of chance that in some way the outcome is
dependent on the capacity of the player, and a little reflection will
show that this is characteristic of human nature. How else arises our
naïve sense of worth or of shame? Are we not vain of physical beauty,
of inherited advantages, and of riches which we have not earned? Does
not the consciousness of deformity, stupidity, weakness, awkwardness,
or even a lowly origin impart a feeling of shame and a sense of
responsibility for our own shortcomings? We feel as if we had had a
voice in the fashioning of our bodies and souls and a choice of our
position in life—in short, as the vulgar saying has it, as if we had
not been careful enough in the choice of our parents. Just in the same
way we are proud of our luck in play. Luck is genius, and he whom
it smiles upon is a hero.[442] This failure to discriminate between
fortunate circumstance and personal merit is shown in a striking manner
in popular poetry. Its heroes are often armed with magic weapons or
directly assisted by higher powers who lend them supernatural strength
or work ruin to their enemies. Such advantage is thus given them that
the reflecting person has some difficulty in regarding their exploits
as especially praiseworthy, yet the average hearer is undisturbed by
such considerations. For instance, consider the invulnerability of
Achilles and Siegfried’s Tarnkappe, which gave him in the fight with
Brunhild “the strength of twelve men.”

In the case which we are considering, however, this habit of mind has
a twofold significance: First, there is the personification of chance
as fate, with whom the player struggles. Lazarus says: “Instead of
blind chance, he pictures before him a reasoning intelligence whose
laws he tries to fathom, and in the face of many failures and mistaken
conclusions he persists in attempting to calculate his chances and to
count on them, forgetting that the reckoning of probabilities is useful
only in generalities and is practically worthless when applied to a
single case. By and bye he endows luck with moral qualities as well.
He will risk everything on a single card, and either can not believe
that Fate will be inexorable, that his faith and perseverance must at
last be rewarded, or else assumes an attitude of defiance to a hostile
being.”[443] In the second place, the gambler regards the implements
of his trade as does the magician among primitive peoples the means
of performing his incantations. It is actual fetich worship in which
personification assumes proportions quite different from those it bears
in the general idea of fate. Demons who sometimes obey the player’s
will, and sometimes mockingly defy him, seem to dwell in the dice and
cards, transforming play into a contest in magic arts. This is perhaps
not so strongly felt by cultivated people of the present day as I
have represented it, yet it is present in a more or less rudimentary
form in all devotees of the game. While some scoff at it, even they
avoid those things which are traditionally supposed to bring ill luck.
Thus, when I was a student, in our games with dice which were very
popular, the following rules were rigidly observed: In order to throw
double sixes, the player took the dice cup in his right hand, placed
the left over it and shook it solemnly three times up and down before
making the final throw. If low numbers were desired, the inverted cup
was held slantingly and drawn carefully back on the table so that the
dice glided out rather than rolled. For medium throws there was a
choice between two methods over whose comparative efficacy there was
serious controversy: either to rise from the table and empty the cup
from a height, or to propel the dice suddenly by a sidelong movement
from the cup, held at a slant. Was all this mere joking? To a certain
extent certainly it was, yet the boys half believed in it and had a
poor opinion of beginners who did not know how to handle the dice.
Among the lower classes, however, and among peoples of less advanced
civilization this fetichism is much stronger. Konrad von Haslan, says
Schuster, testifies to having seen and heard “how on the one hand dice
are honoured, greeted, and kissed, and have offerings of booty made
to them, while on the other they were beaten and abused as if they
possessed life. Often the player who has lost by them takes revenge
by picking out the spots or smashing the dice with a stone or biting
them in two to make them suffer.”[444] All these circumstances combine
to make gaming a fighting play not alone with men, but also with
supernatural powers whose inscrutable decisions possess a peculiar
power and whose favour lends to the fortunate player a special nimbus,
while the vanquished does not suffer in his own esteem as if he had
been conquered by a human foe.

Finally, we should note that gaming has various mental connections
with experimentation, since enjoyment of the excitation of hope and
fear and the feeling of suspense as well as the shock of surprise
is experimental in every case. With this is combined great activity
of attention and imagination to whose agency the personification of
which we have spoken must be ascribed; reason’s part in the process is
displayed in the complex calculation of probabilities, and that of the
will most conspicuously in the effort to appear outwardly calm while
the wildest excitement reigns within, and hope and despair surge in
alternate waves across the soul.

It is difficult to say which of these stimuli ought to be placed at
the head of the list, but two appear to me to be rather more important
than the others. First, the combative impulse, whose influence is
particularly strong here; and, second, pleasure in intense effects,
as when the “gold fever” takes the form of longing for a supreme
moment which shall fill the soul to the brim, something which will
transcend all other transporting agents. Both find their satisfaction
at the gaming table, owing to the suddenness and importance of its
revelations. In concluding, it may be remarked that the extraordinary
persistence of gamblers, who sometimes sit all night at the table,
as if hypnotized, may be at least partly explained by the law of
repetition taken in conjunction with the independent attractions of
the game. The performance of the last part of a mechanically repeated
action tends to lead to the production of the first part again.


5. _The Destructive Impulse_

Turning our attention now to the third of our principal groups of
fighting plays, the first subject—namely, the destructive impulse—will
not occupy us long, as we have already given some consideration to
it in the section on analytic movement-play. There we were chiefly
concerned with the experimental element as manifested in the desire
to take things to pieces. Here we shall emphasize the fighting
instinct which is so easily aroused even toward a lifeless object, and
frequently becomes a sort of delirium which is only appeased by the
entire destruction of the object, as if it were a vanquished foe. And
here, too, belongs the inquiry under what circumstances the discharge
of this impulse, whether directed against a living or a lifeless
object, may be considered as playful. As soon as rage ceases to be the
chief influence, and the destruction is continued simply for the sake
of its intoxicating effects, it takes on more or less of a playful
character, though it is inexpedient to attempt to set clearly defined
limits to what is earnest and what is play.[445] When children tear
paper or overturn structures laboriously erected by themselves, how
often the interest is cumulative, developing finally into passionate
eagerness from action which was at first indifferent! The paper is
seized in the teeth, the building kicked to bits, objects which are
breakable entirely destroyed, flowers pulled to pieces, etc. Education
should interfere at this point and direct the play, imposing proper
checks. Madame Necker de Saussure relates of a previously gentle and
tractable girl of eighteen months that “one day when she was alone
with her mother, who was confined to her bed from illness, the child,
without the least provocation, broke into open rebellion. Clothes,
hats, fans, and every movable object that she could lay her hands on
were piled in the middle of the floor, and she danced around the pile
and sang with the greatest delight. Her mother’s serious displeasure
had no restraining effect.”[446] “A girl three years old,” says Paolo
Lombroso, “was left alone for a few moments, and proved her ability
to improve the time. She at once began most energetically, and with
full consciousness of what she was doing, to pull to pieces a basket
of vegetables. She reduced all these to fragments, and then emptied
an inkstand in her lap, amusing herself by smearing it on the wall
and floor with her fingers. When that palled she took a corkscrew
and punched her apron as full of holes as a sieve.”[447] A little
later in life the impulse leads to more violent misdemeanours. The
destruction of garden borders, smashing of furniture in public parks,
and many other acts of vandalism which we prosecute, are practised by
half-grown lads, and sometimes even by students.[448] Some may object
to calling such roughness play, but play it surely is if there is no
malicious intention, as is usually the case. Such mischief is often
reprehensible, and deserves to be checked, yet such antics as those
of the subalterns as described by Eugen Thossan can not be taken
seriously. He says: “Suddenly a beer mug flew across the table and hit
Sergeant Putz square in the face. This was the signal for a general
free fight. Steins flew through the air like cannon balls. Four lamps
borrowed from the officers’ rooms were on the table; one was struck and
the chimney fell off. Somebody called out ‘When the chimney is gone the
lamp may as well follow,’ and a blow from a fist shattered the lamp.
A mad rage for destruction was kindled, and with anything that came to
hand all the lamps were beaten to pieces. In the general hullabaloo
no one noticed the wounds that he received from the splinters and
blows. When every vestige was demolished, a frightful war whoop rose
to the hall above.” It is more than probable that such orgies as this
often have a certain connection with the sexual life. We find among
animals—deer, buffalo, etc.—a similar rage for destruction during their
breeding season.

My last example refers to mature men. It is the vigorous description
in Vischer’s Auch Einer of the argument of two friends in an inn about
the china displayed around them. “At last Auch Einer called out: ‘That
is enough; they are condemned.’ He bought the whole collection from the
innkeeper and then let himself loose. He handed me the pitcher with the
remark that I should have the honour of opening the ball. I was not
slow to obey, and as a massive granite block stood opposite the window
I sent the pitcher crashing against it. Auch Einer was delighted, and,
seizing a vinegar cruet, followed suit. Then we took turns with plates,
dishes, glasses, and whatever came to hand. A crowd of villagers soon
collected outside and cheered the rare sport; loud laughter and cries
of ‘Go it, there!’ greeted each act of justice.”

Injurious treatment of living creatures, too, is often due to the same
instinct. In the desire to investigate, the principle of the golden
rule is forgotten. It would be too optimistic, however, to assume
that such things are never done from cruelty. Fischart says that even
well-disposed children reveal the demon of fighting and destruction
when there is a beetle or a broken-winged bird or a wounded cat to
torment. Most readers will recall some reminiscence of their own youth
when they really enjoyed inflicting injury on some living thing. It
may assume a dangerous form when directed against other persons. Some
years ago a number of children at play intentionally drowned a comrade;
and Fr. Scholz tells us, “An eight-year-old girl with an angelic face
secretly put some pins in her little brother’s food, and calmly
awaited the catastrophe, which fortunately was averted.” “A girl
twelve years old pushed a child of three, with whom she was playing,
into a pile of paving stones for no other reason than that she might
have the opportunity to tickle him cruelly.”[449] Among criminals
murders may sometimes result from following this impulse. Some time
ago three peasants were tried for the murder, with incredible cruelty,
of a servant. They were father, son, and mother. After the old man
had throttled his victim he said to his accomplices, “Now he is dead
enough.” But the woman, to make sure, dealt a hard blow on the poor
fellow’s head. “Now I think he has had enough, this fine rabbit that we
have caught.”[450] Here the bounds between play and earnest are hard to
place, but probably belong at the point where the prearranged plan is
no longer the leading thought, it having given place to mad delight in
inflicting injury. These matters are, after all, only on the threshold
of play, and we will now turn our attention to subjects more important
to our inquiry.


6. _Teasing_[451]

The fighting instinct of mankind is so intense that all the playful
duels, mass conflicts, single combats, and contests which we have
described, do not satisfy it. When there is no occasion for an actual
testing of their powers, children and adults turn their belligerent
tendencies into a means of amusement, and so arise those playful
attacks, provocations, and challenges which we class together under the
general name of teasing. The roughest if not the earliest form of such
play is that of bodily attack, such as is often observed among animals.
A female ape which Brehm brought to Germany loved to annoy the sullen
house dog. “When he had stretched himself as usual on the greensward,
the roguish monkey would appear and, seeing with satisfaction that
he was fast asleep, seize him softly by the tail and wake him by a
sudden jerk of that member. The enraged dog would fly at his tormentor,
barking and growling, while the monkey took a defensive position,
striking repeatedly on the ground with her large hand and awaiting the
enemy’s attack. The dog could never reach her, though, for, to his
unbounded rage, as he made a rush for her, she sprang at one bound far
over his head, and the next moment had him again by the tail.”[452]
We all know how children delight in just such teasing. To throw an
unsuspecting comrade suddenly on his back, to box him or tickle and
pinch him, to knock off his cap, pull his hair, take his biscuit from
his hand, and if he is small hold it so high that the victim leaps
after it in vain—all this gives the aggressor an agreeable feeling of
superiority, and he enjoys the anger or alarm of his victim. When I was
in one of the lower gymnasium classes our singing on one occasion was
suddenly broken into by a shrill scream. One of the pupils had found a
pin which he energetically pushed into an inviting spot in the anatomy
of the boy in front of him. The culprit could only say in palliation
of his offence that he did it “without thinking,” which excuse was
received rather incredulously. Schoolboys often pull out small handfuls
of one another’s hair, and it is a point of honour not to display any
feeling during the process. Becq de Fouquières records an ancient
trick of this kind, consisting of a blow on the ear in conjunction
with a simultaneous fillip of the nose. Cold water is a time-honoured
instrument of torture. To duck the timid bather who is cautiously
stepping into the pond, to empty a pitcher on a heedless passer-by, to
place a vessel full of water so that the inmate of a room will overturn
it on opening the door—these are jokes familiar wherever merry young
people are found. The lover of teasing naturally seeks such victims as
are defenceless against him, especially those who are physically weak
or so situated as to be incapable of revenge. Yet there are ways of
annoying the strong and capable. A good-natured teacher is apt to be
the subject of his pupils’ pranks, though in this case they seldom take
the form of physical assaults. It is not an unheard-of thing, however,
for a paper ball to hit his head or for his seat to be smeared with ink
or perhaps with glue as in Messerschmidt’s Sapiens Stultitia.[453]

Youths and grown men are little behind the children in such jests.
There is, for instance, the christening on board ship in honour
of crossing the line which Leopold Wagner thinks is derived from
the ancient religious ceremony celebrated on passing the pillars
of Hercules.[454] Tossing in a blanket, which made such a lasting
impression on Sancho Panza, was known to the Romans by the name
of _sagatio_. Such rough sports were practised in the time of the
Roman emperors by noble youths. Suetonius relates of Otho that the
future emperor as a young man often seized, with his companions, upon
weak or drunken fellows at night, and tossed them on a soldier’s
mantle (distento sago impositum in sublime jactare).[455] In popular
festivities fighting with pigs’ bladders is a fruitful source of
amusements to which tickling with a peacock’s feather is a modern
addition, and lassoing with curled strips of paper which cling about
the neck. Students make a specialty of such pranks. A favourite
one was crowding, when the streets had only a narrow pavement for
pedestrians, while in bad weather the rest of the road was a mass of
unfathomable mud; another was to deal a hard blow on the high hat of
some worthy Philistine, plunging him suddenly into hopeless darkness,
or tracing a circle on the bald head of a toper asleep over his wine,
etc. In an inn in Giessen there is still in existence a bench through
whose seat a nail projects when a hidden cord is pulled—a pleasant
surprise for the unsuspecting guest who reclines upon it. On entering
the gymnasium I was initiated in an æsthetic little practice which is
of ancient date and serves as an instance of the coarse jesting that
is so common there. One of the company secretly fills his mouth with
beer and reclines on two chairs. With a handkerchief spread over his
face he plays the part of The Innkeeper’s Daughter. They all sing the
familiar song, and two accomplices play the rôle of two of the peasants
while the novice is asked to be the third. The veil is thus twice
withdrawn from the daughter’s face, and twice replaced without any
suspicious revelations, but when the innocent third lover arrives he
is greeted with the stream of stale beer full in the face. A suitable
companion-piece to this decidedly disgusting trick is this incident
related by Joest as occurring among the Bush <DW64>s of Guayana: “As I
was tending the wound of a young negress whose breast was badly cut,
she wearied of the operation, and suddenly seizing it in both hands she
sent a stream of warm milk into my face and fled laughing away.”[456]

The most harmless teasing is the obvious kind which forms the basis of
much social play, such as games for a company like “Blind-Man’s Buff,”
“Fox Chase,” “Copenhagen,” and similar diversions. A striking instance
occurs in The Sorrows of Werther. During a violent storm Lotta attempts
to cheer the frightened company; she places chairs in a circle and
seats everybody in them—many acceding in the hope of being rewarded
with a sweet forfeit or two, and getting their lips all ready. “We
are going to play counting,” said Lotta. “Now, attention! I am going
round the circle from right to left, and you must count, each taking
the number that comes to him; and we are going like lightning, and
whoever hesitates or blunders gets a box on the ear, and we are going
on to thousands.” She then stretched out her arms and flew around the
circle, faster and faster. If any one missed, bang! came a box on his
ear, and in the laugh that followed, bang! came another, and always
faster and faster. Werther, however, noticed with inward satisfaction
that the two blows which he received were somewhat harder than Lotta
gave the others. When the company is still less refined than this,
joking sometimes becomes so rough as to lose its playful character.
The ancient Thracians were celebrated for this sort of thing.
Gutsmuth says truly that from this circumstance much could be inferred
concerning the state of civilization among them, if we had no other
sources of information. “A man stands on a round stone holding a sickle
in his hand and having his head through a noose suspended from above.
When he is not expecting it a bystander pushes the stone away and there
hangs the poor wretch who has been chosen by lot for this fate. If he
has not sufficient skill and presence of mind to cut the knot at once
with the sickle he flounders there until he dies, amid the laughter of
the spectators.”[457]

Turning now to other forms of teasing than direct bodily annoyance, we
find again that children very early understand it. When the pretence is
made of great alarm at his beating with a spoon or banging a book or at
a sudden cry, a child as young as two years old shows great delight,
and will repeat the performance with a roguish expression. From this
time on, to cause sudden fright is a favourite method of gratifying
the taste for teasing. The ghostly manifestations which terrify each
generation in turn can often be traced to some mischievous urchins.

I remember a joke played on a geographical professor at the gymnasium
who, as he carelessly opened a closet door, was confronted by a
skeleton which had been used in the previous lecture. Students could
hardly subsist without the ancient trick of stuffing the clothes of a
“suicide,” and placing the figure on the floor of their victim’s room
with a pistol lying near, or hanging it by a rope to the window frame,
to give the late home-comer a genuine scare. In Athenäus we find a
beautiful instance of readiness to meet such a trick. King Lysimachus,
who took delight in teasing his guests, one day at a banquet threw a
skilfully made artificial scorpion on to the dress of one Bithys, who
recoiled; but, quickly recovering himself, said to the rather penurious
king: “My lord, it is now my turn to frighten you; I beseech you give
me a talent.”[458] Such sport with fear, though harmless in these
instances, becomes a passion with all narrowminded, tyrannous natures,
and leads to cruelty which is anything but playful. Slatin’s dramatic
work, Fire and Sword in the Soudan, gives an instance of such traits
in the character of the Caliph Abdullah. Indeed, Abdullah had a part
in, or rather was the occasion of, Slatin’s first experience during
the life of the Mahdi. Slatin was taken prisoner by the Mahdi’s army
before the gates of Khartoum. The morning after the city was taken,
alarming rumours reached him; half incredulous, he looked out of his
tent. “A mob had collected before the quarters of the Mahdi and his
caliphs; it seemed to be getting into motion and making toward me,
and I soon saw clearly that they were coming in the direction of my
tent. I could now distinguish single persons. First walked the <DW64>
soldiers, one of whom, whose name was Shetta, carried a bloody burden
on his head. Behind him howled the mob. The slaves entered my tent and
stood glowering before me, and Shetta opened the roll of cloth and
showed me—Gordon’s head! I grew faint and dizzy at the sight, my breath
stopped, and it was only by the greatest effort that I commanded myself
sufficiently to gaze upon that pallid face.” The Mahdi and his caliphs
had ordered this hideous cruelty.[459]

A common and early developed form of teasing is the deception which
imparts to the perpetrator a feeling of intellectual superiority.
Children display this in their tender years principally by pretending
that they are going to do forbidden or improper things, as revolt
against authority. When the little girl observed by Pollock was
twenty-three months old she often declined to kiss her father
good-night. She turned from him as if annoyed or indifferent, to make
a _fausse sortie_, and then called him back and gave the kiss.[460]
Sigismund’s boy often exhibited a “kind of humorous defiance of
authority,” such as grasping at a light standing near him, but not so
that it could burn him, and looking slyly at his father.[461]

Older children have innumerable tricks of this kind. A sort of game
is to strike on a table with a spoon or on the floor with a card and
repeat the formula “He can do little who can’t do this, this,” and
pass the stick or spoon to the next neighbour with the left hand. The
uninitiated who attempt to do this usually pass it with the right hand
and are much puzzled when told that they are wrong. There is much of
this element, too, in the games of magic which children are so fond
of. For examples of it among adults it is only necessary to turn again
to the old jokes of students. In a university town a merchant, Karl
Klingel, was roused in the middle of the night by a ring at the bell.
The visitor was a student named Karl, who pretended to think that the
name on the sign was a signal for him. “Mystification,” says Goethe in
Wahrheit und Dichtung, “is and ever will be amusement for idle people
who are more or less intelligent. Indolent mischievousness, selfish
enjoyment of doing some damage is a resource to those who are without
occupation or any wholesome external interests. No age is entirely free
from such proclivities.” Moreover, one whole day in every year is given
over to this jesting deception. The civilized world over the first of
April is fool’s day. Wagner thinks that this custom arose from the
change of the new year from the vernal equinox to January 1st, thus
giving to the customary exchange of New Year’s gifts the character of
jests, and to those who should forget the change of time the appearance
of fools. So they are called Aprilnarren, poisson d’Avril, April fools,
and in Scotland gowks.[462]

Memory forms another important division of our subject. The child’s
natural impulse is easily aroused by new and striking peculiarities—for
instance, he soon learns by example to stammer, to talk through his
nose, or imitate any other defect without at first intending to tease.
When his mimicry is laughed at he attempts intentional caricature,
yet we are not to suppose from this that he would never do so alone.
As a rule, though, it is the amusement of adults which stimulates him
to improve on his former efforts. And as soon as he perceives that
his victim is annoyed his mimicry becomes teasing.[463] At school
this sort of teasing attacks unmercifully any little weakness or
peculiarity, such as a halting or limping gait, stammering or lisping
speech, a strange accent or foreign pronunciation. All these become
the objects of ridiculous exaggeration even in the presence of older
persons if they show no signs of disapproval.[464] In our club in the
high school there was a boy who ran his words together in a comical
fashion, and from imitating his manner of speech we constructed a
formal language, some words of which still survive in the memories of
his contemporaries. The most important sphere of this sort of imitation
is that of pictorial art, where the caricaturist seeks to amuse by
his exaggerated representations of familiar peculiarities. Children
attempt this too. Their efforts are at first, of course, the grossest
deformities with projecting ears, huge noses, etc., which they label
with the name of some comrade whom they wish to annoy, but later when
they have learned to draw they achieve some creditable caricaturing. I
well remember our portrait of a French teacher who had two deep lines
from the base of his nose to the corners of his mouth, forming with
his long nose the letter M. Such pictures are, of course, not to be
classed with methods of teasing unless the intention is to show them
to the subject, which is by no means always the case, and unless their
_raison d’être_ is something less than serious malice or hatred. There
is always a charm in wielding, under the safe refuge of anonymity,
these effective weapons against the mighty of the earth. What has not
the nose of Napoleon III, for instance, suffered in this way!

Political caricatures were known to the early Egyptians;[465] and
in Venezuela, besides pre-Columbian figures, a statuette with a
gigantic nose has been found which is supposed to represent the
Spanish invader.[466] Indirect satire forms a poetic analogue to
these creations of the pictorial art, as it is an ironical form of
teasing which imitates in an exaggerated manner, and makes the most of
awkwardness and weakness, to raise a laugh against their possessor.
Here play and earnest are frequently mingled, the poet usually setting
out with the serious intention of annoying his victim, and yet taking
such pleasure in the effort that the attack becomes genuine play.
Indeed, we may say that the happiest and most effective satires are
usually those which reveal such playfulness. The _epistolæ obscurorum
virorum_ afford brilliant examples as well as many passages in
Rabelais’s immortal work.

Finally, we must note the kind of teasing which is implied in
provocative words and actions. Children often have the desire to use
insulting and abusive language to their elders, but, not quite daring
to utter it, they assume an impertinent air which sometimes seems
partly playful. Thus Compayré tells of a child who said to his mother,
“Vilaine!” but added immediately, “poupée vilaine”; and Marie G—— in
her third year said to her father, “Papa, you are a—stove, you are
a—tray,” while the expression of her face plainly showed that she had a
more offensive epithet in mind.

There can be no doubt that the fighting instinct often finds expression
in the direct effort to excite others to anger by provoking words. Such
taunts are frequently thrown into rhythmical form, and so constitute a
primitive lyric in which the musical element is not wanting. This is
especially the case when there are several participants, who chant them
in a sort of recitative, and usually adopt, as far as my observation
goes, that fundamental stereotyped measure which forms the basis of
all[467] primitive German child-song, and which in its simplest form is
this:

[Illustration: music]

In this measure the street urchins call mockingly after a teamster:

  “’S hängt eener hinde dran,
   ’S hängt eener hinde dran,”

or when they wittily compare a tipsy man with an over-loaded and
toppling wagon:

  “Er hot, er hot,
   Er hot zu scheppe gelade,”

or taunt a young Englishman with

  “Beefsteak, Wasserweck
   Auf dem Kopf e grosse Schneck?”

or scoff at a tale-bearing comrade:

  “Angeber, geb mich an
   Kriegst ’n hohle Backezahn.”

This same motive is always used for such songs now as it was in
the days of our pagan forefathers, who doubtless gave it a wider
application.

Grosse points out that the derisive songs of savages have a strong
similarity to such childish taunts. He cites one which Grey heard
Australians sing in scorn of one of their own number:

  “Oh, what a leg he has!
   Oh, what a leg he has!
   The old kangaroo jumper”—

and compares it to a scene before the door of a school in Berlin where
a troop of children followed a little lame girl, calling out:

  “Aetsch, ätsch, ätsch,
   Anna has a crooked leg,
   Aetsch, ätsch, ätsch.”[468]

Scornful speech among the common people is more than teasing. I must
confine myself to only one or two examples of this important group. The
above will suffice as an instance of the common jeering at physical
infirmity.

Banter between the sexes begins even in childhood. In Alsace the
little girls sing a rhyme which recalls the English

  “Girls are made of sugar and spice
   And all that’s nice;
   Boys are made of rats and snails
   And puppy dogs’ tails.”

  “Räge, Räge, Tropfe!
   D’Buäwe muess mä klopfe,
   D’Maidle kummen in Hommelbett,
   D’Buäwe kummen in Knotensäck!”

While in Bohemia the boys have it—

  “Zeisig, Zeisig,
   Die Buben sind fleissig.
   Stieglitz, Stieglitz,
   Die Mädeln sind gar nichts nütz.”[469]

  “Boys are the busy ones,
   Goldfinch, goldfinch.
   Girls are no use at all.”

At the festivals, and especially the weddings of mountain folk, the
youths and maidens carry on a veritable poetic warfare, which sometimes
becomes pretty severe.

Ten different German tribes too had champions who sang in scornful
contests like that of the two Greenland poets.[470] In trade rivalry
the tailor suffers most. Religious differences have given rise to such
jargon as this:

  “Franz Willwanz
   Willwippke Kadanz,
   Willwippke Kadippke
   Katholischer Franz!”[471]

As it is not expedient to dwell on the higher forms of satire
here,[472] I will close this section with some remarks on the
provocative manner and bearing. Like all other teasing, a scornful
manner results from a feeling of superiority, and is always calculated
to depreciate its object. When serious, such scornful behaviour
constitutes a challenge to actual combat, but when playful it becomes
the sort of teasing in which the perpetrator enjoys annoying others.
The gesture which naturally accompanies it is pointing with the finger,
and children usually add laughter. Even dogs understand this laughter,
as their half-angry, half-depressed demeanour well proves. Sticking
out the tongue, which with some children only means awkwardness and
embarrassment, is sometimes employed in the same way. Sittl thinks
that it was unknown to the Greeks and early Romans[473] (?); yet the
Gauls made use of it as a means of expressing contempt, as did also the
Jews. I have been unable to find a satisfactory explanation of this
or for the “turned-up nose.” In Romeo and Juliet this passage occurs:
“I will bite my thumb at them, which is a disgrace to them if they
bear it”; and Persius refers to the same thing as expressing scornful
depreciation of one’s opponent. Italians and Greeks place the thumb
nail on the front teeth and snap it forward with like intent.[474]
_Minimo digito provocare_, which may be freely interpreted as “I can
manage you with my little finger,” serves the same purpose as does
snapping the fingers also. Tylor remarks that in the language of
deaf-mutes the rubbing together or snapping of small objects signifies
contempt, depreciation, etc.[475] Many scornful gestures are obscene
in character, and some such have been perpetuated in plastic art,
especially during the middle ages (as, for instance, on the door of the
Schwäbisch Hall). They all no doubt originated in the desire to express
contempt in a forcible manner,[476] though the appropriateness of some
of them is not apparent, as, for instance, jeering challenges to some
degrading act, direct accusations, symbolic threats of defilement,
where the idea seems to be that the assailant wishes to prove himself
not only fearless in the presence of his foe, but shameless as well.

While on one side teasing is an expression of the fighting impulse,
on the other it seems to be of considerable value as a promoter of
sociability. The educational quality of school comradeships and
students’ clubs depends in no small degree on the hardening of the
super-sensitive by teasing, and thus preparing them for the future
buffetings of fortune. It is useful, too, in stirring up heavy and
phlegmatic natures. Bastian writes from Siam: “When a boy misses his
aim and stands like a whipped poodle, his comrades mock him with ‘Kui,
kui,’ which is very provoking. Some poor fellows are so sensitive to
this blame and jeering, and so emulous of praise that they are quite
beside themselves, and beat their heads against a wall. They are then
said to be ‘Ba-Jo,’ or mad from shame. When, on the contrary, they meet
such scorn with indifference, they are regarded as fearless.”[477]


7. _Enjoyment of the Comic_

There are two theories of the comic—that of the feeling of superiority
and that of contradiction; the one being more subject to the will
and the other to reasoning processes. That which Hobbes sets forth
and which is perpetuated in modern psychology by Bain, Kirchmann,
Neberhorst, and others, emphasizes the connection between laughter
and ridicule. As the latter is a pleasure, “orta ex eo, quod aliquid,
quod contemnimus in re quam odimus ei inesse imaginamu” (Spinoza), so
too our appreciation of the comic is derived from our own powers of
exaggeration over and above the contradictions inherent in the object
of our depreciation. Erdmann says that we never think of Christ’s
laughing, because we have an innate feeling that there is something
malicious in unrestrained laughter.[478] The other theory, which
also has many supporters, lays most stress on the intellectual side
of the phenomenon, on the idea of contradiction, of inconsequence,
of incongruity as displayed by the comic object. This startles us at
first by its unexpectedness, and then appeals agreeably to our sense of
the ridiculous. These two theories are by no means exclusive the one
of the other, and are only opposed in that each accuses the other of
failure to cover all the facts. Sully and Ribot[479] attempt to unite
them by deriving the more refined sense of incongruity from the first
exaggeration, progressively excluding the latter by mental play with
contraries. We will be satisfied with the undeniable fact that pleasure
derived from the comic is usually not only experimentation with
attention, the shock of surprise, and a more or less logical enjoyment
of the incongruities involved, but also an agreeable pharisaical
feeling of being superior to the occasion. So far, then, as such
pleasure can be referred at all to reason it does consist in this sense
of superiority, and belongs in the category of fighting plays.

It is a familiar remark that we find something not altogether
disagreeable in hearing of the misfortunes of even our best friends.
From the standpoint of social science it is evident that humanity is
not entirely dominated by the social and sympathetic instincts since
even when these are most strongly manifested there is always a remnant
of the fighting impulse in ambush, which greets with joy any damage
to a friend as to a foe. This is the principle of competition. We
know that untutored savages make violent demonstrations of joy over
the misfortunes of an enemy, their fiendish laugh of triumph has been
often described, and childhood recollections furnish most of us with
striking data in the same line. “A ten-year-old boy who had daubed a
comrade with filthy mud from the street danced around his victim and
screamed with laughter.”[480] Sometimes scornful and contemptuous
laughter serves as a weapon, for it is not always a mere expression
of feeling, being frequently used to infuriate an opponent much as a
provoking manner is employed. We find, too, that in numerous cases
it originates in a triumphant feeling, as when the teasing we have
been considering is successful, and also when spectators applaud such
success. Then, too, there is laughter at the artistic representation
of such scenes, pictorial, plastic, and poetic. Yet we are far from
exhausting the list. As a result of the struggle for life, every
inferiority calls forth a triumphant feeling in the observer, be it
in physical or mental fitness or in opportunity or ability. Thence
comes, too, the opposition among gregarious animals to anything which
menaces the social norm or its usages, anything which is too small or
too great to be reduced to the general average, provided the greatness
is not sufficient to inspire awe or fear. And inferiority, too, in the
courtship contest is often subject for ridicule. In all these cases,
embracing as they do a large proportion of things comic, the instinct
for fighting enjoys a triumph, and this enjoyment forms a large part of
the general sense of satisfaction.

Yet we rightly hesitate to identify enjoyment of the comic with
mere maliciousness. There is evidently something more. But what? Is
Aristotle’s explanation, that the misfortune to another which excites
our mirth is really a harmless thing, sufficient? By no means. While
this may be quite true considered subjectively, it does not bear on
our special question. It is at this point, I think, that the other
theory becomes applicable, especially in a connection which has not
been sufficiently brought forward. In all the relations of the comic
with which we have so far had to do, only a small part of the stimulus
of contrast has come from the object itself and from the relief of
tension. By far the most significant feature of the process is the
fact that the observer alternates between æsthetic feeling or inner
imitation and the external sense of triumph. Hereby alone does the
comic win the right to a place in the sphere of æsthetics. It is a
psychological law that sufficient observation of any object stirs
the imitative impulse to such a degree as to cause us inwardly to
sympathize with the object, and the law holds good with regard to
what we consider inferior if it impresses us as amusing as well. Our
feeling, then, is so far from being pure malice that we actually spend
an interval in inward participation in the inferiority, though at the
next moment, it is true, exulting triumphantly in our own superiority.
All this is a play grounded on the instinctive indulgence of our
fighting impulse, aided and enlarged by the idea of contrast, the two
together constituting appreciation of the comic. Mere mischief is not
æsthetic, and the mere idea of contrast does not necessarily produce
laughter; but, then, synthesis does call forth this characteristic
effect of the comic.[481] The mischievous factor is sometimes of much
less importance, and the laugh not at all like ridicule, yet in the
vast majority of cases the idea of resistance mingles, if for nothing
else, then to overcome the shock which is apt to stagger us at first,
but is finally conquered. I proceed now to adduce some instances to
which, in spite of their diversity, this explanation is applicable.
We have seen that surprise is one of the first causes for laughter in
children. They thoroughly enjoy the moment of recognition of a picture
which has puzzled them, and adults have the same feeling when they
have wrestled with almost illegible handwriting and at last decipher
it. There is a slight shock of it, too, when we hear a child express
precocious sentiments or see an animal act like a man. Then arises
what Kries calls a state of false psychic disposition, from which we
escape in the next instant. We may test this sensation by turning
from a comic sheet to some serious reading. We are apt to conceive of
the first sentences as if they were meant to be ironical, and find
the recognition and correction of the misapprehension a pleasure in
itself. Such a stimulus is also mildly operative in the amusement we
derive from masquerades and other pretences. The charm of juggling
and sleight-of-hand tricks is dependent on the unexpected performance
of an apparently impossible task or the solution of an apparently
insurmountable difficulty. As an instance of the surprise whose
conquest forms a part of our amusement and which at first gives us a
shock which has something of superstition in it, I will mention that
which I felt on receiving “in the very nick of time,” as it were, the
article of Hall and Allin’s, to which I have so often referred, just as
I was about to begin my attempt to analyze the comic.

Punning, the introductory step to wit, is enjoyed by children too young
to appreciate true wit. It consists in an incongruous association of
ideas which at first amazes and then delights. Wit presents ideas in
unexpected associations full of suggestion which prove either to be
illusory or to conceal some jesting or serious meaning. Finally, we may
include in his list some lying tales and extravagances which are too
grotesque to represent any intention to deceive.

In all these instances we can trace the combination of fighting play
with the contrast of ideas. The former, however, possesses here a
deeper and more subjective significance, since it is no longer inspired
by external inferiority, but by the necessity for overcoming the shock
which at the first blush staggers and overwhelms us, but which it
enables us to shake off immediately. We can thus speak of an offensive
and a defensive triumph; in the former the laugh has something of
the character of an attack, while in the latter we are warding off
surprise. Yet the contrast of ideas coming in here makes it difficult
to maintain this distinction clearly. Inner imitation falls in many
cases into the background or entirely out of view, indicating that we
are no longer dealing with æsthetic enjoyment. In the simpler cases
contrast between stressed attention and its sudden unexpected release
becomes the most prominent feature, while in others it is the contrast
of opposing qualities which the object really possesses or has ascribed
to it.

Summing up now the important data we find that enjoyment of the comic
depends in the large majority of cases, though not in all, on the union
of fighting play with the idea of contrast. This kind of fighting play
naturally falls into two distinct groups, involving everything comic.
The one is essentially composed of aggressive fighting plays, and makes
prominent the contrast between inner imitation and the triumphant
feeling of superiority. In the other group we find more defensive
fighting play, and the idea of contrast takes the form primarily of
sudden relaxation of the stressed attention and the impression of
contradiction. That the first group represents an earlier stage of
development from which the second is evolved, as Sully and Ribot
intimate, is not easily proved. Children exhibit both very early.

Are there cases which do not exhibit fighting play in any form? I do
not deny the possibility, though up to this time I have not been able
to discover any such. The first difficulty to surmount in trying to
establish this possibility would, it seems to me, be the laughter of
children when they mimic anything (for example, the cries or movements
of animals), which is not in itself amusing, nor is their intention
mischievous. Can this be a case where the idea of contrast works alone
and there is no fighting play? I think not, for I am convinced that the
child’s first impression of the comic depends on his æsthetic sympathy
with the model and on his conscious shaking off of this feeling; and,
furthermore, the idea of contrast is in this instance connected with
the conquest of difficulty, an association which always indicates an
approach to fighting play, and is especially significant in this case,
since mimicry singles out the salient and individual characteristics of
the model.[482]


8. _Hunting Play_

Having learned to recognise the three principal groups of fighting
plays we turn now to a special application of the fighting instinct.
The name “hunting play” will include, for the sake of brevity, playful
pursuit, flight, and hiding.

The chase is, in connection with the collecting of fruits, the oldest
and most primitive method of obtaining a food supply known to us.
It is not impossible that in some more primitive stage than that of
modern savages human beings subsisted entirely (with the exception of
some insects, young birds, and eggs) on vegetable food, as monkeys do.
But we have no definite knowledge of this, and, however it may be,
the facts justify the deduction that the impulse to pursue a fleeing
creature, or, on the other hand, to flee and hide from approaching
danger, is as much an inborn instinct in man as in the lower animals.
It is true, indeed, that the arts of the chase are of vast service to
evolution in other ways than in the pursuit of and escape from wild
beasts, for it is often enough his fellow-man from whom the fugitive
flees and must escape by speed or guile. In the case of animals the
instinctiveness of the impulse is proved by their play. The kitten
treats a ball of yarn exactly as an adult carnivorous animal does its
prey, and that before she takes note of a living mouse; and young dogs
show their wolfish nature in their chasing of one another when there
is no real game to pursue. In the life of man, too, phenomena are not
wanting which point to an instinctive basis for the hunting instinct,
and they all belong to the sphere of play.

First, then, we must consider actual hunting of animals, which is not
for the purpose of securing food. Small children display a disposition
to chase animals. G. H. Schneider considers that this fact points
directly to the inheritance of the habits of primitive man, but it
is not necessary to call in the principle of inheritance of acquired
characters, since simple succeeding to inborn instincts is sufficient
to produce this result. “In the same way,” says Schneider, “the
impulse for hunting, fishing, slaughtering animals and plundering
birds’ nests in so cruel a manner is inherited, and is to-day quite
common in young men accustomed to an outdoor life. The boy never eats
the butterflies, beetles, flies, and other insects which he eagerly
pursues and possibly dismembers, nor does he suck the eggs which he
gets from nests in high trees, often at the risk of his life. But the
sight of these creatures awakens in him a strong impulse to plunder,
hunt, and kill, apparently because his savage ancestors obtained their
food chiefly by such acts.”[483] Schneider goes too far, I think, in
assuming that there is a special connection between the sight of a
certain animal and the inherited impulse, yet it is quite probable that
there is a general tendency to seek and pursue moving living creatures
over and above what can be accounted for by fear. And perhaps the
children of savages possess this tendency in a higher degree than do
our own. Semon tells us of young Australians: “Any one who observes
the children, and especially the boys, will see how in their play
all the exercise is directed to the perfection of their skill in the
chase. They are constantly occupied with throwing pieces of wood and
little clubs at any possible target, killing squirrels and bringing
down birds and small animals with these missiles. On the march, while
the women and girls carry the baggage, the boys amuse themselves with
various throwing plays.” The cylindrical nests of Australian birds are
favourite hiding places of poisonous snakes, “and children who give
promise of becoming zealous scientific investigators are often, as well
as their elders, bitten in this way. My little friends in Coonambula
were eager collectors of all sorts of insects and every creeping thing,
and I have to thank them for many of my choicest specimens.”[484]

The chase as practised for sport by adults also argues for an
instinctive basis of such play. Civilized man, who no longer makes
hunting a direct means of replenishing his larder, still feels the
force of this powerful impulse, and playfully reverts to the practices
of his progenitors. The passion which this sport excites in its
votaries is so strong as to leave little doubt that the impulse is an
inherited one. “In our time,” says Johann von Salisbury in the twelfth
century, “the chase is regarded by the nobility as the most honourable
of employments, and its pursuit the highest virtue. They consider it
the summit of earthly bliss to excel in this exercise, and consequently
they ride to the chase with greater pomp and pageantry than to war.
From pursuing habitually this manner of life they lose their humanity
to a great degree, and become almost as savage as the beasts they
hunt. Peasants peacefully tending their flocks are torn from their
well-tilled fields, their meadows, and pastures, in order that wild
beasts may take possession.”[485]

King Edward III had such a passion for hunting that he took a large
pack of dogs with him when he was making war on France, and on French
soil and every day he followed the chase in some form. The priestly
Nimrods whose tastes belie their calling have been subjects of
derision from the time of Chaucer to C. F. Meyer’s Shots from the
Chancel, and the opposite extreme is found in Sebastian Brant’s
Narrenschiff, where he accuses his contemporaries of disturbing the
worship of God by bringing their dogs and falcons into the churches.
In modern times the passion for hunting is strongest in mountaineers,
whose free outdoor life affords every opportunity to indulge the taste.
No one who has seen the face of an old mountaineer as he catches sight
of a likely goat has any further doubt that inherited instinct is at
the bottom of the hunting impulse. Bismarck well described the charm of
field sports at the time (1878) when, his health being threatened, he
left the business of his office to younger diplomats, and refused to be
consulted except on the most vital questions. Rudolf Lindau has given,
too, in a parliamentary speech of Bismarck a half-humorous and yet
striking picture of a tired hunter: “When a man starts off on a hunt in
the morning he is quite willing to tramp over miles of heavy ground to
get a shot at birds. But after he has wandered about all day, has his
game bag full, and is about ready to go home, being tired, hungry, and
covered with mud, he shakes his head if the game-keeper says that there
are partridges in the next field. ‘I have enough,’ he says. But if a
messenger comes with the news that there is a wild boar in the woods
below, this tired man with hunter’s blood in his veins forgets his
fatigue, and hastens to the woods, not satisfied until he has found the
game and captured it.”

The most rigidly conducted chase has something of the character of
play, and there is a whole cycle of games in which flight and pursuit
are the main features. To begin with the pursuit of our own kind:
suppose one taking a two-year-old child in his arms and springing
toward another person, who runs away in pretended fright. The child
will manifest delight, which is much too strong to be attributed to
mere pleasure in the movement, and must be connected with the hunting
impulse. It is shown, too, quite as plainly by boys playing on the
street. James is right when he says, “A boy can no more help running
after another boy who runs provokingly near him than a kitten can help
running after a rolling ball.”[486] In 1894 I had an opportunity to
observe a scene which displayed the power of this instinct in a manner
which was almost terrible; the boys irresistibly reminded me of dogs or
wolves pursuing their prey in a hot chase. At that time a racer came
to Giessen, and to attract attention ran through the streets at midday
attired in rose- tights, fantastically decorated, and carrying
a large bell in his hand. He moved with incredible rapidity, now
disappearing round some corner, and now emerging from a side street.
When school was out a crowd of homeward-bound boys filled the streets,
and, catching sight of the runner, chased after him, so that soon a mob
of from fifty to one hundred children were on his heels, chasing him
like a pack of hounds with the wildest excitement and loud cries. The
man carried a whip which he laid about him well, otherwise the children
would doubtless have tried to catch and beat him.

The number of plays which employ such chasing is extraordinarily
great, and I will confine myself to a few examples which display the
characteristic points of difference. One of the simplest forms of it
is the “Zeck,” which is described in a seventeenth century collection.
Another is the Greek ὀστρακίνδα, for which the boys used bits of
pottery or a shell, one side of which was smeared with pitch and called
night, while the other side was day. The children were divided into
parties of the day and night, and the token thrown up in the air. The
side lying uppermost on its fall determined which party should flee
and which pursue. Whoever was caught was called a donkey[487] and must
sit on the ground to await the end of the game. This may have been the
origin of our coin tossing. In most chasing plays there are special
pre-arranged conditions which avert danger from the fugitive and
facilitate bringing the play to a close, and most of these conditions
can be traced to some ancient superstition. In one game the pursued
is safe while standing on or touching iron, and in another sudden
stooping makes him immune, while others again appoint bases as cities
of refuge. These were used by the Greeks, and a great variety of
designation indicates how general they are among the Germans. In the
Greek σχοινοφιλίνδα the participants formed in a circle, around which
one went with a stick which he secretly hid behind one of the players,
who has the privilege of chasing the depositor; or, in case he fails to
discover in time what an honour has been conferred upon him, he must
run around the circle exposed to the blows of all its numbers.[488] It
is like our “Drop the Handkerchief,” and also the game where the boy,
whose cap the ball falls in, must throw it after the others. Finally, I
will mention two games in which this element has developed into complex
imitation of genuine combat. “Fox chasing” furnishes a perfect picture
of battle. Two hostile parties stand opposed and attempt to conquer
one another and to free their imprisoned allies, and yet, since each
capture is made by pursuit and not by fighting, the principle of the
chase is the controlling one. “Hare and Hounds” is another imitation
of the chase. Adults usually play it on horseback, though there is a
notice in Ueber Land und Meer (1880, No. 27) of such a chase on foot,
in America. Two specially good runners are given fifteen minutes’
start, and the rest of the company take the part of hounds.

But it is not essential that the thing pursued shall be a living
creature. Just as kittens and puppies chase lifeless objects, such as
rolling balls, sticks, etc., so do human beings also find substitutes
for the proper objects of their sportiveness. Catching a swiftly
moving ball is sometimes of this nature; there is attending it a
feeling of triumphant mastery much the same as that which excites the
boy who seizes and holds a fleeing comrade or the clown who obstructs
the course of a scorching wheelman. This is especially the case with
professional ball players, who allow the ball to pass their hands and
then seize it by a quick movement as it is about to touch the ground.
There are other games in which the ball is not caught in the air, but
is allowed to fall to the ground and roll away while the players must
pursue and catch it. Football and cricket are examples of this, and
consequently can be classed either with chase or fighting plays, though
they have more of the characteristics of the latter. Another form of
hunting play which should not be overlooked is the seeking for hidden
persons or things. H. Lemming refers to a process belonging to the
child’s first quarter as a kind of hiding play. “The child’s aunt had
him on her lap, his little head resting on her right shoulder, while
she played hide with him. ‘Where is he?’ she would cry while she hid
his head between her arm and breast; then, as she suddenly drew the arm
away, ‘There he is.’ She had not done it many times before the little
fellow understood perfectly. As soon as his aunt made the motion he
turned his head in the right direction and laughed softly. Several
days passed, and the game had been repeated two or three times, when
one morning early, as he was lying on my bed, I smiled at him and he
laughed back; then his face took on a roguish expression, and he buried
his head in the pillow for an instant and suddenly raised it with the
same mischievous look. He repeated this several times.”[489] Becq de
Fouquières restores a beautiful antique picture of a Greek hiding play.
One little fellow presses his eyes shut while two others hurry to hide
themselves. In Siam “Hide-and-Seek” is called “Looking for the Axe,”
and is oftenest played in the twilight because dark, impenetrable
corners are more abundant then.[490] There is added weirdness, too, in
the half light, and the shock of surprise on suddenly coming upon the
hidden object is stronger, bringing the players more in touch with the
emotional life. The objects to be hidden are of various kinds. This is
a use to which children love to put Easter eggs, and much interest is
added to the search by the cries of “Cold,” “Freezing,” “Getting warm,”
“Hot, hot, burning,” etc. Very common, too, are games like “Button,
button, who’s got the button?” where a small object is passed from hand
to hand and kept concealed. A curious forfeit game like this was very
popular in former years, and is thus described by Amaranthes: “The
whole company sit close together in a circle on the ground while a shoe
belonging to one of them is slipped along and hidden beneath their
legs, while one person tries to find it.”[491] Fleeing and hiding occur
in all hunting plays, but are specially prominent in some forms—in
games like “Going to Jerusalem,” for instance, where many attempt to
make use of the same chair, “Stagecoach,” “Change Kitchen Furniture,”
“Cats and Mice,” etc. In many the pursuers are restricted by certain
conditions and prohibitions which are in favour of the fleeing ones,
and furnish occasion for evasions and all sorts of byplay. For one
thing the “catcher” may be hooded or blindfold. Bastian saw a game
played in Siam in which the bandage over his eyes was so arranged that
it hung down like an elephant’s trunk.[492] Another handicap is to
require the pursuer to hop on one foot and hit those whom he overtakes
with his knotted handkerchief. When in his excitement he changes to the
other foot they all cry out and beat him with theirs. The Greek
ἀσκωλιασμός was apparently much like this.


9. _Witnessing Fights and Fighting Plays. The Tragic_

Æsthetic observation belongs more properly to imitative play, but we
have been compelled to notice it already in several connections and
must not overlook its influence on fighting play. Thanks to inner
imitation we can take part in fights without objective participation,
and actually enjoy attacks and defence, strategy and risk, victory and
defeat as if they were our veritable experience. As we found in games
of rivalry, this internal sympathetic fighting has a great advantage
over objective fighting in the more varied and lasting excitement which
it effects (for example, the tension of expectation which in one’s own
quarrels soon vanishes); yet, on the other hand, it lacks the element
of pleasure peculiarly associated with one’s own achievements.

In considering the observation of actual fighting we must distinguish
between combat with an enemy and the conquest of difficulty. Inner
imitation is prominent in both. When we see a company of labourers
trying to lift a heavy stone or beam with pulleys, or driving piles
in the water, or a man pulling his boat up on the beach, or a smith
beating the hot iron with heavy blows of his hammer, or a hunter
scaling mountain crags to reach an eagle’s nest, we take part in the
struggle with difficulty and enjoy success as if it were our own. The
sympathetic interest is even greater in witnessing a fight between
two combatants; indeed, it can be playful only when the onlooker can
restrain his emotions and regard the struggle going on before him as
a theatrical representation, as is often enough the case. When two
boys are tussling, when adults quarrel with high words, when a rider
attempts to control his vicious horse, when a man defends himself with
a stick against a brutal dog, when the champions of opposing parties
fight in the presence of their backers, the spectators may take such
impersonal interest in the combat.

Much more to our purpose, however, is the witnessing of playful
fights where the contestants engage merely for amusement or to test
their prowess, whether or not they are in playful mood. In this case,
overcoming difficulties is the leading feature. Then, too, there are
myriad forms of juggling, contortionism, prestidigitating, etc., in
which the spectator, at least in part, inwardly joins; and the wild
excitement of animal and ring fights, bull baiting, fencing matches,
racing on foot, wheel, and horse. Even for the fighting plays which
are not intended as an exhibition, such as football and cricket games,
there is usually collected a crowd of intensely sympathetic spectators,
and the players themselves, when not in action, are entirely out of
the game, yet they still take part through inner imitation which has
frequent outward manifestations. Moreover, whoever sees a difficult
piece of work accomplished feels a desire to test his own skill with a
like task. The merest onlooker at a prize fight will assume belligerent
postures, as Defregger says, and savages are often so wrought upon by
witnessing a war dance that serious brawls ensue.

These facts lead us insensibly to the realm of art, of which I merely
remark in passing that certain echoes of the fray may be detected in
architecture and music, and that the representative arts and especially
painting devote a wide field to combat, but that the real domain of
internal fighting play is found in poetry. Fighting and love plays[493]
contribute most largely to the enjoyable element in poetry, and the
latter is less effective when divorced from combat. Even in lyrics,
which would seem to afford the least opportunity for exploiting such
themes, the tourney is a fruitful inspiration, and the triumphant
note of victory is conspicuous. A verse of Heyse’s illustrates in
mocking wise, and perhaps more forcibly than any other, how great is
the importance to the poetic art of its connection with the fighting
instinct. In dilating upon the literary status of the abode of bliss he
says:

  “Für Drame, Lustspiel und Novelle
   Ist leider hier Kein günst’ner Boden;
   Die kultivirt man in der Hölle.
   Hir giebt es Hymnen nur und Oden.”

  “For drama, stage play, and novel
   There is, alas! no public here;
   These things are practised down in hell.
   Here hymns and odes are _de rigueur_.”

In studying epic poetry we are struck by the frequency with which the
excitement of fighting furnishes the motive. This is the case with
almost the whole cycle of primitive epics and folk stories, down to
our modern romance; and when an epic is produced, like the Messias,
for example, without such stimulus to interest, it falls irretrievably
under the reproach of dulness. In the drama war is all-important. A
short time ago an unnamed author published an article on dramatic
conflict to which I fully subscribe.[494] Since the time of Aristotle
the idea of acting has been prominent[495] in any conception of the
drama, though there have been some writers like Lenz, Otto Ludwig, and
lately Gartelmann, who have stressed the delineation of character. Both
theories easily lead to a one-sided view. “Not character as such, but
character in conflict it is which lays claim to our interest in the
drama, and only such acting is dramatic as reveals the conflict.... The
essence of the dramatic consists in the presence of an overwhelming
catastrophe which forms the central point of the poem, and its
culmination is the writer’s chief task.” It strikes me that this is
incontestable, though it may be urged that the conflict is only a means
of bringing out the essential features of the character. Thus Wetz
strikingly says: “If a poet wishes to portray his hero realistically,
then must his environment contrast with his character. He must be
put in trying circumstances, and thus be brought out of himself and
reveal his utmost depths. Comedy as well as tragedy furnishes such
situations; where the amusing complications or fatal passion have once
been intimated they must be pursued to their final consequences.”[496]
For refined connoisseurs it may be true that in perfect drama[497]
conflict is but a means of unveiling character, yet even their interest
is deepened by psychological considerations. With naïve spectators,
who are to me the more important, it is quite otherwise. The conflict
itself is the important thing to them, and the fact that it may afford
insight into character is only noteworthy as making the fight more
interesting. In any case we are safe in averring that the pleasure
afforded by the drama has one very essential feature in common with
ring contests, animal fights, races, etc.—namely, that of observing a
struggle in which we may inwardly participate.

Tragedy is the highest poetic representation of a contest which is
pursued to the bitter end, usually violent defeat.[498] Here we again
encounter the question of enjoyment in relation to what is tragic.
Volkelt explains it as a result of (1) the exalted character of the
excitement; (2) sympathy; (3) strong stimuli; and (4) appreciation of
artistic form. The third point, which is also one of ours, he considers
subordinate. His first point, however, is not universally applicable,
and his second is limited to those cases in which the sufferer is
regarded as worthy, and even then pain predominates and only serves
to weigh the balance further down on that side. Thus only the last
two points remain for universal application. While we grant that
appreciation of artistic form is an element in the explanation, the
third point, pleasure in intense stimuli, seems to me more important.
Volkelt’s view is not a little influenced by Vischu’s contention that
“a general disturbance of the emotions constitutes a satisfaction for
barbaric crudeness and _ennui_.” We have already had occasion to show
that the enjoyment of strong stimuli is of great significance in all
departments of play, but I fail to see anything barbaric about it, and
consider this word unworthy to be applied to æsthetic pleasure. Is it
not a noble pleasure to stand on a mountain summit or a ship’s prow and
watch an approaching storm? And how much more elevated still is the
storm of effects which tragedy awakens in us!

In considering fighting play in this connection we must notice a
further point which is a corollary to those which have gone before, and
is illustrated by some of the examples already given. The man standing
on a ship and contemplating the force of a storm (I do not refer to his
struggle with it) enjoys more than mere excitement. His soul partakes
of the raging of the elements, the seething waves which break on the
vessel’s prow, the furious gusts of wind, all this outward strife
is inwardly imitated by him, and he is filled with jubilant delight
in exercising all his fighting instincts. So also with tragedy. Not
only joy in the storm of emotions, but also joy in the contest, is an
important means of subduing what is unavoidably painful. While this
relation, too, has been appreciated in other spheres, its application
to the tragic has not hitherto been made. Indeed, this instinct is
usually referred to in a narrow sense as a sort of bloodthirstiness,
an idea not always far wrong. Ribot has formulated the following
progression: “Pleasure in manslaughter, pleasure in judicial execution,
pleasure in witnessing death (murder, gladiatorial combat, and the
like), pleasure in seeing the blood of animals gush out (bull and cock
fights), pleasure in witnessing violent and gory melodrama [this is
only imitation, since the illusion of reality is but momentary], and
finally, pleasure in reading bloody romances and following imaginary
murder trials.”[499] We can hardly deny that even the cultured
spectator feels something of the murderous impulse when, for instance,
Hamlet springs with the agility of a tiger toward the king to fix him
with a dagger. Yet as a whole this exposition of the theory of tragedy
is defective even if we make the murderous impulse cover every variety
of injurious conduct. The impulse to inflict injury has nothing to
do with the final overthrow of the hero of our sympathies (and we
do sympathize often with the very criminals in tragedy), and in the
instances cited by Ribot it is usually less the bloodiness of the
episode than its character as a fight which attracts us. The feeling of
power in combat, not the cruelty of destructiveness, is most prominent.
The reason that spectators of an animal fight are not satisfied until
one of the fighters is either killed or disabled is surely not because
they delight in injury as such, but because the fight can not be
decisive until some injury is done.

While, then, we can not adopt this theory of the destructive impulse,
yet we can learn from it, especially on one point to which we have
given too little attention. We do take a certain pleasure in the
catastrophe involving the personages of a drama which differs from our
satisfaction in a fighting play; we sympathize with the sufferer, and
yet experience feelings of pleasure. So long as the crisis delays,
the case is indistinguishable from all other fighting plays; but how
can we take part by inner imitation in the general collapse and yet
enjoy the spectacle? In answer to this I must say that I am extremely
doubtful whether the moment of the catastrophe is always enjoyable;
I am inclined to think that quite often the sources of pleasure are
insufficient to outweigh genuine grief. In this case inner imitation
persists because the spectator is hypnotized by the extraordinary
tension, and is unable to desist. I think, for example, that no
one experiences lively feelings of delight while Wallenstein is
being murdered behind the scenes, in spite of the intense stimulus,
importance of the interests involved, etc. It is not essential
that every instant of æsthetic contemplation should be filled with
unadulterated pleasure. On the other hand, there are undoubtedly
instances in which the catastrophe is actually enjoyed; and since we
are not prepared to accept the explanation of this given above, let us
inquire whether we can find one more satisfactory from the standpoint
which we have adopted—namely, that of fighting play strictly speaking.
An example will make my view clear, and one which may be explained
in two ways. Let us picture to ourselves a Roman amphitheatre with
the spectators assembled to witness a fight between a “bestarius”
and a lion, and suppose that the man, in spite of wonderful agility,
receives more and more serious wounds and is finally slain by the
maddened brute. Suppose, further, that inner imitation on the part of
the spectators is engaged by the man, as is natural, so that their
pleasure can not be referred to triumph in the lion’s victory. To us
the most conspicuous feature of the whole thing is the cruelty and
bloodthirstiness of the spectators, and reading modern descriptions of
these old Roman customs only strengthens this idea. The barbarity was
undoubtedly there, but was it the ground of their enjoyment? I think
not, for thousands of the breathless spectators. On the contrary, that
which moves these people is one of the strongest and most stirring
stimuli known to us, sympathy with the courage and persistence of
fighters to the death. For the best and probably the most of the
spectators the satisfaction is not in mere witnessing cruel horrors,
but first in the invincible courage which is undaunted in their
presence, or in case of the hero’s defeat it consists in a victory over
their own sympathetic terror. How clearly this passage from Cicero
indicates this! “When you see the boys in Sparta, the lads in Olympia,
or barbarians in the arena suffer the severest blows and bear them
silently, will you wail like a woman when you feel pain? Boxers never
lament when they are beaten from the ring, and what wounds they get!
Can you not put up with a single hurt from the buffetings of life? What
fighter, even an ordinary one, ever sighs or groans or goes about with
a downcast face? Which of them has tamely submitted to death?”

In a similar way the sight of misfortune in tragedy may give pleasure
because the outward undoing of the hero is calculated to awaken in us
a feeling of triumph in which imitation gives us a part. As I have
said, I do not believe that this is always the case, but rather that
while the tragedy as a whole gives pleasure the supreme moment may be
painful; and in still other circumstances the storm of emotion, one
of all-conquering Fate, etc., may cause feelings of satisfaction when
there is no inner victory. It is never so intense, however, as when
this is present—a proof of the importance of fighting play. The utmost
triumph for a fighter is the victory over his fear of defeat, and such
victory is afforded by our playful sympathy with a tragic incident.
Then fighting play becomes a source of such pleasure as is attributed
ordinarily to exalted influences. Such side lights on a subject are
seldom without important significance, and our problem is now thrown
into somewhat this form. Tragedy most perfectly represents combat when
it is pursued to a catastrophe. Since we habitually sympathize with the
human element, the contradiction ensues of our experiencing pleasure
in the suffering which we deplore and are involved in. We explain this
apparent contradiction by assuming that the catastrophe becomes the
foundation for an inner victory which converts it into a triumph. An
examination of the various elevating effects which Volkelt’s analysis
discloses reveals much that is irrelevant from our standpoint. The
most salient of these points is his tragic opposition, whereas we have
found that the catastrophe is in itself enjoyable only when exultation
in the triumph of desolation is based on dread of that very thing.
When the exhilaration depends merely on the overwhelming nature of
Fate or when a moment of respite is snatched for the doomed hero,
the poignancy of our sympathy with the final suffering is softened.
Independent satisfaction in the catastrophe is present only where
there is an element of fighting play, and herein lies the essence
of our theory—that is, when inner imitation transforms defeat into
victory. “Courage and self-possession in the presence of a powerful
enemy, of threatened danger or calamity, or of difficult and anxious
questions—this is what the tragic artist displays. All that is martial
in us holds saturnalia in the presence of tragedy.”[500]

The study of fighting play has thus led us from its rough and cruel
manifestations to the culminating point of tragedy. What Volkelt
says in a general way of the supreme moment we may apply to our own
position: “Even in suffering and grief, in fear and defeat, must the
tragic personage, if he would not fall below the requirements of his
art, always appear great. When a man quails in the hour of extreme
suffering or wavers before the severest test, however superior he may
have appeared previously, there is an end of tragic effect. But let
him display greatness of soul at the crucial moment, he then makes an
elevating impression which is subverting to pessimism and encouraging
to the idea that the severest and most outrageous attacks of Fortune
can not make a man small, that the human spirit bears within itself a
principle of growth and of supremacy which is able to cope with the
might of Fate itself.”[501]

I close with the remark that this study of the tragic is advanced with
a full sense of its inadequacy. My main intention is to indicate the
scope of my conception of fighting play. The general idea of play has
been developed by others and applied advantageously in the treatment
of contrast of ideas in the tragic. Tragedy, like all other sources of
higher æsthetic pleasure, extends beyond the sphere of play because, to
put it briefly in the words of Schiller, we can descry through the veil
of beauty the majestic form of truth.


II. LOVE PLAY

Is there such a thing as playful application of the sexual impulse?
Views of this subject differ widely, and the remarks on it of animal
observers show that many hesitate to use the term “play” in this
connection. Wundt says: “The distinction has been made between
fighting play and love play, and such actions and expressions as, for
instance, the cooing of doves, the calls of singing birds, etc., have
been interpreted as wooings. But these wooings are quite seriously
intended by the bird, and I do not think that we can regard them as in
any sense playful.”[502] On the other hand, others can be cited who
assure us that most observers agree in ascribing to singing birds,
besides their regular courtship arts of song and flight, actions which
have all the marks by which Wundt himself characterizes play—namely,
enjoyment, repetition, and pretence. However, we shall find that it
is in man that play with the function in question is most clearly
exhibited, and, as its connection with art has already been referred
to, it will be sufficient to dwell on one aspect of it here—namely,
its relation to poetry. However derogatory it may be considered to
condition poetic art on such stimuli, the fact is incontestable that,
deprived of their influence, the tree of poetry would be stripped of
its verdant living dress.

On the other hand, we must avoid the older and more common error of
speaking about the “sweet sportiveness of love” without distinguishing
between what is really playful and what is quite seriously meant. It is
true that such popular usages of speech have not become general without
some foundation in fact, and it may prove interesting to inquire how
this one arose. We find the element of truth in the popular feeling by
comparing the subject under discussion with eating and drinking, which
are also sensuous pleasures. Why do we not hear so much of play in
their exercise? Evidently there is a difference. While in eating and
drinking, so far as directed by hunger, the real end, the preservation
of life, is always in view, while the real end of lovers’ dalliance,
namely, the preservation of the species, is far in the background. It
is true that we sometimes eat and drink for the enjoyment it gives, as
well as to satisfy hunger and renew our strength, yet the practical
bearing of the act is so closely and inseparably connected with it
that only under very special circumstances can we speak of it as
playful. It is quite otherwise with the caresses and the traffic of
love. Here the practical results are so far removed and the things in
themselves are so enjoyable that such language is quite justified.

Still, while there is analogy there is not perfect identity with play,
and we must carefully inspect various aspects of the subject to select
those which are unmistakably of this character. The subjoined examples
are therefore selected advisedly and with care, in view of possibly
unexpected readers of this chapter. A glance over the field discloses
the following suitable divisions: 1, Natural courtship play; 2, sex and
art; 3, sex and the comic.


1. _Natural Courtship Play_

Birds have many familiar courtship arts which are hereditary (the
isolated adult bird displays almost as much capacity in this direction
as does one reared with his kind), but mammals exhibit much less of
it. In relation to man there is a theory that sex grounds all art (of
this we shall speak later), but a scientific system of comparative
courtship of the various human races does not exist; nor, indeed,
have we systematic observations of any one people. It is therefore
impossible to affirm whether there are such things as instinctive
gestures, expressions, caresses, etc., which all human beings recognise
as sexual stimuli. From the little that is known it seems probable that
the number of such tokens is not great—even the kiss is by no means
general! We can only be sure of a universal tendency to approach and to
touch one another, and of a disposition to self-exhibition and coquetry
as probably instinctive and of the special forms which these tendencies
take under the influence of imitation and tradition as secondary
causes. Caressing contact may then be regarded as a play when it is
an end in itself, which is possible under two conditions: First, when
the pursuance of the instinctive movements to their legitimate end is
prevented by incapacity or ignorance; and, second, when it is prevented
by an act of will on the part of the participants. Children exhibit
the first case, adults often enough the second.

It is generally known that children are frequently very early
susceptible to sexual excitement, and show a desire for contact with
others as well as enjoyment of it, without having the least suspicion
of its meaning. Keller gives a beautiful and touching example of this
in his Romeo und Julia auf dem Dorfe: “On a tiny plot of ground all
covered with green herbs the little lass lay down upon her back, for
she was tired, and began to croon some words in a monotonous way,
while the boy sat near her and joined in the song, almost wishing to
follow her example, so weary and languid he felt. The sun shone into
the open mouth of the singing girl, gleaming on her teeth so dazzlingly
white and shining through the full red lips. The boy noticed this, and
taking her head in his hands he examined the little teeth curiously and
cried, ‘Guess how many teeth you have?’ She reflected for a moment, as
though making a careful calculation, and then said with conviction,
‘A hundred.’ ‘No; thirty-two,’ he answered; ‘but wait till I count
again.’ Then he counted aloud, but as he did not make thirty-two he
had to begin over several times. The little girl kept still for some
time, but as the zealous enumerator seemed never to get any nearer the
end of his task she shook him off at last and cried, ‘I will count
yours.’ So the boy stretched himself on the grass with the girl above
him, throwing his head back while she counted 1, 2, 7, 5, 2; but the
task was too hard for the little beauty, and the boy had to teach and
correct her, so she too had to begin over and over again. This play
seemed to please them better than any they had had that day. But at
last the little girl slid down by the side of her small instructor, and
the children slept together in the bright sunshine.” From such tender,
unconscious premonitions we pass to more strongly marked love plays,
for which the services of a special instructor are usually necessary,
as in the somewhat peculiar relation of the boy Rousseau to the little
Goton who played the part of teacher in their private interviews: “Elle
se permettait avec moi les plus grandes privautés, sans jamais m’en
permettre aucune avec elle; elle me traitait exactement en enfant:
ce qui me fait croire, ou qu’elle avait déjà cessé de l’être ou qu’au
contraire elle l’était encore assez elle-même pour ne voir qu’un jeu
dans le péril auquel elle s’exposait.”

Often, too, children show the same sort of preference, all unconscious
of its import, toward particular favourites among their grown-up
friends, enjoying the pleasure of contact for its own sake. “The pretty
girl,” says Mantegazza, “whom Nature has endowed with the power to
awaken longings and sighs at her every step, often does not realize
that in the swarm of her admirers there are boys scarcely yet past
their childhood, who secretly kiss any flower on which she may chance
to look, who are happy if they may steal like a thief into the room
where the beauty has slept and may kiss the carpet that her foot has
pressed; ... and how seldom does she suspect, as her fingers play with
the locks of the little fellow whose head rests on her knee, that his
heart is beating audibly under her caressing touch!”[503] Perez cites
Valle’s account of a ten-year-old boy who was in love with his older
cousin. “Elle vient quelquefois m’agacer le cou, me menacer les côtes
de ses doigts longs. Elle rit, me caresse, m’embrasse; je la serre en
me défendant et je l’ai mordue une fois. Elle m’a crié: Petit méchant!
en me donnant une tape sur la joue un peu fort, etc.”[504]

This feeling may be involved in some of the positions and movements
of tussling boys. Schaeffer has remarked in a short paper that in
the belligerent plays of boys, especially ring fighting,[505] “the
fundamental impulse of sexual life for the utmost extensive and
intensive contact, with a more or less clearly defined idea of conquest
underlying it,” plays a most conspicuous part. I do not believe that
this is the rule, yet I am convinced that Schaeffer’s view is more
often correct than would appear at a first glance, and especially so
when the contestants are on the ground and laughingly struggle together.

Lastly, we must notice the absorbing friendships between children
of the same sex. Here, too, the instinct, robbed of its proper aim,
may assume a sportive, playful air. Even among students, friendships
are not rare in which the unsatisfied impulse plays its part all
unknown to the subjects. I content myself in this connection with the
citation of a little-known passage of the highest poetic beauty, and
evidently inspired by personal reminiscence. In it a light touch of
sexuality is imparted with a delicacy equal to that of Keller. Wilhelm
Meister writes to Natalie of his suddenly formed and tragically ended
friendship with a village lad. The two boys, who had just become
acquainted, were fishing together on the river bank. “As we sat there
leaning together he seemed to grow tired, and called my attention
to a flat rock which projected into the water from one side of the
stream. It made the loveliest place to bathe. Pretty soon he sprang up,
declaring that he could no longer withstand it, and before I knew it
he was down there undressed and in the water. As he was a good swimmer
he soon left the shallows, yielding his form to the water and coming
toward me. I too began to be interested. Grasshoppers danced around
me, ants swarmed about, bright- insects hung from the boughs
overhead, and gold gleaming sunbeams floated and glanced fantastically
at my feet, and just then a huge crab pushed up between the roots to
his old stand whence he had been driven by the necessity of hiding
from the fishers. It was so warm and damp that one longed to get out
of the sun into the shade, and then from the cool shade to the cooler
water. So it was easy for my companion to lure me in with him. I
found a mild invitation irresistible and, notwithstanding some fear
of parental displeasure, and a vague terror of the unknown element, I
was soon making active preparations. Quickly undressing on the rock I
cautiously stepped into the water, but did not go far from the gently
sloping bank. Here my friend let me linger, going off by himself in the
buoyant waves. When he came back he stood upright to dry his body in
the warm sunshine. I thought the glory of the sun was eclipsed by the
noble manly figure which I had never seen nude before. He too seemed to
regard me with equal attention. Though quickly dressed again, we now
stood forever revealed to one another, and with the warmest kisses we
swore eternal friendship.”

I suppose the general playfulness of the foregoing instances might be
called in question on the ground that there is no consciousness that
it is all a play, no sham activity. Yet we refer complacently enough
to other things which display quite as little of such subconsciousness
as play. Indeed, the rule is that it is absent from mental play, and,
moreover, this is a case that more closely concerns the emotions.
The plays which involve subjective sham activity overlap to a great
extent the sphere of the objective ones where the man or animal takes
pleasure in action which has no necessary actual aim, yet without
being conscious of having turned aside from the life of cause and
effect. If we admit that the boy careering aimlessly about is playing
because he enjoys the movement for its own sake, or that gourmands who
eat without hunger, and merely to tickle their palates, are playing,
then we must also call it play when the child takes pleasure in the
sexual sensations arising from touch stimuli without knowing that his
activity, on account of the exclusion of their proper end, is all a
sham. From a purely biological standpoint the conception of play goes
much deeper, as we shall see later on. I have purposely selected such
examples as (with the exception of the last citation) exhibit the
sexual impulse in conjunction with other activity that is unmistakably
playful, believing that this conjunction would strengthen the
probability of its being playful in those cases which if given alone
might appear doubtful.

With adults the subjective side of play is more prominent, especially
when the proper end of the instinctive impulse for contact is held in
abeyance by the will of the participants. Here belongs the dalliance
of engaged couples. It is no play, of course, when the lovers,
on the first revelation of their common feeling or after a long
separation, indulge in a passionate embrace. But when in their daily
intercourse that manifold trifling begins which is too familiar to
need description, I see no reason why it should not be called play
with touch stimuli. The more naïve the period or social class the
more common this is. In the free intercourse of the sexes in mediæval
baths the jesting caresses must often have been quite rough. While
many of the pictorial representations of such bathing scenes are
doubtless exaggerated, still they could not have been pure inventions.
The description by the Florentine Poggio (1417) of Swiss bathing
customs bears them out. He expressly says: “It is remarkable to see
how innocent they are; how unsuspiciously men will look on while their
wives are handled by strangers,... while they gambol and romp with each
other and sometimes without other company; yet the husbands are not
disturbed nor surprised at anything because they know that it is all
done in an innocent, harmless way.” In feudal times it was the custom
for noble gentlemen to be served in the bath by young women, to be
washed by them, and afterward rubbed. At the spinning _fêtes_ the young
couples “played,” as a Christmas piece has it, with all sorts of hand
clasping and stroking. But the most remarkable proceeding of this kind
was the “lovers’ night of continence,” observed in various countries,
including France, Italy, and Germany, by knightly devotees whose
lady permitted them to pass one night at her side, trusting to their
oath and honour not to take advantage of her kindness. This strange
custom, so shocking to our ideas of propriety, was doubtless derived
from similar practices of very ancient origin among the peasantry, the
chastity of whose girls was rarely violated in spite of the utmost
intimacies. It is interesting to find an ethnological analogue to this
among the Zulus. According to Fritsch, the custom of _Uku-hlobonga_
obtains there, “in which the young bachelors join the maidens of the
neighbourhood, and these latter choose their mates, each according to
her pleasure. The rejected swains have to bear the scorn of the whole
company, while the chosen ones recline with their sweethearts, and an
imitation of the sexual function is gone through with. Yet, as a rule,
the girl by force and threats prevents anything more serious!”[506]

Self-exhibition will occupy us only so far as it does not relate to
art. Every lover desires to present himself in the most favourable
light to the object of his affections, and to this end he plays a part,
to a certain extent; he “does as though” he were braver, stronger,
more skilful, handsomer, of finer feeling, and more intelligence than
he actually and habitually is. Fliegende Blatter said once, “A lover
always tries to be as lovable as he can, and is therefore always
ridiculous.” Such self-display is not necessarily playful, but it
becomes so as soon as the lover’s vanity is involved, and he aims not
only at the desired effect on his mistress, but also enjoys for its
own sake the exploitation of his charms. Here, as in so many psychic
phenomena, the complexity of the field is important. We are able to
see ourselves over our own shoulders, and behind the wooing I stands a
higher consciousness which looks on with satisfaction at the display
of its own attractions. Hence arise the frequent cases where a sort
of tacit understanding between a man and woman prohibits all serious
intercourse, so that they can have only such relations as depend on the
sexual stimulus (flirting).

As the first form of courtship by self-exhibition I mention those
fighting plays in which the combatants engage in the ladies’
presence. I have noticed incidentally that human combat, as well as
that between animals, is often connected with the sexual life, but
now we will consider the subject from its proper standpoint. That a
martial bearing is a means not only of terrifying enemies, but also
of delighting females, all experience goes to show, and war paint and
feathers become adornments as well. Here as with animals, says Colin
A. Scott, the terrible approaches the beautiful, and as modesty in
women has a peculiar charm to the other sex, so does a warlike spirit
appeal to the feminine nature. “In some tribes a man dare not marry,
and indeed no woman would have him, until he has slain a certain
number of foes.”[507] The conquest of rivals then becomes a means of
self-exhibition before the loved one. Westermarck, in his history of
human marriage, gives numerous instances of such courtship contests,
from which I shall borrow. Heame states that “it is a universal custom
among the North American Indians for the men who are wooing a woman to
fight for her, and naturally the strongest among them gets the prize.
This practice prevails among all their tribes, and is the occasion
of passionate rivalry among their youths, who from childhood, and on
every possible occasion, make a point of displaying their strength
and skill in fighting.” Lumholtz writes from North Queensland: “If a
woman is beautiful all the men want her, and the strongest and most
influential is usually the lucky man. Consequently, the younger men
must wait a long time to get a wife, especially if they are not brave
enough to risk a fight with one stronger than themselves. Among the
West Victorian tribes described by Dawson a young chief who can not
find a wife for himself and is inclined to another man’s, may, if
the latter has more than two wives, challenge the husband to combat,
and if victorious make the lady of his choice his lawful spouse. In
New Zealand when a girl has two suitors of equal merit a contest is
arranged in which the damsel is dragged by the arms in different
directions by the wooers, and the stronger carries off the bride.”
Arthur Young tells of a strange custom which was at one time general
in the Arran Islands. “A number of the poorer village folk confer
together respecting some young girl who according to their opinion
ought to be married, and select an eligible peasant. This settled, they
send a message to the fair one that next Sunday she will be ‘beritten
gemacht’—that is, carried on the men’s shoulders. She then prepares
burned wine and cider for the feast, and after mass all pay her a visit
to watch the sling contest. After she is ‘beritten gemacht’ the rivalry
begins, and general attention is skilfully directed toward the chosen
swain. If he is victor he surely marries the maiden; but if another
overcomes him he loses her, for she is the prize of the champion.”[508]
There is surely something playful about such contests, at least in the
preparation and in the awards, if not in the struggle itself. But it
is not always by combat with other suitors that the lover displays his
courage, strength, and dexterity. By boldly taking risks and engaging
in tests of strength and trials of skill which have so strong an
attraction for the young, he claims the attention and admiration which
women bestow on such acts. I do not assert that such exhibitions would
never take place without feminine spectators, but as a rule they would
be pursued with much less enthusiasm if the only onlookers were to be
men. Most herdsmen would be indifferent to the Edelweiss growing on the
almost inaccessible rocks did not a sprig of it in their hats advertise
them to the village beauties as men fearless of danger. We have seen
that the adventurous knight’s readiness for the fray and hearty welcome
to danger in any form were usually prompted by his wish to lay the
trophies of his victories at his lady’s feet. Nowhere is this sort of
courtship more naïvely expressed than in Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe, where
Richard Cœur de Lion sings beneath his lady’s window:

  “Joy to the fair! My name unknown,
   Each deed and all its praise thine own;
   Then, oh, unbar this churlish gate!
   The night dew falls, the hour is late.
   Inured to Syria’s glowing breath,
   I feel the north breeze chill as death;
   Let grateful love quell maiden shame,
   And grant him bliss who brings thee fame.”

We should further note the display of physical charms so far as it can
be separated from art, which, indeed, is no easy task, as the boundary
line is sometimes almost indistinguishable. Yet it does exist, and we
may be able to detect it most readily in the conduct of our budding
youths. As a rule, when the other sex begins to interest them they
are impelled to make the most of every outward advantage. The boy
begins to be neat, to care for his teeth and nails, arrange his hair
more carefully, to consider the fit of his clothes, and to indulge in
boots and gloves which are too small for him; he puts on high collars
and makes a great display of his cuffs, and impatiently awaits the
premonitions of a mustache. It is altogether unlikely that he is clear
as to the meaning of all this, and in that case he is playing with his
personal charms. Such special attention is given to the hair by youths
of all classes as to suggest a particular significance for that form of
adornment, and the care of the beard naturally goes with it.

There are, however, less innocent modes of self-exhibition and some
which more unmistakably point to the end which they are intended
to serve. The girdle decorations of savages, for instance, are now
considered to have a significance quite different from that formerly
attributed to them. Their original intention was in all probability
to attract attention, not to conceal. Of their ornamental use we are
not now speaking, but I confess that I have my doubts of the universal
applicability of the explanation just indicated, in spite of the
opinion of many competent investigators. Forster speaks of the leaves
of a certain species of ginger plant which the male inhabitants of
some of the New Hebrides bind to their breech cloths, as outraging
in their appearance every law of decency, and Barrow makes the same
remark about the Hottentots.[509] Many scholars, too, are disposed to
attribute the origin of circumcision to some such beginnings, as there
is much against its explanation on religious or sanitary grounds. It
is rather surprising that no one has adduced, in support of the modern
view of the purposes of courtship served by the articles suspended from
the girdle, the strange fashion of projecting front flaps introduced
in the fifteenth century. Rabelais’s famous chapter on this subject is
merely an exaggeration, not an invention. The reality was certainly bad
enough,[510] and as little calculated as are the savage decorations to
serve the purposes of modesty. Yet in neither case am I prepared to
assert that they belong exclusively to the category of sexual stimuli.

The higher the culture of a people the more prominent becomes the
display of mental qualities in conjunction with physical advantages.
We have seen that the opportunity to speak in public is often the
leading stimulus in the mental fighting play of argument, and in the
intercourse of the sexes the decorous display of one’s intellectual
advantages appears as a further play, be it whether the man simply
wishes to show his powers to their best advantage in the presence of
beautiful women, or whether he intends his gallantry as a direct attack
on the feminine heart. Every one knows how common this is as a mere
play, apart from any serious intention, and, indeed, that it is the
habit of man to play the gallant even when he is not especially “laying
himself out” to be attractive. The much-decried unseemly haste of men
in society to seek refuge in the smoking room after dinner is due
certainly in part to their fatigue after keeping up the play so long
and trying to appear superior to their ordinary selves.

But earnest courtship, too, easily assumes a playful character, because
the pleasure in self-exhibition and the satisfaction of vanity easily
become ends in themselves. The stilted and flowery epistolary style
common a few generations ago doubtless grew up in this way, and the old
letters published as models for lovers are good instances of this sort
of extravagance.

Coquetry in the other sex is allied to self-exhibition in the male, but
it is of so complicated a character that a special section is devoted
to its treatment. Usually the word conveys the idea of a heartless use
and enjoyment of a woman’s power over men, but it really has a much
wider meaning which is of great biological importance.

Not only among human beings, but in the animal world as well, peculiar
behaviour is noticeable on the part of females, which is based on the
antagonism of two instincts—namely, the sexual impulse and inborn
coyness. Hence arises that alternate seeking and fleeing for which I
know no better name than coquetry, which is thus seen to be often quite
different from mere heartless play. A simple illustration is that of
the doe followed by an ardent buck; she flees, but it is always in a
circle.

If we find the cause of such coquetry in inborn modesty which is
directly opposed to the sexual impulse the question is at once asked,
Of what use is this modesty? The answer which is attempted in The
Play of Animals involves an essential modification of the theory of
natural selection. Darwin has referred animal arts of courtship to
æsthetic taste on the part of the female, who is said always to choose
the handsomest and best equipped of her wooers. But it is by no means
certain that such choice from a number is always the case; indeed, some
observers directly contradict the theory of courtship arts at all. The
Müller brothers have definitely established the fact that birds pair
long before the breeding season, so that such arts can only be for the
purpose of “overcoming feminine reluctance to sexual union.” And H.
E. Ziegler remarks, in a notice of my book, that courtship plays are
indulged in repeatedly by monogamous birds long after their permanent
choice has been made. With these facts then as premises, I have reached
the following conclusion: Since the sex impulse must necessarily have
extraordinary strength, the interests of the preservation of species
are best served by a long preliminary condition of excitement and by
some checks to its discharge. The instinctive coyness of the female
serves this purpose. The question is not, in my opinion, which of many
males she will choose, but rather which male possesses the qualities
necessary for overcoming the reluctance of the female whom he selects
and besieges, and for maintaining at the same time the proper state
of excitation. “The female is not then the awarder of a prize, but is
rather a hunted creature; and just as the beast of prey must possess
special instincts for securing his victim, so must the ardent male be
equipped with special instincts for subduing the coyness of his mate.”
Thus the phenomena of courtship are directly referable to a biological
end, and the great importance of coyness is explained.[511]

But this peculiarly feminine instinct has a salient psychological
significance as well, as I have hinted in the preface to my former
work: “Just as in the beast of prey instincts of ravenous pursuit are
refined into the various arts of the chase, so from such crude efforts
at wooing that courtship has finally developed in which sexual passion
is psychologically sublimated into love.” We must suppose that the
evident refinement and depth of the marriage relation among birds is
largely to be ascribed to the fact that the male does not simply excite
and control his mate, but seeks to win her in a less abrupt manner by
the display of his charms and capabilities; and the same is true with
ourselves. Without the modesty of women, which as a rule only yields to
the power of love, the sexual relation would hardly be a poet’s theme,
while now love is regarded as the highest flight of the human soul. “La
pudeur,” says Guyau, “a civilisé l’amour.”

This coyness, of course, can only constitute a love play when it is
manifested in the struggle with sexual instinct—that is, when it
becomes coquetry or flirting. As in the female spider, this impulse
is converted into rage which endangers the life of the wooing male,
so there are among women Brunhild natures for whom the process of
courtship can never be playful. But the effect is different when
repulsion is so balanced by attraction that there is alternate motion
to and from, approach and then flight; though this alone does not
constitute it a play, as the conflict of opposed instincts may be very
serious. When, however, women enjoy the varying moods for their own
sake, playful exercise of instinct easily ensues, and is somewhat akin
to the fighting and hunting play, yet clearly differentiated from them.
“In Paraguay,” says Mantegazza, “where intercourse between the sexes
is very free, an impatient youth who has good grounds to believe that
he is regarded favourably repeats in all possible variations of tone,
now tender, now passionate, now beseeching, now wrathful, the one word,
‘To-day!’ and the lovely creole who has never heard of Darwin answers
laughingly: ‘No, indeed; not to-day! You have only known me ten days!
Perhaps in two months.’”[512] Here the natural shyness has so little
of fear or anger that the young girl actually enjoys controlling her
lover and putting him off, and yet such coquetry as this is far from
being the heartless behaviour so commonly designated by that word. Even
this latter I regard as a love play, however, for we must suppose the
genuine coquette to be heart whole. She finds her chief pleasure in
her relations with the other sex, even the satisfaction of her vanity
being of another quality from that which has no such connection. If we
inquire what are some of the special forms of this playful coquetry we
find them parallel with self-exhibition in men, except that the display
is constantly held in check and veiled by modesty. While man makes much
of his courage and strength in the presence of women, women are apt to
take occasion to parade their weakness and helplessness. Genuine love
involves, as I have occasion to remark, a combination of the sexual and
fostering instincts; therefore woman’s need of his help is a strong
attraction to a man, which is quickly recognised and turned to account
by the female. A young girl is usually very much alive to the fact when
one of her rivals makes a display of her timidity or delicacy to make
herself interesting. On the other hand, women too like to show where
their capabilities lie, and they exploit their housewifely qualities.
This is amusingly shown among the company collected in one of the
mountain clubhouses where all must go to strengthen and refresh the
inner man. Great zeal is displayed by the women, aforetime so weary, in
getting out the dishes, laying the table, cooking and serving the meal,
and then in clearing away and tidying up. It is all done with laughter
and jest, for the very novelty makes it a delight, but would their
interest be so great if there were no masculine spectators in the hut?

Of all the modes of self-exhibition, there is none so important to
a woman as the display of her physical charms, and the difference
between the sexes is plainly shown here as elsewhere. Man in his
wooing makes straight for the goal; woman’s efforts are veiled, but
not hidden, under a show of modesty. The man says, “Look, I am thus
and so”; the woman, “I, too, am thus and so, but don’t look.” The
alluring glance which turns away if it is noticed, but not unless it
is, is a purely feminine love play, and so is the smile which is not
visibly directed toward the man for whom it is intended; with them,
too, attention to the hair is conspicuous. It is amazing to see what
importance even a three-year-old girl will attach to it, and with
what jealous interest the hair of other children is observed. A doll
with real hair is their chief desire. But an enumeration of woman’s
peculiarities in this respect is summed up in their toilet for full
dress; the _décolleté_ gown tells the whole story. Klopstock has the
idea when he speaks in his ode (Die Brant) “of the quickening breast
which so softly swells, not wishing to be seen, but sure of being
seen.” It would be impossible for men to carry off such an exhibition
as women do. They would either not do it at all, or else openly
recognise the object of it. Women, on the contrary, would, if asked,
indignantly protest against such an implication. As a rule, however,
they show little disposition to exhibit their charms for one another’s
benefit.

This principle extends, too, to the display of their mental graces.
When the talk between a man and a woman becomes a love play, she
usually tries to conceal her discovery of their congeniality with
defensive trifling. She leads him on with mocking words, makes a direct
attack, then pretends to discourage him, or intrenches herself in
incredulity.


2. _Love Play in Art_

Before going on to consider this branch of the subject a few remarks
are in order in regard to the Darwinian theory, which has been so
often referred to. According to it the arts are considered as directly
derived from the relations of the sexes in much the same manner as the
well-known phenomena in the bird world are known as courtship arts. Far
be it from me to deny the sexual instinct its part in the beginnings
of art, yet I certainly consider this view entirely too one-sided. The
attempt has been made, too, to refer the conception of beauty to this
instinct. Grant Allen, in particular, is a latter-day exponent of this
view; proceeding from sexual selection he reasons that for man mankind
is the first of æsthetic objects. All misshapen, abnormal, feeble,
unnatural, and incapable creatures are repugnant to us, while those
are beautiful which can boast of health, vigour, perfect development,
and parental soundness. Consequently our first ideas of beauty are
purely “anthropinistic,” having their origin and centre in man and what
immediately concerns him, his weapons, garments, and dwellings.[513]
The value placed on bright- shells, stones, feathers, etc.,
comes from their use as personal adornments. While this view certainly
has much in its favour, yet its first premise is doubtful. Can we
assert with assurance that the perfect human form was the first object
of æsthetic admiration? If there ever were primitive men who knew no
sort of personal adornment, was the well-built, vigorous, and youthful
body beautiful to them? Did they first derive their intense delight
in  stones, feathers, shells, etc., from the fact that these
things could be used as bodily adornments? Such an affirmation is by no
means self-evident. We find pleasure in gay or shining objects a much
earlier feeling in children than is admiration of the human form, and,
moreover, it must be borne in mind that the attraction instinctively
felt for the normal and vigorous youthful form is not ordinarily due to
æsthetic appreciation. May it not be possible that the shining stones
and gay feathers were the earliest objects of æsthetic observation,
and that from them the eye first received its education and learned
to admire the human figure. Or if this is too radical, is it not
more prudent to assume that sensuous pleasure as such has its place
in conjunction with sexual stimuli in the development of æsthetic
appreciation? The personal adornments of primitive peoples seem to
me to indicate clearly that men at first had very little regard for
perfect physical beauty; therefore, proceeding cautiously, we are led
to the conclusion that the original use of cosmetics is on the whole a
detraction from racial beauty, though some painted or tattooed designs
do emphasize even for our eyes the symmetry and eurythmy of the nude
figure, and whitened teeth do bring out the colour effects of a dark
skin. Yet there are so many forms of would-be decoration which have
a contrary effect by reason of their lack of harmony with the racial
norm, so to speak, that we are forced to doubt whether the natural man
has much feeling for simple physical beauty in itself. Take this brief
description of Scott’s: “Teeth were extracted or filed to points, the
head shaved, beard and eyebrows pulled out, skull compressed, feet
bandaged and lengthened or deformed by turning the four smaller toes
under, nose and lips weighted with rings and sticks, ear lobes dragged
down until they touch the shoulders, the breasts cut off or made
unnaturally prominent, the skin scarred, seamed, or bruised as well as
painted, stained, and tattooed.”[514] Is it not natural to infer from
this that to the savage the body is beautiful only when what we think
its most beautiful and characteristic features are marred or destroyed?

It proves to be very questionable, then, how far the idea of beauty
is connected with the sexual instinct, though none can doubt that the
use of ornaments plays an important rôle in self-exhibition before the
opposite sex. It would be hazardous to state, however, that courtship
is their only end, since there are terrifying decorations which
would not be useful in that capacity unless, indeed, as a means of
frightening away rivals, which is hardly probable. There is the social
aim to be considered, and the simple pleasure in possessing beautiful,
unusual, or valuable things (we put such things in our pockets, but
the savage has to attach them externally).[515] Hardly any primitive
method of decoration can be adduced as directly strengthening Darwin’s
theory; the imitative principle controls the beginnings of plastic
art, courtship is not the exclusive aim in savage dancing, and as for
the music and poetry which go with the dancing, they rarely deal with
such subjects.

It may be demurred that such arts have gradually been divorced from
their original intention, but the facts do not point to it. Though
some scholars regard other ornamentation as of later origin than the
use of cosmetics, there is nothing to prove that this is a fact.[516]
Moreover, in the development of the special arts a noteworthy fact
becomes prominent—namely, that the sexual element appears stronger in
the later stages, while at first other elements are quite as important
or even far more so. Thus love is a conspicuous theme in the lyrics of
civilized peoples, but of primitive races Grosse declares: “It can not
be ascertained that the Australian tribes ... have produced a single
love song; and Rink, their most faithful student, says that the Eskimos
hardly show any appreciation of the sentiment of love.”[517] In our
dancing the two sexes unite in a movement-play, and Orientals have
beautiful girls to dance before them. Among savages, on the contrary,
imitative dances are much more common, which have no connection with
sex relations. Indeed, we often find rules which confine dancing to
certain places of resort where women are excluded. We can say of
personal adornment too that civilized peoples apply them much more to
the uses of courtship than do savages.

These things being true, it is well to use caution in applying the
Darwinian theory to the origin of art; while uses of courtship very
often accompany the appearance and development of art, we must still
cling to our conception of play as its principal source. Delight in
sensuous pleasure and in regularity, the charm of rhythm, enjoyment
of imitation and of illusion, the demand for intense stimuli, the
attraction of attempting what is difficult—all are elements in the
principle which we have repeatedly found and shall find more and more,
connecting the spheres of play and art without necessarily touching
at all on the question of sex. Even self-exhibition itself may depend
as much on the social as on the sexual instinct. I am convinced, then,
that Schiller was in the main right in deriving art from play, while
Darwin’s theory must be relegated to the position of a secondary or
partial explanation.

Having made this critical review of the subject, I may give my
undivided attention to the effort to prove that art, in its last
analysis, does include the sexual element along with all else that
appeals to the feelings, and so is often converted into a love play.
But we must distinguish such play as it is manifested in artistic
production and that which appears in æsthetic enjoyment. We often
find courtship carried on by means of the former, while the latter
is concerned only with the playful enjoyment of sexual excitement,
unconnected with any serious aim. Courtship by means of artistic
production is a subject which has been pretty thoroughly canvassed and
will have but brief mention here. It exhibits a playful character, such
as the above-mentioned forms of self-display when the wooer enjoys
the mere act of unfolding his charms. Among savages it is usually
confined to the use of pigments and dancing. Westermarck and Grosse
have recently enumerated the principal uses of the former. But, as I
have said, such decoration is not exclusively for courtship purposes;
the desire to outshine other tribes is often a powerful motive.
The psychological aspect of this sort of thing is interesting. The
later development of fashion teaches us that mere delight in finery
and ornament is a very small part of it; there is a complication of
relations. When we see an elegant old gentleman at a watering place
with a flower in his buttonhole, we attribute his state of mind to
a belated feeling of youthfulness; and so the adornments of savages
and the coquette’s toilet owe their effect less to a direct appeal
to the senses than to their symbolic meaning. They betray the demand
for ornament, and this demand again discloses the adaptability of
ornamentation to sexual purposes. Our peasant youths at the fairs
put labels in their hats announcing to the interested public that
they are in the matrimonial market, and all decoration for courtship
purposes says the same thing in effect. Their suggestiveness is not
so much in the external appearance as in their symbolism,[518] and
this may explain the fact that what is merely striking is as effective
in primitive and sometimes in modern decoration as what is really
beautiful.

Savage dances sometimes serve the purposes of courtship, and, of
course, the wild intoxication of movement which they lead to is itself
calculated to produce sexual excitement. Notes on obscene dances may
be found in the works of Waitz-Gerland (Australian), Turner (Samoan),
Ehrenreich (Brazilian), Powers (Californian), Fritsch (Zulu), and
others. When such dances serve the purposes of courtship they are
not uninteresting. When they consist of a wild _mêlée_ in which
participators and spectators are thrown into a condition of ecstasy,
the idea of discriminating choice on the part of the women is difficult
to apply. There is, however, no such difficulty in the way of my theory
that violent excitement is a necessary preliminary. I give two examples
from the bird world: “The black-headed ibis of Patagonia, which is
almost as large as a turkey, carries on a strange wild game in the
evening. A whole flock seems to be suddenly crazed; sometimes they fly
up in the air with startling suddenness, move about in a most erratic
way, and as they near the ground start up again and so repeat the
game, while the air for kilometres around vibrates with their harsh,
metallic cries. Most ducks confine their play to mock battles on the
water, but the beautiful whistling duck of the La Plata conducts them
on the wing as well. From ten to twenty of them rise in the air until
they appear like a tiny speck, or entirely disappear. At this great
height they often remain for hours in one place, slowly separating
and coming together again while the high, clear whistle of the male
blends admirably with the female’s deeper, measured note, and when they
approach they strike one another so powerfully with their wings that
the sound, which is like hand-clapping, remains audible when the birds
are out of sight.”[519] In cases where this sort of orgy, indulged in
by flocks of birds, serves sexual purposes, as it probably often does,
my theory proves to be more explanatory than Darwin’s, and the same may
be said of our general dance with its direct appeal to such stimuli. It
is much less likely that some of the dancers will single out special
partners than that participant and spectators alike will be thrown into
an ecstatic state in which all restraints are cast off.

In considering such dances the question must be met whether they, like
the courtship arts of birds, are referable to instinctive tendencies.
It may be inferred from the introductory part of this section that I
am somewhat sceptical as to that. I do, indeed, doubt whether human
dancing should be attributed exclusively to courtship, and I think we
can hardly emphasize too much the fact that while man possesses the
full complement of instincts, they are subordinated in his case in
favour of intellectual adaptations. Of birds we know with comparative
certainty that they must learn and practise their courtship arts
practically without teachers; but no one will affirm that individual
man without tradition or example would turn to ornament and dancing
on the awakening of sexual impulse. Only a general disposition toward
self-display is instinctive, the how and when being left to invention
and tradition. Perhaps some particularly significant movements are
specializations of this disposition, as, for instance, the hip
movement, which is accentuated in the waltz and which has influenced
plastic art since the time of Praxiteles. There must be much more
thorough investigation of the subject before we can affirm even the
possibilities respecting it.

Of the other arts, that of lyric poetry is about the only one which we
need to consider in relation to courtship, and this more especially in
its connection with music. Among primitive races dancing invariably
accompanies the recital of such poetry. The troubadour is the product
of a higher social condition. The lyric, too, played an important part
as an instrument of courtship in Mohammedan civilization during the
fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, as is apparent from the Thousand
and One Nights Tales. “The ear often loves before the eye,” to quote
from one of them which deals with the winning power of beautiful verse.
In the story of Hajat Alnufus and Ardschir the amorous prince, who is
disguised as a merchant, seeks to awaken the love of the proud princess
by means of passionate verse, and the description is fine of how a
tender interest is aroused in the coy and high-spirited beauty toward
the persistent wooer, though it develops, it is true, into genuine
love only under his gaze. “O Hajat Alnufus,” runs one of these love
poems, “make happy with thy presence a lover whom absence is undoing.
My life was surrounded with joy and bliss, but now the nights find me
raving and mad with love. Must I always sigh and moan, always be cast
down and hopeless? All night long sleep shuns me, and I gaze wearily
at the stars. Oh, have pity on a dismayed and suffering lover whose
heart is sad and his eyes weary with watching!” In the story of Hasan
of Bassrah we have a feminine counterpart of this which deserves to be
numbered among the finest pearls of Oriental lyrical poetry. Hasan’s
lady is so rejoiced to see him after a long separation that she breaks
forth in the following rhapsody: “I breathe in the air which wafts from
your land and refreshes you in the morning. I ask the wind about you
whenever it blows from that way; I think of no one but you.”

More common are the instances which, while not directed toward a
special wooing, yet have the character of play with the sexual emotions
which is pleasurable in itself, and involve the question of the
connection of such stimuli with æsthetic enjoyment. I maintain that
this element is much more conspicuous in the use of cosmetics and
in dancing than is actual courtship, and even in the ornamentation
which seems far from the sphere of sex, and in architecture itself
love play is not entirely lacking at any stage of its development.
Von den Steinen has told us what pleasure the Brazilian tribes take
in decorating their tools with conventionalized _ulúri_, which are
triangular pieces of bark such as the women are fond of wearing. It
is very conspicuous in all the adornments of these people, who make
no secret of their fondness for it. This feeling, too, is at the
foundation of the employment of nude female figures for decorative
purposes in renaissance art. Obscene exaggerations of the masculine
figure are not uncommon in plastic representation, and are no doubt
due as much to sexuality as to any religious significance (such as
the exaltation of the idea of productiveness, etc.). Nor is love
play lacking in the art of cultured peoples, though here we are not
confronted with the crude sensuality, which is of comparatively little
psychological interest, but with that more subtile effect of the
instinct, that tender, moving, melting sensation which must be felt to
be understood, for it can not be described. In my Einleitung in die
Aesthetik[520] I have set forth the grounds on which the philosopher
Stöckl objects to representations of the nude. “As a result of
original sin,” he says, “mankind is susceptible to evil passions which
are aroused at the sight of nakedness, and the will is incited to
connivance in the sinful lust. Of original sin and its consequences,
it is true, most advocates of the nude in art are quite ignorant
theoretically, and yet it is a truth testified to by the experience
of every man, even though he be a student of æsthetics, that there
is in us a law which is at variance with spiritual law, and that we
ought to avoid everything that tends to bring us under its power, to
which things nakedness in art belongs.”[521] Whatever protest can be
made against this in the name of art, and however it may be insisted
that there is such a thing as chaste nudity, still I am convinced that
in the extraordinary attractiveness of the work of Praxiteles and
Canova, for example, subtile emotions connected with the sexual life
are involved. I have noticed that for the uneducated person Canova’s
Cupid and Psyche is regarded as embodying the acme of sculptured beauty
without the observer having the remotest suspicion of the source of
much of his intensity of admiration. The higher the æsthetic culture,
however, the less as a rule (not always) is this force operative, and
therefore directly in the interests of chastity the answer may be made
to Stöckl’s challenge, that an artist may experience a purely æsthetic
enjoyment of form in the nude figure which is hardly possible to the
uncultivated person.

It is hardly necessary to dilate on the influence of the instinct in
question in the sphere of painting. Here, too, it is more evident to
the average man, with his naïve enjoyment of materiality, than to the
connoisseur. Andrée tells us that many tribes of men cherish indecent
pictures and statues which have no religious symbolism, and we all know
how common is the habit of drawing such things on fences and walls.
But more significant than such grossness is the popular preference
for sentimentally suggestive pictures. The passionate admiration of
some neuropathic persons for the flat illustrations of a fashion paper
is but a pathological exaggeration and distortion of the amazing
popularity of some insipid, wide-eyed, simpering feminine figure,
and the almost worse blond hero of many so-called artists. It is not
necessary to call names, but a student of psychological æsthetics
should not shrink from stating _sine ira_ the true (though often
unconscious) grounds for the admiration bestowed on such things, nor
ignore its significance.

While music comes in the province of our inquiry only when the
accompanying words, situation, and explanations, or the subjective
temper of the hearer lends to the tone movements a sexual meaning,[522]
poetry, on the contrary, as has been said, plays a very large part
in the business of love, and even more so among civilized than among
primitive people. Besides love lyrics, which have been sufficiently
illustrated, there are narrative descriptions of love scenes and
processes—not only the numerous poetic lucubrations which deserve to be
designated as erotic, which means in plain English indecent, but the
whole immeasurable sea of novels and romances whose leading interest
depends on this theme. Many can read such tales only in their youth
(boys are especially liable to this passion for romance immediately
after the subsidence to their attack of Indian tales), but the
majority retain their capacity for inward sympathy with the trials of
lovers; and here, too, the taste of the general public is as opposed to
that of connoisseurs as in the case of pictures. The ability to cater
to this taste is possessed pre-eminently by women, because the false
idealism which abounds in such works accompanies a certain ignorance
of the facts of life which women retain oftener and longer than men.
The study of some of the better class of these romances—notably those
of E. Marlitt—is not without psychological interest. One of our comic
papers not long since quoted this passage, ostensibly from a novel:
“In an adjoining room sounded a bearded masculine voice”; and the
sentence might serve as a motto for the title page of a treatise on
the yellow-covered romance of the type which is so highly prized by
hundreds of thousands of readers of both sexes. A favourite theme is
to follow the fortunes of a young married couple who are estranged at
first, as in Marlitt’s Zweiter Frau, Werner’s Glück auf, and Ohnett’s
Hüttenbesitzer. It is, of course, psychologically and æsthetically
interesting to follow the conversion from real or pretended aversion to
attachment, a process from which, Spinoza tells us, deeper love results
“quam si odium non præcessisset.” But the extraordinary attractive
power of this novel specific for bringing about the desired result
arises from a special stimulus not difficult to identify from our point
of view, and inherent in the situation.


3. _The Comic of Sex_

This subject offers a difficult problem. The fact that all mankind,
adult and child, the refined, cultured person as well as the primitive
savage, the latest representative of centuries of civilization and his
remotest ancestor, alike show a propensity to take pleasure in things
relating to this subject, is one which we may deplore and yet can
not characterize as entirely inexplicable. But we may ask why it is
considered comical.

It frequently happens that the comic impression is heterogeneous, as
in the ribaldry which perverts wit from its proper sphere and makes
the offence against good manners take the form of a social blunder,
while unintentioned indecency may raise a laugh at the expense of the
perpetrator. Yet it can not be denied that the mere introduction of
the sexual element is an independent source of amusement and one which
requires some special explanation.

The common solution as set forth by Vischer and Zeising is to the
effect that this stimulus is identical with that of any other
impropriety, the laugh being at the outrage to conventionality.[523]
But while this explains some cases there are others which it does not
touch. Civilized man who is prohibited by strict rules of propriety any
reference to such subjects may experience a feeling of triumph when
he boldly bursts the bonds of custom, but with children and savages
the case is quite different, and they exhibit a peculiar enjoyment
of such things which is not identical with their relish of forbidden
fruit. Von den Steinen tells us that the Bakaïri consider it a shameful
thing to be seen eating, but do not regard the broadest reference to
things sexual as the least breach of good manners.[524] Yet they too
find them comic. “It is true,” says the famous and learned traveller,
“that things which would seem indecent to us afforded the Bakaïri,
both men and women, evident enjoyment, and if any delving pedant who
considers modesty in our sense an inborn inheritance of mankind could
follow the rising tide of gaiety which would have offended a member of
our degenerate race, he would be obliged to admit that their hearty
laugh is not shameless in our sense, nor is it an effort to conceal
embarrassment. Yet it is undeniably erotic in a mild way, and resembles
as much as the difference in circumstances and conditions will allow
the laughter over games with us in which the two sexes are thrown
together.”[525]

What, then, is the true source of this? Possibly the following
considerations may serve to throw some light on it: First, it may be
premised that allusion to sexual subjects has some association with the
idea of physical ticklishness. “The sexual parts have a ticklishness
as unique as their function, and as keen as their importance. The
faintest suggestion of them has great power over the risibilities
of children.”[526] More important still are two other points which
make the sexual comic a special case of offensive and defensive
fighting play, such as we considered in the previous chapter. The
former may be inferred from the fact that this passion throws men and
animals into a state of ecstasy which robs them of self-control, and,
like intoxication, temporarily “disables them in the struggle for
life.”[527] As a result of this the man who by word or deed actually
places himself in any relation to this side of life calls forth in us a
feeling of superiority which pleases us and excites our laughter. This
applies especially to the amusement which all displays of amorousness
induce, whether they are modest or bold—the one so long as it does not
move, and the other so long as it does not disgust us. In other cases
the fighting play becomes defensive, and this side of the question
seems to me to exhibit more delicate psychological distinctions, since
it concerns the thrill of sexual emotion which is excited in the hearer
or spectator, and which, while it is agreeable, yet, coming as it does
from without and therefore not under his own control, he laughingly
repels it. Kant notices that amusement is generally caused by what is
momentarily deceptive. If we accept the purely intellectual conception
of deception—namely, that it is a shock or a slight confusion—then
we may regard its conquest as a genuine triumph. Such a triumph we
experience when we repel the incipient stimulation, and the contrast of
ideas thus called up gives the finishing touch to the comic effect.


III. IMITATIVE PLAYS

The Tschwi <DW64>s have a proverb to the effect that “no one teaches
the smith’s son his trade; when he is ready to work God shows him how”;
and I. G. Christaller obtained the following explanation from one of
the aborigines: “If you have a trade, and a son who watches you at
work, he easily learns it. God has implanted in children the faculty
of observing and imitating, and when the son does what he has seen
his father do so often it is as if he knew of himself. It is, indeed,
God who teaches him!” And this childlike elucidation is not a bad one
of the significance of playful imitation in life. The inborn impulse
enables a child to learn alone what he either could not do at all or
only after painful and wearisome teaching. Imitation is the connecting
link between instinctive and intelligent conduct. Thanks to it we
can add much to our accomplishments without other instruction, and
in a manner agreeable to ourselves, for enjoyment of its exercise is
natural, so that, to use the language of the African, it is indeed God
who teaches us.

The earlier psychologists gave too little attention to imitation.
The work of Tarde[528] and Baldwin[529] has first brought to many
the knowledge that it is probably destined to win a prominent place
in biological psychology, similar to that accorded to the idea of
association in the older theories. At any rate these investigators
have certainly expanded the common acceptation of the term. Tarde says
of a man who unconsciously and involuntarily reflects the bearing of
others or accepts outside suggestion, that he is imitating, and he
regards such magnified imitation as a special case of the great cosmic
law of repetition (ondulation, génération, and imitation are the three
forms of “répétition universelle”). Baldwin calls stimulus-repeating
repetition in general imitation (so far as it is produced by the
organism itself), and so includes the alternate expansion and
contraction in the lowest organic forms. According to him, the
essence of imitation lies in the fact that when movement follows a
stimulus, the stimulus is renewed, giving rise to what may be called
“circular” reaction. Imitation of the acts of another individual, from
the perception of which a duplicate act results, is a specialized
form of this circular reaction. Baldwin has tried to prove that
the accommodation of an organism to its environment is a phenomenon
of “organic imitation,” and he grounds his new theory of “organic
selection” on this principle. I can not here dwell longer on it than to
say that it undertakes to mediate in the strife between neo-Darwinism
and neo-Lamarckianism, since the survival of the individual with the
necessary adaptibility gives selection time to produce hereditary
adaptations with the same general trend (selection among coincident
variations). Our purpose is best served by confining ourselves to the
ordinary use of the term imitation, namely, “The repetition of the acts
of one individual by another,”[530] as Lloyd Morgan has defined it.

Even this is of the greatest biological and psychological import, since
it is responsible for what Baldwin calls “social heredity”; the psychic
heritage or “tradition,” independent of physical heredity,[531] which
hands down acquired habits from generation to generation. In using the
word tradition, indeed, one naturally thinks more of habits acquired
by their owner, who by precept and example imparts them to others,
so that emphasis is laid first on the acts of the originator, though
the inclination to impart would be fruitless without imitation on
the part of the pupil. On close examination we find this literal use
of the term far from satisfactory; as a rule, the acquisition of the
habits of others depends entirely on the imitator, without intentional
assistance from the model, a distinction which finds expression in the
common proverb that example is better than precept. The operation of
this principle is apparent among the higher animals. Wallace lays great
stress on it, though in a somewhat partial way. Weismann employs the
word in its wider sense when he says: “A young finch which grows up
alone sings untaught the song of its kind, though never so beautifully
nor so perfectly as when an older bird which is a fine singer is given
him as a teacher” (teacher is here not to be understood literally). “He
is largely influenced by tradition, though the fundamental principle
of the finch’s song is already implanted in his organization.”[532]
Indeed, the data of animal psychology give us a sort of experimental
proof of the importance of the imitative impulse, since animals reared
away from their own kind but with some other species are often strongly
influenced by the alien models, in spite of their inborn instincts.
An attempt to formulate satisfactorily the biological significance of
imitation results somewhat as follows: To the higher animals imitation
of their own species is an important adjunct to instinct. The young
finch has, indeed, an inborn instinctive capacity for producing the
note characteristic of his kind, but even with the assistance of
experimentation this instinct is not adequate to his needs until
imitation of practised singers rounds out, so to speak, the inherited
capacity by means of acquired adaptations. It is evident that there
are two ways of regarding this conception of imitation. The one which
Baldwin develops is implied in Weismann’s “already” when he says that
the fundamental principle of the finch’s song is “already” implanted
in his organism, thus implying that imitation is an essential factor
in the growth of his instinctive equipment. When the more intelligent
individuals of a species have by means of independent accommodations
made new life conditions for themselves they can manage to keep
afloat by the aid of imitation until “natural selection, by favoring
and furthering” coincident variations (those tending in the same
direction), can substitute the lifeboat heredity for the life-preserver
tradition.

The other view, as I have presented it in The Play of Animals, takes
just the opposite ground—namely, that imitation enables the animal to
dispense with instinct to a much greater degree than would otherwise
be possible, and so gives free play to the evolution of intelligent
control. Here we find imitation tending to relegate instinct to the
category of things rudimentary, while, according to the hypothesis
analyzed above, it favours the growth of instinct. “It is through
instinct,” says Baldwin in a notice of my earlier work, “that
instincts both rise and decay.” For our purpose the second view is
evidently the more serviceable, since it is undeniable that in man at
least, the transition from fixed instincts to more plastic tendencies,
with their partial supplanting by acquired adaptations, has been the
general course of phylogenetic evolution, and to this process imitation
is of extraordinary value.[533]

Finally, in pursuance of the same line of thought, it seems that
imitation, at least in man, goes far beyond instinct; for by his
untrammelled relations to the external world man has been enabled to
climb beyond the ground floor of Nature to a higher plane of culture.
Yet of all his means of improvement none to speak of are physically
inherited. Thus we see the idea of imitation expanded not only to
supply the deficiencies of instinct “not yet” or “no longer” adequate,
but to such an extent that on it depends the “social” heritage of
culture from generation to generation. This powerful impulse, without
which there could be no teaching, no handing down of anything to
posterity, thus becomes the indispensable medium of continuity, and
therefore the necessary postulate of a cumulative human culture, as
opposed to one constantly recommencing _ab ovo_. But the further
question arises, May we not be justified in calling the imitative
impulse itself an instinct? Once granted the fact of instinct at all,
and an affirmative answer seems imperative to one who is familiar with
the workings of this impulse in men and animals. On these grounds I
have committed myself in my former work to the designation of imitation
as an inborn instinct, and yet I must admit the logical inconsistency
of this, since the very conception of instinct dispenses with the use
of imitation. As commonly understood, instinct may be defined as a
hereditary and clearly defined motor reaction to a given stimulus.
In imitation, on the contrary, we have a thousand varying reactions,
for as the stimulus (the model) varies the whole character of the
reaction follows suit. What becomes of the fixed hereditary orbit if
at each repetition entirely new movements, sounds unconnected with
the foregoing ones, etc., are produced? “To assert that imitation is
instinctive,” says Bain, “is to maintain the existence of an infinity
of pre-existing associations between sensations and actions.”[534] This
appears to me to be the one insurmountable objection among the many
which he and others have brought against the conception of imitative
instinct, and it is serious enough to cause me to modify my former
position.

As a point of departure, suppose we take the assumption that, with
certain limitations, a psychophysical adjustment, not in the ordinary
sense instinctive, accounts for the genesis of imitation. This
adjustment depends on the fact that in conscious activity a necessary
connection exists between the movement produced and the antecedent
concept of the movement. On the one hand, then, a movement is said
to be voluntary only when the motor act is accompanied with such an
idea of movement, while the other view implies that the idea itself
is the thing which urges its own fulfilment.[535] If this is so, the
mere concept of the movement performed by another impels us to perform
it as well, and hence arises imitation. Although the difficulty
is to establish the correctness of this assumption,[536] yet we
may be pretty sure that the concept of a possible movement, if not
crippled by antagonistic motives, does induce a certain readiness for
fulfilment.[537]

This analysis, it is true, acquaints us with a necessary condition of
imitation, but as little accounts for the amazing force of the impulse
as the mere conception of movement accounts for voluntary activity.
While every concept may impel to the corresponding motor act, we know
from experience that such tendencies to form habits are checked and
aborted by all sorts of hindrances, mere inertia being sufficient in
many cases to counteract the motive power of such concepts. There must
be special reasons, then, which lend to the perception of a movement
performed by another such extraordinary motive power. We have still
to meet the question whether there may not be an inherited relation
developed on the foundation and presupposition of the “readiness”
described above. The thousand sensory motor paths involved in it
can not be determined by heredity, since they presuppose acquired
experience (as in learning to speak, first crude experimentation,
then imitation). But the strength of the pleasurable quality in
the reproduction of a movement accomplished first by another, the
strenuousness of the effort which presses for expression, as well as
the seriousness of the disappointment in cases of failure, are direct
results of selection and the developmental factors connected with it.
In support of this proposition we may refer to the social instincts,
the simplest of which is the associativeness of members of the same
race, tribe, or faction. Its demands lead to a kind of imitation, at
least in movement impulses (Hudson assures us that the young pampas
sheep runs the instant it is born after its rapidly running mother),
and the impulse to answer a warning or alluring call. Pleasure in
satisfying this genuine instinct is especially evident where one of the
participants (they being usually of the same species) accompanies the
signal with appropriate movements.

I permit myself no judgment of the value of this hypothesis, but I
believe its adequacy to meet the case is incontrovertible. Bain, too,
in the fourth edition of his work cited above, has made a suggestion
looking in the same direction, by which the use of the word instinct
gains a certain justification. Nor should it be forgotten that to
strengthen this “readiness” a whole series of other requirements may be
present, which for convenience in this analysis I may call instinctive.
Perhaps an illustration of a movement concept which is not imitative
in the ordinary sense will make this clear. If we think intentionally
and definitely of the movements involved in whistling, we are likely
to feel a mild inclination to whistle, which, however, is commonly
easy enough to overcome. Therefore we call it a certain “readiness” in
preference to a stronger term, such as “impulse.” But let this mental
process take place in church during service; the corresponding action,
it is true, is not performed, because of the influence of contrary
motives, but the impulse may nevertheless be so strong that their
subject suffers great annoyance. Why is this? Probably because the
idea of not whistling excites the instinctive impulse toward activity
of the movement apparatus (experimentation) as well as the fighting
instinct,[538] which resents such constraint and lends itself as a
powerful auxiliary to the movement impulse. It is just in this way that
the perception of movement made by another arouses special instinctive
emotions, and illustrates the power of the imitative impulse. This,
then, is a brief explanation of the grounds of the theory developed
above, according to which imitation serves as a complement to instincts
which have been weakened in favour of intellectual development or are,
for whatever reason, inadequate to the individual’s life tasks.

Thus we know that a child has the impulse to make use of his motor
apparatus, but this impulse is strengthened when another person makes
a movement which attracts the child’s attention. The concept as such
produces a mild inclination and the natural impulse to move weighs
down the scale. The little girl inherits an instinct for nursing;
alone, it would probably not be strong enough to originate nursing
play, and quite as little would the idea of the movements involved
which the child acquires from watching her mother have that result
(as witness, the boy). The two together produce the familiar result.
In the same way the boy’s fighting instinct impels him to imitate all
warlike demonstrations. We may say that the “what” of the subject is
answered by the movement idea and the “that” predominantly by the
corresponding instinct, though acquired necessity of course may
do the same thing. Moreover, imitation has a special affinity for
curiosity and the fighting instinct. The former asks concerning an
unusual movement by another, “How does he do it?” and an effort to
experiment at once ensues, while the fighting instinct is on the alert
at the perception of a difficulty, and loses no time in overcoming it
in order to enjoy the “I can, too,” of success. This success may be a
triumph over the model, since if no superiority is proved we arrogate
to ourselves a capacity which up to this time has been the property
of another.[539] It may, however, be mere pleasure in overcoming the
difficulty, as when we try to imitate qualities which we admire in
another, adding to the combative impulse the desire to make one’s self
agreeable or to subordinate others. But so far as conscious playful
imitation is directly concerned, the struggle with difficulties is
still in the foreground. We must remember, too, that with many of the
higher kinds of imitation—pre-eminently so with that which may be
called constructive, since its material is invariably appropriated from
foreign sources—the pleasure which is derived from recognition and from
illusion adds to its play the powerful charm of imagination.

Although I have presented here only a few of the leading features which
an analysis of the imitative processes reveals, enough has been said
to show how complicated and difficult the problem is, and to render
advisable a general summing up in more compact form of the results of
these somewhat rambling observations. It will not do to call imitation
instinct and leave it at that, since it is not a specific but quite
an involved reaction. Moreover, the condition of imitation, namely,
the tendency of movement ideas to produce corresponding movements,
is not itself instinctive; but we have seen that this tendency alone
does not explain all that we include under the name of imitation. This
tendency of the movement ideas must have special grounds furnished by
organic needs, and especially those which are instinctive; when the
general idea of movement is coincident with one of these the impulse
toward discharge becomes very strong. We cited in illustration of this
the general movement-impulse, nursing, curiosity (how is it done?),
belligerence (not only as regards distinctly hostile movements, but
sensation as well), recognition, and illusion. If there is nothing
else, then imitation taken alone is no instinct; it is only in very
close connection to instinct, as our biological point of view has
shown. It is, however, probable that these limits are not reached by
the simplest imitation, such as coughing, gaping, etc., and use may
be made of the hypothesis of transference (_loi de transfert_) from
specific social instincts, which are themselves the result of a certain
degree of imitativeness of the movement idea (agreement, answering, and
the like) to movement itself in cases involving the movements belonging
to a species. By this means natural selection of whatever developmental
factor is employed acquires an essential impetus. Whoever regards such
collaboration as probable will consider imitation as a phenomenon at
least similar to instinct.

Thirdly—and this point will be quickly disposed of—when is imitation
to be regarded as play? Evidently we must apply the psychological
criterion; imitation is a play when it is enjoyed for its own
sake.[540] Imitation transcends play at its highest and lowest
limits. Simple reflex reactions, such as gaping when another gapes,
fleeing because another has fled, etc., can not be called play in
a psychological sense, nor is the child’s first reproduction of
sounds playful. Only when he repeats the performance from enjoyment
of his success can we be sure of the thing from a psychological
standpoint.[541] The limit is passed in the other direction by
rendering the movements mechanical, so that the imitation is performed
involuntarily, no longer affording enjoyment of the act itself, as
it is now directed toward the external aim. Here belong imitative
teaching (so far as it is not in itself enjoyable) and the imitation
of an exemplary personality or ideal which is so important to ethics.
In the latter, however, a suggestion of playfulness is sometimes
present, though it would seem that nothing could be further from the
proper sphere of ethics; when poetic figures serve as models, however,
it is sometimes hard to mark the limit between the serious and the
playful.[542]

In conclusion, I would remark that imitation is almost never merely
that; it is creation as well, production as well as reproduction. Close
on the heels of imitation comes imagination, and that in the double
meaning of the word which we have learned to know. Imagination expands
the copy into a full likeness of the original, and then creates the
illusion that it is the original. However, imitation may actually
be new creation. As Baldwin lucidly puts it, the child’s persistent
imitation calls into the arena with the satisfactory copy a host of new
combinations which may be non-essential to this special aim, but which
claim the child’s attention and interest as discoveries of his own.
He is often so interested in these unexpected combinations as to lose
sight of his original purpose, and runs to his parents or comrades to
show what he can do.[543]

In turning to the consideration of imitative plays I prefer to divide
them into the following groups for the sake of convenience. First,
I shall speak of playful imitation of simple movements, which are
preparatory to more complicated processes, distinguishing between
optical and acoustic percepts. Then follow two important specialized
groups, namely, the dramatic and plastic or constructive imitation; and
finally I shall treat inner imitation as a fourth kind of play.


1. _Playful Imitation of Simple Movements_

(_a_) Optical Percepts

According to Tracy[544] there are few points so generally accepted
without question by child psychologists in general as that of the
beginning of imitation in the second half year. Yet this agreement is
not so universal as might be wished. Thus Baldwin says that experiment
with his own children has left him utterly unable to confirm the
results reported by Preyer, who thought that he could establish the
presence of imitation in the third or fourth month. Baldwin, like
Egger, could not be sure of it before the ninth month.[545] Strümpell,
on the other hand, thought he recognised the beginnings of it in the
twelfth week. “Careful observation assured me that the child was
sympathetically excited by the movements of adults in speaking. When
any one was talking to him he watched the mouth instead of the eyes,
as formerly; and as he watched, his own mouth moved softly, the lips
assuming different positions, which undoubtedly resulted from movements
in the inner part of the mouth.”[546] Baldwin may be right in regarding
such very early observations as frequently misleading, since the
correspondence with a model is apt to be accidental, though I do not
think that this supposition explains away all cases. However, enjoyment
of imitation and consequently play with it is undoubtedly of later
origin. This observation of Preyer may be called playful. “In the tenth
month correct copies of various movements are constantly produced,
and that with full consciousness. In the often repeated hand and arm
movement of ‘shaking ta-ta’ the child gazes earnestly at the person
showing him the signal, and suddenly repeats it correctly.”[547] This
is not the unconscious or involuntary copying of strange models which
is so common with young and old. The question no doubt arises in the
child’s mind, “How is that done?” and when followed by the successful
accomplishment of the task, is further succeeded by the joyful feeling
of “I can, too,” and playful use of the imitative faculty. The same
is the case with the following instances: “As I, with the intention
of amusing the child, waved my right hand to and fro before him, he
suddenly began to move his own right hand in the same way, and from
that time imitation slowly but surely progressed. On the day following,
he was much quicker in repeating the attempt, and evidently wondering
at the novelty of his experience, watched attentively now my hand
and now his own.... At fifteen months the child learned to put out a
candle flame. He blew six or seven times in vain, and kept grasping
at the flame, laughing when it eluded him, and straining after it,
while puffing and blowing with distended cheeks and lips unnecessarily
protruded.... A large ring which I slowly laid on his head and took
off again the child seized and unhesitatingly set it on his own head
(sixteen months).”[548] Sigismund says: “The child learns all his
little arts from his nurse: shaking good-bye, patting, kissing his
hand, bowing, dancing, etc. But he copies of his own accord movements
and attitudes which strike and please him. He walks with his father’s
stick, tries to smoke a pipe, puts wood on the fire, scribbles with a
pencil, and, in short, imitates whatever he sees done about him.”[549]

From a psychological standpoint there are various distinctions to be
made in these instances. Sometimes it is the movement itself which
forms the centre of interest, while again the result of the movement
is the thing aimed at, making the muscular exertion only a means to
the end (as in blowing out the light).[550] It is significant that the
pleasure derived from imitation is more conspicuous in the first case;
and another important question is, whether more of curiosity or more
of pleasure in competition is involved, since the one likens imitative
activity to intellectual experimentation, and the other assimilates
it to rivalry. In the one case the child’s attention is fixed on the
question, “How is that done?” He is interested in the _modus operandi_
as in the solution of a riddle. In the latter case the movement made
in his presence arouses him like a challenge: “You can’t do that!” And
his whole effort is directed to the proof that he can. The two factors
do not necessarily exclude one another; they may work together. The
exhilarating effect is heightened by strong emphasis of the fighting
element; the stronger the consciousness that the task was difficult,
though now achieved, the more will both child and adult enjoy the
imitation—another support to our theory of the comic.

In later life, at least among civilized people, the impulse to playful
imitation of the movements of others is not so strong,[551] except in
the case of teasing mimicry. Most adult imitation is either of the
character of involuntary adaptation, or for some specific end, and is
thus partly within and partly without the sphere of play. When, for
instance, the southerner who goes north to live, gradually controls
his lively gesticulation, it is done unconsciously and involuntarily,
unless he assists in the process because he does not wish to appear
ridiculous. There may be some imitative play in the indulgence of
air-castle building, founded on external models, though careful
discrimination would be needed to detect it always. Then there is the
callow youth who copies a leader of fashion in his manner of walking,
talking, and acting, and finds sufficient satisfaction in the success
of his efforts without any further aim. Sometimes, too, that imitation
founded on serious effort is manifested in trifling ways. I do not
know whether such amusement is now dispensed with in teaching writing;
my experience was that the higher classes at school as well as the
children tried to model their hand after that of some admired student,
teacher, or friend. Sully’s remark that imitation is sometimes “the
highest form of flattery” is applicable here.


(_b_) Playful Imitation of Acoustic Percepts

A group occupying a position midway between the foregoing and that
which is now to be treated of consists of such imitations as find their
antecedent in movement which appeals to the eye and yet whose real
effect is in the repetition of acoustic impressions. Preyer records
the following unsuccessful effort at the end of the first year: “At
this period, if any one struck with a salt spoon on a glass, making it
sound, my child would take up the spoon and attempt to hit the glass
in the same way, but he could not get the tone.”[552] Quite similar is
Baldwin’s observation: “H——’s first clear imitation was on May 24th
(beginning of ninth month) in knocking a bunch of keys against a vase
as she saw me do it, in order to produce the bell-like sound. This she
repeated over and over again, and tried to reproduce it a week later
when, from lapse of time, she had partly forgotten how to use the
keys.”[553] This sort of imitation, where, as in putting out the light,
the result is more important than the movement itself, is more enduring
than simple movement imitation, because the end attained is itself a
source of pleasure.

The most important phase of acoustic imitation is that which aids in
the child’s acquirement of speech. In studying experimentation we found
that voice practice is an indispensable antecedent of learning to
talk. Add to this the imitative impulse and the equipment is complete
for acquiring a mother tongue. The child imitates all the kinds of
sound that he hears—the howling of the wind, animal calls, coughing
and sneezing—but of course he hears most constantly the sounds of
his native language, and so it naturally follows that he gives it
particular attention, which constantly increases as he becomes aware
of his parents’ delight in his acquirements and as he perceives their
practical use.

Sigismund has asked whether imitation of singing may not serve as an
introduction to language lessons. He says: “The first real imitation
which I observed in my boy was not repetition of articulate speech,
but of a musical tone. When he was fourteen months old and had as
yet imitated nothing (?), I occasionally sang to him a popular song
whose melody began with a downward quarter (F-C), which interval
recurred frequently and forcibly in the song. I was greatly surprised
when the child, though very drowsy, sang this measure correctly, an
octave higher. The following day the same thing happened, and this
time without any example.... Is it the rule or the exception that the
infant sings imitatively before he speaks so? Many mothers whom I have
questioned were uncertain whether such singing had occurred at all,
but they had probably simply failed to notice it. The result of my own
investigations and observation points to the probability that children,
like birds, more easily comprehend and repeat singing tones than
speech.”[554] Ufer justly replies to this that while children do indeed
often sing before they can talk, we have no reason to affirm that this
is the rule. The child observed by Miss Shinn, for example, first made
feeble efforts to imitate singing in its fortieth month.[555] It is
always unsafe to attach too much importance to isolated cases. It is
characteristic of man that many of his inherited capacities are left
afloat, as it were, and must be anchored by individual experience, thus
affording opportunity for the development of varied individuality.
Consequently, it is hardly possible to be too cautious in drawing
conclusions for phylogenetic evolution from ontogenetic development.

It is self-evident that not all the sound imitations which underlie the
acquirement of speech are playful in a psychological sense. Words are
often babbled mechanically without any special enjoyment. Moreover, as
soon as the child has overcome the difficulties of the first stage of
his language study and knows how to express his wants, he often makes
use of expressions whose model exists only in his memory, without any
playful intention. Still, a considerable part of the effort to learn
to speak is properly imitative play. Preyer’s description shows us
how the child put his whole soul in the attempt to understand the lip
movements, and in another place (fifteen months) he says, “If he
hears a new word, ‘cold,’ for example, which he can not repeat he is
angry or turns his head away and cries.”[556] This demonstrates the
presence of fighting play; when the effort to be able to say “I can,
too,” fails in its aim, consciousness of defeat is betrayed by ill
humour. Older children, too, often obtain new acquisitions in speech
in a playful fashion. I kept a series of notes on Marie G—— in this
connection, extending from the third to the seventh year, and they show
this unmistakably. While she lived in Giessen she mimicked the dialect
of the servants and many of the peculiarities of Hessian speech, and
enjoyed copying the expressions of her playmates in talking to her
dolls. In one note, which records the observations of a single day,
I find four distinct efforts of this kind, and for many months she
adopted the rather forward manner of speaking, practised by a boy of
whom she was thrown with for a while. Hardly had we become settled in
Basel before she made a rhyme illustrating the local accent here.

The child’s effort, on the whole, is directed toward attaining
likeness to his model, whatever may be the difficulty, otherwise
he would remain satisfied with his first effort when he found it
understood. “Persistent imitation” constantly urges him on to
improvement by repetition, constantly striving for betterment. Thus
the power is gained to acquire new territory. The child’s enjoyment,
too, of recognition constantly furnishes him with alluring models.
This progressive method is directly opposed to natural inertia and
indolence, which are so strong in some children that we occasionally
find them not only satisfied with slipshod methods, but actually
going back, after learning better, to the faulty pronunciation. This
retrogression, too, is often playful.

We have space but for one illustration from the many which this
subject affords; it relates to inventiveness in language imitation. We
have already seen that the experimental play of infants (especially
in reduplication) furnishes material for a science of language. The
easily articulated syllables papa, mamma, baba, fafa, dada, etc., are
sufficiently explained in the case of parents, who take them into their
own vocabulary and thus confirm the child in their use. Many expressive
words have originated in this way.[557] Darwin’s child said “mum” to
signify eating or wanting to eat, and Strümpell’s daughter at ten
months called all the birds that she saw from the window “tibu.”[558]
Older children, too, often indulge in such playful experimental
coining of words,[559] as we shall see later. At present we are more
concerned with the word building founded on acoustic imitation. Preyer
thinks that the only kind of word creation practised by children is
the imitation of sounds which they have heard and their repetition
in the form of interjections. I quote from him: “When the listener
first imitates a word and then makes independent use of it depends
with normal children principally on whether much effort is made to
instruct them. More important psychogenetically ... are observations
on the creation of words with a special sense before the beginning of
genuine speech. These are not to be regarded as mistaken, imperfect, or
onomatopœic imitations,... but rather as original interjections. In all
my observations and studies directed especially to their investigation,
I have been able to discover nothing tending to establish a connection
of the hearer’s concepts with articulate sounds and syllables....
S. S. Haldemann has in his notes on the invention of words, which
include a small boy’s discoveries in that line, citations from Taine,
Holden, myself, and others. This boy called a cow “m,” a bell “tin-tin”
(Holden’s boy said “ling-dong-mang” for a church bell), a locomotive
“tschu-tschu,” the splash of something falling in water “boom,” and
applied the same word to throwing, striking, falling, shooting,
etc., without regard to the quality of the sound, though always with
reference to some sound. In weighing the fact that a sound repeated to
him, such as a trumpet call, was fitted with a word suggestive of the
sound seems to show that an intelligent child attempts to imitate and
repeat what he hears, despite the objection of a Max Müller, and until
a better hypothesis is offered affords an object lesson in the study of
the origin of language.”

Yet this theory is decidedly partial, for among primitive people,
besides mamma, papa, adda, etc., other sounds depending on neither
interjections nor imitation, but purely the result of experimentation,
get a meaning from the simple relation of mother and child, and so
attain at least a place in their vocabulary and surely form one of
the grounds for the explanation of the growth of language. It is not
maintained that the child first learns the art of imitating sound
from his elders, for without doubt he is often the originator, as
in the case of mamma and papa, which he has taught them. For us the
interesting question here is that of recognition which we find again
the object of playful activity. The “Bow-wow” theory sounds perhaps
improbable, or even ridiculous when we think of its being used by
adults,[560] but when confined to children all this is changed.
It works somewhat in this way: The child learns through imitation
to produce all sorts of sounds—the crash of falling objects, the
rumble of rolling ones, cries of animals, the gurgling of water. His
mother’s play with him adds to the value of such imitations, since
in their play the imitative sound comes to stand for its object just
as symbolism arises from the effort to express qualities. Imitation
makes this intelligible, since every copy is a symbol of the thing
copied. Even the interjection and the experimental sound can only be
elements of speech by imitation or repetition. Thus Jodl rightly says
(following Marty) of the imitation of sound, “As soon as their power
of adjustment, their reason, is sufficiently developed, they derive
from free play the means consciously employed for the acquisition of
varied experience.”[561] Therefore I maintain that imitation is an
indispensable condition in the explanation of the origin of language,
its objects being threefold: (1) All the acoustic models afforded by
the environment; (2) interjectional sounds; (3) experimental sounds.
It is as assured a fact that children practise the first as that
they playfully repeat their own experiments. Playful imitation of
interjection is not to my knowledge indulged in by very young children,
but using the sound to signify the thing from which it proceeds is
natural enough. On the whole, then, it seems that while imitation plays
an important part in the origin of language, as many investigators
testify, to make it the only factor would be an act of presumption.

As this impulse for acoustic repetition is weaker in adults than in
children, I need only mention the playful use of it in poetry where it
is agreeable to all. I have already had occasion to remark that poetry
written for children is especially rich in such imitation. Animal cries
and bird notes figure largely. Rückert’s poem Aus der Iugendheit makes
use of a very common metre to imitate the whirring call of the swallow,
thus:

  “Wenn ich weggeh’,:,:
   Hab ich Kisten und Kasten voll;
   Wenn ich wiederkomm’,:,:
   Hab ich kein Fädchen Zwir-r-n.”[562]

  “When I go away
   I have trunks and boxes full;
   When I come back again
   I haven’t a rag to my name.”

This interpretative imitation which lends to unintelligible sounds a
special meaning is applied to other things than animal cries, such as
the clatter of arms, the ringing of bells, the splashing of water, the
roaring of wind, etc. For adults it is expressed in the refrain, which,
however, does not as a rule convey any special meaning. A rather crude
form of it is found in Bürger’s Leonore. A more subtile use of it is
illustrated in efforts to make the sound of the words convey a faint
resemblance to the acoustic effect which is being described. A familiar
and celebrated instance of this is found in this passage from Faust:

  “Und wenn der Sturm im Walde braust und knarrt,
   Die Riesenfichte stürzend Nachbaräste
   Und Nachbarstämme quetschend niederstreift,
   Und ihrem Fall dumpf hohl der Hügel donnert....”[563]

Music, too, is notably richer in imitation of the latter sort than in
the much less valuable tone-painting. As we have, however, touched on
its analogy with and relation to speech movements, which is its most
important feature, the subject will not be opened further here.


2. _Dramatic Imitation in Play_

In the playful imitation which we have considered up to this point,
illusion was as a rule not involved, of the kind which seems to
convert the copy into the original. In dramatic or imitative play
involving the reproduction of actions it is almost invariably present,
and essentially differentiates such play. Imitation is still the
foundation and also the source of pleasure not only in the feeling of
emulation, but in putting one’s self in the place of another, in the
play of imagination and in the enjoyment of æsthetic effect. There
can be no doubt that this refinement of the process by which the
external act of imitation becomes at the same time inward sympathy is
of great importance to human progress. Konrad Lange has shown in his
stimulating article[564] that with the higher animals at least, play
without the contributory zest of illusion or conscious self-deception
would probably be much less attractive and consequently fail of its
biological purpose, since this feature of it contributes essentially to
the advance of intelligence. Even when the child merely copies for the
sake of copying he learns an astonishing amount, and acquires a host of
psychic adaptations. But mental elasticity, adaptability, and mobility
are first acquired when the migratory instincts of the soul, so to
speak, are awakened, and the child enters into the life of his model.
Veritable participation in the mental states of another individual,
objective appraisal of what he feels and strives for, would scarcely be
possible without such practice.

In the dramatic imitative play of children important distinctions are
apparent which are not noticeable in the dramatic art of adults.
The play may be so conducted that the player’s own body appears as
the exclusive object of the mimic production, or in such a manner
that the pretended object serves, either on the ground of an actual
resemblance or by sheer force of imagination, as a substitute for the
thing represented, or, lastly, in a way that includes both. We have an
instance of the first when the boy pretends to be a soldier, of the
second when he marches his tin soldiers to battle, and of the third
when he himself takes part in the combat, or when a little girl plays
that her doll is a real baby and she herself the mother. Since we have
reason to believe that dramatic art has developed from the play of
children by way of the mimic dance we may be sure that its progress has
been selective, and that there is good reason for the perfection of the
first of these forms. The second, indeed, appears in the marionette
farces which are still much enjoyed by the uneducated classes among
ourselves and are in great favour in the East. The third kind, in
which the player places himself in direct dramatic relation with the
puppet (taking the word in its widest sense), has no analogy in our
art, but is most prominent in the fetich cult. And the reason why is
easily traced. A fundamental distinction between mimic play and mimic
art consists in the fact that the player imitates simply for his own
amusement, the artist for the pleasure of others. His is not real play,
but exhibition. Bearing this distinction in mind, we see that the third
form of play is not applicable to art.

In our short review of dramatic imitative play we will not adhere
too closely to the three distinctions, but simply inquire what it
is that the child imitates. And first we glance at the strange fact
that his impersonating impulse extends even to inanimate objects; the
child acts without any feeling of limitation, like the labourers in
Midsummer-Night’s Dream, who were ready to take the part of the Wall
or the Moon indifferently. During a long and complicated play some
child will be a door post, a tree, a seat, a wagon, and a locomotive,
and endeavour by his motions and carriage to support these bold
illusions. This exhibition of versatility on the part of the child is
interesting in its analogy to the expansion of the imitative impulse
in æsthetic perception. Such external personification of lifeless
objects corresponds to inner imitation which is itself a kind of
personifying. A higher object of dramatic imitation is found in the
actions of animals which, as we have seen, are apt to lead to strongly
marked comic effects. They are a source of the liveliest amusement
to children, who will crawl like a snake, grunt like a pig, fly like
a bird, swim like a fish, seize and devour prey, make grimaces, wear
animal masks, make shadow pictures, notice and laugh at animals, and
perhaps even mimic their movements.[565] This last propensity has given
name and character to many complicated traditional games, such as “Cat
and Mouse,” “Wolf im Garten,” “Fox Chase,” “Hen and Hawk,” “Fox and
Chickens,” etc. This manifestation of the child’s deep interest in the
animal world is analogous to animal imitation in primitive art and
animal veneration in primitive religion. In the former connection the
animal dance is most conspicuous, being extremely widespread. Masks
representing the different animals are commonly worn, and the movements
of domestic animals, especially the dog, as well as of wild beasts,
are reproduced in rhythmic order,[566] nor are the dancers daunted by
swimming and flying. Probably the masking in Greek and Japanese dances
is attributable to such an origin, as also the unnaturally placed tails
on ancient figures of fauns, for in these dances animal tails were hung
in the belt.[567]

Hall and Allin, in their valuable treatise so frequently cited, attempt
to assign a reason for the very special interest which children take
in animals. They find my practice and preparation theory in this case
“obviously wrong.” As a partial explanation they develop the view
that use of a rudiment produces to a certain degree its atrophy, and
that consequently childish imitation of animals “marks the harmless
development of rudimentary animal instincts as they pass to their
needed maximal growth, till the next higher powers that control and
subordinate them are unfolded, thus recapitulating with immense
rapidity a very long stage in the evolution of the human out of the
animal psyche.”[568] It strikes me that this is one of the numerous
cases of the too bold application of the seductive but dangerous
phylogenetic theory. Entirely apart from the fact that the idea of
weakening as a result of practice seems improbable in regard to the
imitation of animals as well as in the catharsis theory on which the
author seems to base his, it is noteworthy that the child has to make
an effort to reproduce the movements, actions, and calls of animals,
and this at a time when it has already progressed very far in the
acquirement of human capabilities. Therefore, I am unable to subscribe
to the theory advanced by these gentlemen. None will deny that the
imitative impulse is of great biological importance as practice, and I
do not see that any special explanation is needed for its extension to
animal actions. If, however, such explanation is required, my theory
readily supplies it, for few things are more useful to primitive
man than a thorough knowledge of animal life, and playful imitation
afforded a much surer means of acquiring this than did mere receptive
observation.

We now pass to human activities which are chosen as models by children
still more than are the activities of animals. It may be stated in
general that there is scarcely anything which engages the energy of
man which is not made the object of childish imitation. Children of
savages naturally have a much smaller _répertoire_ than those of
civilized people, but as far as the fact of imitation is concerned,
and as it appears in child’s play, it usually strikes travellers most
forcibly, since they are not as a rule alive to the less salient
phenomena of experimentation. Livingstone says that in central Africa
it is remarkable how few playthings the children have; their life seems
to be already a serious one, and their only amusement consists in
imitating their elders while they build huts, lay out gardens, or make
bows, arrows, shields, and spears. In other places, he says, giving
a beautiful instance of childish invention and illusion, many bright
children are found who have plenty of attractive toys. They shoot
birds with their little bows, and teach captive ones to sing. They are
very skilful in setting traps and snares for small birds, as in the
preparation and spreading of birdlime. The boys make toy guns out of
reeds and shoot grasshoppers.[569] Many other witnesses confirm all
this, though their reports are usually less full and lucid, and we may
conclude that the games and sports of adults are also early acquired
by the children by means of imitation. Among the “wild men” exhibited
in Europe, quite small children are often found who perform the dances
of their elders with astonishing accuracy, and travellers tell us that
they do the same thing in their homes. Captain Jacobsen once attended
a regular Indian child’s party, for which the little people painted
their faces and stuck feathers in their hair in regulation style. “It
was really comical to see little tots of three and four gotten up
in this fashion and dancing about with leaps and bounds while older
ones beat the wooden drum.”[570] Children of civilized peoples still
retain among their plays many heathenish customs which have not been
practised by adults within the memory of man. An interesting example
will accomplish the transition from savagery, dealing as it does with
the powerful influence of the imitation of the uncultured on European
children. Signe Rink tells of her childhood spent in Greenland: “Like
all European children in the country my brothers and sisters and I
had a genuine passion for everything pertaining to Greenland; and
accordingly, as soon as the door was shut on our elders we tried in
every possible way and by all sorts of mimicry to identify ourselves
with our playmates. My brother got himself up as a seal hunter from
head to foot, and I became an Eskimo woman with waddling gait, who
was sternly forbidden to leave the house.” And of her play in an
Eskimo hut and with a Greenlandic girl she gives the following
delightful description: “We took off our shoes and sat on the warm,
comfortable, half-dark part of the couch behind the backs of the
grown people. Wherever I was there was Anna, my best friend among the
Greenland children.... We made quite free with pincushions, dishes,
and timepieces! We brought mussel shells and bleached seal bones and
made a playhouse in the corner. We took cushions from the great pile
and made beds for the puppies. We made mural decorations from 
chips. Over our heads hung boots, hose, skins, trousers, and _timiaks_
(under-jackets) to dry in the warmth of the lamp or to be out of the
way. All these surroundings formed elements in our play. In imagination
we had sent our husbands off on a seal hunt, and with thimbles on
our first fingers, the Greenland custom, we sewed round flaps for
the boot soles of the absent ones.”[571] One can not read such a
description as this without being impressed with the incalculable
influence of imitation on the whole psychic life of the child, not only
in relation to externals, but also as affecting their deeply rooted
sympathies and antipathies, habits and convictions, all of which are
deeply influential on the developing character. Baldwin says: “It is
not only likely—it is inevitable—that he makes up his personality,
under limitation of heredity by imitation, out of the ‘copy’ set in
the actions, temper, emotions of the people who build around him the
social inclosure of his childhood. It is only necessary to watch a
two-year-old closely to see what members of the family are giving him
his personal ‘copy’—to find out whether he sees his mother constantly
and his father seldom; whether he plays much with other children, and
what their dispositions are to a degree; whether he is growing to be a
person of subjection, equality, or tyranny; whether he is assimilating
the elements of some low, unorganized social content from his foreign
nurse. For, in Leibnitz’s phrase, the boy or girl is a social monad,
a little world, which reflects the whole system of influences coming
to stir its sensibilities. And just as far as his sensibilities are
stirred he imitates, and forms habits of imitating. And habits?—they
are character.”[572]

There is hardly any limit to the rôle playing of civilized children.
Under normal conditions they naturally take their own parents as
models, and even in societies not governed by caste considerations this
must have a conservative influence. But the occupations of others, too,
appeal strongly to the imitative impulse, and it is altogether probable
that such tests of various possibilities often exert an influence on
the later choice of a life’s calling, for play develops predispositions
and antipathies. When Schiller was eight or nine years old he was
taken to see the magnificent ducal opera house in Ludwigsburg, and was
forthwith inspired to produce a similar work; so he built a little
theatre of books, and had paper figures to act in it. Soon afterward
he got up private theatricals among his sisters and schoolmates. His
enjoyment of preaching, too, was shown in his being able, like young
Fichte, to repeat, when a child, whole sermons verbatim whose lofty
spiritual pathos confirmed his natural inclination toward the priestly
calling.

Before proceeding to the consideration of special forms of the
imitative impulse, I will make a limited selection from a series
of observations calculated to illustrate the variety of childish
imitation. The carrier’s wagon, the street car, the railroad are as
well represented by his own body as by external objects, though the
silver knife-rests on our table seems especially adapted for the last,
being hitched together and pushed about the table, passing through
tunnels, stopping at stations, etc. An old servant who comes to our
house daily to see if anything is wanted from the library or post
office, regularly gets letters which the child has placed in old
envelopes. Another play is for the child to knock at the front door
and say to the maid who opens it, “I am an old letter carrier.” When
asked if she has any letters she answers, “Here is some money for you,”
and spits in the girl’s hand. She comes with a pile of old papers, and
asks if we want to buy one. She travels to Coburg between the house
and garden, and visits a friend, saying, when she comes back, “I have
told Emmy that she must come here soon.” For months after a visit to
a swimming pool she practises swimming in the garden; standing on a
chair holding her nose she jumps in the grass, where she tries to copy
the movements of swimmers. She said, when five years old, to her doll:
“Lisa, in an hour you go to Frau Schneider, and when she asks you,
‘What is, the sky is blue?’ you must say, ‘Le ciel est bleu’; and when
she asks, ‘What is, the tree is green?’ you must say, ‘L’arbre est
vert.’” At six and a half she gave her doll writing and piano lessons.
In the latter she grasped the doll so that by means of pressure on the
hidden mechanism she elicited from it accompanying wails, at regular
intervals and in good time.

The capacity for illusion is always the most interesting feature of
such play. The same child varies greatly in this respect: sometimes he
seems entirely given up to self-deception; he will offer you a meal of
candy in which one bit represents the meat, another the vegetables,
etc., and is quite hurt if you are guilty of confusing these dishes.
Sometimes, too, when he has concocted various dainties out of mud, he
can not resist the temptation to bite into the brown mass, although in
his calmer moments he well knows that mud is not edible. On the other
hand, the waking consciousness seems to be unshaken through it all.
If you warn the playing child not to hurt his rocking horse, he will
answer that it is only a wooden horse, without, however, abating his
zeal in the play. Then, again, the whole thing is laid out beforehand,
as in this case. Marie: “Then let’s play that I am a thief, and there
is a whole roomful of cakes, and the door is shut, and I cut a hole in
it and take all the cakes away, and you are the policeman and run after
me and get all the cakes back again.” Frieda: “And I will take them
to my child. Or shall we play birthday?” When choice is thus offered
between various possibilities there is, of course, much variation
in the strength of the illusion, and the sudden transitions of the
imagination are often very striking. For instance, one small dramatist
called two combs which he held together a biscuit, and said it had an
excellent taste, and the next moment was rocking them to sleep with
tender solicitude. We have already noticed the child’s extraordinary
capacity for supplying any deficiencies in the object of his fantasy;
he has no difficulty in accepting two upright pencils as towers, an
umbrella for a baby, with grass stalks attached to it for flowing locks.

At the risk of giving too much space to this phase of the subject I
will describe a baptismal festival in 1896, which was participated
in by half a dozen children from five to fourteen years old, at our
house. For the adults chairs were provided and placed in regular rows,
and they were required to bring tickets of admission which a duly
accredited doorkeeper received. All the children were deeply affected
during the official parts of the ceremony, especially the young mother,
who showed as she brought the doll infant forward a really pallid face,
and the fourteen-year-old minister was so moved by his solemn office
that he lost his place after the first sentence. On the certificate of
baptism was the proverb:

  “Ihm ruhen noch im Zeitenschoose
   Die schwarzen und die heitern Loose”;[573]

and the programme, whose second part seems to throw some doubt on the
lofty idealism of the children, was as follows:


PROGRAMME

FOR THE CHRISTENING OF ILSE, ELIZABETH, AND ERIKA BÖHME

  I. BAPTISM.
        1. Sermon.

  II. LUNCH.
        First course, pastry.
        Second course, ham and asparagus.
        Third course, fish and potatoes.
        Fourth course, tongue and cabbage.
        Fifth course, beefsteak with sauce.
        Sixth course, poultry and salad.
        Seventh course, roast pork and chestnuts.
        Eighth course, venison and compote.
        Ninth course, pies.
        Tenth course, ices.
        Eleventh course, cheese and pumpernickel.

  III. CONCLUSION.
        1. Conversation.
        2. Games.
        3. Domino party.
        4. Dancing.

Amid the bewildering variety of childish dramatic play two specialized
groups seem to be particularly prominent. As stated in the general
introduction the imitative impulse is often aroused by an intensive
stimulus calculated to call into play other stimuli as well, one of
the most prominent being the fighting instinct—playful imitations of
all sorts of contests—as vigorously practised by boys, for, however
much education may be said to foster it, their inborn nature sets
the pace. The old story of Achilles’s choice of a sword, though he
had been brought up like a girl, is well founded. Among savages the
chase and manly contests are the constant models for playing boys,
while among ourselves, besides playing soldier, many such sports are
kept alive solely through tradition. This is the case, too, with less
cultured peoples, the bow and arrow being used as toys long after
they are abandoned for serious warfare.[574] Since so many of these
plays have been enumerated with the other fighting plays, I will not
here single them out, but rather confine myself to a notable example
from ethnology. Just as our children chase each other, take prisoners
and execute them, so do the little ones of the Seram Islands play at
decapitation. “A favourite game of young and old,” says Joest, “is
that of cutting off heads, for which the children are armed with light
wooden swords. A cocoanut is hidden in the shrubbery, and their naked
bodies wind like snakes through the grass and thicket in search of it.
An arrow or lance is hurled into the air when the nut is found, and a
couple of well-directed blows with the sword sends it bounding away,
severed from its stem. The victor, holding his booty in his left hand
and exulting in his triumph, runs off at a gallop, pursued by the
entire crowd, shouting and brandishing their weapons.”[575]

The nursing or fostering instinct which is so prominent in the
imitative play of little girls deserves more attention. A special
section is devoted to such play among animals in my former work, but
I admit that I am myself somewhat sceptical in regard to some of the
examples quoted there, though I was most careful to get the testimony
of trustworthy investigators. Among animals, moreover, some sorts
of nursing play are wanting, such, for instance, as that in which a
lifeless object is treated as a veritable infant.[576] The feeding
of young birds of a second brood by their older brothers and sisters
seems to me entitled to be called a nursing play, and Naumann observed
this in the case of water wagtails. Altum reports the same behaviour
by canary birds, and vouches for having seen young water wagtails who
were still wearing their first feathers feed young cuckoos.[577] That
this is a play can scarcely be questioned, and it must be imitative
since the parent birds are taken as models, but whether it is dramatic
illusion play is another question and a doubtful one, for there is
always actual feeding with actual food; not, as with children, a mere
pretence. Yet I am very doubtful whether there would be any nursing
plays among children without parental models, and for that reason it
has been included among imitative plays in this book instead of being
given a separate section. We then conclude that the maternal instinct
is present in little girls, but first attains expression in play on the
rise of the imitative impulse.

We have a direct analogue to the bird examples when an older child
assumes the rôle of mother to a younger with purely playful and
imitative motives. Dramatic illusion first comes in when sham activity
is involved, as may be the case with dolls, other children, or even
adults as the subjects. We must conclude, then, that the imitative
impulse is fully developed only when imagination supplements the copy.
Baldwin gives a particularly pretty instance of dramatic nursing play
where the older sister takes the part of mother to the younger.[578]

As regards the use of dolls it would be interesting to know whether
the child would of its own accord so treat any beloved object if it
had never seen a real doll made by adults, but the artificial doll
is always provided so early that there is no opportunity to make the
experiment. In the slums of a great city a proper subject might perhaps
be found. However, we know that the child’s powers of illusion are
amazing. A cushion, a stick, a building block, an umbrella, a dust
brush, or a footstool, a table cover, a slipper, a fork, in short,
anything portable, is liable to become a beloved and zealously nurtured
baby, and every detail is quickly arranged to suit the picture.[579]
Finally, a few words as to the origin of this toy. Its use is well-nigh
universal, and one of the sights most worth seeing in an ethnological
museum is a collection of dolls from all over the world. They are
made of clay, of edible earth, of wax, of wood, of bark, of cloth, of
porcelain, etc., and imitations of the human figure blend with those of
animals, of household furniture and utensils, of arms and implements of
different sorts in motley variety.[580] They serve to illustrate human
progress. In mediæval Europe, in ancient Rome, in Greece—everywhere the
doll was at home. The old museum in Berlin, for example, possesses a
wooden doll from the Egyptian excavations, which has movable legs, and
a crocodile whose jaws can open and shut. Since these images of men
and animals were probably the earliest form of toys, the conclusion
is natural that they probably originated with idols which from
religious feeling may have lain in the cradles and thus appealed to the
children as playthings. Other customs and the testimony of travellers
give colour to this idea, though it is difficult to draw the line
between the idol and the doll.[581] Through the kindness of my former
colleague, Sticker, at Giessen, I myself own an old Indian wooden doll,
which appears suited to be both a protection from evil spirits and a
toy for children. Still, we must not allow to pass unchallenged any
manifestation of the disposition which used to be so common, to refer
everything to a religious origin. It is quite possible that simple
pleasure in plastic representation for its own sake is responsible for
the manufacture of these toys. Von den Steinen tells us, “Dolls a span
long, made of straw, served as children’s toys, and were also stuck in
a pole on the roof of their places of festivity as a sign that some
frolic was in progress, and everybody spread the news.”[582] There is
nothing here to hint at a religious significance.

Of dramatic imitation play by adults we find only a few remnants among
civilized people, aside from mimicry on the one hand and the borders
of art on the other, where imitation is not exhibited as an end in
itself, but rather in relation to its effect on the spectators, and
therefore is no longer a genuine play. Professional actors “play” only
in particularly happy hours. The case is quite otherwise, however,
with savages, whose imitative dances, while conducted in the presence
of spectators, it is true, are unmistakably for the enjoyment of the
participants first, somewhat as are our amateur theatricals. We have
already described animal and erotic dances, which are also imitative,
of course, and all interesting, comic, and exciting elements of their
life are repeated in various dramatic dances, fighting scenes being
favourite subjects. I choose an example whose details most strongly
recall the capacity for illusion possessed by children. It is a woman’s
dance which K. Semper saw in the Palau Islands: “We could already hear
the rustling of their leafy garments, which swung in time with the
dancers’ movements as they stood in a long row. Their aprons were of
the briefest, their naked bodies were fantastically painted in gay
colours. In one hand they carried short wooden instruments which seemed
to be weapons, and in the other a staff covered with a skilfully made
tuft of white shavings, tipped with red. They marched in a row on to
the raised platform whose roof sheltered them from the sun, and now
the dance began. The beginner sang a verse without moving, then all
repeated it as a chorus with accompanying rustling of the leafy gowns
and beckoning movements of the arms. Soon they became more active,
and apparently wished to express joy and greeting. Each seized her
wooden instrument—a neighbour told me that they represented weapons—and
made light swinging movements before her. During this war dance they
gradually removed from the starting point. A sudden loud cry, wild
movements of the arms and whole body, excited singing and blazing
eyes betokened the expectation of approaching battle.... The dancers’
movements became wilder, they stamped their feet, their hands dealt
blows in time with the song—here to strike a fallen foe, there to sever
a head. At last victory is won. They grasp the wands bearing the gay
tufts and raise them aloft, then lower them diagonally to the ground.
‘What does that mean, Frau Ebadul?’ I ask. ‘That is the battle of the
Inglises against Aibukit, whom they are besieging; now they are firing
the villages—the yellow tufts are flames to light the huts with.’”
Aside from the rhythmical movement which is needed to complete the
power of illusion for adults, this is very like the dramatic imitative
play of children.


3. _Plastic or Constructive Imitative Play_

Under this heading are grouped external representations of two or three
dimensions, thus including drawing as well as the moulding commonly
understood as plastic. Here it is more difficult to distinguish between
play and art than in dramatic imitation, since, while the child nursing
her doll, or putting his tin soldiers through a drill, thinks not at
all of spectators, and how they will be affected; even an infant artist
is always eager to show what he can do. It can, however, be generally
prevised that pictorial imitation is a play only when pure joy in the
act of production fills the soul of the copyist.

I begin with imitative drawing, which seems to be widely practised, not
only by children but by primitive people as well, and will therefore
claim most of our attention. Its origin is not clearly determined,
though von den Steinen’s observations make out the case pretty clearly
for their connection with language of gesture. “The simplest drawings,”
he says, “are those connected with gesture. When a savage repeats the
cry of an animal in one of his spirited dramatic tales and wishes to
make the effect more forcible, he also imitates the creature’s bearing,
gait, and movements, and pictures special peculiarities, such as long
ears, trunk, horns, etc., in the air with his hand. Such actions
for the eye form a parallel to the voice imitation for the ear, but
when they still do not suffice, drawings are made on the sand. In
the absence of word equivalents for communicating with them I myself
have often taken refuge in such sand writing.”[583] He goes on to say
that he thinks, although his observation has been confined to Indian
tribes, the further development of drawing followed for the purposes of
communication after the idea of making pictures was once grasped; and
that finally they were made without such practical aim, efforts were
made to improve the technique, and all sorts of natural objects were
represented in interesting and novel aspects.[584]

I know of nothing that should hinder us from accepting this luminous
explanation and applying it to the origin of all drawing but for one
point, which does offer some difficulty. That a primitive hunter should
imitate animal bearing, gait, and movement is easily accounted for
by the instinct for dramatic imitation, but it takes us no nearer to
our goal; and, moreover, how does it happen that he adds the outline
of ears, trunk, or horns in the air to complete the picture? On this
point the whole question depends. Would this mode of suggesting contour
ever occur to a man who had never seen drawing? Does not the former
presuppose the latter, instead of accounting for it? I do not presume
to judge of the force of this objection, but feel that we can not
afford to ignore it. If it is a just one, von den Steinen’s explanation
of course falls to the ground, and there is apparently nothing left but
to refer the whole subject to playful experimentation. In this case we
would best proceed from the sand drawing, since it is probable that the
child or adult playfully marking on the sand accidentally produces some
semblance to a natural object and adopts it as his own. Thus the child
observed by Miss Shinn accidentally produced (110th week) a triangle
in the midst of aimless scribbling, and repeated it afterward with
conscious intent.[585] While absolute certainty is unattainable in such
instances, it would still be valuable to make observations on a child
who had never seen a pencil used for drawing or writing. Should such
a one go on from scribbling to drawing, our play idea would receive
valuable confirmation.

Another question is how far drawing, however acquired, may be regarded
as a play. The finished production of the artist’s pencil is not
always so, by any means, for in modern times his art requires all a
man’s energies, and becomes his life calling and his means of support.
Productions of dilettantes belong more to our sphere. But how is it
with primitive folk? Here, too, the play idea is often excluded, for
the reason that their drawings serve religious purposes, or are used as
picture writing; yet, according to the views of recent ethnologists,
it would be misleading to refer such drawing exclusively to these
ends. “We are convinced,” says Grosse, “that in the drawings of savage
people, with comparatively few exceptions, neither a religious nor any
other serious purpose is involved. We are perfectly right in trusting
the numerous witnesses who assure us that such drawings are made
simply for the pleasure of making them.”[586] This establishes the
pre-eminently playful character of primitive drawing and sculpture,
and the efforts of children are still more obviously so. Imitative
and imaginative play here join hands, the former making the point of
departure while the expanding and illuminating power of the latter is
needed to complete the satisfaction in the finished product.

As I am unfortunately unable to go into details,[587] I close the
subject with some general remarks on the character of such drawing.
For the child and for the savage the chief object of representation is
one of the most difficult of all, namely, living animals. Miss Shinn’s
niece, who began with mathematical figures, is an exception accounted
for by the fact that she was intentionally directed toward abstract
form. Even the geometrical patterns in primitive ornamentation may
often be traced to the imitation of animals, and a distinction between
the work of these people and that of children lies in the fact that
they prefer such figures while children incline to the human figure,
which is rarely represented by savages. The explanation of this is that
for the hunter the animals which he pursues form the chief objects
of his imagination, as any sportsman among ourselves who begins to
draw will illustrate. A third view is presented when we ask what is
the psychological antecedent of imitation. In civilized art it is as
a rule conscious perception of the actual object, as genuine artists
rarely paint from memory. But it is quite otherwise with children; they
object to drawing from Nature, as H. T. Lukens points out.[588] They
prefer to make the absent present by their art, and their passion for
drawing is considerably dampened by the practice in observation which
school discipline requires. The child’s model is commonly a mental
image, a fact which explains many of his particularities. The savage,
too, from what we know of his art, seems to produce it not directly
from the object, but from his impression of it, and thus it happens
that he represents effects of things which are not visible to the
beholder now, though they may have been elements of the scene which he
recollects, and explains, too, in part his almost incredible errors in
proportion and in the relative position of things, such as placing the
mustache of a European above the eyes, or even on top of the head.[589]
This suggests the distinction which Grosse makes between childish and
primitive art. He thinks it strange that the two are even considered
to be on a par, since children seldom show a trace of the hunter’s
close observation. The art of savages is, as a rule, naturalistic,
that of children symbolic; the only actual resemblance being the lack
of perspective in both. This view certainly contains an important germ
of truth, but the statement is extreme. It is true that many drawings
of primitive man display a remarkable truth to Nature, impossible to a
child, and, as Grosse rightly says, resulting from trained powers of
observation joined to the dexterity acquired in the manipulation of
weapons and tools. But this wider knowledge and greater skill seem to
me to be the sole grounds of difference, and the sharp distinction of
naturalistic and symbolic unwarranted. Of course, drawing is in itself
to a great degree symbolic, but the symbolism displayed by children,
surprising as it often is, does not betoken any special preference for
symbolism, but often results partly from incapacity and partly from the
exigencies of the subject being represented. When full representation
is unattainable they are satisfied to make their meaning intelligible,
and savages, too, often resort to similar expedients. Grosse himself
gives us some Australian drawings on wood where the human face is
represented without a mouth, just as often happens in childish efforts.
In these figures the fingers are symbolized by mere lines. In his
valuable chapter on drawing among the Bakaïri, von den Steinen points
out still closer analogy with children’s work. He says, for example,
that, as a rule, only three fingers and toes are indicated, to serve
as a suggestion for the rest. It seems to me that it is then rather a
question of more or less than any real difference.

Our next topic is the question of beauty, and here, too, the child and
the savage are close parallels. Both have a certain interest in the
introduction of colour which appeals to them, both object to carrying
out the full type, both probably draw from memory, and both lack almost
totally the appreciation of beautiful form. The savage, indeed, does
introduce the simpler elements of beautiful form in his ornamentation,
but in his representations of human and animal figures there is little
effort to preserve such outlines. This bears out our former conclusion
that savages have little appreciation for physical beauty as such, and
with children it is much the same. Some children, it is true, make a
general distinction between people who are beautiful and those who
are ugly, but in drawing not only the ability but often the intention
as well is wanting, to produce beautiful faces. When they do attempt
something definite in the way of expression it is much more likely to
be caricature of homeliness than beauty. It is known also that this
tendency is especially displayed in periods of highly developed art,
and more particularly by the Germans.

A final observation refers to children alone. I have already noted
that imitative play, in which the player appears in dramatic relation
to the puppet, while common enough with children, is not found in
adult art unless at the most a partial analogy is traceable in some
religious connections; these same principles apply to drawing. The
child plays with the figures he has drawn as with dolls, and gives us a
most attractive picture of his capacity for illusion. Marie G——, when
four and a half years old, wanted to draw a holy family. First came a
kneeling figure, whose position was most precarious—his knees would not
bend properly, and for reverently folded hands there was a confusion of
crossing lines. The little artist cried with annoyance: “The naughty
child doesn’t want to kneel. Joseph will be angry with him because he
won’t kneel down and say his prayers; he is stamping and scolding.—You
naughty child, won’t you kneel down now and pray?” In the meantime she
made Joseph (asking if he wore trousers), with his foot raised to stamp
on the ground, and then came the kneeling figure—a good child now,
at last. A little of this capacity for illusion is sometimes found
among full-grown artists, and especially among the naïve religious
painters who are conscious of the divine indwelling as they make their
representations of religious subjects.

The consideration of plastic imitative play in its narrower sense
will occupy us but a short time. Von den Steinen’s explanation of
drawing, given above, will hardly apply here. The probable starting
point for such figures was the accidental resemblance of some outline
to weapons, implements, or ornaments. The child’s ready capacity for
illusion which is as likely to call a circular outline an umbrella as
a human head is not wanting in adults as well, and especially so among
primitive people. When he makes a dagger handle out of a reindeer horn,
or a necklace of various small objects, or adorns a clay vessel with
impressions, and enjoys doing these things, his hands thus rendered
skilful need but little help to make other images. Another possible
origin is in experimentation with plastic material, such as clay or
wax, which would naturally lead to moulding.

The first hypothesis is well illustrated by von den Steinen’s
description of the chain figures of the Bakaïri. He says, “As the
rhyme often suggests the thought, so an outline already familiar may
suggest a motive”; the meagre suggestions which satisfy savages in such
cases “is evident in most of the figures which adorn their necklaces,
strung between seeds, shells, and nuts. It matters not what is the
material—a bit of the spiral of a rose- snail shell with an
irregular outline does duty as a crab; from the shell of the _Caramujo
branco_ (_Orthalicus melanostornus_) they cut birds and fishes;...
bits of green and black mottled stone are fishes when flat and birds
when rounded, and sometimes Nature is assisted in carrying out these
resemblances. Fruit, too, was used which bore an accidental resemblance
to some sort of bird.”[590]

But Brazilian plastic art includes the other type as well; they mould
figures in wax and in the edible clay which furnished their forefathers
with food. As a man held a lump of clay in his hand the impulse may
have been aroused by some accidental resemblance, and thus give rise in
a purely playful manner to the custom which von den Steinen has called
“only a skilful method of storing the material.... Black wax was most
beautifully moulded by the Mehinakú into excellent animal forms and
suspended around the neck or laid away in a basket until wanted.”[591]
That this was a playful habit is proved by the maize figures of the
same tribe. These were usually bird forms almost as large as turkeys,
and hung from the roof on long ropes, “A strange spectacle to the
traveller who thinks at once of idols or fetiches, but these fine birds
are in reality nothing but well-filled ears of corn in the natural
husks.”[592] We can not here go into the higher forms of primitive
sculpture, but it may be mentioned in passing that even such aboriginal
tribes as the Indians of central Brazil often make use of their plastic
skill for symbolic decoration. Thus the Mehinakú adorn the upper end of
their wooden spades with the carved head of a mud wasp, because they
too dig in the ground and throw up the dirt as the Indian does with his
tool.[593]

We must pass still more hurriedly over the plastic efforts of children,
which are of much less importance than their drawings, though among
the children of savages the disposition to attempt a rude sort of
sculpture is much more common than with us. Nachtigal relates that
the <DW64> children of Runga formed rhinoceroses and elephants out of
the beautiful red clay which abounds there.[594] There are individual
instances of a similar kind among civilized children. Ricci has taken
some trouble to make a collection of such work by Italian children, and
finds it differs less from the efforts of savages than their drawing
does.[595] On the whole, however, this branch of art seems to be
comparatively little prized or pursued with the exception of making
snow men and some caricatures in wax, dough fruits, and the fashioning
in sand of gardens, streets, cities, tunnels, and forts which are all
about as much imitative play as production.

In conclusion I offer a few general remarks on imitation in
connection with representative art, where three forms of it can be
distinguished—objective, artistic, and subjective imitation. The first
consists, as we have seen, in repetition founded on sense-perception
and simple memory, while the last permits considerable deviation from
reality. The child and probably the savage prefers to produce from
memory.

Artistic imitation may be defined as the influence of copies produced
by other artists. It plays in art the same rôle as that which falls to
tradition in general culture, for without it the artistic genius would
have little advantage over the gifted savage; indeed, even with him
artistic imitation is of great importance. It is not alone the wish
to do what others have attained; it is also the _via regia_ to the
higher evolution of art. A stimulating task is to trace in history how
originality was won by copying. Baldwin’s little girl began to build a
church from blocks after a picture. When she has laid the foundation,
suddenly her face lights up and she begins to depart from the model.
On being reminded by her father that churches are not built in that
way she answers, “Oh, no; I am making an animal with a head and a tail
and four legs,” and, full of pride in her new discovery, she returns
to her work of art, which is no longer a church, but has been turned
into an animal.[596] We see here, as in a magnifying glass, the law
of progress. Not in random discharges but from real action comes the
new; and the action that leads to the new is not original, but must be
imitative.[597]

This imitative action must not only always have another artist’s
work as its model; here may enter our principle of subjective or
self-imitation, which, indeed, is more a physiological than a
psychological principle since it is no other than all-powerful habit
in its spontaneous form, the impulse to repeat.

Children best illustrate it, but the familiar saying that genius
consists in an infinite capacity for taking pains is a popular
expression of the fact that progress depends on indefatigable
perseverance. It is Baldwin’s persistent imitation again. And
self-imitation is as indispensable to progress as is the imitation of
others, acting in conjunction with the law of habit, according to which
the frequent use of an act tends to make it easy. The conservative
principle of imitation furnishes a basis for higher development by
supplying an incentive for the mechanical effort required by the first
laborious accomplishment of the task, as well as for the introduction
of new details and the application of effective variations. Here, too,
an example from child psychology clearly shows the coupling of new with
old habits. A child observed by Perez had learned to draw a locomotive,
and was so charmed with the accomplishment that he did not want to draw
anything else. One day his grandmother wanted him to make a portrait of
her, and what did the boy do but draw a locomotive with a first-class
carriage attached, and his grandmother’s head protruding from one of
the windows![598] In similar way the painting of landscape began in
history with little pieces of background piping out of figure pictures.


4. _Inner Imitation_

The conviction has long prevailed[599] among German students of
æsthetics that one of the weightiest problems of their science is
offered by that familiar process by which we put ourselves into
the object observed, and thus attain a sort of inward sympathy
with it. In France the same problem has been treated in a notable
manner by Jouffroy, who says, “Imiter en soi l’état extérieurement
manifeste de la nature vivante, c’est ressentir l’effet esthétique
fondamental.”[600] In this very complicated process we can distinguish
these leading characteristics: 1_a_. The mind conceives of the
experience of the other individual as if it were its own. 1_b_. We live
through the psychic states which a lifeless object would experience if
it possessed a mental life like our own. 2_a_. We inwardly participate
in the movements of an external object. 2_b_. We also conceive of
the motions which a body at rest might make if the powers which we
attribute to it were actual (the fluidity of form). 3. We transfer the
temper, which is the result of our own inward sympathy, to the object
and speak of the solemnity of the sublime, the gaiety of beauty, etc.

By including all these under the rather inadequate name of æsthetic
sympathy, and bearing in mind what we learned in the review of æsthetic
pleasure, we can not fall into the error of supposing that they
include the whole field; yet at the same time we must see that their
explanation involves not only its most difficult but also its most
important problem. Why is this?

The attempt might be made to answer this question entirely in terms
of the psychology of association, only we should then be forced to
designate processes as associational which do not at all come under
the original definition of the word—namely, processes of fusing or
blending, which is not the bringing of a succession of disparate ideas
into special relations, but rather a unifying process, in which the
after-effect of past experience and the present perception blends to an
inseparable synthesis.

I select, then, as an example, the latest utterance of Lipps on the
impression produced by a Doric column, citing only those points which
seem to meet our purpose. He speaks first of the mechanical method of
regarding the column and then continues: “But another element follows
this naturally. Mechanical events external to us are not the only
things in the world. There are events lying nearer to us in every sense
of the word since they take place within us; and these are similar or
analogous to the external events. Moreover, we have the disposition
to regard similar things from the same point of view, and this point
of view is determined preferably by the nearest object. Therefore we
compare what happens externally with what happens in or to ourselves
and judge of it according to the analogy of our own experience.”
After remarking that such a method of observation is implied in such
expressions as “strength,” “aspiration,” etc., as applied to a column,
Lipps goes on: “Our satisfaction is not of the general kind which
applies to the universal idea of strength, effort, activity. Every
mechanical event has its special character or its special manner of
fulfilment. This may be easier, more untrammelled, or more difficult,
and requiring the overcoming of more serious obstacles; it may require
greater or less expenditure of ‘force.’ All this reminds us of our own
inner processes and evokes those, not indeed identical in character,
but analogous. It presents to us an image of similar effort on our own
part, and with it the peculiar personal sensations which accompany the
act. The mechanical event which seems to fulfil itself ‘with ease’
incites us to an equally simple and expeditious act; the violent
expenditure of vigorous mechanical energy, to an exertion of our own
will power, to which is added the feeling of lightness and freedom
proper to a self-originated act, and in other cases the not less
agreeable feeling of our own strength.” Omitting what intervenes I add
the conclusion of the treatise: “From the conditions indicated there
results not, indeed, the entire æsthetic impression produced by a Doric
column, but a considerable part of it. The vigorous curves and spring
of such a pillar afford me joy by reminding me of those qualities in
myself and of the pleasure I derive from seeing them in another. I
sympathize with the column’s manner of holding itself and attribute to
it qualities of life because I recognise in it proportions and other
relations agreeable to me. Thus all enjoyment of form, and indeed
all æsthetic enjoyment whatsoever, resolves itself into an agreeable
feeling of sympathy.”[601]

Here we encounter the difficulty mentioned above. It is evident from
these extracts that this is a case of successive associations. We
are “reminded” of similar subjective processes, and the “idea” of
similar acts of our own is “evoked,” be they facile or strenuous. But
successive associations are not available as an element in æsthetic
enjoyment, as Lipps[602] goes on to say: “Moreover, all this takes
place without reflection. Just as we do not first see the pillar and
subsequently work out its mechanical interpretation, so the second,
personal interpretation, can not be said to follow the other. The
being of the column, as I perceive it, is necessitated by mechanical
causes which themselves appear to me to be from the standpoint of human
action.”[603] Then we have not a true image of our own deeds before us;
we are not actually “reminded,” for the process is one of simultaneous
fusion, in which the consequences of earlier experience unite with
sense-perception to effect a direct harmony. From this direct blending
at the instant of perception we see why, to the observer, the pillar
seems to hold itself “as I do when I brace myself and stand up
straight.”

Assuming that this simple presentation of the psychology of inner
sympathy furnishes the elements of an explanation, still, in my
opinion, the state of æsthetic enjoyment is not yet sufficiently
accounted for. The fusion processes described form part of a general
psychological fact, and it is impossible to complete an act of
apperception without such synthesis. The question must be answered
as to how æsthetic perception is differentiated as a particular
satisfaction from general apperception; and the answer brings us
directly to the idea of play. Take thunder, for example. On the ground
of the synthetic process, its roar makes, universally and naturally,
the impression of a mighty voice raised in anger. The child has that
impression when it frightens him; so has the savage man when he regards
it with religious awe. But neither feeling is on that account æsthetic;
that comes only when the hearer enjoys the emotional effect of the
phenomenon as such, rendered possible by the process of fusion; when
he has an independent, self-centred pleasure in this result—that is
to say, when he plays. The same remarks apply to the column. It is
self-evident that we can not think of its upward spring without calling
in our earlier experiences, but it seems to me to be just as apparent
that in æsthetic perception the impression is intentionally lingered
over only for the sake of its pleasure-giving qualities, i. e.,
playfully.

Further, I think it is certain that there is in the play of æsthetic
enjoyment a condition of consciousness analogous to that underlying
a special class of plays—namely, the experimental. The force of this
analogy has impelled various students of various lands, independently
of one another, to this common goal. It is, of course, only a
relationship of conditions of consciousness, not genuine identity;
but we may affirm this much—namely, that inner sympathy is at least
as closely connected with dramatic imitation as the latter is with
plastic imitation. If the dramatic begins with a mere motor reaction,
which tends more and more to identify itself with self-transference
into the condition of another being, then inner imitation appears as
but a further step toward spiritualizing the imitative impulse. When,
therefore, I designate æsthetic sympathy as a play of inner imitation I
believe I have correctly characterized the psychic attitude of æsthetic
enjoyment as far as it is based on the fusion processes.

But I must go a step further. So far we have had in mind only past acts
and their effects as the psychological precedent of such sympathy, and
herein lies, in my opinion, the inadequacy of the whole associative
method. The sympathy of an æsthetic nature possesses such warmth and
intimacy, and such progressive force, that the effects of former
experience, however indispensable, are not sufficient, as Volkelt,
Dilthey, Th. Ziegler, and A. Biese have justly remarked. Mere echoes
of the past can not bring about what I understand as the play of inner
imitation. On the strength of my experience I hold fast to inner
imitation as an actuality, and one connected with motor processes,
which bring it into much closer touch with external imitation than the
foregoing dissertation would indicate. I have intentionally made use
of the qualifications “in my opinion,” “in my experience,” etc. For,
theoretically at least, I must admit the possibility that persons may
exist for whom æsthetic enjoyment does not get beyond the stage here
indicated. All that follows relates to those only in whose æsthetic
pleasures motor accompaniments are apparent, whether subjects of
consciousness or inaccessible to the self-examiner.

In attempting to develop the main points of this fuller conception
of inner imitation, I first take up the analogy between the child’s
dramatic imitation and æsthetic sympathy.[604] The child playing with a
doll raises the lifeless thing temporarily to the place of a symbol of
life. He lends the doll his own-soul whenever he answers a question for
it; he lends to it his feelings, conceptions, and aspirations; he gives
to it the pretence of mobility by posing it in a manner that implies
movement, or by his simple fiat when he asserts that it has nodded,
or beckoned, or opened its mouth. Here the resemblance to æsthetic
sympathy is already strong, and is still further augmented by the
use of the child’s own body as the instrument of his mimic play. His
attitudes and positions are then symbolic. The boy who with the paltry
aid of a paper helmet and a stick to stride can identify himself with
the cavalry officer whom he imitates has the soul of a fighter. And
he can extend this power of symbolic imitation to inanimate things as
well; kneeling with his hands on the floor, he is a bench which easily
turns into a locomotive as soon as forward motion and the puffing sound
suggest it. We have here illustrated the power of illusion to convert
a mere symbol into the thing symbolized, entering fully into the
pretence and yet not confusing itself with reality, just as in æsthetic
sympathy. Thus imitation proves itself to be the author of the symbol.

This external imitation proclaims the inner. What, then, constitutes
the difference between the two, and how are we to define inner
imitation in the fuller sense in which it is used here? We have seen
that external imitation is at the same time inner sympathy, and the
external bodily movements are chiefly directed toward furtherance of
this and of the transference of self which accompanies it. But how is
it when external visible imitative movements are wanting? Is inner
sympathy to be conceived of as merely a brain process in which only
the recollection of past movements, attitudes, etc., is blended with
sense perception? By no means. There is still activity, and that in
the common sense of the word as it relates to motor processes. It is
manifested in various movements whose imitative character may not
be perceptible to others. In this instantaneous perception of the
movements actually in progress I find the central fact with which
blend, on the one hand, imitation of past experiences, and on the other
the perceptions of sense.

Inquiry concerning the complex movements of inner imitation is not yet
past its opening stages, but so much seems to be established—namely,
that by it are called forth movement and postural sensations
(especially those of equilibrium), light muscular innervation,
together with visual and respiratory movement, all of which are of
great importance. Movements of the eyes have been given special
attention by R. Vischer,[605] sensations of rest by Couturat.[606]
Wundt has made eye movements of general psychological interest, and S.
Stricker[607] has attempted to do the same for the muscular sensations
called forth by the central impulses (at the present stage, including
principally tactile sensations of the skin, as well as muscular and
joint sensations). Intensely interesting is the article by Vernon Lee
and Anstruther-Thomson on beauty and its contrary,[608] which quotes a
number of observers who, as much from practice as from the possession
of exceptional gifts, far transcend the limits attained by the average
man in self-observation. Couturat and Stricker advance the idea that
such movement processes, so far as they depend on mild muscular
contraction, are due to the imitative impulse.

Before adducing some examples, I must venture on one more observation.
It is not, of course, to be assumed that such external movements are
necessarily genuine copies of sense-perceptions. In the psychological
treatment of eye movements, for example, sufficient caution has
not been exercised, and consequently a false standard has arisen,
transcending the facts. Here we shall find a comparison with external
dramatic imitation play of great value, bearing in mind that the result
of the latter is a symbol, not a counterpart. When a boy has to cut
off his comrade’s head in dramatic play, a very soft blow with a stick
is sufficient to indicate execution with the sword of justice, and in
the same way and degree the movement of which we are speaking may be
symbolic. Suppose a man fancying a huge spiral imprinted on the wall
in front of him. If he remembers the motor processes he can reproduce
them at will; little movements of the eyes, little tensions of the
neck muscles and in the throat, together with breathing movements, are
useful and (at least in my own case) even indispensable, and yet there
is no really spiral motion—the symbol is sufficient.[609]

I now present a few examples. First, as regards the optical perception
of movement. “When I am in good physical condition,” says Stricker,
“and take my stand at some distance from an exercise ground so that
I can watch the company with ease but not catch the word of command,
I feel certain muscular sensations quite as strongly as if I stood
under the command and attempted to follow it. When the troop marches,
I keep time with them in the sensations of my lower limbs; when they
go through the arm exercise, I have quite intense muscular feelings
in my upper arm; when they turn, I feel the same in my back.” (B) The
following passage shows that the same individual can experience also
other symbolic sensations of movement: “From the exercise ground I
went to the theatre to see the gymnasts, and first watched one using
a springboard. At the moment when he leaped from it I had a distinct
sensation in my chest, and the feeling, too, of motion in the muscles
of my eyes.”[610] In poetic art inner imitation of movements must
also be given due weight.[611] Lessing’s requirements for a poet
depend largely on this, for on its subjective side poetic enjoyment
is connected with memory pictures, and movement is conspicuous in
these.[612]

All this is true in a higher degree of the enjoyment of musical
movement. Herder said once: “The passionate part of our nature
(τὸ θυμικόν) rises and falls, it throbs or glides softly. Now it sweeps us
along, now holds us back; it is now weak, now strong; its own movement,
its step, as it were, varies with every modulation, with every strong
accent and vanishes as the tone varies. Music strikes a chord in our
innermost nature.”[613] In all this we find not only the effect of
association, but actual motor processes in our own bodies, which extend
from the rhythmical movements, visible for others, to the most delicate
(and invisible) associations in the inner part of our body. The process
which I tried to characterize in the section on hearing-play is with
me connected with breathing movements and tensions of the throat and
mouth muscles, and is thus symbolic in both directions. Those who play
much on some instrument commonly find that with them the tension is of
those muscles which they most use—this is apt to be especially the case
in recalling a remembered melody. We must avoid a too free assumption
of “internal song,” as well as of throat movements. Baldwin says,[614]
“I am able with the greatest ease to hold aloud an ā sound at ć,
say, and at the same time cause a whole tune—say Yankee Doodle—to run
its course ‘in my ear.’” I, too, can do this, though not with ease; the
remembered tune is literally “in the head”—that is to say, I have the
sensations of movement which represent this melody clearly in my mind,
where they are difficult to locate, but are actual sensations, not mere
memories. I can observe this process to better advantage by holding
my breath and drumming on the table, hearing a melody in the rhythmic
movement. These instances, however, do not clear up the undeniable
contrast between an acoustic and a motor melody, particularly as in
the first, motor accompaniments are entirely wanting. This is probably
the case in a much higher degree for æsthetic enjoyment than for mere
recollection.

I pass finally to the consideration of the æsthetic impression of
objects at rest, giving first two examples from the article already
cited, by Vernon Lee and Anstruther-Thomson, who seem to stand aside
altogether from the conflict raging among our own students of æsthetics
and psychology at present devoting themselves to this subject. They
are more under the influence of the Lange-James sensation theory, in
the pursuance of which they have little in common with the theory of
symbolism as advanced here, and do not even make use of the term inner
imitation. Yet the fact of it leads them to the expression “to mime”
in attempting to characterize æsthetic perception. Their observations
undoubtedly transcend the normal (particularly in motor types), and
in some instances practice comes to the aid of natural endowment,
while auto-suggestion occasionally plays a part. These extreme cases,
however, may serve to call the reader’s attention to the normal
conditions, which are not so obvious.

The first example relates to the inspection of a jar. “Here is a jar
equally common in antiquity and in modern peasant ware. Looking at this
jar one has a specific sense of a whole. One’s bodily sensations are
extraordinarily composed, balanced, correlated in their diversity. To
begin with, the feet press on the ground, while the eyes fix the base
of the jar. Then one accompanies the _lift up_, so to speak, of the
body of the jar by a _lift up_ of one’s own body; and one accompanies
by a slight sense of downward pressure of the head the downward
pressure of the widened rim on the jar’s top. Meanwhile, the jar’s
equal sides bring both lungs into equal play; the curve outward of the
jar’s two sides is simultaneously followed by an inspiration as the
eyes move up to the jar’s widest point. Then expiration begins, and
the lungs seem closely to collapse as the curve inward is followed
by the eyes, till, the narrow part of the neck being reached, the
ocular following of the widened-out top provokes a short inspiration.
Moreover, the shape of the jar provokes movement of balance, the left
curve a shifting on to the left foot, and _vice versa_. A complete
and equally distributed set of bodily adjustments has accompanied the
ocular side of the jar; this totality of movements and harmony of
movements in ourselves answers to the intellectual fact, of finding
that the jar is a harmonious whole.”[615]

Now an example of the influence of attention in the observation of
plastic form: “We can not satisfactorily focus a stooping figure like
the Medicean Venus if we stand before it bolt upright and with tense
muscles, nor a very erect and braced figure like the Apoxyomenos if we
stand before it humped up and with slackened muscles. In such cases the
statue seems to evade our eye, and it is impossible to realize its form
thoroughly; whereas, when we adjust our muscles in imitation of the
tenseness or slackness of the statue’s attitude, the statue immediately
becomes a reality to us.”[616]

It is easy to turn such passages into ridicule (and there are some much
stranger in the article), but the fact is that they are only extreme
expressions of actual elements in all the motor forms of æsthetic
enjoyment. But the authors have not grasped the fact of symbolism, and
they stress too much the sensations of movement, just as Sergi, for
example, has done in his Dolera e Piacere. When the scholar in Riehl’s
Burg Neideck, on his first sight of an extended plain, had the feeling
of being himself widened out, this effect was in all probability due to
sensations produced by breathing movements. Yet this is not in itself
the whole satisfaction, but rather a mere motor symbol which satisfies
the imitative impulse, just as the external suggestion is responded
to by dramatic imitation, or the little motions of the body in the
phantastic visions of the dream.

To answer the question of how this play of inner imitation originates,
it must be borne in mind that voluntary external imitation must
always be preceded by a stadium of adjustment (or “Einstellung”).
So it is especially in childhood, where this prodromal stage is
often of long duration. And what are here the objects of the child’s
imitation?—sounds, gestures, attitudes. Now sounds, gestures, and
attitudes are also the very objects of _inner_ imitation in æsthetic
pleasure.

In concluding, we are confronted by the question whether this
faculty of inner imitation belongs exclusively to a special group of
individuals—namely, the distinctly motor type. If this is so, then
a very important part of the æsthetic satisfaction is confined to a
fraction of the human race. One hesitates to affirm that we of the
motor type labour under the disadvantage of taking intense pleasure in
a state which is lacking in physical resonance, so to speak; and yet,
if this is the case, we still can boast that fusion with past processes
which after all leaves the plus sign in our favour. I am convinced,
however, that no such sharp distinction of types is warranted by
the facts, the difference being as a rule one of quantity or degree
of individual endowment. Ability to observe such movements in one’s
self is no criterion. There may be individuals with very strong inner
imitative movements who are unable to separate the motor element from
the _tout ensemble_. To illustrate the difficulty: A man who glances
suddenly to the right imparts to surrounding objects an apparent motion
to the left (this may help to account for the “fluidity of form”), yet
to many it is impossible to get a clear perception of this, even under
the most favourable conditions. In the same way there are probably many
who deserve to be reckoned with the motors in æsthetic enjoyment who
are yet unable to make their own movements a matter of observation.


IV. SOCIAL PLAYS

Much discrimination is required in the attempt to single out a special
group of social plays proper to our subject. I am, however, well
aware that it is an essential feature in any system of play, and that
Baldwin is quite right when he says in his valuable preface to The
Play of Animals, “Finally, I should like to suggest that a possible
category of ‘Social Plays’ might be added to Groos’s classification.”
The great difficulty is that it is well-nigh impossible to make
separate observations on them as a distinct class, for as a rule the
social impulse furnishes the incentive to the special games which we
have considered. To take a familiar example: Society chat is a social
play _par excellence_, and yet the indulgence in this element of it
appeals to consciousness as but a vague and undefined satisfaction
compared with the influence of the impulses to combat and to courtship.
For this reason the present section must be of a somewhat different
character from the foregoing ones. It must be theoretic, and thus form
a connecting link with the second part of the book.

In the sphere of social play we still find ourselves in close touch
with imitation. Though Tarde’s formula, “La société c’est l’imitation,”
has the one-sidedness characteristic of an epigram, it is an
unquestionable fact that this impulse is of fundamental significance
in the origination and preservation of social conditions. Uniformity
of conduct and sentiment, without which social co-operation would be
impossible, is preserved mainly by imitation, and, what is more, by
its involuntary form, as illustrated in the infectiousness of such
simple acts as coughing and gaping. But, before going into this, I must
emphasize some phases of the social impulse which are not identical
with imitation, and whose value to play is easily demonstrated.

It may be recalled that in our inquiry into the origin of the imitative
impulse the question was raised whether its resemblance to instinct
might not be explained by its relation to the genuine instincts of race
affinity and the production of calls and warning cries. The physical
and mental association common to men and gregarious animals seems to
me to depend largely on these two relatively simple instincts, those of
physical association and communication. Both are extremely important
for the establishment of the family, and the view that the social
factor has nothing to do with the family is, in my opinion, far too
extreme. Ants and bees may serve them for illustrations, but in the
life of herds and tribes the primal relation between mother and child
seems to me the starting point from which the need of _association_ and
_communication_ has extended.[617]

Our inquiry then will proceed from need of bodily association or the
herding instinct as a starting point. However this impulse may have
developed phylogenetically, ontogenetically the child’s associative
needs are at first satisfied by the family, and almost entirely by the
mother; he is, as a rule, relatively late in turning his attention
to a social sphere. “Before the third or fourth year,” says Madame
Necker de Saussure, with some exaggeration, “the child is happy only
with his elders. His needs, his pleasures, and the certainty with
which he counts on our protection are all in our keeping. Other
children interest him for a time, but soon tire him, and their little
tempers excite his own. In his inability to cope with such situations
he turns again to the grown people.”[618] Although this is put too
strongly,[619] its essential truth is well known; indeed, Curtmann
and Flashar for that very reason deprecate the extension of the
child’s social circle at too early an age, and Franz Kübel says, in
Süddeutschen Schulboten (1875): “Because the life of an eremite, be he
scholar, æsthetic, or what not, is a mistake, why should all of life
necessarily be social? Why should the bud be forced to open too early?
Why should the sphere of individual life be so soon widened to take in
love for all? It seems to me indisputable that the early education of
a child should be carried on in the family circle, and also that there
is a dangerous tendency to arouse social impulses too early.”[620]
Indeed, we must admit that experimentation can not have its due effect
if the child is introduced too early to a wider circle, and that the
strong stimulus of social life tends to overshadow and interfere with
the development of family life when allowed to exert its full force on
the very young. Just as with children who are kept too much at home,
overweening family feeling interferes with their progress in society
and hampers them through life, so, on the other hand, too much society
weakens the parental relation. There should be a certain equilibrium of
influence, as in all other departments of culture, to supply the most
favourable conditions in the struggle for existence.

Returning from this digression, we remark first that there can be no
doubt of the value of social games in preparing incipient men and women
for later life. “Le società infantile,” says Colozza, “sono società
di guoco.”[621] The demand for identification with some social group
finds its satisfaction in this way, and this satisfaction rests, as
we have seen, on the broad foundation underlying other instincts,
especially those relating to combativeness. I merely mention the direct
effect of the impulse for association, the agreeable consciousness of
being “in the swim.” Among animals this feeling is manifested rather
as a reaction from the annoyance of separation from the herd, yet the
gregarious animal pasturing with its kind or carrying food to them may
be filled with a cheering sense of security such as we experience when
established in a cosy corner at the club. Be that as it may, the child
at any rate, as soon as it is old enough to make the acquaintance of
other children, is filled with eager desire to be wherever his comrades
are assembled for whatever purpose. I need only hint at his rage and
despair when he sees through a window that the “other fellows” are
collecting, while he for some reason can not go out.

These early manifestations of the social instinct are too simple
to require much illustration. We all recognise them, and they are
frequently displayed by adults as well. Holidays spent in simple
playful indulgence of the gregarious instinct are of the greatest
value for the collective social life of mankind. Here as elsewhere
the practice theory is applicable to adults, as two extremely diverse
instances will illustrate most satisfactorily. One is the difficulty
of keeping up religious community life when the festival character is
allowed to lapse; even when there remains enough association of the
votaries themselves to constitute a gratification of the associative
impulse, yet the abandonment of holiday festivities undoubtedly has a
marked effect. The tamer a religious observance becomes the larger the
proportions of lukewarm adherents. Many sects have a clear perception
of this, and it accounts for the fact that some of them employ methods
not far removed from the practices of savages. This brings us to
the second instance—namely, the importance of festive gatherings
to savage peoples. If our owners, our own peasantry, scattered in
families through the rural districts, are in danger of losing their
social feelings when deprived of religious or secular festivals, the
necessity is yet much greater with primitive men. Apart from warfare,
this is about their only means of association as tribes or clans. It
is valuable, too, in connection with and preparatory to their fights.
Among the Weddas of Ceylon, who “have not yet acquired the art of war,”
and are very undeveloped socially, we find only feeble suggestions
of the festival. From our noble cathedrals, our concert halls and
theatres, and other places of amusement, converging lines lead directly
back to the festal huts of savages. From these, however, women are as a
rule strictly excluded.

Finally, I remark that a playful motive is often discernible in the
formation of the multifarious clubs for the advancement of some worthy
object in this age of abounding culture. We all know persons for whom
an absorbing interest in the ostensible object of the club would be out
of the question but for the good company. The mere fact of being one
of a group is satisfaction enough to the gregarious instinct, and the
playfulness of this condition can scarcely be questioned.

Turning now to the wider social impulses to which these simple
manifestations are related, we must first notice the voluntary
subordination of the individual which is so essential a feature. In
the relation of parent and child there could hardly be any training,
and certainly no such thing as education, without this element. After
dwelling on the child’s spirit of opposition, Sully gives in his
Studies in Childhood the contrary picture in a series of incidents
designed to show that there is yet in the childish soul something “on
the side of law,” and goes on to remark that “it is worth while asking
whether, if the child were naturally disposed to look on authority as
something wholly hostile, he would get morally trained at all.”[622]
While this is true, still the contrary, rebellious spirit is developed
by the parental relation, and we may see voluntary subordination much
better illustrated by going on the street with the child and noticing
his behaviour with his playmates. The blind obedience accorded the
leader of a little band is calculated to fill parents and teachers with
envy. Here the social impulse is supreme in the demand for association
and classification which governs and directs society. The same relation
exists among animals between the herd and its leader, and no orderly
association of men could exist without it. As simple compulsion is not
enough with children, so with adults discipline is insufficient. The
leader’s command must be met by an inward disposition to obey in the
interests of the whole. The heads of political parties who thunder
invectives against the “slaves” and “dumb cattle” in other parties are
yet considerably disconcerted when their own followers display too
little of the disposition for subordination.

The common fighting plays of children markedly exhibit this voluntary
submission to a leader, less known, I think, in regulation games than
in the many contests which a crowd of children will naturally fall
into when a few belligerent spirits are present; when there is a
trick to be played on schoolmates or janitor, an orchard to plunder,
some unpopular person to annoy by breaking his windows or otherwise
damaging his property—in these escapades the leader’s word has absolute
authority, and the most docile children will commit deeds in blind
obedience which fill their parents with amazement and horror. The
influence of example is a factor not to be overlooked, but it is not by
any means all; more influential still is the _esprit de corps_ after
the plot is once hatched. Formerly, when children were given more
freedom in this direction, schoolboy leagues were of great importance,
but even now their associations for contest play a weighty part in
youthful life; there they learn to see how common peril strengthens
the bond of union and enjoins submission to the leader. It is an
illustration in miniature of the influence of war on the evolution of
society.

This leads to the observation that play is instrumental in teaching
children submission to law as well as to a leader. Thus H. Schiller
says very truly of gymnastic exercises: “They promote not only presence
of mind, dexterity, skill, and readiness, but furnish as well valuable
training for society. Law and limitation are here self-imposed by the
players, and he finds them again in the bounds which he strives to
transcend.”[623] Since gymnastic and belligerent games afford exercise
chiefly to males, we trace here an interesting distinction between
the sexes. It seems that those manifestations of the social impulse
relating to subordination are not pursued by women so energetically nor
in the same way as with men. Woman is the guardian of good form, but as
a rule she will not subordinate herself to rigorous law. I think any
customs agent will bear me out in this statement from his observation
of the behaviour of travellers. This probably results from a difference
in the instinctive equipment of the sexes; fighting impulses, which are
strongly developed in the males, further the social ones by reason of
their imperative requirement of association. This is apparent in the
exercises referred to by Schiller, and is materially advanced by the
practice which play affords. The success of American women in their
movement for emancipation is largely furthered by their participation
with men in various sports and the consequent better development of
their social capacities.

I conclude these remarks on voluntary subordination with some reference
to the origin of punishment. It is commonly referred to the principle
of vengeance, but, though feelings of personal grievance and revenge
may be closely involved in its origin and development, they can not
entirely account for the institution of punishment. Even the play of
children clearly distinguishes between personal revenge and social
chastisement. The infraction of the unwritten laws of our familiar
games arouses a spontaneous and general sentiment against the offender
which does indeed resemble the demand for vengeance, but stresses more
the idea of social injury. What urges to the chastisement of the liar,
the coward, and the betrayer is a righteous indignation which results
from outraged social feelings, and the desire to expel the offender
from the group. This was apparent in the early tribes from which all
civilized peoples have developed. Justice is as old as social humanity,
and if it can be derived at all from personal revenge this could have
been possible only as far as offences between man and man were regarded
as offences against the community as a whole.

Social sympathy next demands our attention as connected with the demand
for association, and for the sake of brevity I include in the term not
merely the inward sentiment, but also the _émotion tendre_ and the
readiness to lend a helping hand to other members of the same group.
It is perhaps best defined by the expression “good fellowship,” which
is everywhere current. Play has a significant part in it as well with
children as with adults. I introduced a passage in The Play of Animals
on the actions of some young foxes who amused themselves playing
together until some occasion arose for strife. Then, one of them being
bitten so that blood flowed, the others fell upon and devoured him;
and I then remarked that “the good comradeship of young animals is
first of all a play comradeship. It exists in play when aside from the
conditions of the play there is little sympathetic feeling.” This is
to a great degree applicable to humanity as well. Apart from relations
of actual friendship which are deeper than simple comradeship, we find
among individuals very little genuine interest and kindliness. It is
only when people are members of the same social group that they learn
to regard one another with the friendly feeling which is necessary
for effective association. Social sympathy is apt to be but a wider
egoism, and the identification of the individual I with the social
whole a slightly more circuitous route to self-advancement. When party
lines are obliterated the interest subsides, as many have discovered
who counted on personal friendship as a result of social sympathy.
Further consideration of the value of this comradeship, however, shows
it to be indispensable to the formation and maintenance of society,
and that the school in which it is developed is furnished by play.
Children scarcely manifest it in any other connection; as they grow
older they may form friendships independently of their common play, but
as a rule their comradeship is that of play. With adults the case is
not very different, for even when they associate for a serious purpose
banquets and other playful features are considered indispensable for
strengthening the bond. These festivities, it is true, have their root
in the common need for amusement, but their practical value consists
in the impetus they give to social sympathy, and their indirect
furtherance of effective association.

As the associative impulse which we have made our starting point
primarily promotes external connections, but is attended with various
far-reaching consequences, and finally results in the demand for
communication, so this last, from serving first the narrow unit of the
family, brings about the inner spiritual union of the social group. The
chief means which serves this impulse of humanity is language.[624]
Although this communication does serve a practical purpose from its
very inception, there are still many playful manifestations of it.
Compayré offers an observation which may be regarded as a prelingual
illustration of this. It records a sort of dialogue between a child,
still unable to speak, and his elder brother. “Pendant quelques minutes
c’est une alternance ininterrompue, là de mots et de phrases nettement
articulés, ici de petits cris confus.”[625] Older children, too, often
show the same thing in their play with dolls and other toys as well
as toward persons and animals. We sometimes sigh for a limit to the
unmeaning gabble which the child apparently enjoys for its own sake.

Similar observations have been made on adults, though here as with
children it is difficult to draw the line between play and earnest.
So far as the object is to instruct others or make a good impression
and thus improve one’s own social standing, the act is serious,
but it oftener wears the aspect of merely playful self-exhibition.
And, finally, when an unimportant piece of news is passed about
and talked over “just for something to say,” we have an instance
of pure playfulness, since a satisfaction of the social impulse is
sought without serious aim and purely for its own sake. The teas and
Kaffeeklätzchen so affected by women are of a similar character.
Without attempting to analyze too closely the style of conversation
prevailing on such occasions, we venture to say that a universal desire
for expression is conspicuous. This is certainly the fact in the social
gatherings of men and of society in general. Ordinary society chat is a
social play.

There are other phases of conversational intercourse, however,
which are more germane to our present purpose, such, for example,
as the invention of special forms of speech which are selections
from tentative efforts by the process of exclusion. The great social
importance of a common language thus finds expression in play.
Reference has already been made to the fact that children coin
words—that is, they make use of sounds independently discovered by
experimentation. Sometimes several children will construct a sort of
secret language in this way. The remarkable case referred to by H. Hale
of a pair of devoted twins who did not learn first the language spoken
around them, but one all their own, in which they conversed with ease
and fluency, is not, however, an instance in point, since there was
evidently no play about it. Yet children do form such a secret system
sometimes in play. Colonel Higginson mentions two girls about thirteen
years old who made a language for their own amusement. They wrote
about two hundred words of it in a book. Thus “Bojiwassis” denoted the
half-anxious, half-resolute feeling that precedes taking a leap, and
“Spygri” the pride in having accomplished it. “Pippadolify” expressed
the stiff manner of walking of the young officers in Washington.[626]
This well illustrates childish versatility in word coinage. Von
Martius, Peschel, and others attribute the rapid transformations in
the language of savages to the influence of children, whose faulty
reproduction of words learned from their parents is adopted by the
latter.[627] Also original creations arise in the intercourse of
parent and child. We have already spoken of the imitative sounds that
come into a language in this way, and childish experimentation may be
equally influential. “Papa” and “mamma” are evidences that this is
sometimes true, and many other words may have had a similar origin.

But, turning again to our subject proper, we find that the tendency
of a social group to distinguish itself by its manner of speaking is
widespread among adults.[628] It can not always be called playful,
however, as some serious aim is often had in view, as in the code of
criminals and the passwords of secret societies, but the technicalities
of special callings and professions are often clearly playful, and
are especially affected by the newcomer who is impressed with the
advantages of belonging to the set. With what zeal does the newly
initiated sportsman set himself to learn the vocabulary of the chase!
With what unction does the freshman repeat the latest student’s slang!
Conan Doyle, in his Rodney Stone, has given us an admirable picture
of the affected speech of the English dandy at the beginning of the
nineteenth century, and the euphuism of Shakespeare’s time is another
instance. Pleasure and pride in belonging to a certain class or set are
often manifested in such peculiarities.

But impulse for communication may assume other forms, as in the cases
when we found it of so great value in courtship under the form of
self-exhibition. And it has also, as Baldwin[629] points out, a more
general social significance. While our personal peculiarities are
first brought out in our intercourse with others, we at once become
conscious, on the other hand, of an impulse to display them in order to
gain influence. Satisfaction with one’s own achievements is attained
only when these have gained social recognition. Self-exhibition plays
an important part, too, in the pleasure we derive from collective
games. The rivalry which we have studied from the standpoint of the
fighting instinct takes a more pacific form, as the pleasure of finding
one’s importance testified to by imitation on the part of others. This
is not mere exultation in victory over others, but takes higher ground,
since the sense of superiority which it engenders is dependent on their
support.

When the display of one’s excellences thus transcends verbal expression
it results from the highest forms of social intercourse, from that
devotion of time and energy to society which constitutes the vocation
of the social leader. It is the very opposite to that voluntary
subordination to a leader of which we have spoken, and yet true
social leadership also is founded on just such subordination. The
aspirant for its honours must so merge himself in the society that
its aggrandizement shall mean his own—a signal proof of the force of
the social impulse. Whether the task is great or small, the ruling of
an empire or the leadership of a club, the principle is the same, and
consequently the social plays of children are enlightening. Even here,
forceful, active, inventive natures quickly attain the mastery and the
difference is apparent between the merely violent, who think only of
their own advancement, and the born leader who makes the interests of
society his own, who is ready to answer for the crowd, and is found
in the front line in times of danger and will suffer no injustice to
any of his following. Such leadership is possible only where there is
the capacity for identifying his own will and conviction with those of
the rest, thus effectuating the groups’ subordination. The “magnetism”
of those who succeed as leaders depends on the presence and force of
this faculty; they must have not mere strength of will, but the kind of
will adapted for fusion with the common will for the attainment of its
social ends.

In concluding these observations on the associative principle, I
must notice the social side of artistic activity. It may be said in
general that artistic production fulfils an important function in
giving universal pleasure. H. Rutgers Marshall tries to establish
the existence of “the blind instinct to produce art works.”[630] The
attempt, however, to analyze the social tendencies operative in the
creative artist will disclose the two last-mentioned forms of the
communication impulse. The artist longs to set forth with all his
power that which fills his soul, and to make objective representation
of it for his own benefit and that of others, and at the same time
win, by this unfolding of his nature, influence over the souls of
others—giving that he may gain. This motive is not equally strong in
all art, yet to a certain degree Richepin’s passionate words apply to
any such work: “C’est tout moi qui ruissela dans ce livre.... Voici
mon sang et ma chair, bois et mange!” and every great artist strives
for mastery over the emotions of others. The genius may, it is true,
create only for himself or a choice few, or when his work is finished
he may conceive a distaste for it or not concern himself at all about
it, yet on the whole it can not be denied that the controlling motive
(half conscious, it may be) is the desire to gain mastery by means of
his art. Gildemeister rightly says: “Publicity is the breath of art.
Dilettantism may be confined to the studio or the salon, art must speak
to the people.”[631] Since it is directly through these social aims,
however, that æsthetic production diverges from play, we need not
linger on the subject.

We now take up the last of the social influences which we had to
consider, the powerful agency of imitation, and more especially such
involuntary imitation as is manifested in the infectiousness of
coughing, gaping, etc. Its influence is universal. Espinas, Souriau,
Tarde, Sighele, Le Bon, and others have treated the problem of such
mass suggestion, and Baldwin contributes a valuable chapter full of
critical acumen on the Theory of Mob Action, in his Social and Ethical
Interpretations. To introduce the subject I give two examples, one
from animal psychology, the other from anthropology, illustrating the
extreme phenomena of mass suggestion. Hudson gives us the following:
“This was on the southern pampas at a place called Gualicho, where I
had ridden for an hour before sunset over a marshy plain where there
was still much standing water in rushy pools, though it was at the
height of the dry season. This whole plain was covered with an endless
flock of chakars, not in close order, but scattered about in pairs and
small groups. In this desolate spot I found a small rancho, inhabited
by a gaucho and his family, and I spent the night with them. About
nine o’clock we were eating our supper in the rancho when suddenly the
entire multitude of birds covering the marsh for miles around burst
forth into a tremendous evening song. It is impossible to describe
the effect of this mighty rush of sound.... One peculiarity was that
in this mighty noise, which sounded louder than the sea thundering
on a rocky coast, I seemed to be able to distinguish hundreds, even
thousands, of individual voices. Forgetting my supper, I sat motionless
and overcome with astonishment while the air and even the frail rancho
seemed to be trembling in that tempest of sound. When it ceased, my
host remarked with a smile: ‘We are accustomed to this, señor; every
evening we have this concert.’ It is well worth the ride of a hundred
miles to hear this demonstration.”[632] Mediæval dancing may furnish an
example from human life. At Freiburg in Switzerland, in 1346, before
the castle of Graf Greyerz, a dance was practised which began with
simple movements. They gathered strength, however, like an avalanche,
and spread through the entire country. Uhland has made this dance the
subject of a poem, which may be paraphrased as follows:

  “The youngest maiden, slender as a stalk of maize,
   Seized the count’s hand and drew him in the ring.
   They danced through the village, where file succeeded file,
   They danced across the meadows, they danced through the wood,
   To where, far across the mountains, the silvery sounds rang out.”

                                                         _Marrentanz._

These, as I have said, are extreme manifestations of mass suggestion,
and should not be given too much weight in explaining social
development. “The loss of identity and social continence,” says
Baldwin, “on the part of the individual, when he is carried away by
a popular movement, is well struck off by the common saying that he
has ‘lost his head.’ This is true; but then he regains his head and
is ashamed that he lost it. His normal place in society is determined
by the events of that part of his life in which he keeps his head.
And the same is true of the events in the life of the social group
as a whole.”[633] Yet these forms of suggestion which border on the
pathological are but exaggerations of social qualities indispensable
to the race. Had we not the inborn impulse to imitate movements which
sweep through a mob, great occasions would never find us ready with
great actions. The magic power of mass suggestion is the indispensable
complement of the social leader’s talents, and consequently is closely
related to our familiar voluntary subordination. Tarde even regards
obedience as a special case of imitation, and to strengthen his
position reminds us that command begins with example. With monkeys,
horses, dogs, etc., the leader sets the example by performing the
particular act, and the others imitate him.[634] Yet I am quite
confident that voluntary subordination is not identical with imitation.
Even with animals the leader is the strongest, most skilful, and
generally the most intelligent of the herd, and obedience appears as
imitation perhaps, but not of the ordinary kind; rather of one who by
means of the force of his individuality compels subjection through
fear, respect, and love, or the compounding of these. The need of the
weak to lean on the strong does indeed lead to imitation, but is not
identical with it.

Moreover, it seems to me that an explanation of mass suggestion can not
be arrived at by means of the imitative impulse without the assumption
that voluntary subordination works with it; that blending of fear,
respect, and attraction is not necessarily confined to a single leader,
but may be directed to the whole group, and, indeed, without such a
sentiment the leader’s influence would be much crippled. Those whose
minds are made up not to go with the herd (the partisans of another
faction, for instance) will display little imitative inclination so
long, at least, as this determination is clearly defined. But when
the personality of the leader and the imposing and alluring aspects
of the mass combine their effects, the imitative impulse assumes its
full force. The result is quite similar to that obtained in hypnosis,
with which it is often compared, and in the manifestations of which,
in spite of the important rôle played by imitation, voluntary
subordination is indispensable for the operation of suggestion.

If now we inquire as to how these processes take effect in play, we
find the practice theory applicable to adults in a greater degree even
than to children; for we are at once confronted by the importance of
festivals as mentioned above and again impressing itself upon us here.
For the further division of our subject I distinguish between general
acts and general inner imitation, in the former of which motor and in
the latter emotional suggestion is conspicuous.

The desire to act in conjunction with the social group finds manifold
expression in the play of children. “Any one who watches the games of
a set of boys in the school yard or in the streets,” says Baldwin,
“will see that it is only a small part of the moves of the game which
are provided for with any consistent or well-planned plot or scheme.
The game is begun, and then becomes, in great measure, the carrying
out of a series of _coups et contre-coups_ on the part of the leaders
among the players; the remainder following the dictation and example of
the few. When the leader whoops, the crowd also whoop; when he fights,
they fight. All this social practice is most valuable as discipline in
serious social business.”[635] Such effects of general imitation are
prominent in most social fighting plays, but we shall confine ourselves
to some children’s games in which acting in common seems to be itself
the principal aim. Here we are met by the fact that in its last
analysis such play is referable to adult imitation—that is to say, they
are handed down to the children. A simple kind of play, which clearly
reveals a social character, is that in which the children imitate all
sorts of movements made by the leader. For example, take the familiar
one in which the children dance around, hand in hand, singing:

  “Adam had seven sons, seven sons had Adam,
   They ate not, they drank not, they looked in his face
   And did just so”;[636]

whereupon they all stop, the leader stepping to the centre of the
circle and making all sorts of motions—clapping hands, bowing, bending,
lifting his arms, sawing, scrubbing, fiddling, sneezing, coughing,
laughing, crying, etc.—all of which are repeated by the other children.
This same song was probably sung by adults in the Easter processions
which were derived from the mediæval pest dances, but even so their
origin is not yet reached. The following description by Svoboda
strongly recalls the play of children: “Dancing is the greatest
pleasure of the Nikobars; it is very solemn and slow. A place is
cleared for it among the huts; the leader steps out, and first of all
marks a great circle, while each man lays his hand on his neighbour’s
shoulder. The leader raises the tune, making a step, now left, now
right, swinging his free leg. All keep their eyes fixed on him and
mimic what he does, sinking on their knees, sitting on their heels, and
then making a grotesque leap, or stepping backward and forward. All
this is repeated stiffly, mechanically, and without any spirit, but
constantly accompanied by a nasal song, until late in the night.”[637]

Further we may notice dancing games of children accompanied by song.
In looking through a collection of them like that of Böhme, one is
astonished at their variety as well as the remarkable and often
apparently meaningless songs that accompany them. Many are of the
opinion that they date from the middle ages, while others trace them
back to the old German religious dances along with a cycle of songs
in celebration of the goddess Freija. As a rule, proofs are wanting
in both directions, and there is a choice of opinions between them.
If, for example, the common stooping at the end of a stanza appears to
be a survival of some religious ceremony, it may just as probably be
the duck, duck, duck of animal dances of prehistoric times. Rochholz
has actually derived a Swiss form of the song from such mimicry of
animals. The obscurity of many verses is caused by the frequent
introduction of new subjects. In one case the ceremony of taking the
veil is dramatically gone through with, and J. Bolle states that this
originated in a thoroughly frivolous dance of adults. Indeed, the
intermeddling of adults is constantly to be reckoned with, as in the
case of a shepherd’s song, where “Adam” is substituted for “Amor” with
evident ironical intent.

In regard to such games of children the following question is a
pertinent one: How does it happen that the social plays whose models
are formed in the dancing of men or of both sexes are practised chiefly
by girls? If we think back to our own childhood we shall find that
while little fellows do take part in such games, older boys regard them
as unmanly and unworthy of them. I suspect that in earlier times, when
the men indulged in them, the boys gladly followed suit, as is quite
generally the case among savages now.

A final word on children’s festivals, in which the social significance
of play is most clearly displayed. Take the most familiar example,
the school picnic: if only a handful of children go for an outing
with a teacher they are not particularly delighted, but when the whole
school goes their pleasure is increased more than proportionately to
their numbers. They are excited and joyous, and every expression of
pleasure seems multiplied by a many-voiced echo, and, until they grow
tired, all show a readiness to obey the spirit of good comradeship.
Such an occasion bears all the essential marks of a genuine festa,
with its feeling of belonging to the social group, subordination to
the good of the whole and to the leader who represents it, sympathetic
participation, and satisfaction of the associative impulse in its
various forms, the attraction which belongs to actions and enjoyments
in common with others, and finally the festal board which makes a play
of eating and drinking. Some of the festivals of children, too, have
been handed down from the sports of adults. A Swabian dance that was
formerly performed by the salt refiners now belongs to the children,
who dress for it in the costume of the craft. But most such holidays
have a much earlier origin in pagan feasts, as in the case of Easter,
Mayday, Whitsuntide, midsummer, etc. I take as my solitary example
the Heidelberg Sommertagsfest, in which a portable pyramid of straw
represents conquered winter, and one bedecked with fresh green is
triumphant summer. The attendant children carry wands trimmed with
eggs, pretzels, and gay streamers, and sing as they go:

  “Strieh, Strah, Stroh,
   Der Sommerdag is do.
   Der Sommer un der Winder,
   Des sinn Geschwisterkinder.

  “Summerdag Stab aus,
   Blost dem Winter die Auge aus.
   Strieh, Strah, Stroh,
   Der Sommerdag is do.”

This ancient mythological festival, which survives with wonderful
vitality among children in the Palatinate and some other localities,
threatened to become extinct in Heidelberg until some one seriously
undertook its restoration. It is an inspiriting sight when the fine old
streets are the scenes of the processions of numerous summer and winter
pyramids, and thousands of children in holiday attire, carrying the
gay wands and merrily singing the old song. It can not be questioned
that feelings of fellowship and attachment to home are heightened and
deepened by the practice of such customs.

Turning now to adults, whose festivals furnish the models for these
childish ones, I can not better illustrate the importance of imitation
on such occasions than by repeating the striking passage quoted from
James in the Play of Animals. In concluding a passage on play he says:
“There is another sort of human play, into which higher æsthetic
feelings enter. I refer to the love of festivities, ceremonies, and
ordeals, etc., which seems to be universal in our species. The lowest
savages have their dances, more or less formally conducted. The various
religions have their solemn rites and exercises, and civic and military
powers symbolize their grandeur by processions and celebrations of
divers sorts. We have our operas and parties and masquerades. An
element common to all these ceremonial games, as they are called, is
the excitement of concerted action, as one of an organized crowd. The
same acts, performed with a crowd, seem to mean vastly more than when
performed alone. A walk with the people on a holiday afternoon, an
excursion to drink beer or coffee at a popular ‘resort,’ or an ordinary
ballroom, are examples of this. Not only are we amused at seeing so
many strangers, but there is a distinct stimulation at feeling our
share in their collective life. The perception of them is the stimulus,
and our reaction upon it is our tendency to join them and do what they
are doing, and our unwillingness to be the first to leave off or go
home alone.”[638]

As we can not possibly review the whole field of society, a few general
remarks must suffice to supplement what has already been said. While
there was at one time a tendency to relegate this, like so many other
sociological problems, to a religious origin, such a proceeding is now
regarded with some degree of skepticism. The Australians celebrate all
important events by dances—the harvest, the opening of the fishing
season, the coming of age of youths, a meeting with friendly tribes,
setting out to battle or the chase, and success in these. “Among the
pacific Bakaïri on the Rio Novo,” says von den Steinen, “the principal
festival is in April. I, with my civilized ideas, clung to the
supposition of a thanksgiving celebration, and wondered what friendly
power was the recipient of all this praise and gratitude. I tried to
get something definite out of Antonio, but he was unresponsive to my
suggestion. ‘We have the feast at harvest time,’ he said, ‘because we
have something to feast on then; in the dry season we have to scrimp,
and in the wet season everything is afloat.’ Materialistic, if you
will, but eminently practical.”[639]

It seems then that the origin at least of the festival is referable
to general social needs whose important stimuli arouse a general
excitation, and thus attain their most effective expression. The
essentials to primitive festivals were the feast and the dance,
both being conducted with the intemperance characteristic of mass
suggestion. Here we find again that playful satisfaction of the
sense of taste which claimed our attention in the beginning of this
discussion, and this is its clearest manifestation, since here the play
is a social one. As the child may be led to perform incredible feats in
the consumption of cakes, candy, and other dainties at a party, so the
adult, when not hampered by anxiety about his digestion or compunctions
as to such impositions on hospitality (and these considerations are
usually as far from the mind of a savage as that of a child), can
accomplish quite as much on festive occasions. This effect is furthered
by the free use of alcohol, which, in spite of its many bad qualities,
is not to be despised as a promoter of sociability. We hear so much of
the fights and brawls to which the unlicensed indulgence in spirituous
drinks gives rise that we forget that mild intoxication puts the
majority of men in a cheerful and friendly humour, and is calculated to
promote the good fellowship of the company. Without the least intention
of denying the danger incurred in the use of alcohol as a beverage, I
still think it only fair to show the other side of the picture—namely,
the damper it puts on anxiety and care, and its promotion of social
sympathy, of the associative impulses and the capacity for enthusiasm
in all directions.

Dancing, which next to feasting is the most primitive form of
festivity, is kept up to an incredible duration, the expenditure of
strength being constantly renewed. In the sagas of the Bakaïri, it is
said of Keri, the founder of the tribe: “Keri called all his followers
together, and in the evening they danced on the village green. Keri
stopped to drink while the dance costumes floated in the air about him.
He called to Kame [the ancestor of another tribe]. Many of the people
came, and Keri was lord of the dance. They danced the whole day, and
only rested toward evening; after dark they began again and danced the
whole night. Early in the morning they went to the river and bathed;
then they came back to the house and began again and danced all that
day and night. Then the holiday was over.”[640] The intoxication of
motion, which, as we have before seen, is probably the chief stimulus
in dancing, is universally enjoyed on such occasions, and enhances
the social impulses. It is a sort of ecstatic state apart from the
narrow individual sphere, and favourable to social affiliation. Indeed,
among primitive people it is often the indispensable condition of an
alliance, as there is a widespread custom for several neighbouring
tribes to collect for some high feast. No one has given a better
description of the importance of the dance for the promotion of
sociability than has Grosse. “The warmth of the dance,” he says,
“fuses the distinct individualities to a unified essence moved and
governed by a single emotion. During its progress the participants find
themselves in a condition of social completeness, the different groups
feeling and acting like members of a unified organism. This is the most
important effect of primitive dancing. It takes a number of men who,
in their detached, unsettled condition of varying individual needs and
desires, are living unregulated lives, and teaches them to act with one
impulse, one meaning, and to one end. It makes for order and cohesion
in the hunting tribes whose way of life tends to separate them. After
war it is perhaps the one factor which makes the interdependence of
individuals of savage tribes apparent to themselves, and incidentally
it is one of the best means of preparing for war, for gymnastic
exercises prefigure military tactics in more ways than one.”[641]

In studying the festal and social customs of highly civilized peoples,
while we find much that is new, many things are reminiscent of savage
life. Eating is still the principal feature, but the common impulse
to activity is no longer expressed in forms so specialized as the
savage dance, for the modern social dance is of comparatively little
importance in this connection. Entertainment by means of vocal and
instrumental music and rhythmic elocution, displays of physical prowess
and singing contests almost complete the list of plays applicable here,
being concerned as they all are with collective life. I may mention
one other phenomenon, however, which illustrates the analogy with
primitive customs—namely, the societies formed for social enjoyment.
They prove the need felt by civilized men to form within the limits
of their more extended social sphere smaller circles which by their
exclusiveness enhance the feeling of sympathy. Formerly, when special
well-organized groups arose in the burgher guilds, they were partly of
a social character, as J. Schaller points out,[642] and we yet have
labour unions, merchants’ clubs, and artists’ leagues, though in many
of them the trade or calling is no longer stressed; on the contrary,
versatility is the chief desideratum in the membership, and no strict
exclusiveness prevails. Such details are commonly determined by the
general degree of cultivation prevalent. Moreover, there is apt to be a
certain ritual belonging to such organizations, with written statutes
and unwritten traditions, all more or less playful, and quickly
developed among savages into a sort of cultus. I am not aware whether
a monograph exists treating this subject in detail, though one would
certainly be of interest.

Secret societies recall the usages of savages, especially in one
particular—namely, in excluding females. The implication in the use of
the word savage, usually unjust, is quite fair here, since the men are
pledged to inflict instant death on the woman whose curiosity should
penetrate to the secrets of their club. And while among civilized
men the protest is less vigorously applied, still the exclusion is
enforced. Von den Steinen thinks that among the Bakaïri the regulation
is due to their objection to having their women seen by strangers,
and representatives of several tribes usually take part in the dance.
Their other festivities are special hunting feasts, which are regarded
as altogether unsuitable for the participation of women.[643] Quite
as influential, if not more so, seems to me the natural feeling that
the presence of women destroys the company’s sense of unity. Savages
especially, who regard women with open contempt, would feel ill at ease
if their festivities were invaded by the other sex. When we see how
little boys, as soon as they are out of their infancy, spontaneously
refuse to take little girls for their playmates,[644] we must ascribe
some serious meaning to this essential distinction between the sexes.
It is this, I think, which forms the chief ground for the exclusion of
women from the sports of civilized men, and perhaps the same desire to
be left to themselves is a considerable factor in masculine opposition
to the woman’s movement.

In any remarks on general inner imitation we must be particularly
careful to keep well within its proper definition, or we are sure to
find ourselves launching out into the vast domain of æsthetics. How
inner sympathy is conditioned on the effects of past experience; how
it is raised to the level of æsthetic emotion only through the fact
that the beholder or hearer enjoys the fusion process for its own
sake; and how, finally, this inner imitation consists, at least with
motor individuals, and perhaps with all who are capable of æsthetic
perception, in actual movement on their own part in conjunction with
this fusion—all this has been set forth in a former section. Here
we are considering merely the social aspects of such play, and we
find its manifestations well marked. As a rule, the child, like the
adult, when in the presence of any soul-stirring spectacle, longs for
a companion to feel it with him, and when a whole social group unite
in a common imitation, the emotional effect is vastly augmented. The
social effect of such collective enjoyment is usually marked by an
increased sense of fellowship, but beyond this there is an appreciable
difference of quality which under favourable conditions directly
furthers the social feeling. Let us begin by observing the dancing of
savages again, where we find besides the pleasure of participation
the equally strong effect of seeing and hearing the other dancers—a
fact that is reiterated again and again in the descriptions of such
occasions. The facile transition from real imitation to inner sympathy
is one indication of their close kinship. The spectator is impelled
to accompany the rhythmic movement of the dance music by all sorts of
motions on his own part. Millendorf gives us the following description:
“Soon the dance became heated, the movements turned to hops and leaps,
the whole body being involved and the face inflamed; the cries grew
constantly more ecstatic, the clapping wilder, and the few garments
were finally thrown off. All present seemed seized with a frenzy; a few
attempted to withstand it for a while, but soon began to move the head
involuntarily, now left, now right, keeping time, and then suddenly,
as if bursting some invisible bonds, they leaped among the dancers,
widening the circle.”[645] As soon as external imitation begins,
æsthetic enjoyment accompanies it, but there is no doubt that to bring
this about there must be intense inner imitation before the overt act
becomes irresistibly attractive.

As has already been pointed out, the general social importance of inner
imitation depends on its enhancing effect on the feeling of fellowship,
as is illustrated even in the dancing of savages. As to the part played
by self-exhibition in this effect, we may mention that gymnastics and
war dances, which are performed before spectators, afford opportunities
for the display of physical advantages and martial prowess. Among the
lowest tribes known to us, however, the accompanying song seems to have
hardly any other than a musical significance, consisting as it does
in the mere repetition of meaningless sounds, and can not, therefore,
be considered as influential in the sense that the dramatic poetry of
higher standing peoples is so. But the war dance which pictures forth
the enemy’s defeat may be said to have something of the effect of our
patriotic drama. Some tribes, indeed, give the dramatic representation
without rhythmic dance music, more after the manner of civilized
acting. Lange describes an Australian play in the last scene of which
a fight between white men and natives is introduced. “The third scene
opened with the sound of horses tramping through the woods—horses are
indispensable to the representation of whites. The men’s faces were
stained a brownish white, their bodies blue or red to represent the
bright- uniforms. In lieu of gaiters their calves were bound
with rice straw. These white men galloped straight for the blacks,
firing among them and driving them back. The latter quickly rallied,
however, and now began a mock battle in which the natives overcame
their foes and drove them away. The whites bit off their cartridges,
set the trigger, and, in short, correctly went through all the motions
of loading and firing. As often as a black man fell the spectators
groaned, but when a white man bit the dust they cheered loudly. When,
finally, all the whites took to ignominious flight, the delight of the
audience was unbounded; they were so wrought up that a feather’s weight
would have turned the sham fight into a real one.”

The drama, of course, at once suggests itself as the civilized man’s
substitute for such scenes as this, since its social significance is
incontestable, yet with limitations such as we found operative in the
dance. As among savages the inspiriting war dance and those whose
effects are comic or sexual occupy a large place, so in our theatre
the effort to transform the drama into an exclusively social and moral
agent is impracticable. The complaint that our stage, instead of being
the exponent of lofty ethical standards, caters too much to frivolous
tastes, and tickles too much the popular palate for comic effects, is
just as applicable to the savage and his dance, if it were intelligible
to him. The dual purpose of dramatic art—setting before the eyes a
complete ethical and social standard, and at the same time not scorning
to supply amusement pure and simple—will be better understood as time
goes by, and is not likely to alter, despite all cavils. Yet there is
truth in the warning, and the ideal side of the drama does need to
be fostered and emphasized at present, since in much of the material
now offered it can not be said to assert itself (omnia præclara tam
difficilia, quam rara sunt). But civilized people have besides the
drama a number of other displays, whose social effect is by no means to
be despised. I need only suggest the universal testimony of historians
to the enormous influence exerted by the Greek games on their national
sentiment, to the effect on the populace of public processions
culminating in the Roman triumphs, and the patriotic significance of
our own gymnastic and song festivals and competitive contests.

The study of epic poetry reveals a somewhat different picture. While
with us, for adults at least, enjoyment of an epic is conditioned on
its perusal, inferior peoples have access to it only through the medium
of a recounter, whose words and gestures are followed by the crowd with
the greatest interest. Renowned deeds of hunters and warriors, tales
and sagas celebrating the strength and skill of ancestors, relating
animal adventures, and dwelling on the triumph of strategy over brute
force, form for a large percentage of the human race the essence of
the recounter’s art. And without pedagogic aids a clear ideal of the
social excellence proper to his tribe is brought before the hearer’s
imagination, and exerts an incalculable influence on his thoughts and
volitions. This powerful effect of epic poetry grows with culture
and with the consolidation of the treasury of tribal tradition into
such forms, as witness the Homeric poems in their influence on the
Hellenes. Among moderns, however, the recital of poetry has ceased
almost entirely to be a form of social play since the introduction
of printing, yet its social effect is decidedly augmented, for under
present conditions a hundred thousand readers at once experience the
same feelings and respond to the same ideals. Yet the enjoyment is not
simultaneous and _en masse_, so to speak, and therefore transcends our
subject.

Finally, we must touch cursorily on the contribution of the other
arts to the social order, so far as they make use of inner imitation.
Music was mentioned in connection with dancing, and earlier still with
the intoxicating effect of rhythmic succession of tones. It is not a
matter of surprise, then, to find that a festive gathering of social
groups is almost unthinkable without the inspiration of music in some
form, or that even on serious occasions, yes, even on the battlefield
itself, the inspiriting exuberant charm of this art is appropriated
for every sort of social purpose. Of the other arts, architecture is
most applicable to our subject. It is true that from a social point
of view the influence of sculpture and painting is well worthy of
consideration, but both these arts are most effective when subservient
to architecture. The massive arch is so familiar as an impressive
symbol of social unity that a mere mention of it is sufficient—the more
as in it the playful character of æsthetic observation is to a great
degree subordinate.




PART III

_THE THEORY OF PLAY_


Having reviewed the extensive field of play and its systems, the task
now remains of collecting the results and important conclusions thence
resulting. To this end the conception of play must be viewed from
different standpoints: on the one hand that of physiology, biology, and
psychology, and on the other a more definitely æsthetic, sociological,
and pedagogical view.


1. _The Physiological Standpoint_

In the attempt to find a “common-sense” explanation of play we are
confronted by three distinct views, none of which science should
neglect. The first says: When a man is “quite fit,” and does not know
just what to do with his strength, he begins to sing and shout, to
dance and caper, to tease and scuffle. “Jugend muss austoben, der Hafer
sticht ihn”; “He must sow his wild oats”; “Il n’a pas encore jeté sa
gourme.” All these sayings recognise the necessity for some discharge
of such superabundant vigour. The second view is diametrically opposed
to this one, regarding play as it does in the light of an opportunity
afforded for the relaxation and recreation of exhausted powers. As
the strings of a zither and the cord of a bow should not always be
taut if the instrument is to retain its usefulness, so do men need
the relaxation of play. The third view emphasizes the teleological
significance of play. Observation of men and animals forces us to
recognise its great importance in the physical and mental development
of the individual—that it is, in short, preparatory to the tasks of
life. Every effort made to arouse and foster a feeling for play among
our people is based on the conviction, _pro patria est, dum ludere
videmur_.

The physiological theory of play is derived mainly from the first of
these views—namely, that of surplus energy.[646] Schiller was its
first exponent in Germany, when he accounted for play by calling it an
aimless expenditure of exuberant strength, which is its own excuse for
action. But Herbert Spencer, in his Principles of Psychology, first
attempted a scientific formulation of the theory. It is characteristic
of nerve processes, he says, that the superfluous integration of
ganglion cells should be accompanied by an inherited readiness to
discharge. As a result of the advanced development of man and the
higher animals they have, first, more force than is needed in the
struggle for existence; and, second, are able to allow some of their
powers longer periods of rest while others are being exercised, and
thus results the aimless activity which we call play, and which is
agreeable to the individual producing it.

A further question, which is not sufficiently provided for in Spencer’s
elucidation, depends on the physiology of this theory. Since we find
that each species of higher animal has a kind of play peculiar to
itself, we must try also to explain the origin of such varied forms of
activity, all serving to relieve the tension of superfluous energy.
Spencer does indeed attempt to make his theory of imitation cover all
this, but a close examination proves it to be inadequate to the task.
His idea is that imitation of one’s own acts or of those of adults of
the race determines the channels for overflowing energy. The former
supposition might be tenable on the supposition that the child’s first
experimentation is not playful but intentional repetition, which is not
the commonly accepted meaning of imitation. Spencer himself, however,
seems to find imitation of models more general among children, since
he expressly says that their play, as they nurse their dolls, give tea
parties, etc., is a distinct dramatization of the acts of adults. This
view, as I have tried to prove in my earlier work, can be applied with
assurance to but one department of play, and consequently the origin of
special forms must find some other explanation. Imitation, then, in its
ordinary sense, can not be the universal criterion of play.

The question, therefore, as to the origin of special forms of play must
be answered in some other way, and Spencer himself points it out when
he says that the actions imitated in play are exactly those which are
important in the subsequent career of the animal, and when in pursuance
of this idea he refers to the robbing and destroying instincts which
play satisfies in a manner more or less ideal. Here we meet again
with the thought which has, indeed, hardly ever been absent in this
inquiry, and which I regard as a most fruitful one. Not imitation, but
the life of impulse and instinct alone, can make special forms of play
comprehensible to us. The surplus-energy theory assumes in the higher
forms of life a series of inborn impulses for whose serious activity
there is often for a long time no opportunity of discharge, with the
result that a reserve of exuberant strength collects and presses
imperatively for employment, thus calling forth an ideal satisfaction
of the impulse, or play.

A wide range can not be denied to the theory thus set forth, especially
when we consider youthful play with its ebullient vigour which has
scarcely any other outlet. The movements of imprisoned animals, too,
may be cited in its support, as well as the actions of men whose
business does not give them enough physical exercise. Yet I think
experience teaches us that superfluous energy, as Spencer conceives
it, is no more a universal criterion of play than is imitation, since
in many cases the inherited impulse toward prescribed reactions in
certain brain tracts seems to be in itself a sufficient cause for play
without the necessary accompaniment of superfluous energy. When a ball
of cord is rolled toward a kitten, nothing more is needed to set her
claws in motion than in the case of a full-grown cat that starts up at
the sight of a mouse. And the same is true of a child whose imitative
and fighting instincts are excited by whatever cause. When there is
absolutely no external stimulus to supplement the creature’s inborn
impulses, only long inactivity of stored-up energies would lead to
play; but, as there are thousands of such stimuli always at work,
the Schiller-Spencer superfluous energy seems not to be a necessary
or universal condition of play. It is of course a favourable but not
an indispensable one, and therefore I regard not this but the inborn
impulse as the keystone of an adequate system of play. It is true that
we must assume in that case a flood tide in the affected tract as a
result of the external stimulus, but this is quite a different thing
from the view whose validity we are contesting. If, then, a condition
of superfluous energy is a favourable though not indispensable one
for play, we must endeavour to find its supplement, and this brings
us to the second popular idea, which under the name of the theory of
recreation has found its most scientific champion in Lazarus. Its
fundamental principles are quite simple. When we are tired of mental
or physical labour and still do not wish to sleep or rest, we gladly
welcome the active recreation afforded by play. At first blush it seems
to lead to a conclusion directly opposite to Spencer’s, according to
which play squanders superfluous energy, while here it appears as
the conserver of it; there it is an irresponsible spendthrift, here
the provident householder. Yet, as I have pointed out in my earlier
book, this opposition is more apparent than real; that, indeed, the
recreation theory is often supplementary to the Spencerian. “When,
for example, a student goes to have a game of tenpins in the evening,
he thus tones up his relaxed mental powers at the same time that he
finds a means of relieving his accumulated motor impulses, repressed
during his work at the desk. So it is the same act that on the one
hand disposes of his superfluous energy, and on the other restores his
lost powers.” So far as this is the case this theory is a valuable
supplement to the Schiller-Spencer idea, but is, of course, incompetent
to explain play which transcends its limits.

Close inspection, however, will show that even this statement has
its limitations, and that the recreative theory has, after all, an
independent sphere of activity. When, for instance, the conditions
point to an active recreation, superfluous energy pressing for
discharge seems no longer indispensable; a moderate normal energy is
quite adequate for its demands. It is a striking fact that the new
recreative activity is often closely related to the work of which we
are weary. Fresh objects, varying the direction of our efforts, a
slight change in the psychophysical attitude, are often sufficient to
dispel the sense of fatigue. Thus, while it may be futile to direct
the memory, worn out with prolonged service on some difficult subject,
to other objects, yet turning it toward new circumstances connected
with the same subject may restore it to its original vigour.[647]
Recreation may even be achieved by changing from one scientific book
which wearies us to another, perhaps quite as abstruse, but dealing
with different phases of the subject; and after an interval the first
may be taken up again with renewed interest. Steinthal is right when he
says that change of occupation, involving the use of the same limbs,
rests them.[648] The mountain-climber who has toiled up steeps, gains
new strength, or at least loses his fatigue, by walking on a level.
The acrobat who has tired his arms by difficult exercise on a bar
tries pitching as a change, and presently returns to the first with
comparative freshness. The swimmer who has been swimming for a long
time in the usual position rests himself by taking a few strokes on his
back, and so on.[649]

We occasionally find, too, that the recreation theory is very useful
in determining the status of a play to which the Spencerian theory is
inapplicable. With the student playing skittles in the evening the two
theories represent the negative and positive sides, of one and the same
process; but if he feels inclined to participate in some game involving
the use of his mental powers alone, the recreation idea is noticeably
predominant. A principle is operative here which may go far to fill
the gap to which we have referred. While the theory of surplus energy
accounts for play in thousands of cases, especially in childhood, when
there is no need for recreation, this need may also produce play where
there is no surplus energy. This is chiefly illustrated by adults.

Although we are still a long way from a satisfactory explanation of
play, a step toward rendering it intelligible is gained in the fact
that play is often begun in the absence of superabundant energy. But we
find on further examination that a game once begun is apt to be carried
on to the utmost limit of exhaustion—a fact which it is superfluous
to illustrate, and which is inexplicable by either of the theories in
question. An appeal in this dilemma to the physiological standpoint
reveals two possibilities. Let us recall first the tremendous
significance of involuntary repetition to all animal life, for just
as the simplest organisms in alternate expansion and contraction, and
the higher ones in heart beats and breathing, are pervaded by waves
of movement, so also in the sphere of voluntary activity there is a
well-nigh irresistible tendency to repetition. Because of this tendency
of reactions to renew the stimuli, Baldwin calls them “circular
reactions.” Perhaps the child first produces them quite accidentally,
then he repeats his own act, and the sensuous effect of the repetition
furnishes the stimulus for renewed effort. When prohibition breaks this
chain it does not as a rule effect complete cessation at once.

In our busy life, occupied as it is with the struggle for existence,
we see substantial aims before us which we wish to realize as soon
as possible, and we have not time to yield to this impulse to
repetition; but we realize its power when a man steps aside from
his strenuous business life. Psychiatry, too, furnishes us with
pathological examples; some forms of mental disease are marked by
continual repetition of some exclamation or act. One woman murmured
constantly all day long, “O Jesus, O Jesus!” while another patient
ladled nothing indefatigably from an empty dish; and a third scratched
himself so persistently in the same spot that serious wounds resulted.
To the same category belong the automatic and persistent movements of
hypnotic subjects. If the arm of one of them is forcibly stretched
out, he shows a disposition to repeat the movement, and often keeps
on doing it, as children do, for some time after a positive command
to the contrary.[650] Something similar to this occurs when a great
grief or a great joy separates us for a time from our everyday life,
and we mechanically repeat a single exclamation or trivial act.[651]
The intoxication of love among birds is a very clear and beautiful
illustration of this phenomenon. Bell birds are said to repeat their
wooing call so long and so ardently that they have been known to fall
dead from exhaustion.

Play, too, furnishes a similar distraction from the commonplace
world, and after this inquiry we are able to understand why it is
persisted in to the point of exhaustion. Especially is this the case
with children, who more readily and completely lose themselves in
present enjoyment.[652] Every one who has had much to do with these
little people will recall with feelings of not unmixed pleasure how
everlastingly the small tyrants insist on hearing the same story over
and over, and playing the same games. Fighting and movement games are
invariably begun again as soon as the children can get their breath,
and some kinds of experimentation are even more faithfully repeated.
“When a child strikes the combination required,” says Baldwin, “he is
never tired working it. H—— found endless delight in putting the rubber
on a pencil and off again, each act being a new stimulus to the eye.
This is specially noticeable in children’s early efforts at speech.
They react all wrong when they first attack a new word, but gradually
get it moderately well, and then sound it over and over in endless
monotony.”[653]

This impulse toward repetition is doubtless the physiological reason
for carrying on play to the utmost limit of strength. The second
point to be noticed is the trance-like state resulting from such
repetition of some movements, and sometimes with the added influence
of rhythm.[654] The child who leaps and hops about or runs with all his
might, or scuffles with his companions, is seized with a wild impulse
for destruction; the skater and bicyclist, the swimmer sporting in
the waves, and, above all, the dancer, whose movements are adjusted
in harmony with the rhythmic repetition of pleasant sounds, are all
possessed by a kind of temporary madness which compels them to exert
their powers to the utmost. It is not an easy matter to determine
the physiological basis of this intoxication of movement. Violent
muscular contraction is not an essential, for in such passive motion
as coasting, for example, the effect is strong, amounting sometimes
to a sort of giddiness. Active motion is, of course, of more interest
to us, since, in conjunction with the state of trance, the principle
of circular reaction is then operative. Dancing is a kind of play
calculated to augment this condition to the verge of the pathological.
Read, for example, the description of the arrow dance of the Weddas in
Sarasin’s work and compare it with St. John’s picture of the dancing
dervishes of Cairo.[655] The harmless magic of play, however, is as
different from such mad excesses as is the exhilarating effect of a
glass of wine from the frenzy of drunkenness.

We may now sum up: There are two leading principles which must ground
a physiological theory of play—namely, the discharge of surplus energy
and recreation for exhausted powers. They may operate simultaneously,
since acts supplying recreation to exhausted forces may at the same
time call into play other powers and thus afford the needed discharge
for them. In many cases, and especially in youth, the first principle
seems to act alone, while on the other hand play may be solely
recreative, without any dependence on a store of surplus energy.
Further, it is important to notice two other considerations which throw
light on persistence in play to the point of exhaustion. The first is
circular reaction, that self-imitation which in the resultant of one’s
own activities finds ever anew the model for successive acts and the
stimulus to renewed repetition. The second is the trance condition,
which so easily ensues from such activity, and which is practically
irresistible.

The essential thing seems to be the demonstration of a theory of play
entirely from a physiological standpoint, and not involving hereditary
impulses. No more comprehensive explanation is known to me, and yet, in
looking back over the ground covered, while it must be admitted that
we have reached an advantageous point of view, still, on the other
hand, the feeling naturally arises that these principles, loosely
strung together, as they are, do not include the whole subject.
Think of the play of children too young to go to school, for in such
spontaneous activity, not yet enriched by invention or tradition, we
have the kernel of the whole question. For a series of years we find
life virtually controlled by play. Before systematic education begins,
the child’s whole existence, except the time devoted to sleeping and
eating, is occupied with play, which thus becomes the single, absorbing
aim of his life. Can we then be content to apply to a phenomenon so
striking as this a physiological principle confessedly inadequate to
cover it, although admirably adapted for application to some features
of it? Does not its peculiar and inherent nearness to the springs of
life and life’s realities demand a complete explanation grounded on
a general principle which is applicable at once to youth and to the
play which lasts all through life? To answer this question an appeal
must be made to the third popular conception of play, for a biological
investigation alone can reveal the sources of human impulse.


2. _The Biological Standpoint_

In considering play from the biological standpoint we find two tasks
prepared for us: first, a genetic explanation of play, and second,
the appraisal of its biological value. The theory of descent whose
scientific formula bears Darwin’s name will be most useful to us in
both undertakings. There is a steady and constantly increasing current
against his teaching, and the opposition has taken a witty form, if
not one dictated by good taste, in the saying that it is high time
that biology recovered from its “Englische Krankheit.” I think that
this exaggerated depreciation is grounded in the just opinion that
Darwinism does not unlock all the secrets of evolution. Scientific
theories which explain everything they should explain are comparatively
rare, particularly in the sphere of organic life, and I regard it as
more than probable that an _x_ and a _y_ still remain to be calculated
after Darwin’s principle of evolution has done its best. But whether
we shall soon find a better working principle is another question. It
may even now be ripe or it may yet linger for centuries; perhaps it may
never come in terms of thought now known to us. For the present we have
only the choice among metaphysics, Darwinism, and resignation. I, for
one, then, regard the cavalier treatment of the Darwinian doctrine as
a mistake, and still prefer to test special problems according to its
light. Its two fundamental ideas are, first, evolution by means of the
inheritance of acquired characters; and, second, evolution by means of
survival of the fittest in the struggle for existence. The essence of
the first (Lamarckian) principle is denied by many Darwinians, but,
assuming that its influence is as strong as its advocates claim, we
should then be forced to hold that the activity of ancestors wrought
in the child hereditary predispositions. These ancestors, having made
use of their sensory and motor apparatus all through their lives in
every possible way, must have fought out many battles, conducted the
chase, and connected themselves with social groups. Accordingly,
we find in their descendants the impulses to experimentation, to
fighting, chasing, hiding, social, and other plays. Schneider believes
that the boy’s strong propensity for catching butterflies, beetles,
flies, and other insects, as well as that for robbing birds’ nests, is
attributable to the fact that his savage ancestors obtained their food
supply by such means;[656] and Hudson says, in speaking of heredity
in connection with certain bird dances, that if at first the habit
had been found of expressing feelings of gladness by means of minuet
steps, men as well as birds would be said to have an instinct for
dancing the minuet.[657]

It is just along these lines that we may hope to estimate the
biological value of play, and subsequently develop it in relation to
our own view. But the assumption of the heredity of acquired characters
and its wide application introduce a new element. It is difficult to
understand, for example, how a habit originates whose physiological
basis is confined to the acquisition of specified traits in the nervous
system, which in their turn bring about changes in the germ substance
of the organism, and appear in the offspring as hereditary paths for
the tendency to repeat the same sorts of acts. If such a process is
possible at all, it must be in the period of youth, when the organism
still possesses great plasticity. Thus A. E. Ormann says, in an
appendix to his German translation of Baldwin’s Mental Development:
“The last objection [the neo-Darwinistic], that organic structures,
such as bones, horns, teeth, etc., are fixed and unmodifiable, I am
not prepared to admit. I do not believe that these structures change
in adult animals just as I do not believe that bionomic influences can
effect important accommodations in them. Yet change and accommodation
in these very orders are quite possible in the case of young animals
still in the developmental period, and I am convinced that the
majority of effective accommodations do originate at this very time,
and that the possibility of their appearing diminishes as maturity is
approached.”[658] If this should prove to be the fact, play would then
have the task of maintaining a countless mass of hereditary impressions
important to the preservation of life, and also of supplying a means
for individual adaptation of the example of adults which through
imitation and direct transmission gradually become hereditary
possessions of the race.

But interesting as this point of view is, we find grave reason for
doubting its reconcilability with the facts that we have already
ascertained. First, there is the questionableness of the inheritance
of acquired characters at all. Götter said long ago that common
experience is all against it,[659] and Galton, too, is very skeptical
in regard to it, if he does not flatly deny the possibility.[660] A.
Weismann is, however, its chief opponent, and is therefore regarded as
the leader of the neo-Darwinian school. How the inheritance of acquired
characters can be entirely excluded from the struggle for existence is
yet undemonstrated, but Spengel[661] has recently pointed out a notable
series of adaptations which are independent of it. Indeed, in regard
to the instincts which chiefly claim our notice, such a competent
critic of neo-Darwinism as Romanes[662] is forced to admit that some
quite complicated ones have attained perfection without the aid of the
Lamarckian principle. These facts warn us not to attach too much weight
to it.

Under these circumstances we must attempt an independent basis for our
biological theory of play, since, if the Lamarckian principle is ruled
out, only natural selection remains of the scientific hypotheses. To
this as well just and weighty objections have been raised, and I may
mention that selection in the Darwinian sense does not account for
the origin of structures which are at first useless, nor how it comes
about that the right selection occurs in the right place. To meet these
objections Baldwin has advanced his Organic Selection and Weismann his
Germinal Selection.[663] According to the former, the inheritance of
acquired accommodations is unnecessary, their task being sufficiently
accomplished if they keep the creature afloat in its natural
environment until selection has time through favouring accidental
variations tending in the same direction (coincident variations) to
build up hereditary adaptations.[664] Osborn and Lloyd Morgan have
reached a similar standpoint independently of Baldwin. Weismann, who
in a surprising change of base abandons his former position on the
all-sufficiency of Darwin’s individual selection, extends the selective
principle to the germ substance, which, in his view, does not consist
of similar life-units, but possesses a sort of structure, the elements
of which (the “determinants”) already represent the respective parts
of the future individual. Each “determinant” struggles for sustenance
against its neighbours, so producing a sort of germinal selection,
in that the stronger among them has its development furthered at
the expense of the weaker, transmits the force so acquired to the
offspring, furnishes them in the very beginning of their career with
a favourable footing in the struggle for life, and insures further
progress in the same direction. Here, then, is the possibility of a
specially determined variation grounded in the very existence of the
germ substance,[665] and through the interaction of individual and
germinal selection much is accomplished which the former could not
alone achieve.[666]

The future must finally judge between these rival efforts to improve
the old theory. Baldwin’s organic selection, which has now been
accepted by Wallace Poulton and others, may possibly be applicable to
all cases of adaptation, though it has not yet been so widely developed
by its author. The chief value of Weismann’s new hypothesis is perhaps
its luminous portrayal of the interaction of individual selection
with special developmental tendencies in the germ substance, but the
explanation of these tendencies themselves by means of a struggle
for sustenance seems to find little confirmation. Here is probably
an _x_, or possibly several unknown values. Yet the important part
which selection plays in this exceedingly complicated process should
not be underestimated. Nägeli has likened selection to a gardener who
cuts away the superfluous growth of a tree, which then by its own
inner processes forms its crown. But when we consider, for example,
the wonderful mimicry, for whose striking external resemblances
“inner” developmental tendencies could hardly suffice (whether with
metaphysical hypotheses of pre-established harmony or of unity of will
or consciousness), the skill and power of this “gardener” appear to be
sufficient.

In the attempt to form a biological estimate of play independently of
the Lamarckian principle we must constantly bear in mind the value and
origin of youthful play, and therefore we must begin, with instinct in
its more limited sense. We find in all creatures a number of innate
capacities which are essential for the preservation of species. In
many animals these capacities appear as finely developed reflexes and
instincts, needing but little if any practice for the fulfilment of
their function. With the higher animals, and above all with man, it is
essentially otherwise. Although the number of his hereditary instincts
is considerable—perhaps larger than with any other creature—yet he
comes into the world an absolutely helpless and undeveloped being
which must grow in every other sense, as well as physiologically, in
order to be an individual of independent capabilities. The period of
youth renders such growth possible. If it is asked why an arrangement
apparently so awkward has arisen, we may reply that instinctive
apparatus being inadequate for his life tasks, a period of parental
protection is necessary to enable him to acquire imitatively and
experimentally the capacities adapted to his individual needs.
The more complicated the life tasks, the more necessary are these
preparations; the longer this natural education continues, the more
vivid do the inherited capacities become. Play is the agency employed
to develop crude powers and prepare them for life’s uses, and from our
biological standpoint we can say: From the moment when the intellectual
development of a species becomes more useful in the “struggle for life”
than the most perfect instinct, will natural selection favour those
individuals in whom the less elaborated faculties have more chance of
being worked out by practice under the protection of parents—that is to
say, those individuals that play. Play depends, then, first of all on
the elaboration of immature capacities to full equality with perfected
instinct, and secondly on the evolution of hereditary qualities
to a degree far transcending this, to a state of adaptability and
versatility surpassing the most perfect instinct.

Our attention so far has been given mainly to special instincts, and
their effects are extraordinarily widespread in both human and animal
play. We have dwelt upon instinct as it is manifested in fighting,
love,[667] and social plays, and in experimentation with the motor
apparatus we are pre-eminently on instinctive ground. In sensory
experimentation, however, the practice of inborn reflexes (they
are gradually differentiated from instincts) is in the background.
Ribot, however, designates both these processes as instinctive.
Even in experimentation with the higher mental powers, practice in
fixing the attention, which is an indispensable prerequisite of all
experimentation, and indeed of all play, may be regarded as a motor
reaction allied to instinct. On the other hand, as I have pointed out
in the preface, the narrower conception of instinct is not suited to
our purpose, and we therefore took the more comprehensive idea of
hereditary impulse as the ground of our classification. We found the
imitative impulse especially important here, and its far-reaching
biological significance was dwelt upon in the beginning of the section
on imitative play, and need merely be recapitulated.

The imitative impulse is an inborn faculty resembling instinct[668]
whose first effect is to supplement instinct by means of individual
acquirements; secondly, it preserves those race heritages which
survive only through tradition. The first of these functions falls in
the biological domain, while the second belongs to social play. The
former may be advantageously observed in the world of birds, which
learn the characteristic song of their kind by the help of playful
experimentation to a great degree, but never get it so perfectly as
when they hear the song of older birds as a model. Children, too,
exemplify it clearly in the transition from their lall-monologue to
speech; in their tussling, where many of the movements are instinctive,
but are materially assisted by imitation of older boys; in the nursing
of dolls by little girls, who would probably not make any use of the
instinct during childhood but for imitation; and in many other cases.
Imitation is clearly playful in such instances, so far as it is both
unconscious and unpractical.

From the biological standpoint, too, imitative play is an important
agent in supplementing instincts, usually tending to render them
more plastic, and thus further the opening of new paths for the
development of intelligence. Therefore I believe that a general theory
of play should keep this thought in the foreground; though under some
conditions contrary effects ensue, since, under Baldwin’s principle,
imitation gives selection the opportunity to strengthen the hereditary
foundations of the activity imitated. It seems to me that in imitative
play of avowedly social character the impulse probably aids selection
in its gradual upbuilding by means of the furtherance of coincident
variations. I touch again upon this point (pp. 395 _f._), and will only
say here that the two views are not necessarily contradictory, since,
while a weakening may take place in the details of the activity, there
may be a strengthening of the accompanying feelings—these two elements
being very different.

Besides imitation, many other natural impulses come into play, as
we discovered in studying experimentation and the higher mental
capacities. That the practice theory, too, is applicable we can
plainly see. Practice in recognition, in storing up the material
collected by memory, in the rise of imagination, reason, and the will,
together with the ability to surmount feelings of pain, are all of
the greatest, indeed of incalculable, value in the struggle for life.
There is some difficulty in meeting the question of the relationship
of experimental impulse in the higher psychic life, since, as I
pointed out in the introduction to the first chapter, it is still a
mooted question whether the assumption should be made of one general
impulse to action which, according to circumstances, is directed now
to this and now to that psychic discharge; or whether, by reviving the
faculty theory, to speak of many central impulses, grounded in our
psychophysical nature and pressing for expression as instincts do.

For my part, I incline to the opinion that such central impulses
actually exist, though they are probably but vaguely defined. Long
ago the attempt was made, especially by Reimarus and Tetens,[669] to
include the idea of impulse among the higher mental processes, and the
future may yet see this effort renewed. However that may be, there is
unquestionably one such impulse which in its motor expression directly
suggests instinct, and which in my opinion is directly derived from
it—namely, attention. But attention is an essential factor in all
experimental play, and indeed in all play, of whatever character, and
can therefore, in conjunction with the causal needs which so much
resemble instincts, bring about results which would appear to require
especial incentive to activity.

Raising this question brings me to another point which I have touched
upon in my earlier work. While Schiller speaks of a single-minded play
impulse, my own view is that there is no general impulse to play,
but various instincts are called upon when there is no occasion for
their serious exercise, merely for purposes of practice, and more
especially preparatory practice, and these instincts thus become
special plays. It seems to me unnecessary to suppose a particular play
instinct in addition to all the others, and the fact that selection
favours a long period of youth bears this out. When that is assured,
and special physiological provision is made to secure it, then the
merely ordinary instincts and impulses are quite sufficient to account
for the phenomena of play. Still, if the demand is made for the same
sort of impulses for all play, I point to attention and causality as
expounded by Sikorski, and familiar to us in the joy in being a cause.
The actual act of attention is, as before said, very close to instinct,
and so-called voluntary attention is not widely different, since we
find connected with many instincts phenomena which are influenced by
the intelligence and will. Attention, too, is an impulse in that it
urges to activity so long as it is not hampered by fatigue. When we
complain of being bored, it is not because we have no experiences, but
because the experiences are not sufficiently interesting to occupy
our attention, and, since it is an active principle in all play, we
naturally think of it in connection with the impulse to any sort of
activity. Following attention we have pleasure in the production or
effects appearing as another element in the general impulse to activity
and exhibited more or less clearly in all plays that are connected
with external movement. Nor is it wanting either in those which are
ostensibly merely receptive, as we shall see. As the categorical
standing of causality depends in all likelihood on hereditary
capability, and as it first becomes prominent in a motor form—namely,
in the active production of effects—we have here a further means of
giving to the conception of a general play impulse a concrete form.

In conclusion, adult play must be considered from a biological
standpoint. That the grown man continues to play long after he
has outgrown the childish stimuli to play has been sufficiently
shown in the foregoing chapters. Much of his play, and especially
the sensorimotor experimental kind, is of but slight biological
significance, though the practice theory is often applicable even in
later life to movement and fighting play, and still more so to social
play, since the latter serves not merely as ontogenous practice, but
is indispensable as well to phylogenetic development of the social
capacities. Artistic enjoyment, too—that highest and most valuable
form of adult play—is, as Konrad Lange has demonstrated, extremely
influential biologically and socially. “Man’s serious activity,”
he says, “has always a more or less one-sided character. His life
consists, as Schiller has shown in his letters on æsthetic education,
in a progressive alternation between work and sensuous pleasure.
Indeed, in the various occupations of mankind, as a rule, but a limited
number of the mental powers are employed, and these not fully so.
Innumerable springs of feeling are hidden in the human breast untested
and untried. It is plain that this would have a most disastrous effect
on the whole race did not art supply the deficiency of stimulus.... Art
is the capacity possessed by men of furnishing themselves and others
with pleasure based on conscious self-illusion which, by widening and
deepening human perception and emotion, tends to preserve and improve
the race.”[670] Schiller’s famous saying—that a man is fully human only
when he plays, thus acquires a definite biological meaning.

One word more: If the Lamarckian principle be adopted, the play of
adults has a still more specialized significance, since, as it would
be essential to a well-rounded culture, its office as preserver of
hereditary race capacities[671] is obvious, especially as these require
a gentle fostering, not to hamper individual adaptation, and yet
preserve the fundamental aim of all adaptation. Since, however, caution
forbids our using the Lamarckian principle, I content myself with the
mere mention of this possible effect of it.


3. _The Psychological Standpoint_

Here in the first place we are called upon to apply a psychological
criterion to playful activity. Wundt, in his lectures on the human
and animal soul, suggests three such criteria: first, the pleasurable
effect; second, the conscious or unconscious copying of useful
activities; and third, the reproduction of the original aim in a
playful one.[672] As I have said before, I do not regard the second of
these—namely, imitation—as universally a mark of play. Wundt says that
an animal can play only when certain memories which are accompanied
by pleasurable feeling are renewed, yet under aspects so transformed
that all painful effects vanish and only agreeable ones remain; the
simple and spontaneous play of animals being, so to speak, association
plays. Thus the dog, at the sight of another dog which displays no
unfriendly feeling toward him, just as naturally feels a disposition
to the agreeable exercise of his awakened powers as to fight with his
fellows.[673] Kittens which for the first time try to catch a moving
ball, are not playing according to this view, and only play when the
action is repeated for the sake of the pleasure it gives. I shall
return to this conception, which includes more than simple imitation in
its ordinary sense. I feel that I have not succeeded in conveying all
that Wundt means in the passage cited from. However, if I understand
him aright, he attempts in the last edition of his published works to
explain imitation in quite another way. Thus he gives that name to
the play of young dogs, which, without having seen it done, seize a
piece of cloth in the teeth and shake it violently, because such play
exhibits the playful activity of former generations.[674] This is a
hardly justifiable use of the word, and I think it better to admit at
once that imitation, as commonly understood, is not a criterion of play.

The case is entirely different with the “apparent aim” or sham
activity. It is undeniable that, objectively considered, such play
appears to be detached from the real, practically directed life of the
individual, and Wundt, too, understands it so. No one plays to attain
what is a real object of effort outside of the sphere of play. All the
objects of play lie within its own bounds, and even games of chance
keep in view the aim to promote strong excitement in the parties to the
wager until the decision. Since, then, we must consider sham activity
as a genuine projection from earnest life, it becomes a universal
criterion. This is not contradicted by the fact that playful activity
is of great value to the individual, since the value of the play is not
the player’s motive.

The question respecting the illusion-working character of playful
activity is much more difficult to meet, if the psychical processes of
the playing subject are kept in view, and the inquiry is pressed as to
whether the actual sham quality of the play is reflected in his mental
states.[675] Here it must be emphasized that actual consciousness of
fulfilling a merely ideal purpose, of being engaged in sham occupation,
is not at all essential to imitative play, and is wanting altogether
in experimentation and fighting plays. Consequently it too fails as
a universal criterion of play. Later we shall inquire whether in
much play the objective sham character may not influence the psychic
condition of the player in another way.

There remain, then, as general psychological criteria of play, but
two more of the elements popularly regarded as essential—namely, its
pleasurableness, and the actual severance from life’s serious aims.
Both are included in cally speaking, in activity performed for its own
sake.

I proceed after this introduction to inquire into the character of
the pleasure derived from play. It is the most universal of all the
psychological accompaniments of play, resting as it does on the
satisfaction of inborn impulses. The sensorimotor and mental capacities
(of the latter, attention pre-eminently) fighting and sexual impulses,
imitation, and the social instincts press for discharge, and lead to
enjoyment when they find it in play. To this simple statement of fact
we must subjoin the not unimportant consideration which Baldwin has
suggested in his preface to The Play of Animals. He distinguishes two
distinct kinds of play: one “not psychological at all,” and exhibiting
only the biological criterion of practice for, not exercise of, the
impulse; and the other, which is psychological as well and involves
conscious self-deception.[676] The situation, he says, is like that
displayed in many other animal and human functions which are at once
biologic and instinctive, as well as psychologic and intelligent;
for example, sympathy, fear, and bashfulness. This last statement is
unquestionable, but there is room for doubt whether the previously
assumed difference exists. Baldwin’s grounds for the distinction seem
to me to be inconclusive, in that conscious self-deception is by no
means the only nor the most universal psychic accompaniment of play,
the most elementary of them all being the enjoyment derived for the
satisfaction of an instinct, which makes play an object for psychology,
where conscious self-deception is out of the question.[677] But the
further question is suggested whether the biological conception of play
has not a still deeper grasp than the psychological, and to this extent
the proposed distinction is of value.

It may be assumed of young animals, and probably of children, that the
first manifestations of what is afterward experimentation, fighting and
imitative play, etc., is rarely conscious, and consequently we can not
assert with assurance that it is pleasurable. Therefore the biological
but not the psychological germ of play is present. It was in this sense
that I intended my previous remarks to the effect that actual imitation
was not an indispensable condition of play, while repetition possibly
could be considered so, since the impulsive movements must be repeated
frequently and at last performed for the sake alone of the pleasure
derived from them, before play ensues. This marks the psychological
limits of play.

To make the relation clearer, let us take the grasping movement as
an example. The child at first waves his hands aimlessly, and when
his fingers chance to strike a suitable object they clutch at it
instinctively. From a purely biological point of view this is practice
of an instinct, and play has already begun. Psychologically, on the
contrary, it is safer to defer calling the movements playful until,
through repetition they acquire the character of conscious processes
accompanied by attention and enjoyment. This distinction, I think, is
a proper one, and it enables the biologist to pursue the idea further
than the psychologist would be justified in doing. Therefore I can not
recognise any activity as playful in the most complete sense which does
not exhibit the psychological criterion as well. Examples of such plays
may be found scattered all through the systematic parts of this work,
and at the beginning of the section on contact plays.

In examining somewhat more closely the nature of the feeling of
pleasure which springs from the satisfaction of an inborn instinct
we may assume as a general law that it is threefold: first, there
is pleasure in the stimulus as such; then in the agreeableness of
the stimulus; and, third, in its intensity. The first is due to the
fact that a set of hereditary impulses press for such expression; it
is superfluous to attempt to prove that there are special stimuli
inherently pleasurable; it is only the third class, then, that need
demand our attention, and this we have repeatedly encountered in our
excursions into the various departments of play. It would be well
worth while to devote a monograph to the investigation of its meaning
and grounds in the light of the literature of the past. Probably a
variety of causes would be brought to light, among which, however,
the influence of habit would be prominent, since attention and
enjoyment would need constantly stronger stimuli. The most valuable
contribution to the subject seems to me that of Lessing in pursuance
of Du Bos’s idea. He says that the violent emotion produced by the
feeling of heightened reality is the occasion of the pleasurable
effect. But whence comes this feeling? Its origin is sufficiently
clear in movement-play, where intense stimulus is connected with the
violent exertion of physical powers; but how is it with receptive
play? In the eighteenth century it was said, on the ground of
Leibnitz’s psychology, that what we regard as receptive play was the
soul’s spontaneous activity. The strong emotion resulting betokened a
development of force which is always a satisfaction. This view quite
naturally lends itself to modern psychological terms now that we can
put our finger on the strong internal motor processes involved; yet
it is limited by observation, which shows that intensive stimuli
taking possession of us, so to speak, in spite of ourselves, are not
invariably cherished as pleasures. Only when we voluntarily seek the
strong feeling, and gladly yield ourselves to it so that the emotion
it produces is in a measure our own work, do we enjoy the result. The
conditions are the same as with the pleasure in power displayed in
violent movement plays, and they may be treated together.

Among the many inborn necessities which ground our pleasure in play we
find again that three is the number emphasized by psychology—namely,
the exercise of attention, the demand for an efficient cause, and
imagination. As regards attention, I have already said in the
biological discussion that it seems calculated to lend a definite
meaning to the vague idea of a general need for activity. The examples
of practice in attention which were introduced in the section on
experimentation with the higher mental powers were chosen with a view
to illustrating mental tension, and special stress was laid on the fact
that, apart from these limitations, attention is of the widest and
most comprehensive significance. Indeed, fully developed play in the
psychological sense is scarcely conceivable without the simultaneous
exercise of motor or theoretic attention. From the first sensory and
motor play of infants, straight through to æsthetic enjoyment and
artistic production, its tension is felt, and when the opportunity
is not afforded for its satisfactory exercise a pitiable condition
of boredom ensues, the unendurableness of which Schopenhauer has so
exhaustively described.

The desire to be an efficient cause also has a motor and a theoretic
form. We demand a knowledge of effects and to be ourselves the
producers of effects, and it is through this motor form that the
theoretic, if not exactly originated, is at least perfected. Hence the
root idea of causal connection depends on volition, and Schopenhauer,
in referring force to the will, has but expressed in his metaphysical
way an established psychological fact. This motor impulse finds
expression in the joy in being a cause, which I regard as so essential
to play, and in conjunction with attention is probably the source of
the impulse for activity of which I have spoken. We must bear in mind
all the forms of pleasure connected with movement, and especially motor
experimental play, where, besides the mere enjoyment of motion in
itself, there is the satisfaction of being one’s self the originator
of it, the joy-bringing sense of being a cause. Use of the sensory
apparatus is a source of the same pleasure, since here, too, a motor
condition is involved, and is accompanied with consciousness of its
own activity; and when the inner imitation which we have described is
also included, the connection with external movement is of course still
closer. And in any case joy in being a cause is well-nigh universal,
since in play no purpose is served apart from the act itself as
impelled by inner impulse, which thus appears in the character of an
independent cause more than in any other form of activity.

This joy in being a cause is susceptible of varied modification. In
violent movements, and even in the receptive enjoyment of intense
stimuli, it is converted into pleasure in the mere possession of power,
and is proportionate to the magnitude of the results. It appears also
in the form of emulation when a model is copied, and in imitative
competition, the pleasure of surpassing others arises with enjoyment
of pure success and victory, which, as we have seen, results as well
from overcoming difficulties as from the subjugation of foes. All
these ideas have been so often encountered in the systematic part of
our work that merely directing them to their natural conclusions is
all-sufficient here.

Of imagination, however, we must speak in greater detail in regard to
its illusion-making power, which again brings us to the sham occupation
recognised as such by the doer in a partly subjective manner. I am
careful to limit this statement because it is evident that only a
simple form of the phenomenon, and not its whole content, is present in
such reflex forms of consciousness.

In many games there is a veritable playing of a rôle in which the
players, like actors, are quite conscious all through the pretence
that they are only “making believe.” It is a genuine conscious state
in which, on the one hand, the illusion is perfect, while on the
other there is full knowledge that it is an illusion. Konrad Lange
has called this condition one of conscious self-deception, a term
which most aptly conveys the idea of the strange contradiction of
inner processes. He limited the use of the term, however, to plays
that depend on the imitative arts, while I have advanced the view in
my Play of Animals, that it is even more clearly exhibited in such
fighting and hunting plays as are conducted independently of models,
than in actual imitative play. But when it comes to human play I am
forced to admit that speech discloses conscious self-deception in the
imitative play of children where it might be doubtful in the case of
animals.[678] Still, I have other points of controversy with Lange. If
imitation includes the conscious repetition of our own previous acts,
as it may by an extension of the definition, then we are warranted in
assuming conscious self-deception only with it. Thus, in fighting play,
for instance, clear consciousness of playing a rôle can ensue only
when previous experience has taught the players what are the serious
manifestations of the fighting instinct. If, however, the narrower use
of the word is adopted, illusion is more extensive than imitation, and,
furthermore, the latter may exist without the former.

When, as I said before, there is a clear consciousness of sham
activity, we may subscribe essentially to Lange’s theory, with its
oscillation between reality and appearance, since the enjoyment of
illusion does alternate with the impression of reality. His figure of
the swinging pendulum should not be taken too literally as implying
measured regularity in the succession of states.[679] The essence of
his meaning is that in self-illusion which is conscious, even the
moments of most absolute abandon are followed by other moments of
readjustment, and this is undeniably the case. Think, for instance, of
the laughter of romping boys which serves to reassure the combatants
by its implication that, in spite of appearances to the contrary, the
fight is only playful.

But this does not fully explain the illusion of the players. Just as in
æsthetic enjoyment we are for a long time entirely surrendered to the
illusion without consciously recognising the fact, so we find in play,
and especially that of children, absorption and self-forgetfulness so
complete that no room is left for the idea of oscillation. And when the
illusion is so strong and so lasting, as is sometimes the case with
little girls nursing their dolls, or with little boys playing soldier
or robber, they can no more be said to see through the illusion than to
alternate between it and reality. My own contribution to the solution
of the problem is set forth in my earlier work in the section on
hypnotic phenomena, more exhaustively than is possible here, where the
points of view are so much more varied. I therefore content myself with
the following partial elucidation:

If we may not assume consciousness of the illusion in complete
absorption, nor yet any true alternative with reality, we are forced to
the conclusion that the appearance produced by play differs essentially
from the reality which it represents, and is incapable of producing
genuine deception. Now this postulate seems to be borne out in a very
obvious and striking manner by the fact that sham activity and the
pretended object are evidently symbolic, since they are never perfect
duplicates of reality. Toward the most perfect imitation the playing
child entertains feelings quite different from those called forth by
a living creature. How, then, is there positive deception? But closer
examination shows us that the solution is not so simple. If such
external distinctions alone separated playful illusion from actual
deception, the force of the former would inevitably decline as this
difference increased. But the facts indicate exactly the contrary, as
we may see illustrated by the little girl who takes a sofa pillow for
a doll; the illusion is at least quite as great as when the toy is a
triumph of imitative art. The child actually approaches the hypnotic
state when she says that the pillow is a lady on the sofa, and chats
with her. Though there is of course no actual deception, the reason for
it must be looked for elsewhere than in any external difference from
reality.[680]

I believe its true basis to be the feeling of freedom which is closely
connected with joy in being a cause. Not the clear idea, “This is
only pretence,” but a subtile consciousness of free, voluntary
acceptance of the illusion stamps even the deepest absorption in it
with the seal _ipse feci_ as a safeguard from error. If we accept E.
von Hartmann’s æsthetic principle that to the consciousness which
is sunk in illusion the apparent I is different from the real I of
ordinary waking consciousness, then in illusion play the real I is
supplanted by the apparent I. Yet pleasurable feelings which belong
properly to the obscured real I may come over into the sphere of the
apparent I and lend to it a specific character. As in the contemplation
of beauty, enjoyment of sensuous pleasure passes into the sphere
of apparent feeling, and lends to the object that regal brilliance
which characterizes pure beauty, so in the wider field of illusion
play, genuine pleasure in the voluntary transference to that world of
appearances which transcends all the external aims of play, enters
into the sham occupation and converts it into something higher, freer,
finer, lighter, which the stress of objective events can not impair.
This effect of the feeling of freedom may advantageously be made the
subject of personal observation. Before going to sleep at night it is
easy to call up all sorts of faces and forms before the dosed eyes and
play with them, but as soon as the wearied consciousness lets slip the
sense of being the cause of it all, we shrink from these phantoms, and
playful illusion takes a serious turn.

Finally, through the feeling of freedom, the recreation theory attains
a special psychological significance which is quite generally
recognised. As soon as the individual has progressed far enough to
realize the seriousness of life (and this probably happens in an
unreflective sort of way to children too young to go to school) the
liberty of play signifies to him relief from this pressure. The more
earnest is a man’s life, the more will he enjoy the refuge afforded
by play when he can engage in sham occupations chosen at will, and
unencumbered by serious aims. There he is released from the bondage of
his work and from all the anxieties of life.


4. _The Æsthetic Standpoint_

While it is true that undue emphasis of the overflow of energy reduces
play to self-indulgence, at the same time it is unfair to art to make
too prominent its kinship with play. This is just the position of Guyau
in his æsthetic writings; yet he is far from denying the kinship, and I
think that he would have concurred to a great extent in Schiller’s view
if he could have convinced himself of the biological and sociological
importance of play by adequate investigation of its phenomena. I at
least have been confirmed in my conviction of the close connection
between play and æsthetics by the perusal of his book, and there,
too, my view stated in the very outset—namely, that this connection
obtains in a higher degree than does that between play and artistic
production—is also supported by his more thoroughgoing investigation of
the facts.

The following points present themselves as the most general results
of our observation of æsthetic enjoyment. We have found that all
sense organs display numerous impulses to activity, and consequently
enjoyment of the response to stimuli is a universal basis of play,
varying as to conditions and the quality of the stimuli. Now, since
every æsthetic pleasure (except the appreciation of poetry) is
connected with sense-perception, we find in it a genuine source of
enjoyment, depending on the origin and quality of such perception.
Observation merely for its own sake is the lowest form of æsthetic
enjoyment, and is so far identical with sensuous play.

On this foundation arises enjoyment of special stimuli. Confining
ourselves to sensory play, we can distinguish two groups—namely,
sensuously agreeable stimuli and intensive ones. The former, provided
higher æsthetic observation does its work of personification, finds
its sole object in beauty. Pleasure in intense stimuli is strong
enough to subdue the pain which is commonly associated with it, and
forms an introduction to enjoyment of what is grotesque, striking, and
tragic. It is especially prominent in the trancelike state so common in
movement-play as well as in æsthetic enjoyment.

Before going further we must pause to consider the idea so often
advanced that such enjoyment is peculiarly the prerogative of the
higher senses. Is the pleasure which I feel when I inhale a perfume as
much æsthetic as is the perception of beautiful colour? I think the
case is like that of the common idea of play. From a psychological
standpoint we recognise as such any act that is practised purely for
its pleasurable effect, and sham occupation in the higher forms of play
may be subjective. Therefore we can affirm that pleasure in perception
as such, and not necessarily in agreeable perception, grounds it, and
to this extent no one can demur if the beautiful colour is classed with
the pleasant odour. For the utmost æsthetic satisfaction, however,
more than this is requisite—first, definite form, and second, richer
spiritual effect—and since these are perceptible only to the higher
senses, it becomes their exclusive prerogative to take in the utmost
effects of artistic effort.

To resume our review, we observe that æsthetic enjoyment is not merely
a playful sensor experience, but manifests as well the higher psychic
grounds of perception. What we said of the pleasure of recognition,
the stimulus of novelty, and the shock of surprise need not here be
repeated. Illusion remains the most certain mark of higher æsthetic
enjoyment, and the important psychological problem connected with it
which was referred to in the preceding section has its application here
as in other illusion play. The first thing to notice about it here is
that it consists partly in the transference of thought from the copy
to an original,[681] and that sympathy and the borrowing of qualities
which are connected with imitation have also their parts to play.
Bearing all this in mind, we are in a position to put the question next
in order, What is the principal content of illusion?

Thus we arrive at a point similar to that reached in our study of
sensory plays. As the pleasure in stimulus as such surpasses the
pleasure in any particular form of stimulus, so here the subjective
activity of inner imitation as such is a source of pleasure quite apart
from the qualities inherent in the thing copied. Lipps says, in his
notice of my Einleitung in die Aesthetik, that for me the æsthetic
value of the object under observation and personification is not that
it is personified, but that it is I who personify it. Part III of
the book proves the injustice of this to my general view, yet I do
maintain that inner imitation is as such accompanied by pleasurable
feelings,[682] and consequently that æsthetic satisfaction possibly
finds its first limit when any painfulness connected with the subject
outweighs the enjoyment derived from inner imitation.

If, then, the act of inner imitation is in itself pleasurable, it
strikes me as self-evident that the degree of satisfaction attained
must be proportional to the value of its object. This is clearly
illustrated by the highest character of æsthetic intuition, the
impression of vital and mental completeness; and inner imitation shows
this, for it delights to act in response to the functions of movement,
force, life, and animation. Therefore Lotze is right when he says,
after approving the limitations which we have pointed out, “No form is
too chaste for the entrance and possession of our imagination.” On the
other hand, it is evident that the value of this indwelling depends
essentially on the peculiarities of the subject. If, for instance, I
transform myself into a shellfish and enter into its sole method of
enjoyment, opening end shutting its shell, I experience a far narrower
sort of æsthetic satisfaction than when I feel with a mother who is
caressing her child. It is just because inner imitation is involved
that the value of the æsthetic effect is determined by the qualities
of the object. But what are the qualities, it may be asked, which
augment or detract from this effect? An exhaustive and satisfactory
answer to this question is impossible here; such is the extraordinary
variety of the contributory factors. It properly belongs, too, to
specialized æsthetics. In general, however, it is safe to say that
we enjoy imitating what produces agreeable, and intense feelings,
and we thus find again on higher ground the same conditions which we
encountered in sensory play. This distinction is clearly brought out
by Lipps in his article on the impression made by a Doric column:
“The mechanical effects which are ‘easily’ attained remind us of such
acts of our own as are accomplished without effort or impediment, and
likewise the powerful expenditure of active mechanical energy recalls a
similar output of our will power. In the first case a cheerful feeling
of lightness and freedom results; in the other no less agreeable
sensations of our own vigour.”[683] In other spheres the value of
such indwelling seems to me to be chiefly in the two directions which
Schiller has indicated in his comparison of “grace” and “dignity.” I
would refer again in this connection to what has been said about the
importance of poetic enjoyment; if we are right in assigning love and
conflict as its chief motives, then here too enjoyment of agreeable and
intense stimuli is prominent.

If we ask, finally, how æsthetic enjoyment extends its sway beyond the
entire sphere of play, we encroach on the ethical bearings of art.
With the introduction of an element of moral elevation and profound
insight into life, æsthetic satisfaction ceases to be “mere” play and
transcends our present subject. But we must be careful to maintain that
it is transcendence and not exclusion, for even when (as is possible
to a Shakespeare and a Schiller) the intent toward moral elevation and
profound insight is prominent, our enjoyment remains æsthetic only so
long as these effects are developed and set forth in connection with
playful sympathy.

Our second leading question is that of the relation between play and
artistic production. Let us set out by announcing at once that the
latter, especially in highly developed art, is further removed from
play than is æsthetic enjoyment. This is implied in the fact that, for
the genuine artist, practical application of his aptitude is, as a
rule, his life’s calling; not necessarily his only means of support, of
course, but sufficiently absorbing to force the man of creative ability
to devote most of his life to an end which to the mass of mankind seems
unworthy of serious effort. In such a case art ceases to be playful.
But this transformation is not unique. That absorption in an apparently
useless form of activity which is so incomprehensible to the average
man, but which easily lures its votaries to rapt enthusiasm for their
art, is displayed in many forms less exalted than the striving for
an ideal. Plays not connected with art hold despotic sway over their
victims. Many devote their life’s best effort to some forms of sport,
and others to mental contests, such as those of chess, whist, etc.
E. Isolani says that when Zuckertort was a medical student in Berlin
he accidentally became a witness of a match game between two fine
chess players, and, although unfamiliar with the rules, he detected a
false play. This interested him in the game, and he became a pupil of
Anderson. Soon chess instead of medicine became his chief business in
life; he thought of nothing but how to improve his play. It kept him
awake at night, or, if fatigue overcame him, its problems pursued him
in dreams. At twenty-four he was a worn-out man. The demoniac power
with which art drives a man so predisposed resides in other games as
well; and in this both activities cease to be pure play.

Another basis for our subject is found in the fact that art presupposes
a useful field of application for technical skill whose acquirement and
improvement are no longer ends in themselves. The acquisition is often
a long and painful process, with little that is playful about it. But
this is common enough in other play as well when the technical side of
any sport is made the subject of serious study and effort.

Our third ground is to be sought in a very real aim, which is ever
beckoning to the artist. It may be designated in a general way as the
sympathetic interest of others, manifested in admiring recognition
and appreciation of the powers displayed, or in subscribing to the
convictions, views, and ideals of the artist. In so far as this is an
effective motive, art is no play. Strictly artistic temperaments are
especially liable to its influence at the beginning of their career.
Indifference, when sincere, is usually a later development, the product
of experience.

Having thus fortified our position against misconstruction, we
are prepared to proclaim the proper relationship between artistic
production and play. It seems to me to be more and more conspicuous as
we approach the springs of art. The primitive festival, combining as it
did music and poetry with dancing, had indeed a tremendous effect on
its witnessers, and its manifestations were essentially playful. Skill
acquired in childhood through playful practice was playfully exhibited
with original variations. The epic art, too, was playfully employed by
the primitive recounter, with no indication of toilsome preparation
or serious treatment, and the case is not widely different with what
we know of the beginnings of pictorial art. So long as primitive
sculpture served no religious purpose, simple delight in its use was
much more prominent, since all inherited the capacity, and none was
opposed to the mass as the exponent of a specialty. We meet the same
conditions in studying the child’s artistic efforts; his poetic and
musical efforts as well as those in drawing are essentially playful.
The idea of making an impression on others does appear, but it is still
very much in the background; enjoyment of his own productive activity
predominates in the infantile consciousness. Although highly developed
art does so transcend the sphere of play, it too is rooted in playful
experimentation and imitation, and we can detect their later growth
of joy in being a cause in the work of fullfledged artists of our own
day. Indeed, it is present in all creative activity, gilding earnest
work with a sportive glitter. In artistic production, however, it has
the special office of differentiating it from ordinary toil and making
appreciation of the thing created go hand in hand with its production.
Each new-found harmony of tone or colour or outline appealing to
criticism of its creator causes him intense enjoyment all through the
progress of its production, and the indifference sometimes felt toward
the finished work results from frequent repetition which has dulled the
edge of appetite.


5. _The Sociological Standpoint_

A still more summary method may be adopted in treating of the social
significance of play, since the section already devoted to it is of a
more theoretic character. The practice theory, as we have seen, makes
youthful play intelligible, but finds no lack of application to adults
as well. When we reflect on the unavoidable limitations and mechanical
routine of a regular calling we see how valuable is the cheering and
humanizing effect of play, both physical and mental, and especially
of those games which are calculated to strengthen the social tie. The
practice afforded by these is more important to the adult than to the
child, since the latter has always a certain social sphere in his
relations with his elders, while the wider demands of an adult are not
always so well provided for.

Two distinct impulses underlie the foundation of society—namely, the
desires for aggregation and for communication. Both are probably
derived from the parental relation, which expands as the culture of
the group develops. For this reason it is probable that Baldwin’s
principle of organic selection may take effect in this special case.
In general I hold to the view that play makes it possible to dispense
to a certain degree with specialized hereditary mechanism by fixing
and increasing acquired adaptations. On the social side we find much
the same conditions, though we may perhaps assume that comradeship
in play has an orthoplastic influence on the intensity of the social
impulse. When a society (a primitive race, for example, which is forced
by circumstances to wander about a great deal, or to conduct a war)
undertakes new tasks which lead to stronger and more extended social
organization, play alone can supply the necessary conditions. Under
its “screening” influence natural selection has time to eliminate the
variations which are not coincident, to further those which are, and so
to strengthen gradually the social impulses.

These two original social impulses find satisfaction in the social
circle as soon as the individual has outgrown the narrow limits of the
family, and the first social group into which he voluntarily enters is
that of his playmates. This is the social school for children; here,
says Jean Paul, “the first social fetters are woven of flowers,” and
here, too, does the adult find the perennial spring for renewing the
influence of the “socius”[684] in himself. Where association presents
only its more pleasing features, the voluntary subordination which
is sometimes irksome is natural enough both to the recognised leader
and to abstract law. Kant’s moral requisite that a person shall never
be made use of as a means is applicable to public life only when
individuals voluntarily fit themselves into the social mechanism. In
clubs for amusement, social sympathy and good comradeship undergo a
sort of artificial expansion which society could hardly attain without
the games and festivities that characterize them. This fact is apparent
among savages as well as in the most advanced social group of modern
times. The union of early tribes for their dances and feasts made it
possible for them to work together for serious purposes, and, to take
an illustration from the other extreme, a group of university teachers,
in spite of their peaceful calling, is best preserved from disastrous
dissension when their good comradeship is promoted by frequent and
regularly recurring social gatherings.

The effect of ordinary play is supported by social imitation. To do
what the others do, and so get the advantage of the stimulus which
belongs to collective activity; to thrill with the feeling that moves
the masses; to get out of the narrow circle of one’s own desires and
efforts—these the child learns with his playmates, and the grown man
in æsthetic sports and in festive gatherings. Thus play contributes to
the “experimental verification of the benefits and pleasures of united
action,”[685] and such experience must advance the ends of society,
since it forms habits which extend beyond the sphere of play. Hence
arises, too, the imitation of individuals who are especially prominent
in the social group. When among children or grown people some master
spirit takes the lead by virtue of his courage, wisdom, presence of
mind, or quick adaptability, his example is of quite incalculable
influence on his fellows. The effects of æsthetic sympathy when the
model is one of social excellence takes deep hold on the life around
it. In modern poetry, too, we have a powerful means of bringing the
social and ethical ideal home to each appreciative soul in the privacy
of his own home.

We have found, too, that the various aspects of the impulse of
communication which ground the inner spiritual association of the group
are also available for play. While in the animal world self-exhibition
may serve sexual purposes almost exclusively, such is not the case
with man. As his personality develops in response to his everchanging
relations to his social environment, he feels the need of finding all
that moves him, his joys and sorrows, his strivings and attainments,
reflected in the consciousness of other men. This is why I have
insisted that the various forms of rivalry which are so essential to
the preservation of the species are only in part derived from the
fighting impulse. The higher motive of proving to one’s associates what
one is capable of, is also operative, and play which exhibits it not
only serves to develop the social impulses, but also assists materially
in the struggle for life. Besides giving expression to individual
importance, the desire for self-exhibition includes a disposition to
depreciate others, and the friction which ensues is a most effectual
corrective of the vanity and overweening pride which are so easily
associated with it, giving rise at last to a just estimate of the value
and limits of our capacities.

The second and higher form of the communication impulse also—namely,
the desire to influence other wills and to direct and control public
action; in short, to become a social leader—finds full scope in play,
which affords good preliminary practice of the art of ruling, just
as it is the first school for voluntary subordination to social law.
Here the masterful mind learns how to control milder spirits and to
identify his own with the common interest, and here awakens the feeling
of responsibility and the wish to become by his example an inspiration
to his fellows. Any form of activity which develops sturdy independent
leaders is to be encouraged, for it is these that society is most in
need of.

Finally, we discover that imitation, where not mere collective play,
is eminently promotive through tradition of various departments of
culture. Few of our acquisitions in that line are due to physical
heredity. Time may increase the intensity of the social impulse, and
possibly diminish the force of our pugnacious tendencies (although to
my mind a comparison with the so-called lower-standing peoples offers
little encouragement to the hope), and intelligence may be further
refined if the limit has not already been reached; still this store
of culture must be acquired by each individual anew. Play does much
to make its attainment possible, and, above all, dramatic imitation
play. I would refer the reader again to Signe Rink’s description of
the children brought up in Greenland. If parental interference could
have been obliterated and imitation allowed free play, while the child,
it is true, would not have become exactly like a Greenland woman, she
would have come very near to it in her thoughts and feeling, and it is
doubtful whether any subsequent training in European customs could have
wholly extinguished this influence.


6. _The Pedagogical Standpoint_

The fact that the natural school of play affords a necessary complement
to pedagogics was recognised by educators of old, with some notable
exceptions, however. For example, the pietist Tollner uttered this
sentiment at a conference: “Play of whatever sort should be forbidden
in all evangelical schools, and its vanity and folly should be
explained to the children with warnings of how it turns the mind away
from God and eternal life, and works destruction to their immortal
souls.”[686] On the whole, however, the educational value of play has
been recognised from the time of Plato to the present day.[687] It
affords a reaction from the stress and strain of work. It satisfies the
natural demand for pleasure so impressively set forth by Luther, giving
opportunity for free, self-originated activity and practice to the
physical and mental capacities.[688] A discerning educator could not
afford to ignore so important a coadjutor.

There are two ways of regarding the relation of play to education.
Instruction may take the form of playful activity, or, on the other
hand, play may be converted into systematic teaching. Both methods are
natural to us, and may be carried to extreme lengths. The history of
pedagogics gives much interesting information as to experiments with
the first; for example, Joachim Böldicke, inspired by reading Locke and
Baratier,[689] set forth his method in the following programme in 1732,
as “an attempt to educate by the help of games, music, poetry, and
other entertainment through which important truths may be imparted.”
Thanks to the originators of the plan, ten intelligent children, twelve
years of age when they began, could understand in their fifteenth year
German, Latin, French, Italian, and English, and were well grounded in
all useful general knowledge. The writer proceeds to give an example of
the riddle games as follows: “I know an animal which eats grass, has
two horns on its head, a tail, and four cloven feet. What can it be?
When in need of anything, it lows. It has calves, suckles them, and
allows itself to be milked.” Whereupon the penetrating youth promptly
responds in Latin: “Non est, quod nomen addas; de vacca emin cogitasti,
quae est herbatica, cornuta, quadrupes, biscula, mugire, vitulos
parere, lactari et emulgeri potest.”[690]

Against such trifling it is sufficient to repeat the warning that J.
G. Schlosser published in 1776. At school one should learn to work,
and he who does everything playfully will always remain a child. Other
things being equal, it is most natural and advantageous to distinguish
clearly between play and study work.[691] Among primitive races, where
the life work is for the most part guided by natural impulse, at least
in the case of males, boys may get sufficient preparation from play
for their later life, though even they usually have some instruction
at the outset. But with civilized peoples usage to earnest, persistent
effort that is not dependent on caprice or impulse is an indispensable
condition of success in the struggle for life, and for this reason
school life should promote a high sense of duty as opposed to mere
inclination.

Yet this distinction should not be so stringent as to exclude
entirely the play impulse. We have repeatedly found in the course of
this inquiry that even the most serious work may include a certain
playfulness, especially when enjoyment of being a cause and of conquest
are prominent.[692] Between flippant trifling and conscientious study
there is a wide chasm which nothing can bridge; but not all play is
such trifling. Who would forbid the teacher’s making the effort to
induce in his pupils a psychological condition like that of the adult
worker, who is not oppressed by the _shall_ and _must_ in the pursuit
of his calling, because the very exertion of his physical and mental
powers in work involving all his capabilities fills his soul with
joy? Since play thus approaches work when pleasure in the activity
as such, as well as its practical aim, becomes a motive power (as in
the gymnastic games of adults), so may work become like play when its
real aim is superseded by enjoyment of the activity itself. And it can
hardly be doubted that this is the highest and noblest form of work.

Another question is how far the teacher’s effort should go in this
direction, and to answer this definitely something more than a purely
theoretic inquiry is needed, since many points are involved which have
more to do with the art than the method of education. On the whole, we
must concur with Kraepelin that in view of the danger of overstrain
and overfatigue it is probably fortunate that the majority of teachers
do not possess the faculty of turning study into an amusement, and
that those who do possess it make a great mistake in employing it
constantly. Yet, while disapproving totally of all trifling in
education, we still maintain that the school which is conducted
exclusively by an appeal to the stringent sense of duty, with no
incentive to the higher form of work in which the deepest earnestness
has much of the freedom of play—that such a school does not perfectly
fulfil its task.

In passing to our second question we must touch upon that connecting
link between work and play which we call occupation. The hobbies of
adults furnish voluntary activity like play, which is undertaken
chiefly from the pleasure it affords, but often has aims outside the
sphere of play. Pedagogical occupation is, on the contrary, playful
practice in the line of the child’s instruction, and forms an adaptive
means of transition from the freedom of the first years of life to
school work. Froebel’s kindergarten system is most valuable in this
way. Its occupations suggest to the children something beyond mere
play, and supply definite aims for their activity and study, but they
should always be kept near the limits of play; forced occupation
against the child’s will does not fulfil the purpose of such exercise.
Since in what follows I shall be limited to the consideration of
actual play, I take occasion to mention here that there is a certain
analogy to pedagogic occupation among savages. Brough Smith sends from
Australia an account of an old woman’s direction of the occupation of
young girls: “The old woman herself collected the material, built a
skin hut, and taught each of the little ones with great care to make
small ones like the large model. She showed them where to get the gum
and how to use it. She sent the girls to gather rushes, and taught
them to weave baskets over round stones, etc.”[693] This is not exactly
systematic education like that of our schools, but it may properly be
classed with kindergarten work.

After this digression we now proceed to our second leading question:
How far may a teacher direct play to pedagogic ends without destroying
its freedom and genuineness? In this direction, too, many teachers err.
Campe thought that the irrepressible tendency to popular sport should
be allowed to indulge in only those of its inventions which developed
the reason, perception, judgment, etc., and even those persons who
recognise the value of Froebel’s system bring the charge, which for a
teacher is a damaging one, that by his methods, and especially by the
songs he uses so much, spontaneity and _naïveté_ are almost totally
destroyed. Every user of the system should be cautioned against a
careless or thoughtless application of it. Jean Paul says strikingly,
“I tremble when any grown-up, hardened hand meddles with these tender
buds from childhood’s garden, rubbing off the bloom here and marring
the delicacy of tint there.”

Yet it would be unfortunate and in a sense unnatural for the teacher,
and even more so for the parent, to leave the playing child entirely to
his own devices. Adults have three important tasks in this direction
which are imperative—namely, general incitation to play, encouragement
of what is good and useful, and discouragement of injurious and
improper forms of play. Animals teach their young to play, and for this
reason I have said it would be unnatural for parents to be unconcerned
about their children’s games. While all animals show a greater or less
disposition for sportiveness, it is strongest in the mother with her
young, and gives rise to some of the most attractive phases of animal
life. Love toward the small, helpless creatures manifests itself as
well in playing with them as in nursing and caring for them. The mother
not only submits to their tumbling all over her and pulling at her
as their movement and fighting instincts impel them to do, but she
encourages them to active play. This instinct is much stronger in our
own race. Not the mother alone, but every normal woman feels again a
child at the sight of children, and the father, too, is conscious of an
irresistible drawing toward the nursery in his leisure moments, there
to indulge in a short excursion to the lost paradise of childish play.

His parents are a child’s natural playmates for the first years of his
life, since, as has been said, a too early introduction to a wider
social circle can but have a baneful effect. Consequently, it is
important that the inward impulse, as well as the outward stimulus, to
play should be present, and when it is lacking the after impression
of the early home throws a shadow over all the future life. The same
remark, with some modifications, applies to teachers, when the child
grows older and goes to school. It is, of course, not necessary for a
teacher to join in the games of the merry urchins out of doors, yet
in the lower grades especially it is a fortunate circumstance when he
possesses the faculty of becoming a child again with the children in
their plays and walks. He must be able, however, to resume the sceptre
firmly when need arises.

This naturally opens the way for the second duty of the child’s
instructor—directing his play toward what is good and useful. The two
ends do not necessarily coincide, for there is an egotistical sort of
playing with children which is more for the amusement of adults than
anything else. Better no play than this. Herbert once said, “Let no
man use his child as a plaything.” There are numerous ways to direct
the child’s play to useful purposes. We may provide him with toys and
tools which suggest their own use, as animals show us how to do when
they bring a living victim to their young as a plaything. The objection
that in providing playthings the child’s inventiveness as well as
his enjoyment of illusion is interfered with needs but brief notice.
Reischle rightly says that the most ancient tradition justifies the
use of toys, and has chosen wisely among them. The physical and mental
capacities of children are furthered, too, by the use of many plays
which require no tools or toys. Recollection of our own childhood and
a glance at the conditions will aid us in directing their play by
advice or example. Influence in this direction is less apparent at
school, but as the population of our cities grows more crowded the
need for intelligent direction is becoming evident. City children grow
up under unnatural conditions, and opportunities for play, especially
health-producing movement-play, should be provided artificially, space
devoted to it, needed aids furnished, and the effort made to introduce
the most useful and attractive gymnastic plays to the children. The
growing interest of all classes in such efforts encourages the hope
that the damaging consequences of our modern methods of living may be
effectually counteracted in this way.

As to the positive ethical development of the child by play, we may
premise that play in itself contributes materially to the establishment
of ethical individuality. This, as we have before insisted, is properly
developed only in the give and take of social intercourse which with
children is found almost entirely in play. “Development of ethical
character,” says Reischle, “requires on the one hand social influences
preparatory for service in human society, and on the other individual
culture. Any supposed antagonism between these is only apparent. In
reality they are the two including poles. Human society reaches its
fulness only among well-rounded individualities, since they alone are
properly fitted for service to the whole; and be it noted that such
characters do not develop in solitude, but in the stress of social
life. Play has its uses in both directions. How else can individual
qualities be so well brought out and developed as in the free,
untrammelled use of all one’s powers? Here are brought into contact
contemplative, quiet natures with active, forceful ones, the stubborn
with the pliant will. Play reveals the breadth or limitation of the
child’s horizon, the independence of his character, or his need of
support and direction.”[694]

In spite of all this, many are opposed to any attempt on the part
of educators to introduce the ethical element into play. It is
undoubtedly a mistake to smuggle moral reflections in whatever form
into play (songs furnish a case in point), nor is it wise to single
out for praise those who display skill, courage, self-control, a
self-sacrificing spirit, or any other excellence of character in play.
Such a practice tends to destroy its spontaneity and ideality. There
seems, then, to be but one legitimate means for promoting development
of ethical character in play. Those who with me regard æsthetic
enjoyment of poetry as a play will recognise in it a wide field for
positive influence. From the first nursery rhymes to the reading
provided for those nearly grown, a discriminating hand should choose
those works which are calculated to supply ethical ideals to the
plastic mind. Yet attractiveness should always be considered, and any
obscuration of poetic charm with moral reflections be avoided.

Much more obvious is the educational value of the negative task, the
third, which consists in the avoidance of what is evil, and the effort
to check wrong tendencies. The struggle with open iniquity goes hand
in hand with avoiding more insidious moral danger. Let us try to
distinguish the more salient points by the following method: First,
the child should not play too much. In the physiological investigation
I spoke at some length of the law of repetition, and the trancelike
or ecstatic state induced by many plays, together with the fact that
they are often pursued to the point of exhaustion. If the instructor
insists on rest before this comes to pass he would seem to be imposing
a proper restriction, which is most valuable to ethical education, for
at this point the moral law of temperance can be made most impressive
to the child. Second, play which has become or threatens to become
violent may be restrained to proper bounds, and the important ethical
lesson of self-control be inculcated. Third, it may be required that
everything dangerous to life or health shall be excluded or carefully
regulated. Here the teacher must avoid overanxiety, for courage, which
is itself of at least equal ethical value, can only be developed in the
growing character by the encounter of actual risks and learning to meet
them with self-reliance. Fourth, guardians must sometimes interfere
when fighting impulses are manifested in a rude or ill-natured manner,
as it is apt to be in the various forms of teasing. Misuse of this
valuable impulse may cause deep spiritual injury to both the aggressor
and his victim. When children have fallen under the power of a bad,
tyrannous, or low-minded leader, they should be interfered with, and
if possible by some method which will show up the unworthy leader in
his true colours. Fifth, and finally, it should be emphasized that
the beautiful task of play, the development of the individual to full
manhood or womanhood by means of an all-round exercise of his or her
capacities, is retarded by restriction to one particular form of
play. The prevalence of daydreaming is an instance of such injurious
one-sidedness.[695] When a child becomes absorbed in solitary musing
(see the youthful reminiscences of George Sand), he should be aroused
by application to useful occupation or by social stimuli which bring
him in every possible way into contact with the external world. Even
the noble gift of imagination may from overindulgence degenerate into a
deadly poison.




FOOTNOTES:


[1] L. Grasberger, Erziehung und Unterricht im klassischen Alterthum,
Würzburg, 1864, vol. i, p. 23. See also Colozza’s compilation Il Guioco
nella Psicologia e nella Pedagogia, Turin, 1895, p. 36.

[2] Die Spiele der Thiere, Jena, 1896. English translation by E. L.
Baldwin. D. Appleton and Company, New York, 1898.

[3] This is a modification of my former view. For particulars, see the
section on Imitative Play.

[4] Jodl, Lehrbuch der Psychologie, Stuttgart, 1896, p. 425.

[5] He speaks (Psychology des Sentiments, Paris, 1896, p. 195) of an
instinctive impulse “à depenser un superflu d’activité.” If, as I
believe, this does not mean actual superfluity (Spencer’s “surplus”
energy), then it must refer to our natural impulse to seek action and
experience. See also Paolo Lombroso, Piacere di esplicare la propria
activita. (Saggi di Psicologia del Bambino, Turin, 1894, p. 117.)

[6] Acquired impulses are all developed from natural ones.

[7] In Ribot’s classification these impulses become instincts belonging
to the second group (Psychologie des Sentiments, p. 194).

[8] The terms “private” and “public” (or “social”) are used by Baldwin,
Social and Ethical Interpretations, section 30, to cover a similar
distinction. The terms “autonomic” and “socionomic” impulses would
possibly answer.—ED.

[9] W. Preyer. Die Seele dee Kindes, 4^{to} Auf., Leipsic, 1895, p. 64.

[10] See the writings of J. Mark Baldwin on the importance of
repetition for development. They are frequently cited in what follows.

[11] B. Perez. Ses trois premières années de l’enfant, fifth edition,
Paris, 1892, pp. 38, 45.

[12] See G. Stanley Hall, Some Aspects of the Early Sense of Self.
American Journal of Psychology, vol. ix, No. 3, 1898.

[13] _Op. cit._, p. 162.

[14] L. Strümpell, Psychologische Pädagogik, Leipsic, 1880, pp. 359,
360.

[15] _Op. cit._, p. 357.

[16] Dr. Sikorski, L’évolution physique de l’enfant, Revue
Philosophique xix (1885). p. 418.

[17]

  “The wolves’ eyes burned in their heeds like fire,
   But the boy in his folly fled not before the foe;
   He went up to one of them and seized it with his hand
   Where he saw the glittering eyes glowing in its head.”

I. V. Zingerle, Das Deutsche Kinderspiel, second edition, Innsbruck,
1873. p. 51.

[18] Les trois premières années, etc., p. 46. In regard to the words
“sensations agreeable or even indifferent,” I would say that this
distinction between pleasure in sensation as such, and pleasure in
agreeable sensation, recurs again and again. In the most advanced play,
æsthetic enjoyment, it appears as the difference between æsthetic
effect and beauty.

[19] G. Compayré, L’évolution intellectuelle et morale de l’enfant,
Paris, 1893.

[20] H. Wölfflin, Prolegomena zu einer Psychologie der Architektur,
Munich, 1886, p. 47.

[21] W. Joest, Allerlei Spielzeug, Internationales Archiv für
Ethnographie, vol. vi (1893).

[22] Deutsche Colonialzeitung, 1889, No. 11.

[23] Croker’s Boswell’s Johnson, p. 215.

[24] _Op. cit._, p. 65.

[25] Perez, Les trois premières années, p. 16.

[26] _Op. cit._, p. 87.

[27] Compayré, indeed, maintains that kissing in no more than a
“ressouvenir” of the lip movements on the maternal breast.

[28] L. Grasberger, _op. cit._, Part I, p. 35. Fig. 282 in Maurice
Emmanuel’s book. La danse Grecque antique (Paris, 1896), furnishes a
pictorial representation of this movement.

[29] Miss Romanes’s account of the capuchin ape perhaps furnishes an
example from the animal world: “He pulls out hot cinders from the
grate, and passes them over his head and chest, evidently enjoying the
warmth, but never burning himself. He also puts hot ashes on his head”
(Animal Intelligence, fifth edition, London, 1892, p. 493). The context
favours the supposition of playful experimentation.

[30] “Un aveugle, voulant exprimer la volupté que lui causait cette
chaleur du soleil invisible pour lui, disait quil croyait entendre le
soleil comme une harmonie” (M. Guyan, Les problèmes de l’esthétique
contemporaine, third edition, p. 61).

[31] A. Kussmaul, Untersuchungen über das Seelenleben des neugeborenen
Menschen, 1859, p. 16.

[32] Les yeux et les narines étant fermés, dit Longet, on ne
distinguera pas une crème à la vanille d’une crème au café; elles ne
produiront qu’une sensation commune de saveur douce et sucrée (Perez,
Les trois années, etc., p. 14).

[33] R. Semon, Im australischen Busch und an den Kusten des
Korallenmeeres, Leipsic, 1896, p. 512.

[34] _Op. cit._, p. 18.

[35] _Op. cit._, p. 66.

[36] Mario Pilo, La psychologie de beau et de l’art, Paris, 1895, p. 15.

[37] This section has been published under the title Ueber Hör-Spiele,
in the Vierteljahrsschrift f. wiss. Philos., xxii.

[38] Descent of Man, vol. ii, p. 228.

[39] E. and L. Selenka, Soninge Welt, Wiesbaden, 1896, p. 55. The cry
is said to be less like a melody than a sort of exulting call. One of
the Swiss hunters in the expedition said that the ape _jodeled_ back to
him.

[40] W. Preyer, Die Seele des Kindes, p. 56. See Miss Shinn’s Notes on
the Development of the Child, p. 115.

[41] J. Sully, Studies of Childhood, London, 1896, p. 409.

[42] B. Perez, Ses trois premières années des enfant, p. 34.

[43] E. Gurney, The Power of Sound, London, 1880, p. 102.

[44] B. Sigismund, Kind und Welt, 1897, p. 60.

[45] Miss Shinn’s small niece displayed very little appreciation for
rhythm. _Loc. cit._, 120.

[46] This instance is subsCituted for a parallel one of Professor
Groos’s, as the point of the latter would of course vanish in the
attempt to translate it.—TR.

[47] See Gurney, _op. cit._, pp. 35, 306.

[48] Darwin, _op. cit._, vol. ii. p. 321.

[49] Streifzüge eines Unzeilgemässen, vol. viii, p. 122.

[50] P. Souriau, La Suggestion dans l’art, Paris, 1893. Of course this
means only a more or less remote approach to narcosis on the one hand,
and hypnosis on the other. Perhaps the idea of ecstasy meets our case
even better, as Mantegazza has figured it:

      Ecstasy.
         /\
        /  \
       /    \
      /      \
     /        \
    /----------\
Hypnosis.   Narcosis.


[51] Karl Büchner’s pregnant hypothesis is that acquaintance with
rhythm is chiefly derived from physical labour (Arbeit und Rhythmus,
Leipsic, 1896).

[52] See B. O. Stoll, Suggestion und Hypnose in der Völkerpsychologie,
and J. Lippert, Kulturgeschichte der Menschheit, vol. i, p. 632, where
this idea is set forth with great clearness.

[53] Schopenhauer says, Rhythm (and rhyme) is “partly a means of
keeping our attention—since we gladly follow it—and partly the occasion
of a blind unreasoning submission in us to leadership, which by this
means attains a certain authoritative and apparently unaccountable
power over us.”

[54] _Op. cit._, p. 67.

[55] According to R. Wallaschek, it is the demand for distinct rhythm
which first elevates the state of transport to the appreciation of
melody, and leads to the proper valuation of the interval (Primitive
Music, London, 1893, p. 232).

[56] E. Hanslick, Vom Musikalisch-Schönen, Leipsic, 1896, p. 153.

[57] _Op. cit._, pp. 168, 171.

[58] Stumpf has treated the question most exhaustively (Tonpsychologie,
vol. i. p. 202).

[59] H. Siebeck, Das Wesen der Aesthetischen Anschauung, Berlin, 1875,
p. 153.

[60] Köstlin, Aesthetik, p. 560.

[61] “Primitive music can not have grown out of the voice modulation in
excited speech, because in many cases it has no modulation of tone, but
is simply rhythmic movement in a single tone” (Wallaschek, Primitive
Music, p. 252).

[62] _Op. cit._, p. 272.

[63] In a celebrated Chinese poem the effect of music is thus
described: “Now soft as whispered words, now soft and loud
together—like pearls falling on marble—now coaxing as the call of
birds, now complaining like a brook, and now like a mountain stream
bursting its icy bounds.” When we recall the great difference in form
between Chinese music and our own, the similarity of emotional effect
is astonishing.

[64] Compayré, _op. cit._, p. 41.

[65] H. Gutzmann (Das Kindes Sprach und Sprachfehler, 1894, p. 7) shown
that crying is good practice for talking, because, in contrast to the
habitual method of breathing, a short, deep inhalation is followed by
lingering exhalation, as in speech.

[66] _Loc. cit._, p. 368. It is, of course, difficult to say at what
moment the automatic babbling attains the dignity of speech.

[67] Somewhat akin to inspiratory sounds are the clicking noises which
children often produce. These are well known to play a considerable
part in the language of the Hottentots. For the influence of the
self-originated language of children on the speech of adults, and for
the analogy between child-language and that of the lower races, see H.
Gutzmann, Die Sprachlaute des Kindes und der Naturvölker, Westermann’s
Monatshefte, December, 1895.

[68] Lubbock and Tylor have pointed out that reduplication is used much
more in the speech of savages than in that of civilized peoples.

[69] _Op. cit._, p. 311. These citations are somewhat curtailed.—TR.

[70] L. Beeq de Fouquières, Les jeus des anciens, Paris, 1869, p. 278.

[71] Croker’s Boswell’s Johnson, p. 215.

[72] See K. Bücher, Arbeit und Rhythmus, p. 75.

[73] In subjective rhythm, a scale which is properly without accent
is, as a rule, conceived of as having some tones emphasized to mark
time. See E. Meumann, Untersuchungen zur Psychologie und Aesthetik des
Rhythmus (Philos. Studien, vol. x, p. 286).

[74] _Loc. cit._, p. 301.

[75] R. M. Meyer, Ueber den Refrain, Zeitschrift f. vgl. Litt-Gesch.,
i, 1887, p. 34. Marie G——, for example, sang in her seventh year,
when first awakened, _wólla_, _wólla_, _budscha_, incessantly and
melodiously.

[76] _Loc. cit._, p. 62.

[77] “Le rythme ... vant surtout par son effet d’entrainement,”
Souriau, La suggestion dans l’art, p. 47.

[78] W. Joest, Maylayische Lieder und Tänze aus Ambon und den Uliase
(Molukken), Internat. Arch. f. Ethnogr., v, 1892, p. 23.

[79] The application of the principle of thirds to rhyme is
interesting, since the echo-like ring of the triple rhyme has an effect
very similar to that of chain rhymes.

[80] Miss Shinn, _loc. cit._, p. 134. With the mentally deranged the
stringing of senseless rhymes is very common. One patient wrote on a
sheet of paper. “Nelke, welke, Helge; Hilde, Tilde, Milde; Hand, Wand,
Sand.” Kräpelin, Psychiatrie, Leipsic, 1896, p. 599.

[81] Rochholz, Alemannisches Kinderlied und Kinderspiel, Leipsic, 1857,
p. 124.

[82] J. Mark Baldwin, Mental Development in the Child and the Race,
1895, p. 132.

[83] Rather a free translation of the verse in J. D. Georgens’s Mutter
Büchlein. p. 170.

[84] F. M. Böhme, Deutsches Kinderlied und Kinderspiel, 1897, p. 302.

[85] A. Bastian, Die Völker des östlichen Asien, vol. iii, 1867, p. 227.

[86] See H. Ploss, Das Kind in Brauch and Sitte der Völker, 1882, vol.
ii, p. 285.

[87] _Op. cit._, p. 57.

[88] L. Strümpell, Psychologische Pädagogik, p. 358.

[89] Sully, _loc. cit._, p. 415.

[90] _Op. cit._, p. 58.

[91] _Op. cit._, p. 33.

[92] _Op. cit._, p. 212.

[93] “Cracking the fingers,” writes Schellong from Kaiserwilhelmsland,
“is a familiar practice with the little Papuan.” Zeitschrift für
Ethnologie, xxi (1889), p. 16.

[94] G. A. Colozza does not sufficiently consider this versatility when
he says in his interesting hook on play, “I giocattoli dei bambini
poveri non sono che delle pietre; esse si divertono non poco nel
sentire il rumore che si ha battendo pietra contra pietra.” Il Gienoco
nella Psychologia e nella Pedagogia, p. 70.

[95] E. Grosse, Die Anfänge der Kunst, 1894, pp. 275, 277.

[96] G. Reischel, Aus allen Welttheilen, 1896, No. 2. Wallaschek did
not believe that the drum is a primitive instrument chiefly because
of our failure to find them among prehistoric relics, though the fife
is frequently found among those of the stone age. Here we have an
instance, however, which, while it belongs to the close of the period,
is of such a complicated and well-developed form as to point to long
use. Moreover, as Grosse points out in a letter to me, Wallaschek’s
argument is not conclusive, inasmuch as the material used for primitive
drums was perishable.

[97] Our bells, too, may be derived from the rattle.

[98] Les jeux des anciens, pp. 6, 12.

[99] See Rich. Andree, Ethnog. Parallellen und Vergleichen, 1889, p. 86.

[100] Alwin Schultz, Alltagsleben einer deutschen Frau zu Anfang des 18
Jahrhundert, 1890, p. 207.

[101] A formidable objection seems to me to lie in the fact that manual
labour is almost entirely wanting among the tribes who subsist by the
chase, and that what little they have is conducted by the women, while
it is the men who indulge in the song and dance. Grosse, moreover,
assures me that even their swimming and marching are not calculated
to support this theory. It should be added that Bücher has now
considerably modified his view by deriving work itself from play (Die
Entstehung der Volkswirtschaft, 1890, p. 92). “The order formerly laid
down must be directly reversed; play is older than work, art older than
production for utility.”

[102] This is too baldly stated.

[103] _Op. cit._, p. 91.

[104] E. Raehlmann, Physiol.-psychol. Studien über die Entwickelung der
Gesichtswahrnehmungen bei Kindern und bei operirten Blindgeborenen.
Zeitsch. für Psychol. und Physiol. der Sinnesorgane, vol. ii (1891), p.
69. Raehlmann maintains in this article that those who are born blind
and attain the power of vision by operation pass through a process of
development quite like that of the child.

[105] It is otherwise with those born blind. Johann Ruben, who was
nineteen when operated on, at once made distance the subject of his
investigation. “For example, he pulled off his boot and threw it some
distance, and then tried to estimate how far off it was. He walked some
steps toward it, and tried to pick it up; finding that he could not
reach it he went a little farther, until he finally got it.” Raehlmann,
ibid., p. 81.

[106] Die Seele des Kindes, p. 4.

[107]

“Then he forgot how cold he was, and played with the ring. The little
child forgot all his woe. He seized upon the ring and said, ‘What is
this?’”

—Zingerle, p. 51.


[108] Kind und Welt, pp. 58, 61.

[109] In Nacht und Eis, vol. i, p. 222.

[110] J. G. Romanes, Animal Intelligence, p. 493. See, too, Ellendorf’s
beautiful description of the monkey playing with matches, Gartenlaube,
1862, p. 300.

[111]

  “There, see, the curtain dark already rolls away!
   The night must fly, now dreams the glorious day;
   The crimson lips that lay fast closed so long,
   Breathe now, half ope’d, a sweet, low song;
   Once more the eye gleams bright, and, like a god, the day
   Bounds forward to begin again his royal way.”


[112] W. James, Principles of Psychology, vol. i, p. 268.

[113] Die Anfänge der Kunst, p. 99.

[114] O. Külpe, Grundriss der Psychologie, 1893, p. 126.

[115] “Shade,” says Schelling, “is the painter’s stock in trade, the
body into which he must try to breathe the fleeting soul of light; and
even the mechanics of his art show him that the black which is at his
service comes far nearer to the effect of darkness than does white to
that of light.” Leonardo da Vinci has said, “Painter, if you desire the
brilliance of fame, do not shrink from the gloom of shadow.” Sammtl.
Werke, vol. v, p. 533.

[116] Die Seele des Kindes, p. 6.

[117] Studies in Childhood, pp. 402, 300.

[118] Ibid.

[119] _Op. cit._, p. 67.

[120] See also Miss Shinn, _op. cit._, pp. 29, 33, and F. Tracy, The
Psychology of Childhood, Boston, 1897, p. 14.

[121] Mental Development, p. 50.

[122] See also Baldwin’s reply to Preyer in the German and French
translations of his book.—ED.

[123] _Op. cit._, 13. Sully’s boy, on the contrary, in the eighth month
of his third year at once called a light greenish gray, green. Studies
of Childhood, p. 437.

[124] _Op. cit._, p. 68.

[125] Grosse, _op. cit._, p. 53.

[126] O. Frass, Beiträge zur Culturgeschichte den Menschen während
der Eiszeit. Nach den Funden von der Schussenquelle. Archiv für
Anthropologie, vol. ii.

[127] Grosse, p. 100.

[128] It should, however, be mentioned that the Brazilian Indians
observed by v. d. Steinen wore green and blue feathers also.

[129] It is undeniable that they sometimes use shades of blue in their
ornaments, when they have seen Europeans do so.

[130] _Op. cit._, pp. 170, 171.

[131] La suggestion dans l’art, p. 95.

[132] _Op. cit._, pp. 170, 171.

[133] Die Seele des Kindes, p. 40.

[134] That the child first acquires a clear perception of form by means
of experimentation is proved by the uncertainty of those blind persons
whose sight is restored, in recognising form by the eye (even weeks
after the removal of the bandages), although they already have a clear
idea of the forms, acquired by touch.

[135] Prolegomena zu einer Psychologie der Architektur, p. 13.

[136] A collection of such patterns may be found in the work of L. V.
Frobenius, Die Kunst der Naturvölker. 1. Die Ornamentik, Westermanns
Monatshefte, December, 1895.

[137] W. Joest, Ethnolographisches und Verwandtes aus Guayana, p. 90.

[138] Die Anfänge der Kunst, p. 111.

[139] Vierteljahrsschr. für wissensch. Philos., vol. xx (1896).

[140] _Op. cit._, p. 14.

[141] See G. H. Schneider. Why do we notice things which are moving
regularly more easily than those at rest? Vierteljahrsschr. für
wissenschaft. Philos., vol. ii (1878), p. 377.

[142] L. Edinger, Die Entwickelung der Gehirnbahnen in der Thierreihe,
Allgemeine medicinische Central-Zeitung, 65. Jahrgang (1896).

[143] The most thrilling ghost stories are those in which a cold hand
rests on the back of the neck, or where the victim sees in a mirror
the ghost behind him. Dogs, too, who are quietly lying down react with
greater excitement to light touches on the hair of their backs. The
opposite to this feeling is the pleasure we feel in bestowing our backs
in a safe corner—of a restaurant, etc.

[144] L. William Stern, Die Wahrnehmung von Bewegungen vermittelst des
Auges, Zeitschr. für Psychol. u. Physiol. d. Sinnesorgane, vol. vii
(1894), p. 373.

[145] _Op. cit._, p. 64.

[146] Die Seele des Kindes, p. 27. _Cf._ Baldwin’s remarks on the
child’s interest in movement in Mental Development in the Child and the
Race, p. 336.—TR.

[147] See Ploss, Das Kind, etc., vol. ii, p. 313.

[148] Grasberger, vol. i, p. 75.

[149] The Play of Animals, p. 225.

[150] Alwin Schultz, _op. cit._, p. 169.

[151]

  “Stay now thine heart, O wanderer, held fast in powerful hands!
   Mine own breaks forth in trembling joy.
   Thundering masses roll, on thundering masses hurled,
   How can the eye and ear escape the tumultuous roar?

  “War horses of the gods at play, leaping over one another.
     Dashing downward and strewing to the winds their silver manes;
   Exquisite forms unnumbered follow them, never the same,
     Ever the same—who can wait till the end shall be?”


[152] This is the case with our round dances, and is, perhaps, the
greatest objection to them.

[153] Die Anfänge der Kunst, pp. 202, 215.

[154] Ibid.

[155] Perhaps the world-wide demand for some sort of intoxicant is
another kind of sensory play, since it is calculated to excite and
intensify the social feelings. Kruepelin says (Psychiatrie, p. 361)
that there is scarcely a single people which does not possess some
popular agency for getting rid of the petty cares of life, and that the
variety of these poisonous springs of pleasure is surprisingly great.
I will note only alcoholism and the morphine habit. Mild intoxication
by the former creates in the subject pleasant internal temperature
sensations, combined with greater facility in all motor exertion. We
become freer, gayer, and braver, and feel that life has no cares or
anxieties for us, our strength and ability seem enhanced, and we behave
and speak with candour and commonly without caution. The effect of
morphine, on the contrary, seems to be rather a pleasant deadening of
the motor impulses and a quickening of the intellect and imagination.
In Paris there are said to be at least fifty thousand morphine takers,
and the manufacture of gold hypodermic syringes of elegant design
has become an important branch of the goldsmith’s business. That
this intoxication is indulged in like play is shown, by Kraepelin’s
statement that in a Russian regiment, to which a young friend of his
belonged, nearly all the officers used the syringe. A still more
evident play with the social feelings is displayed by many hysterical
subjects, who take a certain satisfaction in imagined or real bodily
sufferings. These become the central fact in their lives, and are even
regarded with a sort of pride as an absorbing topic of conversation
(Kraepelin, Psychiatrie, p. 782). These extravagances go to show that
men in a normal state also play with their social emotions, even when
these are in a way distasteful.

[156] Die Seele des Kindes, pp. 211, 216.

[157] Karl Vierordt, Physiologie des Kindesalters, Gerhardt’s Handbuch
der Kinderkrankheiten, vol. i, p. 181.

[158] Preyer, Die Seele des Kindes, p. 139.

[159] Preyer, Die Seele des Kindes. p. 189.

[160] Mental Development, etc., chap, iv, the Origin of
Right-handedness See, too, Vierordt, Physiologie des Kindesalters, p.
187. [Baldwin explains it genetically as an “expressive function” which
afterward culminates in speech, which is located in an adjacent centre
in the same hemisphere.—TR.]

[161] See O. Behaghel, Etwas vom Zuknöpfen, Frankfurter Zeitung, 1897,
No. 329.

[162] _Op. cit._, pp. 444, 600.

[163] _Op. cit._, pp. 444, 600.

[164] Die Narcotic Genussmittel und der Mensch, preface, and p. 376.

[165] Ibid.

[166] Jules Legras, Au pays Russe, Paris, 1895, p. 18.

[167] “The reprehensible confining of the child’s legs,” says Vierordt,
in reference to kicking, “<DW44>s the development of the muscles not a
little.” Psychologie des Kindesalters, p. 186.

[168] _Op. cit._, p. 174.

[169] Kind und Welt, p. 70. Sigismund tries to explain the backward
creeping as due to the feet that the child gets on its dress and is
impeded by it. But it is noteworthy that Baldwin’s little daughter, who
for a time preferred to creep backward, had previously exhibited the
reverse of natural walking movements—namely, such as would carry her
backward—when held over a table so that she could just feel it with her
soles. Mental Development, etc., p. 82.

[170] Les jeux des anciens, pp. 16, 21.

[171] Sigismund, _op. cit._, pp. 56, 74.

[172] Die Seele des Kindes, p. 175.

[173] Sigismund, _op. cit._, pp. 56, 74.

[174] Die Seele des Kindes, p. 179.

[175] Mental Development, etc., p. 81.

[176] Pädagogische Schriften, 1883, vol. ii, p. 333.

[177] Kraepelin, Psychiatrie, p. 445.

[178] _Op. cit._, p. 182.

[179] M. Guyau, Les Problèmes de l’Esthétique contemporaine, p. 48.

[180] L. Grasberger, Erziebung und Unterricht im klassischen Alterthum,
pp. 32, 319.

[181] A. F. Chamberlain, The Child and Childhood in Folk-Thought, p.
268.

[182] See W. Seoboda, Die Bewohner des Nikobar-Archipels. Inter. Arch.
für Eth., vol. vi (1893), p. 32.

[183] Grasberger, _op. cit._, p. 300.

[184] Weinhold. Altnordisches Leben, Berlin. 1856. p. 308.

[185] H. O. Lenz, Gemeinnützige Naturgeschichte, 1851, vol. i, p. 612.

[186] K. Wienhold, Altnordisches Leben, p. 307.

[187] Die Seele des Kindes, p. 183.

[188] J. Minor, Neuhochdeutsche Metrik, Strassburg, 1893, p. 11.

[189]

  “It is the godlike power of harmony
   Which orders wild motions to the quiet social dance.
   And like a Nemesis, with the golden reins of rhythm,
   Harnesses riotous lust, and tames its madness.”


[190] “O, Du frecher Spielmann, mach uns den Reihen lang! Juchheia! Wie
er sprang! Herz, Milz, Lung und Leber sich rundum in ihm Schwang.”

K. Weinhold, Die deutschen Frauen in Mittelalter, p. 373.

[191] Sonnige Welten, p. 77.

[192] Our waltz was originally the final movement in a complicated
dance “which represented the romance of love, the meeting, the
pursuit, the painful doubts and difficulties, and at last the wedding
jollity.”—Schaller, Das Spiel und die Spieler, 1861, p. 219.

[193] Grosse, _op. cit._, p. 203.

[194] Sonnige Welten, p. 838.

[195] H. Ploss. Das Kleine Kind vom Tragbett bis zum ersten Schritt.
1881, p. 98. From this exhaustive treatise on the cradle it appears
that most primitive peoples do not use our cradles with rockers, but
prefer the swinging kind.

[196] K. v. d. Steinen, Unter den Naturvölkern Centralbrasiliens.

[197] R. Parkinson. Beiträge zur Ethnologie der Gilbert Insulaner.
Internat. Archiv für Ethnologie, vol. ii, p. 92.

[198] Becq de Fouquières, Les Jeux des Anciens, p. 54.

[199] See especially _op. cit._, 205, where Souriau seems to undervalue
the attraction of the backward glide.

[200] See Grasberger, _op. cit._, p. 128.

[201] _Op. cit._, p. 99.

[202] See Strutt, The Sports and Pastimes of the People of England, p.
153.

[203] Weinhold, Altnordische Leben, p. 806.

[204] Perez, Les trois premières années, etc., p. 80.

[205] Sigismund, _op. cit._, p. 40.

[206] Ibid., p. 53.

[207] I. H. Autenrieth, Ansichten über Natur und Seelenleben, p. 163.

[208] Unter den Naturvölkern Centralbrasiliens, p. 383.

[209] Grasberger, vol. i, p. 74.

[210] Roehholz, p. 464.

[211] Die Völker des östlichen Asien, vol. iii, p. 323.

[212] Les trois premières années, p. 84.

[213] Psychologie des Sentiments, p. 322.

[214] Compayré, p. 271.

[215] Die Seele des Kindes, p. 383.

[216] W. James, The Principles of Psychology, vol. ii, p. 422.

[217] See Compayré, p. 191.

[218] See Baechtold, Gottfried Keller’s Leben, vol. iii, p. 278.

[219] Michael Munkacsy, Erinnerungen, Berlin, 1897, p. 4.

[220] _Op. cit._, vol. ii, p. 423.

[221] _Op. cit._, p. 9.

[222] The Play of Animals, p. 98.

[223] _Op. cit._, p. 456.

[224] _Op. cit._, p. 103.

[225] Alwin Schultz, _op. cit._, p. 11.

[226] O. Finsch, Reise nach Westsibirien im Jahre 1876, Berlin, 1879,
p. 520.

[227] F. Boas, Internat. Arch. für Ethnol., vol. i, 1888, p. 229. See,
too, H. W. Klutschak, Als Eskimo unter Eskimo, pp. 136, 139, where are
to be found illustrations of such figures.

[228] E. v. Hartmann, Das Spiel. Tagesfragen, Leipsic, 1896, p. 146.

[229] Die Seele des Kindes, pp. 183, 257.

[230] _Op. cit._, p. 80.

[231] Kind und Welt, p. 115.

[232] L’esthétique du Mouvement, p. 202.

[233] Even in skittles one speaks of a good throw.

[234] H. A. Berlepsch, Die Alpen in Natur und Lebensbildern, Jena,
1871, p. 415.

[235] See Fouquières, p. 209.

[236] Gutsmuths, Spiele zur Uebung und Erholung des Körpers und
Geistes, eighth edition, pp. 122, 139, 169.

[237] R. Parkinson, Beitr. zur Ethn. der Gilbertin, p. 92.

[238] Gutsmuths, Spiele zur Uebung und Erholung des Körpers und
Geistes, eighth edition, pp. 122, 139, 169.

[239] H. O. Forbes, Travels of a Scientist in the Malay Archipelago,
vol. i, p. 159.

[240] William Black’s Highland Cousins gives a fine description of this
national game of Scotland.

[241] See Fischart’s descriptions in his Gargantua.

[242] See Vieth’s Encyklopädie der Leibesübungen, vol. iii, p. 296.

[243] Another game like this is the so-called Prellballspiel.
Gutsmuths, p. 101.

[244] See Ploss, Das Kind, vol. ii, p. 292.

[245] H. Wagner, Illustriertes Spielbuch für Knaben, Leipsic, 1895, p.
132.

[246] Grasberger, p. 78.

[247] See Fouquière, p. 173.

[248] Zingerle, p. 27.

[249] Jour. of Anthro. In., vol. xvii (1887), p. 88, on stone spinning
tops.

[250] Ten Kate, Beiträge zur Ethnographie der Timorgruppe. Internat.
Arch. f. Ethn., vol. vii (1894), p. 247.

[251] Ethnographische Parallelen und Vergleichen, p. 98. See, too,
R. Andrée, Das Kreiselspiel und seine Verbreitung. Globus, vol. lxix
(1896), p. 371.

[252] Gutsmuths, pp. 232, 358.

[253] Ibid.

[254] H. Wagner, Spielbuch für Knaben, p. 114.

[255] Rochholz, p. 391.

[256] Grasberger, p. 60.

[257] “Gargantua threw flat stones carelessly on the water so that they
skipped I don’t know how many times.”

[258] A beautiful example of this may be found in Schweinfurth’s Im
Herzen von Afrika, Leipsic, vol. i, p. 329.

[259] Grasberger gives this version in German verse:

“Wahrlich ein arges Ziel für den Schwarm der spielenden Knaben, Und für
des Steinwurfs Wucht pflanzten sie mich an den Weg. Wie hat die wüste
Hagel getroffen, die blühenden Krone Mir zerschlagen, und ach, wie sind
die Zweige geknickt! Nichts mehr gilt nach der Ernte der Baum Euch: zur
eigenen Schändung Hab’ ich Unseliger hier alle die Früchte gezeugt.”


[260] Bastian, Die Völker des östlichen Asien, vol. iii, pp. 322, 324.

[261] Ibid.

[262] Ploss, Das Kind, vol. ii, p. 291.

[263] See A. Richter, Zur Geschichte des deutschen Kinderspieles.
Westermanns Monatshefte, 1870.

[264] Rochholz, p. 421.

[265] Forbes, _op. cit._, vol. i, p. 234. See also vol. ii, p. 45,
where a simpler game is described which is played by boys also, and is
more like European quoits.

[266] Nordenskiöld, Die Umsegelung Asiens und Europas auf der Vega,
Leipsic, 1881-’82, vol. i, p. 70.

[267] Gutsmuths, p. 69.

[268] Ibid., p. 198.

[269] A peculiar and difficult game of catching is played by the
Gilbert Islanders. A light feather ornament is loosely attached to a
stick which is thrown into the air. As the stick descends the ornament
floats away, and the players’ task is to fish for it, as it were, with
a stone fastened to a long line and bring it down. This game is called
“Tabama.” R. Parkinson, Beiträge zur Ethnologie der Gilbert Insulaner.

[270] See Ernst Meier, Deutsche Kinderreime und Kinderspiele aus
Swaben, p. 145.

[271] R. Parkinson, _op. cit._

[272] H. Wagner, Illustrirtes Spielbuch für Knaben, p. 92.

[273] _Op. cit._, p. 177.

[274] See Baldwin, Mental Development, etc., p. 315. Baldwin uses the
term “coefficient of recognition.”

[275] Ibid., p. 308, where the motor process is emphasized in
connection with attention.

[276] Die Seele des Kindes, p. 38.

[277] F. Pollock, An Infant’s Progress in Language. Mind, vol. iii,
1878.

[278] Sully, Studies in Childhood, p. 421. See also Sikorski’s report
on his eight-months-old child, who recognised the crescent shape of the
holes in a pigeon house as connected with the moon (p. 414).

[279] The French animal psychologist, E. Alix, says the same thing of
an Arabian dog which he owned (see The Play of Animals, p. 91). Play
with shadows by adults might be dwelt upon. With us it is hardly more
than trivial amusement for an idle company, but among other peoples
it becomes much more important, as witness the highly interesting
silhouettes hanging in the Berlin Museum. See, further, F. v. Sumasch,
Das türkische Schattenspiel, Internat. Archiv für Ethnographie, vol.
ii, p. 1.

[280] Kind und Welt, p. 169. See Miss Shinn, _op. cit._, p. 71.

[281] K. v. d. Steinen, Steinzeit-Indianer in Paraguay. Globus, vol.
lxvii, 1895, p. 249.

[282] R. Andrée, Ethnographische Parallelen und Vergleiche, p. 57.

[283] We may perhaps find the moving “Qualität der Bekanntheit” in the
recurrence of the keynote of a melody.

[284] Zola frequently applies the Wagnerian leading-motive method to
the characterization of some figure in his novels, often with wearisome
persistence, yet a not uninteresting study might be made of the subject.

[285] See Fr. Kaufmann, Die Deutsche Metrik nach ihrer geschichtlichen
Entwickelung, Marburg, 1897, p. 224. We may find a fine English example
in a triolet of Walter Crane’s:

    “In the light, in the shade,
  This is time and life’s measure;
     With a heart unafraid
     In the light, in the shade,
    Hope is born, and not made,
  And the heart finds its treasure
    In the light, in the shade;
  This is time and life’s measure.”—TR.

[286] R. M. Meyer records the refrain as a survival from the
first beginning of poetry. Ueber die Refrain, Zeitschr. f. vgl.
Literaturgeschichte, vol. i (1887), p. 44.

[287] See Minor, Neuhochdeutsche Metrik, pp. 393, 460.

[288] See Minor, Neuhochdeutsche Metrik, pp. 393, 460.

[289] Grasberger, p. 46. For other forms of this game see Gutsmuths, p.
377.

[290] “The third year,” says Sully, “is epoch-making in the history of
memory. It is now that impressions begin to work themselves into the
young consciousness so deeply and firmly that they become a part of the
permanent stock in trade of the mind.”—Studies of Childhood, p. 437.

[291] Sonntagsbeilage zur Vossischen Zeitung, January 10, 1897.

[292] Die Erziehung der Töchter, wie solche Herr von Fénelon,
Erzbischoff von Cambray beschrieben, aus dem Französischen übersetzt.
Lübeck, 1740, p. 36.

[293] Für wirklich halten: It is recommended by the authorities of
Baldwin’s Dictionary of Philosophy that the term “semblance” be used as
the equivalent of the German “Schein?” or illusion—that which is “taken
for real”—in this field of the æsthetic and play functions.—ED.

[294] See A. Oelzelt-Nevin, Ueber Phantasie-Vorstellungen. Graz, 1889,
p. 42.

[295] It may often be observed that the child’s eyes lose their
convergence as their interest is absorbed—a means of detachment
from surrounding reality. Even in half-grown children the power of
detachment is much greater than in adults. The great modern poets are
at a disadvantage in that their appeal is to an audience whose power
of imagination is on the wane. It was otherwise with less cultured
people when, first, the adults were less literal and, second, the poets
themselves less intellectualized.

[296] See Baldwin’s Handbook of Psychology, vol. i, p. 227.

[297] That some temperaments play with dreams of an unhappy future
there is no doubt. We shall encounter such phenomena later in noticing
enjoyment of pain.

[298] Games of chance which keep the participants long in suspense are
among the special forms of adult play which make use of such picturing
of the future.

[299] Even the serious Lucca Signorelli was not ashamed to place two
clouds, which, showing distinct faces, back of the Christ in his
Crucifixion.

[300] See in this connection the more thorough treatment in the section
on inner imitation.

[301] Strümpell, Psychologische Pädagogik, p. 364.

The child, of course, spoke a baby German. This effort at translation
serves only to show the versatility of her imagination and its
disjointed expression.—TR.

For example of amentia, see Kraepelin, Psychiatrie, p. 331.

[302] While Strümpell’s example was suggestive of the wanderings of a
diseased mind, this one recalls the tales told by savages. Compare it,
for example, with the Bushman’s story of the grasshopper in Ratzel’s
Völkerkunde (vol. i, p. 75). Of course, we do not know whether there
may not be some closer connection of ideas than we can trace.

[303] See Paola Lombroso, Saggi di Psicologia del Bambino, chap. ix,
especially p. 155; B. Perez, L’art et la poésie chez l’enfant, chap. ix.

[304] John Forster, The Life of Charles Dickens, vol. ii, p. 71.

[305] They diverge from play, first, in that an end outside of the
sphere of play is added to that of satisfaction in production for
its own sake; and, second, that much of the artist’s effort is spent
in improving, altering, and being otherwise occupied with technical
conditions, etc., and not engaged in for the pleasure which it affords.
We may compare what was said above in regard to sport.

[306] Grosse, _op. cit._, p. 250.

[307] When Daudet was thirteen years old he took an independent voyage
on a ship with some soldiers on their way home from the Crimea. “With
my southern power of imagination,” he writes in Gaulois, “I made myself
out an important personage.”

[308] _Op. cit._, p. 309. See Guyan, Éducation et Hérédité, p. 148.

[309] Perez, Les trois premières années, etc., p. 121.

[310] Like ancient and modern wonder tales, whose occurrences always
take place in distant and almost inaccessible lands.

[311] The close of this recalls the numerous efforts of primitive folk
to account for natural phenomena.

[312] _Op. cit._, p. 148.

[313] See, too, Sully’s Studies of Childhood, p. 254.

[314] B. Perez, L’enfant de trois à sept ans, Paris, 1894, p. 239.

[315] The Play of Animals, p. 214. Zum Problem der unbewussten
Zeitschätzung, Zeitschr. f. Psycholog. u. Physiol. d. Sinnesorgane,
vol. ix.

[316] _Op. cit._, pp. 418, 545.

[317] Die Seele des Kindes, p. 212.

[318] A Biographical Sketch of an Infant, Mind, vii (1877), p. 289.

[319] See Stern’s remark quoted above on watching movement.

[320] _Op. cit._, p. 418.

[321] La psychologie des sentiments, p. 322.

[322] Die Reize des Spiels, Berlin, 1883, p. 61.

[323] James says that the stimuli of scientific curiosity “are not
objects, but ways of conceiving objects.” Principles of Psychology,
vol. ii, p. 430.

[324] Fr. Nansen, In Nacht und Eis, Leipsic, 1897, vol. i, p. 151.

[325] H. Spencer, The Principles of Sociology, vol. i, p. 86.

[326] Unter den Naturvölkern Centralbrasiliens, pp. 59, 67, 79.

[327] Ibid.

[328] Ibid.

[329] Im Australischen Busch, etc., p. 526.

[330] Dietrich Tiedemann, Beobachtungen über die Entwickelung der
Seelenfähigkeiten bei Kindern, Altenburg, 1897, p. 14.

[331] Die Seele des Kindes, p. 140.

[332] Les trois premières années, etc., p. 117.

[333] Die Seele des Kindes, p. 383.

[334] M. W. Shinn, Notes on the Development of a Child, p. 11.

[335] Compayré, _op. cit._, p. 308.

[336] Ernest H. Lindley, A Study of Puzzles. Amer. Jour. of Psychol.,
viii (1897), p. 436.

[337] The amusing rhymes illustrating cause and effect which children
are so fond of, are in point—for instance, The House that Jack
Built—and this one in German:

  “Der Teufel holt den Henker nun,
   Der Henker hängt den Schlächter nun,
   Der Schlächter schlägt den Ochsen nun,
   Der Ochse läuft das Wasser nun,
   Das Wasser löscht das Feuer nun,
   Das Feuer brennt den Prügel nun,
   Der Prügel schlägt den Pudel nun,
   Der Pudel beisst den Jockel nun,
   Der Jockel schneidet den Hafer nun,
     Und kommt auch gleich nach Haus.”

See the similar Hebrew verse about the kid in Tylor’s Anfänge der
Culture, vol. i, p. 86.

[338] _Op. cit._, p. 353.

[339] Ernest Lindley, _loc. cit._, p. 455.

[340] A. Seidel, Geschichten und Lieder der Africaner, Berlin, 1896,
pp. 176, 309. Similar riddles used for the amusement of children are
given by Tylor. _Op. cit._, vol. i, p. 91. Words used in a double or
multiple sense (homonyms) are particularly effective.

[341] Annoyance over one’s own enjoyment is, of course, not play.

[342] The Psychology of Tickling, Laughing, and the Comic. Amer. Jour.
of Psychol., vol ix.

[343] See Ribot, Psychologie des sentiments, p. 64.

[344] Principles of Psychology, vol. ii, p. 590.

[345] Kuno Fischer, Arthur Schopenhauer, Heidelberg, 1893, p. 125.

[346] Ribot, La Psychologie des sentiments, p. 64.

[347] See Hubert Rotteken’s interesting article, Ueber ästhetische
Kritik bei Dichtungen (Beilage zur Allgem. Zeit., 1897, Nos. 114, 115).
Volkelt (Aesthetic des Tragischen, p. 389) seems to me to undervalue
this point.

[348] Max Reischle, Das Spielen der Kinder in seinem Erziehungswerth,
Göttingen, 1897, p. 17.

[349] Lipps gives special attention in his Psychologie der Komik to
this point (Philosph. Monatshefte, 24 and 25).

[350] I shall not here discuss the relative importance of the two.

[351] Even the first shock is not entirely unpleasant, since we usually
have a premonition of the approaching counter shock.

[352] La Suggestion dans l’art, p. 39.

[353] See Sully, Studies in Childhood, p. 501.

[354] “The first stage, depression, is in itself considered entirely
extra-æsthetic. For as soon as inner imitation comes into play—that
is, as soon as the æsthetic aspect is assumed—the projection of the I
into the object begins and depression gives place to exaltation.” _Op.
cit._, p. 336.

[355] Herman Wagner, Spielbuch für Knaben, p. 572.

[356] H. Wagner, Spielbuch für Knaben, p. 542.

[357] I. von Kreis, Ueber die Natur gewisser Gehirnzustande.
Zeitschrift f. Psych. u. Phys. d. Sinnesorgane, viii (1894), p. 9.

[358] See p. 4, note 3.

[359] Die Reize des Spiels, p. 131.

[360] I remember a serious fight between two boys of about fifteen, in
which the stronger was content to throw the other over and over again
and quietly let him regain his feet.

[361] In the fight between Odysseus and Ajax the position of the
contestants was compared to the sidewise posture of two sparring dogs.

[362] Von den Steinen, Unter den Naturvolken Central-Brasiliens, pp.
127, 383.

[363] Among the Greeks throwing three times was the rule.

[364] H. A. Berlepsch, Die Alpen, p. 417.

[365] Some of the succeeding examples are taken from M. Zettler’s
article on prize lighting in Euler’s encykl. Handbd. ges. Turnwesens.

[366] In Switzerland this play is called Katzenstriegel. Grown boys try
to pull each other over thresholds in this way.

[367] When Milon, of Croton, held an apple in his fingers, it was said
to be impossible to get the fruit away from him, or to bend even his
little finger.

[368] Fr. Fedde’s article Griechenland, in C. Euler’s encykl. Handb. d.
ges. Turnwesens.

[369] W. Richter, Die Spiele der Griechen und Römer, p. 38.

[370] H. Raydt, Ein gesunder Geist in einem gesunder Körper, Hanover,
1899, p. 102.

[371] G. J. Romanes, Animal Intelligence, p. 485.

[372] Altnordisches Leben, p. 294.

[373] See E. v. Hartmann, Tagesfragen, Leipsic, 1896, p. 135.

[374] A very interesting example from ethnology is contained in the
article by W. Svoboda, Die Bewohner des Nikobaren-Archipels. Intern.
Arch. f. Ethnogr., vi, 1893, p. 6.

[375] We shall return to this subject in the consideration of love
plays.

[376] Strutt, _op. cit._, p. 8.

[377] Alwin Schultz, Das höfische Leben zur Zeit der Minnesinger,
Leipsic, 1889, vol. ii, p. 118.

[378] K. Weinhold, Altnordisches Leben, p. 297.

[379] K. Weinhold, Geschichte der menschlichen Ehe, Jena, 1893, p. 158.

[380] Studies in Childhood, pp. 268, 269, 271, 274.

[381] Ibid.

[382] Ibid.

[383] Paolo Lombroso, _op. cit._, p. 126.

[384] Carl Vogt, Aus meinem Leben, Stuttgart, 1896, pp. 70, 98.

[385] See R. M. Werner, Lyrik und Lyriker, Hamburg, 1890, p. 220.
Rückert and Uhland engaged in another beautiful contest in which they
carried on a narrative alternately and in such a manner that each
stanza was intended to make the next one difficult.

[386] See Lazarus, Die Reize des Spiels, pp. 88, 89.

[387] Ibid.

[388] K. Plischke, Kurze Mittheilung über zwei malaysische Spiele.
Intern. Arch. f. Ethnogr., iii (1890).

[389] H. M. Schuster, Das Spiel, p. 2.

[390] K. Weinhold, Die deutschen Frauen im Mittelalter, vol. i, p. 115.

[391] J. Büttikofer, Einiges über die Eingeboren von Liberia. Intern.
Arch. f. Ethnogr., i (1888).

[392] According to Andrée it is played in Arabia and a large part
of Africa. The Berlin Museum has such boards from various African
districts, notably one from central Africa, with two rows of six holes
and a carved head on the end.

[393] See R. Andrée, Ethnog. Parall. u. Verg. Neue Folge, p. 102.
Petermann’s description, which I have not fully transcribed, seems to
me to be deficient in that it does not make clear how the reckoning is
kept.

[394] H. Petermann, Reisen im Orient, Leipsic, 1860, vol. i, p. 162.

[395] See A. v. d. Linde, Geschichte und Litteratur des Schachspiels,
Berlin, 1874, vol. i, note 2.

[396] See T. v. d. Sasa, Zur Geschichte und Litteratur des
Schachspiels, Leipsic, 1897, p. 19.

[397] J. Schaller, Das Spiel und die Spiele, p. 247.

[398] E. B. Tylor, On the Game of Patolli in Ancient Mexico and its
probably Asiatic Origin. Jour. of the Anthrop. Instit. vol. viii
(1878). On American Lot Games as evidence of Asiatic intercourse
previous to the time of Columbus. Internat. Archiv. f. Ethnogr.,
supplement to vol. ix (1896), p. 55.

[399] See, too, in this connection J. Schaller, Das Spiel und die
Spiele, p. 239.

[400] Lazarus, _op. cit._, p. 98. I differ totally from Lazarus’s
unwarranted conclusion that in some card games, where the cards are
distributed accidentally, the chief stimulus is in the “battle of
reason against chance.”

[401] See v. d. Steinen, Unter den Naturvölkern Zentral Brasiliens, p.
230.

[402] _Op. cit._, pp. 90, 102-109. Lazarus treats exhaustively of this
symbolic significance of play and likens it to the symbolism of music,
which may be effective without clear consciousness of it on the part of
the subject.

[403] Ibid., p. 91.

[404] Second edition, Paris, 1895.

[405] Playful rivalry is quite rare among animals, and for that reason
it was not considered in my former work. It is only during courtship
that animals engage in such contests, which are accordingly included
under courtship plays.

[406] R. Andree, Ethnogr. Parall. u. Vergl., pp. 95, 96.

[407] Ibid.

[408] The Eclipses Politico-Morales draws the picture of a fashionable
lady of the early eighteenth century. She says: “We have our sprees
in spite of the men; we dance and carouse the whole night long....
We smoke and chew tobacco and make wagers about them.” A. Schultz,
Alltagsleben einer deutschen Frau, etc., p. 186.

[409] K. Weinhold, Altnordisches Leben, p. 315.

[410] Colozza, _op. cit._, p. 85.

[411] Grosse, Die Anfänge der Kunst, p. 231.

[412] Weinhold, Altnordisches Leben, pp. 462, 463.

[413] Many of the new games for children which appear every year are
simply modifications of backgammon.

[414] When it is known in advance that the chances are unequal it is
common to make the stakes so as well, sometimes ten to one, or a cow to
a hen, etc.

[415] J. Schaller, p. 269.

[416] Schuster, _op. cit._, p. 9.

[417] A. Seidel, Geschichten und Lieder der Africaner, p. 162. See
Globus, vol. lxvii (1895), p. 387.

[418] The two Englishmen who placed two snails on a table and bet high
stakes on which would reach the other side of it first furnish a fine
instance of this kind. M. Schuster, Das Spiel, p. 216. The English have
always been and especially at the beginning of this century famous for
their bets.

[419] Tagesfragen, p. 162.

[420] Guhl und Koner, Das Leben der Griechen und Römer, Berlin, 1864,
p. 354.

[421] R. Parkinson, Beiträge zur Ethnologie der Gilbert-Insulaner.

[422] A particularly pretty oracle, affording no less than four
alternatives, is described by Hall Caine (The Manxman, London, 1894, p.
120) as in use on the Isle of Man. A maiden, anxious to know her fate,
throws a willow bough in the water, while she sings:

“Willow bough, willow bough, which of the four, Sink, circle, or swim,
or come floating ashore? Which is the fortune you keep for my life, Old
maid or young mistress, or widow or wife?”


[423] Die Anfänge der Kultur, vol. i, p. 80.

[424] Tylor, _op. cit._, pp. 78, 125.

[425] A. Wünsche, Spiele bei den Arabern in vor- und
nachmohamedanischer Zeit. Westermanns Monatshefte, März, 1896.

[426] Die Völker des östlichen Asien, vol. iii, p. 326.

[427] Bastian, _op. cit._, vol. ii, p. 358; vol. iii, p. 323.

[428] Ibid.

[429] W. Richter, Die Spiele der Griechen und Römer, p. 76.

[430] H. Peterman, Reisen im Orient, vol. i, p. 157.

[431] Hans Egede, Beschreibung von Grönland, Berlin, 1763, p. 178. See
R. Andree, Ethnogr. Par. Neue Folge, p. 104.

[432] The New Zealand game “ti” consists in counting on the fingers.
One of the players calls a number and must instantly touch the right
finger; while in the Samoan game “Lupe” (see Andree, _op. cit._, p. 99)
one player holds up a certain number of fingers, whereupon his opponent
must do the same or be loser.

[433] Tylor, Anf. d. Kult., vol. i, pp. 74, 75.

[434] Andree, _op. cit._, p. 98.

[435] Bastian, Die Völker d. östl. Asien, vol. ii, p. 394.

[436] See Becq de Fouquières, p. 294.

[437] Ribot, Psychologie des sentiments, p. 322.

[438] Ribot, Psychologie des sentiments, p. 322.

[439] _Op. cit._, p. 60.

[440] See Schaller, pp. 258, 268.

[441] See Schaller, pp. 258, 268.

[442] J. E. Erdmann, Ernste Spiele, p. 161.

[443] _Op. cit._, p. 76.

[444] Schuster, p. 83.

[445] See anecdote of Goethe’s youth, p. 105. For the destructive
impulse in animals, see The Play of Animals, pp. 91, 200, 220.

[446] Saggi di psicologia del bambino, p. 118.

[447] L’éducation progressive, Paris, 1841, vol. i, p. 302.

[448] H. Emminghaus finds many points of resemblance between the period
of life during which such actions are most rife and a condition of
mania. (Die psychischen Störungen des Kindersalters, Tübingen, 1899, p.
179.)

[449] Fr. Scholz, Die charakterfehler des Kindes, Leipsic, 1891,
pp. 148, 149. See F. L. Burk, Teasing and Bullying. The Pedagogical
Seminary, vol. iv (1897), p. 341.

[450] See S. Sighele, Psychologie des Auflaufs u. der Massenverbrechen,
Dresden, 1897, p. 13.

[451] A portion of this section appeared in the periodical Die
Kinderfehler. It may be compared with Burk’s article on teasing and
bullying, which was then unknown to me. The latter, however, is more
concerned with serious than with playful aspects of the subject.

[452] The Play of Animals, p. 167.

[453] See Schneegan’s Geschichte der Grotesken Satire, p. 443.

[454] Leopold Wagner, Manners, Customs, and Observances, London, 1895,
p. 34.

[455] Becq de Fouquières, p. 273.

[456] W. Joest, Ethnographisches und Verwandtes aus Guayana, supplement
to vol. v, Intern. Arch. für Ethnographie (1892), p. 49.

[457] Gutsmuth, _op. cit._, p. 25.

[458] Becq de Fouquières, p. 2B1.

[459] Sixth edition, Leipsic, 1896, pp. 321-323. This recalls tales of
Roman emperors who sat before their guests dishes containing the heads
of their own wives and children. See Hall and Allin, _loc. cit._, p. 22.

[460] F. Pollock, An Infant’s Progress in Language, Mind, vol. iii
(1878).

[461] Sigismund, p. 151. See Burk, _op. cit._, p. 356.

[462] L. Wagner, Manners, Customs, and Observances, p. 255.

[463] See on this subject Perez, Les trois premières années, p. 320.

[464] Hall and Allin’s Psychology of Tickling, Laughing, and the Comic,
p. 21.

[465] O. Beauregard, La caricature il y a quatre mille ans. Bulletin de
La Soc. de l’Anthropol. de Paris, 1889.

[466] Marcano, Caricature précolombienne des Cerritos. Bulletin Soc. de
l’Anthropol. de Paris, 1889.

[467] Deutsches Kinderlied und Kinderspiel, liv.

[468] Grosse, p. 235.

[469] F. M. Bohme, pp. 271, 277.

[470] See E. H. Meyer, Deutsche Volkskunde, Strassburg, 1898, p. 337:
“This practice is very ancient, and seems to have given their names to
some German tribes.”

[471] Ibid.

[472] To cover all the ground, the teasing application of wit would
have to be included here. It is taken up and treated briefly in the
next section.

[473] Carl Sittl, Die Gebärden der Griechen und Römer, Leipsic, 1890,
p. 90.

[474] Ibid.

[475] Early History of Mankind, second edition, 1870, p. 45. See the
analogous behaviour of the Dakotas in Darwin’s The Expression of the
Emotions, p. 257.

[476] See Sittl, p. 99.

[477] Die Völker des östlichen Asien, vol. iii, p. 222.

[478] Ernste Spiele, p. 10.

[479] The Human Mind, vol. ii, p. 148. Psychologie des sentiments, p.
342.

[480] See Hall and Allin, _op. cit._ The remark of a little girl who
danced about the grave of her friend and rejoiced thus, “How glad I am
that she is dead and that I’m alive!” is in the same line.

[481] In my Einleitung in die Esthetic I have tried to show how the
feeling of superiority is gradually supplanted by inner imitation. In
the humorous contemplation of inferiority Erdmann’s “maliciousness”
need have no place, and we can conceive of a God as laughing in this
way. As Keller’s poem has it, “Der Herr, der durch die Wandlung geht,
Er lächelt auf dem Wege.”

[482] The fact that the humorous temperament is so much more rare in
women artists than in men supports the theory of its involving the
fighting impulse. (See Mario Pilo, La psychologie du beau et de l’art,
Paris, 1895, p. 145.)

[483] G. H. Schneider, Der Menschliche Wille, Berlin, 1882, p. 62.

[484] Semon, Im Australischen Busch, pp. 168, 197.

[485] Strutt, _op. cit._, p. 62.

[486] The Principles of Psychology, vol. ii, p. 427.

[487] Grasberger, pp. 52, 57.

[488] Grasberger, pp. 52, 57.

[489] Das Kind, second edition, Leipsic, 1896, p. 53.

[490] Bastian, Die Völker des östlichen Asien, vol. iii, p. 325.

[491] Alwin Schultz, Alltagsleben einer deutschen Frau, etc., p. 8.

[492] Die Völker des östlichen Asien, vol. iii, p. 325.

[493] They do not, of course, form the essence of poetic enjoyment.

[494] Der dramatische Konflikt, Grenzboten, 1897, No. 39.

[495] Volkett, Aesthetik des Tragischen, München, 1897, pp. 83, 87.

[496] W. Wetz, Ueber das Verhältniss der Dichtung zur Wirklichkeit und
Geschichte. Zeitschr. f. vgl. Litt.-Gesch., vol. ix, p. 161. He admits
in the sequel that in Corneille’s Cid, for instance, there is no such
working out of psychical individuality.

[497] Ibid.

[498] Volkett, Aesthetik des Tragischen, München, 1897, pp. 83, 87.

[499] Psychologie des sentiments, p. 225.

[500] Nietzsche, Götzendämmerung, p. 136.

[501] I shall return later to the discussion of Wundt’s use of
imitation.

[502] Vorles. üb. d. Menschen-u. Thierseele, third edition, 1897, p.
405.

[503] The Psychology of Love, p. 53.

[504] L’enfant de trois à sept ans, p. 273.

[505] Zeitschr. f. Psychol. u Physiol. d. Sinnesorgane, vol. ii (1891),
p. 128.

[506] Fritsch, Die Eingeborenen Süd-Afrikas, p. 140.

[507] Colin A. Scott, Sex and Art, Am. Jour. of Psychol., vol. vii, p.
182.

[508] Westermarck, _op. cit._, p. 156.

[509] Westermarck, _op. cit._, p. 192.

[510] Rudeck, Geschichte der öffentlichen Sittlichkeit in Deutschland,
Jena, 1897, p. 45.

[511] Altum, one of the highest authorities on birds, confirms this
view (Der Vogel und sein Leben, fifth edition, Münster, 1875, p. 137).
I have to thank Baldwin, too, for the reference to Guyau, who considers
that the innate modesty may be “nécessaire à la femme pour arriver,
sans se donner, jusqu’au complet développement de son organisme.” [See
also Havelock Ellis, Geschlechtstrieb und Schamgefühl, p. 10. This
view was worked out in some detail, it seems, together with a view of
sexual selection similar to Professor Groos’s, by Hirn, in a chapter on
Animal Display in a Swedish work in 1896: it is now reproduced in that
author’s Origins of Art (1900), chap. xiv; _cf._ also the preface to
the same work.—J. M. B.]

[512] _Op. cit._, p. 87.

[513] Mind, October, 1880.

[514] Colin A. Scott, _op. cit._, p. 181.

[515] We may compare, too, our watch charms. They, like the trophies
and tribal symbols of savages, show much more the desire for ownership
than the principle of self-exhibition.

[516] The examples of decoration by animals apply to their dwellings
rather than to their persons.

[517] Grosse, p. 233.

[518] In an article on Sex and Art, Scott has developed similar ideas,
and has rightly connected the vagaries of fetichism with the abnormal
sexual excitement produced by special materials, such as fur, velvet,
etc.

[519] The Play of Animals, p. 211.

[520] Page 76.

[521] A. Stöckl, Lehrbuch der Aesthetik, second edition, Mainz, 1889,
p. 229.

[522] Wagner and Liszt are especially strong in such effects.

[523] Vischer, Aesthetic, sec. 189. Hall and Allin, _op. cit._, p. 31.

[524] R. J. Dodge, Modern Indians of the Far West, pp. 146, 164.

[525] _Op. cit._, p. 68.

[526] _Op. cit._, p. 14. Hall and Allin.

[527] According to R. J. Dodge, who is a thorough student of Indian
life, among those of the far West it is a polite fiction not to observe
the wooing lover, “because they consider love a weakness.”

[528] G. Tarde, Les lois de l’imitation. Second edition, Paris, 1895.

[529] J. M. Baldwin, Mental Development, and Social and Ethical
Interpretations.

[530] Habit and Instinct. London and New York, 1896, p. 168.

[531] Baldwin’s further distinction between tradition and social
heredity seems true enough, but not especially practical.

[532] Gedanken über Musik bei Thieren und beim Menschen. Deutsche
Rundschau, October, 1889.

[533] See Baldwin’s A New Factor in Evolution, in The American
Naturalist, June, July, 1896.

[534] The Senses and the Intellect, p. 408.

[535] James Mill, Analysis of the Phenomena of the Human Mind, vol.
ii, chap. xxiv. Tiedemann’s remarks on the subject, too, are clear and
brief. _Op. cit._, p. 12.

[536] See A. Pfänder, Das Bewusstsein des Wollens. Zeitschr. f. Psych.
u. Phys. d. Sin., vols. x and xvii.

[537] The strong emphasis of imitation in hypnosis seems to support
this, for there we have a decided narrowing of the consciousness, so
that the antagonistic motive has little showing compared with the idea
of movement.

[538] An attempt to explain the charm of what is forbidden, not by
means of the fighting impulse but on the ground of psychic inhibition
may be found in Lipps’s Grundthatsachen des Seelenleben, pp. 634, 641.

[539] In this triumph we find a means of explanation for the
exhilarating effect of simple—that is neither mischievous nor
mocking—imitation.

[540] The biological criterion of practice of the impulse is not very
well applicable to imitation. We do not copy playfully in order to
be able to copy seriously, and, moreover, playful imitation itself
accomplishes the purpose. Yet the practice theory is of course indebted
to the contributions of imitation in the highest degree.

[541] The question as to whether play may not be more extensive from
a purely biological standpoint is touched upon in the theoretical
division.

[542] “I looked for great men,” said Nietzsche once, “and found them
only aping their ideals.” Vol. viii, p. 66.

[543] Social and Ethical Interpretations, p. 103.

[544] Fr. Tracy, The Psychology of Childhood, fourth edition, Boston,
1897, p. 104.

[545] Mental Development, etc., p. 123. Egger, Le développement de
l’intelligence et du langage chez les enfants, p. 10.

[546] _Op. cit._, p. 354. See Perez (Les trois premières années, etc.,
p. 124), who assumes involuntary imitation in the second month.

[547] Die Seele des Kindes, p. 186.

[548] Preyer, _op. cit._, p. 188.

[549] Kind und Welt, p. 129.

[550] Lloyd Morgan calls one imitation and the other copying (Habit and
Instinct, p. 171).

[551] _Op. cit._, p. 188.

[552] _Op. cit._, p. 88.

[553] Mental Development, p. 123.

[554] _Op. cit._, p. 88.

[555] Notes on the Development of a Child, p. 112.

[556] _Op. cit._, pp. 314, 321.

[557] See, on the other hand, Preyer’s conclusion given below. _Op.
cit._, p. 369.

[558] See Ufer’s article on Sigismund’s Kind und Welt.

[559] Jodl calls the root word, which he and others refer neither to
interjectional nor imitative origin, ideal roots; I prefer to call them
experimental roots.

[560] It should be remembered that the appearance of an imitative
speech is quite natural in connection with gesture language. We do not
know certainly, however, which preceded the other.

[561] Lehrbuch der Psychologie, p. 570.

[562] See Franz Magnus Boehme, _op. cit._, p. 218.

[563]

  “The howling blast through the groaning wood
   Wrenching the giant pine, which, in its fall,
   Crashing sweeps down its neighbouring trunks end boughs,
   While with the hollow noise the hills resound.”

_Miss Swanwick’s translation._

[564] Gedanken zu einer Aesthetik auf entwickelungsgeschichtlicher
Grundlage. Zeitschr. f. Psych. u. Phys. d. Sinnesorgane, vol. xiv
(1897).

[565] Hall and Allin, Psychology of Tickling, Laughing, etc., pp. 15-17.

[566] Miss Shinn reports a kind of animal dance by a child in its third
year (_op. cit._, p. 127).

[567] Among the varied decorations which the natives of British New
Guinea wear at their holiday dances is the bushy tail, which is placed
quite as high as on the antique fauns. See A. C. Haddon, Intern. Arch.
f. Ethnogr., vol. xi (1893).

[568] Hall and Allin, Psychology of Tickling, Laughing, etc., pp. 15-17.

[569] Livingstone’s last Journals from Central Africa.

[570] Captain Jacobsen’s Reise an der Nordwestküste Amerikas, 1881-’83,
Leipsic, 1884, p. 85.

[571] Signe Rink, Aus dem Leben der Europäer in Grönland, Ausland, vol.
lxvi (1893), p. 762.

[572] Mental Development, p. 357.

[573]

“Time’s passage shall unfold for him Fortune bright and fortune dim.”


[574] W. Svoboda, Die Bewohner de Nikobaren-Archipels. Intern. Arch. f.
Ethnogr., vol. v (1892).

[575] W. Joest, Weltfahrten, Berlin, 1895, vol. ii, p. 162.

[576] Pechuël-Loesche’s report of a monkey’s play with a doll shows
that it was mere experimentation (The Play of Animals, p. 169).

[577] B. Altum, Der Vogel und sein Leben, Münster, 1895, pp. 188, 189.

[578] Mental Development, p. 362 (omitted from the German version).

[579] Thus, to mention one example, Marie G—— had no sooner adopted a
small thermometer as a baby than she spied the tassel which it hung
up by, and called everybody’s attention to its lovely head.

[580] The Japanese collection in the Berlin Museum is the finest that I
have ever seen.

[581] See J. Walter Fewkes, Dolls of the Tusayan Indians. Int. Arch.
f. Ethnogr., vol. vii (1894). Fewkes is very careful about committing
himself on this point.

[582] _Op. cit._, p. 254.

[583] Unter den Naturvölkern Central-Brasiliens, p. 230.

[584] Ibid.

[585] _Op. cit._, p. 98. See also Sully’s Studies, p. 333.

[586] _Op. cit._, p. 195.

[587] See on this point Grosse’s Anfänge der Kunst and the chapter on
The Young Draughtsman in Sully’s Studies of Childhood. If space allowed
I could give similar particulars of my nephew Max K——’s work. In this
boy the artistic impulse all turned to the representation of animals,
in which he became a master. He took the great scissors and cut away
almost without looking, and with every turn of the shears he turned his
body too (an instance of the outer effects of inner imitation).

[588] H. T. Lukens, Die Entwickelung beim Zeichnen, Die Kinderfehler,
ii (1897).

[589] Von den Steinen, Unter den Naturvölkern, p. 235.

[590] Unter den Naturvölkern, etc., p. 251.

[591] Unter den Naturvölkern, pp. 251, 254, 255, 257.

[592] Ibid.

[593] Ibid.

[594] G. Nachtigal, Sahara und Sudan, Leipsic, 1889, vol. iii, p. 133.
See, too, Knabenspiele im dunkeln Welttheil, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung,
1898, No. 42.

[595] Conrads Ricci, L’arte dei Bambini, Bologna, 1887. The young
Canova, when a kitchen boy, betrayed his talent as a sculptor by
moulding a lion in butter.

[596] Social and Ethical Interpretations, p. 106.

[597] Ibid. pp. 94 ff.

[598] B. Perez, L’art et la poésie chez l’enfant, Paris, 1888, p. 200.
The self-evident truth that forces the contrary of imitation are also
operative in the progress of art is not the proper subject of this
investigation.

[599] J. Volkelt, Der Symbol-Begriff in der neuesten Aesthetik,
Jena, 1876; and P. Stern, Einfädlung und Association in der neueren
Aesthetik, Hamburg and Leipsic, 1898.

[600] Jouffroy, Cours d’esthétique, Paris, 1845, p. 256.

[601] Dr. Lipps, Raumästhetik und geometrisch-optische Täuschungen,
Leipsic, 1897, p. 5.

[602] See P. Stern, _op. cit._, p. 46.

[603] _Op. cit._, p. 7.

[604] I have dwelt on this point both in my Einleitung in die Aesthetik
and in the Spiele der Thiere. Further treatment of it may be found in
K. Lange’s Künstlerischer Erziehung der deutschen Jugend.

[605] Ueber das optische Formgefühl, Stuttgart, 1873.

[606] La Beauté plastique. Revue philosophique, vol. xxxv (1893).

[607] Studien über die Bewegungsvorstellungen, Wien, 1882.

[608] Beauty and Ugliness. Contemporary Review, 1897.

[609] A confirmation of this, which is especially valuable because it
is not intended as a contribution to æsthetics, is found in Stricker,
_op. cit._, pp. 16, 21, 26.

[610] Stricker, _op. cit._, p. 23. The application to the observation
of dancing is self-evident.

[611] See Hubert Roetteken, Zur Lehre von den Darstellungsmitteln in
der Poesie.

[612] See Külpe, Grundriss zur Psychologie, p. 149. Külpe is of the
opinion that possibly voluntary recollection is never unaccompanied by
movement.

[613] Kalligone, Leipsic, 1800, vol. i, p. 116.

[614] Mental Development, p. 407.

[615] _Op. cit._, pp. 554, 677.

[616] Ibid.

[617] For the bearing of this on the doctrine of promiscuity, see the
works of Starcke, Westermarck, and Grosse; also P. and Fr. Sarasin,
Ergebnisse naturwissenschaftlicher Forschungen auf Ceylon, vol. iii,
Wiesbaden, 1892-’93, pp. 363, 458.

[618] See G. F. Pfisterer, Pädagogische Psychologie, second edition,
Gutersloh, 1889, p. 146.

[619] A. Kohler (Der Kindergarten in seinem Wesen dargestellt) says,
however, that the child’s longing to associate with others of its own
age is so strong as to require daily satisfaction (Pfisterer, _op.
cit._, p. 145).

[620] Pfisterer, _op. cit._, p. 147.

[621] _Op. cit._, p. 65.

[622] Studies in Childhood, p. 268.

[623] Handbuch der praktischen Pädagogik, p. 699.

[624] A. Marty finds, as does Whitney, the impulse for communication
an essential for the origin of the so much more varied language of
men than of animals. Ueber Sprachreflex, Nativismus und absichtliche
Sprachbildung. Vierteljahreschr. f. wissensch. Philos., vol. xiv
(1890), p. 66.

[625] _Op. cit._, p. 228.

[626] Chamberlain, _op. cit._, pp. 260, 263.

[627] Ibid.

[628] See F. S. Krauss, Geheime Sprachweisen. Am. Urquell, vol. ii-vi;
P. Sartori, Sondersprachen, ibid., vol. v.

[629] Social and Ethical Interpretations, p. 148.

[630] Æsthetic Principles, New York, 1895, p. 68.

[631] Essays, vol. ii, p. 41.

[632] The Naturalist in La Plata, p. 227.

[633] Social and Ethical Interpretations, p. 238.

[634] La Logique sociale. Préface, p. vii. Les Lois de l’Imitation,
second edition, p. 215.

[635] Social and Ethical Interpretations, p. 243.

[636] Gutsmuths, p. 251.

[637] Svoboda, Die Bewohner des Nikobaren Archipels, p. 29.

[638] W. James, The Principles of Psychology, vol. ii, p. 428.

[639] Unter den Naturvölkern, etc., p. 267.

[640] J. von d. Steinen, Unter den Naturvölkern, p. 267.

[641] _Op. cit._, p. 219.

[642] Das Spiel und die Spiele, p. 328.

[643] _Op. cit._, p. 268.

[644] In an inquiry as to children’s preferences in the matter of
playmates, Will S. Monroe found 335 boys who wanted male against 20 who
asked for female comrades; 328 girls preferred their own sex and only
28 the other. (Development of the Social Consciousness of Children. The
Northwestern Monthly, September, 1898.)

[645] O. Stoll, Suggestion und Hypnotismus in der Völkerpsychologie,
Leipsic, 1894, p. 24.

[646] A more thorough account of this theory may be found in The Play
of Animals. The recreation theory, on the contrary, is peculiarly
applicable in this connection.

[647] O. Külpe, Grundriss der Psychologie, Leipsic, 1893, p. 216.

[648] H. Steinthal, Zu Bibel und Religionsphilosophie, Berlin, 1895, p.
249.

[649] The foregoing observations are somewhat modified by Kraepelin’s
view that active recreation conquers the feeling of fatigue rather than
fatigue itself.

[650] A. Moll, Der Hypnotismus, third edition, Berlin, 1895, p. 63.

[651] The principle of repetition in poetry, too, is sometimes like
this. See von Biedermann, Die Wiederholung als Urform der Dichtung bei
Goethe. Zeitschrift f. vgl. Literat.-Gesch., vol. iv (1891).

[652] Games of chance pre-eminently have this power over adults.

[653] Mental Development, p. 132.

[654] Souriau, Le plaisir du mouvement, Revue Scientifique, vol. xviii,
p. 365.

[655] O. Stoll, Suggestion und Hypnotismus in der Völkerpsychologie, p.
129.

[656] G. H. Schneider, Der menschliche Wille, Berlin, 1882, p. 68.

[657] The Naturalist in La Plata, p. 281.

[658] _Op. cit._, p. 464.

[659] Sec F. v. Wagner, Das Problem der Vererbung. Die Aula, 1895.

[660] The much-discussed question of telegony seems to me out of
place in this connection, for if it actually exists at all it must be
effected by some intricate modification in the germ substance itself,
and does not concern the inheritance of somatogenic qualities.

[661] J. W. Spengel, Zweckmässigkeit und Anpassung, Giessener
Rectoratsrede, 1898.

[662] G. R. Romanes, Darwin and after Darwin, vol. ii.

[663] Baldwin, Organic Selection. Amer. Naturalist, June, July, 1896,
and Biolog. Centralblatt, vol. xvii (1897), p. 385. Weismann, Ueber
Germinal Selection, Jena, 1896. (Also in English translation.)

[664] Baldwin calls this directing influence of organic selection
orthoplasy; he attempts to replace Eimer’s “orthogenesis” by means
of a principle which does not involve the inheritance of acquired
characters. [A recent exposition of organic selection is by Conn
(Method of Evolution, 1900). See also Baldwin’s Dict. of Philos. and
Psychol., _sub verbo_.—TR.]

[665] The process is, of course, reversed in degeneration.

[666] Weismann insists that individual selection must give the impetus
to such specially directed evolution of the germ substance; but it
seems to me that his theory can not escape the objection that it lacks
proper grounds for selection unless the specially directed variations
in the germ substance arise independently of individual selection. It
may then be said that even in a quite constant species there are, as
a result of germinal selection, dispositions to specially directed
variations (the lower jaw of the Hapsburgs, for instance, or the
appearance of a specialised genius in a talented family), which, so
long as the environment remains constant, very soon meet the opposition
of individual selection. But when outer conditions are changed,
the useful variations arise again, encounter and finally overcome
individual selection. Whether the struggle for existence really plays
such a rôle in the germ substance, however, it is difficult to assert
with assurance.

[667] Ibid.

[668] The previous discussion of this question need not be repeated
here.

[669] R. Sommer, Grundzüge einer Geschichte der deutschen Phys. und
Aesth., Würzburg, 1892, pp. 98, 266.

[670] Gedanken zu einer Aesthetik auf entwickelungsgeschichtlicher
Grundlage. pp. 270, 273.

[671] A similar view is expressed in Lange’s work.

[672] _Op. cit._, pp. 404, 406.

[673] Ibid., p. 411. Here play is called “unconscious imitation
necessitated by hereditary impulses.” In this notice Wundt refers to
my views expressed in The Play of Animals as though to me “the playful
fights of dogs with their young appeared earlier in the evolution
of species than genuine fighting among animals.” But this is not my
meaning. I insisted on the presence of hereditary impulses, and assumed
that these are brought to perfection during a period of youth devoted
to play. Play would, on the whole, contribute more to the weakening of
existing instincts than to strengthen them or create new ones.

[674] Ibid.

[675] I have not made this distinction sufficiently clear in The Play
of Animals, as K. Lange rightly points out.

[676] See, too, K. Lange, Gedanken zu einer Aesthetik, etc., p. 258.

[677] [By “not psychological at all” was meant not psychological
semblance (Scheinthätigkeit) at all, while still such from an objective
point of view; so that psychological semblance can not be taken as a
universal criterion of play.—J. M. B.]

[678] Children show conscious self-illusion very clearly when they play
something like this: “Now I am playing that I am papa and have shot a
lion,” etc.

[679] Note, however, the rhythmic action of attention, which frequently
admits of “coming to” at relatively regular intervals.

[680] Lipps’s dritten Aesthetischen Litteraturbericht (p. 480) seems
to me to state the problem clearly, but does not contribute to its
solution.

[681] Lange has treated of the contrary case where Nature is regarded
as a work of art. I do not think, however, that it has the significance
that belongs to the conversion of appearance into reality.

[682] “À la vue d’un objet expressif,” says Jouffroy, “qui me jette
dans un état sympathique de soi-même désagréable, il y a en moi un
plaisir qui résulte de ce que je suis dans cet état.”—_Op. cit._, 270.

[683] Raumästhetik, p. 6.

[684] _Cf._ Baldwin, Social and Ethical Interpretations, p. 146.

[685] Baldwin, _op. cit._, p. 141.

[686] K. A. Schmid, Geschichte der Erziehung, vol. iv, p. 282.

[687] Colozza’s book on play contains in its second part, Il guoco
nella storia della pedagogia, a good historical review of this subject.

[688] Moller on Play, in the Encyklopädie des gesammten Erziehungs- und
Unterrichtswesens.

[689] This Swabian preacher had made a prodigy of his son by this
method.

[690] K. A. Schmid, Geschichte der Erziehung, vol. iv, pp. 279, 401.

[691] See Max Reischle, Das Spielen der Kinder, etc., p. 32.

[692] I refer not merely to rivalry, but to the accomplishment of tasks
as well.

[693] Brough Smith, The Aborigines of Victoria, London, 1878, vol. i,
p. 50.

[694] Reischle, _op. cit._, p. 24.

[695] See Colozza, _op. cit._, p. 253.




INDEX


Alix, observation of animals, 123.

Allen, Grant, on beauty, 269.

Allin, play with physical pain, 159;
  teasing, 227;
  the comic, 280;
  imitation of animals, 203.

Altum, on sexual selection, 265;
  nursing play, 310.

Amaranthes, swinging, 71;
  trials of patience, 102.

Andree, drumming, 46;
  recognising pictures, 125;
  wagering, 192;
  gambling, 210;
  indecent drawings, 277.

Anstruther-Thomson, inner imitation, 328, 331.

Arabians, wagering, 208.

Aristotle, catharsis, 163.

Astragalus, 209.

Autenrieth, experimental play, 96.


Bain, imitation, 285.

Baldwin, repetition, 6;
  circular reaction, 34;
  persistent imitation, 39;
  righthandedness, 76;
  recognition, 122;
  imagination, 136;
  imitation, 282-291, 305-321;
  nursing play, 311;
  self-exhibition, 348;
  mass suggestion, 367;
  organic selection, 372;
  kinds of play, 396.
  See also the Editor’s Preface.

Bashkirtseff, the luxury of grief, 161.

Bastian, speech practice, 40;
  kite-flying, 97;
  throwing at a mark, 114;
  gaming, 208;
  tensing, 230;
  hide-and-seek, 243.

Beauregard, Egyptian caricature, 227.

Berlepsch, throwing play, 106;
  ring fighting, 178.

Biederman, repetition in poetry, 367.

Boas, figures in skating, 103.

Böhme, melodies of children’s songs, 230;
  sound imitation, 298.

Brehm, teasing, 280.

Bridgman, movement play, 76.

Bücher, work and rhythm, 25;
  songs of primitive peoples, 35;
  origin of instruments, 46.

Büttikofer, plays of women, 192.


Caine, oracles, 207.

Chamberlain, jumping, 85.

Chinese, effect of music, 30;
  games, 208;
  pitching quoits, 210.

Colozza, hearing ploys, 48;
  mental contests, 201;
  social plays, 335;
  dangers of the imagination, 406.

Compayré, play with taste, 9;
  kissing, 12;
  voice practice, 31;
  constructive play, 100;
  playful lying, 142;
  play with the reasoning powers, 154;
  teasing, 228.

Couturat, imitatation and æsthetic satisfaction, 328.

Curtmann, social influence, 335.


Darwin, art and sexual selection, 18-24;
  observation of movement, 164;
  the comic, 297.

Daudet, playful lying, 142.


Dickens, imagination, 138.

Dodge, the comic, 279.

Du Bos, intensive stimuli, 163, 383.


Eckstein, fighting play, 190.

Edler, play with taste, 12;
  hearing play, 24.

Ellendorf, sight play, 51.

Erdmann, gaming, 214.

Eskimos, ornamentation, 58;
  figure-skating, 119.

Eyre, Australian dance, 73.


Fedde, contest in Faust, 179.

Fénelon, play and judgment, 130.

Feuerbach, imagination, 158.

Fewkes, dolls and idols, 312.

Finsch, endurance plays, 102.

Fischart, destructive play, 98;
  ball play, 109;
  throwing, 114.

Fischer, wit, 158;
  on Schopenhauer, 162.

Flashar, social influence, 335.

Forbes, football, 109;
  goal plays, 114.

Fouquières, stloppus, 34;
  ancient drums, 46;
  Athenian feast, 93;
  throwing play, 107;
  the Gordian knot, 210;
  teasing, 222-224;
  hide-and-seek, 243.

Fritsch, love play, 259.

Froebel, learning to walk, 82;
  kindergarten, 402.


G. Marie, touch sensations, 8;
  taste, 15;
  hearing play, 22;
  poetic efforts, 35-39;
  pleasure in colour, 71;
  recognition, 125;
  exercise of reason, 129;
  speech imitation, 296;
  dramatic drawing, 318.

Gildemeister, 345.

Goethe, chain rhymes, 37;
  hearing plays, 43;
  praying to the light, 52;
  throwing play, 105;
  illusion, 132;
  playful lying, 142;
  the luxury of grief, 165;
  fighting play, 182.

Grasberger, divisions of play, 1-15;
  play with insects, 85;
  gymnastic play, 85;
  hustling things about, 97;
  ring games, 114;
  blind-man’s-buff, 128;
  hunting play, 240.

Grey, 229.

Grosse, primitive poetry, 35;
  instruments, 44;
  critique of Bücher, 47;
  display in the dance, 73;
  rhythm, 89;
  stories of Eskimos, 142;
  mental rivalry, 202;
  derisive songs, 229;
  primitive pictures, 315;
  dance feasts, 354.

Gurney, enjoyment of music in children, 20;
  hearing play, 23.

Gutsmuth, throwing plays, 107;
  teasing, 224.

Gutzmann, voice practice among children, 31-33.

Guyau, pleasure in warmth, 14;
  in pleasant odours, 17;
  playful lying, 142;
  theory of play, 388.


Hall, taste, 8;
  play with physical pain, 159;
  cruelty, 233;
  teasing, 288;
  the comic, 280;
  imitation of animals, 203.

Hanslick, pleasure in music, 27.

Hartmann, endurance play, 103;
  rivalry, 182;
  betting, 206;
  lottery, 208;
  apparent and real I, 388.

Hecker, the comic, 165.

Hellenes, drumming, 44;
  gymnastic play, 85;
  Livingston, 93;
  hustling things about, 97;
  board plays, 204;
  betting, 206.

Helmholtz, 129.

Herbart, the child as a plaything, 403.

Hudson, impulse for contact, 286;
  mass play by birds, 346;
  Lamarckian principle, 361.

Hugo, 17;
  enjoyment of the grotesque, 167.



Ibsen, J. G. Borkmann, 82;
  tragedy, 146.

Indian, 182;
  games of chance, 208.


Jacobson, Indian child feast, 304.

James, reverence for light, 52;
  collective impulse, 100;
  desire for knowledge, 147;
  hunting impulse, 240;
  social play, 352.

Jean Paul, social play, 396.

Jodl, sensory impulses, 3;
  teasing, 222;
  decapitation, 309.

Johnson, taste play, 11;
  hearing play, 34.

Jouffroy, inner imitation, 328.


Kant, colour perception, 60;
  the comic, 165.

Kaufmann, recognition in poetry, 127.

Keller, pleasure in colour, 72;
  destructive play, 98;
  love play, 255.

Kleist, the luxury of grief, 161.

Klutschak, skating figures, 103.

Köhler, the social sense in little children, 335.

Köstlin, tone, 28.

Kraepelin, rhyming, 38;
  sensation in play, 74.

Kraus, 343.

Kries, practice of the will, 172.

Külpe, 365;
  the reasoning powers, 329.

Kussmaul, taste in the infant, 14.


Lange, conscious self-deception, 130;
  value of illusion, 300;
  aim in play, 379.

Lazarus, struggle with danger and difficulty, 174;
  card games, 195;
  recreation theory, 364;
  rivalry, 190.

Lee, æsthetic observation, 328.

Legras, movement play, 78.

Lenz, climbing impulse, 87.

Lessing, pleasure in strong excitement, 14;
  pleasure in learning, 130;
  effect of the tragic, 163;
  the task of poetry, 383.

Lewes, attention, 145.

Linde, chess games, 193.

Lindley, logical experimentation, 154.

Lippert, ecstatic condition, 25.

Lipps, the comic, 165;
  charm of forbidden fruit, 287;
  the Doric column, 323;
  æsthetic illusion, 388.

Livingstone, imitative play, 304.

Lombroso, imagination, 140;
  impulse to opposition, 187;
  destructiveness, 218.

Lotze, 129.

Lubbock, reduplication, 88.

Lukens, children’s drawings, 316.


Mantegazza, love play, 266.

Marcano, caricature, 227.

Marshall, art instinct, 345.

Marty, speech and sympathy, 341.

Meumann, rhythm, 35.

Mexico, 208.

Meyer, E. H., teasing, 230.

Meyer, R. M., refrain, 35, 127.

Mill, J., imitative impulse, 285.

Minor, imitation, 127.

Mörike, touch sensations, 13;
  sight play, 52.

Moll, repetition in hypnosis, 367.

Moller, on play, 399.

Monroe, comradeship and sex, 356.

Morgan, Lloyd, organic selection, 294.

Munkacsy, collective impulse, 101.


Nachtigal, plastic production by children, 420.

Nansen, sight play, 51;
  leaping, 85;
  curiosity, 147.

Necker de Saussure, destructive impulse, 218;
  social sense in children, 335.


Niebuhr, ball play, 113.

Nietzsche, intoxication and art, 24;
  tragedy, 252;
  low ideals, 90.

Nordenskiold, throwing play, 115.


Parkinson, swinging, 93;
  throwing play, 107;
  catching, 119;
  wagering, 206.

Perez, touch sensations, 6-11;
  smell, 15;
  hearing, 20, 22, 41;
  hustling things about, 96;
  playful lying, 142;
  curiosity, 157;
  teasing imitation, 227, 291;
  imitation of self, 322.

Petermann, 192;
  gaming, 209.

Pfänder, movement and will, 285.

Pfisterer, social sense in children, 335.

Pilo, smoking, 17;
  the comic, 238.

Plischke, reason play, 191.

Ploss, hearing play, 41;
  rocking, 93;
  throwing, 109;
  teasing, 225.

Preyer, touch sensations, 6;
  hearing play, 41;
  sensations of brightness, 50;
  perception of movement, 75;
  learning to walk, 81;
  dancing, 89;
  constructive play, 100;
  throwing, 103;
  recognition, 123;
  attention, 147;
  imitation, 291.


Rabelais, throwing play, 145;
  satire, 228.

Raehlmann, sight play, 48;
  sounding, 50.

Raydt, boxing, 180.

Reischel, prehistoric drums, 45;
  play and character building, 400.

Ribot, instinct, 34;
  gaming, 210;
  play with physical pain, 160;
  luxury of grief, 162;
  the comic, 230;
  pleasure in the tragic, 248.

Ricci, plastic art among children, 320.

Richepin, sympathy between artists, 345.

Richter, A., 114.

Richter, W., fisticuff, 180;
  gaming, 209.

Rochholz, children’s rhymes, 39;
  hustling things about, 97;
  throwing play, 114;
  finger play, 170;
  gaming, 208.

Rötteken, pleasure in strong emotion, 163;
  poetic enjoyment, 330.

Romanes, play with temperature sensations, 14, 51;
  endurance play, 102;
  throwing, 181;
  instinct, 372.

Rousseau, meaning of youth, 121.

Rudeck, self-exhibition, 263.

Rückert, riddle contest, 190.


Sand, fear, 166;
  imaginative play, 406.

Scaino, football, 108.

Schaller, chance games, 193-204;
  card games, 194;
  wagering, 213.

Schellong, hearing play, 43.

Schiller, dancing, 89;
  superfluous energy, 339;
  courage, 392.

Schliemann, Trojan instruments, 46.

Schneegan, teasing, 222.

Schneider, the hunting impulse, 230;
  Lamarckian principle, 370.

Scholz, destructive impulse, 220.

Schopenhauer, effect of rhythm, 25-28;
  power and will, 384.

Schultz, hearing play, 46;
  fighting play, 186-201;
  seeking, 244.

Schuster, 204, 205;
  gaming, 191-211.

Schweinfurth, throwing play, 114.

Seidel, riddles, 157;
  animal stories, 205.

Selenka, singing apes, 19;
  rhythmical movement, 89.

Semon, play with taste, 16;
  hunting play, 238.

Semper, imitative dancing, 312.

Shinn, hearing, 21;
  recognition, 125;
  imitation, 295;
  dancing by children, 302;
  drawing, 314.


Siebeck, musical enjoyment, 28.

Sighele, destructive impulse, 220.

Sigismund, rhythm, 20;
  sight play, 50;
  learning to walk, 80;
  hustling things about, 96;
  throwing, 104;
  recognition, 123;
  teasing, 225;
  imitation, 294.

Sikorski, sense of taste, 9;
  recognition, 123;
  attention, 145.

Sittl, teasing, 231.

Slatin, cruelty, 225.

Smyth, Brough, 402.

Sommer, 488.

Souriau, æsthetics and suggestion, 24;
  illusion, 131;
  pleasure in movement, 93, 361;
  throwing, 104;
  fear, 166.

Spencer, superfluous energy, 362;
  art and sexual selection, 18;
  rhythm, 89;
  curiosity, 148.

Spengel, Lamarckian principle, 372.

Spinoza, rivalry, 197.

Steinen, v. d., swinging, 93;
  hustling things about, 97;
  recognition, 125;
  curiosity, 147;
  ring fighting, 176;
  the comic, 274;
  origin of drawing, 314;
  beginnings of plastic art, 42;
  dancing, 353;
  exclusion of women from feasts, 355.

Steinthal, recreation, 365.

Stern, L. W., perception of movement, 145.

Stern, P., sympathy and association, 325.

Sticker, righthandedness, 76.

Stöckel, the nude in art, 276.

Stoll, hypnotism, 25;
  dancing dervishes, 369.

Stricker, inner imitation, 329.

Strümpell, touch sensations, 8;
  hearing play, 41;
  endurance play, 102;
  counting, 136.

Strutt, old English snowshoeing, 95;
  endurance play, 102;
  ball play, 120;
  fighting play, 185;
  hunting impulse, 238.

Stumpf, a prodigy, 129.

Sully, hearing play, 20, 41;
  recognition, 123;
  memory, 128;
  playful lying, 142;
  fear, 167;
  opposition, 186;
  the comic, 230;
  voluntary submission, 338.

Svoboda, fighting play, 182;
  play of children, 397;
  dancing, 350.


Tarde, imitation and repetition, 282;
  obedience as imitation, 348.

Tiedemann, curiosity, 150.

Töllner, on play, 398.

Tracy, beginnings of imitation, 291.

Tylor, backgammon, 194;
  wagering and soothsaying, 207, 208;
  counting games, 210;
  drawing by deaf-mutes, 230.


Vierordt, movement in children, 75;
  righthandedness, 76.

Vischer, 279;
  inner imitation, 328.

Volkett, enjoyment of tragedy, 246;
  inner sympathy, 322.


Wagner, F. v., Lamarckian principle, 372.

Wagner, H., top spinning, 111;
  ball games, 120;
  experimentation, 169.

Wagner, L., shipwreck, 222;
  April fool, 225.

Wagner, R., recognition, 126.

Wallaschek, rhythm and melody, 26;
  critique of Spencer, 29.

Weinhold, K., leaping play, 86;
  dancing, 89;
  snowshoeing, 95;
  throwing play, 181, 203;
  gaming, 186, 191.

Weismann, germinal selection, 373.

Werner, poetic rivalry, 189.

Westermarck, courtship contest, 263.

Wetz, province of the drama, 247.

Wölfflin, touch sensations, 10.


Wünsche, betting among the Arabians, 208.

Wundt, love plays, 253;
  eye movements, 328;
  criterion of play, 379.


Zettler, tests of strength, 178.

Zingerle, sense of taste, 9;
  chain rhymes, 36;
  sight plays, 50.

Zola, 136.


THE END









End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Play of Man, by Karl Gross

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