Philosophy and History of Psychology: Selected works of Elizabeth Valentine 9781848722743, 9781315858616

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Philosophy and History of Psychology

In the World Library of Psychologists series, international experts themselves present career-long collections of what they judge to be their finest pieces – extracts from books, key articles, salient research findings, and their major practical theoretical contributions. Elizabeth Valentine has an international reputation as an eminent scholar and pioneer in the field of philosophy and history of psychology. This selection brings together some of her best work over the last thirty years. A specially written introduction gives an overview of her career and contextualises the selection in relation to changes in the field during this time. Part I on Philosophy covers work on different theoretical approaches to psychology, introspection and the study of consciousness, the mind-body problem, and different types of explanation in psychology including reductionism. Part II, From Philosophy to History, includes work on the philosophical psychologists G. F. Stout and James Sully among others. Part III on History covers Valentine’s more recent historical work on the development of psychology in London – both institutional and biographical – which includes accounts of both Bedford College and University College, and the role of pioneer women psychologists. The book enables the reader to trace developments in the philosophy and history of psychology over the last thirty years. It will appeal to those with interests in these areas as well as being an invaluable resource for graduate and advanced undergraduate courses in conceptual and historical issues. Elizabeth R. Valentine is Emeritus Professor of Psychology at Royal Holloway, University of London and Honorary Senior Research Associate at University College London, UK. Best known as the author of Conceptual Issues in Psychology, she has published many papers on theoretical psychology and experimental psychology. She is a founder member and former chair of the History and Philosophy of Psychology Section of the British Psychological Society and the founding editor of its periodical, History & Philosophy of Psychology.

The World Library of Psychologists

The World Library of Psychologists series celebrates the important contributions to psychology made by leading experts in their individual fields of study. Each scholar has compiled a career-long collection of what they consider to be their finest pieces: extracts from books, journals, articles, major theoretical and practical contributions, and salient research findings. For the first time ever the work of each contributor is presented in a single volume so readers can follow the themes and progress of their work and identify the contributions made to, and the development of, the fields themselves. Each book in the series features a specially written introduction by the contributor giving an overview of their career, contextualising their selection within the development of the field, and showing how their thinking developed over time. Reasoning, Rationality and Dual Processes Selected Works of Jonathan St B. T. Evans By Jonathan St B. T. Evans The Assessment, Evaluation and Rehabilitation of Everyday Memory Problems Selected Papers of Barbara A. Wilson By Barbara A. Wilson Philosophy and History of Psychology Selected works of Elizabeth Valentine By Elizabeth R. Valentine

Philosophy and History of Psychology Selected works of Elizabeth Valentine

Elizabeth R. Valentine

First published 2014 by Psychology Press 27 Church Road, Hove, East Sussex BN3 2FA and by Psychology Press 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Psychology Press is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2014 Elizabeth R. Valentine The right of Elizabeth R. Valentine to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record for this book has been requested ISBN: 978–1–84872–274–3 (hbk) ISBN: 978–1–31585–861–6 (ebk) Typeset in Times New Roman by Keystroke, Station Road, Codsall, Wolverhampton

Contents

List of illustrations Acknowledgements Introduction

vii ix 1

PART I

Philosophy

11

1 Philosophy and psychology

13

2 Psychology as science

15

3 Folk psychology and its implications for cognitive science: discussion

22

4 Introspection

28

5 The possibility of a science of experience: an examination of some conceptual problems facing the study of consciousness

47

6 Dissociation and the delimitation of consciousness: implications of neuropsychological phenomena for philosophical conceptions of consciousness

56

7 Perception and action in East and West

66

8 Metaphysics

74

9 Mind-body problems: distinguishing the soluble from the insoluble

82

10 Explanation 11 Reduction

93 104

vi Contents PART II

From philosophy to history

111

12 Neural nets: from Hartley and Hebb to Hinton

113

13 G. F. Stout’s philosophical psychology

123

14 Biographical introduction to James Sully’s Studies of Childhood

137

PART III

History

147

15 Psychology at Bedford College London 1849–1985

149

16 Measuring the mind: Beatrice Edgell, pioneer woman psychologist of Bedford College

163

17 The founding of the Psychological Laboratory, University College London: “Dear Galton . . . Yours truly, J Sully”

179

18 Spooks and spoofs: relations between psychical research and academic psychology in Britain in the inter-war period

196

19 To care or to understand? Women members of the British Psychological Society 1901–1918

220

20 The other woman

233

21 “A brilliant and many-sided personality”: Jessie Margaret Murray, founder of the Medico-Psychological Clinic

237

Index

256

Illustrations

Figures 16.1 Diverse, artificial and kindred memory associations as a function of age and sex 18.1 Articles on psychical research in Nature 18.2 References to psychical research in The Times 19.1 Number of qualifications obtained by early women members of the BPS 19.2 Occupations of early women members of the BPS 19.3 Number of books published by early women members of the BPS

170 200 201 224 226 227

Tables 19.1 Names and dates of women members of the British Psychological Society 1901–1918 19.2 Number of women and men in Educational, Medical and Industrial Sections of the British Psychological Society in 1921

222 225

Acknowledgements

I am grateful to the following individuals and organisations for permission to reproduce material in this book: John Wiley & Sons for: Chapter 1. Philosophy and psychology. Mind & Language, 1, 28–30, 1986. Chapter 5. The possibility of a science of experience: An examination of some conceptual problems facing the study of consciousness. British Journal of Psychology, 90, 535–542, 1999. Taylor & Francis for: Chapter 2. Psychology as science. Conceptual Issues in Psychology, Chapter 1. 2nd edn. London: Routledge, 1992. Chapter 4. Introspection. Conceptual Issues in Psychology, Chapter 5, pp. 56–72. 2nd edn. London: Routledge, 1992. Chapter 10. Explanation. Conceptual Issues in Psychology, Chapter 8, pp. 106–116. 2nd edn. London: Routledge. 1992. Chapter 11. Reduction. Conceptual Issues in Psychology, Chapter 11, pp. 155–62. 2nd edn. London: Routledge, 1992. Suzanne Smith and Sage for: Chapter 3. Folk psychology and its implications for cognitive science: Discussion. In W. O’Donohue & R. Kitchener (Eds.), The philosophy of psychology, pp. 275–78. London: Sage, 1996. Chapter 18. Spooks and spoofs: Relations between psychical research and academic psychology in Britain in the inter-war period. History of the Human Sciences, 25(2), 67–90, 2012 (http://hhs.sagepub.com/ content/25/2/67.abstract). The final, definitive version of this paper has been published in History of the Human Sciences, 25, 2012 by SAGE Publications Ltd. All rights reserved. © Elizabeth R. Valentine. Geoff Ellis, Jon Sutton and the British Psychological Society for: Chapter 19. To care or to understand? Women members of the British Psychological Society 1901–1918. History & Philosophy of Psychology 10(1), 54–65, 2008. Chapter 20. The other woman. The Psychologist, 21(1), 86–87, 2008. Graham Horswell and Imprint Academic for: Chapter 6. Dissociation and the delimitation of consciousness: Implications of neuropsychological phenomena for philosophical conceptions of consciousness. In B. Borstner & J. Shawe-Taylor (Eds.), Consciousness at the Crossroads of Philosophy and Cognitive Science, pp. 24–31. Thorverton, England: Imprint Academic, 1995. Elsevier Limited for: Chapter 7. Perception and action in East and West. In J. P. Forgas & M. J. Innes (Eds.), Recent Advances in Social Psychology: An

x Acknowledgements International Perspective, pp. 139–147. Amsterdam: Elsevier (North-Holland), 1989, © Elsevier Science Publishers (North-Holland), 1989. Chapter 12. Reprinted from Journal of Mathematical Psychology, 33 (3), Elizabeth R. Valentine, Neural nets: From Hartley and Hebb to Hinton, 348–357, 1989, © 1989 by Academic Press, Inc. The American Psychological Association and Oxford University Press for: Chapter 8. Metaphysics. In A. E. Kazdin (Ed.), Encyclopedia of Psychology, Vol. 5, pp. 204–209. New York: American Psychological Association and Oxford University Press, 2000 (www.apa.org). By permission of Oxford University Press. The American Psychological Association for: Chapter 17. The founding of the psychological laboratory, University College London: “Dear Galton . . . Yours truly, J Sully”. History of Psychology, 2 (3), 204–218, 1999. Copyright © 1999 by the American Psychological Association. Reproduced with permission. Professor Dr Matjazˇ Gams on behalf of the MultiConference Information Society for: Chapter 9. Mind-body problems: Distinguishing the soluble from the insoluble. In I. Kononenko & I. Jerman (Eds.), Proceedings of Mind-Body Studies. 6th International Conference on Cognitive Science. Vol. C, pp. 27–32. Jozˇef Stefan Institute, Ljubljana, Slovenia, 2003. Springer for: Chapter 13. Elizabeth R. Valentine, G. F. Stout’s philosophical psychology. In L. Albertazzi (Ed.), The Dawn of Cognitive Science: Early European Contributors, pp. 209–224. Dordrecht: Kluwer, 2001, © 2001 Kluwer Academic Publishers. Reprinted with kind permission from Springer Science+ Business Media B.V. Cathy Miller and Free Association Books for: Chapter 14. Biographical introduction to James Sully, Studies of Childhood, pp. xlii–liii. London: Free Association Books, 2000. Royal Holloway, University of London for: Chapter 15. Psychology at Bedford College London 1849–1985. Egham, Surrey: Royal Holloway, University of London, 1997. Chapter 16. Measuring the mind: Beatrice Edgell, Pioneer Woman Psychologist of Bedford College. Egham, Surrey: Royal Holloway, University of London, 2004. Wiley-Blackwell for: Chapter 21. “A brilliant and many-sided personality”: Jessie Margaret Murray, founder of the Medico-Psychological Clinic, Elizabeth R. Valentine, Journal of the History of the Behavioral Sciences, 45(2), 145–61, 2009, © Wiley Periodicals Inc. (http://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1002/jhbs. 20364/abstract).

Introduction

Autobiography Personal careers, like science, do not always progress in a logical fashion and are affected by contingent factors. My bachelor’s degree was a joint honours in Philosophy and Psychology at University College London. I chose philosophy because I was attracted by perennial, fundamental questions and I was good at maths, so I thought I would be able to do logic; my choice of psychology was less clearly motivated and somewhat arbitrary. I stayed on to do a PhD in cognitive psychology but the present volume of selected papers does not include any of my work in cognitive psychology or in the psychology of music, which I later pursued. Partly by nature and partly by necessity, I have been Jill of a number of different trades. Two particularly influential teachers were A. R. Jonckheere in psychology and John Watling in philosophy, who stimulated and guided my interests as an undergraduate (without any ‘aims and objectives’, ‘bullet points’ or PowerPoint presentations, though there was a wonderful thing called an epidiascope). They were distinguished by their willingness—indeed eagerness—to cross the divide between their respective departments; these occupied adjacent houses, but rarely did their occupants or their occupants’ minds meet. My original training gave me a lasting interest in the borderland between philosophy and psychology, a particular interest in cognitive psychology, and a preference for ‘hard’ over ‘soft’ psychology; I would be classified as a ‘quantoid’ rather than a ‘smoosh’ (see Hatch, 1995, p. xvi). I was fortunate, in my teaching posts, to have a fair amount of freedom to develop my own courses. At West Ham College of Technology, subsequently North East London Polytechnic and now the University of East London, John Radford (my head of department) allowed me to create and teach a course on the theory of psychology. On moving to Bedford College London in 1972, I inherited Joan Wynn Reeves’ course on Theoretical and Historical Issues in Psychology. In those days the degree examinations were university- rather than college-based. Here I conceived the idea of writing a book entitled Conceptual Issues in Psychology, which served as a text for this course and was published in 1982. Excerpts from the second edition, published in 1992, are presented here in Chapters 2, 4, 10 and 11. At the time, there was very little published in this field. Although there was an established body of literature on the philosophy of science, there was virtually

2 Introduction nothing on philosophical issues specifically related to psychology, nor any books written by someone trained in both disciplines. Since then, the field has burgeoned (partly as a result of the development of critical psychology) and now there are perhaps a dozen texts in the area. At Royal Holloway, with which Bedford College merged in 1985, I taught in addition a third year course in Philosophical Issues which included topics within the philosophy of mind, another area that has blossomed in recent decades.

Position statement There is a fundamental tension between the natural and the social sciences. My own affinities lie with the natural rather than the social sciences. I am sympathetic towards positivism and realism, and unsympathetic towards post-modernism, social constructionism and critical psychology. I prefer to seek universal statements and cumulative knowledge rather than ‘truths’ that are specific or relative to a particular time and culture. As I wrote in response to a target paper by Roger Smith (Smith, 2010): One can accept that scientific activity occurs in a social context, that scientific theories are from a particular perspective, that explanations invoke a theoretical framework, and that they are pragmatic . . . without concluding that psychology is intrinsically historical. Psychology is a hybrid of natural and social science (and unsatisfactory for this reason). It is not exclusively a human science nor is the investigation of human nature (whatever that is) of paramount importance. On the natural science view, psychological science is primarily concerned with the psychological capacities and processes of an “ahistorical, generalised mind or brain” and not those as exhibited by “particular people, or particular organisms, in particular contexts” (p. 31): the determinants of competence in the species rather than the explanation of particular behavioural episodes (Russell, 1984). Large areas of psychology seek universal, at least relatively permanent, natural kinds . . . In a recent study by Boyack et al. (2005), which used citation data to plot the semantic space of different disciplines, psychology was situated between neurology and sociology with history the far side of sociology from psychology. The vehement opposition sometimes encountered to the view espoused in the target paper, viz. that psychology is essentially historical, results from the fact that such a view undermines the natural science project. There is indeed a tension between, on the one hand, the desire for the explanation of particular behavioural episodes, typical of the lay person or non-scientist, and perhaps the provenance of applied psychology, and, on the other, what ‘pure’ psychological science can offer. Nor is it clear that one can be derived from the other in any straightforward manner. Perhaps it may be helpful to introduce Bent Flyvbjerg’s (2001) distinction between phronesis and episteme here. Flyvbjerg uses a contemporary

Introduction 3 interpretation of these two Aristotelian intellectual virtues . . . to suggest a resolution of the Science Wars. He aligns the social sciences with phronesis and the natural sciences with episteme. Phronesis is prudence or practical wisdom . . . Episteme is analytical, scientific knowledge. For Aristotle, they are two different ventures, with reciprocal strengths and weaknesses. The social sciences’ forte is reflexive analysis and discussion of values and interests, a prerequisite for enlightened political, economic and cultural development of a society . . . The natural sciences’ forte is explanatory and predictive theory. (Valentine, 2010, p. 57)

Philosophy and history Although it is difficult to deal with either the philosophy or the history of psychology without becoming involved in the other, they are often the provinces of independent learned societies. Britain and Canada have been distinguished by attempting to integrate them. A History & Philosophy of Psychology Section of the British Psychological Society (HPPS) was founded in 1984 followed by the Canadian Psychological Society in 1986. The British Section has been an important source of support for those of us interested in this area. Brian Foss, my then head of department, encouraged me to become involved and I became a founder member. I was Chair of the Section from 1994–97 and founding editor of its periodical, History & Philosophy of Psychology, from 1999–2012. Although always small in numbers, the Section has remained active throughout its existence. Many of the chapters in this volume began life, or were presented in some form, at HPPS conferences.

History and psychology Although history of psychology is often described as a ‘sub-discipline’ of psychology, my own view is that it is history rather than psychology. (Boyack et al.’s 2005 paper cited above also supports this view.) It is closer to history of science. And while I regard conceptual or theoretical issues as an obligatory part of the syllabus of an honours degree in psychology, I consider history of psychology to be an option and more suited to postgraduate than undergraduate courses. The hard sciences do not have history courses as part of their curriculum: their history has been incorporated into the established body of knowledge. But much of psychology is non-cumulative and fragmented. For the most part, those who seek to make history a core part of the psychology curriculum want to use it to inculcate a particular view of psychology as a human or social science rather than a natural science. The historiography of psychology has undergone radical changes in the last three decades. The traditional narrative, didactic approach has been criticised; seen as celebratory and presentist, it has been superseded by much scholarly work, especially by historians. An assumption underlying much of this work is that

4 Introduction psychological categories are historically constituted and culturally variable—a view, as we have seen, to which I do not subscribe. My own interests have been much more narrowly circumscribed— focussed particularly on the development of institutional psychology in London at the beginning of the 20th century, with a particular interest in biographies.

Selection of chapters In making this selection of chapters, I have attempted to produce a representative sample of my more important and better pieces of work. I had hoped to include some that are not easily accessible but the word limit prevented this. The chapters are ordered thematically, though there is a chronological trend. The first eleven chapters are predominantly theoretical or philosophical; the last seven are largely historical. Chapters 12–14 are a mixture and form a useful bridge. Only minor alterations have been made, e.g. corrections and updates.

Part I Philosophy Chapter 1 discusses the relation between philosophy and psychology, arguing for their mutual interdependence. This early paper was a contribution to a Forum on the topic, published in the first issue of Mind & Language. Chapter 2 is the first chapter of Conceptual Issues in Psychology, which provided an overview of most of the topics covered and indicated the position to be taken on them. The stated aim of the book was to provide a broad treatment of the main conceptual issues in psychology: to explain what the problems are, to outline the main approaches taken to them and to indicate their relative merits and demerits, although my hope was that the reader would ultimately reach his or her own conclusions. The first part of the book was concerned with the more substantive philosophical questions such as free will and determinism, consciousness and the relation between body and mind, and included consideration of ways in which empirical work in psychology may be able to throw light on these perennial problems, which have interested scholars and lay people alike. These led on to the methodological problems of introspection and sources of artefact in experimentation. The second half of the book was concerned with different theoretical approaches and types of explanation within psychology, such as behaviourism, reductionism, computer modelling and purposive explanation. A second edition was published ten years later. As I commented in the Preface to that edition, conceptual change is slower than empirical advance. Perennial questions tend to be reformulated rather than radically altered. Nevertheless, the focus of interest shifts—psychology is particularly prone to fashion—and a number of major developments took place, notably work on computational models and neural networks. ‘Cognitive science’ was born, with the aim of fostering interdisciplinary links amongst philosophy, psychology, computer science, linguistics and neuroscience. Work on consciousness exploded, though with uncertain results.

Introduction 5 Attacks on positivism continued; the philosophy of mind flourished and alternatives to orthodox approaches increased in sophistication and popularity. New sections on parallel distributed processing and Eastern Psychology were included to reflect some of these changes. Chapter 3 contrasts folk psychology with scientific language. It consists of my comments as discussant at a symposium on ‘“Folk psychology” and its implications for psychological science’, convened by Ullin Place on behalf of the HPPS for the British Psychological Society’s Annual Conference, in Blackpool, in 1993. I concluded that folk psychology differs from scientific psychology in its functions, scope, criteria and evidential base. I returned to this topic in an invited lecture on ‘The role of introspection and folk psychology in a scientific psychopathology’ to a research meeting on the theme of Philosophical Foundations of Psychopathology for Spanish psychiatrists and mental health workers, held in El Puerto de Santa María (Cádiz) in 2009. Chapter 4 discusses introspection, both the theoretical problems of its nature and status, and practical problems such as interference and accessibility. I first published on these topics in 1978 with regard to the use of introspection in the study of thinking (Valentine, 1978), and concluded that introspection was more useful for studying the content than the process of thought. In the more general discussion of the topic in the first edition of Conceptual Issues in Psychology (1982), I extended the classification to the content of experience, the process of behaviour and the determinants of behaviour (what? how? and why? questions respectively). By the second edition I was able to incorporate Ericsson and Simon’s analysis of the conditions governing the production of verbal reports, which enable the identification of situations conducive to reliable reports. Chapter 5 addresses problems that are perceived as obstacles to the scientific investigation of conscious experience: (1) conceptual confusion and an absence of natural categories; (2) privacy; and (3) epiphenomenalism or lack of causal efficacy—and considers the extent to which they can be mitigated. The paper was a contribution, at the British Psychological Society’s Annual Conference in 1996, to the inaugural symposium of the Consciousness & Experiential Psychology Section, of which I was a founder member (together with Jane Henry, Max Velmans, Richard Stevens and John Pickering). The paper also introduces ideas developed more fully in Chapter 9. The next two chapters engage in deconstruction. Chapter 6 provides a critique of the claim that consciousness is a transparent, unified, coherent system that plays an important role in the control of behaviour, based on neuropsychological data. This paper was originally presented at the conference on ‘Consciousness at the Crossroads of Philosophy and Cognitive Science’, in Maribor, Slovenia, in 1994; subsequently to a joint meeting of the Royal College of Psychiatrists and the HPPS on ‘Dysfunctions of consciousness’ at the University of Wolverhampton in 1995; and under a slightly different title, as the inaugural lecture to the Association of Cognitive Neuropsychology and Cognitive Neurology at the Paediatric Hospital, Ljubljana, Slovenia, in 1996. The first of these lectures was part of an international project entitled ‘Phenomenology and Cognitive Science’ funded by the European

6 Introduction Union under the Tempus Programme, in which philosophers, psychologists and computer scientists from England, Germany, Italy, Austria and Slovenia took part. The aim of the project was to explore relations between the Continental, phenomenological tradition of Brentano and Husserl and Anglo-American work in cognitive science. Four conferences were held and there were exchange visits of both staff and students between 1992 and 1994, culminating in the publication of the volume Handbook: Phenomenology and Cognitive Science (Baumgartner et al., 1996). The project was not only academically fruitful but also personally rewarding, with many lasting friendships made. Chapter 7 offers a critique of the conceptual ‘ecological’ self, and concludes that work in current Western philosophy, artificial intelligence and neuroscience accords with ancient Eastern philosophy, in denying our everyday conception of the existence of a self as perceiver and agent. It was first presented as a paper at the 24th International Congress of Psychology in Sydney, Australia, in 1988. The next two chapters discuss various aspects of the mind-body problem. Chapter 8 is an encyclopaedia entry on ‘metaphysics’. After distinguishing ontological, epistemological and conceptual issues, it provides an account of the mind-body problem that supersedes that presented in the second edition of Conceptual Issues in Psychology. It also lays the basis for the distinction drawn between different forms of the problem, discussed in the following chapter, where it is argued that epistemologically the problem is insoluble, ontologically it is straightforwardly soluble, and theoretically it is soluble with difficulty but that greater progress has been made on this than is generally accepted. This latter paper was originally presented under the title: ‘The science of experience: Popper’s three worlds and attitudes to the explanatory gap’ as the Chair’s address to the HPPS at their Annual Conference at York in 1996 and published in New Ideas in Psychology (Valentine, 1999). It was given in a modified form as an invited lecture at the 6th International Conference on Cognitive Science in Ljubljana, Slovenia, in 2003, under the title ‘Mind-body problems: Distinguishing the soluble from the insoluble’, the version included here. Chapters 10 and 11 deal with explanation and are taken from the second edition of Conceptual Issues in Psychology. Chapter 10 provides a fuller account of different types of explanation than that provided in the first edition. The relation between causal and teleological explanations was the subject of an early paper, ‘Causal and teleological explanation: same or different? Which one or both?’ given at the first annual conference of the HPPS at Ilkley, Yorkshire, in 1987, subsequently published in the first issue of Philosophical Psychology (Valentine, 1988). Chapter 11 deals with the specific issue of reduction, whether psychological explanations might be replaceable by physiological ones, which was the subject of a paper, ‘The reducibility of psychology to physiology: Putnam vs. Churchland’, presented to the HPPS in 1989 meeting in Lincoln.

Introduction 7

Part II From philosophy to history Chapters 12 to 14 serve as a bridge from philosophy to history. The relation between psychology and neuroscience is pursued in Chapter 12, with a paper on ‘Neural nets: from Hartley and Hebb to Hinton’, which traces the history of neural nets. This too was originally presented to the HPPS (in Leeds in 1988) and was spotted by the Book Review Editor of the Journal of Mathematical Psychology, leading to a surprising but most welcome invitation to submit it for publication there. Chapters 13 and 14 on G. F. Stout and James Sully respectively, philosophical psychologists at the turn of the 20th century as psychology was becoming established as a scientific discipline, form a useful link to the succeeding three chapters which deal with the development of psychology at two of the University of London’s constituent colleges. Chapter 13, ‘G. F. Stout’s philosophical psychology’, is based on a paper presented at a conference on ‘The origins of the cognitive sciences 1870–1930: Theories of representation’, hosted by the Central European Institute, Bolzano, Italy, in 1997. I am grateful to Liliana Albertazzi for the invitation to participate in this meeting, which included delegates from Germany, Italy, the United States, Sweden, the Netherlands, France and the UK. Chapter 14 is a biographical introduction to a re-issue of James Sully’s Studies of Childhood just over a hundred years after it was first published. Sully’s role in establishing the psychological laboratory at University College London is the subject of Chapter 17.

Part III History Research for the papers that form Chapters 15 to 17 was occasioned by centenary celebrations. Centenaries are denigrated by professional historians but in my case they provided the entrée into an exciting new field of academic endeavour. Once introduced to the world of archives, I was ‘hooked’ and have been pursuing the history of psychology ever since. The centenary of the appointment of Beatrice Edgell to Bedford College London prompted research into the history of its Psychology Department, where I was then a member of staff, and to an extended study of Edgell herself. Chapter 15 is a history of the Department, based on oral presentations given at the centenary celebrations and as the Chair’s address to the HPPS Annual Conference in York in 1997. Beatrice Edgell, head of the Department of Philosophy and Psychology at Bedford College from 1898–1933, was the subject of my inaugural lecture, attended by several of her relatives, and reprinted as Chapter 16. She was the first British woman to be awarded a doctorate in psychology and to become professor of psychology in the UK. I discuss the setting up of one of the first psychological laboratories in the country (at Bedford College), Edgell’s own research and teaching, and consider reasons for her success at a time of limited access to education for women, when social mores dictated that it was unnatural for women to pursue professional careers. She was the subject of a number of further lectures by me, most notably a public lecture at the National Portrait Gallery in connection

8 Introduction with the exhibition ‘Portraits in Mind’ to mark the centenary of the British Psychological Society in 2001, as well as an interview on Woman’s Hour the same year, and an invited lecture in celebration of the centenary of the admission of women to Bavarian universities at the University of Würzburg in 2003. Amongst her many firsts, Edgell was the first female graduate of that university, where she was awarded her doctorate in 1901. The Department of Psychology there have instituted a prize in her name awarded annually for the best doctoral dissertation. My research on Edgell led to publication of a full-length monograph on her (Valentine, 2006). An invitation to speak at the centenary celebrations of the founding of the Psychological Laboratory at University College London (UCL) led to the discovery of a set of correspondence from James Sully to Francis Galton on precisely this topic. Happily the College still holds student records dating back over 100 years and exciting detective work enabled identification of a hitherto anonymous donor. This is featured in Chapter 17 and led to an interview on BBC Radio 4 (‘All in the Mind’) and a number of lectures in the UK. I had been aware for some time of the close relations between psychologists and the Society for Psychical Research in the late 19th century, but was surprised to find such activity continuing as late as the 1920s and 1930s. I came across something called the ‘University of London Council for Psychical Investigation’ and wondered what this was and how it could have come about. Further investigation revealed that a number of senior academics (including a number at UCL) were involved with the amateur psychical researcher Harry Price in the inter-war years. This research was presented to the HPPS in Edinburgh in 2009. At the meeting of the European Society for the History of the Human Sciences (ESHHS) in Budapest the same year, there was a session on ‘Parapsychology, occultism and spiritualism’. It became apparent that a number of scholars were working in what might at first appear to be a ‘fringe’ area. Following a suggestion made by Ian Lubek, I convened a symposium on ‘Relations between psychical research and mainstream psychology in Europe, the USA and Japan’ which took place at ESHHS the following year in Utrecht—a highly appropriate venue given that the first professor of parapsychology (Wilhelm Taenheff) was appointed there in 1953. The papers from this unique event were subsequently published as a Special Issue in History of the Human Sciences (Valentine, ed., 2012). My own paper is reprinted here as Chapter 18. Psychical research has proved a popular topic and several further presentations were invited, most notably one at the Royal Society in their history of science series in 2012. The need to contextualise my study of Beatrice Edgell (a conference presentation in the United States raised the question of whether there were any other women like her) led me to research an extended sample of the 16 women who became members of the British Psychological Society between its inception in 1901 and the widening of access (by loosening the admission criteria) in 1918. Chapter 19, which presents data on this sample, is based on presentations at the first joint meeting of Cheiron and ESHHS in Dublin in 2007, and ‘Collecting Women’s Lives’, the 16th Annual Conference of the Women’s History Network in Winchester the same year.

Introduction 9 The remaining two chapters constitute studies of some of the more interesting members of this group. Chapter 20 recounts the exciting story of Nellie Carey, which has popular appeal. Its discovery was the result of typing ‘Wohlgemuth’ into the Times Digital Archive in an idle moment. Chapter 21 is a biographical study of Jessie Murray, founder of the Medico-Psychological Clinic. I was lucky to find archival sources that revealed details of her suffragist activities as well as how she came to write the Preface to Marie Stopes’ Married Love. Originally presented as a paper to the 22nd HPPS Annual Conference in Oxford in 2008, it later formed the subject of a lecture for the British Psychological Society-sponsored ‘Stories of Psychology. Archives, Histories and What They Tell Us’ at the Wellcome Collection Conference Centre, 2012.

References Baumgartner, E., Baumgartner, W., Borstner, B., Potrcˇ, M., Shawe-Taylor, J. & Valentine, E. (Eds.). (1996). Handbook: Phenomenology and cognitive science Dettelbach: Verlag Josef Röll. Boyack, K. W., Klavnas, R. & Börner, K. (2005). Mapping the backbone of science. Scientometrics, 64, 351–74. Flyvbjerg, B. (2001). Making social science matter: Why social inquiry fails and how it can succeed again. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hatch, J. A. (Ed.). (1995). Qualitative research in early childhood settings. Westport, CT: Greenwood Publishing Group. Russell, J. (1984). Explaining mental life. London: Macmillan. Smith, R. (2010). Why history matters. History & Philosophy of Psychology, 12(1), 26–38. Valentine, E. R. (1978). Perchings and flights: Introspection. In A. Burton & J. Radford (Eds.), Thinking in perspective (pp. 1–22). London: Methuen. Valentine, E. R. (1988). Teleological explanations in psychology and their relation to causal explanations. Philosophical Psychology, 1, 61–68. Valentine, E. (1999). Popper’s three worlds and attitudes to the explanatory gap. New Ideas in Psychology, 17, 31–39. Valentine, E. R. (2006). Beatrice Edgell: Pioneer woman psychologist. Hauppage, NY: Nova Science. Valentine, E. R. (2010). Phronesis and episteme. History & Philosophy of Psychology, 12, 57–60. Valentine, E. R. (Ed.) (2012). Special Issue, Relations between Psychical Research and Academic Psychology in Europe, the USA and Japan. History of the Human Sciences, 25(2).

Part I

Philosophy

1

Philosophy and psychology

The background text raises the question of the relation between philosophy and psychology, in particular, whether this is one of dependence or independence. Can psychological experiments refute philosophical claims? Are psychological findings relevant to philosophy? Can philosophy alter psychology? Or do they pass each other by? At first sight, a verdict of independence may be returned. It might be said that the two disciplines differ with respect to both their aims and methods. Thus, philosophy is concerned with conceptual clarification, with questions of the form: ‘What does it mean to say that x?’, whereas psychology is concerned with the empirical discovery of facts. Philosophy employs logic as its main tool, whereas psychology employs observation, quantification and controlled experimentation. Although there are numerous areas of apparent common subject-matter (for example, perception, thinking, language and knowledge), philosophical and psychological questions, although superficially similar, generally demand very different kinds of answer. There is a temptation for each to see the other as irrelevant. Thus, the question of the conditions for knowledge, for the philosopher, requires a consideration of the grounds of knowledge, and falls in the domain of epistemology, which may make recommendations as to how knowledge is best acquired. For the psychologist, on the other hand, an empirical study of the conditions in which knowledge is actually acquired is required. This exercise is descriptive, whereas the philosophical pursuit may be prescriptive. As Hume (1739) demonstrated, ‘ought’ cannot be derived from ‘is’. However, facts cannot be discovered in a theoretical vacuum, nor are purely armchair theories of much use. The notion that the philosopher is concerned to discover what is the case in all possible worlds is incoherent. Quine (1951) demonstrated that it is difficult to defend the distinction between analytic and synthetic. Moreover, it is not easy to decide whether the relationship between an experience and the mechanism that mediates it is purely contingent or whether there are some necessary constraints. An example of the latter approach is O’Keefe’s (1985) exploration of the analogy between the anatomy and physiology of the hippocampus and optical holography, on the grounds that similar principles of information storage are involved, such as non-topological representation; and his identification of consciousness with theta activity in the hippocampus,

14 Philosophy following an examination of parallels in their principles of operation. The unified and holistic nature of consciousness he identifies with the distributed nature of representation, such that information about an environment is stored across the entire surface of the hippocampus and each neuron may participate in the storage of many environments. Two lines of evidence are open to the supporter of the ‘dependence’ position: philosophical influences on psychology and psychological influences on philosophy. That empirical discoveries are dependent on philosophical presuppositions is now not disputed: Kuhn demonstrated that any knowledge worth having is parasitic upon a particular paradigm. Philosophy can make important contributions to metapsychology, for example, by clarifying distinctions between different types of explanation. Boden’s (1972) explication of the relation between purposive and mechanistic explanations, or Gauld and Shotter’s (1977) contrast of hermeneutic and positivist approaches, are cases in point. Or it may make explicit the implications of particular views as, for example, in the distinction between type identity (the view that each mental event is a particular type of physical event), and token identity (the view that each mental event is one physical event), as applied to the mind-body problem. The former rules out artificial intelligence (i.e. the possession of mental properties by machines): the latter does not. On the other hand, psychology may contribute facts that lead to the revision of commonly held philosophical notions. (Indeed, one might go so far as to say that the discovery of empirical facts is more likely than armchair logic to lead to conceptual revision.) Several of these relate to the role of consciousness in behaviour. Freud’s theories forced the acceptance of the notion of unconscious causes and reasons for behaviour. Work on subliminal perception has demonstrated the possibility of perception, or at least discrimination, without awareness. The same might be said of ‘blindsight’, where patients with damage to the occipital lobe can respond correctly to visual stimuli, given a forced choice, in situations where they lack the experience of seeing. An alternative interpretation in some cases may be that such people are aware but are unable to describe their experiences. They frequently report that they had a sort of feeling but not one that is normally called ‘seeing’. Perhaps a subdivision into two types of awareness is called for. I conclude that, although the separatist view has prima facie validity, the integral view is the correct one and that the dependence is mutual.

References Boden, M. (1972). Purposive explanation in psychology. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Gauld, A. and Shotter, J. (1977). Human action and its psychological investigation. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Hume, D. (1739). Treatise of human nature, L.A. Selby-Bigge (Ed.) Oxford: Clarendon. O’Keefe, J. (1985). Is consciousness the gateway to the hippocampal cognitive map? A speculative essay on the neural basis of mind. In D. A. Oakley (Ed.) Brain and mind. London: Methuen. Quine, W. V. O. (1951). Two dogmas of empiricism. Philosophical Review, 60, 20–43.

2

Psychology as science

Is psychology different from other sciences? Many of its theoretical problems are based on such a belief. What particular problems does the nature of its subject matter raise and how may they be resolved? In this chapter we shall introduce a number of issues that will be dealt with in more detail later in the book and indicate the main approaches to be taken to them. Our first concern will be to consider psychology as science and what assumptions underlie such treatment. For convenience, these may be classified as: (1) metaphysical – fundamental views about the nature of the subject matter, (2) theoretical – relating to the nature of scientific theories, and (3) methodological – pertaining to observation and experimentation.

Metaphysical assumptions The scientific treatment of psychology assumes that its subject matter, the behaviour of humans and other animals, is similar in relevant respects to the subject matter of other sciences, namely, other natural phenomena. Human behaviour is indeed one of the most recently added areas of scientific investigation, partly due to theological objections: it was formerly considered sacred and not appropriate subject matter for science. (For the history of, and rationale for, the dichotomy between human beings as the possessors of a soul and reason, and other animals whose behaviour is guided by instinct, see Beach, 1955.) This dichotomy was challenged by Darwin’s assertion of continuity between human and infrahuman species, which led to the ‘brutalisation of Man’ and the ‘humanisation of animals’ (Peters, 1953). An important respect in which this similarity must be assumed is that of determinism, which implies that behaviour is caused and is therefore predictable in principle. This appears to raise a difficulty for free will (how can a person be ‘free’ if behaviour is completely determined?) and similarly for moral responsibility (how can people be held responsible for their actions or praise and blame be apportioned?). Possible resolutions of this dilemma will be discussed in Chapter 2,1 where it will be argued that the obverse of determinism is randomness, that free will may require rather than preclude determinism (the issue becoming one of the nature rather than the existence of determination) and that determinism does not imply compulsion, coercion or any mysterious force.

16 Philosophy Determinism does imply predictability, at least in principle though not necessarily in practice. It is interesting to speculate as to whether our failures to predict are due to lack of skill on our part or the inherent nature of the subject matter. One successful prediction does not imply determinism (one might predict correctly by chance) but repeated successful prediction does imply an underlying regularity. There are, however, a number of difficulties here, namely, areas of unpredictability. One of these is the possibility of the falsification of predictions (which has sometimes been used as an argument in favour of, or at least a test of, free will). The process of making a prediction may be subject to interfering effects which invalidate it. Attempts to take these into account lead to an infinite regress. A similar difficulty arises from Gödel’s theorem, which demonstrates that within some consistent systems of logic there are propositions that can be seen to be true but are not provable within the system. Neither of these, it will be argued, endangers determinism but both suggest that there are limits to the possible completeness of descriptions. A discovery in quantum mechanics, namely, Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle, threw doubt on the universality of determinism: at the level of sub-atomic physics there are certain conjugate properties such as the position and momentum of a particle that cannot be simultaneously determined. Thus, there is some evidence for indeterminism in some aspects of the universe. The implications of this microlevel for the macro-level of human behaviour are, however, remote and obscure to say the least. The possibility of prediction raises the possibility of control, and the consequent ethical problems of deciding who does the controlling, frequently levelled against Skinner’s Utopia (Skinner, 1948, 1971). In a symposium with Rogers (1956) the latter points out that science, and Skinner, must presuppose values. Science can investigate the determinants and effects of values and hence may provide knowledge relevant to their selection and implementation (see Day, 1976) but it cannot itself determine what they shall be (see also Heather, 1976, who argues forcefully against the notion that psychology is value free). A fundamental problem in the philosophy of psychology has been whether laws of a different nature from those that apply to inorganic matter are required. An adequate solution to this problem may depend on advances in the philosophy of biology. Generally in science a mechanistic model has been preferred, which enables the prediction of future events on the basis of antecedent conditions and assumes the universal applicability of causal laws. (It is worth noting, however, that physics has advanced beyond causal explanations. Psychology has frequently sought to ape outdated models from other sciences.) There are a number of features of the behaviour of organisms that have raised doubts about the appropriateness of the mechanistic model. One is purposiveness, essential to survival, which involves flexibility, sensitivity to consequences and the direction of behaviour towards goals; this has tempted explanation by reference to future events. On first sight it looks as though purposive and causal explanations are diametrically opposed and, indeed, many philosophers have taken the view that actions are

Psychology as science 17 intentional and fundamentally different from movements or happenings. Much heat has been generated on this question. We shall argue that the two types of explanation are compatible but different. Indeed, purposive phenomena depend on mechanistic ones. It can thus be argued that the truth of a mechanistic account is a necessary but not a sufficient condition for the truth of a purposive one. This intentionality of behaviour leads on to the issue of consciousness. What treatment it should be afforded in psychology and its relation to behaviour are considered in Chapter 4, and its relation to physiological processes as an aspect of the mind-body problem in Chapter 3. One particularly thorny issue is whether conscious processes should properly be assigned causal efficacy. This view has not found much favour amongst psychologists for a variety of reasons: (1) the difficulty of operationalisation (i.e. specifying observations that would be relevant to the truth of statements about a concept); (2) the difficulty of independent identification of mental states and resulting circularity of explanations in these terms; and (3) the successful prediction of behaviour without recourse to conscious states, though this does not preclude the possibility of alternative explanations in terms of mental states. Some form of double aspect theory, according to which the mental and physical are two aspects of the same underlying reality, will be considered the most acceptable solution to the mind-body problem. A general assumption held in varying degrees of strength by scientists concerns the relation between different sciences. Many would agree that sciences can be arranged in a hierarchical order according to the size of unit or level of analysis, e.g. it might be said roughly that sociology deals at the level of groups, psychology at the level of individuals, physiology with parts of individuals, biochemistry at the intra-cellular level and physics at the molecular. Hence, what is relatively molecular for a higher level science is relatively molar for a lower level science (compare, for example, a muscle twitch for psychology and physiology). The question arises as to what the relation between these different level descriptions is or should be. Reductionism is the view that higher level descriptions can be derived from lower level descriptions and hence in due course it might be possible to replace psychological explanations by physiological explanations. There is a covert assumption that lower level descriptions are more fundamental and hence preferable. Emergence is the opposite view that higher level descriptions cannot be derived from lower level ones. The assumptions underlying reduction and the whole issue of the relation of psychology to physiology are discussed in Chapter 11. It will be argued that, as in the case of the relation of purposive to mechanistic descriptions, psychology and physiology describe different aspects of phenomena and hence are complementary, that strict reduction entailing logical identity is untenable because psychological and physiological descriptions have different meanings, and that empirical reduction which requires the establishment of bridging laws faces many difficulties.

18 Philosophy

Theoretical assumptions Many of the characteristics of scientific laws raise potential problems for the subject matter of psychology. A first requirement is that of systematicity. At the very least, science must be a coherent body of knowledge. The complexity of psychological subject matter, notably the diversity and likely interactive nature of relevant variables, promises trouble for psychology, a promise that has been amply fulfilled. Grünbaum (1952), however, argued that the subject matter of other sciences such as physics is hardly simple, and may have seemed as complex as that of psychology at the time of its inauguration. It is unlikely that psychology can rely on youth to account for its lack of progress. Comparison with biochemistry is enough to suggest that the malaise goes deeper. A particular difficulty is due to the reflexivity of psychology. Not only is it the case that the observer and the observed are often members of the same species, but also that actually doing psychology constitutes part of its subject matter. This means at the very least that psychological theories must be self-referring in the sense of explaining the psychologist’s own behaviour, as Oliver and Landfield (1963) point out. Bannister (1968) has used this as an argument for the nonreducibility of psychology to physiology (see Chapter 11). Other problems are associated with a second characteristic of scientific laws, that of generality. It is generally accepted that scientific laws are unrestricted in space and time. A glance at typical psychological theoretical statements indicates that this condition is not always met. Too often these statements refer to specific times and places. Of course this is a matter of degree: all statements are restricted to a greater or lesser extent, but the scientific ideal is that this should approach the latter rather than the former. The failure probably reflects a greater interest on the part of investigators in the content rather than the process of behaviour. Since the content of behaviour varies considerably, it presents much greater problems for scientific treatment than do the principles of adaptation. Social and cultural aspects of behaviour are much less amenable to a scientific analysis than are biological aspects. Another possible challenge to generality comes from the conflicting demand to recognise the uniqueness of the individual. Since the movement of Verstehen psychology in 19th century Germany, there have been cries to understand the individual rather than predict behaviour in general. It is frequently said that more is to be learned about human behaviour by studying literature rather than psychology. A comparison of idiographic and nomothetic approaches, which focus on the particular and general respectively, and encompass differences in subject matter, methods and explanations, is the topic of Chapter 14. They probably largely reflect differences in aims: empathic understanding as against deductive, predictive explanation, and in application they may be complementary. As far as science goes, however, nomothesis must be the rule of the day. If a clinical method works it must be covertly nomothetic and if truly unique it could not be communicated (see Holt, 1967). Nevertheless, there can be a scientific study of individuals.

Psychology as science 19 Since, if not before, Popper’s (1959) epoch-making work, the hallmark of scientific hypotheses has been testability, in this case, falsifiability. This has raised problems for psychology because of the inherent difficulty in operationalising its concepts. Most of its area of interest is not directly observable. Indeed, Popper was led to formulate his demarcation principle partly as a result of noting the inadequacies in this respect of the psychological theories of Freud and Jung. The whole question of the relation of theoretical constructs to the evidence for them is thus a central one in psychology.

Methodological assumptions There may well be no definitive characteristics of science and indeed if there were they would probably change from one time to another. Strictly, ‘science’ means ‘knowledge’ but what it has come to mean in the modern Western world is knowledge acquired as a result of employing empirical methods. If there is any one thing that characterises it more than anything else, it is probably the empirical method. Other pursuits have been systematic, such as Greek cosmology, but we would not call them science. Empiricism involves appeal to sensory experience as opposed to reliance on a priori reasoning; the criterion of truth becomes one of correspondence with the facts rather than logical coherence. Typically it involves observation, measurement and experimentation. In some sciences, such as astronomy and geology, only observation and measurement are possible but usually experimentation is regarded as the characteristic of science par excellence. There are some difficulties in the way of experimentation in psychology, as we shall see below, and it may be more akin to geology than has been generally recognised. The possibility of applying any of these three procedures to psychological subject matter has been doubted by many. Observation presents problems for psychology on account of the previously mentioned fact that most of what is of interest, that which is essentially psychological – thoughts, feelings and the springs of action – is not open to direct observation. Hence, as indicated above, almost all psychological statements must be inferential. I would claim that this is true of all sciences but the gap between data and theory is probably greater and the connection looser in psychology than in other sciences. The issue of privacy will be taken up in Chapter 5, where it will be argued that all scientific statements are based on observations of private experiences, and that the distinction between subjective and objective is not as clear-cut as at first supposed. Furthermore, it is now clear that neither the observer nor the observed are passive, non-interactive organisms in the experimental situation. The fact that observation necessarily interferes with what is observed, first discovered in physics, became the subject of experimentation in psychology with the recognition that the experiment is itself a social situation. Dualistic thought would suggest that quantifiability was the exclusive prerogative of the physical. Kant (1781/1974) held that observation could be applied to psychological phenomena but that measurement and experimentation

20 Philosophy were impossible. However, since the latter part of the 19th century, advances in the measurement of psychological or mental characteristics have progressively been made and the grounds for such a belief gradually eroded. In 1861 Fechner published an account of psychophysical methods, in the vain belief that they solved the mind-body problem. They did, however, provide methods for establishing functions relating psychological values or reported sensations to physical values of stimuli, though these have since been superseded. Ebbinghaus, coming on a copy of Fechner’s Elemente der Psychophysik, was spurred to similar achievement in devising ways of measuring memorial associations. The turn of the 20th century saw the beginning of attempts to measure intellectual ability, or at least performance, with the Binet-Simon scale, and Galton’s predominantly physical measures and development of percentile ranks and correlation. From these sprang the whole field of psychometrics and factor analysis. Scaling focusses the difficulty of measurement in psychology. One of the central questions is the arbitrariness of the scale: to what extent can the values be said to reflect fundamental realities and relations and to what extent are they a function of theoretical constructs? For further discussion of this topic see, for example, Coombs, Dawes and Tversky (1970). Herbart (1824) believed that observation and measurement could be applied to psychology but not experimentation. Wundt (1862), the first experimental psychologist proper, thought that experimental methods could only be applied to what he considered lower order processes; thinking, judgment and language were too socially conditioned to be similarly treated. Empirical investigation of social phenomena is possible, but experimentation in the sense of isolating variables with the purpose of identifying causal factors may not be because it is virtually impossible to implement sufficient control. There are various reasons why this is so: the number of variables, their interaction and the history of the organism. One reason results from the adaptability of organisms. Behaviour is a function of the past history of the organism and can only be explained by reference to it. Only the blinkered would still fail to acknowledge that behaviour is not predictable on the basis of the observable, external physical stimuli but only on the basis of the meaning of these stimuli for the organism (cf. Underwood’s (1963) distinction between the nominal and the functional stimulus). In addition, there are practical and ethical limitations to the amount of control that is possible. Despite transgressions in this direction, there are limits to noxious stimuli that can be inflicted on subjects. Impoverished environments and brain damage have to be taken advantage of rather than created. In conclusion, psychology does have particular problems but generally these represent differences in degree rather than kind from those of other sciences. Most are capable of resolution to a greater or lesser extent.

Note 1

References to chapters are to Valentine (1992), not the present volume.

Psychology as science 21

References Bannister, D. (1968) The myth of physiological psychology. Bulletin of the British Psychological Society, 21, 229–31. Beach, F. A. (1955) The descent of instinct. Psychological Review, 62, 401–10. Coombs, C. H., Dawes, R. M., and Tversky, A. (1970) Mathematical Psychology: An Elementary Introduction. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall. Day, W. F. (1976) The case for behaviourism. In M. H. Marx and F. E. Goodson (Eds.) Theories in Contemporary Psychology. London: Macmillan. Grünbaum, A. (1952) Causality and the science of behaviour. American Scientist, 40, 665–76, 689. Heather, N. (1976) Radical Perspectives in Psychology. London: Methuen. Herbart, J. F. (1824) Psychologie als Wissenschaft. Königsberg: Unzer. Holt, R. R. (1967) Individuality and generalization in the psychology of personality. In R. L. Lazarus and J. R. Opton (Eds.) Personality. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Kant, I. (1781/1974) Kritik der reinen Vernunft. (J. M. D. Meikeljohn, Trans.). London: Dent. Oliver, W. D. and Landfield, A. W. (1963) Reflexivity: an unfaced issue of psychology, Journal of Individual Psychology, 20, 187–201. Peters, R.S. (Ed.) (1953) Brett’s History of Psychology. London: George Allen and Unwin. Popper, K.R. (1959) The Logic of Scientific Discovery. London: Hutchinson. Rogers, C. R. (1956) Some issues concerning the control of human behaviour. Science, 124, 1057–66. Skinner, B. F. (1948) Walden Two. New York: Macmillan. Skinner, B. F. (1971) Beyond Freedom and Dignity. New York: Knopf. Underwood, B. J. (1963) Stimulus selection in verbal learning. In C. N. Cofer and B. S. Musgrave (Eds.) Verbal Learning and Behavior. New York: McGraw-Hill. Valentine, E. R. (1992) Conceptual Issues in Psychology. London: Routledge. Wundt, W. (1862) Beiträge zur Theorie der Sinneswahrnehmung. Leipzig: Winter.

3

Folk psychology and its implications for cognitive science Discussion

If inclined to Rorty’s (1965) view that folk psychology is little better than witchcraft, one may be tempted to suggest that time devoted to its discussion might more profitably be spent debating the language appropriate to scientific psychology or cognitive science, a point to which I shall return. In fact, I suspect that the label ‘cognitive science’ licenses, or at least encourages, discussion of folk psychology. Rather than present detailed comments on the excellent set of papers presented here, I shall raise some general issues and in so doing attempt to draw threads together. There seem to me to be at least three important issues: 1 2 3

What is folk psychology? What are its strengths and weaknesses from the point of view of scientific psychology? What is the relation of folk psychology to scientific psychology, and in particular what differences are there between them?

What is folk psychology? It can be quite difficult to find out. Most of the authors assume it is already known and concrete examples are fairly thin on the ground. Smith’s (1996) paper has the merit of providing a definition: Folk psychology is part of common sense. It is that part we use to make sense of our own and other people’s words and deeds. We rely on it to predict what people will do and say on particular occasions, and to make them intelligible even when what they do and say surprises us. (Smith, 1996, p. 256) In addition, he gives the following concrete examples: “she did it because she wanted to hurt him”; “he went to the house because he believed she’d be there”; “she stood up because she wanted to leave.” And in a quotation from Dennett (1987): “wants to visit China” or “expects noodles for supper”. Richards (1996) offers us: “It is my belief that you are profoundly mistaken”; “I have a vivid recollection of my fifth birthday party” . . . “You have some strange ideas”. The

Folk psychology and cognitive science 23 main point I wish to make with respect to these is that they include very different types of statements, so that answers to questions one may wish to raise about folk psychology will vary accordingly. Thus, we may have descriptions of mental states or sensory contents (though Place (1996, p. 269) claims that phenomenological descriptions of private experiences do not provide either the data or the concepts on the basis of which folk psychological explanations of behaviour are constructed); descriptions of the process of behaviour (e.g. how one sets about carrying out a task); or par excellence explanations or reasons for behaviour. In accord with my analysis of introspection (Valentine, 1978), the validity of these may decrease from the first to the last. Philosophers have tended to focus attention on beliefs and desires, a Fodorian ‘language of thought’, based on the computational model of mind because they have tended to gloss folk psychology as propositional attitudes (Greenwood, 1992). Social psychology is largely ignored, whereas the primary explanatory constructs in folk psychology are generally emotions, motives and opinions (Dennett’s ‘linguistically infected’ beliefs). I agree with Patricia Churchland (1986) that not all mental life is a matter of sentence crunching (except perhaps for philosophers) and that the linguistic control of behaviour is often a fiction. Neither am I convinced, contrary to the claims of utility theory, that people generally do what they believe will achieve their fondest wish. But, as Greenwood (1992) argues, the inaccuracy or inadequacy of explanations advanced by folk psychology does not entail the rejection of the ontology of contentful psychological states; likewise, the inadequacy of sentential theories of cognitive processing does not entail the inadequacy of scientifically developed forms of folk psychological explanations of behaviour, e.g. as advanced by contemporary social psychology. Similarly, McGinn (1989) has distinguished the ontology of persons, attitudes and propositional contents as independent aspects of folk psychology with respect to its theoretical viability.

Strengths and weaknesses of folk psychology from the point of view of scientific psychology In everyday life the main function of folk psychology is to give an account of others’ behaviour. This is reminiscent of Humphrey’s (1983) view that the function of selfconsciousness is to enable social animals empathically to make sense of the behaviour of other members of the group. For science, folk psychology could provide preliminary hypotheses, as in the method of Verstehen, by means of empathic understanding, which then need to be tested by more objective empirical or experimental methods. Folk psychology helps to pick out or fix the reference of the states in which we are interested (Smith, 1996, p. 260). Conceptual analysis may provide important insights, as in the analysis of mental activity verbs, e.g. Ryle’s ‘heed’ concepts (Place, 1954); intensional statements such as those containing the words ‘imagine’ or ‘see’; and the subtle language of emotion and feeling (Place, 1996, p. 267). Some scientific psychology is refined folk psychology: Greenwood (1992) cites Latané and Darley’s (1970) explanation of bystander apathy as an example of the replacement of one folk psychological explanation by another.

24 Philosophy On the other hand, folk psychology can be misleading. Place’s (1996, pp. 267– 269) paper carefully details six respects in which this may be so. Why are we misled? Chater and Oaksford (1990) suggest that folk psychology is a paradigm in which we are indoctrinated from birth. Greenwood (1992) cites data from Leslie (1988) suggesting that children engage in folk psychology from about 3 to 4 years of age, although this claim has been disputed (Wellman, 1988). Is the fact that we think we have a ready-made language just the respect in which psychology differs from other sciences? Is it different from other sciences? Should it be? A technical language has never really been established: for reasons which we need not discuss here, the behaviourist language didn’t catch on. It seems to me that we should be considering the sort of language(s) that scientific psychology requires. This issue was not really addressed by the participants; Chater and Oaksford (1996, pp. 246–252) were plentiful in their criticisms of folk psychology without offering any positive suggestions as to alternatives. Some might be inferred by contrast with the dangers exposed by Place (1996, pp. 267–269). For example, the warning about reification (‘nominalisation’) suggests that the focus should be on processes rather than entities (though capacities and competences might be allowed). Should we aim for the expression of generalities by means of mathematical formulae rather than verbal propositions? Perhaps the fault has been to be too atomistic and insufficiently relational and holistic: “a theoretically adequate social psychology will only be developed when it embraces a relational conception of the psychological states, one that recognises the social embeddedness of human emotions, motives and opinions” (Greenwood, 1992). Or the complaint may be that what is missing from theories of personality is the person (Paranjpe, 1993). Or, more fundamentally, that a dialectical rather than a causal model should be pursued.

Relation of folk psychology to scientific psychology This issue was ably addressed by Smith (1996). As we have already noted, in some areas there may be a partial overlap between folk psychology and scientific psychology. There is also an important sense in which folk psychology is part of the subject matter of scientific psychology (Chater and Oaksford, 1996, p. 253; Goldman, 1993): scientific psychology has to give an account of folk psychology among other things. I consider work on attribution and locus of control, and in particular the differences in attributions given for one’s own behaviour compared with that of others, to be cases in point. It is part of the task of scientific psychology to give an account of the determinants and consequences of engaging in folk psychology. Both folk psychology and scientific psychology primarily aim to give an account of others’ behaviour (a point that Place (1996, p. 269) reminds us was originally made by Ryle, 1949), though by extension it applies also to one’s own. The question thus arises as to whether folk psychology just does what scientific psychology does, but badly. Would people be better off using scientific psychology? Fontana (1992) makes the point that, since we are so often mistaken in our attributions of other people’s behaviour, we would be better off using folk psychology a lot less than we do, simply observing rather than interpreting.

Folk psychology and cognitive science 25 However, it appears that there are number of important differences between folk psychology and scientific psychology, first, with respect to functions. Folk psychology is a framework for managing interpersonal relationships, and thus often has moral, theological or epistemological overtones and purposes (Richards, 1996, p. 274). Wilkes (1981) and Gergen (1989) have argued that it serves sociolinguistic functions such as excusing and entreating. The fact that folk psychological terms continue in use after any scientific backing has ceased (Richards, 1996, p. 273) also confirms the hypothesis that it serves a different function or functions from scientific psychology. It has often been argued that they have different criteria: pragmatic utility in the case of folk psychology, whereas scientific psychology claims to be true in some sense. This view of folk psychology is reminiscent of Rycroft’s (1966) suggestion with regard to psychoanalysis, that it is simply a language for making symptoms intelligible rather than a scientific theory that is empirically testable. Folk psychology and scientific psychology also differ with respect to their scope. The former is primarily concerned with social and personality psychology, whereas the latter deals with the whole range of behaviour, including cognitive and physiological aspects. “The sorts of linguistically informed psychological states that are posited by explanatory folk psychology are complex states of persons: complex states of organisms with a certain developmental history, linguistic competence and social position” (Greenwood, 1992). This is in contrast to the sorts of representational states that are the subject matter of competing theories of cognitive processing—states of the brain with representational properties (Greenwood, 1992). Another important difference is that folk psychology is generally concerned with the explanation of particular actions of individuals and is hence idiographic, context-sensitive and normative (McGinn, 1979), whereas scientific psychology is concerned with general competence in the species. It is for this important reason that Russell (1984) argues that folk psychological explanations can never form part of scientific psychology. Folk psychological statements are subjective (‘egocentric’), value-laden (Place, 1996, p. 268) and vague (Fodor’s ‘granny psychology’); whereas those of scientific psychology purport to be objective, value-free and precise. I suspect that, contra Place (1996, p. 264), folk psychology is subject to both individual and cultural differences (consider, for example, cross-cultural differences in the relative importance attached to individual and groups processes, or the aboriginal Australian language in which everything is expressed in the passive voice: Dixon, 1980). Finally, folk psychology is based on a much more limited perspective, what one is conscious of; thus, belief in free will, for example, may be the result of being aware of the consequences but not the determinants of behaviour. I believe that Nisbett and Wilson (1977) have convincingly shown that we are frequently unaware of the causes of our behaviour. Scientific psychology, on the other hand, is much more broadly based, on the results of behavioural experiments aimed at elucidating the causal network; it is empirically tested and supported, and replicated by peers. It includes more levels of description: Dennett’s (1971) physical and design as well as intentional stances.

26 Philosophy I conclude, therefore, that folk psychology differs from scientific psychology in its functions, scope, criteria and evidential base.

References Chater, N. & Oaksford, M. (1990). Logicist cognitive science and the falsity of common-sense theories. (Technical report No. UWB-CNU-TR-90-4, Cognitive Neurocomputation Unit, Department of Psychology, University of Wales, Bangor.) Chater, N. & Oaksford, M. (1996). The falsity of folk theories: Implications for psychology and philosophy. In W. O’Donohue & R.F. Kitchener (Eds,) The philosophy of psychology (pp. 244–56). London: Sage. Churchland, P. S. (1986). Neurophilosophy. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Dennett, D. C. (1971). Intentional systems. Journal of Philosophy, 68, 87–106. Dennett, D. C. (1987). The intentional stance. Cambridge, MA: Bradford/MIT Press. Dixon, R. M. W. (1980). The languages of Australia. Cambridge, MA: Bradford/MIT Press. Fontana, D. (1992). Know who you are, be what you want. London: Fontana. Gergen, K. J. (1989). Warranting voice and the elaboration of the self. In J. Shotter & K. J. Gergen (Eds.) Texts of identity (pp. 70–81). Newbury Park, CA: Sage. Goldman, A. I. (1993). The psychology of folk psychology. Behavioral and Brain Sciences, 16, 15–28. Greenwood, J. D. (1992). Against eliminative materialism: from folk psychology to Völkerpsychologie. Philosophical Psychology, 5, 349–67. Humphrey, N. (1983). Consciousness regained: Chapters in the development of mind. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Latané, B. & Darley, J. M. (1970). The unresponsive bystander. New York: AppletonCentury-Crofts. Leslie, A. M. (1988). Some implications of pretense for mechanisms underlying the child’s theory of mind. In J. W. Astington, P. L. Harris & D. R. Olton (Eds.) Developing theories of mind (pp. 19–46). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. McGinn, C. (1979). Action and its explanation. In N. Bolton (Ed.) Philosophical problems in psychology (pp. 20–42). London: Methuen. McGinn, C. (1989). Mental content. Oxford: Blackwell. Nisbett, R. E. & Wilson, T. deC. (1977). Telling more than we can know: verbal reports on mental processes. Psychological Review, 84, 231–59. Paranjpe, A. (1993). Is the person missing from theories of personality? In I. Lubek, R. van Hezewijk, G. Pheterson & C. Tolman (Eds.) Recent trends in theoretical psychology (Vol. 8). New York: Springer. Place, U. T. (1954). The concept of heed. British Journal of Psychology, 45, 234–55. Place, U. T. (1996). Folk psychology from the standpoint of conceptual analysis. In W. O’Donohue & R. F. Kitchener (Eds.) The philosophy of psychology (pp. 264–70). London: Sage. Richards, G. (1996). On the necessary survival of folk-psychology. In W. O’Donohue & R. F. Kitchener (Eds.) The philosophy of psychology (pp. 270–75). London: Sage. Rorty, R. (1965). Mind-brain identity theory, privacy, and categories. Review of Metaphysics, xix, 24–54. Russell, J. (1984). Explaining mental life. London: Macmillan. Rycroft, C. (1966). Causes and meaning. In C. Rycroft (Ed.) Psychoanalysis observed. London: Constable.

Folk psychology and cognitive science 27 Ryle, G. (1949). The concept of mind. London: Hutchinson. Smith, B. C. (1996). Does science underwrite folk psychology? In W. O’Donohue & R.F. Kitchener (Eds.) The philosophy of psychology (pp. 256–64). London: Sage. Valentine, E. R. (1978). Perchings and flights: Introspection. In A. Burton and J. Radford (Eds.) Thinking in perspective (pp. 1–22). London: Methuen. Valentine, E. R. (1992). Conceptual issues in psychology. London: Routledge. Wellman, H. M. (1988). First steps in the child’s theorizing about the mind. In J. W. Astington, P. L. Harris and D. R. Olton (Eds.) Developing theories of mind (pp. 64–92). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wilkes, K. (1981). Functionalism, psychology, and the philosophy of mind. Philosophical Topics, 12, 147–67.

4

Introspection

Theoretical problems Is introspection different in kind from other methods, and if so, in what way? Considerable debate has centred on the nature of introspection and the status of introspective reports. On the one hand it has been suggested that it confers privileged ‘access’, and that it can supply unique data which could not be obtained in any other way; on the other hand, it has been rejected as a scientific method on the grounds of subjectivity. According to the mentalist, the subject has direct access to inner states, which are observed as if on a private cinema screen. These determine and are referred to in verbal reports. According to the behaviourist, the experimenter observes verbal responses, which are the product of, and provide indirect evidence for, underlying processes. Ayer (1959) has distinguished a number of different senses in which mental states might be considered to be private. On the most stringent interpretation, introspective reports would provide the only possible evidence for the existence of a mental state. This is more plausible for images than for motives but is generally untrue. In most cases other behavioural and/or physiological observations can be made which are relevant to determining its existence. According to a second interpretation, the subject is the only person who has this particular type of evidence. This appears to be true of our current situation. People do have special knowledge of their sensations. Whether anyone in the future could have the same kind of evidence of another person’s mental states would depend on technological advances and the conceptual analysis of personal identity (i.e. how we chose to describe such advances should they occur). Thirdly, are mental states private in the sense that introspective reports of them are subjective? The distinction between subjective and objective is less clear cut than at first appears. On the one hand, as we have seen, there are usually alternative public sources of evidence; private experiences can be made public by communicating them; and descriptions of private events are derivative from public ones. The impossibility of private languages has been demonstrated by Wittgenstein (1953) and the social origin of descriptions of inner states has been discussed by Skinner (1953). On the other hand, all so-called ‘objective’ observations depend on subjective experiences. “Strictly speaking, every first hand observation is necessarily

Introspection 29 ‘private’” (Burt, 1962). As Schrödinger (1958) pointed out of physics, “All this information goes back ultimately to the sense perceptions of some living person or persons, however many ingenious devices may have been used to facilitate the labour . . . The most careful record, when not inspected, tells us nothing” (p. 162). Observations are necessarily private and particular; the scientific statements inferred from them are necessarily public and general (Perkins, 1953). Thus the distinction between subjective and objective is a matter of degree. If verbal reports are allowable as scientific data, how are they to be treated? Can they be accepted at face value? Or do they have the same status as data from other methods, simply providing a basis from which inferences can be made? Some have argued that they carry special authority, perhaps even being incorrigible; others that they are particularly prone to artifact. It might be claimed that the final authority for descriptions of mental states lies with the subject. This may be defensible with respect to experience but appears not to be so with regard to behaviour. Subjects may be in a privileged position due to greater familiarity with their own biographies. As Skinner (1953) observed, Because of his preferred position with respect to his own history, he may have special information about his readiness to respond, about the relation of his behavior to controlling variables, and about the history of these variables. Although this information is sometimes erroneous and . . . may even be lacking, it is sometimes useful in a science of behavior. (Skinner, 1953, pp. 278–279) The results of psychological experiments clearly show that introspective reports are not infallible. In many cases subjects may be in no better a position to make observations about their behaviour than other observers, and there is evidence that introspective reports are susceptible to various kinds of bias (e.g. Sheehan & Neisser, 1969; Nisbett & Wilson, 1977). But “because one sometimes makes mistakes . . . it does not follow that one always makes them or even that one makes them frequently” (Kelvin, 1956). Harré and Secord (1972) support a balanced view, espousing what they call an ‘open souls doctrine’, according to which introspective reports are authentic but revisable; a special case must be made out if they are to be rejected. Introspection provides data like any other method, from which inferences are made. The behaviourist is incorrect in denying that subjects have privileged access to their experiences and in assimilating introspective reports to ejaculations such as ‘ouch!’ (Hebb, 1968); they are conceptually different in that they make referential claims. The mentalist is incorrect in attributing to them superior validity.

Practical problems Some have suggested that introspection is actually impossible. Kant claimed that introspective acts could not themselves be introspected. Comte argued the point explicitly:

30 Philosophy As for observing in the same way intellectual phenomena at the time of their actual presence, that is a manifest impossibility. The thinker cannot divide himself in two, of whom one reasons whilst the other observes him reason. The organ observed and the organ observing being, in this case, identical, how could observation take place? This pretended psychological method is then radically null and void. (Comte, 1842, vol. 1. pp. 37–38) That the thinker cannot divide himself in two, and that the organ observed and the organ observing are the same, are assumed rather than demonstrated. Parallel processing does occur, but to the extent that the processes involved are dependent on conscious attention there are likely to be severe capacity limitations. An extreme case of impairment would be attempting to make reports while in a state of heightened emotion. J. S. Mill’s reply was It might have occurred to M. Comte that a fact may be studied through the medium of memory, not at the very moment of our perceiving it, but the moment after: and this is really the mode in which our best knowledge of our intellectual states is generally acquired. (Mill, 1882, p. 64) The following dilemma arises as described by De Groot (1965), who has provided one of the most thorough discussions of the topic, having used the method of thinking aloud to study the making of moves in chess. If subjects delay their report until after they have completed the task, they may forget what has happened and memory errors may creep in. If, on the other hand, they attempt to introspect at the same time as performing another intellectual task, there is likely to be mutual interference and alteration of the process. Verbalising one’s thoughts unequivocally adds an extra burden to the subject’s task. On the one hand, the added instruction to think aloud, necessarily influences the thought process to some degree; on the other, concentrated thinking on the problem itself must somewhat hamper its reporting . . . Quite often thoughts move so quickly that the spoken word cannot keep up with them. The subject is then either forced to skip steps or to deliberately slow down his thinking (if possible) which thereby disturbs the thought process. (De Groot, 1965, pp. 81–82) Ericsson and Simon (1980, 1984) argue that the effect of verbalisation depends on the task demands, and review evidence that is consistent with their hypotheses that recoding of information from non-verbal to verbal form has the effect of slowing down performance, whereas tasks that require selection and inference may result in an alteration of the thought process. For example, Gagné and Smith (1962) found

Introspection 31 that instructions to state reasons for each move in the Tower of Hanoi problem improved efficiency of performance, the suggestion being that this encouraged more deliberate planning. Another effect De Groot’s subjects reported was abnormal formalisation of thinking. With some subjects gaps and pauses in reporting are frequent and of such duration that they cannot be assumed to result from actual pauses in thinking. He may just temporarily forget his second task (to think aloud), or he may not be able to verbalize adequately what he is or has been doing mentally. (De Groot, 1965. p. 379) Thus the nature of the difficulty may lie in communication, in the translation of thoughts into words. Skinner has frequently remarked on the ambiguities associated with labelling private states. Part of the problem may lie in trying to force parallel processes into a sequential mode. De Groot found that there were individual differences with respect to the ease with which subjects were able to describe their mental processes, intuitive thinkers finding the most difficulty. Thus, introspective reports are likely to provide a distorted account of such processes. Deception may be either intentional (some of De Groot’s subjects suppressed strategies of which they were ashamed), or unintentional. A venerated case of the latter is rationalisation described by Freud, who distinguished the subject’s reason from the reason, which might be an unconscious motive. A simple demonstration is post-hypnotic suggestion, where subjects construct a reason for behaviour which is in fact determined by instructions of which they are unaware given under hypnosis. More recently, Wason and Evans (1975; see also Evans & Wason, 1976) have argued that protocols given by subjects in reasoning tasks are sometimes rationalisations. These appear to be determined by the situation and their behaviour in it, rather than being expressions of the causes of the behaviour, which are known from an analysis of performance in other experiments to be discrepant with the subjects’ reports; see also data from Nisbett & Wilson (1977) discussed below. There is in fact evidence that introspective reports are particularly prone to experimental artifacts. For example, Sheehan and Neisser (1969), in a study which failed to demonstrate a relation between reported vividness of imagery and memory for patterns, found effects due to the experimenter (Sheehan obtaining higher vividness ratings than Neisser) and demand characteristics (vividness ratings increased after an enquiry which focussed attention on imagery). As Orne (1962) observed, the more ambiguous the situation for the subject the greater the likely resulting variability in interpretation. It is perhaps ironical that Orne recommends pre- and post-experimental enquiry as methods of attenuating the effect of demand characteristics. The most serious objection to introspection as a method in psychology, however, is the fact that most of the relevant data are unavailable to consciousness. Conscious processes are the tip of the iceberg (Miller, 1964). Most of mental life and behaviour proceeds unconsciously. Discrimination can occur without

32 Philosophy awareness, concepts can be formed and problems solved without subjects being able to report on the critical features. The Würzburg psychologists made this discovery when they attempted to apply the structuralists’ method to thinking and judgment, and their findings were soon confirmed by Binet (1903) and Woodworth (1906). It is the perchings (the static images) rather than the flights (the relations in the margins of attention) (James, 1890) that are in consciousness, the products rather than the processes of thinking (Lashley, 1956). One example is the storing of running totals in mental arithmetic (Hayes, 1973). Ericsson and Simon (1980) propose three causes of incompleteness of verbal reports: 1

2

3

Information may be unavailable to short-term memory, e.g. in fast, automatic processes in contrast with slow, controlled processes (Kellogg, 1982), as is often the case in perceptual encoding, retrieval of familiar items from longterm memory, and perceptual-motor tasks. There may be failure to report the contents of short-term memory, e.g. in cases where there is a high cognitive load or where a task is interrupted. In Maier’s (1931) experiment, subjects were more likely to report the hint if they described the solution to the problem as emerging in several steps rather than one. The suggested explanation (although others are possible) is that in the latter case the hint was only transiently available in short-term memory, being quickly obliterated by other information (possibly the appearance of the solution, White, 1988). Ericsson and Simon (1980) suggest that periods of thinking during the incubation period in creative problem-solving may be forgotten because they are frequently interrupted. Retrieval from long-term memory may be incomplete. For example, the content of daydreaming may be difficult to retrieve subsequently because appropriate cues are lacking in the external environment.

Nisbett and Wilson’s (1977) paper is devoted to showing that subjects are only able to give correct reports on the determinants of their behaviour when the stimuli are salient and plausibly related to the responses, these judgments resulting from a priori causal hypotheses rather than direct access to mental processes. Furthermore, introspection cannot be used with animal subjects and presents problems in developmental and abnormal psychology. Unfruitfulness rather than subjectivity was the reason for its decline. At best introspective reports are likely to lead to an account which is incomplete, at worst to one which is misleading. What is required is an analysis of the conditions which determine such reports so that their reliability and validity can be assessed. Ericsson and Simon (1980, 1984) have attempted to produce just such an account. In a re-examination of verbal reports as data, they argue that what is required is a theory of the measuring instrument, a model of how verbal reports are generated, which will enable the prediction of situations where they are likely to be reliable as distinct from those where they are not. They claim that ‘verbal reports, elicited with care and interpreted with full understanding of the circumstances under which they were obtained, are a valuable and thoroughly reliable

Introspection 33 source of information about cognitive processes’ (Ericsson & Simon, 1980). Four relevant factors are considered: 1 2 3

4

The relation of the verbalisation to the task-directed process. The verbalisation may be unrelated to, dependent on, or may modify the task-directed process. The time interval. The verbalisation may be concurrent or retrospective. The existence and nature of any intermediate process. Verbalisations may come direct from short-term memory; they may require recoding; or they may require selection and inference, e.g. being asked to supply reasons for behaviour or answering personality questionnaire items which involve consideration of hypothetical states. The form of the probe, which may be specific or general. Their thesis is that verbal reports will be most reliable when the information to be reported is attended to, or heeded, i.e. stored in short-term memory and therefore directly accessible.

Any of the four factors above may have the effect of weakening the relation between the verbalisation and the heeded information.

The use of introspection in current psychology An examination of the use of introspective reports in current psychology may illustrate some of its advantages and disadvantages, and ways in which the problems of reliability and validity can be tackled. The content of experience Introspective reports can provide useful information in a variety of circumstances and in some cases may be superior to either behavioural or physiological measures. Verbal descriptors have been found useful in the measurement and diagnosis of different pain syndromes. Dubuisson and Melzack (1976) found that syndromes could be accurately predicted on the basis of pain descriptors from the McGill pain questionnaire, and Leavitt and Garron (1980) found that functional pain disorders could be distinguished from organic ones in this way. Thayer (1970) argued that self-report scales provided a more integrative and representative estimation of general states of bodily activation than did four physiological measures, which inter-correlated poorly. One of the most obvious areas for the use of introspection, and one in which systematic sources of error have been extensively investigated, is psychophysics. Fechner’s methods may not have solved the mind-body problem as he had hoped but they enabled a start to be made on the investigation of sensory experience and an examination of the validity of sensory judgments. Few would hesitate to use verbal reports in the study of perception, but much has now been learned about their limitations (see Woodworth & Schlosberg, 1954). One discovery that was made was that more accurate results were obtained if subjects were not allowed to

34 Philosophy use a ‘don’t know’ category. In this case subjects may know more than they are aware of. Other systematic sources of bias such as time errors and series effects were also revealed. The study of perception also illustrates one of the advantages of introspection. Although discriminative capacities can be studied by other means, for example by instructing subjects to adjust a comparison stimulus to match a standard or by operant conditioning (as must perforce be done in the case of animals, cf. Stretch, 1966), verbal report may be a much more convenient method, avoiding the necessity of setting up elaborate apparatus and training schedules. Asking can save a great deal of time and trouble. An extension of sensation and perception, posing even more challenging problems for experimental investigation, is imagery. A number of innovative techniques have been developed. Haber and Haber (1964) introduced the criteria for eidetic imagery of accuracy, scannability, positive colour and persistence, thereby increasing the stringency of claims for its existence. Accuracy can be objectively checked against the presented stimulus, scannability probably by observing the subject’s eye movements, and positive colour perhaps by getting subjects to superimpose their images on differently coloured backgrounds and observing the results. Persistence is more dependent on the subject’s report but might be checked by observation of eye movements or a superimposition technique. An extension of this last was used in an ingenious experiment by Stromeyer and Psotka (1970), employing identical Julesz random dot stereograms. On these a figure was superimposed, slightly displaced between the stimuli for the two eyes, such that it stood out in depth when viewed stereoscopically. The stimulus for one eye was presented to the subject, who was instructed to form an eidetic image of it. After an interval of up to twenty-four hours the appropriate stimulus was presented to the other eye and the subject instructed to combine the two. Their eidetic subject was able to point to the corners of the figure. The likelihood of such a result occurring by chance is extremely remote. However, no other subject has been found to equal this performance. A related case is the study of dream imagery, which is particularly interesting with respect to the use of multiple measures. Stoyva and Kamiya (1968) have documented the way in which the study of the subjective state of dreaming became respectable with the discovery of a correlation between rapid eye movements (REM) and dream reports (DR) by Aserinsky and Kleitman in 1953. This raises the question of whether the increase in respectability is justified. Is one measure superior to the other or is it the correlation that is important? In what way can a correlation strengthen an inference? They suggest that, in this case, verbal reports provide primary validation, and behavioural and physiological measures corroborative evidence. REM by themselves tell us nothing about dreaming; their usefulness is dependent on their having first been validated against verbal reports. We take it on trust, arguing by analogy that when other people report dream experiences these are similar to our own. The corroborative value of the correlation between physiological measures and verbal reports was strengthened by establishing what might be described as

Introspection 35 gradations of correlation. Qualitative and quantitative improvements were made by making the correlation more fine grain. A nominal correlation (the co-occurrence of REM and DR) was raised to a quantified one by the following demonstrations: (1) a correlation between the time elapsed prior to awakening and the estimated length of dream (Dement & Kleitman, 1957); (2) a correlation between the density of REM and the amount of physical activity reported in the dream (Berger & Oswald, 1962); (3) a relation between the direction of REM and the visual activity reported in the dream, e.g. horizontal movements for watching tennis matches (Dement & Kleitman, 1957), although this has not been confirmed by all subsequent work. These ‘extensions of the empirical network’ strengthen the corroborative validation. Stoyva and Kamiya claim (rightly) that the mental state of dreaming is indexed imperfectly by both verbal report and physiological measures (i.e. DR and REM). This raises the very interesting question of what inferences are made when the measures conflict, and we may take this example as a case study. Here we have two indices (DR and REM) of a hypothesised mental state (dreaming). Logically there are four possible empirical situations: DR and REM, DR in the absence of REM, REM in the absence of DR, and neither DR nor REM. For each of these, logically, there are two possible conclusions: the existence or non-existence of the hypothesised state of dreaming. It is instructive to consider how the conclusion might be reached in each case. 1

2

Co-occurrence of DR and REM. This is represented by Aserinsky and Kleitman’s (1953) original demonstration. Here researchers seem to be in agreement that the appropriate conclusion is that dreaming took place. This inference is strengthened by the refined correlations with respect to duration, density and direction described above. However, it should be noted that it is logically possible that dreaming did not occur. Is the fact that this conclusion has been ignored an instance of verification bias? DR in the absence of REM. Here opinions differ. Those who take DR as the sole criterion of dreaming (e.g. Malcolm, 1959) conclude that dreaming occurred; those who take REM as the ultimate criterion (e.g. Dement, 1955; Wolpert, 1960) deny that dreaming occurred and conclude that the DR was a fabrication. And indeed such reports might be considered suspect because of the lack of physiological corroboration; there is a sense in which they are less convincing than cases where both indices are present. There are a number of instances of this situation and they may perhaps warrant different conclusions. We shall consider them in turn. Foulkes (1962) obtained reports from nonREM periods. However, these were qualitatively different from reports from REM periods, being more thought-like. Distinctive verbal reports correlated with distinctive physiological measures might give credence to a conclusion of different mental states and hence non-existence of dreaming. Reports are sometimes also obtained from hypnagogic states (Foulkes & Vogel, 1965). In the absence of further evidence, the choice is perhaps equally divided between a conclusion of dreaming on the basis of the similarity of verbal report, or not

36 Philosophy

3

4

dreaming on the basis of a difference in physiological measure. Other cases of mental activity in non-REM periods, such as sleep-talking and sleepwalking, being so different from verbal reports of dreaming, might best be interpreted as indicative of non-dream states. And indeed this is confirmed by their occurrence in stage 4 rather than stage 1 sleep (where REM occur). Finally, subjects deprived of sleep often come to report dreams outside REM periods. As these might be thought to be abnormal and dream-deprived a conclusion of dreaming might be appropriate. REM in the absence of DR. In this case also opinions diverge and opposite conclusions may be reached. Those who define dreaming in terms of REM conclude that dreaming occurred; those who opt for DR as the sole criterion conclude that dreaming did not occur. There are a number of empirical instances of this situation: 15–20 per cent of times where subjects are awakened from REM periods they do not report dreams. Are these cases of recall failure or did dreaming not occur? Cases of non-report where it may be plausible to argue that the subject has forgotten the dream are those where there is a delay before wakening (evidence for interference or decay theory could be brought in support). In this latter case, the argument is supported by the knowledge that had the sleeper been awakened there is a high probability that a dream would have been reported. Here REM are preferred to DR as the criterion and, if this argument is accepted, it shows that DR are not always the sole or best indicator. Another difficult case is that of neonates, in whom REM periods form about 50 per cent of their sleep. Some have queried whether they dream. Here other theoretical ideas might help to disambiguate the situation. For example, if dreams are thought to have the function of organising experience then a verdict of dreaming would be plausible. That DR are not the sole index of dreaming is shown somewhat trivially by an experiment of Antrobus et al. (1965), in which human subjects were taught to indicate dreams by pressing a switch, the frequency of such presses increasing during REM periods; and more intriguingly perhaps by one in which monkeys were taught, in an avoidance conditioning paradigm, to press a bar whenever a visual image appeared on a frosted screen (Vaughan, 1964). High rates of bar pressing in REM periods were taken to indicate dreaming. This is noteworthy as an attempt to demonstrate dream imagery in animals but hinges on the verbal report validation in humans and the argument from analogy. Neither DR nor REM. An example is the failure to give dream reports when awakened in non-REM periods. It would probably be concluded that dreaming did not occur, and indeed anyone who holds either index as the sole criterion must conclude this. It might also be taken to confirm the correlation of DR and REM. However, it is logically possible that a dream experience did occur. If this were so then dreaming would not be a necessary condition of either DR or REM and neither would be an infallible index.

What can be concluded from this discussion? An examination of these situations has shown that a complex network of data and theory is involved. It appears that

Introspection 37 verbal reports are necessary for initial validation but that the physiological measure turns out to be slightly more reliable. In a final example, also involving sleep, three measures were compared. Birrell (1983) examined the relationships between physiological, behavioural and selfreport measures of sleep onset latency and sleep duration. The behavioural measure (pressing a button switch in response to a chime) correlated well with EEG stage 2 sleep and is a cheaper and more convenient method. By contrast, stage 1 EEG gave a significantly shorter estimate of sleep onset latency and one which was behaviourally very similar to EEG stage 0 (81 per cent as against 100 per cent response rate); the self-report measure gave a significantly longer estimate of sleep onset latency. The pattern was reversed for sleep duration. In comparison with the behavioural and stage 2 EEG measures, stage 1 EEG provided an overestimate and self-report an underestimate. Sixty-five per cent of subjects awakened from EEG stage 3 reported that they had not been asleep! The process of behaviour Introspection is an obvious method for studying the content of experience. When it comes to the processes underlying behaviour, however, its use is much more questionable. Nevertheless, there have been some reports of the superiority of introspection over other measures. Kroll and Kellicutt (1972) found that subsequent recall could be predicted much better on the basis of self-reported rehearsal of the material (indicated by pressing a button) than on the basis of performance on another task undertaken during the retention interval. Introspection may provide more detailed information about methods used, e.g. mnemonic techniques (Gordon, Valentine & Wilding, 1984), than could be obtained using purely behavioural methods. A number of classic studies employed the technique of asking subjects to think aloud. Duncker (1945) hoped to reveal the processes of problem solving in this way. One of the most extensive investigations of this type has been De Groot’s (1965) study, in which he aimed to infer the macroscopic structure of processes involved in chess playing, an activity he considered to be goal-directed and hierarchically organised. Shallice (1972) has suggested that this work provides some of the best evidence for serial processing in thinking. A particularly interesting case of the application of introspection to the study of thinking is that of Newell and Simon (1972), who used protocols both as an initial starting point from which to develop a theory and a final validation. They asked subjects to think aloud while solving symbolic logic and other problems and used the descriptions of the operations employed as the basis for the construction of computer programs to model the thought process. The resulting simulations were accepted as psychological theories if they generated behaviour which adequately matched that of the subjects. (See Valentine, 1978, for a fuller discussion of the contribution of introspection to the study of thinking.) As a final example, consider the case of personality questionnaires. These employ a type of introspection, in that self-reports of feelings or behaviour are elicited. However, there is no necessity to take these reports at face value: a

38 Philosophy behaviourist approach is perfectly possible. It may merely be concluded that a particular pattern of responding (e.g. ‘neurotic introversion’) is predictive of a particular pattern of behaviour in another situation (e.g. taking fewer involuntary rest pauses in tapping tasks). The determinants of behaviour Nisbett and Wilson (1977) make it abundantly clear that subjects are often unreliable informants with respect to the determinants of their behaviour. Evidence is reviewed from subliminal perception, learning without awareness, problem solving, complex decision making, cognitive dissonance, attribution and helping behaviour, in addition to a number of experiments of their own, which demonstrates that subjects are, in general, unable to report accurately on the effects of stimuli influencing their behaviour. It is argued that subjects have little or no introspective access to higher order cognitive processes. They may be unaware of the stimuli (as in the case of subliminal perception or Maier’s (1931) experiment, where the majority of subjects failed to report the usefulness of the hint which helped them solve the problem); they may be unaware of the responses (subjects in studies of attitude change may report their pre-experimental opinion inaccurately and thus be unaware that a change has occurred, as in experiments by Bem & McConnell (1970) and Goethals & Reckman (1973)); or they may be unaware of the relation between stimuli and responses. On the one hand, subjects may fail to report influential stimuli. There is now an increasing body of evidence where an experimental manipulation is demonstrated to have an effect on behaviour but whose efficacy is denied by subjects. For example, Storms and Nisbett (1970) anticipated that insomniac subjects given placebo pills said to produce arousal would report getting to sleep earlier than controls (because they would attribute their symptoms to the pill rather than their internal state), whereas those given pills said to produce relaxation would report getting to sleep later (because they would infer that they must be particularly aroused if they had their usual sensations despite having taken a ‘relaxation’ pill). These predictions were borne out but when asked to account for their behaviour subjects did not report that the pill had had any effect on it. In the bystander effect, subjects deny the influence of the number of people present on the likelihood of their helping (Latané & Darley, 1970), perhaps to avoid moral embarrassment. In one of Nisbett and Wilson’s own experiments, evaluative judgments concerning the quality of articles of clothing showed a marked position effect, right-most objects being over-chosen; not surprisingly subjects denied any such influence. These last two cases provide instances of phenomena which are dependent on subjects’ ignorance for their existence. It seems unlikely that people would continue to behave in these ways if they were fully cognisant. On the other hand, ineffective stimuli may be reported, as in Maier’s (1931) experiment where some subjects reported the efficacy of a useless hint, or one of Nisbett and Wilson’s experiments where subjects incorrectly reported that the inclusion of a ‘reassurance’ phrase in the instructions increased their willingness

Introspection 39 to take electric shocks. In this latter case, in common with many others, subjects’ reports correlated very much more highly with the predictions of observers or control subjects not actually run in the experiment, but asked to say what they thought the effect would be, than with what actually happened. This led Nisbett and Wilson to argue that subjects’ reports have the same basis as observers’ reports, namely, a priori causal theories, which may have as their source cultural rules, implicit causal schemata, assumed covariation or connotative similarity between stimuli and responses. (There is evidence that people’s judgments of covariation are based on conceptual similarity rather than empirical observations, see e.g. Shweder, 1977.) Subjects’ reports will sometimes be correct, but only incidentally and not as the result of direct introspective access. Conditions where they are likely to be correct, it is argued, are those where the influential stimuli are available, the connection between the stimuli and responses plausible, and where there are few plausible non-influential factors available. One case where these conditions obtain is in learning without awareness paradigms (Dulany, 1962). Another is where rules are overtly checked, as in the complex judgments made by stockbrokers and clinicians (Slovic & Lichtenstein, 1971). Reports will be likely to be inaccurate when either the relevant stimuli are unavailable or non-salient, e.g. if they are contextual rather than in the focus of attention, non-verbal, removed in time, or where the non-occurrence of events is significant; or where the connection between stimuli and responses is implausible, as for example in the case of discrepant magnitudes between cause and effect. Other known factors which militate against the accuracy of verbal reports are what Nisbett and Wilson label the ‘mechanics of judgment’, such as order, anchoring, contrast and position effects. It remains to explain the illusion of introspective access. People do have privileged knowledge of their sensations and personal biographies. Three factors which may help to maintain the illusion are the confusion of products or intermediate outputs with process; the fact that disconfirmations are relatively hard to come by, negative instances being easily explained away; and self-esteem, people preferring to feel they are in a position of superior knowledge and control. Nisbett and Wilson (1977) have been criticised on theoretical and methodological grounds by Smith and Miller (1978) and White (1980, 1988). They argue that the thesis is not formally stated and depends on unjustified assumptions about the relations between conscious awareness, internal processes and verbal reports. (Indeed, until these relations are specified precisely, there can be no adequate theory of introspection.) It is also asserted that the case is overstated and that there is evidence that verbal reports can be accurate in certain circumstances. Ericsson and Simon (1980) contend that the unreliable reports described by Nisbett and Wilson are obtained in exactly those conditions which their model would predict, i.e. in retrospective reports or generalised probes, where information is required which was never in memory or which can be generated without consulting it.

40 Philosophy

Validation Pilkington and Glasgow (1967) argue that the use of introspection may be more difficult than other methods but that it is not substantially different in kind. Conditions can be specified in which statements about subjective experiences can be intersubjectively confirmed and their truth checked. As they point out: ‘Statements subjects may make about their subjective experiences are not unique in being difficult to confirm’ and ‘introspective reports are not unique in achieving only high probability’. Approaches to the validation of introspective reports have also been discussed by Natsoulas (1967). Internal validity can be improved by ingenious experimental design as in the case of Stromeyer and Psotka (1970). Schoenfeld and Cumming (1963) are of the opinion that discrimination training might improve the control of perceptual responses over verbal responses. External validity can be obtained by the application of a public criterion as a check on the accuracy of reports, as suggested by Natsoulas (1967), who comments that autonomic responses are often favoured. Behavioural measures can also be employed as was discussed in connection with the experiment on eidetic imagery by Haber and Haber (1964). That this is not a simple matter became clear from the examination of indexing the state of dreaming. Broadbent (1961) takes the view that ‘amongst responses, it is perfectly legitimate to include the statements made by human beings, as long as the differences between such responses correspond to differences between other stimuli or other responses’, implying that these other responses are somehow more respectable or more reliable. This leads to the paradox that if verbal reports correlate with other measures then they are redundant; if they do not correlate, the problem arises of deciding which are valid. The example quoted by Natsoulas is an instance of a discrepancy between verbal and autonomic responses. In an experiment by Gunter (1951) on the binocular fusion of colours, a galvanic skin response (GSR) was conditioned to binocular presentation of yellow spectral light. In one of the test conditions, red was presented to one eye and green to the other. The autonomic responses indicated fusion (a large GSR occurring) whereas the verbal responses indicated rivalry (subjects reporting that they experienced red and green rather than yellow). Our discussion of dreaming illustrated both the way in which the validity of verbal responses could be strengthened by corroboration from other measures and how cases of conflict might be resolved by judicious theorising and experimentation. Another possibility is to make verbal reports the object of investigation and examine their determinants. What is required is the discrimination of cases where they can be taken at face value from those where they cannot. Ericsson and Simon’s (1984) model, discussed above, provides important guidelines towards this end. They also review empirical studies on verbalisations. Pilkington and Glasgow (1967) note, as general kinds of test, that it is possible to search for intrasubject consistency, and evidence of the subject’s honesty and reliability in situations where these can be checked. Warshaw and Davis (1984) found that subjects who reported themselves as having high self-understanding were better at self-prediction than were subjects who reported themselves as low in self-understanding.

Introspection 41 On the one hand it may be possible to distinguish different types of verbal report. Carlson (1960 et seq.) tested the implications of hypotheses concerning subjects’ errors in size constancy experiments. Empirical confirmation of these enabled conditions where phenomenal matches were obtained to be determined with some certainty. A possible technique is to obtain subjects’ comments on their introspections. Joynson (1958 et seq.) asked subjects, after participating in constancy experiments, to comment on the nature of their judgments, thus acquiring evidence, supplementary to that obtained by manipulating the instructions, on the distinction between judgments of apparent shape or size (‘looking the same’) and analytic judgments of ‘real’ shape or size (‘being the same’). On the other hand it may be possible to uncover systematic sources of error. Pilkington and Glasgow refer to the elimination of motives for deception, artifacts such as suggestibility and demand characteristics. An experiment by Natsoulas and Levy (1965) suggests conscious monitoring of verbal reports: subjects who knew that tapes they heard were of repeated material were less likely to report transformations than subjects not so informed. Other examples are provided by the work on the ‘mechanics of judgment’ in psychophysics, and other evidence cited by Nisbett and Wilson (1977). Most of these approaches involve embedding reports in a theoretical network (Dulany, 1962) and testing the implications (Natsoulas, 1967). Hypotheses may either be confirmed or disconfirmed. Platt (1964) and Garner, Hake and Eriksen (1956) have argued that inferences can be considerably strengthened by systematic formulation and elimination of competing hypotheses. However, two points should be made: (1) The number of possible alternative hypotheses is unlimited. All scientific hypotheses are revisable. The possibility of a better one always exists. (2) There is no algorithm for formulating alternative hypotheses. The elimination of alternative hypotheses may be effected either statistically or experimentally (Natsoulas, 1967). An example of the former is an experiment by Landauer and Rodger (1964) in which the hypothesis that apparent brightness judgments were composed of a combination of judgments made under ‘reflectance’ or ‘luminance’ instructions was disconfirmed by demonstrating that the variance for apparent judgments was lower than would be predicted on this basis, thus favouring the conclusion that distinct kinds of judgment were involved. Empirical elimination of alternative hypotheses is likely to involve the use of convergent operations (Garner, Hake & Eriksen, 1956). They write: Convergent operations are any set of experimental operations which eliminate alternative hypotheses and which can lead to a concept which is not uniquely identified with any one of the original operations, but is defined by the results of all the operations performed. Thus converging operations can lead to concepts of processes which are not directly observable. (Garner, Hake & Eriksen, 1956, p. 158) They illustrate the use of convergent operations to distinguish perceptual from response effects. For example, the demonstration that increasing the response set

42 Philosophy improves discrimination suggests that response factors may be involved in subception (Bricker & Chapanis, 1953). Stoyva and Kamiya (1968) consider the use of dream reports and rapid eye movements to be another example of the use of convergent operations, enabling the rejection of the hypothesis that DR from REM periods reflect inaccurate recall and fabrications, and acceptance of the alternative hypothesis that they represent dream experiences reasonably accurately. Natsoulas (1967) gives as an example an experiment by Wallach, O’Connell and Neisser (1953) in which, in order to check that the three-dimensional perception of shadows cast by stationary wire figures was not due to knowledge that the shadows were of three-dimensional figures, a control condition was introduced in which subjects were not exposed to the wire figures rotating. Alternatively, competing hypotheses may be shown to be incapable of producing the effects, as in an experiment by Haber (1965), in which the hypothesis that experimental results were due to differential knowledge of the stimulus materials was eliminated by showing them to all subjects before the experiment. All these methods involve the collecting of more data in a variety of theoretically linked situations, the progressive elimination and confirmation of hypotheses and the strengthening of inferences.

Evaluation Introspection was first over-rated and then under-rated. The structuralists thought it provided a royal road to the contents of the mind. The behaviourists rejected it as unscientific on the grounds of subjectivity and privacy. It has both advantages and disadvantages. Some of its advantages have been listed by Pilkington and Glasgow (1967). Introspection may provide important information on phenomena such as imagery, and in disciplines such as psychiatry and sociology. In clinical psychology it may additionally facilitate empathy. Reports by subjects or experimenters (perhaps themselves as subjects) may generate new hypotheses to test, or suggest modifications to experimental designs. They may aid in the interpretation, control and elimination of artifacts. Finally, it has the advantage of convenience, providing a method which is very much quicker and easier than most. Introspection as a method is not unique but it may be useful. The disadvantages have already been discussed in detail. We have seen that introspective reports are particularly prone to distortion but that the problems raised are not different in kind from those of other methods. No methods guarantee certainty and all can be validated in the same ways by theorising and experimentation. Introspection has been under-rated because it was once over-rated. With hindsight we are in a better position to come to a balanced view. With regard to the contents of experience, introspection provides primary data which can be supported with other measures. With respect to the process of behaviour, introspection is of relatively little use because most of the relevant data are unavailable to consciousness. Subjects have a reasonable chance of telling an

Introspection 43 experimenter what they experienced or did, but not how they did it. Products are available and these can be used as an aid in the reconstruction of the process. As to the reasons for behaviour, the evidence suggests that introspective reports are not generally a reliable guide to the stimuli influencing responses. Subjects may be able to report strategies and goals, and may sometimes be correct about the causes of their behaviour, but these judgments have the form of inferences and are not the result of privileged, direct access. Finally, verbal reports are themselves behavioural responses. They provide data and are themselves in need of explanation. With the excesses of introspectionism and behaviourism in the past, a start can be made on their investigation. They can indeed be reinstated as part of the subject matter of psychology.

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5

The possibility of a science of experience An examination of some conceptual problems facing the study of consciousness

Abstract This paper addresses some of the chief conceptual problems associated with the study of conscious experience. (1) Conceptual confusion and lack of clarity of the term ‘consciousness’ itself, including doubts as to whether it constitutes a natural kind, and confusion between different types. (2) Privacy: the claim that conscious experience cannot be studied scientifically on account of its subjectivity. The distinction between subjective and objective is re-examined and the universally inferential nature of scientific statements stressed. Methods for the study of pain are examined in detail, exemplifying the objectification of a prototypically subjective experience. (3) Epiphenomenalism: the view that an adequate account of mental life can be given without reference to consciousness because the latter plays no causal role in the control of behaviour. The primacy of conscious experience is stressed as is its centrality to mental health. It is concluded that the study of conscious experience is both possible, even if from a third person perspective and necessary, on account of its importance for psychological wellbeing.

Conceptual confusion It has frequently been alleged that consciousness does not constitute a natural kind (i.e. a coherent category with defining features that could play an explanatory role in scientific theory) and therefore cannot form part of the ontology of science. Johnson-Laird (1983) deems it a pre-theoretic term; Block (1994) calls it a ‘cluster’ concept. Churchland (1983) and Valentine (1995) adduce evidence that it crossclassifies such processes as perception, memory and thinking (which can all occur without consciousness and so cannot be criterial of it). Such a view is reinforced by the fact that it is impossible to give a non-circular definition. Güzeldere (1995), in a recent article, recounts his experience with the Oxford English Dictionary: consciousness is defined as ‘the state or faculty of being conscious’; conscious as ‘having internal perceptions or consciousness’; perception as ‘to become aware or conscious of’; awareness as ‘the quality or state of being aware; consciousness’. And so we come full circle. The best that can be done

48 Philosophy is to give synonyms or try pointing out examples, though even the latter may be problematic in this case: since the critical features are typically not observable, it will not be clear what it is that is being pointed at. However, the problem of circularity is not confined to consciousness. The attempt to provide a non-circular definition is premised on the assumption that consciousness is a natural kind. It may be that consciousness is a basic or primitive term, such as energy in physics or perhaps stimulus, response and reinforcement in psychology, that can be explicated in terms of relationships to other terms but that cannot itself be analysed into more fundamental components (see Velmans, 1996). Alternatively, consciousness may be viewed as a term not to be defined but a construct to be traced through its uses. A further problem is that different interpretations of the term have been conflated in the literature, notably primary sensory/perceptual awareness (attributable to non-human animals) and reflective self-consciousness (generally considered to be the prerogative of humans, though some would allow that higher primates have limited conceptions of the self if not verbally encoded, e.g. Gallup, 1977). A certain species chauvinism pervades much of the literature, whereby consciousness is identified exclusively with reflective self-consciousness. Sensory/perceptual awareness fits more easily within the paradigms of the natural sciences; selfreflective consciousness falls better within the social sciences, which assume that intentionality and rationality are givens of the human condition rather than achievements, and allow that what is studied as consciousness may be a function of time and culture. The main body of this paper (as also Velmans, 1999) is concerned with sensory/perceptual awareness; self-reflective consciousness is considered below, and in Marks (1999) and Henry (1999). One widespread and currently debated distinction is between phenomenal consciousness (what it is like to be or to experience something) on the one hand and computational, functional information-processing consciousness (a scientific account in objective terms) on the other. What is currently dubbed the ‘hard problem’ of consciousness (see Shear, 1995; 1996), alias the mind–body problem, is usually formulated in these terms, i.e. as the problem of how to give a principled account of the connection between subjective experience and objective, scientific accounts. Huxley (1866) stated the problem as “How is it that anything so remarkable as a state of consciousness comes about as a result of irritating nervous tissue?” and Lockwood (1989) gives it as follows: “The most puzzling thing about consciousness is the fact that it exists. There is, on the face of it, absolutely nothing in the laws of physics and chemistry, as currently understood, that is capable of accounting for the extraordinary capacity of that lump of matter that we call the brain to sustain ‘inner life’”. It is important to be clear about the ways in which the hard problem can and cannot be solved. This is discussed in the following section.

Privacy There is a fundamental distinction between first person (internalist) and third person (externalist) perspectives: what it is like to experience or be something as

The possibility of a science of experience 49 opposed to giving a scientific account of it. Contrast the mother’s and the male gynaecologist’s knowledge of childbirth, or the experience of colour perception with a neurophysiological account of it. For anyone who has one, a headache is not equivalent merely to dilation of blood vessels or a disposition to take aspirin. The true story of how a person’s brain works does not capture what it is like to be that person. The alleged mystery of consciousness has its source in biological facts that underwrite different kinds of epistemic access we have to brain facts on the one hand and what it is like to be each of us on the other (Flanagan, 1991). Epistemologically there is an irresolvable duality between subjective and objective perspectives. In this sense the gap cannot be closed. However, the fact of the matter is that we go on studying and talking about conscious experience. Scientific statements are objective, public, general and inferential but they are based on observations that are subjective, private and particular experiences. Thus, so-called objectivity is at root a matter of intersubjectivity—of reaching public agreement about private observations. There are two senses of conscious experience: as an epistemological perspective and as a theoretical construct, which are frequently overlooked and conflated. Phenomenal experience can enter into psychological theory as a construct, even though the division between first- and third-person perspectives remains inviolate. “Scientists need have no more difficulty in principle agreeing on observations about conscious experiences than they do in agreeing about meter readings: witness the whole of psychophysics” (Gray, 1995). It is only in the realm of constructs that the hard problem can be solved, or the explanatory gap bridged. A scientific theory of consciousness will not itself experience any more than a chemical theory is itself expected to fizz (Boden,1979).The issue of first- and third-person perspectives has been extensively discussed by Velmans (e.g. 1993), who argues that they are mutually irreducible but complementary and that a complete psychology requires both. If I understand it correctly, this extends the duality inherent in epistemic access to the realm of scientific theory. Epistemic duality is acceptable but theoretically duality is objectionable on the grounds of parsimony and coherence: one account of the world is preferred to two. The received view is that introspection fell into disrepute as a method in psychology on account of its alleged subjectivity, even if in fact the real reason was its lack of fruitfulness. There were problems in deciding between rival views: the members of one school claimed that thinking consisted of images while those of another that imageless thought was a reality; there appeared to be no recognized method for resolving the disagreement. But a principled account of the disagreement could be given, for instance, by taking into account the circumstances of the reports and the specific instructions given, e.g. to avoid the stimulus error or to report what was experienced directly. The important point in the present context is that there is usually public evidence for ‘private’ mental states, in the form of verbal reports, behavioural data or neurophysiological indices.

50 Philosophy Verbal reports Verbal reports may be given on the quality or content of experience (e.g. ratings of the vividness of imagery (see Marks, 1999), or dream reports). A number of studies have shown that verbal reports may provide more discriminative measures than physiological indices. Dubuisson and Melzack (1976) found that pain syndromes could be accurately predicted on the basis of pain descriptors from the McGill pain questionnaire, and Leavitt and Garron (1980) found that functional pain disorders could be distinguished from organic ones in this way (see also Leavitt,1991). Thayer (1970) argued that self-report scales provided a more integrative and representative estimation of general states of bodily activation than did four physiological measures, which intercorrelated poorly. Alternatively, verbal reports may be correlated with behavioural data, e.g. reaction times (as in Cooper & Shepard’s (1973) image rotation experiments, but see Marks,1999, for problems with the interpretation of these data) or skilled perceptual motor performance (see Isaac & Marks’ (1994) review of work on the Vividness of Visual Imagery Questionnaire). Behavioural data With sufficient ingenuity in experimental design, behavioural data can be employed to make inferences about phenomenal experience. One example is the interference paradigm (Baddeley & Hitch, 1974; Binet, 1894; Brooks, 1968). By observing differences in performance as a function of input or output modality, inferences can be drawn as to the processing medium (e.g. verbal-acoustic vs. visuo-spatial). Another example is the recent, elegant investigation of the nature of the experience of blindsight in monkeys by Cowey and Stoerig (1995; see also Cowey & Stoerig, 1997). In the first part of the experiment monkeys with lesions in their primary visual cortex were trained to detect, localize and distinguish between visual stimuli presented within their visual field defects. They showed excellent detection in tasks where a visual stimulus was presented on every trial, albeit at different positions, sometimes in the normal field and sometimes in the lesioned, blind field. They were then trained to respond differentially to the presence or absence of a stimulus in the normal field in a signal-detection task in which half the trials were blank trials with no visual stimulus. On critical probe trials, they classified visual stimuli presented in the field defect as blank trials, demonstrating, like human patients, blindsight rather than degraded real vision. The conclusion is that blindsight is likely to be experienced as similar in both species, a finding that is helpful in determining the neuronal basis of phenomenal vision. Thus, by judicious arrangement of experimental conditions, animals can be induced to indicate what they are experiencing. (An older example is the use of conditioning to elucidate colour vision in pigeons, e.g. Blough, 1958.)

The possibility of a science of experience 51 Neurophysiological indices The third possibility is physiological indices (e.g. electrophysiological recording or brain imaging). Farah, who has demonstrated that similar brain regions are involved in the processing of visual imagery and visual perception (Farah, Perovet, Gonon & Giard,1988), has argued for the superiority of such measures on the grounds that they are less susceptible to alternative explanations in terms of demand characteristics and experimenter bias effects (i.e. the fact that experimental results may be influenced by the beliefs and expectations of subjects or experimenters), to which behavioural experiments in cognitive psychology are prone (Farah,1988).

Pain The measurement of pain provides a particularly good example of the variety of methods that are available for objectifying a prototypical, subjective experience. The complexity and difficulty of the area have attracted a substantial body of research. Pain is multidimensional, the most commonly measured dimensions being intensity and affective quality (Bradley, 1993). Ventafridda et al. (1983) have developed a composite measure of intensity and duration. McGuire (1992) lists six dimensions: physiological, sensory, affective, cognitive, behavioural and sociocultural. Its measurement in children poses a particular challenge (Erickson, 1990; Lehmann, Mendebba & De Angelis, 1990). The majority of the methods currently in use are self-report, but this includes considerable variety (DeConno et al., 1994). Rating scales may be psychophysical (cf. the employment of signal detection theory to measure pain thresholds by Irwin et al., 1994), numerical (e.g. Jensen, Turner & Romano, 1994, have found 10- or 21-point scales provide sufficient discrimination for chronic pain patients to describe the intensity of their pain), verbal (Okazaki et al., 1990) or visual analogue (Gift, 1989). A number of pain questionnaires are in use, notably the McGill pain questionnaire (Melzack, 1975). Leavitt (1991) has found that the Low Back Pain Symptoms Checklist can distinguish patients with low back pain from simulators, and that questionnaire scores correlate with duration of disablement (a behavioural measure) and organic pathology (a physiological index). In general, visual analogue scales have been found to be superior to category scales and composite measures to single ones (Bradley, 1993). Jensen and McFarland (1993) showed that 12 ratings across 4 days provided a more reliable measure than did a single estimate. Ely (1992) has obtained meaningful results with children by incorporating picture drawing in a semi-structured interview, children being asked to draw pictures of their pain and what it looked like as well as of pain experiences. Self-report measures can be validated by behavioural indices: observer ratings (e.g. Schneider & LoBiondo-Wood, 1992, found that children’s reports correlated well with parental observations but not with nurses’ observations), activity levels or overt motor behaviour. Taniguchi and Satow (1991) employed a plate-pushing task to measure wrist pain. Finally, psychophysiological measures may be employed, e.g. to assess the role of the immune system in mediating the relation between both psychological and

52 Philosophy environmental variables and the experience of pain (Bradley, 1993). McIntosh, VanVeen and Brameyer (1993) explored variability in heart rate and in respiration rate, and chemical constituents of blood as pain indices. Following this review of the variety of methods (self-report, behavioural and physiological) which can be used in the investigation of subjective phenomena, consideration is now given below to the third conceptual problem facing the study of conscious experience, that of epiphenomenalism.

Epiphenomenalism Computational functionalism, the philosophy underpinning cognitive psychology, holds to what Block (1994) calls conscious inessentialism, the view that an adequate account of mental life can be given without recourse to consciousness. Descartes’s view that mental life is quintessentially conscious is now almost universally rejected. Perception, memory, thinking and judgment can all occur without consciousness (Velmans, 1991). Velmans (1999) argues that consciousness is the result of, rather than causally involved in, perceptual processing. This view is also consistent with the spirit of artificial intelligence, which simulates if not replicates mentality in machines. According to epiphenomenalism, consciousness, when it does occur, plays no causal role in the control of behaviour. However, these considerations have to be reconciled with the fact that, from the point of view of subjective experience—particularly self-reflective consciousness— “consciousness is the most important part of our existence” (Gray, 1995). If psychology is to do justice to the range of phenomena within its remit, i.e. experience and behaviour, and to make a contribution to the fundamental problems of the human condition, these central issues must be recognized and faced. Even if consciousness is epiphenomenal, the determinants of conscious experience can be studied, e.g. conditions conducive to depression and elation. Others will wish to argue that consciousness is causally efficacious. Marks (1999) claims that the primary function of consciousness is the mental rehearsal of goal-directed action through the experimental manipulation of perceptual-motor imagery under the control of schemata and environmental cues, which serves the function of enhancing the adaptive competence of the organism. He adduces evidence consistent with this position: vividness of mental imagery is strongly associated with those performances most likely to benefit from mental practice. Henry (1999), in reviewing methods for inducing personal change, likewise stresses the role of selfreflection in transforming consciousness and promoting well-being.

Summary and conclusions In this paper three problems sometimes perceived as obstacles to the scientific investigation of conscious experience have been addressed: (1) multiplicity of meanings and absence of natural categories; (2) privacy; and (3) epiphenomenalism or lack of causal efficacy.

The possibility of a science of experience 53 In relation to the first, it is argued that it is permissible to have, as terms or topics of investigation in science, those that cannot themselves be defined analytically or unequivocally, but that it is necessary to bear in mind the multiplicity of meanings when the word ‘consciousness’ is used. In relation to privacy, the sense in which consciousness is necessarily private— as first person experience or epistemological perspective—was distinguished from the sense in which it can become public—as a theoretical construct in scientific discourse. Statements concerning conscious experience as a construct are necessarily inferential but self-report, behavioural and physiological measures can all be employed: the judicious arrangement of experimental conditions enables strong inferences to be drawn. In relation to the third, it was observed that epiphenomenalism is controversial. The position taken here is that it is essential to study conscious experience even if epiphenomenalism is true because of its importance to subjective well-being and relevance to mental health (see the extensive discussion in Henry, 1999). The conclusion here is that not only is it possible to study conscious experience, but also that it is necessary to do so.

Acknowledgements I am grateful to Ullin Place for drawing my attention to the article by Cowey & Stoerig (1995) and to Jane Henry, David Marks, John Pickering, Richard Stevens, Max Velmans and the editor and reviewers for helpful comments on earlier versions of this paper.

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6

Dissociation and the delimitation of consciousness Implications of neuropsychological phenomena for philosophical conceptions of consciousness

Abstract Pathological phenomena of blindsight, anosognosia, amnesia, prosopagnosia and commissurotomy are examined together with parallel ‘normal’ phenomena: subliminal perception, anaesthesia, implicit memory and thought, hypnosis and the physiological basis of the control of voluntary action. These examples of dissociation have implications for the integrity and validity of consciousness. Not only do unconscious processes influence and determine behaviour: complex processes such as perception, memory and judgement can occur independently of consciousness which appears to cross-classify them as Churchland (1983) surmised. It is concluded that there is now overwhelming evidence to refute the claim that consciousness is a transparent, unified, coherent system that plays an important role in the control of behaviour. The implication is that folk-psychological concepts require overhaul. Theoretical accounts of the relation between conscious and non-conscious processes are discussed.

Introduction There are two main questions concerning consciousness (Gray, 1971; Valentine, 1992): its nature (which may be treated descriptively or mechanistically, the latter at a physiological or physical level); and its function, specifically its evolution and relation to behaviour. Since most contributors to this conference will be dealing with the former, I shall focus on the latter. Consciousness is a pre-theoretical term (Johnson-Laird, 1983): the trouble with it is not its privacy but rather the absence of a theory linking phenomenological, behavioural and neurophysiological data (Gray, 1971). Churchland (1983) doubts whether conscious states constitute a natural kind. They may be one relatively unimportant sub-system within the brain, or may even cross-classify what we designate as subsystems. The important difference may turn out to be between representational and non-representational rather than conscious and non-conscious states. It is her belief that the integrity of the traditional conception of consciousness is threatened, particularly with respect to: the alleged transparency of the mental (that we automatically know that of which we are aware), the supposed unity of

Dissociation and delimitation of consciousness 57 consciousness and the self, and the allegedly special relation thought to obtain between language and consciousness. There is now overwhelming evidence to invalidate the concept of consciousness as a transparent, unified, coherent system that plays an important role in the control of behaviour. Although much of this evidence comes from the consideration of pathological cases, parallel phenomena can be demonstrated in ‘normals’. Many though not all of the phenomena are well-known but their consequences have not been sufficiently acknowledged. Folk psychology has remained relatively impervious to the implications. The first issue with which we are faced in a consideration of consciousness is its definition, in particular an operational definition. I shall take phenomenal awareness as the central meaning. Shallice (1988) has suggested that consciousness is linked with sub-systems concerned with the voluntary control of behaviour, episodic memory and language. Alternative candidates for operational definitions might be in terms of: a state of arousal, sensation and perception, knowledge (only declarative?), type of access, or first person as opposed to third person report.

Implicit perception The phenomenon of blindsight (Weiskrantz, 1986) demonstrates the independence of discrimination and awareness. Hemianopic patients, with damage to the occipital lobe, are blind in part of their visual field when tested by conventional perimetric analysis and verbal report but can nevertheless make discriminations significantly above chance in a forced-choice situation. Thus, they may say that they have no experience of seeing but, if forced to guess, correctly point to an ‘invisible’ stimulus, and distinguish horizontal from vertical or in some cases between red and green. This residual capacity has been attributed to a midbrain as distinct from the cortical visual system. Weiskrantz argues that the distinction is not between verbal and non-verbal responding but between ‘monitoring’ and ‘reacting’. In ‘normals’ subliminal perception has been convincingly demonstrated by Marcel (1983). Subjects are able to make reliable semantic judgements about words in conditions that prevent their detection (tachistoscopic presentation followed by a backward pattern mask): people can thus make decisions about the meaning of words that they report being unable to see. In other experiments, performance in a lexical decision task was facilitated by primes that were not readily detectable. It appears that meaning analysis is performed on stimuli outside conscious awareness. It may be concluded that perception is possible without awareness. Zihl and von Cramon (1980) and Marcel (1993) have reported dissociation between different response modes. Discriminability appears to be dependent on response mode in both normal and blindsight subjects asked to determine whether or not a light follows a click. Two effects are reliably found: 1. Detection accuracy (the ratio of hits to false alarms) is greater when people are asked to guess than when they are asked to report. This effect, though unsurprising to psychologists familiar with the early literature on psychophysical judgements, is surely counter-intuitive: one would expect people to be more accurate when reporting

58 Philosophy than when guessing. 2. There is a significant effect of response mode in the reporting but not the guessing condition: accuracy is greatest when the decision is indicated by an eyeblink, intermediate when indicated by a button press, and least accurate when verbally reported. Responses may be contradictory in cases where decisions are made about the same stimulus by different methods. Thus, someone may in effect say ‘yes’ with their eye and ‘no’ with their finger, or ‘yes’ with their finger and ‘no’ with their mouth! How is this to be interpreted? Does experience depend on response mode? Is it a case of differential access to the same experience or representation, or a case of multiple representations? (See Marcel, 1993, for discussion.) There appears to be a contradiction in that people are both aware and unaware, or aware in one sense but not in another. Brain-damaged patients may be aware or unaware of their impairment. In anosognosia, they are unaware of deficits in e.g. seeing, remembering, communicating or moving: they are unaware of being unaware. Bisiach and Geminiani (1991) have drawn attention to double dissociation between verbal and behavioural awareness in cases of left-sided hemiplegia and hemianopia resulting from right parietal lesions. Such patients may be verbally aware but behaviourally unaware, e.g. they may complain of their disorder but the next minute ask to have their knitting needles or try to get up. Conversely, they may be verbally unaware but behaviourally aware: apparently unaware of their plegia in discussion but not attempting, say, bilaterally coordinated movements. Tegner and Marcel (see Marcel, 1993) have found interesting discrepancies between first- and third-person accounts in such patients. For example, if asked to rate their capacity to perform a bimanual task, they may give a rating of 8 on a 10point scale even though they have, say, complete hemianopia or hemianaesthesia; however, if asked by a researcher: “If I were in your state, how well would I be able to do it?” they may give a rating of zero. Similar results can be obtained by adopting a confidential attitude and encouraging them by asking e.g. “Is your arm ever naughty? Does it ever not do what you want?” The reply may be: “Oh yes! In fact, I’m going to hit it next time if it doesn’t do what I want.” It is important to distinguish true anosognosia from defensive denial. There have been many demonstrations of implicit perception and memory under anaesthesia but also failures to replicate. Levinson (1965) found that most (8/10) of a group of patients, to whom alarming words were spoken while they were anaesthetised, subsequently showed anxiety or were able to recall them under hypnosis. Evans and Richardson (1988) found that patients undergoing hysterectomy, played positive information on tape during the operation, showed better recovery rates than those played neutral tapes. Physiological studies have shown that the initial stages of auditory evoked potentials are preserved under anaesthesia; only the later stages associated with conscious identification are destroyed (e.g. Thornton et al., 1983). Recently, Andrade (1994) has presented preliminary data to suggest that the coherent frequency of auditory evoked potentials may be employed as a more accurate index of depth of anaesthesia and so may help to disambiguate previous results and determine the exact depth of anaesthesia that can sustain implicit learning.

Dissociation and delimitation of consciousness 59 Evans and Marcel (see Marcel, 1993) have observed dissociations between firstand third-person accounts in patients undergoing diagnostic gynaecological operations with light anaesthesia but no muscle relaxant (because it would interfere with the medical diagnostic process). In this state patients are unconscious but can speak. About fifty percent respond to their name, and acknowledge and correctly locate pain. Others appear to have a pain ‘they’ don’t know about. Is this possible? They may deny that they have a pain, but when asked (using the Hilgard technique) whether there is any part of them that knows whether they are in pain, about 20 percent reply “oh yes, she’s got a pain in her chest/groin”. Is it possible to have sensation without awareness? (Cf. Nelkin, 1989.) Marcel suggests that another case is that of habituation to clothing – we are only aware of the pressure of clothes on our body if our attention is drawn to it. Or would we deny that this is a sensation before it is drawn to our attention?

Implicit memory and thought Implicit memory refers to some change in behaviour as a result of past experience without the subject having any conscious recollection of the learning experience in question. (This does not of course preclude being conscious at the time of the original learning.) Amnesic patients frequently show evidence of having learned some task, e.g. mirror drawing (Cohen & Squire, 1980) or even computer programming (Glisky et al., 1986), in the absence of ability to recall anything about the prior learning experience, e.g. they may deny ever having seen the apparatus involved. This was originally interpreted as evidence of procedural knowledge (‘knowing how’) in the absence of declarative knowledge (‘knowing that’). However, since it is now clear that implicit learning is not restricted to procedural knowledge, the term implicit memory (in contrast to explicit memory: intentional, verbal recall or recognition) is preferred (Schacter, 1987). A similar phenomenon occurs in prosopagnosia, a disorder of face recognition, in which patients are unable to recognise their relatives or name photographs of famous people but indirect evidence shows that recognition in some sense has taken place. For example, one such patient showed the ‘normal’ interference effect in taking longer to decide e.g. whether Mick Jagger was a pop star or a politician, when simultaneously presented with a photograph of a politician (De Haan, Young & Newcombe, 1987). The problem is not that the patient doesn’t recognise the face but that he doesn’t recognise that he has recognised it! Alternatively, such patients may show differential electrodermal or evoked potential responses to familiar compared with unfamiliar faces (Tranel & Damasio, 1985; Renault et al., 1989). Parallel effects can be demonstrated in normals. For example, significant savings in relearning paired-associates may be shown by subjects unable to recall or recognise them from a previous learning experience (Nelson, 1978). Repetition priming effects have been demonstrated in lexical decision, word-identification and stem-completion tasks (see Schacter, 1987, for a review).

60 Philosophy Implicit thought is demonstrated by incubation, intuition and insight. People may be able to distinguish soluble from insoluble problems without actually having solved them (Bowers, 1987). Similar phenomena are reported by mathematicians who frequently report that they have arrived at the solution to a problem but have yet to formulate the proof. These examples demonstrate the effect of non-conscious processing on subsequent behaviour; and the possibility of complex processes being performed outside conscious awareness. As Lashley (1956, p. 4) once remarked: “No activity of mind is ever conscious.” In hypnosis, susceptible persons may have their perceptions or memories altered in accordance with instructions from the hypnotist. Thus, they do not perceive or remember that which they are instructed that they will not perceive or remember. In posthypnotic suggestion the subject carries out instructions given during hypnosis after returning to the normal, waking state, rationalising the act as they do so. Under reversibility cues they may recall what was suppressed while in the hypnotic state. In hypnotic analgaesia there may be a dissociation between oral and written reports of the intensity of pain (Hilgard, 1986). There are two rival accounts of what is going on in hypnosis. According to one school (Spanos et al., 1988), the effects can be explained in terms of social compliance and instructional demands: the subject just agrees to go along with the hypnotist and obey instructions. According to the other school (Hilgard, 1986), a real dissociation takes place. The subject enters a trance that is an altered state of consciousness and what is manipulated is the mental state rather than merely behaviour. Physiological evidence suggests that the latter view may be correct: the early component of the evoked response (characteristic of preattentive sensory analysis) is unaffected whereas the later P300 component (associated with conscious identification and subsequent interpretation) is suppressed (Spiegel et al., 1985).

Commissurotomy A treatment for epilepsy developed in the sixties (Sperry et al., 1969) involves cutting the corpus callosum, a bundle of nerve fibres that connects the two cerebral hemispheres. This results in structural and functional disconnection between the left hemisphere (responsible for sensation and motor control on the right side of the body, and language) and the right hemisphere (responsible for sensation and motor control on the left side of the body). When presented with composite pictures (one to the right and one to the left hemisphere) and subsequently asked to identify these, such patients will name the one presented to the left hemisphere, but point with the left hand to the one presented to the right hemisphere. They are unable to decide whether stimuli presented to the two visual half-fields (and therefore different hemispheres) are the same or different. This led Nagel (1971) to conclude that there is no single number of minds that such patients can be considered to have: every solution leads to paradox. Most of the evidence is consistent with the view that there are multiple selves (mental processes are ‘modular’). Particularly

Dissociation and delimitation of consciousness 61 interesting are accounts given by the left hemisphere of the right hemisphere’s behaviour. For example, when presented with a chicken claw to the left hemisphere and a snow scene to the right and asked to select a picture related to the one presented from an array, one patient ‘correctly’ pointed to a chicken with the right hand and a shovel with the left; but when asked to explain his selection, said: “I saw a claw and I picked a chicken, and you have to clean out the chicken shed with a shovel.” The left hemisphere saw the chicken claw but not the snow scene; it saw the right hand point to the chicken and the left hand point to the shovel. It did not know the reason for the latter but invented one (Gazzaniga & LeDoux, 1978). This is one striking example of much evidence that suggests that the verbal, conscious self, resident in the left hemisphere, constructs a consistent interpretation to make sense of the information available to it. ‘Reality’ (whether in the dream or the waking world) is fabricated. Our sense of continuity and control is illusory. As Dennett once remarked, consciousness is its own user illusion, see Dennett (1991). Other studies reveal interesting discrepancies between the more ‘cognitive’ left hemisphere and ‘emotional’ right. For example, patients with the anterior commissure intact may blush to embarrassing words presented to the right hemisphere but be unable to explain their reaction (e.g. one patient laughed when presented with a picture of a nude woman but when asked to explain her behaviour said “That’s a funny machine”). Or they may give different ratings with each hemisphere, e.g. of liking for Nixon or God, or conflicting answers to questions e.g. about job preferences. The suggestion is that these phenomena simply exaggerate a split inherent in the normal case. The reasons for our behaviour and emotional states are often inaccessible to conscious awareness but we do not admit this and concoct explanations based on observation and plausibility. Recent research suggests that Freud was right in this regard but that he understated the case (considering only the orectic and not the noetic – or cognitive – unconscious). Other examples of dissociation are provided by conversion hysteria, fugue states, multiple personality and sleep, which cannot be discussed here.

The illusion of conscious control Libet’s (1985) experiments on the temporal relationship between the conscious will to act and events in the brain demonstrate that the brain begins the process of moving before the person knows about it. Spontaneous acts begin before we are aware that we have ‘decided’ to act. Movements are initiated unconsciously: ‘We’ don’t decide. (Or do we? It depends who we think ‘we’ are.) People were asked to perform a simple movement such as flexing their finger when they felt like it, and to indicate where on a clock face a moving dot was when they experienced the decision to act. Results showed that the electrophysiological readiness potential preceded the electromyograph (the recording of electrical activity in the muscles) by about 500 ms but that it also preceded the conscious intention to perform the act (as given by the clock measure) by about 350 ms.

62 Philosophy An external stimulus produces an evoked potential within a few ms. However, in previous experiments Libet et al. (1979) found that electrical stimulation of the brain had to last about 500 ms before it was consciously perceived (the requirement of ‘neuronal adequacy’). The interesting thing is that this perception is referred backwards – and interpreted as occurring at the time of the evoked potential, a few ms after the occurrence of the actual event. The evidence for this is that stimulation of the hand was felt as occurring before a cortically induced sensation even if the latter occurred first. So, we aren’t consciously aware of events at the time they happen, but we think we are. The delay in conscious recognition may be seen as a filter (Ornstein, 1991). It is not necessary to know about everything: we can and do react to many things unconsciously. A ‘squadron of simpletons’ is more efficient than having one system trying to control everything.

Conclusions and theoretical considerations Discrimination, perception, memory, thinking, judgment and problem-solving can all occur outside conscious awareness. Thus, they cannot be criterial of consciousness, which cross-classifies them as Churchland (1983) surmised. Consciousness appears to be tangentially involved at a late stage, representing the results of processing rather than the processing itself. Dissociations occur in both normal and pathological conditions that threaten the integrity, validity and transparency of consciousness. We may be both aware and unaware; or aware in one sense but not in another. Different, contradictory forms of knowledge threaten Quine’s notion of a full, inferential, integrated unified consciousness. In particular, explicit, declarative, introspective, verbal knowledge is frequently disparate from emotional, pragmatic, bodily, implicit knowledge. Nor does consciousness control behaviour, which is determined non-consciously. Consciousness may be unified and coherent within itself but it is based on an extremely small portion of the total picture. We are systematically misled by the limited perspective of consciousness. Because we are only aware of one consciousness, it is difficult to throw off the illusion of unity. Because we are aware of alternative courses of action, prospectively and retrospectively, and contingencies between our behaviour and the environment, we falsely believe that conscious processes determine behaviour. Theories of the relation between conscious and non-conscious processes need to consider both the determinants of non-consciousness and the conditions of retrievability into consciousness. Information may be non-conscious innately, or as a result of automation through repetition. Material may never have been conscious, perhaps because it was presented in degraded conditions (as in subliminal perception), or may once have been conscious with access subsequently lost, either temporarily (as in the case of hypnosis) or permanently (as in the case of amnesia). Finally, it may be actively repressed e.g. because it is threatening. With regard to conditions of retrievability: some material may never be retrievable, some may be with the use of special techniques such as hypnosis or dream analysis,

Dissociation and delimitation of consciousness 63 and other (preconscious) material may be easily retrievable. Kihlstrom and Tobias (1991) distinguish the ‘unconscious proper’ (automatic processes, requiring no attentional capacity, not retrievable under any circumstances), ‘preconscious’ processes, partially activated, typical of presentation in degraded conditions, and ‘subconscious’ processes – theoretically the most interesting – where material is highly activated, to a degree normally sufficient for consciousness, but for some reason it is not conscious: active suppression seems to be involved. This last category indicates that high activation, though necessary, is not a sufficient condition for consciousness. Finally, many have remarked on the close connection between conscious recollection and the self. Claparède (1911/1951), describing the amnesic syndrome, wrote: “If one examines the behaviour of such a patient, one finds that everything happens as though the various events of life, however well associated with each other in the mind, were incapable of integration with the me itself.” (p. 71). Such patients frequently complain of having only just woken up. Kihlstrom’s (1984, 1987) theory is that conscious awareness requires a link to be formed between representations of the event and/or the context and of the self. In the cognitive unconscious, either the link is not forged in the first place, or it is subsequently lost. Lancaster (1991) has proposed a similar ‘I-tag’ theory: events are encoded in memory together with an ‘I-tag’, a personal connection or reference to the ‘I’ that actually experienced the event; but ‘I’ is always shifting, in a state of flux. Subsequent conscious recollection requires the making of a connection between the current ‘I’ state and the ‘I-tag’ relevant to the to-be-recalled event. In cases of amnesia, this connection cannot be made because access to this ‘I-tag’ has been lost.

Acknowledgements I am grateful to Mary Atkins for conducting a literature search and to Tony Marcel for discussion of many of the issues, including unpublished data.

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64 Philosophy De Haan, E. H. F., Young, A. W. & Newcombe, F. (1987). Face recognition without awareness. Cognitive Neuropsychology, 4, 385–415. Dennett, D. C. (1991). Consciousness explained. Boston, MA: Little, Brown & Co. Evans, C. & Richardson, P. H. (1988). Improved recovery and reduced postoperative stay after therapeutic suggestions during anaesthesia. Lancet, 27th August, 491–493. Gazzaniga, M. S. & LeDoux, J. E. (1978). The integrated mind. New York: Plenum Press. Glisky, F. L., Schacter, D. L. & Tulving, E. (1986). Computer-learning by memory-impaired patients: Acquisition and retention of complex knowledge. Neuropsychologia, 24, 313–328. Gray, J. A. (1971). The mind-brain identity theory as a scientific hypothesis. Philosophical Quarterly, 21, 247–254. Hilgard, E. R. (1986). Divided consciousness: Multiple controls in human thought and action. Expanded edition. Chichester: Wiley. Johnson-Laird, P. N. (1983). Mental models. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kihlstrom, J. F. (1984). Conscious, subconscious and unconscious: A cognitive view. In K. S. Bowers & D. Meichenbaum (Eds.), The unconscious reconsidered. New York: Wiley-Interscience. Kihlstrom, J. F. (1987). The cognitive unconscious. Science, 237, 1445–1452. Kihlstrom, J. F. & Tobias, B. A. (1991). Anosognosia, Consciousness, and the Self. In G. P. Prigatano & D. L. Schacter (Eds.), Awareness of deficit after brain injury: Clinical and theoretical issues (pp. 198–222). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lancaster, B. (1991). Mind, brain and human potential. London: Element. Lashley, K. S. (1956). Cerebral organization and behaviour. In H. Solomon, S. Cobb & W. Penfield (Eds.), The brain and human behavior (pp. 112–146). Baltimore: Williams & Wilkins. Levinson, B. W. (1965). States of awareness under general anaesthesia. British Journal of Anaesthesia, 37, 544–546. Libet, B. (1985). Unconscious cerebral initiative and the role of conscious will in voluntary action. The Behavioral and Brain Sciences, 8, 529–566. Libet, B., Alberts, W. W., Wrights, E. W. & Feinstein, B. (1979). Responses of human somatosensory cortex to stimuli below threshold for conscious sensation. Science, 158, 1597–1600. Marcel, A. J. (1983). Conscious and unconscious perception: experiments on visual masking and word perception. Cognitive Psychology, 15, 192–237. Marcel, A. J. (1993). Slippage in the unity of consciousness. In Experimental and theoretical studies of consciousness. Ciba Foundation Symposium, no. 174. Chichester: Wiley. Nagel, T. (1971). Brain bisection and the unity of consciousness. Synthese, 22, 396–413. Nelkin, N. (1989). Unconscious sensations. Philosophical Psychology, 2, 129–41. Nelson, T. O. (1978). Detecting small amounts of information in memory: Savings for nonrecognized items. Journal of Experimental Psychology: Human Learning & Memory, 4, 453–468. Ornstein, R. (1991). The evolution of consciousness. New York: Prentice-Hall. Renault, B. Signoret, J-L, Debruille, B., Breton, F. & Bolgert, F. (1989). Brain potentials reveal covert facial recognition in prosopagnosia. Neuropsychologia, 27, 905–912. Schacter, D. L. (1987). Implicit memory: History and current status. Journal of Experimental Psychology: Learning, Memory and Cognition, 13, 501–518. Shallice, T. (1988). From neuropsychology to mental structure. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Spanos, N. P., Flynn, D. M. & Gwynn, M. I . (1988). Contextual demands, negative

Dissociation and delimitation of consciousness 65 hallucinations, and hidden observer responding: Three hidden observers observed. British Journal of Experimental and Clinical Hypnosis, 5, 5–10. Sperry, R. W., Gazzaniga, M. S. & Bogen, J. E. (1969). Interhemispheric relationships: The neocortical commissures; syndromes of hemispheric deconnection. In P. J. Vinken & G. W. Bruyn (Eds.), Handbook of clinical neurology. Amsterdam: North Holland. Spiegel, D., Cutcomb, S., Ren, C. & Pribram, K. (1985). Hypnotic hallucination alters evoked potentials. Journal of Abnormal Psychology, 94, 249–255. Squire, L. R. & Cohen, N. J. (1984). Human memory and amnesia. In G. Lynch, J. L. McGaugh & M. N. Weinberger (Eds.), Neurobiology of learning and memory. New York: Guilford. Thornton, C., Catley, D. M., Jordan, C., Lehane, J. R., Royston, D. & Jones, J. G. (1983). Enflurane anaesthesia causes graded changes in the brainstem and early cortical auditory evoked response in man. British Journal of Anaesthesia, 55, 479–486. Tranel, D. & Damasio, A. R. (1985). Knowledge without awareness: An autonomic index of facial recognition by prosopagnosics. Science, 228, 1453–1454. Valentine, E. R. (1992). Conceptual issues in psychology. 2nd edn. London: Routledge. Weiskrantz, L. S. (1986). Blindsight: A case study and implications. Oxford: Clarendon. Zihl, J. & von Cramon, D. (1980). Registration of light stimuli in the cortically blind hemifield and its effect on localization. Behaviour and Brain Research, 1, 287–298.

7

Perception and action in East and West

Abstract Although studies in developmental psychology have led some psychologists to postulate direct knowledge of an ecological self, the validity of such a concept has been questioned by others. Both philosophers and scientists have exposed puzzles that result from distinguishing between observer and observed. This has led some to propose multiple selves, highlighted by the case of split-brain patients. A more radical solution is the Eastern notion of anatman, the view that the personal self is an illusion, a conclusion reached independently through logical argument by several current philosophers. Recent analyses in artificial intelligence have also dispensed with the notion of an executive. It is concluded that work in current Western philosophy, artificial intelligence and neuroscience accords with ancient Eastern philosophy, in denying our everyday conception of the existence of a self as perceiver and agent.

The ecological self In a recent paper, Neisser (1988) distinguishes five kinds of self-knowledge: the ecological, interpersonal, extended, private and conceptual selves. These differ in their developmental histories, the accuracy with which we can know them, their pathologies and their contribution to experience. I shall be concerned primarily with the ecological self, as perceived with respect to the immediate physical environment (“‘I’ am the person here in this place engaged in this activity”) and with the conceptual self, which comprises a network of socially based assumptions and theories about human nature in general and ourselves in particular. Indeed, what I am particularly interested in might be called our conceptual ecological self, specifically, our common belief that we are the recipients of perception and the initiators of action. Although perception and action may be separated for the purposes of exposition, this distinction is misleading, as Dewey (1896) pointed out long ago and Gibson (1979) has convincingly argued. Neisser maintains that the knowledge we have of our ecological self is direct and veridical. Pathologies, such as phantom limbs and cases of neglect studied by neuropsychologists (where a patient may be unresponsive to one side of the body)

Perception and action in East and West 67 lend credence to this view. Experimental work on infants (see Butterworth, 1985) has shown that the optical flow, e.g. ‘looming’ (the rapid expansion pattern produced by approaching a surface), specifies the environment: it is from this that the child develops the idea of the existence of a perceiving entity at a particular location in the environment. Other studies confirm that young children locate the self at the point of observation. When their eyes are covered they will say that you cannot see them, while allowing that you can see their head, hands or feet (Flavell, Shipstead & Croft, 1980). The majority of adults also locate their normal centre of awareness behind the eyes (Blackmore, 1987). More detailed study is possible. Natsoulas and Dubanoski (1964) employed a simple task to determine the locus and orientation of the perceiver. Reversible letters such as ‘b’ and ‘d’ were drawn on the subject’s forehead. A ‘b’ interpreted as a ‘b’ is indicative of an external locus of perception (the same as the experimenter’s); however, a ‘b’ interpreted as a ‘d’ (its mirror image) is indicative of an internal locus of perception. An internal locus was less likely when this necessitated a change in orientation, e.g. when the letter was drawn on the back of the head of a subject facing forwards. The existence of a bounded, articulated and controllable body is inferred not only from what can be seen of it but from what it seems possible to do. The key concepts are agency and coordinated movement. Limbs appear to be responsive to intentions and their movements appear to be coordinated with perceptions. (Neisser argues that this is a special case of the Gestalt notion of ‘common fate’, in which objects that move together are taken as belonging to a single coherent unit.) Infants soon learn to distinguish the consequences of their own actions from events of other kinds (Bahrick & Watson, 1985).

The knower and the known Despite these claims for direct and veridical knowledge of the ecological self, others have been less sanguine. William James took a more reductionist view: “This me is an empirical aggregate of things objectively known. The I which knows them cannot itself be an aggregate, neither for psychological purposes need it be considered to be an unchanging and metaphysical entity like the Soul, or a principle like the Pure Ego, viewed as ‘out of time’. It is a Thought, at each moment different from that of the last moment, but appropriative of the latter together with all that the latter called its own. All the experiential facts find their place in this description, unencumbered with any hypothesis save that of the existence of passing thoughts or state of mind” (James, 1950, pp. 400–401). Karl Pearson, viewing this from a spatial rather than a temporal, perspective, remarked that: “The distinction between ourselves and the outside world is thus only an arbitrary, if a practically convenient, division between one type of senseimpression and another. The group of sense-impressions forming what I term myself is only a small subdivision of the vast world of sense-impressions . . . the limits of the group of sense-impressions which we term an individual cannot be

68 Philosophy scientifically drawn” (Pearson, 1937, p. 60). He illustrates this with a sketch from Ernst Mach of the visual sense-impressions forming the professor’s outside world at particular instant when he was reclining on the sofa with his right eye closed. Mach commented: “If I observe an element, A, within my field of vision, and investigate its connection with another element, B, within the same field, I go out of the domain of physics into that of physiology or psychology, if B, to use the apposite expression that a friend of mind employed on seeing this drawing, passes through my skin” (Mach, 1890, p. 60). Sir Arthur Eddington agreed that the observer (whom he calls ‘Mr X’) could not be delineated within the realm of physics: “Physics is not at all anxious to pursue the question, What is Mr. X? It is not disposed to admit that its elaborate structure of a physical universe is ‘The House that Mr. X built.’ It looks upon Mr. X – and more particularly the part of Mr. X that knows – as a rather troublesome tenant who at a late stage of the world’s history has come to inhabit a structure which inorganic Nature has by slow evolutionary progress contrived to build. And so it turns aside from the avenue leading to Mr. X – and beyond – and closes up its cycle leaving him out in the cold” (Eddington, 1935, pp. 254–255). This exclusion of the observer from the system of knowledge has received considerable philosophic and scientific attention since Gödel (1931) published his incompleteness theorem: All consistent axiomatic formulations of number theory include undecidable propositions that can never be proved or disproved. The proof of the theorem depends on a self-referential mathematical statement. In a remarkable popularisation, Hofstadter (1979) employs analogies in art, music and literature to illuminate the ideas underlying Gödel’s theorem, particularly that of paradoxical self-reference, which he calls a “strange loop”. Epimenides’ liar’s paradox provides a verbal example. The statement ‘All Cretans are liars’ is undecidable: if true, it is false; if false, it is true. The argument carried to its logical conclusion denies its premises. Many beautiful visual examples of strange loops are provided by Escher’s drawings and woodcuts. Recursion is illustrated by the picture where each hand is found to be drawing the other; (here each procedure calls the other but not itself). The Waterfall illustrates how, by continuously moving upwards or downwards through the levels of some hierarchical system, we unexpectedly find ourselves back where we started. Bach’s enharmonic cycle provides a musical parallel. Perhaps the most striking example of all is the Picture Gallery, which is a picture of a picture (gallery? town? young man?) that contains itself.

Multiple selves A consideration of other puzzles of the self has led some to the conclusion that we consist of multiple selves. There have been many types of evidence for multiple selves, ranging from self-deception and weakness of will considered by philosophers to modularity and multiple personality studied by psychologists. These selves may be independent or interactive, cooperative or conflicting. One of the most discussed cases is that of split-brain patients. Nagel (1971), after careful

Perception and action in East and West 69 consideration, concludes that there is no whole number of individual minds that they can be said not have. In normal life their behaviour is integrated and people who know them regard them as single individuals. However, experimental manipulations (viz. segregated presentation of material to the two hemispheres) produces dissociations. Patients are unable to tell whether two spots in opposite visual half-fields are the same or different in colour; the left hemisphere is unable to verbalize information accessible only to the right; conflicting responses may be produced where each hemisphere is in possession of different information; and patients can simultaneously attend to two incompatible tasks. These results pose difficulties for the ordinary idea of a single person as a subject of experience and action, and force us to conclude that the existence of such a subject is not required for the attribution of conscious, significant mental activity. Nagel argues, moreover, that consideration of these very unusual cases should cause us to be sceptical about the concept of a single subject of consciousness as it applies to ourselves: “lack of interaction in the domain of visual experience and conscious intention threatens assumptions about the unity of consciousness which are basic to our understanding of another individual as a person” (Nagel, 1971, p. 407). We consider ourselves as paradigms of psychological unity but this appears to be an illusion; in fact all we have is functional integration, eroded in different ways and to different degrees.

Buddhism Multiple selves, taken to their logical conclusion, lead to the dissolution of the self, or the Eastern concept of ‘no-self’ (in Sanskrit ‘anatman’). According to Buddhism, the human being at any given moment is made up of elements (‘dharma’). Some of these constitute the body; others are mental states, of which one is believing in an enduring self, the substance underlying changing mental states and the active centre of decision making. It is an illusory belief but one that is very difficult to shake off. “What we call ego, self, soul, personality, etc., are merely conventional terms not referring to any real independent entity . . . There is only to be found this psychological process of existence changing from moment to moment” (Nyanatiloka, quoted in Collins, 1982, p. 5). “Everything is simply dharmas, and relations between dharmas. The self does not exist” (Rahula, quoted in Collins, 1982, p. 4). Various arguments for this view are adduced in the Theravada literature (Collins, 1982): (1) The fact of impermanence: how could a continuing self have contradictory attributes at different times? (2) There is no self to be found apart from experience. (3) Our lack of control over the changing nature of things. (4) ‘Dependent origination’ (in modern parlance, determinism) – all events are causally conditioned; there are no ‘free’ agents. Buddhism offers three doctrines with respect to the self (Elster, 1986): (1) A theoretical critique of the notion of an enduring self, together with a constructive analysis of the actual unity and continuity of the person, which is merely a property of the causal chains that link together successive mental states. (2) An account of the emergence of the illusory belief in the self: the difficulty of treating oneself as

70 Philosophy causally determined leads almost irresistibly to the notion of a free agent as an active decision maker. (3) A way of overcoming this illusion, which generates much unhappiness, through study and meditation. The false belief in a personal self leads to attachment, deemed to be the root of all suffering. Whereas psychoanalysis aims to replace id by ego, the goal of Buddhism is to replace ego by pure consciousness. Derek Parfitt (1984), in his book Reasons and Persons, having considered various imaginary cases such as teletransportation, comes to a neo-Buddhist ‘impersonal view’, in which persons are not fundamental; the unity of an individual life and the boundaries between lives are de-emphasized. The unity of consciousness or of a whole life cannot be explained by claiming that different experiences are had by the same person; this claim depends on the false belief that we are separately existing entities, apart from our brains and bodies and experiences. Rather, they must be explained by describing the relations between these experiences and their relations to the person’s brain. Our identity over time involves only a relation of psychological connectedness and/or psychological continuity. He also holds that it is intellectually, if not emotionally, possible to accept this conclusion and that, once accepted, it has implications for our lives, being likely to alter attitudes towards ageing and death (which become less disturbing) and views on rationality and morality (e.g. acting in self-interest makes less sense).

Universalism Arnold Zuboff (1990) has reached the conclusion that there is no division between self and others, by a non-mystical route. His thesis, which he calls universalism, is that we are all one person: there is only one self. He argues that all experiences possess the abstract quality of immediacy or internality, of being this, here, now, mine. This is the necessary criterion of identity for both experience and its subject. According to him, all other specific conditions of our existence are accidental rather than necessary. The view that there are distinct people or consciousnesses is a metaphysical mistake that we are deluded into by the limited access that each nervous system has. It is like having access to only one red object and mistakenly believing that it constitutes redness. He puts forward both conceptual and statistical arguments for his view. The first set concern puzzles of personal identity which lead to demonstrations that our ordinary view is incoherent. He begins by pointing out that personal identity or existence is not altered by slight changes to one’s physical or mental constitution; it is an all-or-none matter rather than changing by degree. One could change a few cells or a few memories without suffering any corresponding alteration in one’s identity or existence. In the classic puzzle case of split-brain patients, wherein does the self lie? Is the person to be identified with the left hemisphere, the right hemisphere, with both or with neither? None of these answers is satisfactory. He can’t be in both because they may be having incompatible experiences. He can’t be in neither, nor only one of them, because each can equally lay claim to be him:

Perception and action in East and West 71 if he suffered a stroke and lost the function of one hemisphere, we wouldn’t say that he had ceased to exist. We appear to have the contradictory situation where the original person is to be identified with the right hemisphere and with the left hemisphere but these cannot be identified with each other. Zuboff’s solution is that one person can have simultaneous non-integrated experiential contents. Similar problems for the concept of a personal self also arise in cases of multiple personality and neurophysiological disconnection syndromes of various kinds. The statistical argument consists of demonstrating that the probability of your existing is absurdly remote on the ordinary view. You could have failed to come into existence if the conditions hadn’t been right. It is much more likely that the particular atoms necessary for you were scattered somewhere else in the universe rather than collecting just where they were needed if you were to be formed. The odds of you resulting from the conception that begat you, rather than from any of the potential brothers or sisters that would have resulted if one of the other sperms competing for the egg had won, is at a conservative estimate 200 million to one. Since similar conditions apply to your parents, the situation becomes increasingly improbable. On Zuboff’s view any of these potential people would have been you, so no special luck was needed. You could have existed whatever happened, so the absurdity disappears.

No-self in philosophy, artificial intelligence and neuroscience Daniel Dennett (1979) claims that artificial intelligence has suggested a way of solving Hume’s problem. Hume concluded that the self was merely a bundle of impressions and ideas attempting to pull themselves up by associationist bootstraps. The dilemma can be stated as follows: It is claimed that the only psychology that could succeed in explaining the complexities of human activity must posit internal representations. This is the majority view, until recently rejected only by radical behaviourists. However, nothing is intrinsically a representation of anything: something is a representation only for or to someone (cf. the Picture Gallery). A representation requires a user or interpreter who is external to it. But the positing of homunculi leads to circularity or infinite regress. Dennett’s claim is that data structures are representations that can understand themselves. Homunculi are only bogeymen, he suggests, if they duplicate completely the talents they are brought in to explain. Progress can be achieved by getting a team or committee of relatively ignorant, narrow-minded, blind homunculi to produce the intelligent behaviour of the whole: ‘fancy’ homunculi can be discharged from the scheme by organizing armies of idiots to do the work. At the end of the treatment, however, Dennett makes the rather disarming statement that either (a) artificial intelligence structures are self-understanding representations, or (b) they are not really internal representations at all, and if the latter is the case perhaps psychology doesn’t need internal representations. This of course is the view of Gibsonians (who espouse a ‘direct’ theory of perception) and the neural net theorisers. Recently, great interest has been generated by a rival to the traditional approach to artificial intelligence, premised on Kenneth Craik’s belief that “thought parallels

72 Philosophy reality through symbolism”. (See Dreyfus & Dreyfus, 1988, for a historical treatment of these rival philosophers.) One of the exciting features of ‘parallel distributed processing’ is that there is no executive or overseer: all of the processing is carried out by the units in the network. Indeed, storage and processing are not separated. Knowledge is built into the processor itself rather than being directly accessible to interpretation by some separate processor. It is implicit rather than explicit, stored in the connections rather than the units. The difference between the two approaches is represented graphically in Feldman & Ballard’s (1982) illustration of what happens when, on seeing an apple, it is declared ‘wormy’. In the conventional case, symbolic encoding and decoding are required; in the neural net, information is transferred directly through the pattern of connections. The validity of the neural network approach, in particular the issue of whether it ignores distinctions important for the description of intelligent behaviour, such as symbolic relations and functional specialisation of modules, is still a matter of controversy (Fodor & Pylyshyn, 1988; Phillips, 1988). In my view these controversies can be solved by an appeal to different levels of description. Western thought has overemphasized perception. I should like to finish with a word about action. According to Libet’s (1985) work, unconscious cerebral initiation of a spontaneous voluntary act precedes the conscious intention by 300–400 ms. The main negative shift of the electrophysiological readiness potential occurs about 550 ms prior to the act, whereas the conscious intention occurs about 22 ms prior to it. However, subjects can veto performance for a 100–200 ms period before a prearranged time to act and it is possible that conscious activation is necessary for the occurrence of the final motor output. Thus, it appears that the role of conscious will is ‘permissively’ to permit or prevent the motor implementation of an act that arose unconsciously: its function is one of selection and control rather than initiation. In the words of the Bhagavad Gita: “Action is the product of the qualities inherent in Nature. It is only the ignorant man who, misled by personal egotism, says: ‘I am the doer’” (Chapter 3, 27th sutra). I have considered some of our conceptions of the self as a knower and doer, their origins and problems. Hofstadter & Dennett (1981) claim that “it will take a radical rethinking of the issues before people can be expected to reach a consensus about the meaning of the word ‘I’”. I have argued that philosophers and neuroscientists have already reached a consensus: the concept of a unifying and continuing personal self is neither coherent nor supported by the evidence.

References Bahrick, L. E. & Watson, J. S. (1985). Detection of intermodal proprioceptive-visual contingency as a potential basis of self-perception in infancy. Developmental Psychology, 21, 963–973. Blackmore, S. (1987). Where am I? Perspectives in imagery and the out-of-body experience. Journal of Mental Imagery, 11, 53–66. Butterworth, G. (1985). Self-perception in infancy. Paper presented at a meeting of the New England Node of the MacArthur Network, Harvard University.

Perception and action in East and West 73 Collins, S. (1982). Selfless persons. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Dennett, D. C. (1979). Artificial intelligence as philosophy and psychology. In M. Ringle (Ed.) Philosophical perspectives in artificial intelligence (pp. 57–78). New York: Humanities Press. Dewey, J. (1896). The reflex arc in psychology. Psychological Review, 3, 357–370. Dreyfus, H. L., & Dreyfus, S. E. (1988). Making a mind versus modeling the brain: Artificial intelligence back at a branchpoint. Daedalus, March, 15–43. Eddington, A. (1935). The nature of the physical world. London: Dent. Everyman’s Library. (Originally published 1928.) Elster, J. (Ed.) (1986). Introduction. In The multiple self. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Feldman, J. A. & Ballard, D. H. (1982). Connectionist models and their properties. Cognitive Science, 6, 205–254. Flavell, J. H., Shipstead, S. G. & Croft, K. (1980). What young children think you see when their eyes are closed. Cognition, 8, 369–387. Fodor, J. A. & Pylyshyn, Z. W. (1988). Connectionism and cognitive architecture: a critical analysis. Cognition, 28, 1–71. Gibson, J. J. (1979). The ecological approach to visual perception. Boston, Mass: Houghton-Mifflin. Gödel, K. (1931). Uber Formal Unentscheidebare Sätze der Principia Mathematica und Verwandter Systeme, I. Monatshefte für Mathematik und Physik, 38, 173–198. Hofstadter, D. R. (1979). Gödel, Escher, Bach: An eternal golden braid. New York: Basic Books. Hofstadter, J. R. & Dennett, D. C. (1981). The mind’s ‘I’. New York: Basic Books. James, W. (1950). The principles of psychology. New York: Dover. (Originally published 1890.) Libet, B. (1985). Unconscious cerebral initiative and the role of conscious will in voluntary action. Behavioral and Brain Sciences, 8, 529–566. Mach, E. (1890). The analysis of sensation. The Monist, 1, 48–68. Nagel, T. (1971). Brain bisection and the unity of consciousness. Synthese, 22, 396–413. Natsoulas, T. & Dubanoski, R. A. (1964). Inferring the locus and orientation of the perceiver from responses to stimulation of the skin. American Journal of Psychology, 7, 281–285. Neisser, U. (1988). Five kinds of self-knowledge. Philosophical Psychology, 1, 35–59. Parfitt, D. (1984). Reasons and persons. Oxford: Clarendon. Pearson, K. (1937). The grammar of science. London: Dent. Everyman’s Library. (Originally published 1892.) Phillips, W. A. (1988). Brainy minds. Quarterly Journal of Experimental Psychology, 40, 389–405. Zuboff, A. (1990). One self: the logic of experience. Inquiry, 33: 39–68.

8

Metaphysics

METAPHYSICS is the branch of philosophy concerned with the ultimate nature of reality. Its name derives from Aristotle’s treatment of the subject, which came after (Greek ‘meta’) that of physics. It typically involves reference to that which is not directly observable. In this sense it is opposed to positivistic science. However, it is now generally accepted that all branches of science employ concepts (such as atoms) that do not refer directly to observable entities, and are concerned to explain phenomena by reference to underlying processes. Psychology is no more the study of behavior per se than is physics the study of meter-reading. Theories differ on (a) whether these concepts are regarded as real, existing entities (‘realism’) or merely useful tools to aid prediction (‘instrumentalism’); and (b) how closely related to observables they must be. For example, neo-behaviorists distinguished between intervening variables, whose meaning was entirely reducible to observations, and hypothetical constructs which contained surplus meaning over and above observation statements. For example, the meaning of the concept ‘hunger’ might be entirely reducible to its operational definition in terms of hours of food deprivation or refer to some additional internal state.

Ontological, epistemological and conceptual issues In discussing the philosophical underpinnings of psychological theories, it is important to distinguish ontological, epistemological and conceptual issues, which are often intermixed. A particular position, such as behaviorism, typically exists in a variety of forms, though these may tend to co-occur. Ontology is the study of being, or what can be said to exist. According to ‘monism’, there is only one fundamental reality. ‘Dualism’ posits the existence of two distinct realms, typically mental and physical. Others have argued for a third realm of abstract ideas. (For Plato, these were ideal forms; for the philosopher of science Karl Popper, they were cultural objects, such as numbers, theories and books.) Somewhat analogously, psychology has different areas of study or subjectmatters: conscious experience, behavior and neurophysiology. Different theoretical positions can be distinguished in terms of their focus of attention (e.g. phenomenology, behaviorism, and neuroscience).

Metaphysics 75 Epistemology is the branch of philosophy that deals with methods of acquiring knowledge. Different psychological positions may be distinguished according to the methods adopted, e.g. introspection, behavioral analysis, and neurophysiology. Conceptual issues are concerned with theoretical analysis – the language used to describe and explain observations. The American philosopher of mind Daniel Dennett has distinguished three theoretical stances or different levels of analysis; and argued that which is selected is a pragmatic matter. On the ‘physical stance’, a piece of behavior may be explained by reference to the physical constitution of the organism (e.g. explaining visual perception by reference to the structure of the eye and the brain). This type of explanation has been particularly useful in cases of malfunction. (E.g. neuropsychologists explain behavioral dysfunction by reference to brain damage; psychopathological disorders, such as schizophrenia, depression and Alzheimer’s disease, may be explained in terms of brain chemistry.) On the ‘design stance’, processes are explained by reference to a computational program or algorithm capable of generating the behavior. This approach is exemplified by cognitive psychology and artificial intelligence, whether of the traditional symbolic, or connectionist kind. On the ‘intentional stance’, behavior is explained by invoking mental states such as beliefs, desires and reasons. The desire might be to have a cup of tea and the belief that boiling a kettle of water is a way of achieving this; these allow the inference that boiling a kettle of water is a reasonable thing to do in the circumstances. The explanation (‘justification’ or ‘rationalization’) shows why it was reasonable for the agent to perform the action, given certain beliefs and desires. This approach is apparent in the 19th-century German tradition of Verstehen and hermeneutics, which argued that the social sciences should pursue empathic understanding rather than the causal prediction of the physical sciences; and ‘folk psychology’ – everyday, common-sense, implicit knowledge which enables the prediction and/or explanation of the behavior of others (and ourselves) by understanding the mental states involved. It is common in much of social and personality psychology, including psychoanalysis (where reasons can be unconscious).

The mind-body problem The fundamental problem for the philosophy of psychology is that of the relation of the mental to the physical. The 19th-century German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer described it as the world knot, insoluble by us, a view shared by the contemporary English philosopher Colin McGinn. The problem is that the two realms appear to be distinctly different but closely related. Mental phenomena consist of sensations; and ‘propositional attitudes’, such as thoughts, beliefs, and desires, which have contents. Physical phenomena have properties such as mass and energy. A number of features have been suggested as distinguishing the mental and the physical. The qualitative character of phenomenal experience (what philosophers call ‘qualia’) has been held by many to be distinctive of the mental. Properties such as

76 Philosophy the redness of vermilion or the sweetness of sugar seem irreducible and distinct from physical properties. Mental states are thought of as private or subjective whereas physical phenomena are public or objective (or at least inter-subjective). There is an epistemological difference between the knowledge one has of one’s own mental states (e.g. pain) and that of someone else’s. Franz Brentano, the late 19th-century Austrian philosopher, considered intentionality to be the mark of mental. This refers to the directedness or content of propositional attitudes: beliefs and desires are about things, though these may not exist objectively (‘intensional inexistence’). Hoping or imagining necessarily involves hoping for or imagining something, even though this may never exist. Cognitive psychologists, adopting the computational model of mind, see this as a way of dealing with representation and meaning. René Descartes, the 17th-century French philosopher and famous dualist, suggested two further distinguishing criteria. He argued that spatial extension was distinctive of the physical realm (‘res extensa’), whereas thinking was characteristic of the mental (‘res cogitans’). He also believed that the physical realm was subject to, or explicable in terms of, the deterministic laws of the physical or natural sciences; whereas mental phenomena were ‘free’, which would rule out psychological science.

Dualism Dualism is the common-sense view that there are two distinct realms of mental and physical phenomena. This poses the problem of the relationship between them. There have been many suggestions as to what this might be. No-one has suggested that mental and physical phenomena are not at least coincidental. The weakest relation is therefore one of correlation, or psychophysical parallelism (e.g. two isolated causal systems, as suggested by the 17th-century German philosopher Gottfried Leibniz). The problem for such a view is to explain the apparently fortuitous synchronization between mental and physical events. Leibniz postulated a ‘pre-established harmony’ and was ridiculed by the French 18th-century writer Voltaire; Leibniz’s contemporary, Nicolas Malebranche, relied on divine intervention. Experiments in physiological psychology that aim merely to localize a function exemplify this approach. René Descartes suggested causal interaction. This accords with the commonsense view that mental causes can have physical effects (e.g. stress causes ulcers, embarrassment causes blushing, thoughts and desires cause actions), and physical causes can have mental effects (e.g. a kick on the shins hurts; visual experiences appear to be the result of physical stimuli). The problems with this view are how there can be causal interaction between two substances defined as distinctly different; Descartes defined mind as non-spatial and non-deterministic but causation depends on physical contiguity and deterministic laws. (His suggestions about the pineal gland, as the place where the interaction was supposed to take place,

Metaphysics 77 localize rather than solve the problem.) Furthermore, if the physical cause is sufficient to explain a piece of behavior, how can a mental cause be necessary? A position that postulates one-way causal interaction is that of epiphenomenalism. While attributing reality to mental states, it refuses to allow them causal efficacy. Mental processes are non-causal by-products of physical processes; they are caused by but do not themselves cause physical events. A famous exponent of this view was the 19th-century English scientist, T. H. Huxley, who argued that consciousness was like the whistle of a steam-engine, a spin-off that had no effect on the working of the machine. Radical behaviorism, which claims that behavior can be explained without recourse to mental events or processes, is such a view. Demonstrations by the American psychophysiologist Benjamin Libet, that electrophysiological responses precede the reported conscious intention to perform a voluntary action, tend to lend credence to such a view. Conscious experience is often the result rather than the cause of behavior. On the other hand, the position is counter-intuitive, and untestable: the exclusive efficacy of mental events cannot be demonstrated, since they are always accompanied by physical ones.

Monism Monism is the view that there is only one basic stuff in the universe. There are two basic forms: idealism and materialism. Idealism attributes primacy to the mental: the universe is viewed as basically mental. It has existed in many forms. The early 18th-century Irish philosopher George Berkeley put forward the doctrine of ‘immaterialism’, according to which the external world (and physical reality) did not exist: physical objects were merely ideas in our minds. (The Scottish philosopher David Hume took the doctrine one step further, in arguing that our minds were merely bundles of sensations and ideas.) The 18th-century German philosopher Immanuel Kant expounded transcendental idealism: space and time were forms of intuition imposed on reality by the mind. Transpersonal psychology (‘fourth force’ psychology – behaviorism, psychoanalysis, and humanistic psychology being first, second, and third forces respectively) aims to study aspects of the psyche or cosmos beyond the personal, ego or individual, such as spirituality and mystical experiences. It might be considered an example of ontological idealism (or dualism) if it posits a transcendental realm; or epistemological idealism, insofar as it employs the methods of intuition and contemplation. Current cognitive psychology reflects idealism, in its central claim that reality is dependent on the mind, in contrast to ‘realism’ according to which reality is mind-independent. Idealism underpins the representational theory of mind, advanced by the American philosopher Jerry Fodor, and the ‘constructivism’ of cognitive psychologists such as Jerome Bruner, Richard Gregory, and Ulric Neisser, who maintain that cognition is an active, constructive process, in contrast to the ‘realism’ of the followers of the American psychologist J. J. Gibson. For the former group, perception is a top-down, inferential process, involving hypothesis-

78 Philosophy testing and the utilization of past knowledge; for the latter group perception is ‘direct’ and bottom-up, a matter of picking up information from the rich sensory array. For the ‘constructivists’, information is largely in the head (mind/brain) and perception is error-prone: witness ambiguous figures and visual illusions. For the ‘direct realists’, information is largely in the dynamic environment: the ambient array specifies not only objects but actions they afford us. The alternative monist position is materialism or physicalism (the two positions are closely related and the terms are sometimes used interchangeably), which asserts the primacy of the physical. The ontological claim is that everything that exists consists of matter (we may note that our view of what matter is has changed radically in recent times). The conceptual claim is that everything can be explained in terms of the concepts and laws of physics, however currently conceived. The thesis dates back to the pre-Socratic Greek atomist Democritus, and to Lucretius in the first century B.C. Other notable exponents were Thomas Hobbes and Pierre Gassendi in the 17th century. Materialism has been extremely popular amongst scientists but has problems accounting for subjectivity and the qualitative character of the mental. There have been two notable attempts to eliminate mental concepts in favour of physical ones. Mental states have been defined as equivalent in meaning to, and thus theoretically reducible to, or replaceable by, descriptions in terms of behavior (‘behaviorism’), or neurophysiology (‘eliminative materialism’). Behaviorism exists in a variety of forms. In psychology it is primarily an epistemological doctrine, motivated by positivism and a desire for scientific respectability, and put forward originally in 1913 by the American psychologist J. B. Watson. He prescribed that only objective methods and publicly observable data should be admitted (‘methodological behaviorism’). The subject matter of psychology was restricted to behavior, or existence denied to mental states (‘metaphysical’ or ‘eliminativist behaviorism’). Concepts were to be restricted to those that could be operationalized: mentalistic explanations were considered unnecessary (B. F. Skinner’s ‘radical behaviorism’) or equivalent in meaning to behavioral or dispositional statements (‘analytical’ or ‘logical behaviorism’). It proved difficult to carry out these dispositional analyses, and impossible to explain even relatively simple behavior adequately without recourse to mental states (hence the rise of ‘cognitivism’ and ‘functionalism’). Eliminative materialism in its current form has been championed by the American philosopher Paul Churchland, who recommends that common-sense ‘folk psychological’ concepts should be replaced by neurobiological ones, on the grounds that the latter are defective as accounts of behavior. It would require a radical revision of our common sense notions. This is an extreme reductionist theory which appears to ignore and discount the possibility of a scientific psychology.

Ontological monism but conceptual dualism In recent times the focus of the debate has shifted from ontological discussion about the nature of reality to the conceptual issue of how best to describe the relationship

Metaphysics 79 between mental and physical phenomena. Most current theorists adopt some form of ontological monism (generally materialism) but allow conceptual or theoretical dualism; so the same event or process may be described in different ways. An old version of this position is the double aspect view, espoused by the 17th century Portuguese philosopher Benedict Spinoza, according to whom mental and physical were two aspects of an underlying, essentially unknowable, neutral substance. The most popular current views are some form of identity, which holds that the relation between mental and physical is one of constitution. Mind-brain identity theory claims that mental events are contingently identical to brain states. Mental properties are different in meaning from physical properties but, as a matter of empirical discovery, mental states are found to be identifiable with brain states. The theory was originally motivated by the work of the Canadian neurosurgeon Wilder Penfield, who elicited autobiographical memories and other behavioral responses by stimulating specific regions of the cortex. One advantage is that, since mental states are identical to brain states, they can be genuinely causal. The truth of the theory depends on the successful demonstration of psychophysical correlations. It is more plausible when applied to sensations than propositional attitudes. The theory is usually considered to be a case of type-identity. Thus every instance of a given mental state (e.g. seeing the colour green) is claimed to be identical with a specified brain state (e.g. a particular pattern of neural activity in the brain). An objection raised is that this does not allow ‘multiple’ or ‘variable realizability’: the possibility that the same mental state may be realized differently in different individuals or species (e.g. binocular disparity is realized by different structures in the owl and the cat). It also rules out strong artificial intelligence, which attributes mental states to appropriately programmed computers. Token identity allows multiple realizability. Each instance of a mental state is said to be identical with, in the sense of realized in, some physical state, but there may be no general laws relating types or classes of mental and physical states. On this view, the relation between mental and physical is termed ‘supervenience’. The mental is dependent on or determined by the physical: any physical change or difference must be reflected in a mental change or difference (but the opposite is not necessarily the case). (Supervenience clarifies physicalism while avoiding a precise specification.) Some have doubted whether it is sufficiently powerful to provide mental causation; and there have been problems providing a physical account of intentionality. The main examples of token identity theories are anomalous monism and functionalism. Anomalous monism is a doctrine put forward by the American philosopher of mind (formerly a psychologist) Donald Davidson. According to him, laws only apply to events described in a particular way, relative to a particular, conceptual framework. He claims that there are causal laws pertaining to events described physically (and because mental events are identical to physical events, they can be causes) but there are no laws pertaining to events described psychologically (psychology is anomalous, i.e. lacking in laws). This is because he believes that psychological descriptions are to be given in terms of reasons, desires and beliefs,

80 Philosophy which involve a radically different conceptual framework. Thus, there can be no psychological or psychophysical laws. But note that this depends on a particular, highly contentious, interpretation of the nature of psychological events, as propositional attitudes. Functionalism is the dominant paradigm and the philosophy underlying current cognitive psychology. On this view, mental states are defined in terms of their causal role, in relation to environmental stimuli (‘input’), other mental states and behavioral responses (‘output’). For example, a pain might be defined as the state that results from tissue damage, gives rise to distress and produces attempts to escape it. Description is at the abstract level of process (the ‘design stance’). Psychology is autonomous with respect to physiology, since mental states are independent of any particular physical embodiment. Functionalism underlies the computational and representational theories of mind, on which cognition consists of computation: mental processes are operations performed on representations, and can be modelled by the manipulation of abstract symbols according to formal rules in a digital computer. The pursuit of artificial intelligence is encouraged. Functionalism has difficulty in accounting for the qualitative character of mental life, since it seems possible to imagine different, functionally indistinguishable, mental states. Whether or not it can account for intentionality and meaning is the subject of current controversy.

Bibliography Churchland, P. M. (1988). Matter and consciousness: A contemporary introduction to the philosophy of mind (rev. ed.). Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press. (A clear, succinct and sound account of positions on the mind-body problem: dualism, varieties of behaviorism, materialism, functionalism; and discussion of folk psychology, artificial intelligence and neuroscience, with suggestions for further reading.) Fodor, J. A. (1981). The mind-body problem. Scientific American, 244, (1), 124–132. (Accessible account of functionalism, by one of its chief exponents, tracing the progression from dualism, radical and logical behaviorism, and identity theory, together with a critical evaluation.) Guttenplan, S. (Ed.). (1994). A companion to the philosophy of mind. Oxford: Blackwell. (A lengthy orienting essay precedes substantial entries on specific topics, as well as selfprofiles by leading philosophers of mind. In some cases two entries are provided on the same topic to illustrate different points of view.) Honderich, T. (1995). The Oxford companion to philosophy. Oxford: Oxford University Press. (Brief entries on topics and persons in philosophy. The entries on idealism, the mind-body problem and mental reductionism are particularly recommended.) Horgan, T. (1994). Physicalism (1). In S. Guttenplan (Ed.), A companion to the philosophy of mind (pp. 471–479). Oxford: Blackwell. (Thorough and comprehensive account of various forms of reductive and non-reductive physicalism, including supervenience, functionalism, identity theory, and eliminativism). Kim, J. (1994). Supervenience. In S. Guttenplan (Ed.), A companion to the philosophy of mind (pp. 575–582). Oxford: Blackwell. (Detailed explication of different forms of supervenience by the philosopher largely responsible for its development.)

Metaphysics 81 Kim, J. & Sosa, E. (Eds.). (1995). A companion to metaphysics. Oxford: Blackwell. (Contains entries on several of the positions and terms discussed above.) Loewer, B. (1995). Mind-body problem. In J. Kim & E. Sosa (Eds.), A companion to metaphysics (pp. 579–580). Oxford: Blackwell. (Overview and classification of positions on the mind-body problem.) Lycan, W. (1994). Functionalism (1). In S. Guttenplan (Ed.), A companion to the philosophy of mind (pp. 317–323). Oxford: Blackwell. (Good and useful account of functionalism, including its history, varieties and critique, by one of the most sophisticated exponents of the position.) Lycan, W. (1996). Philosophy of mind. In N. Bunnin & E. P. Tsui-James (Eds.), The Blackwell companion to philosophy (pp. 167–197). Oxford: Blackwell. (Review article covering the main topics in the philosophy of mind, including dualism, behaviorism, identity theory, varieties of functionalism, artificial intelligence and the computational theory of mind, qualia, intentionality, eliminativism, and folk psychology.) O’Donohue, W. & Kitchener, R. F. (Eds.) (1996). The philosophy of psychology. London: Sage. (Collection of readings on the philosophy of psychology, including sections on behaviorism and cognitive psychology.) Valentine, E. R. (1992). Conceptual issues in psychology (2nd ed., rev.). London: Routledge. (Comprehensive text on philosophical psychology and different theoretical approaches to psychology.) Von Eckhardt, B. (1994). Folk psychology (1). In S. Guttenplan (Ed.), A companion to the philosophy of mind (pp. 300–307). Oxford: Blackwell. (An excellent article on folk psychology, including a taxonomy of positions on its truth, distinguished by giving due weight to scientific psychology.)

9

Mind-body problems Distinguishing the soluble from the insoluble

Abstract Ontological, epistemological and theoretical versions of the mind-body problem are distinguished. Block’s (1994) analysis of positions on the mind-body problem, or ‘attitudes to the explanatory gap’, is described: that there is no gap, that there is an unclosable gap, and that there is a closable gap. The thesis is advanced that these positions are all correct but that each applies to a different version of the problem. Thus, the correct position on the ontological problem is that there is no gap (there is only one world); on the epistemological problem is that there is an unclosable gap (there is an irresolvable duality); and on the theoretical problem that there is a closable gap. On this view, the ontological problem is straightforwardly soluble, the epistemological problem is straightforwardly insoluble and the theoretical problem is soluble but not straightforwardly. Attempts to solve the theoretical or scientific problem are discussed. It is concluded that, contrary to current opinion, the solution to this form of the hard problem is within our grasp, and that approaches at the sub-atomic level offer most promise.

Introduction The central problem in the philosophy of mind, which has attracted more attention than any other, is that of the relation between phenomenal and functional consciousness, the mind-body or mind-brain problem, i.e. the relation between phenomenal experience (qualia, what it is like to be something or someone, a phrase due originally to Brian Farrell – not Thomas Nagel), on the one hand, and physical, functional accounts, on the other: the relation between subjective and objective perspectives, or first person and third person accounts. Huxley (1866, p. 193) stated the problem as follows: “How it is that anything so remarkable as a state of consciousness comes about as a result of irritating nervous tissue is just as unaccountable as the appearance of Djinn when Aladdin rubbed his lamp”. Lockwood (1989, p. 1) states it thus: “The most puzzling thing about consciousness (or awareness or sentience) . . . is the fact that it exists at all. There is on the face of it absolutely nothing in the laws of physics and chemistry, as currently understood, that is capable of accounting for the extraordinary capacity of that lump of matter that we call the brain . . . to sustain ‘inner life’.” This age-old problem

Distinguishing the soluble from the insoluble 83 has been given many labels. Jackendoff (1987) speaks of the mind-mind problem, Flanagan (1991) of experiential and informational sensitivity, Block (1995) of phenomenal and access consciousness (a slightly different distinction). Currently fashionable are the ‘explanatory gap’, coined by Levine (1983) and the ‘hard question’: how to give a principled account of the connection between subjective experience and objective scientific accounts of behavioural and neurophysiological processes.

Ontological, epistemological and theoretical problems Ontology is the branch of philosophy that deals with being or existence. It considers the nature and conditions of existence, what can be said to exist. The mind-body problem was traditionally formulated in these terms. What kinds of being are there in the universe? Thus monism posits the existence of physical, mental or ‘neutral’ realms; dualism claims that both physical and mental realms exist. In some cases, in what might be called ‘trialism’, a third realm is postulated, e.g., Plato’s ideal forms or Popper’s third world of cultural objects. Epistemology is the branch of philosophy concerned with the methodology for knowledge acquisition. It considers the conditions for knowledge and truth. What I am calling the theoretical problem here falls within the philosophy of science and concerns the appropriate language for describing and explaining observations. Thus, for example, Dennett (1971) distinguishes physical, design and intentional stances to refer to different theoretical stances or levels of analysis or explanation, i.e., explaining something by reference to its physical constitution, by reference to a computational program or algorithm capable of generating the behaviour in question, or by invoking mental states such as beliefs, desires and reasons, respectively. Applying this analysis to the mind-body problem, the ontological problem is concerned with whether it is appropriate to postulate mental and physical realms of existence; the epistemological problem is concerned with the relation between subjective and objective modes of knowing, and the theoretical problem is concerned with the appropriate language for describing mental and physical phenomena and any relations postulated as existing between them.

Attitudes to the explanatory gap Block (1994) has outlined positions on the mind-body problem or three attitudes to the explanatory gap. (1) The view that there is no gap – consciousness doesn’t exist in the sense intended, so there is nothing for there to be a gap between, e.g. eliminative materialism (Churchland, 1983; Dennett, 1988; Rey, 1983) [Eliminativism]. In this case, there is no problem to be solved. (2) The view that there is an unclosable gap – there is a gap but the problem is insoluble. This exists in a variety of versions according to the reason given:

84 Philosophy (a) consciousness is transcendental rather than natural, so it is not explicable in scientific terms (e.g. White, 1989) [‘Transcendentalism’]; (b1) “awareness is an irreducible property of the activity of functionally entrained neuronal assemblies and therefore is amenable to no further explanation” (Kinsbourne, 1993, p. 43) [Irreducibility]; (b2) an a priori analysis of the phenomenon to be reduced (e.g. qualia) is required but cannot be given [Deflationist]; (c) there are physical properties of the brain that explain consciousness but we cannot know them, so the solution to the problem is closed to us (McGinn, 1991) [New mysterianism]. (3) The view that there is a closable gap – there is a gap but the problem is soluble. Again this view exists in a number of forms, according to the amount of revision of our current concepts thought to be required: (a) currently we lack the scientific concepts but the problem may become soluble in the future (e.g. Nagel, 1974; Flanagan, 1992; Searle, 1992) [Naturalism]; (b) the problem is not remarkable and is no different from other unsolved problems such as the physical or functional basis of liquidity, inheritance or computation [Reductionism].

My thesis My thesis is that these three positions are all correct but that they apply to different versions of the mind-body problem. In brief, ontologically, there is no gap; epistemologically, there is an unclosable gap; theoretically, there is a closable gap. Ontologically, there is only one world. Traditional, materialist Western science behaves as if this is the only world to be explained. However, quantum mechanics shows this to be misguided, in that matter is just as puzzling as mind; indeed, it could be argued that the physical world, Popper’s World 1, is the least knowable of his three worlds (World 2 being the world of mental states and subjective experiences, and World 3 products of the human mind – abstract cultural objects, objective knowledge such as numbers, theories or books, which are governed by normative principles such as the rules of logic; Popper & Eccles, 1977). If instead we replace it with some neutral proto-stuff, such as Kantian noumena – things in themselves as they really are, whether we can know them or not – then we can see that there is only one world to be explained. In this sense mind-brain identity theory and Churchland’s eliminative materialism are correct. As Tukiainen (1995), a defender of the thesis, asks rhetorically, “How would an immaterial mind be any better situated to feel the qualia than a physical brain?” (p. 173) and goes on: “The broad picture is one where first-person and third-person ways of coming to know about events in our heads are ways of coming to know about one and the same event . . . They are the same objects under different descriptions” (p. 177). From this perspective there is no gap. Searle (1984), as is well known, adopts the currently unpopular dualist position of separate mental and physical realms but is then faced with the contradictory consequences that physical processes are both identical to and causally related to mental processes. Philosophers have generally held that

Distinguishing the soluble from the insoluble 85 cause and effect must be independent and therefore cannot be identical. One cannot have one’s cake and eat it. But to return to monism, this ‘no-nonsense materialism’ is unaware of the problems left unsolved. As Flanagan (1991, p. 342) remarks: “If mental processes are identical to physical processes, how can it be that the true story of how my brain works will not capture what it is like to be me? The alleged mystery of consciousness has its source in biological facts which underwrite different kinds of epistemic access we have to brain facts on the one hand and what it is like to be each of us, on the other.” Epistemically, dual aspect theory is true. This is a neo-Spinozistic view that subjective and objective are two different perspectives and, more particularly, that obscuring the distinction between them is to commit a Rylean category error. Epistemologically, there is an irresolvable duality, an unclosable gap. Headaches are not equivalent to dispositions to take aspirins. Blind neurophysiologists cannot experience colour vision, any more than male gynaecologists can experience childbirth. Theoretically, the gap is closable and the hard problem soluble: in the realm of scientific discourse. Here the task is to give a principled account of the relation between the phenomenal or subjective and the functional or objective. We can still isolate specific properties that subserve first person experience even if we can’t capture first person phenomenology third personally (Flanagan, 1991). It is important to be clear about what is and what is not being done here. Scientific theory can only relate inferred entities or concepts, not actual experience itself. A scientific theory of conscious experience won’t itself experience in the same way as a chemical theory is not itself expected to fizz (Boden, 1979). Flanagan believes that it will be possible to give a naturalistic explanation of our inability to capture the phenomenology of what it is like to be each one of us from the objective point of view. At the end of this paper I shall indicate that this has already been achieved.

The theoretical problem Is closing the gap a philosophical or a scientific problem? I believe that it is a philosophical task to map out and clarify which problems can and which cannot be solved, in the way I have attempted above; and, further, to specify what would count as a solution to the soluble problem. What requirements have to be met? On the other hand, I agree with Zeki (personal communication, 1996) that one good experiment is worth a thousand fruitless speculations, and with Lockwood (1989) that new ways of thinking are likely to be inspired by reflecting on empirical discoveries. It is generally agreed that closure of the gap, or the solution of the hard problem, must involve more than ‘brute correlation’. A principled account of the relation between phenomenal and functional features must be provided, perhaps taking the form of some kind of theoretical isomorphism. Nagel (1993) demands that the explanation be ‘transparent’. Opinion is divided as to whether it is just a matter of providing more information of the same kind or whether a paradigmatic revolution

86 Philosophy has to occur. It may be a matter of degree – like explanation – simply a matter of providing more information of various kinds. This ambiguity is apparent in Gray’s (1995) target article, where he is unsure of whether or not he has moved beyond brute correlation and if so how or how far. Are people seeking a holy grail, a magic formula, a philosopher’s stone? Is Kinsbourne (1995, p. 687) right when he asserts that “To call for a paradigm shift to explain consciousness may be overkill”? On the other hand, Lockwood (1989) believes that it is not just a matter of more information of the same kind as we have already; rather, a drastic revision of our customary way of looking at the world is required. The following phenomenal features of consciousness need to be accounted for: (1) Unity – the belongingness of diverse items within the perceptual field both to the observer and to each other, the simultaneous integration of items both within and between different sense modalities. An answer is required to Schrödinger’s question: how can a single mind arise out of a population of communicating individuals? Or to what is now known as the binding problem: how are different qualities, known to be analysed in different regions, united in awareness? Different attributes are analysed in spatially disparate areas of the cortex, both inter-modally, e.g., the coincident qualia that result in the wasp being seen, heard and felt as being in one and the same place; and intramodally, e.g. Zeki’s (1993) work establishing different areas for the analysis of form, colour and motion in vision. The functional and anatomical separability of these is demonstrated by specific visual agnosias: damage of one area leads to loss of one attribute, e.g. damage to area V4 results in the reduction of colour vision to black and white. What has to be accounted for is the fact that we never have the experience of bad colour printing, where form and colour don’t quite map onto each other. (2) Privacy – the fact that consciousness is confined to the individual. (3) The perception of time, both its apparent continuity and discreteness. Psychological moments have a certain thickness or duration and overlap each other. Apparent time is ‘smeared’ in relation to real time. We can perceive change and motion. (4) The contents of consciousness.

From brute correlation to transparency 40 Hz oscillations Much interest has centred on the 40 Hz oscillations associated with regions of the brain involved with conscious attention (Eckhorn et al., 1988; Gray & Singer, 1989; Crick & Koch, 1990; Crick, 1994.) For example, Gray and Singer (1989) showed that in areas 17 and 18 of the cat visual cortex the firing probability of neurons, in response to the presentation of optimally aligned bars within their receptive field, oscillates with a peak frequency of near 40 Hz. Groups of adjacent cortical neurons, when activated appropriately, engage in cooperative interactions as postulated on

Distinguishing the soluble from the insoluble 87 theoretical grounds, for example, by Edelman (1978). These interactions lead to coherent and periodic patterns of activity, suggesting that the phase of the oscillatory response may be used as a further dimension of coding in addition to the amplitude and duration of the response. One role for this temporal code would be to enable columns of cells in different parts of the cortex, representing different parts of the visual field, to synchronize their respective activity patterns. Thus, the oscillatory responses may provide a general mechanism by which activity patterns in spatially separate regions of the cortex are temporally coordinated. However, the account in terms of 40 Hz is generally thought not to be principled, and in any case is too slow for unification. Mere synchronicity or simultaneity and coherence do not provide a sufficient explanation of unity. “We may still ask how the mere synchronicity and simultaneity of the oscillations throughout the [corticocollicular neuronal] group give rise to the unitary experienced object” (J. Valentine, 1995, p. 42; italics mine). No mechanism is given for translating synchronous oscillations into unified experiences. “As phenomenologists, we desire to know how it is that qualities analyzed in spatially discrete tissues are united in awareness. Surely, mere synchronicity will not provide an explanation of that” (J. Valentine, 1995, p. 45; italics mine). Other examples of crude parallels to phenomenal features in functional features are distributed processing and Pribram’s idea of global (essentially quantum) large-scale coherent ‘holographic’ activity in the brain. However, as Dennett (1984, p. 217) pointed out, some of the attraction of holism is that it is “organic and fuzzy and warm and cuddly and mysterious”. Neurophysiological theories Two neuropsychological theories seek to account for many of the phenomenological features of conscious experiences by postulating specific neural and/or psychological functions that might give rise to them. John O’Keefe’s theory John O’Keefe’s (1985) theory that consciousness is to be identified with activation of the theta system, which organises neocortical and entorhinal inputs into the hippocampus, and which synchronises all three structures for the construction, correction and manipulation of maps of the environment, is based on observed parallels between introspectively derived characteristics of consciousness and the anatomy and physiology of the rat septo-hippocampal system. Unity or holism is accounted for by distributed representation, in that the entire environment is represented simultaneously across the whole surface and each neurone participates in many different representations. The contents of the background fringe of consciousness are thought to be provided by normal activation of the neocorticalhippocampal system, whereas the foreground or selective attention component is generated by mismatch signals produced in the hippocampus. External and internal modes of controlling consciousness are mirrored by the two modes of activating the theta mechanisms, one driven from the brainstem, the other from the

88 Philosophy hippocampus itself. The distinction between conscious and nonconscious behaviour is accounted for by that between flexible, hippocampal and rigid, nonhippocampal control of the motor system. The multi-modality of consciousness is accounted for by the integration of modality-specific sensory input from the neocortex into a multi-modal spatial representation in the hippocampus. Finally, access to long-term narrative memory is accounted for by the role of the hippocampus in memory (particularly spatial memory). Jeffery Gray’s theory Jeffery Gray’s (1995) similar but independently developed neuropsychological hypothesis is that the contents of consciousness consist of outputs of a (subicular) comparator system that, on a moment-to-basis, compares the current state of the organism’s perceptual world with a predicted state, together with feedback from the comparator to those sets of neurons in perceptual systems that have just provided input to the comparator in respect of the current process of comparison. He claims that his hypothesis goes beyond brute correlation but falls far short of Nagel’s standard of transparency. An empirical objection to both these theories is that destruction of the hippocampus does not abolish consciousness. Quantum physical accounts Most of the interest in trying to provide physical accounts of phenomenal features of consciousness has occurred in physics. The relevance of quantum physical accounts for consciousness is controversial. Although the relation of accounts at the neurophysiological and physical levels to accounts at the psychological level remains problematical, it behoves philosophers of mind to become cognisant with quantum physics. As early as 1931 Bohr speculated about the role of quantum effects in the brain and Haldane (1963) explored exciting implications for temporal phenomena. Many have canvassed the notion that a state of the brain exhibiting quantum coherence might be the physical basis of consciousness. Bose-Einstein condensation The most popular hypothesis has been that Bose-Einstein condensation may provide the unitary sense of self (Marshall, 1989; Lockwood, 1989; Zohar, 1990; Zohar & Marshall, 1994). Frölich (1968) showed that, in systems of vibrating electrically charged molecules (dipoles), beyond a certain threshold when incoming energy reaches a critical value, any additional energy pumped into the system causes molecules to vibrate in unison, producing so-called Bose-Einstein condensation, the most ordered form of condensed phase possible. There is large-scale quantum synchronicity, quanta becoming coherent over macroscopic regions. Parts become a whole in that they lose their individuality. Wave functions overlap, resulting in indeterminate spatial location.

Distinguishing the soluble from the insoluble 89 Ian Marshall (1989) was the first person to put forward the idea that Bose condensation in such pumped phonon systems might be the basis of mental states and processes. He argued that the collective and holistic character of Bosecondensed oscillatory states might be the physical basis of consciousness, suggesting that information might be encoded by appropriately adjusting amplitudes (possibly the physical basis of intensity of sensation) and relative phase (possibly the physical basis of quality of sensation). These ideas were popularised and embedded in a much larger panpsychist theory by Danah Zohar (1990). More recently and most popularly, Roger Penrose (1994) has also favoured the view that a state of the brain exhibiting quantum coherence might be the physical basis of consciousness (specifying microtubules as the locus of the effect – a dubious hypothesis), again suggesting that this could account for the global nature of consciousness: “The unity of a single mind can arise . . . only if there is some form of quantum coherence extending across at least an appreciable part of the entire brain” (Penrose, 1994, p. 372). In his case this is part of a wider theory concerning the interplay between quantum and classical levels of activity (‘objective reduction’). Michael Lockwood (1989) summarises the case in favour thus: “Frölich’s Bosecondensed oscillatory states certainly seem to fit the bill. They are indeed global, with respect to the individual oscillators. Within such a system, information would be non-localised, transcending the states of individual oscillators, in a sense even stronger than that in which information could be said to be ‘distributed’ within a neural network or a hologram. In phonon terminology, the coherence of these states means that the associated phonons have sharply defined momenta, and hence, by the uncertainty principle, highly indeterminate positions; the phonons, or more strictly, their position wave function, are spread out over the area occupied by the coherent state . . . They lend themselves to coherent superposition, with constructive and destructive interference in just the way that is required of computer memory states” (p. 259). It must be acknowledged that this theory is at present highly speculative. It is not known for certain whether mechanisms of the kind Frölich proposed exist at all, let alone in the brain. On the other hand, despite what Grush and Churchland (1995) refer to as “the rather breathtaking flimsiness of the quantum-consciousness connection”, the very existence of a viable quantum mechanical model of consciousness is already pregnant with far reaching philosophical implications (Zohar, 1990). Furthermore, the convergence of different approaches lends credibility to the hypothesis. Fermi-Dirac statistics Five years before the publication of Marshall’s article, a little known article by John Valentine (1982; see also, Valentine, 1995) pursued the attempt to account for the phenomenal features of consciousness by searching for parallel physical features. In his view Fermi-Dirac statistics give a stronger sense of indistinguishability than do Bose-Einstein. In the former case the particles are not only indistinguishable but non-individuated. Two indistinguishable Bose-Einstein particles can be in the

90 Philosophy same state; however, in the Fermi-Dirac case, there is a strong sense in which there can be said to be only one particle. Thus the physical basis of consciousness is postulated to lie in electrons, which are fermions to which Fermi-Dirac statistics apply, rather than photons, which are bosons to which Bose-Einstein statistics apply. It is argued that the unity of consciousness may be accounted for by the fact that particular electrons in a bound state are indistinguishable and non-localisable. The privacy of consciousness could be accounted for by the fact that electronic events within separate quantum systems are independent of each other, since the wave function comes to zero at the system’s boundaries. Such systems are isolated in the sense that their electronic states are independent of changes in state of neighbouring systems. Electrons in the space between the potential wells forming quantum systems are ‘at infinity’ and do not form interacting systems themselves or with others; it is only electrons trapped in a well that, through the exclusion principle, are forced to do so. This would provide a solution to Flanagan’s problem, of providing a naturalistic explanation of our inability to capture the phenomenology of what it is like to be each one of us from the objective point of view. In agreement with Gray (1995), it is suggested that quantisation is physics’s way of discretising time. The brain appears to be a system of variable electronic interconnexions that can only be altered quantally. Thus events occur in discrete packets and extend in time. This could account for the ‘thickness’ or duration and overlapping of psychological moments

Conclusions Different versions of the mind-body problem were distinguished in an effort to disentangle those that are soluble from those that are not. Various positions on the problem or ‘attitudes to the explanatory gap’ (following Block, 1994) were discussed. In particular, it was argued that ontologically, there is no gap and hence no problem to be solved. Epistemically, there is an unclosable gap, an irresolvable duality between subjective and objective, first person and third person perspectives. In this sense the hard problem cannot be solved. From the point of view of scientific theory, there is a soluble problem, that of providing a principled account of the relation between phenomenal features of consciousness and functional accounts in terms of behaviour, neurophysiology and physics. Various attempted solutions were reviewed. Those constituting mere brute correlations were rejected in favour of those offering parallels with phenomenal features of consciousness sufficiently powerful to provide a transparent account. It was concluded that examples of the latter are currently in existence, and hence the outlook for achieving a satisfactory solution to this form of the hard problem is exceedingly promising.

Acknowledgement An earlier version of this paper was published under the title ‘Popper’s three worlds and attitudes to the explanatory gap’ in New Ideas in Psychology, 17, 31–39, 1999.

Distinguishing the soluble from the insoluble 91

References Block, N. (1994). Consciousness. In S. Guttenplan (Ed.), Companion to the philosophy of mind (pp. 210–18). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Block, N. (1995). On a confusion about a function of consciousness. Behavioral & Brain Sciences, 18, 227–87. Boden, M. (1979). The computational metaphor in psychology. In N. Bolton (Ed.), Philosophical problems in psychology. London: Methuen. Churchland, P. S. (1983). Consciousness: the transmutation of a concept. Pacific Philosophical Quarterly, 64, 80–93. Crick, F. (1994). The astonishing hypothesis: The scientific search for the soul. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Crick, F. & Koch, C. (1990). Towards a biological theory of consciousness. Seminars in the Neurosciences, 2, 263–75. Dennett, D. C. (1971). Intentional systems. Journal of Philosophy, 68, 87–106. Dennett, D. C. (1984). Computer models and the mind – a view from the East Pole, Times Literary Supplement, 14 December, p. 1453. Dennett, D. C. (1988). Quining qualia. In A. Marcel & E. Bisiach (Eds), Consciousness in contemporary society (pp. 42–77). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Eckhorn, R., Bauer, R., Jordan, W., Brosch, M., Kruse, W., Munk, M. & Reitbock, H. J. (1988). Coherent oscillations: a mechanism of feature linking in the visual cortex, Biological Cybernetics, 60, 121–30. Edelman, G. M. (1978). The mindful brain. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Flanagan, O. (1991). The science of mind (2nd ed.). Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Flanagan, O. (1992). Consciousnesss reconsidered. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Frölich, H. (1968). Long-range coherence and energy storage in biological systems. International Journal of Quanta Chemistry, 2, 641–49. Gray, C. M. & Singer, W. (1989). Stimulus-specific neuronal oscillations in orientation columns of cat visual cortex, Proceedings of the National Academy of Science, USA, 86, 1698–1702. Gray, J. A. (1995). The contents of consciousness: A neuropsychological conjecture. Behavioral and Brain Sciences, 18, 659–722. Grush, R. & Churchland, P. S. (1995). Gaps in Penrose’s toiling. Journal of Consciousness Studies, 2, 10–29. Haldane, J. B. S. (1963). Life and mind as physical realities. Penguin Science Survey B, 224–38. Huxley, T. H. (1866). Lessons in elementary physiology. London: Macmillan. Jackendoff, R. (1987). Consciousness and the computational mind. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Kinsbourne, M. (1993). Integrated cortical field model of consciousness. In Experimental studies of consciousness. CIBA Foundation Symposium no. 174 (pp. 43–60). Chichester: Wiley. Kinsbourne, M. (1995). Septo-hippocampal comparator: Consciousness generator or attention feedback loop? Behavioral & Brain Sciences, 18, 687–78. Levine, J. (1983). Materialism and qualia: the explanatory gap. Pacific Philosophical Quarterly, 64, 354–61. Lockwood, M. (1989). Mind, brain & the quantum: The compound ‘I’. Oxford: Blackwell. Marshall, I.N. (1989). Consciousness and Bose-Einstein condensates. New Ideas in Psychology, 7, 73–83.

92 Philosophy McGinn, C. (1991). The problem of consciousness. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Nagel, T. (1974). What is it like to be a bat? Philosophical Review, 83, 435–50. Nagel, T. (1993). What is the mind-body problem? In Experimental studies of consciousness. CIBA Symposium no. 174. Chichester: Wiley. O’Keefe, J. (1985). Is consciousness the gateway to the hippocampal map? In D. Oakley (Ed.) Brain and mind (pp. 59–98). London: Methuen. Penrose, R. (1994). Shadows of the mind. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Popper, K. R. & Eccles, J. C. (1977). The self and its brain. Berlin: Springer-Verlag. Rey, G. (1983). A reason for doubting the existence of consciousness. In R. Davidson, G. Schwartz & D. Shapiro (Eds), Consciousness and self-regulation. New York: Plenum. Searle, J. R. (1984). Minds, brains and science. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Searle, J. (1992). The rediscovery of mind. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Tukiainen, A. (1995). Is ‘subjectivity of consciousness’ a problem to physicalism? In P. Pylkkänen & P. Pylkkö (Eds), New directions in cognitive science (pp. 168–77). Helsinki: Finnish Artificial Intelligence Society. Valentine, J. D. (1982). Towards a physics of consciousness. Psychoenergetics, 4, 257–74. Valentine, J. (1995). Physical implications of coincident qualia. In J. Shawe-Taylor & B. Borstner (Eds), Consciousness at the crossroads of philosophy and cognitive science (pp. 39–48). Thorverton: Imprint Academic. White, S. L. (1989) Transcendentalism and its discontents. Philosophical Topics, 17, 231–261. Zeki, S. (1993). A vision of the brain. Oxford: Blackwell. Zohar, D. (1990). The quantum self. London: Bloomsbury. Zohar, D. & Marshall, I. N. (1994). The quantum society: Mind, physics and a new social vision. London: Bloomsbury.

10 Explanation

What are explanations? There are as many causes of x as there are explanations of x. Consider how the cause of death might have been set out by a physician as ‘multiple haemorrhage’, by the barrister as ‘negligence on the part of the driver’, by a carriage-builder as ‘a defect in brakeblock construction’, by a civic planner as ‘the presence of tall shrubbery at that turning’. (Hanson, 1958, p. 54)

Each of these suggests a different alternative or contrast class. This has led many (e.g. van Fraassen, 1977, 1980) to conclude that explanation is pragmatic. The stance taken is relative to the strategies of the person trying to explain and predict behaviour (Dennett, 1971). Explanations may be seen as answers to ‘why?’ questions (Scriven, 1962; Bromberger, 1966, 1968). They are requests for information. “It is convenient to regard an explanation as any answer to a why question that is accepted by the questioner as making the event in question somehow more intelligible” (Boden, 1972). She goes on to define a scientific explanation as “an explanation that is justified by reference to publicly observable facts, and which is rationally linked to other, similar explanations in a reasonably systematic manner”. Some scientific questions might better be regarded as answers to ‘how?’ questions. Given that explanations are answers to questions of some sort, it seems reasonable to suggest that there may be as many different types of answers as there are types of question, and that the type of explanation adopted will depend on the following three factors: 1

2

Who asked the question. An answer will be related to the present state of knowledge of the questioner. For example, an explanation of the motion of the planets given to a child will be different from that given to an atomic physicist. What the question was aimed at. For what purpose is the knowledge required? Are there practical implications? For example, one suspects that Skinner’s option for explanations of behaviour in terms of environmental rather than genetic factors may be motivated by possibilities of modification. Similarly,

94 Philosophy

3

which explanation of pathological behaviour is preferred may depend on available treatments. Who gave the answer. What are the personal biases of the theorist? The existence of psychological factors in theorising is beyond doubt (see Coan, 1979; Caine, Wijesinghe & Winter, 1981).

Explanations must supply new information. Ultimately what is accepted is a matter of subjective satisfaction as William James pointed out clearly in Pragmatism: Our commerce with the systems reverts to the informal, to the instinctive human reaction of satisfaction or dislike . . . We philosophers have to reckon with such feelings on your part. In the last resort, I repeat, it will be by them that all our philosophies shall ultimately be judged. The finally victorious way of looking at things will be the most completely impressive to the normal run of minds. (James, 1907, p. 38) In theory there is a wide choice; in practice there is less. In science, as we have seen, certain kinds are preferred to others. The prototype has been a causal explanation embedded in a hypothetico-deductive theory (see below). Whether different types of explanation are possible or whether, for example, only causal ones are acceptable is a much debated issue. Foss (1974) has put the case for multiple explanations in psychology. One thing to be avoided is evaluating one type of explanation from the viewpoint of another. Thus, it is inappropriate to reject evolutionary functional explanations on the grounds that they are not causal: they are not intended to be. Deutsch (1960) has claimed that psychologists are confused about explanation: There is no concord among psychologists about what the facts they have accumulated are evidence for. This does not mean that they are merely in disagreement about the edifice they wish to erect; they have not even decided what constitutes a building. That is, not only do they disagree about the explanation of their findings, but they are not clear what it would be to explain them. (Deutsch, 1960, p. 1) Below we shall distinguish and discuss the relative merits of seven different focal types. For a somewhat different set, see Russell (1984, chapter 1).

Types of explanation Description and classification Preliminary to explanation is description and classification. Phenomena to be explained must be identified and labelled. Whether classification as such can ever count as explanatory is a controversial issue. In certain cases it is not. The

Explanation 95 nominalist fallacy exposes the false belief that in naming something it has been explained, instanced in the statement ‘Pigs are so called because they are such dirty animals’ or the peasants mentioned by Vygotsky who, it is claimed, could understand the discovery of the stars but expressed puzzled amazement at the discovery of their names. An example from literature is Molière’s La Malade Imaginaire, where he mocks the doctors who suggested that what makes opium have its soporific effect is its virtus dormitiva, i.e. its soporific power. In psychology a similar case is the use of the concept of instinct, criticised, for example, by Field (1921). Nor is it clear that its successor, drive, has escaped the same fate. In these cases the description may be tautologous. A classification becomes explanatory if it conveys additional independent information. Consider the example: ‘Jane goes to parties because she is an extravert’. This is not explanatory if party-going behaviour is the only way of identifying an extravert, if going to parties is what it means to be an extravert. If, however, extraversion has additional implications, either behavioural, such as taking relatively more involuntary rest pauses in tapping tasks, or physiological, such as greater cortical inhibition, then the circularity is avoided and it is explanatory. Ethologists stressed the importance of describing the behavioural repertoire of an animal before proceeding to more theoretical accounts of the determinants of behaviour. Examples of classificatory explanations in psychology, where events are explained by reference to a class of events of which they are members, include neo-behaviourist accounts in terms of drive reduction, and rule following in social psychology (e.g. Goffman, 1959; Harré & Secord, 1972) or language. This last provides an example of another type of description common in psychology, where an attempt is made to characterise the competence underlying behaviour (e.g. Chomsky, 1980). These accounts draw attention to important aspects of behaviour, and classification is probably a necessary prerequisite for explanation. However, they need to be supplemented by other types of information, which explain, for example, how the behaviour developed and how it works in detail. Correlational A next step might be to establish associations between events, some form of correlation; for example, between smoking and cancer, or weight and mental age in the first few years of life. The motivations for asserting a relation of contingency rather than causation may be various. In philosophy Hume argued that there was no logical necessity involved in cause, which could be reduced to contiguity. We have no other notion of cause and effect but that of certain objects, which have been always conjoined together, and which in all past instances have been found inseparable. We cannot penetrate into the reason of the conjunction. We only observe the thing in itself, and always find that from the constant conjunction, the objects acquire a union in the imagination. (Hume, 1739/1896, Book 1, Part III, Section VI)

96 Philosophy In physics, Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle has suggested limits to determinacy. In neurophysiology, Burns (1968) has claimed that there are stochastic processes at the cellular level. In psychology, probability statements are the order of the day. Probability implies determinism but one that is imperfectly known. Whether the limits to knowledge are a function of the knower or of the known is an interesting question for speculation. One of the main proponents of this approach in psychology is Skinner, who deems functional relations between stimuli and responses to be sufficient for prediction and control. “I do not know why [food is reinforcing to a hungry animal] . . . and I do not care” (Skinner, 1964). Inductive generalisations which are merely empirical summaries of the evidence can be distinguished from natural laws by their failure to accommodate counterfactual conditions. Inductive generalisations are limited to the cases observed; natural laws, however, apply to cases that have not been observed. The former have the advantages of being closely related to the data but more powerful explanations are required for most purposes. Causal The standard model of explanation in science is the deductive-nomological (Hempel & Oppenheim, 1948), where an event is explained by being deduced as an instance of a general law, e.g. General law: Copper expands when heated. Antecedent conditions: This bar is copper and it was heated. Conclusion: This bar expanded. The description of the phenomenon to be explained is given in the conclusion; the explanation is contained in the general law together with the antecedent conditions. However, there are a number of inadequacies in this as a general model of explanation. For one thing, many laws are probabilistic rather than universally true, and some events occur with low probability. There are a number of different types of law, e.g. functional dependence and property attribution (see Nagel, 1961; Cummins, 1983) but causal laws are an important subset. Functional laws e.g. Bloch’s and the Weber-Fechner laws in psychophysics are cases of natural laws but lack the temporal feature of causal laws. Whereas causal statements are generally asymmetrical (the cause determines or explains the effect but not vice versa), statements of functional dependence are often reversible. Causal explanations explain a given event by reference to a past event. The occurrence of an event B is explained as being the result of an antecedent event A having occurred, A being a condition of B. They are equivalent to Aristotle’s efficient causes, e.g. ‘the billiard ball moved because it was hit by the cue’. The implication is that variation in A will produce variation in B. Given the antecedent, it should be possible in principle to predict the consequent.

Explanation 97 Although they are considered by many to be the preferred type of explanation in science, there are a number of problems associated with them. Since they are based on the deterministic assumption, there are doubts about their applicability to some areas of science, e.g. quantum mechanics. There are many other types of explanation in psychology; for example, evolutionary theory and psychoanalysis are postdictive rather than predictive. Philosophers have found great difficulty in giving them precise specification (Russell, 1913; van Fraassen, 1980). Essential ingredients appear to be conditionality and relevance. However, it has not proved possible to give an account of causation in terms of necessary and sufficient conditions. Moreover, an account that is sufficiently precise to enable accurate prediction is likely to be so complex as to be unique and probably useless in practice. It is also difficult to explicate relevance. On the assumption that the world is a net of interconnected events related to each other in a complex but systematic way, Salmon (1978) suggests that causal explanation exhibits the salient features in the causal network. Causal chains may be identified by a process of ‘screening off’, i.e. by interrupting their effects (Salmon, 1984). However, what factors are considered salient is dependent on the context (van Fraassen, 1980). Hume suggested three conditions for inferring causality: contiguity, temporal precedence and constant conjunction. He made the important observation that it is a psychological rather than a logical inference. Cause cannot be observed directly but organisms have a predisposition to seek contingencies, which presumably serves an adaptive function. J. S. Mill also suggested three factors: temporal precedence, relatedness and the elimination of alternative explanations. He proposed three methods to help in establishing the last of these: the methods of agreement (presence of the effect if the cause is present), difference (absence of the effect in the absence of the cause) and concomitant variation. It may be debated whether events are uniquely caused, or whether the same effect can have different causes on different occasions. A case in the literature that might be interpreted as a mistaken conclusion of unique causation is that of Watson (1907), who successively eliminated sight, hearing and touch in rats. On finding that learning was unimpaired for trained and untrained rats, he concluded that it must be mediated kinaesthetically. However, in 1929 Lashley managed to eliminate kinaesthesis surgically and, although their gait was awkward, his rats still managed to learn mazes. The conclusion must be that rats will use any sense the experimenter is generous enough to leave them with and/or that the critical factor lies elsewhere, as Tolman and his followers argued. A related question is that of multiple causation: can a particular effect have more than one cause? A common occurrence in psychology is that of predisposing factors and precipitating events. This has been documented for psychiatric disorders, e.g. with respect to inherited and congenital factors in the aetiology of schizophrenia (Mednick, 1970) and social factors in the development of depression (Brown & Harris, 1978). Freud certainly considered the possibility of overdetermination: the co-occurrence of two events each of which alone would have been sufficient to cause the effect, for example, an instruction given in hypnosis to open a window after returning to the normal waking state together with a stuffy atmosphere.

98 Philosophy There are also problems in specifying the temporal relations between cause and effect. (Indeed, this was one of the reasons that led Russell, 1913, to reject the notion of cause.) Although common-sense notions and the testing of causal hypotheses require the temporal precedence of cause in relation to effect, a logically precise formulation requires their simultaneity: otherwise some other factor could intervene to alter the course of events. In practice, psychologists vary considerably in the length of delay tolerated between cause and effect (see Brunswik’s notion of conceptual focus). Causes for behaviour may be sought in the phylogenetic history of the species or the ontogenetic development of the organism. Psychoanalysts seek causes for adult psychopathology in the early years of life, in contrast to behaviour therapists who focus on current problems; learning theorists may seek the causes of behaviour in past reinforcement contingencies, whereas Gestaltists and field theorists concentrated on current factors. It is sometimes thought that more detailed accounts can be obtained at lower levels of explanation. This may be part of the reason why psychological explanations are often considered softer than physiological, since they appear to tolerate more unknown mediating factors between cause and effect. Although causal explanations are commonly employed in science, in the mature sciences they are often superseded by statements of functional relations, as Russell (1913) noted. Thus, contrary to what might at first be supposed, that statements of association are crude and possibly inaccurate formulations which later give way to more powerful causal statements, rather the opposite is the case: causal statements are essentially loose formulations of sequential regularities which precede more precise mathematical statements of functional dependence. Functional A number of authors have drawn a major distinction between two different types of explanation (those considered so far and the two that follow). Marx (1963) contrasts ‘constructive’ explanations, by means of which phenomena are described in terms of more abstract, higher order constructs and hypotheses on the same descriptive level, with ‘reductive’, by means of which phenomena are functionally related to other phenomena at a different and, in a hierarchical sense, more basic level of description. Cummins (1983) contrasts subsumption under a causal law with functional analysis, claiming that psychological phenomena are typically not explained by subsuming them under causal laws, but by treating them as manifestations of capacities that are explained by analysis: “Most psychological explanation makes no sense when construed as causal subsumption but a great deal of sense construed as analysis”. Deutsch (1960) distinguishes what he calls descriptive, generalisatory approaches with structural, neurophysiological or mechanical. In the latter type: An event is explained by being deduced as the property of a structure, system or mechanism and not as an instance of events in its own class . . . The precise properties of the parts do not matter; it is only their general relationships to each other which give the machine as a whole its behavioural properties . . .

Explanation 99 This highly abstract system . . . can be embodied in a theoretically infinite variety of physical counterparts . . . Given the system or abstract structure alone of the machine, we can deduce its properties and predict its behaviour. (Deutsch 1960, p. 1) Deutsch recommends this approach as a middle road between what he calls ‘positivism run wild’ and ‘neurophysiologising’. Its power is that it is sufficient for the prediction of behaviour and its advantage that it provides a link to physiology, which ultimately may provide an additional testing ground. These mechanistic approaches focus on the processes or operations involved in a sequence of behaviour. At this level an attempt is made to provide a functional characterisation of these independent of their physical realisation, i.e. in terms of the software rather than the hardware. Thus the theory may take the form of a flow chart or, if formally developed, a computer program. The approach owes much to cybernetics, information theory and computer science. Examples are Deutsch’s (1960) model of need, Newell and Simon’s (1972) theory of problem solving, Gray’s (1975) behavioural inhibition system and models of reading (Coltheart, Patterson & Marshall, 1986). Many theories in cognitive psychology take the form of flow charts; rather fewer are formulated in precise computational terms. Certain concepts from cybernetics such as feedback are crucial to the understanding of behaviour and the advent of computer simulation has led to a demystification and making precise of many previously mentalistic concepts. Currently the dominant paradigm in cognitive psychology, functionalism offers an autonomous level of description for psychology, which can take advantage of developments in artificial intelligence and be related to work in neuroscience. However, again it is only one approach among many and in particular lacks the historical dimension that a causal account might provide. Neurophysiological Mechanistic approaches can be adopted at two distinct levels. Marr (1982) distinguishes the level of representation and algorithm (just described) from that of the hardware implementation. Dennett (1971) contrasts the design stance with the physical stance. Marr used Hubel and Wiesel’s work to support his theory of vision; Gray has looked to neurophysiological experiments to support his model of anxiety. In these explanations the nature of the actual physical embodiment of the process is investigated. It is equivalent to Aristotle’s material cause, explaining something in terms of its composition. Some have held that this type of explanation is particularly useful for cases of malfunction. For example, neuropsychologists explain behavioural dysfunction by reference to brain damage; psychopathological disorders, such as schizophrenia, depression and Alzheimer’s disease, may be explained in terms of brain chemistry. However, ultimately the distinction between function and structure is relative, as P. S. Churchland (1986) points out. There are many ‘levels’; each one could be considered functional with respect to the one below and structural with respect to the one above.

100 Philosophy Teleological In contrast to causal explanations, teleological or purposive explanations explain a given event by reference to a future event. They are equivalent to Aristotle’s final cause. Behaviour is explained as occurring in order that some future event (a goal) may be achieved. For example, ‘walking for the sake of one’s health’ (Aristotle’s example) or ‘Jones crossed the road in order to buy tobacco’ (Peters’, 1958, example). In contrast to causal explanations which can be pursued indefinitely, teleological explanations may be considered ultimate if they refer to natural goals. It is often advanced that evolutionary accounts are of this nature (functional explanations in yet another sense of ‘functional’), e.g. ‘hair stands on end in order to frighten the enemy’. This is misleading if it is thought to preclude a causal account. The piece of behaviour evolved because members of the species who possessed it survived to procreate. The analogous case in ontogeny is the law of effect, which was criticised on the grounds of retroaction: how can a satisfying state of affairs strengthen a connection that has already occurred? But of course reinforcement affects the probability of the connection reoccurring in the future. Many psychologists in the past have stressed the purposive aspect of behaviour (notably McDougall, Tolman, Lashley and, in more recent times, Miller, Galanter & Pribram, 1960, who suggest a feedback loop as the basic unit of behaviour). It is particularly appropriate where a variety of means may lead to a particular end, the behaviour thus being classifiable by reference to the end rather than the means. Flexibility and adaptiveness are distinctive if not defining features of behaviour. Peters (1958), for example, has argued that purposive explanations are normally appropriate for behaviour, causal explanations only being resorted to when behaviour is abnormal in some way, e.g. under the influence of drugs or an obsessional compulsion. Similarly, Taylor (1964) has argued that causal explanations provide necessary but not sufficient conditions for behaviour, on the grounds that a goal may be achieved in a variety of ways. The purposiveness of human behaviour has led some to postulate that the appropriate explanation for human behaviour is to be given in terms of reasons rather than causes (see below). It is clear, however, that purposive explanations are not incompatible with causal explanations. Mentalistic A number of traditions have claimed that a radically different type of explanation is appropriate in the social sciences from that which is applicable in the physical sciences. Thus, according to the tradition of Verstehen in 19th century Germany, psychology should pursue empathic understanding rather than causal predictive explanation. Using intuition, it aimed to explain the link between events whose correlation would otherwise be puzzling. An example is Weber’s classic analysis of the link between the Protestant ethic and economic enterprise. The approach, although useful at the stage of formulating hypotheses, cannot substitute for subsequent testing. The method of hermeneutics, first applied to the interpretation of texts, was later applied to the analysis of social behaviour. It aimed to make the meaning of an

Explanation 101 action intelligible by reference to the role played in the social context. Harré and Secord’s (1972) approach in terms of rules and roles owes much to this, as does Gauld and Shotter’s (1977) based on shared meanings. In the philosophical analysis of action it has often been maintained that actions should be explained in terms of reasons, in contrast to movements which are causally explained (e.g. Melden, 1961). Thus Davidson (1963)(who allows that reasons can be causes but thinks they cannot be generalised), in particular, has urged that behaviour be explained, or better ‘justified’, by reference to desires and beliefs in the light of which the behaviour is reasonable, a strategy known as ‘rationalisation’. This intentional stance (Dennett, 1971) is based on the assumption of rationality. It depends heavily on ordinary language and conceptual analysis, the assumption being that the social sciences have merely to systematise and extend common sense. This mentalistic ‘folk psychology’ concentrates on semantic content. Russell (1984) makes the important point that rationalisation mistakenly takes the explanation of individual behavioural episodes as the paradigm of psychological explanation, whereas the proper concern of scientific psychology is with the determinants of competence in the species.

Summary We have contrasted explanations that explain events by relating them to increasingly higher order generalisations of classes of events of which they are members, with those that seek explanation by analysing the processes involved or their physical embodiment. Some explanations seek to establish associative relations between events and may explain a given event either by referring it to an antecedent (causal) or subsequent (teleological) event, or by attempting to specify relations of functional dependence in mathematically precise terms. Yet other approaches seek an understanding that is not aimed at prediction but is based on empathic intuition.

References Boden, M. A. (1972). Purposive explanation in psychology. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Bromberger, S. (1966). Why-questions. In R. G. Colodny (Ed.), Mind and cosmos. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press. Bromberger, S. (1968). An approach to explanation. In R. J. Butler (Ed.), Analytical philosophy: Second series. Oxford: Blackwell. Brown, G. W. & Harris, T. (1978). Social origins of depression. London: Tavistock. Burns, B. D. (1968). The uncertain nervous system. London: Edward Arnold. Caine, T. M., Wijesinghe, O. B. A. & Winter, D. A. (1981). Personal styles in neurosis: Implications for small group psychotherapy and behaviour therapy. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Chomsky, N. (1980). Rules and representations, Oxford: Blackwell. Churchland, P. S. (1986). Neurophilosophy. Cambridge, MA: Bradford/MIT Press. Coan, R. W. (1979). Psychologists: Personal and theoretical pathways. New York: Irvington.

102 Philosophy Coltheart, M., Patterson, K. & Marshall, J. C. (1986). Deep dyslexia. (2nd ed.) London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Cummins, R. (1983). The nature of psychological explanation. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Davidson, D. (1963). Actions, reasons and causes. Journal of Philosophy, 60, 685–700. Dennett, D. C. (1971). Intentional systems. Journal of Philosophy, 68, 87–106. Deutsch, J. A. (1960). The structural basis of behaviour. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Field, G. C. (1921). Faculty psychology and instinct psychology. Mind, 30, 257–70. Foss, B. M. (1974). On taking sides. Bulletin of the British Psychological Society, 27, 347–51. Gauld, A. & Shotter, J. (1977). Human action and its psychological investigation. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Goffman, E. (1959). The presentation of self in everyday life. New York: Anchor Books. Gray, J. A. (1975). Elements of a two-process theory of learning. London: Academic Press. Hanson, N. R. (1958). Patterns of discovery. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Harré, R. & Secord, P. F. (1972). The explanation of social behaviour. Oxford: Blackwell. Hempel, C. G. & Oppenheim, P. (1948). Studies in the philosophy of explanation. Philosophy of Science, 15, 135–75. Hume, D. (1739/1896). Treatise of human nature. (L. A. Selby-Bigge, Ed.). Oxford: Clarendon. James, W. (1907). Pragmatism. New York: Longmans. Marr, D. (1982). Vision: A computational investigation into the human representation and processing of visual information. San Francisco, CA: Freeman. Marx, M. H. (1963). The general nature of theory construction. In M. H. Marx (Ed.) Theories in contemporary psychology. New York: Macmillan. Mednick, S. (1970). Breakdown in individuals at high risk for schizophrenia: possible predispositional and perinatal factors. Mental Hygiene, 54, 50–63. Melden, A. (1961). Free action. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Miller, G. A., Galanter, E. & Pribram, K. (1960). Plans and the structure of behavior. New York: Holt, Rinehart & Winston. Nagel, E. (1961). The structure of science. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Newell, A. & Simon, H. A. (1972). Human problem solving. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall. Peters, R. S. (1958). The concept of motivation. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Russell, B. (1913). On the notion of cause. Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, 1912–1913, 1–26. Russell, J. (1984). Explaining mental life. London: Macmillan. Salmon, W. C. (1978). Why ask “Why?” Proceedings and Addresses of the American Philosophical Association, 51, 683–705. Salmon, W. C. (1984). Scientific explanation and the causal structure of the world. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Scriven, M. (1962). Explanations, predictions, and laws. In H. Feigl & G. Maxwell (Eds.), Scientific explanations, space, and time. Minnesota Studies in the Philosophy of Science III (pp. 170–230). Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Skinner, B. F. (1964). Behaviorism at fifty. In T. W. Wann (Ed.), Behaviorism and phenomenology. Chicago: Chicago University Press. Taylor, C. (1964). The explanation of behaviour. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Van Fraassen, B. C. (1977). The pragmatics of explanation. American Philosophical Quarterly, 14, 143–150.

Explanation 103 Van Fraassen, B. C. (1980). The scientific image. Oxford: Clarendon. Watson, J. B. (1907). Kinaesthetic and organic sensations: their role in the reactions of the white rat to the maze. Psychological Review, Monograph Supplements, 8, whole no. 33, 1–100.

11 Reduction

Introduction Reduction is a relation of logical derivation between statements or theories. What is at issue in the case of psychology and physiology is not the reducibility of mental states to brain states but whether a theory of mental states can be explained in terms of a theory of neural mechanisms. “What gets reduced are theories . . . the stuff in the universe keeps doing whatever it is doing while we theorize and theories come and go” (P. S. Churchland, 1986, p. 288). Thus the result of a reduction will not be, for example, that headaches become illusory but that their occurrence will have been explained. Phenomena are explained rather than explained away. Nagel (1961) gives the following definitions of reduction: “the deduction of one set of empirically confirmable statements from another such set” and “the explanation of a theory or set of experimental laws established in one area of inquiry, by a theory usually though not invariably formulated for some other domain” (p. 338). Hooker (1981) provides examples illustrating the logical diversity and ‘bewildering variety and complexity’ of reductions. They may involve derivation of laws, aimed at explanatory unification and perhaps increased systematicity, and/or identification of terms, aimed at ontological simplification (a reduction in the number of entities postulated). They may be strict or weak (the claims ranging from logical equivalence of statements at one extreme to mere empirical correlations at the other). They can be total or partial (depending on their scope); in some cases they take the form of ‘microreductions’, where the relation between units of analysis at different levels is that of whole to part. Conditions for reduction A prerequisite for reduction is the ordering of sciences from higher to lower levels, e.g. sociology, psychology, physiology, chemistry, physics. There are other possibilities and there are levels within conventional disciplines. Oppenheim and Putnam (1958) proposed six levels in their suggested framework for microreduction: (1) social groups, (2) multicellular living things, (3) cells, (4) molecules, (5) atoms and (6) elementary particles. In this case the units of analysis at each level have as parts the units of analysis at the next level down. P. S. Churchland (1986)

Reduction 105 offers a set biassed towards neuroscience (behaviour, circuit, cell assembly, synapse, cells, membrane), as well as discussing levels of organisation in terms of research methods applied to the study of learning and memory, ranging from studies of neurotransmitters at the cellular level to neuropsychological, ethological and psychological studies at higher levels. The essential requirement of reduction is derivability, i.e. the possibility of deducing the laws of one science from those of another. In practice, laws of higher level sciences can only be deduced from laws of lower level sciences with the addition of statements specifying boundary conditions and other limiting assumptions (see below). All interesting cases of reduction also require a further condition, that of definability, i.e. a mapping of the terms in the two theories, by biconditionals or some kind of bridging laws. The status of these (whether e.g. logical identities, deliberately created conventions, contingent identities or empirically established correlations) is controversial and may be difficult to decide. Further, there must be some advantage to be gained, either theoretical e.g. explanatory unification and ontological simplification, or heuristic e.g. the development of fruitful research strategies. Finally, the reduction must be empirically supported. There has been a historical shift, in the conditions considered necessary for reduction, away from positivism. Schaffner (1967), in a useful paper, describes four versions of reduction, two positivist models and two weaker modifications: 1

2

3

The ‘direct’ model, adopted by Nagel, Woodger and Quine, which specifies two main conditions: (1) definability, i.e. a biconditional relation between the terms of the two theories and (2) derivability of the laws of one theory from the laws of the other theory. This is a positivist model, in which explanation is seen as a matter of logical deduction. The ‘indirect’ model, espoused by Kemeny and Oppenheim (1956), which requires merely that the data explicable by one theory can be explained more systematically and/or simply by another theory. Even in this model, described by Hooker (1981) as ‘austerely positivist’, it is admitted that the translation from one theory to another does not follow precisely by means of biconditionals: the reduced theory holds only approximately and within certain limits. Kemeny and Oppenheim (1956) acknowledge, on the one hand, that these points are of fundamental importance but, on the other, that if they are taken into account “the problem of reduction becomes hopelessly complex”. “Any actual example has to be stretched considerably if it is to exemplify connections by means of biconditionals, and most examples will under no circumstances fall under this pattern.” The ‘approximate’ model, supported by Popper, Feyerabend and Kuhn. An examination of the history of science has led to the rejection of the positivist model. Feyerabend (1962) claims that no intuitively plausible example of reduction in the history of science actually fits empiricist theory. In general, it has been argued that derivability neither implies reducibility nor guarantees explanatory or ontological unification, on the grounds that the criteria for reduction are not purely logical but involve semantic assumptions about the

106 Philosophy

4

meaning of terms, as well as pragmatic and normative considerations. Hence they depend on the state of technological development and practice, and are relative to a specific point in time. In particular, it is argued that theories need varying amounts of revision before they can be reduced: they are likely to become corrected in the process. What needs to be explained is reconfigured. A later, reducing theory may explain where and why a previous reduced theory did not work. Thus reductions are typically approximate, being only indirectly related to the original theory and directly related only to a revised version. The ‘isomorphic’ model developed by Suppes (1967), in which all that is required is an isomorphism between models of the two theories concerned, probably a one-to-one correspondence between values of the variables in the two domains.

Hooker (1981) postulates a retention–replacement continuum, which determines whether a reduction is smooth or bumpy (P. S. Churchland, 1986). At the retention end, ontological commitments are retained (i.e. entities do not cease to exist) as are laws or close approximations to them. Examples are the identification of light with electromagnetic waves, and mind-brain identity theory where mental states are contingently identified with brain states. At the replacement end, entities may be eliminated. Some fairly neutral observation statements may be retained but the ontologies and accounts are substantially different; the old theory is explained away. Examples are the replacement of phlogiston by oxygen, demons by dopamine, the caloric theory by the kinetic theory of heat, and eliminative materialism in which mentalistic language or ‘folk psychology’ is replaced by more scientific physicalistic descriptions. Intermediate cases, as examples of which Hooker (1981) gives the reductions of thermodynamics to statistical mechanics and psychology to neurobiology, may be characterised by any of the following features: (1) The reduction is partial or holds only within certain limits, e.g. the relation of Einstein’s special theory of relativity in relation to Newtonian mechanics, where the reduction only applies in the limit; or the applicability of concepts such as consciousness, intentionality and rationality which may depend on certain limiting conditions. (2) A single concept in one theory may map onto a multiplicity of concepts in the other theory, e.g. the reduction of temperature is said to be domainspecific, i.e. different for gases, plasmas and solids (but see Hatfield, 1988); similarly mental functions may be realised by a variety of physical embodiments, e.g. binocular stereopsis is carried out by anatomically and evolutionarily distinct systems in the owl and the cat (Pettigrew & Konishi, 1976). (3) Co-evolution and mutual feedback between the two theories, e.g. as in the interaction between psychology and physiology in the study of vision or neural networks. Arguments in favour of reduction The main arguments in favour of reduction are theoretical unification and increased explanatory power, as well as mutual benefit resulting from research cooperation between disciplines. The unity of science has been explored in depth as a

Reduction 107 hypothesis by Neurath (1938) in the context of logical positivism, by Oppenheim and Putnam (1958) as a fruitful working hypothesis which stimulates research, and by Causey (1977) who has attempted to specify technical conditions for microreduction. The ideal of positivism was to provide a unified body of knowledge based on observation and logic, whose truth could be guaranteed. Oppenheim and Putnam (1958) consider indirect and direct evidence for reduction in relation to their six levels described above. The indirect evidence is from evolution, ontogenesis and synthesis (i.e. higher levels evolve, develop ontogenetically, and can be synthesised, from entities at lower levels). As an example of direct evidence for reducing the social level to the multicellular, they cite the explanation of economic phenomena in terms of the psychology of individual choice behaviour, and as examples of the reduction of the multicellular level to the cellular, Hebb’s (1949) theory of cell assemblies and (foresightfully) neural networks. Arguments against reduction Definability We have already noted that there is controversy about the status of the bridging laws which connect terms in one discipline with those in another. It is generally agreed that they cannot be analytic or logically necessary. Concepts from different disciplines have different meanings: they are drawn from different contexts, belong to different conceptual frameworks, have different observational criteria and different implications. Experience is different from behaviour (e.g. a headache is not a disposition to take aspirins) and actions are different from muscular movements (the same action may be carried out by a number of different movements). Responses are normally defined in terms of consequences rather than constituent movements (Bindra, 1976). Claims of identity are therefore generally for contingent identity: identity of reference rather than identity of properties. Jessor (1958) argued against reduction on the grounds that lower level sciences lack some of the concepts of higher level sciences, in the case of psychology, concepts dealing with the functional environment and the context of behaviour. Bannister (1968) suggested that psychology and physiology have different semantic networks. Putnam (1973) has argued against the identification of psychological states, such as jealousy, love and competitiveness, with Turing machine states, on the grounds that the former are continuous and dependent on learning, whereas the latter are discrete, instantaneous, and independent of learning and memory. However, the question is whether a mapping can be achieved. Fodor (1974) suggests that the terms in psychological laws may not correspond with, but may ‘cross-classify’, the terms in neurophysiological laws. There is no a priori reason why the two descriptions should map onto one another, since to some extent there are arbitrary and pragmatic factors are involved. What is salient at one level of description may not correspond with what is important or useful at another level (Wimsatt, 1976). It is clear that many problems confront the mapping of psychological and neurophysiological states. Absence of an area may not be accompanied by a

108 Philosophy corresponding lack of function (as in some cases of hydrocephaly and callosal agenesis). The relationship may be one-to-many in either direction: the same function may be carried out by different structures (equipotentiality) or the same structure may have different functions. Functionalists stress token rather than type identity on the grounds of multiple instantiability, claiming that mental states may be realised in neurobiological or computer hardware. The same psychological function or mental state may not correspond to the same neural mechanism in different species (e.g. the mediation of pattern perception by different parts of the brain in rats, monkeys and humans), in different individuals (e.g. the localisation of speech with respect to hemisphere) or at different times in the same individual (functional reorganisation may occur as a result of maturation or damage, according to the degree of plasticity available). Thus, the bridging laws linking psychological descriptions to neurophysiological descriptions may be disjunctive and/or incomplete (which makes Fodor, 1974, doubt whether they could be laws). Derivability We have already seen that laws of higher level sciences cannot be deduced directly from laws of lower level sciences but need not only bridging laws but also additional statements specifying boundary conditions, indicating domain-specific or other limiting conditions. Putnam (1973), who has done a complete volte face since 1958, argues for the autonomy of psychological laws on the grounds that they can only be derived from lower level laws with the addition of auxiliary hypotheses. Higher level laws depend on boundary conditions which are crucial to them but accidental to the lower level laws. For example, laws governing the flight of an organism or machine cannot be derived simply from a knowledge of its structure without also knowing about atmospheric conditions. Secondly, derivability is to be distinguished from explanation. An explanation should make the relevant features explicit. Lower level explanations are likely to contain additional, irrelevant details that obscure rather than reveal. Important higher level generalisations are likely to be lost. The reason why a square peg does not fit in a round hole is best given in terms of the rigidity and relative sizes of the peg and the hole rather than in terms of the microstructure, e.g. positions and velocities of elementary particles (Putnam, 1973). Even if it were possible, for example, to give a biochemical account of wine tasting it might not always be very useful. This is partly because it may not refer to relevant aspects or accessible variables, and partly because it may be too detailed or clumsy. Similarly, even if it did turn out to be possible to provide a biochemical account of memory, this might not be useful in helping to decide to which school to send a child. Another example comes from psychotherapy: which explanation is useful may depend on the practical possibilities of treatment (e.g. drugs versus group psychotherapy). Some reductions may neither lead to an increase in simplicity nor be very useful. Putnam (1973) remarks that the reducibility of psychology to physiology depends on what is meant by psychology. It could equally well be argued that it depends on what is meant by reduction. The concept of reduction has itself

Reduction 109 been reduced almost out of existence. Bechtel (1988) discusses some more liberal schemes for relating disciplines, such as Darden and Maull’s (1977) concept of interfield theories and his own of cross-disciplinary research clusters (Bechtel, 1986). These can apply within as well as between disciplines, allowing cooperation between disciplines with different objectives and the pursuit of relations other than derivability, e.g. whole to part, function to structure, physical embodiment, or cause; appeal for further explanation may be made to higher as well as lower levels.

References Bannister, D. (1968). The myth of physiological psychology. Bulletin of the British Psychological Society, 21, 229–31. Bechtel, W. (1986). The nature of scientific integration. In W. Bechtel (Ed.) Integrating scientific disciplines. Dordrecht: Martinus Nijhoff. Bechtel, W. (1988). Philosophy of science: An overview for cognitive science. Hillsdale, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates. Bindra, D. (1976). A theory of intelligent behaviour. New York: Wiley. Causey, R. L. (1977). Unity of science. Dordrecht, Holland: D. Reidel. Churchland, P. S. (1986). Neurophilosophy. Cambridge, MA: Bradford/MIT Press. Darden, L. & Maull, N. (1977). Interfield theories. Philosophy of Science, 43, 44–64. Feyerabend, P. K. (1962). Explanation, reduction, and empiricism. In H. Feigl & G. Maxwell (Eds.) Minnesota Studies in the Philosophy of Science, 3, 29–97. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Fodor, J. A. (1974). Special sciences (Or: Disunity of science as a working hypothesis). Synthese, 28, 77–115. Hatfield, G. (1988). Neuro-philosophy meets psychology: reduction, autonomy, and physiological constraints. Cognitive Neuropsychology, 5, 723–46. Hebb, D. O. (1949). The organization of behaviour. New York: Wiley. Hooker, C. A. (1981). Towards a general theory of reduction. Part I: Historical and scientific setting. Dialogue, 20, 38–59. Jessor, R. (1958). The problem of reductionism in psychology. Psychological Review, 65, 170–8. Kemeny, J. G. & Oppenheim, P. (1956). On reduction. Philosophical Studies, 7, 6–19. Nagel, E. (1961). The structure of science. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Neurath, O. (1938). Unified science as encyclopaedic integration. In O. Neurath et al., Encyclopaedia and unified science, International encyclopaedia of unified science. (Vol. 1, No. 1). Chicago: Chicago University Press. Oppenheim, P. & Putnam, H. (1958). Unity of science as a working hypothesis. In H. Feigl (Ed.) Minnesota Studies in the Philosophy of Science, 2, 3–36. Pettigrew, J. D. & Konishi, M. (1976). Neurons selective for orientation and binocular disparity in the visual wulst of the barn owl (tyto alba). Science, 193, 675–678. Putnam, H. (1973). Reductionism and the nature of psychology. Cognition, 2. 131–146. Schaffner, K. F. (1967). Approaches to reduction’. Philosophy of Science, 34, 137–47. Suppes, P. (1967). What is a scientific theory? In S. Morgenbesser (Ed.) Philosophy of science today. New York: Basic Books. Wimsatt, W. C. (1976). Reductionism, levels of organization, and the mind-body problem. In G. G. Globus, G. Maxwell & I. Savodnik (Eds), Consciousness and the brain. New York: Plenum.

Part II

From philosophy to history

12 Neural nets From Hartley and Hebb to Hinton

Abstract The history of neural nets is traced, beginning with the associationist ideas of Aristotle and the physiological speculations of Hartley and Hebb. Lashley’s empirical work led him to conclude that memory traces are not localized. However, it was not until the development of the hologram by Gabor and its application to brain function by van Heerden that a possible theoretical basis for distributed information storage was proposed. Willshaw and his colleagues demonstrated that non-linear associative models were simpler, more efficient models, which retained the property of tolerance of degraded input. Since then there have been improvements in the realism of these models and attempts to integrate findings from the structure and function of the nervous system, notably the cerebellum and hippocampus. Associationism, if not as old as the hills, is at least as old as our intellectual history. Aristotle is credited with having laid down the doctrine and applied it to memory: recollection occurs because processes naturally follow each other in an orderly manner. Hobbes (1651) made it an all-embracing principle. According to him, all thought and action was produced by the lawful succession of ideas, which was accountable for in terms of association: if two mental events have occurred together at the same time, then if one occurs in the future, the other will be reinstated. David Hartley (1749) followed John Locke in adopting the psychological association of ideas, and contiguity as its sole principle. His contribution was to provide a speculative account of the physiological basis of association. He believed that physical objects produced vibrations in the surrounding aether, which agitated small particles in the medullary substance of the nerves and brain, forming the physical basis of sensation. Vibratiuncles, feebler vibrations persisting after the cessation of the stimulus, formed the physical basis of after-images, ideas, and memory. By the end of the 19th century the brain was pictured as a mass of neurons connected by synapses. The similarity of the synapse to an association proved irresistible. The basis of memory as changes in synaptic efficiency has been a reasonable hypothesis since the time of Santiago Ramón y Cajal (1908), who

114 From philosophy to history discovered neurons and suggested that learning was mediated by cell outgrowths. But even before this, Alexander Bain made reference to “specific grouping, or coordination of sensations and movements, by virtue of specific growths in the cell junctions” (Bain, 1873, p. 91) and William James wrote: “Let us assume as the basis of all our subsequent reasoning this law: when two elementary brain processes have been active together or in immediate succession, one of them on reoccurring, tends to propagate its excitement into the other” (James, 1890, p. 566). Donald Hebb developed Ramón y Cajal’s idea with his notions of cell assemblies and reverberating circuits: “When an axon of cell A is near enough to excite a cell B and repeatedly or persistently takes part in firing it, some growth process or metabolic change takes place in one or both cells such that A’s efficiency, as one of the cells firing B, is increased” (Hebb, 1949, p. 62). Hebb’s rule has been made mathematically more precise by many current workers in parallel distributed processing (PDP), e.g., Rumelhart, Hinton, and McClelland (1986). Sensitivity to frequency (i.e., the view that the strength of an association is a function of the frequency of pairings in its past history) and the notion of learning as some kind of statistical modelling are old ideas. The new connectionism augments the old ‘co-occurrence statistics’ of associationism (to borrow a term from Fodor & Pylyshyn, 1988) with hidden units, to enable systems to deal with more global and abstract properties, and sophisticated principles for weight setting. Besides Hebb, the other important historical figure in this area is Karl Lashley. In a personal letter written in 1957 he gives his own account of how he became interested in the organization of the brain: “As a laboratory boy in Zoology in 1907 I found in a box of trash abandoned by J. B. Johnston when he went to Minnesota a series of Golgi stained sections of a frog’s brain. I proposed to Reese, his successor, that I work out all the connections among the cells so that we might know how the frog works. It was a shock to learn that the stain is selective, but I have never escaped from the problem” (Cobb, 1960, p. xvii). Lashley became associated with Shepherd Ivory Franz, who was then at St. Elizabeth’s Hospital in Washington. Franz had been working on the functions of the mammalian brain using ablation and had shown that lesions in the frontal lobes do not destroy long established habits; that they only abolish learned behaviour if a great deal of tissue is destroyed; and that habits lost by such destruction can be relearned. Franz and Lashley replicated these results in 1917. This problem was to become Lashley’s life-work. Following a series of apparently ‘negative’ results, he put forward his hypotheses of equipotentiality and mass action “whereby the efficiency of performance of an entire complex function may be reduced in proportion to the extent of the brain injury” (1929, p. 25). His conclusion was that memory traces are not localized in the cerebral cortex. In his famous paper ‘In search of the engram’ he wrote: “The mass of evidence . . . shows conclusively that it is the pattern and not the localization of energy on the sense organ that determines its functional effect” (Lashley, 1950, p. 469). Lashley saw these results as militating against connectionism. It is ironical that the ‘new connectionism’ has provided a solution to his problem. Lashley’s other great problem, likewise solved by PDP, was the spatial representation of temporal order, discussed in another famous paper

Neural nets: from Hartley and Hebb to Hinton 115 (‘The problem of serial order in behavior’), delivered at the Hixon symposium in 1948. Neural nets, in which the activity of the brain is modelled abstractly by networks of logical neurons, were developed in the 1940s. (For a more detailed account of work dating from this period onwards, see Cowan & Sharp, 1988, to whom I am indebted.) Hilgard and Marquis (1940) in their book Conditioning and learning discuss schematic arrangements of neurons to account for conditioning by alteration of the synaptic threshold. Simultaneous activation from the CS and UCS increase the excitability of a synapse, such that the CS alone is able to activate it whereas previously it was unable to do so. The first major contribution was made by Warren McCulloch and Walter Pitts (1943) in a paper entitled ‘A logical calculus of the ideas immanent in nervous activity’. They applied symbolic logic to the problem of describing what neural nets can do and proved that whatever operations and processes can be described in logical terms can be embodied in nets of formal neurons or what became known as ‘McCulloch–Pitts’ (M–P) nets. Each unit is activated if and only if its total excitation reaches or exceeds zero. However, these neural nets are highly simplified and amount to no more than synchronous, discrete logical switches. Between the years 1946 and 1953 a series of important interdisciplinary meetings (see Heims, 1975), which gave rise to what became cybernetics, was attended by Kenneth Craik, Gregory Bateson, Heinrich Klüver, Theodore Schneirla, Kurt Lewin, John von Neumann, Norbert Wiener, Warren McCulloch, Walter Pitts, Julian Bigelow, and Arturo Rosenblueth, amongst others. At the first meeting Klüver drew attention to the problem of form perception. At a subsequent meeting there was a conflict between the cyberneticians supporting atomistic, digital computer models, based on neurophysiology and mathematics, and Koehler emphasizing the findings of empirical psychology and favouring dynamic field theories and mechanisms such as isomorphism. Partly in answer to this challenge of form perception, Pitts and McCulloch (1947) in a paper on ‘How we know universals’ described a net of idealized neurons, similar to a digital computer, but capable of recognising forms. They even suggested detailed cerebral cortical mechanisms. Other developments in the fifties included the work of John von Neumann, Ross Ashby, and Albert Uttley. Uttley (1954) demonstrated that neural nets with Hebblike modifiable connections could learn to classify binary patterns and von Neumann (1956) dealt with the problem of reliability by introducing redundancy into M–P nets. Wilfrid Taylor was the first to develop neural nets with associative memory. Associative memory is the ability to generate one internal representation from another or the remainder of a complex representation from part of it (content addressability). His original net (1956) consisted of a layer of associative units sandwiched between arrays of sensory and motor units. The units were analog and all contact weights modifiable. The training procedure used was Hebb’s rule: activated synaptic weights are increased if they activate their target units. Frank Rosenblatt (1958) selected for attention a subclass of neural nets, which he called perceptrons, that consist of a space (retina), a single set of association

116 From philosophy to history neurons, and response neurons. His work constituted a major approach to the problem of pattern recognition. He showed that M–P nets with modifiable connections could be trained to classify patterns. Central to the work was the idea of training the perceptron by reinforcement procedures while exposing it to a sequence of pattern instances. It became popular and highly controversial, as we shall see. Bernard Widrow and M.E. Hoff (1960) developed the adaline (adaptive linear neuron), similar to the perceptron. It has a slightly different training procedure (what has come to be known as the ‘Widrow–Hoff’ or ‘delta’ rule): weight changes are proportional to the differences between the desired activation pattern and the unit’s total excitation. A number of important advances came from the consideration of physical analogies, notably the hologram. (For a technical account, see Willshaw, 1981, on which the following is based.) A hologram is a method of information storage employing coherent beams of electromagnetic radiation. It provides a permanent record of the pattern of interference between two light waves in a localized region of space. Subsequent illumination of the hologram with one of the waves effectively unlocks the pattern from store. The hologram was invented by Gabor (1948) and achieved technical importance with the arrival of the laser. Technological advances in the sixties led people to suggest it as a model for brain functioning, largely on account of its properties of resistance to local damage and tolerance of imperfect input—old ideas. Van Heerden (1963a, 1963b) discussed the similarities between the method of optical information storage in solids using coherent light and Beurle’s (1956) suggestions as to how associative learning could take place in a nerve net by means of modifiable thresholds. There are two main problems with holographic models of memory: (1) They are very complicated systems for the relatively simple computations they perform. (2) The fidelity of recall is not very good. David Willshaw and Christopher Longuet-Higgins began the search for simpler representations of holographic memory. In 1969 they published a paper entitled ‘Non-holographic associative memory’, in which they argued that the features of holography that commend it as a model of associative memory can be mimicked and actually improved on by simpler discrete non-linear models, viz. the correlograph and the associative net, which might have been evolved by the brain. Information storage in such a system has three important properties: Firstly, it is parallel because each mapping can be effected without reference to any other. (‘Parallel’ is used in at least three different senses: (a) independent, as here; (b) simultaneous, as in Rumelhart, Hinton, & McClelland, 1986, p. 47, “The system is inherently parallel in that many units can carry out their computations at the same time”; (c) interactive, the most interesting usage, as in Selfridge’s ‘Pandemonium’ model of pattern recognition.) Secondly, it is non-local or distributed: each memory is represented by a pattern of activity distributed over many elements, and each element is involved in representing many different memories. (Contrast local memory where each piece of information is stored in a separate location

Neural nets: from Hartley and Hebb to Hinton 117 and can be retrieved with perfect accuracy.) Thirdly, it is robust, i.e., resistant to local damage which causes incompleteness—hence it can function as a content addressable memory, or inaccuracy—hence patterns can be reconstructed from degraded inputs, although this facility is achieved at the cost of storage space. Discussion of the property of recognition of displaced patterns with Francis Crick led to refinement of the model and the development of an associative net or matrix memory, which can be represented as a lattice. An intersection/synapse is activated when the associated input and output are activated together, i.e., if the pair of lines that pass through it have been activated in the association of at least one of the pattern pairs. These ideas are clearly realizable in neural tissue: the horizontal lines of the matrix could be axons of input neurons, the vertical lines dendrites of output neurons, and the intersections modifiable synapses which function as binary switches. Several people have suggested that the nerve cells of the cerebellar cortex may function as an associative net: Eccles, Ito, and Szentagothai (1976), Pellionisz and Llinas (1979) and Marr (1969) who made detailed proposals. Marr made similar suggestions for the hippocampus, where his theory has been supported by the discovery of long-term potentiation (i.e., strengthening of excitatory synapses for seconds to minutes as a result of presynaptic stimulation, see McNaughton & Morris, 1987), and extended his theory more generally to the neocortex. In the seventies the dominant research paradigm was the arch-rival, artificial intelligence (AI), committed to exploring rule-based systems of symbols in von Neumann machines as the model of intelligent behaviour. This work was predicated on Kenneth Craik’s belief that “thought parallels reality through symbolism”. It is a top-down approach, premissed on logical atomism and the possibility of explicit knowledge. The construction of neural nets, by contrast, constitutes a bottom-up, holistic approach, characterised by implicit knowledge. (See Dreyfus & Dreyfus, 1988, for the contrast between these two approaches.) A substantial contributory factor to the ascendency of AI and the decline of interest in neural nets during this period was the publication by Minsky and Papert in 1969 of their book Perceptrons. This demonstrated limits to the performance of onelayer perceptrons: they cannot distinguish such letters as T and C independently of rotation; they have the greatest difficulty demonstrating topological connectedness and mathematical functions such as parity (whether an odd or even number of points are on the retina). Minsky and Papert proved that perceptrons are not computationally universal: they cannot compute EXOR, the exclusive or, or its negation, which is computationally universal, in that all other functions can be expressed in terms of it. They claimed that most of the work on perceptrons was “sterile” and “without scientific value” and misleadingly implied that their conclusions extended to multi-layered perceptrons. Papert, at the meeting of the Experimental Psychology Society in London in December 1987, rendered Geoffrey Hinton almost apoplectic. To understand why, it is necessary to have a knowledge of the historical background. Papert (1988, p. 3–4) casts the story in terms of the myth of Snow White:

118 From philosophy to history Once upon a time two daughter sciences were born to the new science of cybernetics. One sister was natural with features inherited from the study of the brain . . . The other was artificial, related from the beginning to the use of computers. Each of the sister sciences tried to build models of intelligence, but from very different materials. The natural sister built models (called neural networks) out of mathematically purified neurones. The artificial sister built her models out of computer programs. In their first bloom of youth the two were equally successful and equally pursued by suitors from other fields of knowledge. They got on very well together. Their relationship changed in the early sixties when a new monarch appeared, one with the largest coffers ever seen in the kingdom of the sciences: Lord DARPA, the Defense Department’s Advanced Research Projects Agency. The artificial sister grew jealous and was determined to keep for herself the access to Lord DARPA’s research funds. The natural sister would have to be slain. The bloody work was attempted by two staunch followers of the artificial sister, Marvin Minsky and Seymour Papert, cast in the role of the huntsman sent to slay Snow White and bring back her heart as proof of the deed. Their weapon was not the dagger but the mightier pen, from which came a book—Perceptrons—purporting to prove that neural nets could never fill their promise of building models of mind: only computer programs could do this. Victory seemed assured for the artificial sister. And indeed for the next decade all the rewards of the kingdom came to her progeny, of which the family of expert systems did best in fame and fortune. But Snow White was not dead. What Minsky and Papert had shown the world as proof was not the heart of the princess; it was the heart of a pig . . . Their book was read as proving that the neural net approach to building models of mind was dead. But a closer look reveals that they really demonstrated something much less than this. What they demonstrated was that there were serious limitations to one-layer perceptrons but it does not follow from this that the whole neural net enterprise is doomed. Papert acknowledges that “There was some hostility in the energy behind the research reported in Perceptrons, and there is some degree of annoyance at the way the new movement has developed; part of our drive came, as quite plainly acknowledged in our book, from the fact that funding and research energy were being dissipated on what still appear to me to be misleading attempts to use connectionist methods in practical applications” (Papert, 1988, pp. 4–5). The 1980s saw the rise of neo-connectionism, with the publication by Geoffrey Hinton and John Anderson in 1981 of their book Parallel models of associative memory. John Hopfield (1982) demonstrated a formal analogy between a net of neuron-like elements with random symmetric connection weights (a Hopfield net) and spin glass (a magnetic material consisting of a random mixture of

Neural nets: from Hartley and Hebb to Hinton 119 ferromagnetically and antiferromagnetically interacting spins) which has the ability to store many different patterns. (This was dependent on earlier work by Brian Cragg, a neuroanatomist, and Nevill Temperley, a physicist, 1954, who suggested analogies between the behaviour of neural nets and the properties of magnetic materials.) Using Hebb’s rule Hopfield was able to show that the weights can be modified so as to stabilize net activity. The storage of information in dynamically stable configurations was an important conceptual advance but the nets were artificial rather than neural, in that each element both excites and inhibits its neighbours. Geoffrey Hinton and Terrence Sejnowski (1983) were able to build on this, repeating Kirkpatrick, Gelatt, and Vecchi’s (1983) method with spin-glass problems. They introduced Boltzmann machines, which are adaptive Hopfield nets with hidden units, which implement a Monte Carlo procedure for finding stable configurations of active and inactive (analog) units. They are unsupervised but slow and employ only symmetric connections. In 1986 Rumelhart, Hinton, and Williams successfully implemented, in a twolayer perceptron with analog units, a procedure originally suggested by Rosenblatt known as back-propagation, in which responses are used to adjust the weights of the motor units and then the hidden units, the adjustment being related to weight changes of all the units downstream. These multilayer analog perceptrons permit the investigation of supervised learning in adaptive neural nets. They can do all sorts of wonderful things that single-layer perceptrons cannot do, e.g., solve the EXOR problem, distinguish T and C independent of translation and rotation, and learn family trees. There are two problems: (1) They are relatively slow, and (2) procedures that work well on small-scale problems may not generalise to largerscale versions (the scaling problem). Work in the last couple of years has been devoted mainly to improvements dealing with entrapment (i.e., getting stuck in non-optimal solutions) and scaling problems. The two volumes of Parallel distributed processing (the PDP ‘bible’), edited by Rumelhart and McClelland and published in 1986, were sold out (6,000 copies) before it went to press. What is all the fuss about? The core ingredients are very simple: units which have a level of activation, connections which have weights or thresholds, and modification rules (typically either Hebbian, where, e.g., activated connections are strengthened, or the Widrow–Hoff delta rule, where weight change is proportional to the discrepancy between obtained and desired outcome). Some of the features of PDP that have excited people are as follows: 1 2 3

It is neurally inspired and plausible. Parallel processing enables one to account for the speed with which complex decisions are made. (The hundred step constraint.) Distributed representation accounts for the resistance to damage which Lashley noted. “Information is not stored anywhere in particular. Rather it is stored everywhere” (Rumelhart & Norman, 1981, p. 3). Representation is global rather than local. However, distributed representation is not opposed to localization of function: it occurs within localized modules.

120 From philosophy to history 4 5

6 7

8 9

Nevertheless, PDP is anti-reductionist and holistic. It is the pattern as a whole that is the meaningful level of analysis. PDP can account well for pattern recognition (stereopsis and other aspects of visual perception), motor control, and learning (selection of the rule that best fits the current situation). There is automatic generalisation: related representations activate units in common. Distributed representation gives a realistic account of memory access and content addressability (recall from partially incorrect or incomplete descriptions). “Information is better thought of as ‘evoked’ than ‘found’” (Rumelhart & Norman, 1981, p. 3). The blurring of the distinction between veridical recall and confabulation or plausible reconstruction seems to be characteristic of human memory. Storage and processing are not separated. All of the processing is carried out by the units: there is no executive or overseer. Knowledge is implicit rather than explicit, stored in the connections rather than the units. It is built into the processor itself and not directly accessible to interpretation by some separate processor.

I conclude that the history of parallel distributed processing has itself been a case of parallel distributed processing. Synaptic connectionism and distributed representation are old ideas. The employment of physical analogies (notably the hologram and spin-glass) and the application of computer technology, logic, and mathematics have enabled these parallel processes to interact from time to time.

References Bain, A. (1873). Mind and body. London: Henry S. King. Beurle, R. L. (1956). Properties of a mass of cells capable of regenerating pulses. Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society. Series B, 240, 55–94. Cobb, S. (1960). A salute from neurologists. In F. A. Beach, D. O. Hebb, C. T. Morgan, & H. W. Nissen (Eds.), The neuropsychology of Lashley (pp. xvii–xx). New York: McGraw-Hill. Cowan, J. D., & Sharp, D. H. (1988). Neural nets and artificial intelligence. Daedalus, March, 85–121. Cragg, B. G., & Temperley, H. N. V. (1954). The organization of neurones: a cooperative analogy. EEG Clinical Neurophysiology, 6, 85–92. Craik, K. J. W. (1943). The nature of explanation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Dreyfus, H. L., & Dreyfus, S. E. (1988). Making a mind versus modeling the brain: Artificial intelligence back at a branchpoint. Daedalus, March, 1543. Eccles, J. C., Ito, M., & Szentagothai, J. (1976). The cerebellum as a neuronal machine. New York/Berlin: Springer-Verlag. Fodor, J. A., & Pylyshyn, Z. W. (1988). Connectionism and cognitive architecture: A critical analysis. Cognition, 28, 3–71. Gabor, D. (1948). A new microscopic principle. Nature, 161, 777–778. Hartley, D. (1749). Observations on man, his frame, his duty, and his expectations. London: Leake and Frederick.

Neural nets: from Hartley and Hebb to Hinton 121 Hebb, D. O. (1949). The organization of behaviour. New York: Wiley. Heerden, P.J. Van (1963a). A new optical method of storing and retrieving information. Applied Optics, 2, 387–392. Heerden, P. J. Van (1963b). Theory of optical information storage in solids. Applied Optics, 2, 393–400. Heims, S. (1975). Encounter of behavioral sciences with new machine-organism analogies in the 1940’s. Journal of the History of the Behavioral Sciences, 11, 368–371. Hilgard, E. R., & Marquis, D. M. (1940). Conditioning and learning. New York: AppletonCentury-Crofts. Hinton, G. E., & Anderson, J. A. (Eds.) (1981). Parallel models of associative memory. Hillsdale: Erlbaum. Hinton, G. E., & Sejnowski, T. J. (1983). Optimal perceptual inference. Proceedings of the Institute of Electronic and Electrical Engineers Computer Society on the Conference of Computer Vision and Pattern Recognition (pp. 448–453). Washington, DC: IEEE. Hobbes, T. (1651). Human nature, or the fundamental elements of policy. W. Molesworth (Ed.), The English works of Thomas Hobbes (Vol. 4). London: John Bohn, 1840. Hopfield, J. J. (1982). Neural networks and physical systems with emergent collective computational abilities. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, 79, 2554–2558. James, W. (1890). Principles of psychology (Vol. 1). New York: Dover. 1950. Kirkpatrick, S., Gelatt, C. D., Jr., & Vecchi, M. P. (1983). Optimization by simulated annealing. Science, 220, 671–680. Lashley, K. S. (1929). Brain mechanisms and intelligence. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Lashley, K. S. (1950). In search of the engram. Symposia of the Society for Experimental Biology (No. 4, pp. 454–482). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lashley, K. S. (1951). The problem of serial order in behavior. In L. A. Jeffress (Ed.), Cerebral mechanisms in behavior (pp. 112–136). New York: Wiley. Marr, D. (1969). A theory of cerebellar cortex. Journal of Physiology, 202, 432–470. McCulloch, W. S., & Pitts, W. H. (1943). A logical calculus of the ideas immanent in nervous activity. Bulletin of Mathematical Biophysics, 5, 115–133. McNaughton. B. L., & Morris, R. G. M. (1987). Hippocampal synaptic enhancement and information storage within a distributed memory system. Trends in Neurosciences, 10, 408–415. Minsky, M., & Papert, S. (1969). Perceptrons: An introduction to computational geometry. Cambridge. MA: MIT Press. Papert, S. (1988). One AI or many? Daedalus, March, 1–14. Pellionisz, A., & Llinas, R. (1979). Brain modeling by tensor network theory and computer simulation. The cerebellum: distributed processor for predictive coordination. Neuroscience, 4, 323–348. Pitts, W. H., & McCulloch, W. S. (1947). How we know universals. Bulletin of Mathematical Biophysics, 9, 127–147. Ramón y Cajal, S. (1908). Structure et connexions de neurones. Les prix Nobel en 1906 (pp. l–25). Stockholm: Norstedt and Soner. Rosenblatt, F. (1958). The perceptron: a probabilistic model for information storage and organization in the brain. Psychological Review, 65, 386–408. Rumelhart. D. E., Hinton, G. E., & McClelland, J. L. (1986). A general framework for parallel distributed processing. In D. E. Rumelhart, J. L. McClelland, & the PDP

122 From philosophy to history Research Group (Eds.), Parallel distributed processing (pp. 45–76). Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Rumelhart, D. E., Hinton, G. E., & Williams, R. J. (1986). Learning internal representations by error propagation. In D. E. Rumelhart. J. L. McClelland, & the PDP Research Group (Eds.), Parallel distributed processing (Vol. 1, pp. 318–362), Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Rumelhart, D. E., & Norman, D. A. (1981). Introduction. In G. E. Hinton & J. A. Anderson (Eds.), Parallel models of associative memory (pp. 1–7). Hillsdale, NJ: Erlbaum. Taylor, W. K. (1956). Electrical simulation of some nervous system functional activities. In C. Cherry (Ed.), Information theory (pp. 314–328). London: Butterworths. Uttley, A. (1954). The classification of signals in the nervous system. EEG Clinical Neurophysiology, 6, 479–494. Von Neumann, J. (1956). Probabilistic logics and the synthesis of reliable organisms from unreliable components. In C. E. Shannon & J. McCarthy (Eds.), Automata studies (pp. 43–98). Princeton, NJ: Princeton Univ. Press. Widrow, B., & Hoff, M. E. (1960). Adaptive switching circuits. Institute of Radio Engineers, Western Electronic Show and Convention, Convention Record (Part 4, pp. 96–104). Willshaw, D. (1981). Holography, associative memory, and inductive generalization. In G. E. Hinton & J. A. Anderson (Eds.), Parallel models of associative memory (pp. 83–104). Hillsdale, NJ: Erlbaum. Willshaw, D. J., Buneman, O. P. & Longuet-Higgins, H. C. (1969). Non-holographic associative memory. Nature, 222, 960–962.

13 G. F. Stout’s philosophical psychology

Introduction My aim in this chapter will be to present some of the chief doctrines of George Frederick Stout’s philosophical psychology, particularly those which may have a bearing on current issues in cognitive science. As the main purpose is one of exposition, I shall rely heavily on quotations from his writings. Stout was an armchair psychologist: experimental psychology was for him a source of information rather than a substitute for thinking. It is peculiarly difficult to give an account of his philosophy for several reasons. The various strands are all closely interwoven. For example, embedded in his concept of noetic synthesis are criticisms of association, the doctrine of unity, and the role of thought in sensation. His philosophy is a synthesis. Mace (1945, p. 313) reports that he once gleefully remarked: “I have got them all in my system”. Stout favours the via media; thus each statement must be qualified, easily leading to apparent paradox. In my view, these are more serious sources of difficulty than his terminology, though this can be confusing. On the one hand, he expresses new ideas in old-fashioned ways (“He hid his twentieth century light under a nineteenth century bushel”: Mace, 1954, p. 75). More commonly, he expresses the same ideas in different ways.

Biography George Frederick Stout was born in the north east of England in 1860, the son of a shipbroker. He did well at school and went on to study at Cambridge, where he graduated with first class honours in both Classics in 1882 – achieving special distinction in ancient philosophy – and Moral Science the following year, achieving special distinction in metaphysics. Following graduation, he came under the influence of James Ward, who turned his attention to psychology. He was elected Fellow of St John’s College Cambridge, appointed University Lecturer in 1887 (where his pupils included G. E. Moore and Bertrand Russell), first Anderson Lecturer in Comparative Psychology at Aberdeen in 1896, first Wilde Reader in Mental Philosophy at Oxford in 1899, and Professor of Logic and Metaphysics at St Andrews in 1903, where he remained until his retirement in 1936. He was editor of Mind from 1891–1920. In 1939 he emigrated to Australia, where his son, Alan,

124 From philosophy to history had become Professor of Moral and Political Philosophy at Sydney, and died there in 1944. He had a superb intellect, loving nothing better than to engage in philosophical discussion, at which he was brilliant – despite his deafness, which could be an advantage! He was one of the best read men of a reading generation (Wright, 1944), with an insatiable interest in books and ideas (Knight, 1946). He had a freshness and liveliness of mind – a perennial youthfulness. He was a good friend and a shrewd judge of character. He valued simplicity, directness, honesty and integrity, tolerating everything except humbug (Passmore, 1952). Broad (1945) describes him as always “sane, sensible and decent”. His life, like Locke’s, was “natural, easy and unaffected”; he was a living example of the joy to be found in academic life. His wit, puckish humour, absent-mindedness and engaging eccentricities were known to his friends.

Influence and assessment Stout was particularly influenced by Herbart’s concept of apperception and the possibility of a dynamic theory of knowledge; and by Bradley and Ward’s critiques of the associationist doctrine, for its particularity and atomism. He anticipated modern reactions against the sensationist and associationist traditions, though his arguments were not always original. Perhaps his originality lay in linking dynamic Wundtian voluntarism with the cognitive aspects of Herbartian apperception.1 Stout has been described as “the first of the moderns rather than the last of the ancients” (Mace, 1954, 75). He moved with and ahead of his times in every way but one, never conforming to terminological fashion. I believe he became out-moded on account of his old-fashioned terminology and his exclusive reliance on armchair analysis. Kusch (personal communication) has suggested that his old-fashioned terminology may have reduced his influence amongst philosophers while his lack of experimental evidence may have lessened his attraction to psychologists. In addition, he spent most of his life secluded in the remote outpost of St Andrews. He influenced Samuel Alexander and William McDougall who drew on his doctrine of conation for their own theories; and Spearman who acknowledges his debt to him – his third noegenetic principle of the eduction of correlates was based on Stout’s concept of relative suggestion. Many of Stout’s ideas anticipated Gestalt psychology. Schaar (1996) has demonstrated that Stout was the mediator between the ideas of Brentano and Twardowski and the realist theories of Moore and Russell, both students of Stout’s. Stout pointed to ways of escaping the solipsistic predicament and attempted to work out a theory of perception that would soften the intolerable opposition between the world of phenomenology and the world of physics.

Published works Stout wrote four major books and over sixty journal articles, published mainly in Mind and the Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society. His Analytic Psychology

G. F. Stout’s philosophical psychology 125 (AP), first published in 1896, was an elaborate treatise in two large volumes, a work of reference for psychologists, which went into three editions. By common consent his best book, it established his reputation. Flugel comments that it is: “well worthy of greater attention than it usually receives from the modern student, for it is at once an acutely penetrating and profoundly satisfying book, and it is astonishing how many anticipations – or, at east, adumbrations – of later twentieth-century developments are to be found in it” (Flugel, 1933, 152). Others complained of the tendency to lapse now and then into an over-refinement of analysis, finding its style rather heavy and slow. It was intended to provide a preliminary analysis of our actual developed consciousness (AP, II, 20–21, footnote). “This department of psychology is purely analytical and largely introspective . . . its aim is to discover the ultimate and irreducible constituents of consciousness in general. The only modern writer who appears to have fully realised the importance of this preliminary inquiry is Brentano” (AP, I, 36). It was to pave the way for the genetic treatment of psychology, “undoubtedly the most important and interesting . . . reserved for a future work” (AP, I, 37). This exposition of psychology from a genetic point of view was provided by the Manual of Psychology (MP),2 first published in 1898, which became the standard textbook on psychology for students in British universities, going into four further editions (1901, 1913, 1929, 1938). Its unusually wide circulation made it his best known work. It rests on the AP. It is not a textbook in the ordinary sense of the word but an original contribution to psychology (Passmore, 1952). Mind and Matter (1931) was the much delayed and incomplete publication of the first series of the Gifford Lectures in Edinburgh from 1919–21, and God and Nature (1952) the posthumous publication of the second series.

Criticism of associationism Stout was “the most vigorous and influential critic of associationist psychology” (Passmore, 1952, xxxviii). He reinforced the powerful attacks developed by Bradley and Ward. “Introspective analysis easily reveals that [the synthesis of the data of different senses in the perception of a single object] cannot be accounted for by association of ideas” (AP, II, 24). “Association of ideas forms no part of the ordinary perception of things” (AP, II, 26). He allows that “the associative principle . . . comes into play in so far as the transition from a given sensory experience to a corresponding percept is strengthened by repetition” (AP, II, 30) but the laws of literal resuscitation, revival, or reinstatement of which Bain speaks are “founded on a false view of the nature both of association and of construction” (AP, II, 44): “the process as described is a sheer impossibility and absurdity” (AP, II, 45). Stout points to three errors: 1

The exclusive emphasis on mere combination. Against this Stout urges that every new synthesis results from the further determination of a psychical whole that in some way already pre-exists. The new synthesis consists in

126 From philosophy to history the distinction and definition of the parts and relations within this prior whole . . . It is like the shuffling of a pack of cards; the various combinations which take place presuppose the general and relatively indeterminate combination, in virtue of which the cards constitute a pack at all. (AP, II, 48) 2

3

Failure on the part of the associationists to recognise the apprehension of a form of combination as a distinct psychical element: “the presentation of a form of synthesis is as distinct from the presentation of the elements combined considered apart from their union, as the presentation of red is distinct from the presentation of green” (AP, II, 48). The disposition to regard mental elements as entering into new combinations, without themselves undergoing transformation in the process. “Elements which enter into a new whole, receive new qualifications from their relations within this whole” (AP, II, 48). Stout provides various colourful examples: (a) “The whist-player needs not be told that in every fresh deal the several cards become qualified by their relations within the new whole. To fit in to the design and plan of a building the stones must be hewn into shape” (AP, II, 48–49). (b) It would obviously be an absurdity to attempt to account for the organisation of an army merely by the contiguous adhesion of the soldiers inter se, apart from the descending scale of subordination to officers. But it is an absurdity of an exactly analogous nature, though much greater in degree, to attempt to account for the systematic unity of the human mind by mere association. (AP, II, 2) A navigator discovering he is sailing round an island: the parts to be put together are not initially apprehended in pure isolation from each other. The navigator starts by considering them under a certain point of view . . . The process of piecing them together is only possible because it is also a process whereby this relatively vague and indeterminate view receives progressive determination in detail. (AP, II, 50)

There are three prongs to his argument: (1) anti-atomism, stressing the general rather than the particular; (2) wholes or unity; (3) direction. (1) General vs particular The ultimate root of Professor Bain’s fallacy has been laid bare by Mr. Bradley. It lies in the tacit assumption that association is a link between particulars, as such. (AP, II, 45)

G. F. Stout’s philosophical psychology 127 As against the particularism of the associationists, Mr. Bradley lays down the axiom that ‘Association marries only Universals’. . . the connection which is operative in the process of revival is not between atomic particulars as such, but between general elements of content which they have in common. (AP, II, 46) Stout reformulated the Law of Association in two ways, one of which was by introducing the principle of Relative Suggestion, which foreshadows stimulus and response generalisation. He introduces the term with the example of Kepler’s discovery of the orbit of Mars: “The path of the planet between the observed points had to be mentally supplied by Kepler, in accordance with analogy. A process of this kind is what I propose to call Relative Suggestion, a term adapted from Thomas Brown” (AP, II, 51). He defines it as follows: The most general formula for it is: If the presented content b has formed part of a presented whole bc, then the presented content ß, when it recurs, will tend to call up a whole γ formally corresponding to bc. But the simplicity of this ultimate principle may be complicated in endless ways. The ßγ which corresponds to b may be a simple modification of b, as a lighter grey is a modification of a darker grey; or again, it may involve the relation of b to a new context, and it may happen that the constituents of this new context have associations of their own, which contribute to determine the productivereproductive process. (AP, II, 52) Examples of different types are given, such as the fluctuation of the meaning of words in language with the context; continuing a series; or producing a parallel series, as in melodic transposition. (2) Wholes or unity Apprehension of a whole independently of the apprehension of its component details Stout calls implicit apprehension. Here his exposition presages that of the Gestalt psychologists: “our cognisance of the form of combination characteristic of a whole is a mode of consciousness distinct from our cognisance of its constituents” (AP, II, 2–3). “I have a prenotion or presentiment of the whole before I resolve it into its components” (AP, II, 25), “The nature of any whole is determined, not merely by the nature of its constituent parts, but also by the form of their combination” (MP, 514). Transposition of a tune is again given as an example. Mace addresses the issue of the relation of Stout to Gestalt psychology in the preface to the fourth edition of the Manual: to claim ‘anticipation’ would be ungenerous and inaccurate. It would be truer to say that from the time of his earliest writings Professor Stout was in sympathetic accord with the reaction against the sensationalistic tradition, and

128 From philosophy to history in part on the grounds which have led to the more developed form of the Gestalt psychology. But to the latter belongs the credit of carrying the campaign in a systematic way into the experimental field, hitherto the stubbornest of strongholds of sensationalist Psychology. In part, however, the similarity of their doctrine is based on different and independent grounds, and in some respects Professor Stout goes further than the exponents of this school would be prepared to follow. But whilst largely independent, the two developments are on many fundamental points in substantial agreement. (MP, ix–x) The fifth edition of the Manual includes an appendix on Gestalt psychology, written by R. H. Thouless, with a Supplementary Note added by Stout, clarifying his position on the issues raised by the Gestalt psychologists. There are two main points on which he was not satisfied with their psychology of sense-perception. The first is their almost complete denial of the part played by past experience in the perceptual process: “it seems to me that they have thrown out the baby with the bath-water. The bath-water is associationism; the baby is the use of empirical explanation in the psychology of perception” (MP, 674). The second is their neglect of the difference between sensation and perception: “the distinction is, I maintain, undeniable and of primary importance both for the theory of knowledge and for psychology” (MP, 676). What constitutes perceptual appearance is that something seems to the percipient to exist objectively, which may or may not really exist, and which may not even be believed to exist. The sensible appearance, on the contrary, is not seeming at all. Neither is it anything which may seem to exist without in fact existing. It is actually experienced and therefore must actually exist. (MP, 676) In Wertheimer’s experiments on apparent motion, the sensible appearance of motion is unaffected by the knowledge that there are objectively two stationary illuminated points where these seem to be a single moving point. On the other hand the perceptual appearance is not unaffected by knowledge of the objective fact. With such knowledge seeing is no longer believing. (MP, 676) This strikes me as analogous to Pylyshyn’s (1984) notion of cognitive penetrability. On the differences between Stout and Gestalt, Passmore quotes a letter from Koffka to Stout: “As you say in your letter, you derive the supersummative, unitary character of melodies – or any other temporal wholes – from the unity and continuity of interest . . . My system demands that melodies must be whole apart from the interest of the listener” (Passmore, 1952, xxxix).

G. F. Stout’s philosophical psychology 129 (3) Direction The laws of mental grouping . . . are merely modes in which conscious striving seeks satisfaction. To regard them as containing by themselves the explanation of the grouping and sequence of presentations is like the attempt to explain the course of a vessel by reference to the arrangement of the sails, without taking into account the existence and direction of the wind. (AP, II, 82–3) The other way in which Stout reformulated the Law of Association was by reexpressing it as the Law of ‘Continuity (of Interest)’ rather than Contiguity (of Presentation). It thus became a conative, functional, goal-directed process rather than a purely cognitive or mechanical affair. For two items to become associated, mere temporal contiguity is insufficient: they have to be relevant to attaining purpose. “The truth is that the most important condition of association is not mere contiguity in the strict sense of temporal continuity of attention, but also continuity of interest” (MP, 506). “Throughout it is the reference to the proposed end which at once gives unity to the series and constitutes its raison d’être” (AP, II, 32). “Trains of ideas, like trains of perceptual activity, have, in general, a certain unity and continuity of interest. They subserve some end, practical or theoretical” (MP, 503). There is a tendency ideally to reinstate those objects that are relevant to the general trend of mental activity at the moment of recall. The sight of rain will suggest an umbrella if we are intending to go out; otherwise it may only suggest the idea of somebody else getting wet. If our minds are occupied with scientific discussion, the word ‘proofs’ will suggest one group of ideas; if we are engaged in preparing a book for the press, it will suggest something quite different. (MP, 512) Schematic apprehension is the implicit apprehension of a whole combined with successive apprehension of each of its components, so as to control the order of their emergence and exclude intrusion of irrelevant objects. It links the idea of the whole with that of direction. There is present in the one case a mental synthesis which is absent in the other . . .The vivid, distinct and persistent apprehension of the train of events as a whole, so controls and guides the ideal train as to prevent divergence into cross series which would interrupt and tangle the narrative. (AP, II, 34) “So far then as the implicit idea or perception of a whole determines the successive emergence of its parts in consciousness, we may apply to it the term ‘schematic apprehension’. This schematism is not without affinity to that of Kant” (AP, I, 96).

130 From philosophy to history

Noetic synthesis A central theme in Stout’s philosophy is noetic synthesis: ‘synthesis by the intellect’. By noetic synthesis I mean that union of presentational elements which is involved in their reference to a single object; or, in other words, in their combination as specifying constituents of the same thought. It is by noetic synthesis that those complex psychical units come into being which we call percepts, ideas, and concepts. All these words imply something which is perceived or conceived, or of which we had an idea; and it is this objective reference which constitutes each of them a unit in mental process. (AP, II, 1) To the extent that the next step in a train of thought is determined by “the controlling influence of the central idea of the topic with which the whole series is concerned”, noetic synthesis is operative; to the extent that it is determined by the special idea that last emerged, the principle of association is operative. The contrast between ‘contiguous adhesion’ and noetic synthesis is also shown in the passage from automatic processing to ‘thought-control’: “In proportion as automatism supervenes association becomes substituted for thought-control” (AP, II, 3). Stout distinguishes noetic synthesis from Wundtian apperception: What I termed noetic synthesis undoubtedly has a rough correspondence with what Wundt called apperception. There is, however, an important distinction. Noetic synthesis owes, in my view, its peculiarity to the introduction of a distinct kind of mental fact, the apprehension of the whole which determines the order and connection of the apprehension of parts . . . Such a conception is widely different from that of the reaction of consciousness upon its own content, which seems to form the essence of Wundt’s ‘apperception’. (AP, II, 401)

Relation between sensation and conception The distinction between thought and presentation, together with the insistence that they must be distinguished only as separable phases of the one cognitive process, was characteristic of Stout’s epistemology and set for him his special problems (Passmore, 1952).

Sensation distinguished from conception In the Analytic Stout distinguishes thought-reference from presentation: In the process by which we take cognisance of an object two constituents are distinguishable: (1) A thought-reference to something which, as the thinker

G. F. Stout’s philosophical psychology 131 means or intends it, is not a present modification of his individual consciousness. (2) A more or less specific modification of his individual consciousness, which defines and determines the direction of thought to this or that special object; this special mode of subjective experience we may call a presentation. (AP, I, 46–47) In the Manual Stout distinguishes perceptual appearance (alias activity factor) from sensible appearance: the development of our knowledge of the material world depends on two main conditions in the most intimate union and interdependence. These may be called the ‘sense-factor’ and the ‘activity-factor’. The activity-factor is essentially involved in our apprehension of the independent reality of physical objects and their qualities . . . By the sense factor is meant the actually experienced sensa which enter as essentially independent into sense-perception. (MP, 408) “[T]he sensum and the character of the physical object are not identical . . . nor can we identify the sensum with what we may call the perceptual appearance – with what the physical object seems to be to the percipient in the act of perceiving it” (MP, 409). He gives the following examples: (a) “though there is no sensible appearance either of the top of the table where the book covers it or of the under-surface of the book, there is a perceptual appearance of both” (MP, 677); (b) “Whenever one thing is perceived as being behind another . . . the perceptual appearance is present without any corresponding sensible appearance” (MP, 678).

Interdependence of sensation and conception In the Analytic Stout allows the possibility of pure ‘anoetic sentience’ (i.e. simple sensory experience devoid of any form of awareness of anything outside sense experience) but in all subsequent works he denies this. Sensation and thought are inextricably inter-mixed; they are ‘inseparably interpenetrate’ from the outset. On the one hand, conception implies sensation: thought is “inseparably blended with sense presentation and, so to speak, embedded in it.” “Thought is discriminative only in so far as it has presentation for its vehicle” (AP, I, 48). On the other hand, sensation implies conception. All sense experience involves thought which “transcends the immanence and immediacy of sense”. Stout’s final position was that thought is as primary as sensation; every sense experience carried with it reference to something beyond itself. Our perception of the world is coloured by certain antecedent expectations. We look for things to which appearances and phenomena belong. Categories are universal principles of relation holding either for all knowable objects or for all of a certain kind. The awareness of the categories of space, time, thinghood and causality is ‘primary’ or ‘original’. “Our position is that such categories belong even to rudimentary perceptual consciousness as a condition of its further

132 From philosophy to history development” (MP, 414). They include: spatial unity – “all extended bodies are extended in one and the same space” (MP, 414); temporal unity – “any particular duration or change is, from the outset, apprehended, however vaguely, as having a ‘before’ and ‘after’” (MP, 415); and causal unity – the unity of different attributes as belonging to the same thing. The view that sensation involves thought is akin to top-down processing, originating in cognitive psychology with the so-called ‘New Look’ in perception; but the converse position, that thought involves sensation goes beyond cognitive psychology to Mach and positivism. The following passage from the Analytic will serve to summarise this section and link to the next: Whatever is perceived is recognised as such or such; and however vague and rudimentary the recognition may be, it implies a reference to something beyond the given object. The object comes before consciousness as an instance, or example, or particular appearance of something which may have other instances, or examples, or particular appearances . . . The word ‘other’ implies a reference beyond this particular object; a reference to what, for psychological purposes, we may regard as a whole, of which the presented particular is a constituent part. This whole is an object of implicit apprehension, and in all human perception, at least, some such implicit apprehension appears to be involved. (AP, II, 6)

Epistemology Stout never lost his conviction that epistemology was the key both to philosophy and to psychology (Passmore, 1952). The theory of knowledge was always a main theme. At the beginning of the Analytic Stout maintains that, It is a primary problem of psychology to investigate how such knowledge [of the material world] comes into being . . . Psychology investigates the history of individual consciousness, and this coincides with the history of the process through which the world comes to be presented in consciousness. (AP, I, 7)

Realism Passmore maintains that Stout tried to steer a via media between absolute idealism and ‘new realism’, but in my view he comes much closer to realism than to idealism. Stout challenged the solipsistic premise that our knowledge of the external world is an inference based on sensations and images that alone are directly and certainly known. For him the data of experience are not mere appearances of objects but the objects themselves as they appear. He says: “the physical world . . . has a distinct existence independent of the process of knowing

G. F. Stout’s philosophical psychology 133 . . . it is immediately known through experience without being actually experienced” (Stout, 1931, 222). The following arguments are adduced: (a) “[T]he possibility of regarding any object as a mere thought involves a reference to objects which are not regarded as merely identical with the thoughts that think them” (AP, I, 46). (b) “If we are to explain illusion, we can do so only by distinguishing between sensations and physical things – a distinction which we should not otherwise have recognised” (MP, 419). Similarly, In all appearance something real appears; otherwise fiction and error would be impossible . . . To make a mistake is to believe something real to be in some way different from what it really is. But, unless we are cognisant of the real being concerning which the mistake is made, we cannot believe it to be what it is not; we cannot think of it wrongly if we do not think of it at all. If all appearance were mere appearance, everything for us would be equally real or unreal. (Unpublished Fragment, cited by Mace, 1954, p. 72)3

Representation Passmore states the problem succinctly thus: Representative perception will not do, for it does not admit that the physical world is immediately known and cannot explain how we could ever know it at all; naive realism will not do, because it cannot account for the difference between the world as it is and the world as we experience it. (Passmore, 1952, xliii) The problem is to give an account of the world such that it could include presentations and physical objects as constituents without sacrificing their unity. “A sensum is only a conditioned fragment of a physical object, just as a physical object is only a conditioned fragment of the world” (Passmore, 1952, xliii). At the end of the first of two articles on the philosophy of his great disputant, Samuel Alexander, Stout gives the following account of his position on representation: Am I then committed to a representative theory of sense perception? I admit that I am . . . But though I accept a representative theory of sense-perception I reject any representative theory of knowledge in general. The representative function of sensa, like all knowledge by way of representation, must be founded on an apprehension of some relation between what represents and what is represented; and this must in the long run be apprehended directly and not by way of representation. I have indicated my own positive view on this question in my book on Mind and Matter. (Stout, 1940, 18)

134 From philosophy to history In the Unpublished Fragment, Stout provides this wonderful critique of the copy theory: The preposition ‘of’ in the phrase ‘idea of’ is vague and ambiguous. Unless we are careful, we tend to give it a meaning such as it bears when we speak of an effect, or a copy, or a picture, or a reflexion, or a representation of something. An effect is an occurrence distinct from its cause in such a way that we may know it without knowing what produced it. A copy of a picture has an existence distinct from its original; a reflexion has an existence distinct from the thing which casts it. We can see the copy without seeing what is copied; we can see the reflexion without seeing what is reflected. If we interpret in the same way the relations of an idea to that of which it is an idea, we are plunged into a bottomless abyss of nonsense. We have on the one hand, the experience of an individual self; on the other, the real world beyond it. This real world itself would not enter into individual experience at all but only more or less imperfect copies or representations of it. These copies or representations would be all that the individual is aware of. He would know only his idea, which would intervene, like a painted screen, between him and what really exists. Thus it would for him be exactly the same as if there were nothing else. He could never distinguish what seems to be from what is. He would not be able to apprehend the representations which alone exist for him as being representative of something beyond themselves. Still less would he be able to get outside the inner circle of his ideas so as to determine how far they confirm or fail to conform to the outer circle of real or ‘objective’ being. (Unpublished Fragment, cited by Mace, 1954, 70–71)

Final remarks and conclusions My thesis in relation to the question of Stout’s anticipation of the cognitive revolution is that he is much too complex to be simply pigeon-holed. In certain respects he did anticipate the cognitive revolution: in his critique of association, his formulation of Gestalt hypotheses, the stress on the role of expectation, topdown processing and directed thinking. But in other ways he goes beyond cognitive science, particularly with regard to the way in which, for him, cognition is imbued with conation. His views on the embodied self adapting to its environment are in many respects reminiscent of the views of Varela, Thompson and Rosch (1991), who espouse an enactive view of cognition. They seek to avoid the scylla of realism – cognition as the recovery of a pregiven outer world, and the charybdis of idealism – cognition as the projection of a pregiven inner world. Both the sensori-motor capacities of the organism and the environmental context (biological, psychological and cultural) need to be taken into account. What constitutes the world of a given organism is enacted by that organism’s history of ‘structural coupling’. Cognition is inextricably linked to the lived histories which are the result

G. F. Stout’s philosophical psychology 135 of evolution. Cognitive science has frequently lacked these motivational and historical dimensions (Valentine, 1995). I conclude with a passage from Passmore’s Memoir on Stout: Pre-eminently he is a philosopher of the middle way. He would grant you so much, but only so much. Mind is conative – yes, but it is cognitive, too; and cognition and conation are not merely added to one another but mingle in the same process. Characters are particulars, but they belong to kinds; minds are embodied, but mind is not body, nor body mind; things are distinct, but not complete in themselves; we know the world as it is, but it is not only as we know it; to be is not to be known, but whatever is, is known, and whatever is known, is; God is not Nature, but Nature embodies God and God expresses Himself through Nature. The convictions of common sense are preserved, but without disrespect to either science or philosophy. In Stout’s philosophy, the idea of Reconciliation finds its most philosophical expression. (Passmore, 1952, 1)

Acknowledgements I should like to thank Dr N.E. Wetherick for his kindly, initial guidance through this thicket. I am grateful to the Bolzano Conference delegates, especially Liliana Albertazzi, Martin Kusch and Robin Rollinger, for comments following presentation of this paper.

Notes 1 2 3

I am grateful to Robin Rollinger for this suggestion. All page references are to the 5th edition. This fragment was a draft of part of chapter 1 for the fifth edition of the Manual of Psychology, which in the event was not revised by Stout himself but by Mace in consultation with Stout.

Bibliography Broad, C. D. (1945). Professor G. F. Stout (1860–1944). Mind, 54, 285–88. Flugel, J. C. (1933). A hundred years of psychology. London: Methuen. Knight, R. (1946). George Frederick Stout: An appreciation. British Journal of Educational Psychology, 16, 53–56. Mace, C. A. (1945). George Frederick Stout 1860–1944. Proceedings of the British Academy, 31, 306–16. Mace, C. A. (1954). The permanent contribution to psychology of George Frederick Stout. British Journal of Educational Psychology, 24, 64–75. Passmore, J. A. (1952). Memoir: George Frederick Stout. In G. F. Stout, God and Nature (Ed. A. K. Stout), (pp. xxv–liv). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pylyshyn, Z. W. (1984). Computation and cognition. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Schaar, M. van der (1996). From analytic psychology to analytic philosophy: the reception of Twardowski’s ideas in Cambridge. Axiomathes, 7, 294–324.

136 From philosophy to history Stout, G. F. (1896). Analytic psychology. Vols. I & II. London: George Allen & Unwin. Stout, G. F. (1898). Manual of psychology. (5th ed. 1938). London: University Tutorial Press. Stout, G. F. (1930). Studies in philosophy and psychology. London: Macmillan. Stout, G. F. (1931). Mind & matter. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Stout, G. F. (1940). The philosophy of Samuel Alexander (I). Mind, 49, 1–18. Stout, G. F. (1952). God and nature. (A.K. Stout, Ed.). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Valentine, E. R. (1995). Deconstructing cognition: Towards a framework for exploring non-conceptualised experience. In P. Pylkkänen & P. Pylkkö (Eds.), New directions in cognitive science (pp. 1–9). Helsinki: Finnish Artificial Intelligence Society. Varela, F. J., Thompson, E. & Rosch, E. (1991). The embodied mind. Cambridge, MA: MIT press. Wright, J. N. (1944). Obituary: Prof. G.F. Stout. Nature, No. 3911, October 14, p. 481.

14 Biographical introduction to James Sully’s Studies of Childhood

If the Human Mind ever comes to be generally regarded as susceptible of scientific form and treatment, this will be through the efforts of such thinkers as Mr. SULLY. (Alexander Bain)1

James Sully was born in Bridgwater, Somerset in 1842, into a Radical-Liberal, nonconformist family. His parents were Baptists. After a somewhat haphazard variety of schooling, he trained for the non-conformist ministry but by the end of his course, as he confesses in his autobiography: “I had acquired the practice of putting questions to myself, and I knew it was impossible for me to fall back into the passive acquiescent attitude of my old religious days” (Sully, 1918, p. 75). There followed two periods of study on the continent, in Göttingen under Lotze and in Berlin under Helmholtz and Du Bois-Reymond. Between these two visits abroad he married Mary Lewis, subsequently becoming father to a daughter, Edith, born 1873, and a son, Clifford, born 1880. Although in receipt of a stipend from his father until the family business went bankrupt in 1879, Sully sought employment to help support his family. With the support of Alexander Bain, one of the examiners of his MA thesis, for which he was awarded a gold medal, Sully secured the position of assistant to (Lord) John Morley, editor of the Fortnightly Review at the end of 1870. He became a freelance journalist, beginning by writing ‘middles’ for the Saturday Review on such topics as homishness, the British Hebe, the philosophy of shopping, the pathos of pleasure seeking and carioling (Norwegian pony-carting). Over the next forty years he wrote scores of articles and reviews for general interest periodicals, such as the Cornhill Magazine, Fortnightly Review (a major platform for radical opinion) and Nineteenth Century (aimed explicitly at popularisation), also contributing articles in French to Ribot’s Revue philosophique, thus becoming a “philosopher among journalists and a journalist among philosophers” (The Times obituary). Some of these articles were subsequently developed into books, including Sensation and intuition, the first of his eight major texts. Much of the material on which Studies of childhood was based had been previously published: earlier versions of the Father’s diary had appeared under the titles of ‘Babies and science’ and ‘Baby linguistics’ in the Cornhill Magazine 1881 and the English Illustrated Magazine 1884 respectively, George Sand’s childhood in Longman’s Magazine

138 From philosophy to history 1890, and the Introduction under the title of ‘The new study of children’ in the Fortnightly Review 1895. The remainder was serialised in fifteen parts under the general title of ‘Studies in childhood’ in The Popular Science Monthly between 1894 and 1896, ‘The child as artist’ and ‘The young draughtsman’ appearing as the American edition of Studies of childhood went to press. Sully was at the centre of London intellectual life for more than a quarter of a century. He had a wide circle of friends (some of whom were the subject of pen portraits in My life and friends), in particular: Alexander Bain, Charles Darwin, George Eliot, Francis Galton, John Hughlings Jackson, William James, G. H. Lewes, George Meredith, Henry Sidgwick, Herbert Spencer, Leslie Stephen and Robert Louis Stevenson. He was a member of the Sunday Tramps, a celebrated club of pedestrians organized by Leslie Stephen,2 and of the Metaphysical Society, famed for its vigorous debates between scientists and theologians. Sully was essentially a facilitator. He played a key role in the disciplinary and institutional development of psychology in Britain at the turn of the century. Sidgwick appointed him as joint secretary of the Second International Congress of Psychology which met in London in 1892. This provided Sully with the opportunity “to meet men whose names had long been known to me, such as W. Preyer, Alfred Binet, Ebbinghaus, and Paul Janet” (Sully, 1918, p. 231–232). The same year, after several unsuccessful attempts, he was appointed to the Grote Chair of Mind and Logic at University College London, a post that he held until his retirement in 1903. He was a frequent contributor to Mind and invited to join the editorial board of the Psychological Review when it was founded in 1895. Its editor, James Mark Baldwin, made a significant contribution to developmental psychology through his theory of interaction with the environment, by means of assimilation and accommodation (Baldwin, 1895), which influenced the Swiss psychologists, Edouard Claparède and, particularly, Jean Piaget. Sully was instrumental in setting up the first major psychological laboratory in England, at University College London in 1898 (Valentine, 1999), and called the meeting at which the British Psychological Society was formed in 1901. After spending some of his retirement in his beloved Italy (whither he went whenever in need of mental and physical refreshment) and writing his memoirs, he died in Richmond, Surrey in 1923. Studies of childhood was the first work of its kind in England, preceded only by those of W. Preyer in Germany and G. Stanley Hall in America. It is distinguished amongst Sully’s works by including original investigations of his own. In My life and friends Sully tells us that he was led by his psychological leanings “to watch the unfolding of infant consciousness in my own children. Friends, too, were most kind in sending me observations which they made on their own children” (Sully, 1918, p. 238). He had the following appeal published in Mind, 1893: PROFESSOR SULLY will be greatly obliged if parents or teachers of young children can supply him with facts bearing on the characteristics of the childish mind. What he especially desires is first-hand observations carried out on children during the first five or six years of life. Any action or saying which was considered worth recording will presumably have some significance as

Introduction to Sully’s Studies of Childhood 139 illustrating either common characteristics or the range of individual diversity among children. With the observation there should be given the sex of the child and the exact age at the time of the occurrence described, also, if possible, a reference to any facts of temperament, surroundings and previous experience which serve either to throw light on the observation, or on the other hand to make it appear extraordinary or exceptional. The points on which observation are more particularly desired are the following: (Mind, 1983, pp. 420–421) There followed these heads with examples supplied under each: Attention and Observation; Memory; Imagination and Fancy; Reasoning; Language; Pleasure and Pain; Fear; Self-feeling; Sympathy, Affection; Artistic Taste; Moral and Religious Feeling; Volition; Artistic Production. Many of these became chapter headings in Studies of childhood. The first edition of Studies of childhood was published in 1895 and widely reviewed, amongst other places in the Athenaeum, Daily Chronicle, Mind, the Monist and the Speaker (by Alexander Bain). It was published in America the following year, and sympathetically reviewed by Bryan (1894) in the Psychological Review. Reprinted many times, with a new edition in 1903, the book was translated into French, German and Russian, and a popular version issued under the title Children’s ways. Although some commentators cast doubt on the value of naturalistic observation, the text was widely cited in the scientific literature for decades to come. It won, as its author had hoped, “a considerable popularity, not only among psychologists, teachers, and parents, but among men of letters. It was pleasant to receive favourable words about it from men like W. E. Gladstone, Leslie Stephen, and George Meredith” (Sully, 1918, p. 239–240). George Meredith wrote to Sully as follows: Your book arrived and is now being carefully studied & annotated by the mother of a smiling babe half an inch greater in bulk, who has already begun to observe with interest the motions of his toe when he is in his bath. Further details will be communicated. The nurse, the mother and the father are pencil in hand about the infant for your behoof. Very seriously indeed let me say that considering the length of time you have devoted to the observation of these little ones and your devout intentness, the marvel is that you did not sink midway into the condition of the infants’ mind. It is a triumph of the philosophical, and nothing else would have sustained you. I have heard praises of the book from young mothers, and I have little doubt that you have already testimony of the solid philosophical value of your patient study. As to me I read and admire. (Letter from George Meredith to James Sully, 4th April, 1896)3 With a few exceptions, such as the work of Tiedemann (1787),4 the scientific study of children dates from the nineteenth century (Wong, 1994). Prior to that time,

140 From philosophy to history reports remained fragmentary and unpublished (Cavanaugh, 1985). Increasing awareness of the appalling conditions of children working in factories was one of the factors leading to the recording of children’s physical development. About the same time, the Belgian astronomer Adolphe Quetelet (1835) published his seminal work in which he suggested that the average measure from a sample might be taken to represent the norm or typical value. During the last quarter of the century, the charting of children’s mental development had become the focus of attention, with an exponential increase in the number of studies of children published, reaching about eighty by 1888 (Hall, 1888). Not only was the need for accurate, impartial and systematic observation recognized but, more importantly, Darwinian evolutionary theory provided a theoretical focus.5 A number of scholars and scientists made studies of their own children.6 (For a comprehensive review of the canon of so-called ‘baby diaries’, see Wallace et al., 1994.) Hippolyte Taine, the French philosophical psychologist, published a report of the development of language in his daughter in 1876. Its English translation in Mind the following year prompted Darwin to publish his ‘Biographical sketch of an infant’, the notebook for his eldest child, William, nicknamed ‘Doddy’, made thirty-seven years previously. What is notable about this study is the way in which Darwin immediately uses his observations to argue whether, for example, a particular piece of behaviour is likely to be innate or acquired. The first major text in developmental psychology, Die Seele des Kindes (1882) by the German physiologist W. Preyer, was based on careful observations of his son’s first three years. Sully’s ‘Father’s diary’, included in Studies of childhood – observations of his son Clifford7 during his first six years of life – falls in this tradition. Unlike other authors, Sully never explicitly identifies himself as the father, perhaps thereby hoping to gain greater scientific credibility. About the same time, Binet (1903) was trying the patience of his two daughters, Marguerite and Armande, with persistent questions and tests directed at contrasting their cognitive development, as he had earlier done with respect to their motor development (see Reeves, 1965, Ch. 7). Darwin’s theory claimed continuity of development and raised the issue of the relation between ontogenetic and phylogenetic development. The German embryologist Ernst Haeckel (1866, 1910) put forward the doctrine that ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny, on the basis of observed similarities of the human foetus at various stages in its development to more primitive ancestors. Recapitulation appeared to offer hope of direct evidence for evolutionary continuity. The doctrine has now been discredited (Gould, 1977) and the possibility that it could have provided an adequate foundation for developmental psychology rejected (Costall, 1985). Stanley Hall, the other major pioneer of the developmental psychology textbook, also subscribed to the recapitulation theory and adopted Haeckel’s ‘biogenetic law’, erroneously believing that children love to swing in trees because of a common ancestry with monkeys, and that the minds of children and ‘savages’ are comparably primitive. The concept of evolution was central to Sully’s thinking throughout his work, as it was for so many of his contemporaries. He was invited to contribute an

Introduction to Sully’s Studies of Childhood 141 entry on evolution, as part-author with T. H. Huxley, to the ninth edition of Encyclopaedia Britannica. It appears as a theme in both his first psychological work (Sensation and intuition) and his last (An essay on laughter), and it permeates Studies of childhood. He cannot resist concluding his discussion of children’s drawings with the following statement: “It is, I think, uncontestable that a number of characteristic traits in children’s drawing are reflected in those of untutored savages” (p. 385). In My life and friends he admits that he was particularly concerned with “tracing an affinity between the ideas and impulses of the child and those of backward races” (Sully, 1918, p. 238–239), to which end he contrived a visit to Pitt-Rivers’ anthropological collection of drawings of primitive peoples, in his country estate (the collection is now in the University Museum, Oxford). He comments: It was no ordinary pleasure to be shown the museum, picture-gallery, bandstand, and other arrangements which this inventive and large-hearted country squire had set up as a means at once of educating and of entertaining his tenants. As he drove me round the grounds I could not but ask myself how much more cordial the relations between the classes and the masses in rural England might have been to-day if more of the squirearchy had bestirred themselves, like my enterprising host, to engage the interest of their tenantry by introducing among them the rudiments of high culture. (Sully, 1918, p. 239) Sully met Darwin on a number of occasions. The first was at the Priory, the home of George Eliot and G. H. Lewes, as he recounts: It was a wet afternoon, and I found myself the only guest. Just as I was rising to go, the maid entered and announced ‘Mr. and Mrs. Darwin.’ Lewes turned to me and said, ‘You must not go now.’ A quiet elderly pair were ushered in. Darwin’s bald dome of a head, with its deep curtain of grey hair and a long grey beard to match, deeply impressed me. The first number of Mind had just appeared, and Darwin spoke in praise of it, adding that what he especially liked was Mr. Sully’s article on ‘Physiological Psychology in Germany.’ Lewes turned to me with a knowing smile, and said to Darwin, ‘Perhaps you would like to know the writer of the article.’ (Sully, 1918, pp. 164–165) Other occasions were visits to Darwin’s own house in Down “when the Sunday Tramps were allowed, in spite of muddy boots, to drop in at the tea-hour” (Sully, 1918, pp. 223–224). As mentioned above, attention had also been drawn to the problems of child development from an altogether different angle—the prevailing social conditions. The last quarter of the 19th century was a period of ferment in education in Britain (Hearnshaw, 1964). School Boards were set up to provide elementary education in 1870, which became legally compulsory in 1876. By the 1880s the shocking

142 From philosophy to history condition of these Board schools had been noted. A number of surveys (e.g. by the British Medical Association and the Charity Organization Society) drew attention to the lamentable conditions and revealed the inadequate provision, especially for the physically and mentally disabled. The 1890s saw the beginning of proper provision for such children. In 1896 the Childhood Society was formed, aimed at promoting the study of educational methods and the environment best suited to the physical and mental development of both normal and abnormal children. Its main concerns were statistical surveys, child welfare and legislation. Sully was invited to collaborate with them; it was suggested that investigations might be carried out at his new psychophysical laboratory at University College London (Caws, 1949). However, Sully was a member of the rival group who favoured a different approach—the detailed investigation of individual children. The British Child Study Association had been formed in 1894, the result of a meeting of British women teachers, including Miss Louch of Cheltenham Ladies’ College, with Stanley Hall at the international conference on education at the World Trade Fair in Chicago the previous year. Hall had established psychological laboratories at Johns Hopkins (in 1883, the first in America) and Clark Universities. He was leader of the Child Study movement in the United States8 and founded the Pedagogical Seminary (subsequently the Journal of Genetic Psychology) in 1891. In 1894 he initiated a programme of child study questionnaires, which asked people to provide narrative accounts of children’s behaviours in everyday situations. The topics which were covered—ranging from automatisms, fears and playthings to sacred music, prayers and the soul—were as rich and broad in scope as Sully’s.9 The members of the British Child Study Association, like their American counterparts, were teachers and psychologists, whose aim was to help parents make observations which could provide teachers with useful information. Their concern was practical pedagogy—to provide a link between laboratory and classroom. Sully was one of its moving spirits, becoming a vice-president on the formation of the central council in 1898, and contributed a number of articles to its journal, the Paidologist. His The Teacher’s handbook of psychology (1886) was a psychological text specifically directed at teachers. (The two child study organizations amalgamated in 1907.) Sully’s approach, as embodied in the Child Study movement, came under attack from Hugo Münsterberg, director of the psychological laboratory at Harvard University; one of those who came to Sully’s defence was Dorothea Beale, head of Cheltenham Ladies’ College. Several issues underlie the debate between Sully and Münsterberg (see Gurjeva, 1998): the nature of psychology and associated methodology; who is permitted to carry out psychological investigations; and the applicability of the results of such investigations. Sully was primarily interested in ‘genetic’ psychology (i.e. developmental psychology in a broad sense); his preferred methodology was the holistic study of individual children, based on naturalistic observation in everyday situations. For Münsterberg, on the other hand, the focus of interest was experimental psychology, which subjected psychological phenomena to analysis in the laboratory. Sully took the view that science was organised common sense, to which amateurs and lay people could contribute,10

Introduction to Sully’s Studies of Childhood 143 whereas Münsterberg held that scientific investigation was the prerogative of professionally trained scientists. Finally, for Sully one of the main purposes of psychological investigations was to produce results that could be applied to education, whereas Münsterberg doubted the practical applicability of results from laboratory experiments to the classroom. Although the professionalisation of science, begun in Sully’s day, has continued unabated, these issues are still the subject of current debate.

Acknowledgements I am grateful for permission to reproduce material from the Sully papers and correspondence and from the Galton papers 325, University College London Library. I should like to thank the following for their help by generously sharing information: Alan Costall, Geoff Bunn, Lyuba Gurjeva, Graham Richards, David Stonestreet and André Turmel, and for companionship in writing and free exchange of ideas: Susan Sugarman.

Notes 1 Testimonial for Sully’s application for the Chair of Philosophy, Liverpool University, 1881 (Sully papers and correspondence, University College London Library, MS Add 158/1). 2 There is a charming article by Sully, entitled ‘Reminiscences of the Sunday Tramps’, in the Cornhill Magazine, (1908), 24, pp. 76–88. 3 University College London Library, MS Add. 158/10. 4 Frequently regarded as the first attempt to make a series of scientific observations on the behaviour of children, and translated into English by Murchison & Langer (1927). 5 The Origin of Species was published in 1859. 6 Francis Galton was quite envious. He wrote to Sully: “My dear Sir, I have of late been envious of those who have children, and opportunities for psychologically dissecting them. Thank you so much for what you tell me about yours. There can be no doubt that the mind of an imaginative child is full of fantasy and day dreaming & that most whimsical associations arise & abide . . .” (Letter from Francis Galton to James Sully, dated 25th March 1880. University College London Library, MS Add. 158/3). 7 In later life, Clifford himself wrote a psychologically sophisticated and trenchant pamphlet on the fallibility of eye witness testimony, specifically the procedure of lineups. This was no doubt related to a doctoral dissertation on which he embarked but did not complete: ‘Experimental investigation of the nature of recognition as distinguished from reproduction.’ 8 For an excellent review of the different contributory elements to this movement, see Siegel & White (1982). 9 For a re-evaluation and appreciation of G. S. Hall’s contribution to psychology, see White (1992). 10 However, a letter from Sully to Galton, in his capacity as advisor to the Child Study Association, reveals some equivocation on this issue: “. . . The members of the British Assocn for Child Study, mostly teachers wish to try their hand at a methodical observation of children’s sense capacities. Do you think that there are simple modes of observation which they might carry out? If so whose apparatus would you recommend? Of course it must be simple & not expensive. The object of the work is not so much (in the first instance at least) to get any new results of value but to obtain practice in

144 From philosophy to history something like careful observation. Whether teachers wholly without training in scientific observation can be expected to do such work, aided only by written instructions, I somewhat doubt, but you can advise me on this point . . .” (Letter from James Sully to Francis Galton, dated 27th April, 1897, Galton papers 325, University College London Library.)

References Anon. (1923). Death of Professor Sully. The Times, November 3, p. 14. Baldwin, J. M. (1895). Mental development in the child and the race: Methods and processes. New York: Macmillan. Binet, A. (1903). L’étude experimentale de l’intelligence. Paris: Schleicher. (The development of intelligence in children. New Jersey: Baltimore, 1916.) Cavanaugh, J. C. (1985). Cognitive developmental psychology before Preyer: Biographical and educational records. In G. Eckhardt, W. G. Bringmann & L. Sprung (Eds.), Contributions to a history of developmental psychology. Berlin: Mouton. Caws, A. G. (1949). Child study fifty years ago. Bulletin of the British Psychological Society, 1, no. 3, 104–109. Costall, A. (1985). Specious origins? Darwinism and developmental theory. In G. Butterworth, J. Rutkowska & M. Scaife (Eds.), Evolution and developmental psychology, pp. 30–41. Brighton: Harvester Press. Darwin, C. (1877). A biographical sketch of an infant. Mind, II, 285–294. Gould, S. J. (1977). Ontogeny and phylogeny. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Gurjeva, L. G. (1998). Everyday bourgeois science: The management of children in Britain, 1880–1914. Doctoral dissertation, University of Cambridge. Haeckel, E. (1866). Generelle morphologie der Organismen. (2 vols.) Berlin: Reimer. Haeckel, E. (1910). The evolution of man: A popular scientific study. Vol. 1, Embryology or ontogeny. (5th ed., transl. J. McCabe) London: Watts. (First published 1883). Hall, G. S. (1888). Introduction to W. Preyer, The mind of the child (pp. xxi–xxv). New York, NY: Appleton. Hearnshaw, L. S. (1964). A short history of British psychology 1840–1940. London: Methuen. Huxley, T. H. (1896). Evolution in biology. In Encyclopaedia Britannica (9th ed., Vol. 8, pp. 744–751). Edinburgh: Adam & Charles Black. Murchison, C. & Langer, S. (1927). Tiedemann’s observations of the development of the mental faculties of children. Journal of Genetic Psychology, 34, 205–230. Preyer, W. (1882). Die Seele des Kindes. Leipzig: Grieben. (The mind of the child. Transl. H. W. Brown. New York: Appleton, 1889). Quetelet, A. (1835). Sur l’homme et le développement de ses facultés ou essai de physique sociale. (English translation, A treatise on man and the development of his faculties, 1842. Reprinted by Scholars’ Facsimile and Reprints, Gainsville, 1969). Reeves, J. W. (1965). Thinking about thinking. London: Secker & Warburg. Siegel, A. W. & White, S. H. (1982). The child study movements: early growth and development of the symbolized child. Advances in Child Behavior and Development, 17, 233–285. Sully, C. (1925). Mistaken identity. London: Longmans, Green. (Reprinted with additions from Bedrock, October 1912). Sully, J. (1886). The teacher’s handbook of psychology. London: Longmans, Green. Sully, J. (1895). Studies of childhood. London: Longmans, Green.

Introduction to Sully’s Studies of Childhood 145 Sully, J. (1896a). Studies of childhood. New York, NY: Appleton. Sully, J. (1896b). Children’s ways. New York, NY: Appleton. Sully, J. (1897a). Children’s ways. London: Longmans, Green. Sully, J. (1897b). Untersuchungen über die Kindheit. Psychologische Abhandlungen für Lehrer und gebildete Eltern. Leipzig: E. Wunderlich. Sully, J. (1898). Etudes sur l’enfance. (Transl. A. Monod, preface by G. Compayré). Paris: Alcan. Sully, J. (1918). My life and friends: A psychologist’s memories. London: Fisher Unwin. Sully, J. (1978). Evolution in philosophy. In Encyclopaedia Britannica, (9th edition, Vol. 8, pp. 751–772). Edinburgh: Adam & Charles Black. Taine, H. (1876). Sur l’acquisition du langage chez les enfants et dans l’espèce humaine. Revue philosophique de la France et de l’étranger, 1, 5–23. Tiedemann, D. (1787). Beobachtungen über die Entwicklung der Seelenfähigkeiten bei Kindern. Hessische Beiträge zur Gelehrsamkeit und Kunst, 2, 313–315; 3, 486–488. Valentine, E. R. (1999). The founding of the Psychological Laboratory, University College London: ‘Dear Galton . . . Yours truly, J Sully.’ History of Psychology, 2, 204–218. Wallace, D. B., Franklin, M. B. & Keegan, R. T. (1994). The observing eye: a century of baby diaries. Human Development, 37, 1–29. White, S. (1992). G. Stanley Hall: From philosophy to developmental psychology. Developmental Psychology, 28, 25–34. Wong, J. (1994). On the very idea of the normal child. Doctoral dissertation, University of Toronto.

Part III

History

15 Psychology at Bedford College London 1849–1985

Preface and acknowledgements 1997 is the 110th anniversary of the birth of Victoria Hazlitt, the centenary of the appointment of Beatrice Edgell to the staff of Bedford College London and the 70th anniversary of the conferral on her of the title of Professor of Psychology. For most of us these names are at best those of memorial prizes. The approach of the centenary provided an incentive to explore the riches of the College Archives. This work should perhaps be dedicated to those diligent ladies who preserved records of the early history of the College. The history of any Department is multidimensional; the available material presents real difficulties of selection and organisation. All that can be done within the present confines is to sketch the outline and draw attention to a few of the highlights. The obvious categories are teaching: staff, students, courses and degrees; research: funded projects, conferences papers and publications; space: location and buildings; and events of national importance that impinged on the life of the College and the Department. The main developments that are apparent are the protracted disentanglement of psychology from philosophy, its increasing recognition as a scientific discipline and the eventual formation of a separate Department. Part of this process was the building up of a laboratory and the acquisition of equipment. It is a sad reflection on current times that many now wish to jettison these hard won-gains, thus fuelling the charge of ‘classroom subject’ levelled at psychology. Other obvious changes, which cannot escape the notice of those still involved in higher education, are the exponential expansion in student numbers and the subjugation of education to the forces of the market economy. I should like to thank especially Sophie Badham, the College Archivist, but also Linna Bentley, for their help, guidance, interest and enthusiasm.

1849–1897 Early days The University of London was founded in 1836, the first BA degrees being awarded in 1839 and the first MAs the following year. In 1848 Queen’s College, Harley Street, London was founded, the first college in the country specifically for the

150 History education of women; its founding father and guiding spirit was the Anglican, F. D. Maurice. The following year in 1849 the ‘Ladies College in Bedford Square’ opened at number 47 (now 48). Founded by Elizabeth Reid, a Unitarian, and supported by non-conformists, it offered a non-sectarian, liberal education. It was a pioneering venture in higher education for women—Bedford College was the first university college for women. At the start the teaching staff were all male and the student body was all female. Among the first teachers in the College were: the Rev. A. J. Scott (philosopher and man of letters), Alexander Bain (philosopher), W. B. Carpenter (physiologist and second registrar of the University of London), Augustus de Morgan (mathematician and logician), and William Sterndale Bennett (composer). Erasmus Darwin, elder brother of Charles, was one of the first trustees. The first Head of the Department of Mental and Moral Science, out of which Psychology developed, was Francis William Newman, younger brother of the future cardinal, John Henry. From 1851–1854, the Head of the Department of Moral Philosophy was Alexander Bain. Although he spent most of his life in Aberdeen, he was at that time living in London, where he was working as Assistant Secretary to the Board of Health and contributing articles and reviews to various journals. He was acquainted with J. S. Mill (whom he helped edit his father’s work), George Grote (subsequently Vice-Chancellor of the University and after whom the Chair of Mind and Logic at University College is named), Charles Darwin, Herbert Spencer, G. H. Lewes and Thomas Carlyle; and was working on The Senses and the Intellect, published in 1855, which became the established textbook in psychology for the next half century. He had spent the early summer of 1851 in Paris, where he met Ribot and Comte (whom he thought “the sheer negation of humour”, though much enamoured of his classification of the sciences). In Leipzig he had met Wundt, J. McK. Cattell, Ebbinghaus and Helmholtz. A transitional figure, he anticipated many seminal ideas (see Valentine, 1997) and would be better known if he had written in a more accessible style (as did his comparable contemporary, William James). One of his several legacies was the journal Mind which he established in 1876, and which is still going strong. An account of his dealings with Bedford College and the parallel progress on his book is given in his Autobiography: In the end of September [1851] I returned to London; having previously made an engagement to give lectures in the college for ladies in Bedford Square. I undertook two courses . . . physical and political geography . . . I was also expected to give a course of moral philosophy—that is to say, psychology; but the course was not accepted that year. (Bain, 1904, p. 229) It was at the end of 1851 that I resolved upon the final draft of the Psychology, which was put in two parts as ultimately arranged . . . All the days that I had no lecturing, from the beginning of 1852 onwards, I devoted to composition. (Bain, 1904, p. 233)

Psychology, Bedford College London 1849–1985 151 “In the Winter Session of 1852–3 I resumed the geography course at Bedford College, and also, for the first time, conducted a class in psychology, making use of my MS, so far as it went” (p. 234). (During this period he also met James Braid, who introduced hypnosis for surgery, in Manchester, and James Stratton, a local phrenologist, in Aberdeen.) “By the end of this year [1853] the Intellect was nearly finished.” “At the close of that term [Summer, 1854], I resigned the connexion with Bedford College, going in the recess to Scotland” (p. 240). So we know that Bain lectured in psychology at the College and also have some idea of the content of those lectures. It is of interest that the writing of his book coincides so closely with the Bedford period. In 1874 Bedford College moved to 8–9 York Place, Baker Street. The University of London opened its degrees to women in 1878, being the first British university to do so. (Oxford did not admit women until 1920 and Cambridge not until 1948.) The father of Elizabeth Garrett (of Garrett Anderson hospital fame, the second woman to qualify as a doctor—she offered to give lectures in physiology at the College in 1865 but was turned down, presumably because it was not deemed a suitable subject for ladies) had pressed for degrees for women in 1862. The vote was a tie, with George Grote voting in favour, but unfortunately the casting vote by the Chancellor (for which the convention was to defend the status quo) went against and the course of women’s education was set back again. In 1869 women became eligible for the University Certificate of Higher Proficiency or General Examination for Women, as it was known, retrospectively deemed equivalent to matriculation. By the early 1880s Bedford students were gaining BAs, BScs and Masters degrees from the University of London. The first BA honours degree in Mental and Moral Science (third class), awarded to a Bedford College student, was achieved in 1884 by Maria E. Findlay (who, however, managed second class honours in German). The first edition of the Bedford College Calendar (compiled and paid for by the foresightful Miss Henrietta Busk because she thought the early history of the College might disappear for want of records) appeared in 1888. It advertised courses taught by Miss Frances A. Mason (Head of the Department of Mental and Moral Science from 1886–88) on Logic, Psychology and Ethics; and a class in Mental & Moral Science for the BA Examination. Indeed, the College timetable for 1903–4 shows lectures on Mental & Moral Science on Tuesdays and Fridays at 11.05, and lectures on Psychology in the Training Department on Tuesdays at 2 and Thursdays at 12.30 (see Bentley, 1991, p.27). The Training Department (for teachers) had been founded in 1892, the year in which John Henry Muirhead took up the appointment of Head of the Department of Mental and Moral Science. The Report of Council for 1894–5 records as a development in the Training Course that session that each student “has made a psychological study of one pupil in a practising school”. Certainly by 1895–6 (and probably before) Professor Muirhead was lecturing on psychology, ethics and logic in the Training Department. 1897 was an extremely important year for Psychology. In Cambridge Dr W. H. R. Rivers was appointed University Lecturer in Experimental Psychology and the

152 History Physiology of the Special Senses and set up, within the physiological laboratory, what was the first laboratory for psychology in England (Edgell, 1947, p. 114). He subsequently became famous for his part in the pioneering anthropological expedition to the Torres Straits, his research on the physiology of the senses, notably vision, for which he was awarded a Fellowship of the Royal Society in 1908, and his humane treatment of World War I shell-shock victims, notably Siegfried Sassoon (brought to public attention by Pat Barker’s The Regeneration Trilogy). But in London too psychological laboratories were being set up. University College founded one that session, Rivers being one of the people who was hired to teach. At Bedford College John Muirhead resigned his Professorship in Mental and Moral Science and the post was advertised. At the first attempt no appointment was made; it was resolved to postpone the appointment and admit a late application from Miss Beatrice Edgell. On 21st December the Board duly met again. Testimonials for eleven candidates were reconsidered and the names of two candidates not previously on the Selected List were forwarded and placed in order of merit: Miss Beatrice Edgell, BA, and Mr Joseph Solomon. Both candidates attended to meet the Council; Miss Beatrice Edgell was appointed to the professorship for the remainder of the session. In 1897 a second Bedford College student, Nancy M. Catty, had been awarded a third class degree in Mental and Moral Science; but things were due to change. Nine of the next sixteen degrees awarded to students from the Department up to the end of World War I (and seventy per cent of those awarded up to 1912, including the first one in psychology) were first class. Thus the anecdote reported in the Bedford College Old Students’ Association Magazine is justified: “‘What did Miss X . . . get?’ an old Bedford student once asked in my hearing. ‘Get?’ was the indignant reply, ‘Why a first of course. Miss Edgell’s students always do’” (BCOSA, 1933). Beatrice Edgell took up her appointment as Lecturer in Philosophy and Head of the Department of Mental & Moral Science in January 1898. Thus began the special development of psychology under Miss Edgell, to which Dame Margaret Tuke refers in her history of the College (Tuke, 1939, p. 252). This involved the building up of a laboratory, developing the teaching and status of the subject in the College and the University, as well as substantial contributions to research.

1898–1933 Beatrice Edgell’s Golden Age In her first session, Beatrice Edgell stepped into Professor Muirhead’s shoes and was lecturing in psychology, logic and ethics in the Training Department. The 1899 Calendar advertises an Elementary course on Psychology in the Training Department, given by Miss B. Edgell, for which the recommended textbook was James’s Textbook; together with a more advanced course in Psychology given to final year students only, for which the syllabus was as follows: Elements and development of mind; the senses—perception, imagery, thinking; feeling and its expression; attention; volition. The recommended books were Sully’s Outline of psychology, James’s Textbook and Ward’s article on psychology in Encyclopaedia Britannica.

Psychology, Bedford College London 1849–1985 153 The following year Beatrice Edgell was away in Würzburg, pursuing her PhD under Külpe, an opportunity provided by the award of a Travelling Research Scholarship from her alma mater, University College of Wales at Aberystwyth. On her return she set about building up a laboratory. In 1900, when I returned from Bavaria, when I was anxious to start experimental psychology at Bedford College, little was known about it. But the College authorities gave me every facility, and a grant for equipment [£5]. True, I had not much accommodation; all one’s equipment had to be stowed away into a cupboard after demonstrations. But it was a start. (Westminster Gazette, 11.2.27) Margaret McFarlane relates that Under primitive conditions a laboratory came into being in a top back room in the Baker Street building. Here with a minimum of apparatus and much improvisation we learned the method of devising experiments and evaluating their results. Many a time an irreverent reference to the dark room as the ‘bathroom’ brought a smiling protest from her! (BCOSA, 1948–9) Beatrice Edgell herself referred to this era as “the days of makeshift and poverty”, remarking that they were by no means the least happy. The British Psychological Society was founded in 1901 and the British Journal of Psychology first published in 1904. It was not long before members of the Bedford Department were contributing papers to meetings of the Society, and publishing their work in the journal. Beatrice Edgell presented a paper on time judgment to the fifth meeting of the Society, in 1903, and two to a meeting in 1905. The first, entitled ‘Experiments on association’, was published in Child Study in 1913, where it jostles pages with advertisements for baby foods (Bengers, Horlicks and Bourneville cocoa) and gas fires—‘a boon to mothers’; and formed the basis of a lecture given to the British Academy Education Section in Norwich in 1935, reported in The Queen. The second paper, with W. Legge Symes (subsequently Professor of Physiology at the Royal Veterinary College) on ‘The WheatstoneHipp chronoscope. Its adjustments, accuracy and control’ was published in the British Journal of Psychology the following year (1906) and was still being cited thirty years later. This piece of equipment is now on loan to the Science Museum. Other research was being conducted by Gladys Martyn (a physical training instructor as well as psychologist) on mental fatigue. Some of the ensuing publications are described as emanating from the Physiological Laboratory, University of London, where Edgell had a part-time appointment; the publication lag was two months. In 1906 the Department of Mental and Moral Science was renamed the Department of Philosophy and Psychology, one step along the path from arts to science and the protracted separation of psychology from philosophy. The College

154 History Calendar for 1910 lists two main courses for BSc Psychology. 1. Psychology, for which the syllabus was: Scope and methods of psychology; relation of psychology to other sciences and to philosophy; analysis of consciousness; fundamental processes; detailed treatment of the phenomena of cognition, feeling and will. 2. Laboratory course, for which the syllabus was: Qualitative analysis of sensation; determination of psychical standards and units; psychophysical law and methods; conditions of normal perception and illusion; time relations and mental state, including reaction, memory and time consciousness; physiological correlates of feeling and action; construction and use of psychological apparatus. In 1912 the first BA Honours degree in Psychology (first class) was gained by a Bedford College student, Blanche A. Lunniss. Another sign of the increasing recognition of psychology as a scientific discipline was the award by the London County Council of a grant for the development of intercollegiate work in a science subject, allocated to a course on Experimental Psychology taught by Beatrice Edgell. On 4th July, 1913, the Regent’s Park buildings were opened by Queen Mary. An appeal for new buildings had been launched in 1903. Psychology was among the Departments for which a laboratory was provided. “The Department of Psychology, where research on rats was in progress, was especially interesting to Her Majesty” (Tuke, 1939, p. 216). When the new college opened in Regent’s Park in 1913 psychology had become such an important branch of study that it had its own department under the direction of Miss Edgell, and so popular had the subject become, mainly through the attraction of Miss Edgell’s lectures, that the psychology lecture room was crowded to capacity. (BCOSA, 1948–9) “Since the move to Regent’s Park in 1913, however, Professor Edgell has been installed in a laboratory which is the equal to any in London” (Sphere, 26 February 1927). In 1914 Victoria Hazlitt, who had graduated in 1910 with a first class BA in Philosophy, with Experimental Psychology as a special subject, was appointed Assistant in Experimental Psychology. She was to play an important role in the teaching of psychology in the College and the University. During World War I, she courageously undertook the teaching of practical classes at King’s College, during the absence of William Brown on active service, and at Chelsea College, at a time when evening meetings in city centres were a virtual impossibility (Edgell, 1947). In the Bedford Department, she introduced new courses on psychological doctrines involved in mental tests, and colour vision. In 1916 Olive A. Wheeler was awarded a DSc in Psychology (equivalent to a PhD—PhDs weren’t introduced until 1921). The title of her work was ‘Anthropomorphism and science: a study of the development of ejective cognition in the individual and the race. The basis of comparative psychology’. Victoria Hazlitt was awarded her MA for a study of the acquisition of motor habits in 1917.

Psychology, Bedford College London 1849–1985 155 In the summer of 1918 a holiday course in psychology was arranged for the long vacation but had to be abandoned owing to the small number of applicants. In July 1919 a joint meeting of the Aristotelian Society, the Mind Society and the British Psychological Society was held at Bedford College, attended amongst others by J. B. S. Haldane, W. R. Sorley, Carl Jung (from Geneva), the Bishop of Down (subsequently Archbishop of Dublin), Hastings Rashdall, W. H. R. Rivers, William McDougall, A. R. Whitehead (Imperial College) and Bertrand Russell. Among the topics discussed was the new physics, prior to the publication of Einstein’s theory of relativity. The following session there was an outbreak of paratyphoid B, emanating from the kitchen, and a regulation was introduced, at the request of students, that academic dress be worn in lectures. 1920 is the first year in which Psychology courses are listed under Science as well as Arts in the College Calendar and the first BSc degrees in Psychology were awarded to Bedford College students. (The University of London had instituted science degrees—the BSc and DSc—in 1858.) Psychology was represented, in the person of C. S. Myers, on the board of management of the new journal Discovery which dealt with recent advances in scientific knowledge—another sign of the increasing recognition of psychology as a scientific discipline. In 1921 psychology was established as an independent section of the British Association; several heads of the Bedford Department served as its president. Beatrice Edgell was granted a year’s leave of absence for the session 1921–2. There is a charming letter from her to the Council: I find it difficult to offer any very adequate reason for making the request—I am not in failing health and I have no great enterprise on foot, nonetheless I feel that a year free from lecturing would be very welcome and should mean greater freshness in my work afterward, and thus ultimately benefit the department . . . it would be good to recruit after twenty years fairly strenuous lecturing . . . I hope the Council will not think the request unreasonable. If for any reason it is an untimely one, I will gladly withdraw it. Her teaching was carried out by three temporary visiting lecturers: Lucy Fildes, a graduate of the Department, who taught a course on the Psychology of mentally defective children; Frederic Bartlett, who lectured on Psychology and primitive culture; and G. E. Moore, who lectured on Fundamental conceptions of psychology with special reference to Ward’s Psychological Principles. That session a course of three advanced lectures in psychology was given by Professor Edouard Claparède on ‘L’Intelligence et la Volonté’; Professor Spearman presided at the first lecture. In 1924 Victoria Hazlitt was granted leave of absence because she “desired leisure to complete an important piece of research work”. This was undoubtedly her book on Ability, published 1926, for which she was awarded a DLit. During that session Professor Henri Piéron of the Sorbonne delivered three advanced lectures in psychology entitled ‘La douleur au point de vue des fonctions effectives et perceptives’.

156 History Beatrice Edgell notes that by 1922 a divergence of interest between philosophers and psychologists was becoming apparent by the one-sided attendance at sessions of the British Psychological Society. “Some of the older members with a background in philosophy felt that some of the papers read lacked breadth of outlook and were trivial in character, even though they purported to have some immediate practical relevance” (Edgell, 1947, p. 122). In June 1926 she raised the issue of the separation of the Department into two separate Departments of Philosophy and Psychology, at the Academic Board. There was some discussion but the Board felt unable to come to any decision without more time to consider the matter; it was resolved to defer the matter to the next meeting. The issue was in fact not satisfactorily resolved for almost another twenty years. (In July 1928 the Academic Board voted 4/3 in favour of splitting the Department. Presumably Council disapproved because nothing came of it.) There was also an on-going saga concerning the roof of the North Science Block, in which Psychology was housed. Three Departments were contenders for the space. Botany had erected an experimental greenhouse on it, to the annoyance of Psychology, who wanted to develop an animal house there (partly because the closure of the Training Department demanded some redirection of activities). Zoology wanted it to keep pigeons and rabbits. Reasons were presented for Psychology’s wishing the removal of the greenhouse. The real reason was that it thwarted Departmental development but others were adduced in addition: it caused frequent interruption to the work of the attendant attached to the Department of Psychology and rendered ineffectual the room for ‘quiet study’, whose only windows looked onto the roof. For the meantime, Psychology had to make do with the conversion of a cellar into a dark room, as testified by a number of memoranda: “The cellar is now cleared of all material objects, except dirt” (Edgell, 1922): I have asked a man from the Electric Production Co. to call next Tuesday between 11 and 12 o’clock with regard to the possibility of a speaking tube from your department to the cellar. May I know some time before this exactly what it is you require? (Olive Monkhouse, College Secretary, to Beatrice Edgell, 1926) It is clear from another memo of about the same period that laboratory equipment was being ordered from France. Beatrice Edgell to Miss Monkhouse: “What does your financial mind say to this? . . . He is the man who makes apparatus for Professor Piéron (Sorbonne).” A document dating from 1927 may be relevant, which lists apparatus to measure the subject’s ability to discriminate active from passive touch; difference in temperature; position of body; colour; a large tuning fork to measure the lowest note that is audible; and an O K 300 Galton whistle. There were some problems in ascertaining whether or not the items were likely to attract customs duty. (Victoria Hazlitt wrote the following memo to Miss Monkhouse: “The Customs Officer at Great Portland Street advised our saying ‘To the best of our knowledge they are not dutiable’. It is quite impossible to tell for certain from the lists so we have the right to benefit of the doubt. In haste. VH.”

Psychology, Bedford College London 1849–1985 157 Miss Monkhouse replied sharply, in a note written at the bottom of the page, “Are they or are they not?”) In 1927 the title of Professor of Psychology was conferred on Beatrice Edgell. A woman professor was a newsworthy item: she was certainly one of the earliest woman professors of psychology. Announcements of her appointment appeared in the Morning Post, Sphere, Daily Chronicle, Times, Evening Standard, Yorkshire Post, Glasgow Herald, Westminster Gazette, Times Educational Supplement, Nature and The Lady. A career of patient and persistent endeavour underlies the appointment of Miss Beatrice Edgell, which was announced in yesterday’s Westminster Gazette. When Miss Edgell went to Bedford College 30 years ago as lecturer in psychology she was pioneering on entirely new academic ground . . . From that small beginning has grown the comprehensive psychology department, with its splendidly equipped laboratories and lecture rooms, under Professor Edgell’s control. Red Cross nurses from the most remote states of central and eastern Europe go to Miss Edgell for a finishing course in conjunction with social science. (Westminster Gazette, 11 February 1927) At the end of 1929 the Department moved into the new Tuke building. The buildings were opened in June 1931 by Queen Mary; Victoria Hazlitt was amongst those presented to her. At the Department of Psychology there were exhibits to illustrate: (1) The study of learning (a) by sheer repetition: records showing improvement in writing with the left hand; (b) by practical trial with effort to gain control through understanding, illustrated by work on an old-fashioned snuff-box puzzle, and a complication box. (2) The study of child psychology: (a) Tests for children between eighteen months and five years. As a result of studies at the Merrill-Palmer Nursery School (Detroit) a carefully graded series of the activities normal for children of different ages between eighteen months and six years had been selected. The material on view was used in connection with this series. Some of the children at the Foundling Site Nursery School had worked with this material and their results suggested that nursery school life increases manipulative control and practical ability. (b) Tests for Older Children. A selection of non-verbal tests of intelligence and of practical ability were on view. Then disaster struck. On 19th April 1932 Victoria Hazlitt was found burned to death in a passage-way by the side of her house on North Hill, Highgate. The following announcement appeared in the Evening News (23 April 1932): A remarkable story of a woman who was seen burning like a ‘human bonfire’ in her garden was told at a Hornsey inquest to-day on Dr Victoria Henrietta Hazlett [sic], a lecturer in psychology at London University and Bedford Women’s College, Regent’s Park. A verdict of death from burns due to ignition of her clothing was returned. It was stated that Dr Hazlett was in the

158 History habit of cleaning clothing with petrol in the garden. Mr Harry Martin Terry, a stockbroker of Wembley Park, Middlesex, said he climbed over the wall of Dr Hazlett’s garden and found her charred body in a small passageway. Joseph Leonard Collins, a gardener at the house adjoining that of Dr Hazlett, said they saw smoke and flames coming from Dr Hazlett’s garden, but attached no importance to it, as they thought rubbish was being burned in a bonfire. The coroner remarked that a mystery in the case was how the petrol was being used by Dr Hazlett at the time it became ignited. He said it had been known for sparks to come from artificial silk stockings when rubbed. Dr Pritchard said that he had tried experiments by dropping a china bowl on concrete, but no sparks resulted. It was stated that Dr Hazlett was cleaning a green dress of pure silk at the time. The nearest fire was in the house. She smoked cigarettes only when in company. There was the usual fatuous comment from a psychologist, reported in the Daily Mail: “She might have thought, when the flames leaped about her, that she would conserve her energy for putting out the fire rather than scream for help. A strongwilled and highly trained psychologist might think that.” Three weeks later Beatrice Edgell asked permission to relinquish her post. A meeting was held to consider the arrangements for the Department following her retirement. The issue was whether or not it should be divided into separate Departments of Philosophy and Psychology. A factor that favoured such a division was the difference in scope of the two subjects but as usual the bottom line was cost. The committee concluded that “The department could not be separated without extra expenditure which might prevent the Council from doing what they thought essential in other departments”. Thus, it was “agreed that though for academic reasons the committee were as a whole in favour of dividing the department, it would be better to keep the present arrangement of one department until at least the end of the present quinquennium”.

1933–1943 Susan Stebbing, Alec Mace and World War II Susan Stebbing, the eminent philosopher and logician, was appointed Professor of Philosophy and Head of Department in 1933, a post which she held until her premature death in 1943. Alec Mace was appointed Reader in Psychology, coming from St Andrews where he had set up a laboratory. He was assisted first by Annie Jenkin and later by Madeleine Folley (née Kerr); between them they taught all the psychology courses. Mace’s interests ranged widely from research on incentives undertaken for the Industrial Health Research Board, to lectures on character and temperament, and aesthetics. He also lectured on the history of psychology and wrote a book on The Psychology of Study published by Penguin. Annie Jenkin’s research interest was imagery and learning, the topic of her MA and PhD. Madeleine Kerr’s PhD was on ‘Emotional fluctuations in women’; in addition she published articles on temperamental tests applied to twins, children’s drawings, and the validity of the mosaic test.

Psychology, Bedford College London 1849–1985 159 During this period public lectures were delivered at the College by David Katz on ‘Some problems of perception in modern psychology’ (1934); Rudolph Carnap on ‘Philosophy and logical syntax’ (1934); Frederic Bartlett on ‘Time from the point of view of the psychologist’ (the first of a series of six lectures on ‘Time’, in which others were given by Sir Arthur Eddington on ‘Time and entropy’ and C. D. Broad on ‘Time as a metaphysical problem’, 1935); Edgar Rubin on ‘Experience and perception, thinking, feeling’ (1937); and Karl Buhler on ‘The wisdom in language’ (1939). With the outbreak of war in 1939, Bedford College was evacuated to Newnham College, Cambridge. The Regent’s Park buildings were occupied by all manner of people. Sylvia Shimmin relates that it took her about a fortnight to find Alec Mace in order to register when she went up in 1943, since the Department was ‘of no fixed abode’. In May 1941 the College received damage by enemy action, as a result of which the North Science Block was ‘estimated a total loss’. It was just as well for Psychology that it had moved out of it (albeit more than a decade ago)! On 28th January 1944, Council finally agreed to the division of the Department into two separate Departments of Philosophy and Psychology. H. B. Acton was appointed to the Chair of Philosophy. October 1st saw the institution of an independent Department of Psychology, with Mace as Head but not Professor. On 27th October, Council received a letter from him informing them that he had been offered the Chair of Psychology at Birkbeck College, which he intended to accept, subject to satisfactory arrangements being made for the management of the Bedford Department. He agreed to hold the fort in the interim, working in both places simultaneously (as Council was reminded he had been doing for the last two years anyway!). On 15th December, Council finally agreed to the Academic Board’s recommendation that a Chair should replace the Readership in Psychology “on the grounds of the anticipated growth in the Department and the unusual scope offered for such development by the existence in one College of Departments of Sociology, Physiology and Philosophy”. Finance Committee did not oppose this but warned Council “that it is with the greatest hesitation that they support the recommendation for any new commitments at a time when the College is faced with so heavy a deficit on the year’s working”. It was agreed to apply to the University for a Chair in Psychology to take effect from 21st October 1945.

1945–68 Denys Harding Thus it was that Denys Harding was appointed Professor and Head of the Department of Psychology in 1945. Although the author of two books on psychology, he was better known for his work in literary criticism, and particularly for his association with Leavis’s Scrutiny, of which he was an early co-editor and in which he published several early articles. Initially he and Madeleine Folley taught the whole syllabus between them, students additionally attending inter-collegiate lectures. It is hardly surprising to find a letter of 1946 asking for a full-time Assistant in Psychology. In 1947 there was a request from Psychology for help with service teaching for the Social Studies

160 History Certificate: the staff could cope with the lectures but not the written work which Mrs Wootton (subsequently Dame Barbara) wished the students to do. During this period many staff appointments were made, including Peter McKellar (1947), Patrick Slater and Sylvia Shimmin (1948), Joan Wynn Reeves and Monica Lawlor (1950), Derek Forrest and Alan Richardson (1952), Monica Creasy (1953), Gilmore Lee (1956), Sheila Vincent (1958), Sheila Chown and Billy Brown (1960), Mary Pickersgill (1961), John Valentine (1963), John Wilding (1964), Ray Meddis (1965) and Alan Cubbon (1967). The staff increased from 2 in 1945 to 9 in 1968, the graduates from 1 to 17. During this period a number of public lectures of interest were given. Fraser Darling gave a course of lectures on social ecology during the Lent term of 1953. In 1958 three lectures were given on the human brain, by J. Z. Young on ‘The brain and its connections’, Donald Mackay on ‘The brain as an information system’ and W. Grey Walter on ‘The physiology of mentality’. Happiness was the subject of the Special University Lectures in Philosophy in 1958 given by Raymond Pollin. The same year Noel Annan delivered the Hobhouse Memorial lecture on ‘The curious strength of positivism in English thought’. Following the war period, the quadrangle was filled with building materials. War-damaged internal walls in the Psychology Department were rebuilt and window frames in the Tuke building readjusted. Further repairs necessitated by war damage were carried out in 1948 and redecoration following the BBC’s tenancy of the Tuke building. A celebration to mark completion of the reconstruction of war-damaged buildings was held in October 1952. In July 1946 the Department requested that the former slaughter house in the grounds of the Holme (a beautiful Nash villa on the Inner Circle, which had been acquired by the College earlier in the year) be used as a play room for child observation for final year students. The proposal was rejected by the architect on the grounds of difficulties in drainage and heating. The Report of Council for 1952–3 drew attention to the needs of the Department of Psychology: The development of promising lines of research of a precise kind which balance the work in social psychology already well established under Professor Harding’s guidance, requires laboratory space which is not available in the Department. It would be a grave error to limit this research, and as a temporary alleviation makeshift arrangements in a converted basement room at the Holme have had to be planned for next session. On 2nd March 1960 the Queen Mother opened the new extensions to the Tuke Building (planned since 1955–6). Her Majesty visited the new laboratories in the Departments of Physics, Psychology, Biochemistry and Chemistry and watched a number of experiments in progress, talking with staff and students in each department. (She also opened the Reid Hall extension, the Students’ Union, and had tea in Herringham Hall.)

Psychology, Bedford College London 1849–1985 161

1968–85 Brian Foss Brian Foss succeeded to the Chair and Head of Department of Psychology in 1968. He was president of the British Psychological Society from 1972–74 and of the Psychology Section of the British Association for the Advancement of Science in 1974. He served as General Psychology Editor for Penguin for ten years, his own particular interests being imitation (the subject of his inaugural lecture) and infant development (he edited four volumes on the Determinants of Infant Behaviour). The personal interest that he took in students created a very happy atmosphere in the Department. Staff appointments during this period included Elizabeth Valentine and Kate Loewenthal (1972), John Nicholson, editor for the New Scientist and interested in politics and the media, Margaret Christie, a psychophysiologist (1974), Ray Matthews, with expertise in computing (1978) and Chris McManus, qualified in medicine and psychology, with interests in handedness and aesthetics (1979). During this period student numbers doubled with virtually no increase in staff numbers. (Since then both have doubled.) A distinctive feature of this period was the connection with medical education. The Todd report (1965–68) had recommended the linking of medical schools with universities, and Bedford College became associated with St Mary’s Hospital, Paddington. This led to several joint appointments and the teaching of intercalated medical students. In 1975 a postgraduate course in Clinical Psychology was recorded as a priority, if resources become available. Twenty-two years later, it is to be achieved. Funded research projects during this period included studies of neonatal behaviour undertaken at the perinatal research unit at St Mary’s, Paddington under the supervision of Brian Foss (the effects of maternal analgesics on neonatal behaviour; maternal personality and early behavioural development in infancy; and the development of crying in infancy and its effect on the mother); the effects of noise on information storage (John Wilding); individual differences in the ‘postlunch dip’ in efficiency (Margaret Christie); determinants of sleep depth in humans (Ray Meddis); and communication in the deaf (William Edmondson). In 1969 the Department was described to an intending visitor as ‘crammed in with a shoehorn’. A Development Appeal was launched in 1978, and in 1982 the Department expanded into the Wolfson laboratory. However, with increasing financial stringencies, the plan for reorganisation of the University—the amalgamation of smaller colleges into larger units—could be accomplished. After many false starts and protracted negotiations, the merger of Bedford College with Royal Holloway College finally took place in 1985, with a move to the latter’s site at Egham, Surrey.

162 History

Bibliography Published works Bain, A. (1904) Autobiography. London: Longmans, Green, & Co. Bentley, L. (1991) Educating women: A pictorial history of Bedford College University of London 1849–1985. Surrey: Alma Publishers in conjunction with Royal Holloway & Bedford New College. Edgell, B. (1947) The British Psychological Society. British Journal of Psychology, 37, 113–32. Tuke, M. (1939) A History of Bedford College 1829–1937. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Valentine, E. (1997) Alexander Bain. In A. Chapman & N. Sheehy (Eds.), The biographical dictionary of psychology. London: Routledge.

Archival sources Bedford College Annual Report of the Council. Bedford College Calendars. Council Minutes, Bedford College London. Papers of the Philosophy Department 1900–84. (Royal Holloway University of London Archives, AR332/6/1-4). Papers relating to the staff of the Philosophy Department 1900–84. (Royal Holloway University of London Archives, AR332/6/5). Papers relating to the Psychology Department, 1923–77. (Royal Holloway University of London Archives, AR334/10/1–5). Personnel files for Beatrice Edgell and Victoria Hazlitt. (Royal Holloway University of London Archives, AR150).

16 Measuring the mind Beatrice Edgell, pioneer woman psychologist of Bedford College

Introduction I have chosen a topic in the history of psychology as the subject for my inaugural lecture for a number of reasons: it has been my main preoccupation for the past few years; it is what I have most enjoyed; and it is a theme of relevance to the College. I first became interested in Beatrice Edgell some years ago, when I realised it was the centenary of her appointment to Bedford College and I wondered whether there was anything about her in the College archives. Sophie Badham dug out her staff file for me and I became acquainted with the impressive collection of indexed press cuttings. Even though I was looking at often boring memoranda, Edgell leaped off the page at me. We have a number of things in common: training in philosophy as well as psychology, research interests in memory; we both taught at Bedford College and we are both women. Beatrice Edgell was head of the Department of Mental and Moral Science (subsequently the Department of Philosophy and Psychology) at Bedford College London from 1898–1933. She was • • •

the first British woman to be awarded a doctorate in psychology the first woman to become professor of psychology in the UK and the first woman president of four learned societies: the Mind Association, the Aristotelian Society, the British Psychological Society, and the Psychology Section of the British Association for the Advancement of Science.

So she is of significance both to the history of British psychology and to the history of women in science. Her contributions to British psychology include • • •

establishing one of the first psychological laboratories in Britain – and the first in a women’s college making substantial contributions to research, both theoretical and empirical professional activities – developing the status of psychology, both locally in London University and nationally, partly through her work with the British Psychological Society and

164 History •

as a teacher in a women’s college, training a number of women who later played a prominent role in the development of scientific and professional psychology in Britain.

I shall discuss three of these (the laboratory, her research and teaching) and finally consider reasons for her success at a time of limited access to education for women, when social mores dictated that it was unnatural for women to pursue professional careers. To give you an idea of the sort of ideas that were prevalent at the time, here is a quote from Dr Edward Clarke, a Harvard medical school professor, who was of the opinion that any post-pubertal education of women would arrest the development of their reproductive systems. Writing in 1873, in a book that became so popular that it went into 17 editions in 13 years, he claimed that such education would result in “monstrous brains and puny bodies; abnormally active cerebration and abnormally weak digestion; flowing thought and constipated bowels” (cited in Walsh, 1977, p. 126). But first, something of Edgell’s family background and education. Beatrice Edgell was born on October 26th 1871, in the centre of Tewkesbury, Gloucestershire, the youngest of six children. Her father, Edward Higginson Edgell (like his father before him) was a local bank manager, who played an active role in the town, supporting good causes and donating something approximating the equivalent of £1,000 in today’s money towards the restoration of its glorious abbey. Beatrice’s mother, Sarah Ann Buckle, came from a family of yeoman farmers. She died when Beatrice was only eleven years old. The family was comfortably off, employing a nurse, a maid and a cook at the time of Beatrice’s birth. All the children were educated alike regardless of their gender. Herein lie the seeds of Beatrice’s success: she was born just at the right time – as higher education was beginning to open up to women – to a supportive family. Beatrice became one of the first pupils of Tewkesbury High School for Girls when it opened in 1882. Following her mother’s death, the family moved to London, thus enabling Beatrice to enter Notting Hill High School for Girls in 1886 at the age of 14. Notting Hill was one of the first two Girls’ Public Day School Trust schools, founded in 1873, which set out to provide education parallel to that of boys’ grammar schools. Employing “an ample staff of competent teachers at salaries above the market price” (Bryant, 1969, p. 265), they played an enormously important role in providing women with access to professional careers – especially teaching – and helping to break the deadlock created by lack of qualified women. Beatrice went up to the University College of Wales at Aberystwyth in 1891, the first year in which women were admitted to ordinary degree courses there. It was the first of the three colleges that were later to form the University of Wales, proud of its tradition of equal opportunity, for both genders and all social classes. Aberystwyth was a safe place, which catered for women and prepared students for (initially) University of London degrees. Here Beatrice studied literature, classics and philosophy, specialising in the last and graduating with a B.A., awarded by the University of London, in mental and moral sciences in 1894. During her first year, she had been greatly impressed by a lecture on animal behaviour given by

Measuring the mind: Beatrice Edgell 165 Conwy Lloyd Morgan, which she attended encouraged by a room-mate who had worked under him at Bristol. It seems likely that this had a formative influence on her later interests. After three years’ teaching in high schools in the north of England, in 1898, as a recent graduate and a late applicant, Edgell was appointed lecturer in philosophy and – at the tender age of 27 – head of the Department of Mental and Moral Science at Bedford College London, a post that she held for the remaining 35 years of her career. Bedford College, founded in 1849, was the first college in Britain to offer higher education to women; and London was the first university in Britain to open its degrees to women, which it did in 1878 (a good 40 years before either Oxford or Cambridge). The title of professor of psychology was conferred on Edgell in 1927. She was one of the earliest woman professors of psychology, and certainly the first in Britain. Her appointment attracted considerable media attention. She died in Cheltenham on 10th August 1948. Her funeral service took place in Tewkesbury Abbey – an honour earned not only by her parents’ donations towards the abbey’s restoration but also by the distinction she herself had brought on the town of her birth – on Friday 13th. A travelling research scholarship from her alma mater enabled Edgell to spend the session 1900–01 studying abroad, under Oswald Külpe at the University of Würzburg, where she became the first woman to graduate from that university, and the first British woman to gain a doctorate in psychology. She carried out work for the sensory physiologist Max von Frey, who “loved psychology and talking about it in fluent English” (Pear, 1955, p. 22) in the Physiological Institute, Wilhelm Wien (Röntgen’s successor and another Nobel prizewinner) in the Physical Institute, and Oswald Külpe and Karl Marbe in the Psychological Institute. She wrote her doctoral dissertation (in German) on Die Grenzen des Experiments als einer psychologischen Methode. At the beginning, she states that the reason for pursuing it was her own wish to study the feasibility of the experiment as a method in psychology. I think she was excited at the prospect – opened up by the new experimental psychology – of applying scientific methods to the investigation of what had previously been considered philosophical problems and wanted to see just how far you could push it. It was a topic of current debate – and still is. I would say that this was the leitmotiv of her life and career; hence the title of my lecture: measuring the mind. In her thesis, Edgell favours the pursuit of the experimental method, which she considers to be a valuable method which has achieved a measure of success in psychology but mainly in the area of sensory processes. Nevertheless, she thinks that it has a number of limits and that psychological science will not be advanced by exaggerating its capability. Defining psychology as the science of the facts of experience in relation to the experiencing subject and writing from a positivist perspective, she is then faced with trying to square the circle. She feels the need to ground psychological experiments in physical (or physiological) processes, in order to achieve systematic and uniform relationships. Mental states pose problems for measurement and the determination of systematic causal relationships, in her view, because they are continuous, holistic, individual, subjective and determined

166 History by past experience. Their causal conditions are frequently not under the experimenter’s control. For this reason, Edgell did not accept the (later) Würzburg position that systematic introspection could be extended from the study of sensory processes to those of thinking and judgment. However, her later practice seems to have conformed with Külpe’s later practice, in that a number of replications of Würzburg work were conducted in the Bedford College laboratory by her students (e.g. Karl Bühler’s experiments, in which subjects were asked to deliberate on such statements as ‘Women are wiser than men because they know less and understand more’).

The laboratory On her return from Würzburg, Edgell set about establishing one of the first psychological laboratories in Britain. She had limited resources at her disposal but in marked contrast to the situation at University College London, where funds had to be raised to hire W. H. R. Rivers to do the teaching, she was able to provide the expertise herself. In her own words, as reported by the Westminster Gazette: In 1900, when I returned from Bavaria, when I was anxious to start experimental psychology at Bedford College, little was known about it. But the College authorities gave me every facility, and a grant for equipment [the princely sum of £5]. True, I had not much accommodation; all one’s equipment had to be stowed away into a cupboard after demonstrations. But it was a start.1 She referred to this era as ‘the days of makeshift and poverty’, remarking that they were by no means the least happy on that account. As one of her students and colleagues recalled: Under primitive conditions a laboratory came into being in a top back room in the Baker Street building. Here with a minimum of apparatus and much improvisation we learned the method of devising experiments and evaluating their results . . .2 James Sully once remarked that “a psychological laboratory is always as near the clouds as a builder can place it”.3 The situation had clearly not improved much by 1911 when the Academic Board received a letter from Edgell concerning the need for assistance in Psychology, specifically the assistance of a boy for help with practical work. In a letter supporting her case, she explained that practical classes in Psychology are held in the Philosophy Lecture Room and the small room adjoining, and the preparations for them involve considerable labour. Before each class, chairs, tables must be moved, apparatus set up and put into working order, and at the close of each class everything must be

Measuring the mind: Beatrice Edgell 167 cleared up, and put away in cupboards. For this work there is no assistance whatever. The most trifling errand or job must be done by Miss Martyn or myself. By reason of the limitations in general of the equipment and apparatus, the practical course needs much thoughtful contrivance and the constant manufacture of odds and ends of apparatus.4 Later there was a galvanometer room and some of the equipment was ordered from France (there were problems getting it through the customs). It was mainly apparatus to measure sensory abilities and included a Galton whistle (used to measure sensitivity to high frequencies). One can get some idea of the experimental work carried out from published reports. In 1912 the London County Council awarded a two-year grant for the development of intercollegiate work in a science subject to the College, which allocated it to Psychology. A report of some of the experimental work carried out was published. This included not only investigations in the Würzburg tradition, employing largely introspective analysis, but also studies of mice learning mazes and rats solving puzzle boxes. The mazes were scrubbed at frequent intervals with carbolic soap to minimise scent cues. However, one reviewer commented that: It is rather unfortunate that, in what is mainly a statistical study, only two mice and three rats were used, especially as rat J was later found to be blind, mouse S was out of condition part of the time, and several times (as is to be expected) the animals were very excited.5 (Journal of Experimental Pedagogy, 3, 1915–16, p. 209–210) It should be borne in mind that these were, after all, only class experiments, not intended to advance the frontiers of scientific knowledge, but pioneering ventures nonetheless. Psychology was among the departments for which a laboratory was provided when the College moved to Regent’s Park in 1913. This laboratory was said to be the equal of any in London and “one of the best equipped and most fruitful in the University”.6 When Queen Mary came to open the new buildings, it was reported that, “The Department of Psychology, where research on the memory of rats was in progress, was especially interesting to Her Majesty” (Tuke, 1939, p. 216). The Daily Mail provided the following detailed account of the visit, under the title ‘The Queen and the Mice’: A select little family of white rats and mice – four in number – monopolised the attention of the Queen for some minutes yesterday afternoon when her Majesty opened the new buildings of the Bedford College for Women in Regent’s Park. The rodents are confined in cages in the laboratory for experimental psychology, and while the two mice are experts at threading mazes, the two rats

168 History are exponents of the art – reduced to a fine predatory science amongst their species – of penetrating obstacles separating them from their food. When the Queen entered the laboratory the mice were running about in their cages, and at her Majesty’s request . . . were taken from the cells to exhibit their accomplishments. The mazes lay on a bench adjoining, and were covered with glass . . . [The mice] have to run through the mazes to the opening, where food – milk, bread or cheese – is placed for them, but one was reluctant to start upon the journey and cowered at the sound made by a member of the Royal entourage. ‘He’s frightened’, remarked the Queen, and she tapped the glass covering as an intimation to the mouse that she would like him to complete his experiment, and thereupon he scuttled through the maze, her Majesty laughing at his spasmodic efforts. On the opposite side of the laboratory were the two rats, and they climbed up the wire of their cells and sniffed inquisitively at the Queen with their pink noses. One is so far advanced that he will gnaw through a tape and rub away a piece of paper, releasing a flap through which he crawls to his food, and the other burrows under sand to an aperture giving access to a succulent bit of cheese. Their simple ‘residences’ are known as puzzle-boxes to the lady students. Her Majesty inquired the object of the experiments, and was informed that they were for the purposes of comparison and deduction with respect to habitmemory in animals and human beings.7 A set of pictures, originally published in The Graphic in 1919,8 which reappear in several other newspapers over the next few years,9 under such titles as ‘Modern Young Lady’s Education’ and ‘The Wonders of the Mind: How women are taught the remarkable powers of the brain at Bedford College’, displays a variety of tasks designed to train perceptual-motor skills, such as listening for overtones (the caption reads: ‘The very modern young lady is being highly trained in the powers of observation. While her mother merely learnt to darn socks, she has all her faculties trained’); quickness of perception (‘a momentary glance in a dark room [a tachistoscope] is the new method of training the very modern girl in quickness of perception’); accuracy and steadiness of movement (‘acquired by line-drawing, every error being electrically recorded on a smoke drum’); mirror drawing (‘Practice improves left as well as right hand’); estimation of extent and direction of movement (‘A kind of miniature railway is used, with one part ascending at a good angle. The student is blindfolded, and with her left hand moves a little trolley upwards until a buffer is reached. This movement is practised again and again, and then repeated with the other hand, when the amount of error is ascertained’); and attractiveness of pictures (‘the attractive power of pictures in impressing the mind and moving the will’). The following is a contemporary account of the facilities as they were in 1931, from Nature:

Measuring the mind: Beatrice Edgell 169 The Department of Psychology occupies the first floor of one wing and comprises a lecture room and laboratories. The latter are well equipped with modern recording apparatus and material for studying the special senses. A pendulum tachistoscope is built into one of the walls. There is also a kodascope for the projection of films in the study of evidence and report.10 All in all, this was pioneering work, on a wide range of topics – sensory perception, motor skills, thinking, animal learning – using the best equipment available and instilling in students the principles of experimental design.

Research Edgell’s own research, likewise, spanned a number of different areas. She was equally at home with philosophical and theoretical, as with experimental work. She read eight papers to the Aristotelian Society; she wrote entries for encyclopaedias, and reviewed innumerable books. She herself wrote three books: Theories of Memory (1924), for which she is perhaps best known; Mental Life (1926), a textbook for social science students; and Ethical Problems (1929), a textbook on psychology for nurses. She also made substantial contributions to empirical research. One was a painstaking investigation of the calibration of the Wheatstone-Hipp chronoscope, an instrument for measuring reaction times. Edgell would have acquired her knowledge of this instrument during her time in Würzburg. Mental chronometry was important for both scientific and ideological reasons. Scientifically, the accurate measurement of time intervals of less than one second was important because these were used to make inferences about mental processes (e.g. their number or complexity). Ideologically, measurement was the hallmark of hard science. Precision was pursued almost as a cult, aimed at establishing psychology on a par with physics and physiology. Hence, the problem of calibration posed a threat and provided a central challenge. Edgell and her collaborator examined four instruments, investigating the effect of various factors on the making and breaking of the current and hence the accuracy of measurement. (One of the problems resulted from the use of batteries as a power source, which could be unreliable.) They determined that the instrument was accurate to within one millisecond (the prescribed goal) and made recommendations for its use. Their paper, published in 1906, was still being cited thirty years later; it has also been the subject of recent attention. The accuracy of mental chronometry was not improved on for another 50 years until the advent of electronically based timing systems. Much of Edgell’s empirical work was concerned with memory. In a lecture to the London Child Study Society in 1912, she included the report of a large-scale experiment, published the following year in the Society’s journal, Child Study, where it jostles with advertisements for baby foods (Benger’s, Horlicks and Bourneville cocoa) and gas fires (‘a boon to mothers’). The participants were over

170 History twelve hundred schoolchildren aged 8–12 years, courtesy of the London County Council. The experiment was also run on half a dozen adults. Aimed at the empirical investigation of conditions for Stout’s ‘conative unity’, three conditions of associative memory were compared: (1) pure contiguity, the arbitrary pairing of two items, e.g. a pictured object and a number; (2) ‘artificial association’, where the children were instructed to generate a mnemonic (“very ingenious were the connections invented” she says, “e.g. a picture of an ultra rosy apple and the number 85 called forth the artificial connection, ‘apple, ate five’. An egg of greenish-yellow hue and the number 71 prompted the connection, ‘7 to 1 it is bad’”); and (3) conceptual similarity, where there was some conceptual relationship between the items to be associated, in this case geometrical shapes, e.g. a pictured circle and square. The results are shown in Figure 16.1. Edgell noted various effects – all of which can be confirmed by the application of modern statistical techniques. Apart from the obvious ones like improvement with age and the general inferiority of pure contiguity, she noticed an increase in the relative superiority of mnemonic techniques with age, and improvement in girls at an earlier age than that of boys. Similar developmental lags have been observed by current investigators but Edgell’s work in this respect has barely been superseded to this day. “We still know almost nothing about whether there are sex differences in memory development” (Schneider & Pressley, 1997, p. 323).

0.5

Mean number correct (max = 5)

3.5 3 1.5 2 1.5 1 0.5 0 Diverse

Artificial

Kindred

Figure 16.1 Diverse, artificial and kindred memory associations as a function of age and sex (drawn from data in Edgell, 1913). From left to right: boys 8–10, girls 8–10, boys 10–12, girls 10–12, boys 12, girls 12, adults.

Measuring the mind: Beatrice Edgell 171 Was Edgell’s psychology feminine? It might be asked whether Edgell’s psychology was distinctively feminine. There seems to be no evidence that either she or any of the other early British women psychologists (with the exception of Susan Isaacs) showed a preference for socalled ‘soft’ topics, such as child development, personality or social psychology. Quite the reverse, if her study of the chronoscope is anything to go by. It is notable that many of the early British women psychologists studied animal learning and behaviour. It could of course be argued that the pursuit of hard science was a case of “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ’em” – that it was necessary for women to adopt or ape the male model in order to succeed. I prefer to believe – and do in fact fervently believe – that these British women had an eye for the fundamental problems of psychology and recognised the importance of using experimental methods to tackle them. One striking feature both of Edgell’s psychology, and that of the other early British women psychologists, is the very broad range of topics investigated. This wide coverage together with the lack of a unifying theory might be regarded as a feminine trait in contrast to the more masculine, focussed pursuit of a personal theory, such as is seen in William McDougall’s instinct psychology or Charles Spearman’s theory of intelligence. However, as Leslie Hearnshaw was later to remark, an antipathy to theory was one of the features that came to characterise British 20th century psychology, the most influential work being the experimental investigation of applied problems. In this sense, by taking the first steps along a road that other major British psychologists were to follow, Edgell may be seen to have been truly a pioneer.

Teaching Important though her research was, it is possible that Edgell’s greatest contribution was as a teacher. As her obituarists in the British Journal of Psychology wrote: Her influence cannot be adequately measured by her writings and perhaps her students are the best witness of her work. They comment on her kindness, her willingness to answer their questions, her lucidity. Perhaps her greatest asset as a teacher was the strictly impartial manner in which she presented controversial topics, leaving their relative merits to emerge in the discussion which followed her expositions. Her students were thus stimulated to think for themselves and their conclusions were always treated with respect. Professor Edgell founded no school of psychology, but the success of her work is demonstrated by the success of her students in many widely differing fields. (Smith, McFarlane & Jenkin, 1949, p. 122) Prior to Edgell taking up her appointment in 1898, two third class degrees in mental and moral science had been awarded to Bedford College students. By contrast, nine of the next sixteen degrees awarded to students from the Department up to the end

172 History of World War I (and seventy per cent of those awarded up to 1912, including the first one in psychology) were first class. Long before the days of grade inflation, these are impressive figures indeed. A former student recounted the following anecdote: ‘What did Miss X—- get?’ an old Bedford student once asked in my hearing. ‘Get?’ was the indignant reply, ‘Why a first, of course. Miss Edgell’s students always do.’11 Edgell taught not only students of philosophy and psychology but also journalism and social studies, as well as teachers and nurses – many of whom came from overseas to study psychology at Bedford College. Here’s a tribute from an ex-serviceman on the journalism diploma: Professor Edgell was a woman of charm with a wise, persuasive manner; a shrewd and practical psychologist, too, who gave one the impression that she could judge character and weigh up the personality behind the facade. She made psychology a human rather than academic study.12 Working in a women’s college, she trained a number who later played a prominent role in the development of both academic and applied psychology in Britain. Notable amongst these are: •

•

•

•

Victoria Hazlitt (1887–1932), who taught psychology at Bedford College and other London colleges during World War I and made substantial contributions of her own to research – in animal learning, mental testing (including pioneering work on university selection, undertaken at Bedford College in the 1920s) and developmental psychology – before her premature death Olive Wheeler (1886–1963), a fellow graduate of the University of Wales and the first Bedford College student to be awarded a doctorate in psychology (in 1916), who was created a dame for services to education in Wales Lucy Fildes, OBE (1884–1968), who carried out research on what would now be termed learning disabilities, and was appointed the first head of the psychology department in the newly opened London Child Guidance Clinic in 1929 and Winifred Raphael (née Spielman; 1898–1978), employed at the National Institute of Industrial Psychology for almost forty years, who made a substantial contribution to the development of occupational psychology, not only through technical initiatives – pioneering unstructured interviews and attitude surveys in the 1930s – but also by encouraging acceptance of the psychologist in industry.

The position of women in universities was, not surprisingly, of particular concern to Edgell and a topic on which she delivered a lecture about 1911 to the Council of the National Union of Women Workers, in which she remarked:

Measuring the mind: Beatrice Edgell 173 On going through the data for the review which I have tried to give you, I have felt that the position of women in these Universities is one to fill any woman who has part or lot in them with great thankfulness, and with great gratitude towards those, who through the fifties, sixties and seventies of the last century [i.e. the 19th], worked so hard to win for women the privileges of higher education.13 She drew attention to two evils: spending too much time and energy on teaching at the beginning of a career (women tend to be more conscientious) and accepting lower pay for the same job. She considered that both time and money were needed to combat these. With regard to the second (unequal pay) she commented, “The danger of this evil does not lie within the Universities themselves, but in the insidious influence of popular ideas concerning women’s labour” (p. 4). At least World War I was largely to solve that problem, even if women are still seriously under-represented in science and at professorial level.

Factors contributing to Edgell’s success How did Edgell achieve her success, at a time of limited access to education for women, when social mores dictated that it was unnatural for women to pursue independent careers? What’s more, at the time of her birth, no university anywhere in the world had a professor of psychology. By the end of her career, she had achieved recognition and distinction. She had become professor of psychology at a British university and, in the years immediately following, president of four learned societies. In all cases she was the first woman to achieve these honours. Her achievements were noted in the national press on a number of occasions; she was honoured with obituaries in the Times, Nature and the British Journal of Psychology, in the days when women were frequently ‘invisible’. A number of enabling factors can be identified. Family Edgell was fortunate in her family, who supported rather than hindered her career. They provided her with resources and encouragement. She was born with the proverbial silver spoon in her mouth (almost literally). Her mother was a ‘go-getter’ who instilled determination into her children. In the words of one of her great nephews, Beatrice and her elder sisters were ‘allowed to do it’, ‘encouraged to do it’ and ‘fiercely educated’. Being the youngest of six children may well have endowed her with good social and diplomatic skills. She did not marry. I do not know whether or not this constituted a dilemma and/or a sacrifice for her; I suspect it did not. For most of her adult life, she lived with her other unmarried siblings (an elder sister kept house for them), who must have supplied affiliative as well as material needs. As the youngest of six children, she did not have to look after aging parents, and thus was not faced with the ‘family claim’ in that respect.

174 History Educational opportunities Edgell was born just at the right time – as higher education was beginning to open up to women. Although opportunities were strictly limited, they did exist. She was able to gain access to education through normal routes by careful selection of institutions. Oxford and Cambridge were not open to her but the Universities of London and Wales were prepared to award degrees to women. Although she had to attend the University of Würzburg as an auditor rather than as a properly registered student, she succeeded in being awarded a doctorate there. Also relevant is the fact that the institutional development of experimental psychology in Britain began around the turn of the twentieth century. The British Psychological Society was founded in 1901 and the British Journal of Psychology first published in 1904. To both of these she was an early and regular contributor. Edgell was an original member of the British Psychological Society, distinguished amongst learned societies by having admitted women from its inception. Personal qualities Undoubtedly Edgell was extremely academically able, as her achievements testify. At school she won prizes for literature and geography. She achieved a first class degree – if on the second attempt! She achieved distinction in the University of London teacher’s diploma, and was awarded scholarships for her M.A. and Ph.D. studies. She wrote and defended her doctoral thesis in a second language. Molly Harrower, one of her students who became a prominent clinical psychologist in America, reports being challenged by Edgell’s ‘excellent mind’ (Harrower, 1983, p. 159). Nor is there any doubt that she was capable of hard work. It is astonishing just how much she managed to achieve. She taught the whole degree course with minimal assistance and supervised postgraduate students. She carried out and published research. She read and reviewed a phenomenal number of books, as well as writing three of her own. She played an active part in both college and university administration, and a leading role in learned and professional societies. She demonstrated enormous determination and perseverance. She and her sisters have been described as ‘very determined girls’, ‘independent women’. Like her American counterpart, Margaret Washburn, Edgell proceeded as an autonomous individual, with a single-minded dedication to her own career. Her educational trajectory was carefully researched and planned with enterprise and resourcefulness. The fact that she was the first British student to study in Würzburg is testimony to her pioneering spirit and courage. She was socially skilled and good at networking. As a pioneer woman, there were few role models for Edgell to follow. In these circumstances, the role of mentors, supporters and collaborators takes on a particular significance. It has been observed that early American female faculty members often had chivalrous professional contacts with male professors at nearby institutions, influential ‘big brothers’ who supported them.

Measuring the mind: Beatrice Edgell 175 I think it is very significant that right from the beginning of her career, Edgell became accepted by male colleagues in the hard sciences. The work on the chronoscope was undertaken at the University of London’s Physiological Laboratory, in collaboration with William Legge Symes, a physiologist, subsequently professor at the Royal Veterinary College, well known for his research on digitalis and luminal, and inventor of the Symes cannula. Edgell and Symes remained life-long friends. She did not forget his help: he was a beneficiary of her will forty years later. The director of the laboratory was Augustus Waller, a Fellow of the Royal Society, noted for his experiments in developing the electrocardiograph. He was a member of the editorial board of the Journal of Physiology and of the University Senate, a powerful and prestigious position, to which Edgell herself was elected in 1907. Edgell had considerable diplomatic skills and was frequently called on to chair meetings. This is an eye-witness account from one of her obituaries: To those who had the privilege of working with her during her presidency of the British Psychological Society she revealed herself as an extremely competent Chairman. She was very clear-headed and had the gift of steering the discussions into profitable channels, and also by her delightful sense of humour averting potentially acrimonious disputes. She always remained dignified and quiet, but there was no doubt about her power. (Smith et al., 1949, p. 122) One of Edgell’s outstanding personal qualities was discretion. In her time, strict social mores governed the entry of women into male circles. For example, properly bred women did not smoke or enter rooms where men were smoking. Pioneer women academics often felt ill at ease and unsure of their welcome at dinners and banquets, and learned to tread carefully. Molly Harrower recalls a notice posted at the entrance to the Faculty Club in the Neurological Institute at McGill, when women were reluctantly admitted in the 1930s. It read: “Ladies are asked to pass as quickly as possible to the quarters allotted to them and under no circumstances to linger in the hall or on the stairways” (Harrower, 1983, p. 159). Edgell’s tactics differed from those of her American contemporary Margaret Washburn, who “had been intrepid enough to invade the sacred precinct of the men’s smoker at psychological meetings. Marching uninvited into its midst, she had sat down and lighted a cigar. None questioned her privilege to enjoy the smoker thereafter.” (MacCracken, 1950, p. 50).14 Contrast this with Edgell’s attitude towards the attendance of women at the British Psychological Society dinners, of which she said: “The women members of the Society were never excluded from these dinner gatherings but for the first few years it seemed to them wiser not to attend . . .” (Edgell, 1947, p. 115). She knew when to be assertive and when not.

176 History Strategies Margaret Rossiter, in her study of American pioneer women scientists, has distinguished three strategies they used to achieve success. All recognise the existence of social stereotypes but react to them in different ways. The first is a confrontational strategy of defiant protest, in which equality is demanded and an attempt made to change the system – as by the suffragettes. The second is a ‘realistic’ strategy of acceptance and conformity to sex-typed employment. Adaptation is made to the situation by arguing that women have special skills. A classic example is the development of home economics. The third strategy is one of quiet but deliberate over-qualification, accompanied by personal modesty, dubbed ‘Madame Curie’. It accepts the existence of double standards for men and women but attempts to overcome the social stereotypes by excellent training and credentials, in the belief that women must not only be better than men but outstanding, i.e. ‘Madame Curies’. According to a recent study of applications for Swedish Medical Research Council postdoctoral fellowships, they need to be 2.5 times better (Wennerås & Wold, 1997). Edgell’s strategy closely fits this last one of quiet but deliberate overqualification. She sought the best credentials. Her secondary education took place at an institution described as “the most famous of its kind in England”.15 Armed with her excellent qualifications, she had no difficulty obtaining a post as lecturer in philosophy (indeed head of department!) at Bedford College London. (Her late application was preferred over those from earlier candidates, none of whom were considered suitable.) Once in post, she then sought further training by going abroad to Würzburg, where the new experimental psychology was being taught. In the course of her career, she collected two bachelors’ degrees, one teaching diploma, a masters degree and two doctorates.

Coda I should like to conclude with extracts from Edgell’s obituary in Nature, which ably summarises her achievements. The author was probably Denys Harding, who became professor of psychology at Bedford College when an independent department of psychology was finally established in 1946. He writes: One of the significant figures in the development of British psychology . . . she helped to establish the traditions on which the study of psychology is still based in British universities . . . Throughout her life she combined her interest in philosophy and in experimental psychology, though with a special leaning to the latter . . . The laboratory she established bears witness to her concern for exact and objective experimental method aided by the best material equipment then available . . . Her example and influence thus aided the development of psychology in Britain as an independent experimental science which still retained the stabilizing effect of philosophical discipline . . . Precise of mind and emphatic of utterance she was an excellent teacher, and she is held in

Measuring the mind: Beatrice Edgell 177 affectionate respect by a large number of former students, many of whom are now engaged in psychological work applied to industry, education and various branches of social work . . . During the War she wrote a history of the [British Psychological] Society, part of which she read at the annual meeting . . . in 1946. This was the first occasion on which many of her younger colleagues had met her, and they will remember her as they saw her then, frail, alert and indomitable.16

Acknowledgements For help and encouragement at various stages of this research, I am particularly grateful to: Sophie Badham, Wilhelm and Elisabeth Baumgartner, Halla Beloff, Linna Bentley, Alan Costall, Angus Hone, Chris McManus, Kathryn Metzenthin, Jennifer Sherwood, John Valentine, Tom Wilks, David Wilson, Sarah Wilson and Johannes Zanker. I should also like to thank: Sarah Jane, Mark Pitchforth, Armin Stock, Nicky Sugar and Mark Wells for help with the preparation of this lecture. Some of the material presented above draws on two previously published articles: Elizabeth R. Valentine, ‘Beatrice Edgell: An appreciation’, British Journal of Psychology 92, (2001), 23–36; and Elizabeth Valentine, ‘Beatrice Edgell – the pioneer woman’, History & Philosophy of Psychology 3(1), (2001), 14–26. A full treatment appears in Elizabeth R. Valentine, Beatrice Edgell: Pioneer Woman Psychologist, Nova, 2006.

Notes 1 Westminster Gazette, February 11th, 1927. Press cuttings. Royal Holloway, University of London Archives, RF129/10, p. 123. 2 Bedford College Old Students’ Association, 1948–9, p. 6. RHUL Archives, AS903/1. 3 Times Educational Supplement, April 24th 1919, p.193. The article is unattributed but I am fairly confident about the authorship. 4 Philosophy Department: Correspondence and papers, 1900–24. RHUL Archives, AR332/6/1. 5 I am grateful to Professor Peter Warr for drawing this to my attention. 6 Bedford College Old Students’ Association, 1948–9, p. 6. RHUL Archives, AS903/1. 7 Daily Mail, July 4th 1913. RHUL Archives, RF129/1/4. 8 The Graphic, December 6th 1919. RHUL Archives: BC/RF 129/1/6, p. 7. I am grateful to Dr Linna Bentley for drawing this to my attention. 9 Daily Sketch, January 3rd 1920; Sunday Companion, January 15th 1921; Daily Herald, February 14th, 1920; Daily Herald, February 28th, 1921. RHUL Archives, BC/RF129/ 1/7, pp. 32, 44, 125. 10 Nature, 4th July 1931. 11 Bedford College Old Students’ Association, 1933, p. 9. RHUL Archives, AS903/1. 12 Bedford College Old Students’ Association, 1948–49, p. 7. RHUL Archives, AS903/1. 13 The position of women in the University of London, the provincial universities, and the University of Wales, p. 3. RHUL Archives, PP1/4. 14 Cited in Scarborough & Furumoto (1987), p. 105. 15 Sphere, February 26th 1927. 16 Nature, September 4th 1948, p. 63.

178 History

References Bryant, M.E. (1969). Private education from the sixteenth century. In J. S. Cockburn, H. P. F. King & K. G. T. McDonnell (Eds.), A history of the county of Middlesex: The Victoria histories of the counties of England, (vol. 1), pp. 241–289. London: Oxford University Press. Edgell, B. (1947). The British Psychological Society. British Journal of Psychology, 37, 113–132. Harrower, M. (1983). Molly R. Harrower. In A. N. O’Connell & N. F. Russo (Eds.), Models of achievement: Reflections of eminent women in psychology. New York: Columbia Press. MacCracken, H. N. (1950). The hickory limb. New York: Scribner’s. Pear, T. H. (1955). The Manchester University Department of Psychology (a) 1909–1951. Bulletin of the British Psychological Society, No. 26, 21–30. Scarborough, E. & Furumoto, L. (1987). Untold lives: The first generation of American women psychologists. New York, NY: Columbia University Press. Schneider, W. & Pressley, M. (1997). Memory development between two and twenty. (2nd ed.) Mahwah, NJ: Erlbaum. Smith, M., McFarlane, M. F. & Jenkin, A. (1949) Obituary notice: Beatrice Edgell 1871–1948. British Journal of Psychology, 39: 122. Tuke, M. (1939). A history of Bedford College 1849–1937. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Walsh, M. R. (1977). ‘Doctors Wanted. No Women Need Apply’: Sexual Barriers in the Medical Profession 1935–1975. New Haven: Yale University Press. Wennerås, C. & Wold, A. (1997). Nepotism and sexism in peer-review. Nature, 387, 341–343.

17 The founding of the Psychological Laboratory, University College London “Dear Galton . . . Yours truly, J Sully” Abstract The events leading up to the founding of the Psychological Laboratory at University College London are examined in the light of correspondence from James Sully to Francis Galton. The correspondence reveals the dependence of Sully on Galton for detailed advice at every stage of the process, possible reasons for which are discussed. It also provides sufficient clues to enable identification of a hitherto anonymous donor. Although Galton may have inspired and advised on the initial setting up of the laboratory, his influence on its work did not become apparent until after his death. The institutional development of experimental psychology in Britain began around the turn of the century. The British Psychological Society was founded in 1901, and the British Journal of Psychology was first published in 1904. Although separate independent departments, designated chairs, and specialist degree programs were generally not established for several decades, one of the first steps toward a distinct discipline was taken at this time in the appointment of lecturers to conduct practical classes in experimental psychology. Small laboratories were set up in Cambridge in 1887 by J. McK. Cattell (Sokal, 1972) and in 1897 by W. H. R. Rivers. London quickly followed suit with the founding of laboratories at University College in 1898 by James Sully, at Bedford College in 1901 under Beatrice Edgell, and at King’s College in 1903 under C. S. Myers. In Scotland, the first laboratory was established in Edinburgh in 1906 under W. G. Smith (Hunter, 1998). Most of these pioneers had spent some time training in psychological laboratories in Germany, which was notably more advanced in institutional development than Britain, as was the United States. The first laboratory in the United States was founded at Johns Hopkins in 1883 by G. Stanley Hall, and by the turn of the century there were 40 laboratories in existence. One of the avowed reasons for setting up the psychological laboratory at University College London was the existence of psychological laboratories in other countries, in particular the United States, Germany, and France. The Journal of Education, in calling attention to the excellent work done by Dr. Macdonald,1 in its May 1896 issue, asked: “Is it not a national disgrace that there does not exist one psychological laboratory in England?”2 Two months later, it was able to declare that

180 History we are very glad to say that there is every prospect of the removal of the reproach. Professor Sully is, of course, the man to head the movement, and we learn with satisfaction that he has the scheme in hand and will shortly issue a circular letter calling attention to the urgent need for the establishment of a pyscho-physical [sic] laboratory. Money is naturally one of the preliminary stumbling-blocks, but by no means the greatest . . . University College has not endowments sufficient for the purpose: the Government never vote supplies till success has been proved . . . [I]s there no wealthy Londoner who will emulate the Chambers and the MacEwans of Edinburgh, and come forward at this juncture to supply a suitable home for the investigations of Professor Sully and his assistants?3 Nature, in reporting the meeting held to discuss the setting up of the laboratory, announced the following: The science of experimental psychology, which is zealously pursued in Germany, in the United States, and elsewhere, clearly deserves more attention in this country than it has hitherto received, and it is now proposed that facilities should be afforded for its study at University College.4 Hearnshaw (1964) offers several reasons for Britain’s backwardness in establishing psychological laboratories: the lack of state organization of science, the conservatism of British universities, and philosophical hostility to the human sciences. The first reason stands in marked contrast to the situation in Germany at the end of the nineteenth century. Scientific progress in Britain has typically been the work of individuals, albeit working in collaboration. It is not without significance that Charles Darwin, Francis Galton, and James Sully were all men of independent means. The early laboratories were generally dependent on the benefactions of private individuals. The second factor, institutional conservatism, may in some cases have been the result of financial caution. With regard to the third factor, Daston (1978) has argued that the apparent philosophical hostility to institutionalized psychology in Britain may be more accurately interpreted as the lingering aftereffects of the debate over the perceived conflict between deterministic mental science and traditional moral values, specifically the belief in freedom of the will; and, moreover, that this came from inside the discipline rather than outside. In this connection, it is interesting to note that the supposed theological opposition to experimental psychology at Cambridge—that it would “insult religion by putting the human soul in a pair of scales”—is now considered to be apocryphal.5 The special significance that British intellectuals attached to morality during the late Victorian period, which was exemplified in the close affiliation between ethics and psychology; the use of the term mental and moral philosophy/science to refer to the discipline; and the logic, psychology, and ethics courses that were normally taught under this head, led to a concern with the moral implications of psychological theories, especially as applied to education and penology (problems

“Dear Galton . . . Yours truly, J Sully” 181 such as child rearing and the treatment of the mentally defective and insane), and led to a resultant practical cast of British psychology (Daston, 1978). The psychological laboratory set up at University College London by James Sully in 1898 contains elements of Danziger’s (1990) Galtonian model of psychological investigation, in that one of the aims was to provide a rational foundation for social planning. One of Sully’s particular interests was education. He thought that the measurement of mental fatigue (a popular topic of investigation at the time) could be expected to “lead to radical changes in our notions of children’s mental work, and of the conditions most favourable to it.”6 Another obvious area of application was the treatment of the mentally defective, whose education had become a problem consequent on the introduction of compulsory education in 1876. Sully claimed that tests have been proposed to ascertain inherent defects in the mental constitution of children and adults with more precision than is possible by unaided observation; and it may be hoped that these investigations will lead to the establishment of such rational modes of separate treatment of persons who are mentally defective, as may conduce, in an important degree, to the good of the community. An exact investigation of the true value of these and other tests is of social importance.7 Thus, Sully’s motivation was the same as Binet’s and at the other end of the spectrum from Terman’s meritocracy, which aimed to provide innately gifted children with the right education so that they could lead society (Minton, 1988). Sully would have agreed with J. McK. Cattell (1904, p. 106), who held that there is no reason “why the application of systematic knowledge to the control of human nature may not in the course of the present century accomplish results commensurate with the 19th century application of physical science to the natural world”. . Another of the avowed reasons for setting up the laboratory was that it would enable precise measurement of psychological characteristics. In a letter published in the Journal of Education, Sully argued that the novelty of the researches lies wholly in its method. The new experimental psychology no longer leaves a person to find out by introspective examination how his mind is made: it offers to show him the working of his mind by subjecting it to the action of certain physical appliances . . . In this way experimental psychology, which is carried out by the help of the appliances of the physicist and the physiologist, is making our knowledge of our minds more exact, and is doing something towards removing from psychology the reproach, cast upon it by Kant, that it could never be a quantitatively exact science.8 Capshew (1992, p. 132) has argued that, in the case of the development of U.S. psychology, the laboratory had a talismanic power, a symbolic potency as well as

182 History a material significance, serving as an “icon of the transcendent power of scientific knowledge,” signaling the “sacred space where scientific knowledge was created.” It bestowed scientific respectability, provided legitimation, and was used to justify separate resources. It is true that most of the early laboratories in England were labeled psychophysical. McDougall’s space in the physiological laboratory at Oxford was adorned by a brass plate announcing the “Department of Psychophysics” (Oldfield, 1950). Technophilia, the pursuit of experimentation as an ideology in order to gain scientific respectability, may well have played a role in Sully’s motivation, but the situation is complicated by several factors. First, separate departments were slow to develop in Britain, as indeed they were in the United States, as Capshew (1992) indicates; thus, the extent of separate resources gained by the establishment of a laboratory was limited. Furthermore, the financial basis was frequently far from secure, depending as it did on the generosity of private individuals. Second, although scientific in outlook, Sully was essentially from a literary background: His interests inclined to the ‘soft’ rather than the ‘hard’ areas of psychology, for example, child development, humor, music, and esthetics. In fact, he occupied an interesting, intermediate position between amateur and professional science (see Gurjeva, 1998). He was concerned to incorporate lay approaches (e.g., by encouraging parents and teachers to make observations of children) but also to justify these to professional scientists. In this regard, the laboratory may well have served the purposes of bestowing scientific credentials and legitimating his activities, as indeed Gurjeva has argued. Third, cordial relations existed between philosophy and psychology at University College London and had done so since the college’s inception in 1826, in contradistinction to the situation at Oxford, which was dominated by an internationally renowned center for ratiocinative philosophy (Morrell, 1997), where practical work in psychology was forbidden by the terms of the Wilde Readership. A course on the philosophy of mind had been offered at University College London since 1830. It was a mixture of philosophical analysis and scientific findings, such as those resulting from studies of the nervous system. About half of the course constituted what would properly be called psychology now, covering such topics as sensation, perception, attention, volition, and emotion. The college calendar described the course: “The Lectures on Philosophy of Mind form a Course of Psychology: in which the phenomena of mind are made the subject of exact analysis, with due reference to the cognate results of modern science.”9 The occupant of the Grote Chair of Mind and Logic from 1867–92 was George Croom Robertson. After his Aberdeen training under Bain, Robertson had studied under DuBois Reymond in Berlin, Lotze in Göttingen, and Broca in Paris and was of the opinion that “our psychology should be as physiological as we can make it” (Robertson, 1896, p. 33). He had the distinction of being the first editor of the journal Mind and was indeed responsible for its title, a “happy inspiration . . . which commended itself at once to everyone” (Bain, 1893, p. 9). A further factor, crucial to the development of laboratory psychology, was the introduction of quantitative and experimental methods in other biological sciences during the last quarter of the nineteenth century. Physiology became a compulsory

“Dear Galton . . . Yours truly, J Sully” 183 subject for medical students in England in 1871, leading to the development and expansion of laboratories. A chair in the subject was endowed at University College London in 1874, the occupants of which virtually created physiology as a research subject in England. Michael Foster went on to establish physiology as a subject in Cambridge, and John Burden Sanderson did the same at Oxford. A significant contribution lay in the introduction of experiments as part of the students’ education. William Sharpey and T. H. Huxley gave the first practical course offered in biology. In zoology, Ray Lankester introduced practical work into the subject—an innovation in British universities. In 1906, at a meeting of the British Association for the Advancement of Science, he remarked that the emergence of psychology as a definite line of experimental research was “one of the most important features in the progress of science in the past quarter of a century” (Hearnshaw, 1964, p. 184). His successor, W. F. R. Weldon, introduced quantitative methods into zoology; with Francis Galton and Karl Pearson, Weldon created biometrics. Galton set up his anthropometric laboratory at the International Health Exhibition in London in 1884, demonstrating his superiority by having his subjects pay him rather than vice versa. His colleague and disciple, Pearson, was in the 1890s becoming increasingly interested in applied statistics and the correlation of biological and sociological data. James Sully (1842–1923), the man who was responsible for setting up the laboratory at University College London, like his predecessor in the Grote Chair, had studied abroad – under Lotze in Göttingen and under Helmholtz and DuBois Reymond in Berlin. A man of independent means, he had supplemented his income with some teaching and examining but did not take up a full-time academic post until relatively late in life. He was 50 years of age when he succeeded to the chair in 1892, but his reputation as a writer was well established. In addition to being a frequent contributor to Mind, he had by this time published four widely acclaimed books: Pessimism (1877), said to have lost him the chair at Liverpool on account of its title; Illusions (1881), a detailed study of illusions, dreams, hallucinations, and delusions, commended by Freud and Wundt: “Among others, Wundt wrote to me expressing satisfaction with the book” (Sully, 1918, p. 189); Sensation and Intuition (1874), a collection of essays on psychology, esthetics, and ethics; and Outlines of Psychology (1884), adopted as a class text by William James although he thought it was too impartial (Sully, 1918, p. 190). Sully was essentially a facilitator. He had many contacts and numbered among his friends Alexander Bain, Charles Darwin, Francis Galton, T. H. Huxley, John Hughlings Jackson, William James, G. H. Lewes, Henry Sidgwick, James Ward, and others. He was a member of the Sunday Tramps, a celebrated club of pedestrians organized by Leslie Stephen, and of the Metaphysical Society, famed for its vigorous debates between scientists and theologians. He was chosen as one of the two secretaries for the Second International Congress of Psychology held in London in 1892. A set of correspondence from Sully to Galton10 provides a detailed account of the events that led to the setting up of the laboratory. The proposal is first mentioned in a letter dated July 7 1896:

184 History Dear Galton, A number of things have hindered my proceeding with the project I spoke to you of last month. I have talked to Prof Weldon, Prof. Schafer (the physiologist), Henry Sidgwick further. I enclose the rough draft of a circular which I think we might send out at once. Will you kindly look through it, suggest any alterations, & say whether you would be disposed to give your signature to it . . . You will see that I have tried to define some of the main lines of investigation carried out, with as little use as possible of technical language. Yours very truly, J Sully Storr has a note on our project in the July No of their Journal of Education.11 There is further mention on 19 November: “. . . I hope soon to have the proposal for founding a psycho-physical laboratory in a more acceptable form.”12 The prerequisites of a laboratory are space, equipment, and instructors. These may depend on moral support (in the form of either favorable public opinion or university approval) and financial support (from public funds or private endowment). Sokal (1972) has demonstrated that the successful launch of J. McK. Cattell’s unofficial psychological laboratory in Cambridge in 1887 depended on the support of powerful members of the university and the fact that the venture made no financial demands on the university. Cattell was supported by Michael Foster, Henry Sidgwick, John Venn, and James Ward and provided his own apparatus (brought from Leipzig where it had been made by Wundt’s technicians). When he took it with him again, on his return to Pennsylvania to become the first professor of psychology in the United States and the world, the Cambridge laboratory was forced to close. Similar factors can be seen in operation at University College London, the difference perhaps being that in this case these prerequisites were systematically orchestrated by Sully, who called a meeting to discuss his proposal in March 1897, writing to Galton as follows: Dear Galton, A meeting of an informal character is to be held in the Council Rooms of University College on Monday the 15th, at half past 4 oclock, in order to discuss the desirability of establishing a Laboratory of Experimental Psychology under the management of a trained teacher. It is felt by a number of friends of the College that such an institution would greatly add to its efficiency, and would probably attract not merely students of science but those preparing to be teachers and others who would by means of such a laboratory have the opportunity of acquiring familiarity with the methods now carried out in Germany, America and France for measuring sense-capacity and the simpler mental processes. I shall feel greatly obliged if you can show your interest in the proposal by attending the meeting.

“Dear Galton . . . Yours truly, J Sully” 185 Yours very faithfully, James Sully Thanks for your card. I really mean pushing on this time—if I see any chance of success K. Pearson & others will attend the meeting.13 Both Galton and Pearson did attend the meeting, which in fact took place on 20 March. It was chaired by Sir Douglas Galton, K.C.B., Francis Galton’s cousin, who had been president of the British Association two years previously, and was attended by R. B. Haldane, Q.C., M.P.; John Hughlings Jackson, the neurologist; W. H. R. Rivers; Francis Storr, editor of the Journal of Education; and all the science professors at the College: George Carey Foster, professor of Physics (who had introduced the systematic leaching of experimental physics to students); William Ramsay, professor of Chemistry (subsequently a Nobel prize winner); Edward H. Schäfer, professor of Human Physiology; and W. F. R. Weldon, professor of Zoology and Comparative Anatomy. Karl Pearson was professor of Applied Mathematics. All attendors except Haldane, Storr, and Sully either were or were to become Fellows of the Royal Society. It was resolved unanimously that it was “eminently desirable to establish a Laboratory for Experimental Psychology in University College.”14 The professors of Physics and Physiology offered to lend accommodation and apparatus, at least on a temporary basis. This seems to have been a general pattern. In Cambridge, J. J. Thomson, professor of Experimental Physics and director of the Cavendish Laboratory, had offered Cattell space, the use of some of his own laboratory’s equipment, and even “a boy to wait” (Sokal, 1972, p. 146). Michael Foster had given Rivers a room for his laboratory in the Physiology Department in 1897. Likewise at Oxford, McDougall had been allowed to establish his psychophysical laboratory in 1904 in the physiological laboratory, with support from Gotch and later Sherrington (Oldfield, 1950). However, Sully needed to raise funds to secure further apparatus and the services of an instructor. It was thought advisable to attempt a course of instruction extending over one term only in the first instance and that, in view of the assistance offered by the physics and physiology departments, an outlay of about £100 would suffice. A committee was formed, consisting of Galton, Pearson, Rivers, Carey Foster, Schäfer, and Sully (as secretary), that was charged with ascertaining the probable cost, and sending out a letter soliciting donations.15 Sully contrived to get reports of the meeting and appeals for funds published. On 11 April he wrote to Galton: I have sent out now about 80 letters, also one to each of the Editors of “Nature” & the “Athenaeum,” asking him to call attention to the movement. I think that this ought to make the thing known. Unfortunately I was not in time for this month’s “Mind.” Ought I to send note to any other journal?16 Sully was successful in getting announcements in the Athenaeum, where it appeared under “Science Gossip”;17 Nature, which carried a very full report;18 and

186 History the Journal of Education, which published a long letter from him, despite his protesting to Galton: I cannot undertake to write an article on the Psychol. Laboratory. My work, particularly heavy just now is in arrears, & I am worried by a troublesome family business. Will you not write our article? You can do this kind of thing so well, and it would have so much more might coming from you, an outsider, so deeply interested in the subject. Do, please, consider this proposal. I can readily supply you with notes which Rivers is drawing up for me . . .19 The letter to the Journal of Education, dated 20 May, which appeared under the title: “Proposed Laboratory for Experimental Psychology at University College” and ended with an appeal, explained the aims of the proposal: The proposed laboratory is not, as one London journal appeared to think, a place where confiding mothers may deposit their infants in order that a learned professor may ascertain by experiment whether, for example, they can discriminate what are to us offensive tastes, or, like their simian ancestors, hang with their whole weight on to a bar.20 Nor does it intend to follow out the rather exciting lines of investigation which busy themselves with the occult phenomena or “visions” and the like. The laboratory modestly proposes merely to study the familiar mental processes as they can be observed in older children and adults.21 Although Sully is generally and correctly credited with the initiative in setting up the laboratory (Bellot, 1969; Hearnshaw, 1964; Hicks, 1928), the correspondence reveals that he sought Galton’s detailed advice at every stage of the process, as is apparent from the following letters: Will you kindly look through the enclosed? I have, as you see, finally shortened my letter. Do you think that I now say enough? I suggest a few words which might be added on p. 4. I have written down as nearly as possible what you dictated to me. Have you any suggestions as to the printing. Should my letter go on a second page by itself? Should a single leaf, or a double leaf be used, & what sized leaf, & type do you recommend? I am sorry to trouble you about these details, but I have not had much experience in this kind of thing.22 Of course I will send you a proof before getting the printer to strike off the copies. Yours very truly, J Sully23

“Dear Galton . . . Yours truly, J Sully” 187 Very many thanks for your valuable suggestions as to the way of keeping accounts which I will duly carry out—I do not understand that you wish me to suggest in the letter that cheques should be payable to the Psychological Laboratory Account at my bank. If you think this desirable & would send a line for me to have tomorrow evening I could still add it, as I am to see a revisn. In sending a note to “Nature,” “Mind,” & to the “Athenaeum” it might be well to mention this. What do you think? Thanks for the cheque. I enclose formal acknowledgement. Yours very faithfully, J Sully24 Can you give me any suggestions as to sending out letters? Perhaps some names have occurred to you. I propose to send a small number of letters to each member of the Organizing Committee. The difficulty is, I suspect, to awaken interest. Calling on people is normal according to Haldane, but I am not sure that I should succeed in this kind of work. I feel almost ashamed at giving you so much trouble in this matter. Yours very truly, J Sully25 Why was Sully dependent on Galton in this way? Apart from the fact, already noted, that it is generally a wise policy to gain the support of powerful others, there are a number of other reasons why this was a sensible strategy for Sully and reasons for his choice of Galton as an ally. Setting up the laboratory was only one incident in a full and varied life. There is no mention of it at all in his autobiography (Sully, 1918). The University College period is dealt with in only one of the thirteen chapters. The topics meriting discussion, and presumably therefore of greatest importance to him, are the Grote Chair, the International Congress, his books Studies of Childhood and the Essay on Laughter, and the founding of the British Association (Education Section). Sully was a writer rather than an experimentalist. His books and articles took precedence over everything else, witness the following aside: “The lecturing, which I put into the afternoons so as to secure the morning hours for writing, did not trouble me much” (Sully, 1918, p. 179). During his eleven years in office, he was busy with many other things. In addition to the various activities mentioned earlier, he was involved in the formation of the British Association for Child Study in 1894 and convened the meeting at which the British Psychological Society was formed in 1901. He also became embroiled in administration: Later on as the long-discussed proposal of a Teaching University approached realization the administrative work of the college began to take up more and more of my working hours. At one time I was Chairman of one Board of Studies and a member of two other boards; and the frequent meetings . . . made considerable inroads on my working day. (Sully, 1918, p. 235–236)

188 History It is the more remarkable that he managed to devote as much time and energy to setting up the laboratory as he did. Finally, he was relatively inexperienced in university politics, having only been in post for five years. Despite his sociability, Hearnshaw (1962, p. 2) describes him as “not very forceful.” This accords with Sully’s own self-description as “one whose spirit was apt to be clogged with doubts” (Sully, 1918, p. 223). The correspondence evinces repeated evidence of lack of confidence. Galton was an obvious choice for his advisor. He was highly respected in the scientific world (having twice been invited to become president of the British Association). He had demonstrated his success as a scientific entrepreneur in setting up his own laboratory, which was in existence in London from 1884 to 1891, and had been engaged in psychological work for the previous thirty years. Sully and Galton had known each other for some considerable time. In reviewing Croom Robertson’s papers, Sully (1895) mentions that he and Galton were members of a “small band of philosophic students” often to be found at Robertson’s house in London. Several letters from Galton to Sully dating from 188026 reveal discussion of a variety of psychological topics, including visualization, illusions, heredity, dreams, seasickness, and child development. They had also collaborated on a number of occasions, as in the visit to asylums with Alexander Bain in 1886 to investigate the “prehension of idiots,” a study published in Mind (Galton, 1887). The response to the appeal for funds was at first rather disappointing: I regret to say that the responses to the letter are very few—disappointingly so. The interest in the subject seems to be very limited. Can you suggest anything else that I can do on my own authority, or would you advise me to call another meeting of the committee just yet?27 But gradually donations and subscriptions came in. Henry Sidgwick contributed £25, R. B. Haldane contributed £10 for five years, and A. J. Balfour, M.P. (subsequently Prime Minister), contributed £5 for three years. Other contributors were Francis Galton himself, Mr. Potter, Sir John Lubbock (the entomologist), Shadworth Hodgson (the philosopher), and Dr. (Sir George) Savage (the psychiatrist). By the end of the year, the donations totalled £162 and subscriptions totalled £19 (rising to £25) for three to four years. However, by far the largest and most important contribution was an anonymous donation. Apart from that loaned by the Departments of Physics and Physiology, most of the equipment came from Freiburg, whence Hugo Münsterberg was departing for Harvard, as successor to William James. Münsterberg not only offered “cordial assistance in planning a course of suitable instruction”28 but also equipment. The purchase of this was enabled through the anonymous donation. Again, the details are provided in the correspondence: I have just had an offer from Münsterberg to let us have some of his apparatus collected for some years & improved by himself for £150. He is, it seems, going back to Harvard, & does not want to take his apparatus with him. I have

“Dear Galton . . . Yours truly, J Sully” 189 answered his note saying that I will let him know later, but that I fear we have not have [sic] sufficient funds for accepting his tempting proposal. Many thanks for your offer of pecuniary help. Very truly yours, J Sully I enclose Münsterberg’s letter.29 “I have a fresh offer from Münsterberg of selected apparatus for £90.1 have sent it on to Rivers for him to see whether it will suffice for the scheme of work he has drawn up. I will send it on to you later.”30 In fact, Rivers advised against: Dr Rivers is strongly of opinion that we should not accept Prof. Münsterberg’s second offer. Some of the apparatus he includes is not needed, other has been improved upon & other again is too complex & special. Ought I, do you think, on the strength of this opinion, to decline the offer, or to await the judgment of the Committee?31 And then, on 9 May: At last a little encouragement. A German lady a former student at Un. College & a pupil of mine, who is now working with Prof Münsterberg at Freiburg gives us a donation of £70 in order that we may buy Prof M’s apparatus. He will come over next month & arrange things. I think we cannot but accept this even if some of the apparatus may not be just what we want. The lady’s name is to be known only to myself*, but we may use the fact of the donation with a view to urge others to assist.32 Yours very truly, J Sully *It is not to be known to Prof M.33 It has been possible to identify the lady in question, from the fees books that are still in the college’s possession, as Mrs. Lucy Frentzen-Hoesch of Godesburg. She studied mind and logic under Sully from 1893 to 1896 and was “over 21” on entry to the college. There are no records of her subsequent career at Freiburg, only documents concerned with problems over Münsterberg’s habilitation thesis.34 However, the address given for her in the University College London records, of Villa Hoesch, Godesburg, suggests that either she or her husband was wealthy. One can only speculate now about the particular motivation for her gift. Perhaps a clue is afforded by Sully’s remarks about his teaching experiences at the college: Fortunately, classes were open to women, who numbered a good half of my students . . . However small my class, it never diminished to a single student,

190 History as it did when I was lecturing at a ladies’ college, when, of course, the student was duly chaperoned. (Sully, 1918, p. 235) There is a parallel at Oxford, where an anonymous gift of £10,000 from Mrs. Hugh Watts, a friend and patient of William Brown’s, enabled the founding of the Institute of Experimental Psychology in 1936. At Cambridge too, C. S. Myers, through his wife’s family, supplied most of the finances required for the development of the laboratory there in 1912. The equipment, whose purchase Mrs. Frentzen-Hoesch’s gift enabled, is described by Flugel (1954, p. 24) as belonging to “what might be called the classical period of experimental psychology,” still in existence at the time of his writing, and “in some cases rather crude in workmanship.” According to the present curator, Jim Chambers, the collection is still in the department’s possession. Of the pieces currently on display, the Hipp chronoscope, Universal Kontakt apparatus enabling sequential presentation of lights and sounds, aesthesiometer, auditory acuity tester, and self-sustained tuning fork are almost certainly survivors from the original set. By the time the announcement appeared in Mind in July 1897, things were pretty well sewn up: A laboratory for experimental psychology will be opened in University College, London, in October next. The committee have secured a considerable part of the apparatus collected by Prof. Hugo Münsterberg of Freiburg, who is about to migrate permanently to Harvard College. Among those who have contributed to the movement are Mr F. Galton, Prof. H. Sidgwick, Mr A. J. Balfour, Mr R. B. Haldane, Sir John Lubbock, Mr Shadworth Hodgson, and Dr Savage. It is hoped that the name of George Croom Robertson may in some way be connected with the laboratory. It is further hoped that Dr W. H. R. Rivers whose work as a teacher in Cambridge and elsewhere is well known will be able to start the work of the laboratory and superintend it during the October term.35 In fact, the laboratory did not open until the following year. Rivers had given occasional lectures on experimental psychology at the college prior to his appointment in Cambridge as Lecturer in the Physiology of the Special Senses in 1893 (Hearnshaw, 1964). He had published experimental work on tactile sensations from crossed fingers (Rivers, 1894) and with Kraepelin on addition and fatigue (published in Psychologische Arbeiten [1897]), as well as a number of important papers on color vision. In February 1898, the following report was issued: The Committee have much pleasure in stating that the work of the Laboratory commenced on the 17th of January. Dr W. H. R. Rivers of Cambridge, who

“Dear Galton . . . Yours truly, J Sully” 191 has undertaken the direction of the work for the present Session, is now meeting a class of seven students on Monday and Thursday afternoons . . .36 Details of the work that was carried out are to be found in the Annual Report of the College for 1897–98: The work consisted of the experimental investigation of such points as the following:—The discovery of the spots of the skin of the fore-arm sensitive to pressure, and to hot and to cold objects respectively: the estimation of length of line by sight and by touch: the discrimination of lifted weights: the estimation of the pitch of tones: the estimation of very short time-intervals. The students themselves were the subjects of these experiments, and they appeared to be greatly interested in the researches. As Dr Rivers was unfortunately unable to continue teaching,37 Mr E. T. Dixon of Cambridge conducted the class during the first term of the 1898–9 session. There were seven students, two of whom were Medical graduates. The Laboratory is now located in its own room. The Committee are very desirous of purchasing additional apparatus and of securing the services of a permanent instructor. In order that this plan may be carried out, more funds are needed . . . [The committee] are the more anxious to do this as there is reason to hope that the University of London is disposed to include the Subject of Experimental Psychology in the Schedule for the Final B.Sc. Examination.38 Experimental psychology was included among the subjects for the London University final bachelor of science examination in 1903. The assessment included a written examination, a full day’s practical examination incorporating a viva voce, and submission of a laboratory notebook. E. T. Dixon is infamous for his offer to Haddon of a Hipp chronoscope that, though “it would not do for very accurate experiments,” he thought would “be suitable for savages” (Mollon & Polden, 1978, p. 555). Although most of his work was on logic and geometry, he was collaborating with Rivers in true Leipzig style (Danziger, 1990) and had published an important study on depth perception (Dixon, 1895), for which Rivers and Venn had served as observers (Rivers, 1896). E. T. Dixon remained as director of the laboratory for the next two years, being succeeded by William McDougall in 1900 (appointed Reader in Experimental Psychology in 1903). McDougall seems to have spent only one day a week in the cramped conditions (one room used as a library store), carrying out most of his experimental work on vision in two attic rooms in his house (McDougall, 1930);39 by 1904, he was working at Oxford as Wilde Reader and was undertaking experimental work, despite the terms of his appointment. Charles Spearman succeeded McDougall as director of the laboratory at the college in 1907, which was shortly thereafter rehoused in more commodious and appropriate quarters (Flugel, 1954). One of the ablest researchers before World War I was A. Wohlgemuth, skilled in the construction and use of apparatus, whose doctoral work on the aftereffects of

192 History seen movement was published as the first monograph supplement of the British Journal of Psychology (Wohlgemuth, 1911). Sully resigned his chair in 1903, spending some of his remaining twenty years abroad in Italy and contributing less to intellectual life in London. He was succeeded by Carveth Read, who had studied under Wundt in Leipzig and Kuno Fischer in Heidelberg. Another frequent contributor to Mind, his interests became increasingly psychological. He gave a course of 80 lectures on general psychology, covering special psychological topics in the third term. Although full of admiration for experimental methodology, he had little aptitude for dealing with apparatus himself. Flugel (1954, p. 24) describes him as “a man of conceptual and verbal rather than practical or manipulative capacity.” Spearman succeeded to the Grote Chair in 1911, finally becoming professor of psychology in 1928. He was followed by Cyril Burt who, writing of his work at the college, stated that his main aim had been “to make it a focus for that branch of psychology which was founded and developed there by Galton—‘individual’ or, as Stern used to call it, ‘differential’ psychology” (Burt, 1952, p. 72). The work of Spearman and Burt constituted the London School of differential psychology and psychometrics. During his lifetime, Galton’s activities were somewhat separate from psychology at University College London; his own laboratory was in South Kensington, his guiding interest was eugenics, and his direct influence at the college was through Karl Pearson (neither Galton nor Pearson were ever members of the Psychology Department). Nevertheless, in the longer term, his interests came to be pursued in the Department of Psychology at University College London.

Acknowledgements I gratefully acknowledge permission to reproduce material from the Galton Papers 325, University College London Library, and I thank Gill Furlong, college archivist, and Kate Manners, assistant archivist, for their guidance and assistance with the correspondence. I am indebted to Joanna Shaddock, superintendent of the Records Office, for searching the fees books for the anonymous donor.

Notes 1 Arthur MacDonald, who established a laboratory at the U.S. Bureau of Education in Washington, D.C. See Gilbert (1977). 2 Journal of Education, May 1896, p. 293. 3 Journal of Education, July 1896, p. 496. 4 Nature, 55, no. 1433, April 1897, p. 564. 5 Whittle, P. (1998). W. H. R. Rivers: A Founding Father Worth Remembering. Talk given to the Zangwill Club, Department of Experimental Psychology, University of Cambridge. 6 Journal of Education, June 1897, p. 355. 7 Report of the meeting held to discuss setting up the laboratory, 5 April 1897. Galton Papers 325, University College London Library. 8 Journal of Education, June 1897, p. 355. 9 University College London Calendar, 1868–9, p. 34.

“Dear Galton . . . Yours truly, J Sully” 193 10 Correspondence from Sully to Galton. Galton Papers 325, University College London Library. 11 See Note 10. 12 Letter from Sully to Galton, 19 November 1896. Galton Papers 325, University College London Library. 13 Letter from Sully to Galton, 4 March 1897. Galton Papers 325, University College London Library. 14 Proposed Psychological Laboratory at University College London, p. 2. Galton Papers 325, University College London Library. 15 See Note 14. 16 Letter from Sully to Galton, 11 April 1897. Galton Papers 325, University College London Library. 17 Athenaeum, no. 3624, 10 April 1897, pp. 483–484. 18 Nature, 55, no. 1433, April 1897, p. 564. 19 Letter from Sully to Galton, 17 May 1897. Galton Papers 325, University College London Library. 20 Oliver Braddick, co-director of the Visual Development Unit, University College London, observes that this is precisely what happens now, drawing my attention to the well-known picture of Watson testing a neonate’s grasp reflex in this way. 21 Journal of Education, June 1897, p. 355. 22 These protestations are all the more surprising given Sully’s long experience in journalism. His first job, and entree to the world of publishing, was as assistant to John Morley, editor of the Fortnightly Review. 23 Letter from Sully to Galton, 23 March 1897. Galton Papers 325, University College London Library. 24 Letter from Sully to Galton, 2 April 1897. Galton Papers 325, University College London Library. 25 Letter from Sully to Galton, 3 April 1897. Galton Papers 325, University College London Library. 26 Miscellaneous letters to Sully. MS Add. 158, no. 3, University College London Library. 27 Letter from Sully to Galton, 27 April 1897, Galton Papers 325, University College London Library. 28 Proposed Psychological Laboratory at University College London, p. 3. Galton Papers 325, University College London Library. 29 Letter from Sully to Galton, 26 March 1897. Galton Papers 325, University College London Library. Alas, Münsterberg’s letter no longer accompanies Sully’s. 30 Letter from Sully to Galton, 11 April 1897, Galton Papers 325, University College London Library. 31 Letter from Sully to Galton, 27 April 1897, Galton Papers 325, University College London Library. 32 The ploy was indeed used in the appeal that ended the letter to the Journal of Education: “In order that the laboratory may be started and kept going till it is self-supporting, annual subscriptions for three or four years are needed. One former student of the College, a lady, has given £70 for the purchase of apparatus. Are there no old students among the readers of your Journal who would like to do a good turn at once to their College and to the cause of education?” Journal of Education, June 1897, p. 356. 33 Letter from Sully to Galton, 9 May 1897. Galton Papers 325, University College London Library. 34 I am indebted to Robin Rollinger for pursuing this for me. 35 Mind, VI, 1897, p. 448. 36 Report of the Psychological Laboratory Committee, February 1898. Galton Papers 325, University College London Library. 37 Rivers set off with C. S. Myers and William McDougall on the Cambridge anthropological expedition to the Torres Straits.

194 History 38 University College London, Annual Report (1897–1898), 17. 39 N.B. his confession in a footnote: “My work was chiefly done where there was no electric current at my disposal” (McDougall, 1904, p. 162).

References Bain, A. (1893). George Croom Robertson. Mind, II, 1–14. Bellot, H. H. (1969). The University of London: A history. London: London University (Institute of Historical Research). Burt, C. (1952). Cyril Burt. In E. G. Boring et al. (Eds.), A history of psychology in autobiography, (vol. 4), 53–72. New York, N.Y.: Russell & Russell. Capshew, J. H. (1992). Psychologists on Site: A Reconnaissance of the Historiography of the Laboratory. American Psychologist, 47,132–142. Cattell, J. M. (1904). The Conceptions and Methods of Psychology. Popular Science Monthly, 66, 176–186. Danziger, K. (1990). Constructing the subject: Historical origins of psychological research. Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press. Daston, L. J. (1978). British Responses to Psycho-physiology, 1860–1900. Isis, 69, 192–208. Dixon, E. T. (1895). On the Relation of Accommodation and Convergence to Our Sense of Depth. Mind, IV, 195–212. Flugel, J. C. (1954). A Hundred Years or So of Psychology at University College London. Bulletin of the British Psychological Society, 27, 21–31. Galton, F. (1887). Supplementary Notes on ‘Prehension’ in Idiots. Mind, XII, 79–82. Gilbert, J. B. (1977). Anthropometries in the U.S. Bureau of Education: The Case of Arthur MacDonald’s ‘Laboratory.’ History of Education Quarterly, 17, 169–195. Gurjeva, L. G. (1998). Everyday Bourgeois Science: The Scientific Management of Children in Britain. Ph.D. dissertation, University of Cambridge. Hearnshaw, L. S. (1962). Sixty Years of Psychology. Bulletin of the British Psychological Society, no. 46, 2–10. Hearnshaw, L. S. (1964). A short history of British psychology. London: Methuen. Hicks, G. D. (1928). A Century of Philosophy at University College London. Philosophical Studies, 3, 468–482. Hunter, I. M. L. (1998). 1891–1906: Creating a Psychology Lectureship at Edinburgh University. Bulletin of the Scottish Branch of the British Psychological Society, 26, 6–9. McDougall, W. (1904). The Sensations Excited by a Single Momentary Stimulation of the Eye. British Journal of Psychology, 1, 78–113. McDougall, W. (1930). William McDougall. In A history of psychology in autobiography (vol. 1, ed. C. Murchison). Worcester, Mass.: Clark University Press, 191–223. Minton, H. L. (1988). Charting Life History. In J. G. Morawski (Ed.), The rise of experimentation in American psychology (pp. 138–162). New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press. Mollon, J. D. & Polden, P. G. (1978). On the Time Constants of Tachistoscopes. Quarterly Journal of Experimental Psychology, 30, 555–568. Morrell, J. (1997). Science at Oxford 1914–1939. Oxford: Clarendon. Oldfield, R. C. (1950). Psychology in Oxford—1898–1949. Bulletin of the British Psychological Society, 1, 345–387. Rivers, W. H. R. (1894). A Modification of Aristotle’s Experiment. Mind, III, 583–584.

“Dear Galton . . . Yours truly, J Sully” 195 Rivers, W. H. R. (1896). On the Apparent Size of Objects. Mind, V, 71–80. Robertson, G. C. (1896). Elements of psychology. London: J. Murray. Sokal, M. (1972). Psychology at Victorian Cambridge—The Unofficial Laboratory of 1887–1888, Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society, 116, 145–147. Sully, J. (1895). Review of Philosophical Remains of George Croom Robertson. Psychological Review, 2, 175–178. Sully, J. (1918). My life and friends: A psychologist’s memories. London: Fisher Unwin. Wohlgemuth, A. (1911). On the After-Effect of Seen Movement. British Journal of Psychology, Monograph Supplements, l, no. 1, 1–117.

18 Spooks and spoofs Relations between psychical research and academic psychology in Britain in the inter-war period

Abstract This article describes the relations between academic psychology and psychical research in Britain during the inter-war period, in the context of the fluid boundaries between mainstream psychology and both psychical research and popular psychology. Specifically, the involvement with Harry Price of six senior academic psychologists: William McDougall, William Brown, J. C. Flugel, Cyril Burt, C. Alec Mace and Francis Aveling, is described. Personal, metaphysical and sociohistorical factors in their collaboration are discussed. It is suggested that the main reason for their mutual attraction was their common engagement in a delicate balancing act between courting popular appeal on the one hand and the assertion of scientific expertise and authority on the other. Their interaction is typical of the boundary work performed at this transitional stage in the development of psychology as a discipline.

Psychology in Britain in the early 20th century Although psychology as a discipline began at the turn of the century—marked by the founding of laboratories, a professional society and a journal—it was an extremely small-scale operation in a primitive state of development for several decades. By about 1920, there were growing signs of independence. A separate Psychology Section of the British Association for the Advancement of Science was formed in 1921; the following year the British Psychological Society abandoned joint meetings with philosophical societies since “the divergence of interest was becoming too wide for common . . . meetings to be profitable” (Edgell, 1947, p. 112). But in 1939 there were still only about 30 university posts in psychology (Hearnshaw, 1964, p. 208); it did not become established as a recognized occupation until after the Second World War. Hence, as Aveling (1937, p. v), writing on the position of psychology in the 1930s, remarked: “Scientific psychology must still be said to be in a state of transition, and not yet fully to have found its feet.” Its progress has been beset by two perennial problems. The first is what Bunn (2001, p. 3) refers to as “the variegated character of the new discipline”: its diversity

Psychical research and academic psychology 197 and fragmented nature. Aveling (1937, p. 84), having reviewed six different approaches, commented: “Neither on its scope, its definition, nor its method are all psychologists entirely agreed.” Likewise, Flugel, engaged in a similar project, after discussing nine different schools, observed that, although psychology “has made great progress” (Flugel, 1933, p. 357), it is “still infantile, still relatively unco-ordinated” (ibid., p. 358), admitting that it “may still be uncertain about its own nature” (ibid., p. 360). As Richards (2001, p. 49) remarks, “Psychology’s understanding of what constituted its appropriate subject matter was itself something which had to be forged within specific historical and social contexts”. Some are of the opinion that the situation has not been ameliorated, Smith (1988, p. 154–155) going so far as to claim that “‘psychology’ is not a unified body of knowledge with a common core of mutually consistent concepts; indeed, it is a highly contentious philosophical question whether it could ever achieve a unified theory”. The second problem is insecurity with respect to its scientific status. It is seen as continually struggling to establish its scientific credentials (Richards, 1987, p. 202): “a discipline anxious to defend its own rather tenuous claims to scientific authority and firm disciplinary boundaries” (Thomson, 2006, p. 6). Both these factors—its ill-defined nature and its precarious position as a science—contributed to the importance of what has been called boundary work in the development of psychology (Derksen, 1997; Thomson, 2006).

Boundary work The post-Kuhnian view is that science is distinguished from non-science not by criteria of falsification and repeatability but by dynamic and complex social manoeuvres. As Kohler (1982, p. 1) observed, “Disciplines are political institutions that demarcate areas of academic territory, allocate privileges and responsibilities of expertise, and structure claims on resources”. Boundary work is an attempt to create a public image for science by contrasting it favourably with non-scientific activities, in order to justify claims to authority and resources. Such activity may be used to achieve expansion, monopolization, or protection of autonomy over professional activities (Gieryn, 1983). In the present context, two boundaries are of particular interest: that between professional and popular psychology, and that between academic psychology and psychical research. The proximity of professional to popular or lay psychology is particularly close. Many scholars have drawn attention to psychology’s cultural embeddedness. Thomson (2006) even questions the division between professional and amateur up to the Second World War. Richards (1987, p. 211) has pointed to the ambiguity of the term ‘psychology’ to refer to both the discipline and its subject matter; and Derksen reveals the resulting tension in demarcating professional psychology from common sense when the latter forms its subject matter. Paradoxically, demarcation necessitates popularization, in order to “reap the rewards of funds, clients, students, and trust” (Derksen, 1997, p. 436). As psychology shifted away from philosophy towards the natural sciences, great emphasis was placed on detached observation,

198 History accurate measurement and recording. Boundary work often involved the creation of material and social spaces such as laboratories, which defined scientific work (Bordogna, 2008, p. 27). Technical equipment and specialized training became the hallmarks of scientific activity.

Academic psychology and psychical research For the first part of the 20th century, there were also fluid boundaries between academic psychology and psychical research. The terms ‘psychological’ and ‘psychical’ were used interchangeably up to 1920 to mean mental as opposed to physical, ‘psychological’ sometimes being used to refer to what later became known as the paranormal (Coon, 1992). In 1906 the British Psychological Society changed its name from the ‘Psychological Society’ to “prevent confusion” with an “unacademic group” (Edgell, 1947, p. 116). It is likely that this group was the London Psycho-Therapeutic Society, also founded in 1901, and that members of the professional society wished to dissociate themselves from any taint of mysticism belonging to this eccentric fringe (Bunn, 2001, p. 18). Coon (1992) has described three strategies that American experimental psychologists used to create and maintain boundaries between psychology and psychical research (regarded as pseudo-scientific), at the turn of the 20th century. These were demonstrating the fraudulence of, and/or providing naturalistic explanations for, claimed psychical phenomena (strategies pursued by Hugo Münsterberg) or investigating how people could possibly believe in such phenomena, through the psychology of deception and belief (developed by Joseph Jastrow). Coon argues that they used these “modes of combat” to legitimate scientific psychology and to create a new role for themselves as guardians of the scientific worldview. They were thus able to satisfy the public’s interest in spiritualism and psychic phenomena, but at the same time assert their authority as experts. Wolffram (2009) has explored the multiple boundary disputes that surrounded the emergence of psychical research and parapsychology in Imperial and interwar Germany. She sees psychical research as a border science between psychology and spiritualism: psychologists distanced themselves from psychical research and psychical researchers distanced themselves from spiritualism. Although the initial development of psychical research in Germany during the late 19th century was an attempt to expand the frontiers of psychology to counter the prevailing materialistic Weltanschauung, it trespassed on the territory and epistemic authority of other disciplines, leading to counter-attacks, thus helping both their practitioners and their opponents to highlight, negotiate and remedy methodological and epistemological problems within contemporary science. Lachapelle (2005), in discussing psychical research in France in the 1920s, takes a slightly different view. She suggests that psychical research is destined to remain at the margins. Since much of its audience and frequently its financial support come from those outside the scientific world, who may hold spiritualist beliefs, it is impossible for it to achieve acceptance by mainstream science.

Psychical research and academic psychology 199 Indeed, psychical researchers have been ambivalent in their attitude towards mainstream science. Some have seen psychical research as part of mainstream science. Frederic Myers, one of the prime movers of the Society for Psychical Research (SPR), wrote: “So far from aiming at any paradoxical reversion of established scientific conclusions, we conceive ourselves to be working (however imperfectly) in the main track of discovery, and assailing a problem which, though strange and hard, does yet stand next in order among the new adventures on which Science must needs set forth” (Gurney, Myers & Podmore, 1886, p. xxxvi). On the other hand, for others what came to be known as parapsychology was defined as being in opposition to science: “Parapsychology means the scientific study of the ‘paranormal’, that is, of phenomena which in one or more respects conflict with accepted scientific opinion as to what is physically possible” (Beloff, 1974, p. 1). For these researchers psychical research was an attempt to study phenomena not so far explained by mainstream science and motivated by the perceived limitations of the latter. On this view, seeking recognition by mainstream science is misguided. The attitude of mainstream psychologists towards psychical research has generally been hostile. A notable exception is the active involvement of a number of senior academic psychologists with Harry Price’s National Laboratory of Psychical Research and the University of London Council for Psychical Investigation in the inter-war years in Britain. After sketching the early period, this article will describe Price’s attempts to cultivate academic psychologists, and the role of several of these in psychical research in the inter-war period. Finally, the question is addressed of why academic psychologists cooperated with someone of dubious integrity and lacking scientific credentials.

The early days of the Society for Psychical Research The Society for Psychical Research (SPR) was founded in 1882 (see Gauld, 1968; Haynes, 1982; and Oppenheim, 1985 for detailed accounts), in an era of spiritualism, to study “phenomena which are prima facie inexplicable on any generally recognised hypothesis” (Sidgwick, 1882–3, p. 3). The aim of the society was “to approach these various problems without prejudice or prepossession of any kind, and in the same spirit of exact and unimpassioned inquiry which has enabled Science to solve so many problems” (ibid., p. 4). In this early period, there were close links between psychical research and mainstream psychology. Many psychologists were members of the SPR. The following were presidents of the society: William James (1894–5), William McDougall (1920–1), T. W. Mitchell (1922), R. H. Thouless (1942–4), Gardner Murphy (1949–50).1 C. S. Myers and G. F. Stout were associate members. R. A. Fisher, who assisted with the statistical analysis of a number of the experiments, was an honorary member. Théodore Flournoy, Sigmund Freud, Pierre Janet, Carl Jung, G. Stanley Hall and Morton Prince were corresponding members. Frederic W. H. Myers, a founder member and chief researcher of the SPR, was joint secretary of the Second International Congress of Experimental Psychology,

200 History held in London in 1892, half of which was devoted to hypnotism and related topics.2 Speakers included Henry Sidgwick and Frederic Myers on hallucinations, and Eleanor Sidgwick on experiments in thought transference. There were also close relations between psychical research and psychoanalysis. Keeley (2002) has cogently argued that Freud had a lifelong interest in psychical research, and that it played a crucial role in the development of psychoanalytic theory, providing Freud both with many of his ideas and with the stimulus for their development. The SPR was the route by which Freud’s work became known in England. Frederic Myers gave an account of the 1893 paper on hysteria by Breuer and Freud at a general meeting of the society three months after it appeared. Freud was invited to contribute a paper to a special ‘medical’ issue of the Proceedings, which he wrote in English (Freud, 1912). Among psychologists who became interested in psychoanalysis in this way were James Strachey, Freud’s translator, who was present when this paper was read. It is possible that William McDougall and J. C. Flugel also first came across psychoanalysis through membership of the society (Hinshelwood, 1995).

The inter-war period Although psychical research was born in the spiritualist era towards the end of the 19th century, there was considerable activity in this area in the inter-war period. An examination of the relevant databases for occurrences of ‘psychical research’ in both Nature and The Times, shows they peaked during the 1920s and 1930s (see Figures 18.1 and 18.2), contrary to Inglis’s (1984, p. 314) claim that Nature rarely permitted itself to consider the topic.

140 120

Frequency

100 80 60 40 20 0

Figure 18.1 Articles on psychical research in Nature

Psychical research and academic psychology 201 120 100

Frequency

80 60 40 20 0

Figure 18.2 References to psychical research in The Times

The First World War led to an increased interest in telepathy and the possibility of survival after death, as a result of the massive number of bereavements. It is perhaps not without significance that many of those interested in psychical research, notably Oliver Lodge, Arthur Conan Doyle and Samuel Soal, had lost relatives in the trenches, though it may be oversimplified to suggest that a hope of contacting the deceased was their sole motive. Lodge became interested in psychical research long before his son’s death and Soal remained sceptical about survival.3 Membership of the SPR reached a peak in 1920, but by 1930 it had dropped to almost half this figure (Inglis, 1984). The society was in disarray, split by factions (Mauskopf and McVaugh, 1980, p. 211). There were disputes about both metaphysical and methodological issues. The so-called left wing contained spiritualists or others dedicated to seeking evidence for survival after death, while members of the more conservative right wing were intent merely on demonstrating the inadequacy of what they regarded as materialistic and mechanistic dogmas. The ‘High-and-Dry’ faction of the SPR strove to maintain rigorous scientific standards, whereas the Not-Highand-Dry school questioned the appropriateness of such methods for the study of psychical phenomena, arguing that the craving for scientific respectability had distracted attention from spontaneous phenomena. Many considered the experimental approach counter-productive in this area, and that introducing the necessary controls militates against the production of supernormal phenomena. The study of ‘physical’ mediums4 demonstrated the impossibility of full control and the consequent difficulty of conclusively ruling out fraud—often compounded by financial interests on the part of the mediums. The division of opinion over subject matter, methods of investigation and theoretical explanations, as in the case of academic psychology, resulted in incoherence and vulnerability to boundary disputes.

202 History A number of rival institutions stepped into the breach. The British College of Psychic Science was founded in 1920.5 Its members felt that the SPR was failing in its duty, and wanted to encourage the study of mediums. It had three departments of work: instruction, demonstrations and research. Although eclectic in spirit, it favoured “a human and practical approach rather than a cold and often negative scientific attitude”;6 and most of the reports in its journal, Psychic Science, relied on personal experiences and anecdotal evidence. The International Institute for Psychical Research was established in 1934,7 also spiritualist in inspiration while claiming to be scientific. Although it was initially supported by reputable scientists, including the biologist Julian Huxley, they resigned after a few months when its survivalist leanings became clear, and the institute merged with the British College of Psychic Science. In between these, the National Laboratory of Psychical Research was set up in 1926 by Harry Price. Harry Price (1881–1948) was a businessman and amateur psychical researcher. A salesman for 40 years for paper merchants, he was a man with many skills: conjuror (and member of the Inner Magic Circle), photographer, engineer, numismatist, writer, journalist and bibliophile. Morris (2006, p. 213), in a recent biography, describes him as “a supreme bluffer, a hedonistic con man, a terrific raconteur, a great conjuror, a gifted writer and a wonderful eccentric”. Defensive about his working-class origins, Price sought academic recognition. His lifelong passion was psychical research to which he devoted an enormous amount of energy and finances but his approach and values were those of a businessman rather than a scientist. He craved fame and publicity, and was prepared to sacrifice truth and integrity in pursuit of them if necessary. Although he was a lifelong member of the Society for Psychical Research, which he joined in 1920, the two were at daggers drawn.

The National Laboratory of Psychical Research The National Laboratory of Psychical Research was founded “to investigate in a dispassionate manner and by purely scientific means, every phase of psychic or alleged psychic phenomena” and “to provide facilities for experimentation” (Price, 1931, endpapers). It was formally opened “in a flurry of media attention” (Randall, 2000, p. 163). A. A. Campbell Swinton, the television pioneer and an F.R.S., suggested that Price had named it thus so that people would think it was on a par with the National Physical Laboratory!8 Honorary membership entitled people to use the laboratory and participate in seances; lectures were also organized. Within a very short time the membership of the laboratory topped the 800 mark, rivalling that of the SPR (Randall, 2000). Several of the world’s leading parapsychologists, including the German Albert Schrenck-Notzing and the Frenchmen Eugène Osty and René Sudre, were on its council. The psychologists William Brown, William McDougall and J. C. Flugel were members of a “London group available for participating in experimental work” (Price, 1931, endpapers) and Flugel was on its board. Between 1926 and 1932 the laboratory carried out series of sittings with (mostly physical) mediums, including the Austrian Rudi

Psychical research and academic psychology 203 Schneider and the Scotswoman Helen Duncan. Physical mediums had the dual advantage of providing objectively observable ‘hard’ data to satisfy scientists and suitable fodder for newspaper publicity to satisfy the general populace. Reports were published in research bulletins, a journal, books and newspaper articles. Articles were also submitted to the Revue Métapsychique and Zeitschrift für Parapsychologie. Price aimed to appeal both to scientists and to the lay public: “It has always been the policy of the Laboratory to invite both the Press and official science to our tests” (Price, 1930, p. 19). In fact, initially ‘experimental’ seances to which scientists were invited alternated with ‘demonstrations’ for ‘interested others’. Reporters from several national newspapers and a representative from the British Broadcasting Corporation attended some of the seances; and articles were submitted to other newspapers. Price (1931, p. 3) maintained that “modern scientific psychical research necessitates a great technical knowledge in many branches of science and the use of instruments and apparatus which must astound the layman”. This is borne out by the description of his “properly equipped séance room”: “A number of photographic cameras, Dictaphones, time clock etc. are at hand for recording purposes. . . . A special teak note-taker’s table, on pentagraph rubber wheels, supports Dictaphone, rheostats, luminous watch for timing, etc. Thermographs, barographs, and other instruments are installed for recording the meteorological conditions” (ibid., p. 15). In addition, “ultra-violet and infra-red installations are available and X-ray apparatus is at hand, if necessary” (ibid., p. 14). The laboratory owned 14 cameras; the Dictaphone was used on one occasion to record the voice of a ‘trance personality’; and the infra-red apparatus could be used to detect apports (objects moving supernaturally)—a bell rang if the beam was interrupted. A number of precautions were aimed at preventing cheating. The medium was searched internally and externally. Helen Duncan’s “rectum was examined for some distance up the alimentary canal and a very thorough vaginal examination given” by Mollie Goldney who had “trained and worked for many months in a midwifery hospital” (Price, 1931, p. 30). McDougall and Brown, both qualified doctors, performed ‘medical examinations’, examining her throat, mouth and teeth. Duncan was then sewn into a special one-piece garment,9 to which luminous strips were attached, as they were to various objects in the seance room. In the case of Rudi Schneider, a method of electrical control was used. The medium and sitters wore gloves and socks containing metallic strips. They placed their feet on metal plates and grasped the hands of their neighbours. If the circuit (a diagram of which was reproduced in the report) was broken, a light came on. In addition, the medium’s hands and feet were also held by two ‘controllers’. Seances took place in the evening and lasted for three or four hours, usually with a short break at some point. Notes were taken by Price’s secretary, using either the Dictaphone or shorthand, and a protocol plus comments were typed up within a few days of the sitting “when details of the incident were fresh in our memories” (ibid., p. 3). At a later stage the note-taker was even separated from the sitters by a gauze net, after criticisms that she might have been an accomplice.

204 History The principal reason given for studying Schneider was Price’s determination “that official science should have an opportunity of witnessing for itself phenomena of unimpeachable genuineness under control conditions which had never previously been imposed upon any medium in this country” (Price, 1930, p. viii). His efforts were indeed hailed as truly scientific by newspapers all over the world. It was also felt “highly desirable that the Press and the public should be informed as to what psychical research really meant under modern scientific methods of investigation” (ibid., p. vii). Two series of sittings, totalling 25 seances, were held with Schneider in 1929–30. William Brown was present at three of them. He took part in searching the medium, acted as one of the controllers, and took some physiological measures. A third series of 27 seances took place in 1932, at four of which Brown was present. At the 26th seance, he witnessed “magnificent phenomena” (Price, 1931, p. 189): moving curtains, ringing bells, cold breezes, table knocks, a flower taken out of his hand, and a basket moving on his knee. Price (ibid., p. 174) commented: “Dr. Brown was the one to whom Olga’s [Schneider’s ‘trance personality’] best phenomena were directed and, like the rest of us, was much impressed.” Brown was so impressed that he wrote to The Times. In a long letter giving a detailed account of his experiences at the seance, he referred to “some unseen agency” and “some mysterious power”, concluding that “undoubtedly the phenomena are worthy of the closest scientific investigation”.10 The following week there was a partial recant. Anita Gregory provides evidence that Brown was ridiculed by colleagues at Oxford.11 In his second letter Brown said that although he had originally been convinced that the phenomena were “supernormal”, “intellectual conviction can only come, if at all, after much more stringent scientific investigation carried out in a university laboratory, or in the séance room of the S.P.R., with trained scientists and psychical researchers as sitters”.12 This infuriated Price, who felt that his work was being denigrated.13 The phenomena were initially heralded as genuine by Price, though he later revealed that photographs taken at the 25th seance showed Rudi to have broken control. A series of five seances with Helen Duncan was held in 1931.14 McDougall and Flugel each attended two, Brown three. Duncan’s act was to enter a cabinet (a curtained-off recess in the seance room), go into trance, get taken over by a ‘control’ (or ‘trance personality’), and produce ectoplasm—taken as materializations of the dead by bereaved sitters. After the first ‘informal’ seance, Price wrote to McDougall (who had been unable to attend): We had a brilliant evening last night; the medium underwent a rectal and vaginal examination with Dr. William Brown and Mrs Goldney and was sewn up into a one-piece garment. In thirty seconds after going into trance the teleplasm streamed from her and I secured five magnificent photographs.15 It rapidly became clear, however, that what Duncan was doing was swallowing and regurgitating cheesecloth when in the cabinet, unseen by sitters in the red light. Photographs showed the warp and weft, selvedge and rents in the material. On

Psychical research and academic psychology 205 being threatened with an X-ray machine after the fourth seance, Duncan staged a hysterical fit. She “made a lunge at Dr. William Brown who fortunately avoided the blow” (Price, 1931, p. 61), and dashed into the street where she was able to pass the cloth to her husband (who subsequently refused to be searched). Price’s report concluded that all the manifestations were “produced by normal—though exceedingly unusual—means” (ibid., p. 83). The story was published in the Morning Post.16 Both McDougall and Brown also wrote reports, published as appendices to Price’s Regurgitation and the Duncan Mediumship (1931). McDougall pronounced Duncan’s “whole performance fraudulent” (ibid., p. 111). Brown concurred: “Nothing that I saw would have led me to attribute to her any supernormal or ‘psychic’ power whatever” (ibid., p. 112). As early as 1899, McDougall had warned about “‘sittings’ conducted in the dark by professional mediums who work for pay”.17 He was also a sceptical member of the Scientific American committee appointed to examine the Bostonian medium Margery, after which he wrote: “I have taken part in a considerable number of investigations of alleged supernormal phenomena; but hitherto have failed to find convincing evidence in any case, but have found rather much evidence of fraud and trickery” (McDougall, 1926, p. 23).

The University of London Price attempted to develop collaborative links with a number of institutions. He first approached the London Spiritualist Alliance and the Institut Métapsychique International in 1929.18 The institut had been founded in Paris in 1919 with similar aims to the SPR; its director was Eugène Osty and its president Charles Richet (for further details, see Lachapelle, 2005). The following year Price approached the British College of Psychic Science and the SPR. None came to fruition.19 When these approaches failed, he made a formal offer to the University of London in 1933 to found a Department of Psychical Research. The offer included his laboratory and library (an extensive collection of books including many rarities on psychical research) and a guaranteed income of £500 per annum. The proposal was considered by the Academic Council, the Board of the Faculty of Science, and the Boards of Study in Advanced Medical Studies, Physiology, Psychology, Philosophy, Physics and Theology. Advanced Medical Studies and Philosophy were in favour. Physics thought it should be considered by Psychology. Theology gave general approval, stating that its members would communicate certain conditions to the Board of Studies in Psychology. Physiology objected, noting in passing that “certain members of the Board of Studies in Psychology had voted against the proposals”, on the grounds that “psychical research holds an unenviable reputation because of its association with misrepresentation and fraud”: “acceptance of the offer on any terms whatever by the University might easily lead to publicity and propaganda of a type which would not bring credit to the University” and “researches so contaminated with trickery are not suitable for investigation in a university laboratory and should only be dealt with by specially selected men of science”.20 Notwithstanding, with all the reports in mind, the

206 History Academic Council concurred with the judgement of the Board of the Faculty of Science, subsequently ratified by the Senate, that “Psychical Research is a subject which can properly be included among the subjects of study of the University”.21 However, in the final analysis, the Senate deemed that space22 and financial limitations prevented its implementation in practice. Mauskopf and McVaugh (1980, p. 212) suggest that Price’s plans constituted a threat to the university’s resources and reputation.

The University of London Council for Psychical Investigation Nevertheless, the following year Price managed to organize a so-called University of London Council for Psychical Investigation (ULCPI) of 10 academics, including four psychologists: Francis A. P. Aveling, Professor of Psychology at King’s College; Cyril Burt, Professor of Psychology at University College; J. C. Flugel, Assistant Professor of Psychology, University College; and C. Alec Mace, Lecturer in Philosophy and Psychology, Bedford College London. The council undertook to supervise the work of the laboratory and to direct students in psychical research for higher degrees. For a while Price succeeded in engaging both mainstream scientists and the general public, by cultivating academics and courting journalists, such as the editors of Nature, The Listener and the Daily Mail. During this time he transferred his assets to the university. His library, having been rejected by the SPR, was handed over in November 1936.23 In July 1937, he was the guest of the university at a dinner at the Athenaeum;24 but the following year the council was disbanded. Price’s behaviour upset several of his council members on account of his disregard for scientific integrity, his seeking of press publicity and his failure to consult them before going ahead on such matters.25 In the end his headstrong pursuit of publicity, if necessary at the expense of honesty, lost him academic support. So ultimately the attempt to link psychical research with universities failed; the SPR was left to carry on research (Mauskopf & McVaugh, 1980, p. 215). By contrast, in the United States, William McDougall, who had emigrated there in 1920, successfully shifted his focus from societies to universities with enormous implications for the field. It is intriguing to speculate on what might have happened if he had stayed in England.

The psychologists Six academic psychologists became associated with Harry Price’s work on psychical research. As we have seen, William McDougall, William Brown and J. C. Flugel attended seances at his laboratory. Flugel, Cyril Burt, Alec Mace and Francis Aveling were members of his University of London Council. All except Aveling were members of the SPR. How did they become interested and what exactly was their involvement in psychical research? William McDougall (1871–1938)26 first became interested in psychical research by reading about William James’s work with the medium Leonora Piper (Garrett,

Psychical research and academic psychology 207 1967). He was a frequent visitor to the College of Psychic Science in London and lectured and demonstrated on hypnotism while at Oxford. He carried out experiments on telepathy with Cyril Burt and J. C. Flugel shortly after his arrival in Oxford (Evans, 1967, p. 25). He was on the council of the SPR for over 20 years and president of both that (1920–1) and the American Society for Psychical Research, also playing a leading role in the founding of the Boston Society for Psychical Research. On moving to Duke, he developed work on parapsychology, encouraging J. B. Rhine (having been instrumental in his appointment), and was coeditor of the Journal of Parapsychology. Asprem (2010, p. 125) justifiably suggests he should be considered “the father of the professionalization of modern parapsychology”. He was in the habit of spending the summers in England, which enabled him, on occasion, to attend seances at Harry Price’s laboratory. Towards the end of his life, he confessed that had it not been necessary to earn a living, he might have chosen to devote all his time and energy to the field of psychical research (McDougall, 1930, p. 220). Freud made a similar confession.27 William Brown (1881–1952)28 first became interested in psychical research by reading Frederic Myers’s Human Personality and Its Survival of Bodily Death as an undergraduate, which caused him to switch from science to classics (‘Greats’), with psychology as a special subject (Brown, 1932–3, p. 74). He was a council member of the SPR, delivering a lecture to them on ‘Psychology and Psychical Research’ (Brown, 1932–3), which provides a useful summary of his views. In it he explains how he was particularly impressed by personal experiences of incognito sittings with the medium Mrs Leonard, by shell-shock victims 15 per cent of whom he estimated had mediumistic powers of telepathy and clairvoyance under light self-hypnosis, and by sittings with Rudi Schneider. He was a member of the Consultative Committee of the International Institute for Psychical Research when it was founded in 193429 and served as a member of the Archbishop of Canterbury’s inquiry into psychical research and spiritualism in 1937 (Price, 1942, p. 301). Brown became associated with Harry Price, attending seances at the laboratory on 10 occasions. He took an active part in sittings with both Rudi Schneider and Helen Duncan, as described above; Price (1942) acknowledges his help. He was also present at the Kuda Bux firewalk in 1935. J. C. (‘Jack’) Flugel (1884–1955),30 as a young Oxford undergraduate, had shown an “inquiringly original mind” and a “penchant for unconventionality” (Jones, 1956, p. 193). Here he studied hypnotism, conducted seances, joined the SPR, and became one of the small group of William McDougall’s students, along with Cyril Burt, William Brown and others. Flugel became well acquainted with Harry Price. Their correspondence amounts to over 50 letters;31 and on at least one occasion the hospitable Jack and his wife Ingeborg invited Price to dinner. As secretary to the University of London’s Board of Studies in Psychology, Flugel played a key role in steering Price’s offer through the university’s labyrinth of boards and subcommittees. He was a member of the executive committee of the ULCPI.32 He was involved in the investigations of Pasquale Erto, Willi Schneider, Helen Duncan, Frederick Marion, telepathy experiments and a poltergeist in Wimbledon. He and his wife were present at

208 History Ahmed Hussein’s firewalk at Alexandra Palace televised by the BBC in 1937, as well as numerous dinners arranged by Harry Price or held in his honour, at one of which he spoke. He and his wife also visited Borley Rectory, ‘the most haunted house in England’, with Price and later read his book The End of Borley Rectory (1946). Cyril Burt (1883–1971)33 possessed several qualities relevant to the pursuit of psychical research: interests in personal experience, consciousness and the application of mathematics to psychology. Although he did not become a member of the SPR until 1959 (perhaps for reasons of professional caution), Burt had had an interest in psychical research since his time as a student of McDougall’s at Oxford. Burt and Flugel read Myers’s Human Personality and Its Survival of Bodily Death “chapter by chapter”. “We were fascinated, but at first decidedly sceptical . . . Nevertheless, both Flugel and I were sufficiently impressed to embark on a few private trials of our own” (Burt, 1968, p. 3). He confesses to having “dabbled in the matter quite a lot”34 as a junior lecturer at Liverpool. Burt also became associated with Price, though he was limited in what he could do by his other commitments. He was a member of the ULCPI and provided facilities in his laboratory for Soal to carry out card-guessing experiments. He describes himself as “an observer and occasional assistant during the experiments carried out by Dr Soal while he was a research student in my laboratory at University College” (1968, p. 4). Both Price and Soal acknowledge his help, which included getting hold of subjects. He also had his wife “carrying out a few experiments [with him] on card guessing”.35 He was present at sittings with Marion, and he and his wife were present at the dinner arranged by Price for René Sudre36 and the Ahmed Hussein firewalk, and read Price’s (1933) Leaves from a Psychist’s Case-Book and (1946) The End of Borley Rectory. In his role as head of the psychology department at University College, he was the (cautious) recipient of equipment on the winding-up of the ULCPI. C. Alec Mace (1894–1971)37 was a member of the ULCPI. Both Samuel Soal and K. M. Goldney conducted experiments on ESP in his laboratory for a number of years (Goldney, 1973). He served as an observer in some of the experiments and made methodological suggestions to Soal. In 1935 Mace paid a visit to a Mr Loweman in Ipswich, suspected of a secondary personality, sending this report to Price: I spent some two hours with Loweman yesterday for the greater part of which time I listened to a discourse from Flammarion.38 . . . Loweman goes into a trance, sweats profusely, then a rather dramatic change of appearance takes place and ‘the Professor’ announces the presence with a characteristic professorial cough. I invited him to discourse on psychical research—which he did, quite intelligently but without great originality. He deliberated at length on the method of the fraudulent medium—and expressed his opinion that the most interesting phenomena were the apparitions & thought transferences that occur at the moment of death . . . I certainly think it would be worth while having him up to London for a week.39

Psychical research and academic psychology 209 The following year he gave the F. W. H. Myers Memorial Lecture on ‘Supernormal Faculty and the Structure of the Mind’ (Mace, 1937), in which he hypothesized that the collective unconscious leaves engrams in some interpersonal stuff, a ‘psychic ether’ or better a more non-committal ‘Tertium Quid’, which might on occasion influence the experience and behaviour of others and thus provide an explanation for telepathy. Francis Aveling (1875–1941)40 employed hypnosis with patients at the MedicoPsychological Clinic, where he was head of the Psycho-Therapeutic Department from 1913 to 1920. He was a reluctant member of Price’s ULCPI, agreeing to serve provided he could play devil’s advocate.41 After repeated failure to attend the council’s meetings, he finally resigned in October 1936. He supervised John Hettinger’s PhD (awarded 1939) on ‘The Ultra-perceptive Capacity’ (Hettinger, 1940).

Reasons for the psychologists’ involvement with Harry Price Price was a controversial figure, frequently subject to charges of fraud and deception. Dingwall et al.’s (1956) report on Borley Rectory accused him of creating some of the phenomena himself.42 The case for his defence was mounted by Hastings (1969), who concluded that the allegations made against Price were “very grossly exaggerated”. Gregory (1977), after a careful examination of the evidence, concluded that the supposed incriminating photograph purporting to show Rudi Schneider cheating, was a “cleverly contrived fake”; Price’s lack of scruple and duplicitous behaviour were motivated by the desire to embarrass Charles Hope who had arranged sittings with Schneider independently of Price. Hall (1978) has documented numerous cases in which Price manipulated evidence, perpetrated fraud, or distorted the truth if it suited him. It is true that some of Price’s exploits were daft, such as the attempt to turn a goat into a man on the Brocken in the Harz Mountains in Germany, a black magic experiment in connection with the Goethe centenary, attended by the BBC’s outside broadcast unit; and the investigation of Gef, the supposed talking mongoose at Cashen Gap on the Isle of Man. On the other hand, he was genuinely passionate about psychical research—to which he devoted a very considerable amount of time, energy and money—and critical. After all, most of his investigations turned out to be exposés. So why did reputable scientists and the University of London become involved with Price? How did the enigmatic and controversial “father of modern ghost hunting” (Morris, 2006, p. 213) manage to inveigle a number of senior academic psychologists into collaborating with him? Personal, philosophical and sociohistorical factors are discussed below.

Personality factors The personalities of certain of the characters involved may go some way towards explaining the turn of events. Harry Price was charismatic and gave the appearance

210 History of honesty and plausibility. Charles Sutton of the Daily Mail said of him, “Harry was one of the most plausible rascals I ever had the pleasure of meeting”.43 Frequently a kind and generous friend, he enjoyed wining and dining his guests. As Morris (2006, p. 212) observes, “He was an extremely likeable and clubbable man, so few bothered to look beyond his affability”. Perhaps the psychologists were gullible; Morris (ibid., p. 171) describes them as “less circumspect”. Some of the psychologists were affable too and keen to help. Their correspondence with Price was almost always cordial, expressing mutual interest in the phenomena under investigation. Flugel is described as “a most lovable person. He invariably radiated cheerfulness and friendliness, and his modesty, patience and tolerance made his friendship easy to win and easy to keep . . . Few men could have been so universally liked” (Jones, 1956, p. 194). He was well known as a mediator, and his excellent interpersonal skills meant that he was often sought as a confidant and adviser (Russell, 1956, p. 329) and frequently asked to perform the role of chair in potentially conflict-ridden situations (Sutherland, 1956, p. 1). Concerning the discussion of Price’s offer to the University of London, by the Board of Studies in Psychology, Flugel assures him: “I hope very much that they will be able to give a positive recommendation to the University . . . Naturally I shall use any personal influence I have in this direction.”44

McDougall’s influence One psychologist in particular was largely responsible: William McDougall. It is significant that William Brown, J. C. Flugel and Cyril Burt were all students of his at Oxford. As Burt wrote to Robert Thouless: “Even as students he started us taking an interest in such problems.”45 In his paper on the implications of parapsychology for general psychology, originally delivered to a meeting of the Institute for Parapsychology in Durham, NC, he confesses that the subject “is one that has always intrigued me since I first served as guinea pig in some of McDougall’s early experiments” (Burt, 1967, p. 1). Indeed Knight Dunlap reached a similar conclusion concerning McDougall’s influence in regard to supporters of J. B. Rhine: We can understand the attitudes of the two or three middle-aged psychologists who have rushed into print with acclaims for Rhine, and confession of longstanding beliefs which they now feel it safe to proclaim. These men have in other regards been open to suspicion, and considered on the fringe of psychological respectability. Furthermore, I believe, they have all been, in the past and at impressionable ages, apprentices of McDougall, and came under the spell of his attractive personality.46

Metaphysical position of the psychologists The psychologists may be considered broad-minded or ‘flakey’ according to one’s theoretical position. But perhaps there are deeper philosophical reasons beyond

Psychical research and academic psychology 211 mere flakiness or gullibility. McDougall and Brown were in the vitalist tradition. In this regard, it is interesting to note that there has been a strong connection between psychical research and neo-vitalism, exemplified by Henri Bergson and Hans Driesch (see Asprem, 2010, p. 137). McDougall and Burt held explicitly dualist metaphysical theories about the relations between mental and physical. Brown and Burt put their faith in quantum theory. McDougall, Burt and Mace put forward ideas about possible mechanisms for supernormal phenomena. McDougall’s psychology was based on the hormic principle: “I had become more and more convinced that the mechanistic biology was unsound . . . that in all living things there is some factor which does not work in accordance with mechanistic principles and which has its own peculiar nature and organization” (McDougall, 1930, p. 209). He regarded the principal importance of the results achieved by psychical research “as having established the occurrence of phenomena which cannot be reconciled with the mechanistic scheme of things” (McDougall, 1918, p. 350). He was persuaded of this by the evidence for telepathy which he considered to be “of such a nature as to compel the assent of any competent person who studies it impartially” (ibid., p. 349) and the mind’s power to influence the body as demonstrated in healing and hypnosis. McDougall states that the reason for “dabbling in psychical research” was his “desire to know the truth” (1930, p. 219). He felt that orthodox science’s assumptions of mechanism and materialism were dogmas, that it had denied the existence of parapsychological phenomena without adequate justification, and that empirical investigation was necessary to determine the truth or falsity of such claims. Pastore (1944) has argued that McDougall’s rejection of materialism was part of a package of attitudes motivated by a conservative desire to preserve the status quo—the existing moral order in general and his position in a hierarchical society in particular—which were threatened by destabilization.47 For McDougall, the replacement of the “two pillars of dogmatism” (McDougall, 1921, p. 108), orthodox religion and scientific materialism, was a moral imperative. The decay of religion and the spread of materialism demanded a new basis for morality. Asprem (2010) has drawn links among what he calls the “nice arrangement of heterodoxies” that McDougall espoused: psychical research, neo-vitalism, Lamarckism and eugenics. Vitalism and dualism provided a philosophical basis for a non-mechanistic, anti-materialist view of life and mind, while psychical research and Lamarckism offered the promise of empirical support.48 Each, McDougall believed, would help counter the threats of biological and moral degeneration and the decline of civilization, feared by so many intellectuals of his generation. Burt expressed his dualist views on a number of occasions, e.g. “normal psychology reveals within itself an inescapable dualism” (Burt, 1961a, p. 86); “there must be a ghost in the machine”;49 “I believe that many, if not all, the processes of consciousness which are at present regarded as normal, will, in many of their aspects, turn out to be quite as independent of the physiological processes of the brain as those which at present are classed as paranormal” (Burt, 1961b, p. 30). He considered mechanism outmoded, invoking quantum theory: “it would

212 History seem there is nothing whatever in contemporary physics which would preclude the apparent anomalies presented by psi phenomena” (ibid., p. 29). Brown (1929, p. 17) likewise drew attention to the significance of Bohr’s discovery that electrons could move from one orbit to another, without apparently traversing the intermediate space, though he considered reliance on quantum theory to support parapsychological phenomena was premature (Brown, 1932–3, p. 75). Burt’s suggestion was to posit some kind of field theory. He argued that substituting a field theory for causal theories in the psychical sphere would be a way of “escaping many of the dilemmas which causal theories inevitably raise, and at the same time bringing both normal and paranormal psychology more into line with the cosmological theories of modern physics” (Burt, 1959a, p. 86). It would accommodate action at a distance. Not only telepathy (if it exists) but also every form of cognition is essentially a mode of action at a distance. Now in physics a common reason for postulating a ‘field’ is to furnish a convenient model for interpreting action at a distance. And in my view this is one of the many advantages of adopting a similar model in interpreting the phenomena of consciousness. (Burt, 1961b, p. 167, note 1)50 His further explanation has a peculiarly current ring: . . . the essence of a field-theory consisted in supposing that the electric charge of a body lies not within the body, but in a spatial continuum around it. In much the same way we might suppose that the consciousness of a given individual, so far as it has location, resides in the environment around him rather than inside his head. (Burt, 1959a, p. 86; see also Burt, 1959b for more detailed discussion) Thus, “we can regard the mind as a kind of ‘field’ existing in the neighbourhood of an individual brain, much as the physicist conceives of an electromagnetic field existing in the neighbourhood of a set of electric currents” (Burt, 1961b, p. 167). His final suggestion is that “. . . the transmitter’s brain might include a mechanism which, like the laser, could produce amplification by stimulated emission of the relevant radiation. The radiation could then perhaps be concentrated and directed in almost linear fashion towards the recipient . . .” (Burt, 1966, p. 373). Some of his conjectures may have been rather speculative but he was at least wrestling with the question of possible mechanisms.

Fluidity of boundaries As previously discussed, psychology was in a state of transition in the inter-war period, with fluid boundaries between academic psychology and both psychical research and popular psychology. Burt considered the phenomena of psychical research to fall within the remit of psychology: “all the various manifestations

Psychical research and academic psychology 213 which have formed the subject of ‘psychical research’—are essentially psychological phenomena” (Burt, 1961a, p. 29); “psychical processes and psychical phenomena [form] . . . the very crux of psychology as a separate branch of science” (Burt, 1967, p. 16). The relation between supernormal phenomena and abnormal psychology was particularly close. As Price himself remarked at the ULCPI dinner held in his honour: “departments of abnormal psychology or psychical research— they mean much the same thing”.51 Theories of levels of consciousness, including Frederic Myers’s own, were regarded as part of abnormal psychology. The trance states entered (or supposedly entered) by mediums were considered altered states of consciousness, abnormal phenomena worthy of scientific investigation. William Brown’s interest in such phenomena was largely motivated by his concern with the nature of personality or the ‘self’. Writing of Mrs Leonard’s ‘control’ Feda, he says: “A possible psychological theory is that Feda is a secondary personality of Mrs. Leonard, part of her subconscious self—working as a dramatization of her subconscious self” (Brown, 1929, p. 217). Possibly the most significant reason for the cooperation between the psychologists and Harry Price was their mutual position poised between scientific and popular psychology. As noted above, Price was explicitly committed to engaging—even educating (as he saw it)—both scientists and the general population. He was continually involved in a balancing act to appeal to both constituencies. His laboratory, equipment and elaborate method of control designed to eliminate fraud were hallmarks of science. To the psychologists he appeared as an impartial investigator. On the other hand, his publications in the popular press were aimed at gaining the support (financial and otherwise) of the general public, including spiritualists. The psychologists too were concerned to demonstrate the relevance of their work to everyday life while asserting their authority and expertise. They cultivated mass audiences and sought practical applications for their research. They were all enthusiastic about what the new psychology could offer, and wrote books aimed at educating the public in this regard (Thomson, 2006, p. 74). McDougall and Burt were regular broadcasters. Brown and Flugel wrote frequent letters to The Times. Brown, Burt and Flugel were all consulted by government officials at various times. McDougall and Burt became particularly well known and were highly influential. Thomson (2006, p. 55) describes McDougall as crossing the divide from the academic arena to the semi-popular realm of teaching and training, to the popular sphere of practical and even spiritual psychology. He wrote books of practical advice, and published in popular series. A series of talks on ‘Love and Hate: a Study of the Energies of Men and Nations’, broadcast in 1931, was subsequently published (McDougall, 1931). Burt too came to be regarded as an expert by the public, contributing to lectures and debates, as well as writing and broadcasting. His popularity was established by books such as The Young Delinquent (Burt, 1925), which ran to many editions. He was regarded as having a natural and easy microphone manner (Hearnshaw, 1979, p. 189), broadcasting series on ‘The Study of the Mind’ and ‘The Mind of the Child’ in the 1930s. He collaborated on a project on aesthetics sponsored by

214 History the BBC, in which the judgements of 6,000 members of the public (readers of The Listener) were compared with those of six art experts (Bulley, 1933). Thomson (2001) singles out Burt as an example of a psychologist who engaged in the balancing act of courting public appeal at the same time as asserting disciplinary authority, citing this example: “to follow the workings of the growing mind, to guide its development and correct its faults . . . we imagine . . . nothing but common sense is needed. No view could be more mistaken” (Burt, 1945, p. 8; cited in Thomson, 2001, p. 127; original emphases). Likewise, Aveling (1937, p. 115) emphasizes that his reader “unless he is himself a psychologist . . . will need the service of an expert” to administer vocational guidance tests or to analyse and interpret work curves. Guy Brown, a physicist member of Price’s ULCPI, taking exception to the mention of Price’s secretary in a research report, protests: “[W]e cannot allow people to say that we leave a difficult physical measurement to an untrained person.”52 In sum, Price offered the psychologists access to subjects who apparently exhibited paranormal phenomena. He was able and willing to engage in the publicity necessary to secure them and to provide the funds necessary to maintain their services. The psychologists were thus able to acquire data under the controlled conditions of his laboratory relevant to their theories of the mind. Furthermore, for most of them, such data held the additional promise of supporting metaphysical positions to which they were wedded. Both Price and the psychologists in their different ways courted public appeal while asserting scientific expertise and authority. A study of their interactions is thus of historical significance in revealing the interplay between the professional and the popular at this transitional period in the development of psychology as a discipline.

Notes I am grateful to Gustav Jahoda, Andreas Sommer, Joanna Timms and John Valentine for help at various stages of this project, and should like to thank the editor and four anonymous reviewers for constructive comments on an earlier version of this article. This article is dedicated to the memory of Joanna Timms who, sadly, did not live to see its final version but who, had she lived, would have made a significant contribution to scholarship in this area. 1 Presidents in later decades include John Beloff (1974–6), Donald James West (1963–5, 1984–8, 1998–9), Alan Gauld (1989–92), David Fontana (1995–8) and Deborah Delanoy (2007–11). 2 Albert Schrenck-Notzing, a leading psychical researcher, was general secretary of the subsequent congress in Munich in 1896. 3 I am indebted to Andreas Sommer for these observations. 4 That is, those demonstrating phenomena such as telekinesis, apports, the production of ectoplasm and pseudopods. 5 Library catalogue of the British College of Psychic Science, 1921. Harry Price Library, University of London Research Library Services (hereafter cited as HPL): Pam. 21(12). 6 Psychic Science 17 (1939), p. 174. 7 Nature, 133, 6 January 1934, p. 18–19. 8 Letter to Nature, 118, 25 September 1926, p. 443. 9 Later found not to be foolproof.

Psychical research and academic psychology 215 10 Letter from William Brown to The Times, 7 May 1932, p. 8, col. C. 11 “Dr. Brown has since then been having rather a time of it at Oxford being laughed at by Lindemann and even Einstein, among others. Of course they will not ever hear of such phenomena being genuine . . .”: letter from Charles Hope to Clive Gregory, 13 May 1932; cited in Gregory (1977, p. 506). 12 Letter from William Brown to The Times, 14 May 1932, p. 6, col. F. 13 See letter from Price to Brown, 14 May 1932 (HPL: HPC/4A/11). 14 For further details of Duncan, see Gaskill (2001). 15 Letter from Harry Price to William McDougall, 15 May 1931 (HPL: HPC/4A/77). 16 14 July 1931. 17 Letter in Two Worlds, 23 July 1899, p. 486. 18 Letter from Harry Price to Eugène Osty, 25 October 1929 (HPL: HPC/4A/86). 19 Price also approached the University of Göttingen. At first Narziß Ach was favourably disposed but appears to have got cold feet, perhaps as a result of reports of the proposed Brocken stunt. (Letter from Harry Price to Narziß Ach, 13 June 1932 [HPL: HPC/4A/135].) 20 Meeting of the Senate, 24 January 1934, minute 1306. Flugel, as secretary to the Board of Studies in Psychology, had noted in a covering letter with his report that his board had benefited from a joint meeting with Physiology. 21 Meeting of the Senate, 24 January 1934, minute 1306. 22 No school of the university containing a Psychology Department was willing to accommodate the laboratory. 23 Letter from Harry Price to J. C. Flugel, 30 November 1936 (HPL: HPC/4A/33). 24 Accessed 10 February 2009 at: http://www.harryprice.co.uk/Timeline/1920-1924.htm 25 See letter from Guy Brown to Harry Price, 19 April 1935 (HPL: HPC/4B/30). 26 McDougall was a dominating force in British psychology for the first part of the 20th century. Trained in medicine and science, he held posts at University College London and Oxford University (the Wilde Readership in Mental Philosophy) before emigrating to the United States in 1920, working first at Harvard, before moving to Duke University in 1927, where he remained until his death. He gave as two of the reasons for his emigration that income tax was taking a third of his income and that he was “savage against the English climate” (McDougall, 1930, p. 212). 27 Letter from Freud to Hereward Carrington, 1921, quoted in Jones (1957, p. 392). 28 Brown, like McDougall, had a broad education, ranging from the classics and philosophy to physiology and medicine. With interests in psychometrics and psychoanalysis, and experience of treating First World War ‘shell-shock’ patients, he held academic posts at King’s College London and at Oxford University (where he succeeded McDougall as Wilde Reader in 1921), and was a consultant at the Royal Bethlem Hospital as well as conducting a private psychotherapy practice in Harley Street, London. 29 The Times, 7 April 1934, p. 12, col. F. 30 Flugel was an important figure in British psychology in the inter-war years, playing key roles in both the psychoanalytic movement and the British Psychological Society. He had wide-ranging, nonconformist interests. Almost his entire career was spent at University College London, “serving the Department with devoted faithfulness until the day of his death” (Pear, 1956, p. 1). 31 HPL: HPC/4B/73. 32 Minutes of the meeting of the ULCPI, 6 June 1934 (HPL: HPC/6/1). 33 Burt was the first professional psychologist in Britain, as Psychologist to the London County Council (Education Department) 1913–32. He was Professor of Psychology at University College London from 1931 to 1950. 34 Letter to R. H. Thouless, 13 April 1948; cited in Hearnshaw (1979, p. 222). 35 Letter from Cyril Burt to Ethel Beenham, 6 July 1935 (HPL: HPC/4C/1). 36 Sudre was science editor of the Parisian Le Journal. The dinner was arranged to promote

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38 39 40

41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52

scientific psychical research and in the hope of establishing an international journal. A full account is given in NLPR bulletin VI. Mace trained under C. S. Myers at Cambridge University. Having set up a psychology laboratory at St Andrews University in Scotland, he was appointed Reader in Psychology at Bedford College, London in 1933, subsequently being promoted to the Chair of Psychology at Birkbeck College, London. He had wide-ranging interests from philosophy (he had the rare distinction of being president of both the Aristotelian Society and the British Psychological Society) and aesthetics to industrial psychology. (Nicolas) Camille Flammarion (1842–1925), French astronomer and writer on science fiction and spiritualism; brother of Ernest Flammarion, founder of the publishing house. Letter from C. A. Mace to Harry Price, 14 August 1935 (HPL: HPC/4B/153). Aveling studied philosophy, theology and psychology in Canada (where he was born) and on the Continent. For a time a Roman Catholic priest, he wrote books on conceptual processes (Aveling, 1912) and volition (Aveling, 1931). In 1922 he was appointed Reader in Psychology at King’s College London, following William Brown as head of department, succeeding to a chair in 1932, which he held until his death in 1941. Letter from Cyril Burt to Harry Price, 8 May 1934 (HPL: HPC/4B/34). For a discussion of some of the complexities of the situation, see Owen and Mitchell (1979). I am grateful to Joanna Timms for drawing this article to my attention. Charles Sutton to Mollie Goldney, 15 January 1951 (Society for Psychical Research Archives); cited in Morris (2006, p. 208). Letter from J. C. Flugel to Harry Price, 17 November 1933 (HPL: HPC/4B/73). Letter from Cyril Burt to R. H. Thouless, 13 April 1948; cited in Hearnshaw (1979, p. 222). Extra-sensory Perception. Paper delivered at meeting of Western Psychological Association, Eugene, Oregon, 17–18 June 1939 (Dunlap papers, Archives of the History of American Psychology); cited in Mauskopf and McVaugh (1980, p. 275). See also Soffer (1969) on McDougall’s elitism. Lamarckism appeared incompatible with the contemporary mechanistic views and Lamarck himself postulated an ‘inner striving’ or ‘motivational force’ in his model of evolution. Letter to Arthur Koestler, 2 May 1967; cited in Hearnshaw (1979, p. 224). Burt’s field theory of consciousness is similar to explanations proposed earlier by physicists interested in psychical research, e.g. Oliver Lodge’s electromagnetic theory of telepathy. Price at the ULCPI dinner held in his honour (HPL: HPC: HPF/4/14, p. 8). Letter from Guy Brown to Harry Price, 3 December 1935 (HPL: HPC/4B/30).

Bibliography Asprem, E. (2010). A Nice Arrangement of Heterodoxies: William McDougall and the Professionalization of Psychical Research. Journal of the History of the Behavioral Sciences 46(2), 123–43. Aveling, F. A. P. (1912). On the Consciousness of the Universal and the Individual: A Contribution to the Phenomenology of the Thought Process. London: Macmillan. Aveling, F. A. P. (1931). Personality and Will. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Aveling, F. (1937). Psychology: The Changing Outlook. London: Watts. Beloff, J. (1974). New Directions in Parapsychology. London: Elek. Bordogna, F. (2008). William James at the Boundaries: Philosophy, Science and the Geography of Knowledge. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Brown, W. (1929). Science and Personality. London: University of London Press. Brown, W. (1932–3). Psychology and Psychical Research. Proceedings of the Society for

Psychical research and academic psychology 217 Psychical Research 41, 75–88. Bulley, M. H. (1933). Have You Good Taste? London: Methuen. Bunn, G. C. (2001). Introduction. In G. C. Bunn, A. D. Lovie and G. D. Richards (Eds.), Psychology in Britain: Historical Essays and Personal Reflections (pp. 1–29). Leicester: BPS Books. Burt, C. (1925). The Young Delinquent. London: University of London Press. Burt, C. (1945). How the Mind Works. London: Allen & Unwin. Burt, C. (1959a). Experiments on Telepathy in Children: Critical Notice. British Journal of Statistical Psychology, 12(1), 55–99. Burt, C. (1959b). Field Theories and Statistical Psychology. British Journal of Statistical Psychology, 12: 153–70. Burt, C. (1961a). Discussion. Journal of Parapsychology 25(1). 27–31. [Contribution to M. Scriven, C. D. Broad, J. G. Pratt & C. Burt (1961). Physicality and Psi: a Symposium and Forum Discussion. Journal of Parapsychology, 25, 13–31.] Burt, C. (1961b). The Structure of the Mind: a Reply. British Journal of Statistical Psychology,14(2), 145–70. Burt, C. (1966). Parapsychology and its Implications. International Journal of Neuropsychiatry, 2(5): 363–77. Burt, C. (1967). The Implications of Parapsychology for General Psychology. Journal of Parapsychology, 31(1), 1–18. Burt, C. (1968). Psychology and Psychical Research, 17th Frederic W. H. Myers Memorial Lecture. London: Society for Psychical Research. Coon, D. (1992). Testing the Limits of Sense and Science: American Experimental Psychologists Combat Spiritualism, 1880–1920. American Psychologist, 47: 143–51. Derksen, M. (1997). Are We Not Experimenting Then? The Rhetorical Demarcation of Psychology and Common Sense. Theory & Psychology, 7, 435–56. Dingwall, E. F., Goldney, K. M. & Hall, T. H. (1956). The Haunting of Borley Rectory: A Critical Survey of the Evidence. London: Duckworth. Edgell, B. (1947). The British Psychological Society. British Journal of Psychology, 37(3), 113–32. Evans, J. W. (1967). William McDougall: Explorer of the Mind. In R. Van Over and L. Oteri (Eds.), William McDougall: Explorer of the Mind. New York: Helix. Flugel, J. C. (1933). A Hundred Years of Psychology, 1833–1933. London: Duckworth. Freud, S. (1912). A Note on the Unconscious in Psycho-Analysis. Proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research, 26 (part 66), 312–318. Garrett, E. (1967). Foreword. In R. Van Over and L. Oteri (Eds.), William McDougall: Explorer of the Mind. New York: Helix. Gaskill, M. (2001). Hellish Nell: The Last of Britain’s Witches. London: Fourth Estate. Gauld, A. (1968). The Founders of Psychical Research. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Gieryn, T. (1983). Boundary-Work and the Demarcation of Science from Non-Science: Strains and Interests in Professional Ideologies of Scientists. American Sociological Review, 48, 781–795. Goldney, K. M. (1973). The Soal–Goldney Experiments with Basil Shackleton: a Personal Account. Proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research, 56, 73–82. Gregory, A., ed. (1977). Anatomy of a Fraud: Harry Price and the Medium Rudi Schneider. Annals of Science, 34, 447–549. Gurney, E., Myers, F. W. H. and Podmore, F. (1886). Phantasms of the Living. London: Society for Psychical Research. Hall, T. H. (1978). Search for Harry Price. London: Duckworth.

218 History Hastings, R. J. (1969). An Examination of the ‘Borley Report’, Proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research, 55, 65–175. Haynes, R. (1982). The Society for Psychical Research 1882–1982: A History. London: Macdonald. Hearnshaw, L. S. (1964). A Short History of British Psychology 1840–1940. London: Methuen. Hearnshaw, L. S. (1979). Cyril Burt: Psychologist. London: Hodder & Stoughton. Hettinger, J. (1940). The Ultra-perceptive Faculty. London: Rider. Hinshelwood, R. D. (1995). Psychoanalysis in Britain: Points of Cultural Access, 1893–1918. International Journal of Psychoanalysis, 76: 13–51. Inglis, B. (1984). Science and Parascience: A History of the Paranormal 1914–1939. London: Hodder & Stoughton. Jones, E. (1956). J. C. Flugel. International Journal of Psychoanalysis, 37(2), 193–194. Jones, E. (1957). Life and Work of Sigmund Freud (vol. 3). New York: Basic Books. Keeley, J. P. (2002). ‘The Coping Stone on Psycho-Analysis’: Freud, Psychoanalysis, and the Society for Psychical Research, Columbia University Press, doctoral thesis. Kohler, R. E. (1982). From Medical Chemistry to Biochemistry. New York: Cambridge University Press. Lachapelle, S. (2005). Attempting Science: The Creation and Early Development of the Institut Métapsychique International in Paris, 1919–1931. Journal of the History of the Behavioral Sciences, 41, 1–24. Mace, C. A. (1937). Supernormal Faculty and the Structure of the Mind. London: The Society for Psychical Research. Mauskopf, S. H. and McVaugh, M. R. (1980). The Elusive Science: Origins of Experimental Psychical Research. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. McDougall, W. (1918[1911]). Body and Mind. London: Methuen. McDougall, W. (1921). Presidential Address. Proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research, 31, 105–123. McDougall, W. (1926). The ‘Margery Mediumship’. Psyche, 2, 15–30. McDougall, W. (1930). William McDougall. In C. Murchison (Ed.), A History of Psychology in Autobiography (vol. I), pp. 191–223. Worcester, MA: Clark University Press. McDougall, W. (1931). Love and Hate: A Study of the Energies of Men and Nations. Six Broadcast Talks. London: British Broadcasting Corporation. Morris, R. (2006). Harry Price: The Psychic Detective. Stroud, Glos: Alan Sutton. Myers, F. W. H. (1903). Human Personality and Its Survival of Bodily Death. London: Longman, Green. Oppenheim, J. (1985). The Other World: Spiritualism and Psychical Research in Britain 1850–1914. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Owen, I. M. and Mitchell, P. (1979). The Alleged Haunting of Borley Rectory. Journal of the Society for Psychical Research, 50, 149–62. Pastore, N. (1944). A Social Approach to William McDougall. Social Forces, 23, 148–52. Pear, T. H. (1956). Dr John Carl Flugel. British Journal of Psychology, 47: 1–4. Price, H. (1930). Rudi Schneider: A Scientific Examination of his Mediumship. London: Methuen. Price, H. (1931). Regurgitation and the Duncan Mediumship. Bulletin of the National Laboratory of Psychical Research, no. 1. London: National Laboratory of Psychical Research. Price, H. (1933). Leaves from a Psychist’s Case-Book. London: Allied Newspapers.

Psychical research and academic psychology 219 Price, H. (1942). Search for Truth: My Life for Psychical Research. London: Collins. Price, H. (1946). The End of Borley Rectory: The Most Haunted House in England. London: Harrap. Randall, J. L. (2000). Harry Price: the Case for the Defence. Journal of the Society for Psychical Research, 64(3), 159–73. Richards, G. (1987). Of What is History of Psychology a History? British Journal for the History of Science, 20, 201–11. Richards, G. (2001). Edward Cox, the Psychological Society of Great Britain (1875–1879) and the Meanings of an Institutional Failure. In G. Bunn, A. D. Lovie and G. D. Richards (Eds.), Psychology in Britain: Historical Essays and Personal Reflections. Leicester: BPS Books, pp. 33–53. Russell, R. W. (1956). John Carl Flugel, 1884–1955. American Journal of Psychology, 69, 328–329. Sidgwick, H. (1882–3). Objects of the Society. Proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research, 1, 3–4. Smith, R. (1988). Does the History of Psychology have a Subject? History of the Human Sciences, 1(2), 147–77. Soffer, R. N. (1969). New Elitism: Social Psychology in Prewar England. Journal of British Studies, 8, 111–40. Sutherland, J. D. (1956). John Carl Flugel, 1884–1955. British Journal of Medical Psychology, 29, 1. Thomson, M. (2001). The Popular, the Practical and the Professional: Psychological Identities in Britain, 1901–1950. In G. Bunn, A. D. Lovie and G. D. Richards (Eds.), Psychology in Britain: Historical Essays and Personal Reflections (pp. 115–32). Leicester: BPS Books. Thomson, M. (2006). Psychological Subjects: Identity, Culture, and Health in Twentieth Century Britain. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wolffram, H. (2009). The Stepchildren of Science: Psychical Research and Parapsychology in Germany, c. 1870–1939. Amsterdam, New York: Rodopi.

19 To care or to understand? Women members of the British Psychological Society 1901–1918

Abstract This paper presents initial data on the sixteen women who were elected to membership of the British Psychological Society between its formation in 1901 and the dramatic expansion of membership in 1919. Born in the second half of the 19th century, they came predominantly from middle-class backgrounds. The proportions that married and/or had children, though low by current standards, are higher than those for women academics in general during this period. Most sought further qualifications after their first degree; half were awarded doctorates (again a relatively high proportion). They showed flexibility and diversity in their career paths. They were productive as authors and some at least received due recognition for their work. The most striking feature of the sample is the high proportion (almost half) employed as lecturers in teacher training colleges or university departments of education. This underlines not only the relative accessibility of university teaching as a profession for women in the early 20th century but also the key role that departments of education played in providing employment opportunities for women in higher education prior to the development of university departments of psychology in Britain.

Introduction This study was undertaken for two main reasons: (1) to provide a larger database in which to situate my earlier work on Edgell (Valentine, 2001; 2006); and (2) to increase the visibility of some of the earliest women psychologists in Britain. The British Psychological Society, founded in 1901 as the ‘Psychological Society’ was modelled on the Physiological Society, with the aims of advancing psychological research and furthering the cooperation of investigations in the different branches of psychology. The initial criteria for admission to the Society restricted membership to “those who are recognised teachers in some branch of psychology or who have published work of recognised value”.1 Nominations had to be approved by the committee of five (later seven) and supported by at least 80 per cent of the voting membership. Women psychologists were accepted by their professional society and formed a higher proportion of the membership than was the case for most other sciences

Women members of the BPS 1901–1918 221 in both Britain and America. In Britain, women were initially explicitly excluded from the Chemical, Biochemical and Pharmacological Societies and the Royal Society. The British Psychological Society is distinguished by having admitted women from its inception. Possible reasons for this are that women were accepted to swell the numbers as Furumoto (1987) has noted in the American context, and/or that male dominance was not yet established in a relatively new science, so that women could gain a foothold (Wilson, 1998). The situation contrasts particularly sharply with that in what might be considered an allied discipline, physiology, where women were not formally admitted as members of the Physiological Society until 1915, after forty years of its existence (Bindman, Brading & Tansey, 1993). No doubt there are a number of factors contributing to the difference between the acceptance of women in psychology and physiology. Amongst these are the connotation of psychology as a female subject, with much of applied psychology potentially falling into the category of the ‘caring professions’; the close association of physiology with medicine, renowned for its authoritarian attitudes; and the lingering idea that it was not quite seemly for women to be studying physiology. One of the ten founder members of the British Psychological Society was a woman (Sophie Bryant), as were two of the thirteen people invited to become original members (Beatrice Edgell and Alice Woods). Another thirteen women are recorded as having been elected to membership by the end of 1918, when the total membership stood at 98. Thus, women formed about 16 per cent of the membership in the early days. At that time the Society was a small select group with about a dozen people (mostly men) attending meetings. Now the membership exceeds 40,000 of whom 75 per cent are women. In 1919, there was a dramatic expansion of membership, following relaxation of the admission criteria to include “those interested in psychology as well as those actually engaged in psychological work”.2 When the first list of members was published in 1921, there were 203 women (31 per cent) out of a total membership of 645. They played an active role from the Society’s foundation, reading papers at meetings, publishing articles in the associated journal (the British Journal of Psychology, first published in 1904) and serving on committees. There was a limited number of about eleven independent psychology departments in British universities up to World War II: at University College, King’s College and Bedford College in London; Cambridge, Manchester, Liverpool and Reading in other parts of England; and Aberdeen, Edinburgh, Glasgow and St Andrews in Scotland. Some psychology was also taught at Bristol, Oxford, Cardiff and Aberystwyth. There were only six chairs of psychology (three at London colleges: University, King’s and Bedford, and one each at the universities of Cambridge, Manchester and Edinburgh) and about 30 lecturing posts in psychology in Britain in 1939 (Hearnshaw, 1964). Estimates for the proportion of female university teachers in 1931 range from 10.7 per cent for British universities excluding Oxbridge (11.7 per cent in London colleges) obtained from statistics in the Commonwealth Universities Yearbook by Rendel (1980)—through 13 per cent, from a survey carried out by the British Federation of University Women,3 to 14 per cent overall in England (21 per cent

222 History in London), obtained by Perrone (1993). It has been suggested that Rendel’s figures are too low because they are restricted to established teachers, whereas Perrone’s are too high because they include part-time teachers (Dyhouse, 1995, p. 138).

The sample The sixteen women elected to membership of the British Psychological Society between 1901 and 1918 are listed in Table 19.1.4 Some of the women, such as Sophie Bryant, Beatrice Edgell, Susan Isaacs, May Smith and Alice Woods, are well known, at least in certain circles; others, like Nellie Carey and Nina Taylor, are virtually unheard of. Using a variety of sources5 it was possible to collect reasonably comprehensive data, that is, skeleton curriculum vitae, for all of them. The women were born in the latter half of the 19th century. The oldest, Alice Woods, was born in 1849; the youngest, Victoria Hazlitt, in 1887. Given that some of them were born before educational and career opportunities opened up to women, they are not a birth cohort. The average age of becoming a member of the Society was 38 and ranges from 28 to 52 years. Mary Smith, May Smith and Alice Woods lived until at least their late eighties. Most of the women were from middle-class families. Their fathers were professional or skilled workers. They included: four ministers of religion (an Anglican, a Wesleyan/Methodist, an Independent/Congregationalist, and a Quaker, plus a lay preacher); two university teachers (a mathematician and a classicist); two solicitors; a soldier; a stockbroker; a banker; a journalist; a military equipment and uniform manufacturer; a woollens manufacturer; a fancy goods importer; a grocer (the lay preacher); an iron turner; and a carpenter. Of the mothers, one was a university teacher, one an author and one a silk-weaver. Half of the sample were eldest children but three were youngest; the latter were not necessarily from the wealthier families. Family size ranged from one to ten. Eleven of the women (two-thirds of the sample) remained single. Of the five who married, three had children (one of them prior to marriage). The figures for Table 19.1 Names and dates of women members of the British Psychological Society 1901–1918, together with the year of joining the Society Year joined

Name and dates

Year joined

Name and dates

1901 1901 1901 1907 1912 1913 1913 1913

Sophie Bryant (1850–1922) Beatrice Edgell (1871–1948) Alice Woods (1849–1941) Caroline Graveson (1874–1958) Mary Smith (1886–1974) Nina Taylor (1876–1951) May Smith (1879–1968) Helen Verrall (1883–1959)

1914 1915 1915 1915 1916 1916 1917 1918

Nellie Carey (1886–1960) Jessie Murray (1867–1920) Julia Turner (1863–1946) Jane Reaney (1874–1936) Laura Brackenbury (1868–1937) Ida Saxby (1883–1949) Susan Isaacs (1885–1948) Victoria Hazlitt (1887–1932)

Women members of the BPS 1901–1918 223 marriage and maternity are higher than those of Perrone’s (1993) estimates for women academics in English universities during the period 1870–1930 based on university calendars. Thirty-one per cent of the present sample married in comparison with Perrone’s estimates of 9 per cent in 1914 and 14 per cent in 1924; 19 per cent of the present sample had children compared with the 2 per cent of Perrone’s sample known to have brought up children while they were teaching. In the present group, of those who had children, Mary Smith gave up her promising research career, though she remained a Director of Studies at Newnham; Nellie Carey probably gave up her post as a London County Council school teacher;6 and Helen Verrall divided her time between voluntary work for the Society for Psychical Research and public service. Of those who married but did not have children: Sophie Bryant was widowed after a year of marriage; Susan Isaacs was married twice but by the time she had overcome her fear of childbirth it was too late;7 in any case, her first husband did not want children. Even though no official marriage bar was imposed on women university teachers (although Liverpool University tried hard to do so), as was the case for most female school teachers (many local authorities introducing a marriage bar in the 1920s), the difficulty of reconciling academic life with marriage probably restricted more than anything else the number of women who were able to have academic careers.

Education, training and qualifications Sophie Bryant, Helen Verrall and Alice Woods were educated largely at home. According to Perrone (1993) this was true for 21 per cent of Oxford female academics in 1914. The women frequently studied a number of subjects for their first degree, which did not necessarily include psychology. Jane Reaney was a natural scientist by training; Helen Verrall and Julia Turner were classicists. The women qualified for their first degree between 1880 and 1920. The age at which they qualified ranged from 21 to 42 years. This wide range is partly accounted for by the fact that some of the women were born too early to take advantage of educational opportunities at what later became the normal age. Seven of them studied at Cambridge University at some point (one at Oxford, and one at both),8 despite the fact that degrees earned there were not awarded until much later.9 Alice Woods, for example, completed a moral sciences tripos in 1880 but was not awarded her MA until 48 years later. Twelve (75 per cent) of them took further qualifications; for example, a masters degree and/or a teaching diploma.10 Only four obtained only one qualification; the rest obtained 2, 3, 4 or 5; see Figure 19.1. Despite this, some were relatively untrained for the work they undertook. Helen Verrall, who was employed as a Demonstrator in Psychology at King’s College London, had only studied psychology for one year. As previously mentioned, she had a degree in classics; as did Julia Turner who with Jessie Murray offered psychoanalytic therapy and training at the Medico-Psychological Clinic, neither of them having undergone psychoanalysis themselves. This reflects a number of facts: the undeveloped nature of psychology as a science, a greater emphasis on

224 History 5

Frequency

4 3 2 1 0 1

2

3

4

5

Figure 19.1 Number of qualifications obtained by early women members of the BPS

general rather than specialist education at that time,11 and greater fluidity between disciplinary boundaries. Psychology at the time was an amalgam of moral sciences or philosophy, and physiology. Eight (50 per cent) took doctorates. This figure compares favourably with Perrone’s (1993) report that only 10 per cent of a sample of British female academics had PhDs in 1924, in contrast with the situation in America at that time where possession of a doctorate, or at least a master’s degree, was almost essential for a university career. The doctorates of the present sample were often achieved as long as nine years after the first degree, sometimes at a relatively late age and/or for already published work. May Smith obtained hers 17 years later, aged 41; Jessie Murray obtained hers 10 years later, aged 52. Beatrice Edgell studied abroad, receiving a DPhil from the University of Würzburg in 1901, thereby becoming the first woman graduate of that university.

Employment and career paths Several of the women pursued a number of quite distinct careers. Ida Saxby was successively a school teacher, education lecturer, psychologist, medical doctor and clinician (Valentine, 2010). Susan Isaacs was a school principal, psychotherapist and academic (Gardner, 1969; Sayers, 2001). Many were teachers, researchers, clinicians and authors. The most striking feature is the high proportion working as academics in education. This is reflected in the membership of the special interest Sections of the Society formed in 1921. At that time there were twice as many women in the Educational and Medical as in the Industrial Sections. However, there is a somewhat similar pattern for men, comparative figures being: Medical 226, Educational 202 and Industrial 125 (see Table 19.2). For both sexes, there are roughly twice as many in the Medical and Educational Sections as in the Industrial Section, the only

Women members of the BPS 1901–1918 225 Table 19.2 Number of women and men in Educational, Medical and Industrial Sections of the British Psychological Society in 1921

Women Men

Educational

Medical

Industrial

17 202

16 226

9 125

difference being the relative popularity of the Medical and Educational Sections, with slightly more men in the former and slightly more women in the latter. Seven (almost half of the sample) spent a major part of their career as lecturers in teacher training colleges and/or university education departments, often in senior positions. Alice Woods was principal of Maria Grey Training College (1892–1913). Laura Brackenbury was principal of Furzedown Training College (1907–15), and of Graystoke Place Training College (1920–33). Caroline Graveson was the first Women’s Vice-Principal and a Lecturer in Education at Goldsmiths’ College, London (1905–34). Susan Isaacs was appointed to take charge of the first English university-based department of child development, at London University’s Institute of Education in 1933, where she remained for the next ten years. Jane Reaney was Science Lecturer at Furzedown Training College (1918–1932). Ida Saxby, following a lectureship at Maria Grey Training College (1911–15), was Lecturer in Education at the University College of South Wales & Monmouthshire (1918–26). Finally, Nina Taylor was Lecturer in Education at: Trinity College for Women, Cambridge (1908), St Mary’s College, Paddington (1908–13), Sheffield University (1913–1918) and Avery Hill Training College (1923–35). In other cases, associations with teacher training colleges played a minor role, either early in their career or after retirement from their main employment. May Smith lectured in education at Cherwell Hall teacher training college, Oxford in the early part of her career; Helen Verrall (as Mrs Salter) took a particular interest in Saffron Walden Training College, of which she was a governor for 38 years and chairman for over 20 years. In recognition, an extension to the college in 1955 was named the ‘Helen Salter Wing’. The rest were also involved in education in some form or other. Laura Brackenbury, Caroline Graveson, Susan Isaacs, Julia Turner and Alice Woods were educational administrators. Beatrice Edgell, Victoria Hazlitt and May Smith were university lecturers in psychology. At least eleven were school teachers at some point: Laura Brackenbury, Sophie Bryant, Nellie Carey, Beatrice Edgell, Susan Isaacs, Jane Reaney, Ida Saxby, May Smith, Nina Taylor, Julia Turner and Alice Woods. Laura Brackenbury was a school inspector. Jessie Murray and Julia Turner were psychotherapy trainers, instrumental in developing the first course in England to provide training for psychoanalysts, which was offered by the Society for the Study of Orthopsychics. Sophie Bryant and Nina Taylor published research on mental tests (Bryant, 1886; Cattell et al., 1889; Taylor, 1916), Jane Reaney and Nellie Carey on the

226 History theory of mental abilities (Reaney, 1914; Carey, 1915). A number of them drew attention to the importance of play in child development. Jane Reaney wrote her doctoral dissertation on ‘The psychology of the “organized group game” with special reference to its place in the play system and its educational value’, later expanded into a book (Reaney, 1927), in which she suggested that co-operative games give an outlet for primitive instincts repressed in civilized life. She maintained a lifelong interest in the Playing Fields Association, of which she was an early member. Caroline Graveson was chairman of the Deptford Children’s Play Centre for ten years. Part of the philosophy underlying the Malting House School, of which Susan Isaacs was principal from 1924–27, was that it would enable children to encounter ideas of discovery through play. Other careers represented are psychotherapy (Susan Isaacs, Jessie Murray, Julia Turner), medicine (Jessie Murray, Ida Saxby) and industrial psychology (May Smith). Figure 19.2 summarises the main occupations of the sixteen women, though as noted above, many showed flexibility and considerable diversity in the occupations they pursued.

Dissemination and visibility All of the women published, in many cases extensively. Perrone (1993) estimates that by 1914 about 60 per cent of female academics were publishing original research, suggesting that it may have been even more important for women than for men to do so, on account of their tenuous position. Eleven (69 per cent) of the present sample wrote books. Sophie Bryant tops the list with 10; Caroline Graveson, Susan Isaacs and Alice Woods wrote 7 or 8; (see Figure 19.3). Several also wrote substantial numbers of journal articles; others wrote at least some. The topics covered not only diverse aspects of psychology (theoretical, 10

Frequency

8 6 4 2 0 CL

EA

ST

PT

MD

Figure 19.2 Occupations of early women members of the BPS Key: CL= college lecturer; EA = educational administrator; ST = school teacher; PT = psychotherapist; MD = medical doctor; IP = industrial psychologist

IP

Women members of the BPS 1901–1918 227 5

Frequency

4

3

2

1

0 None

One

Two

Three

Six

Seven

Eight

Ten

Figure 19.3 Number of books published by early women members of the BPS

experimental, educational, developmental from infancy to ageing, clinical and animal)12 but also philosophy, education, religion, history, politics, Celtic studies and psychical research, illustrating once again the breadth of learning that was common at the time. Caroline Graveson wrote Quaker historical novels. They broadcast and gave public lectures. Susan Isaacs, in particular, greatly influenced educational theory and practice in Britain by wide dissemination through multiple media. They frequently expressed themselves through the creative arts. Helen Verrall co-authored a play with Clive Carey and Rupert Brooke, entitled ‘From the jaws of the octopus or cardy’,13 performed at Klosters, Switzerland, in December 1908. Caroline Graveson produced plays for children and wrote the words of the Goldsmiths’ College hymn. Jane Reaney, whose mother, Isabel Reaney, was a much-published author of Christian tales from a female perspective, published a patriotic song (Reaney, 1915). Spirituality is a recurrent theme. Four were the daughters of ministers of religion, one of a lay preacher.14 Sophie Bryant, described as “a woman utterly unworldly and devoted to spiritual ends”,15 wrote school textbooks on scripture, one of the subjects which she taught. Caroline Graveson, of long Quaker ancestry, wrote books on teaching scripture to elementary school children and devoted her retirement years to furthering Quaker aims. Alice Woods, also of Quaker ancestry, a great grand-daughter of the Quaker diarist Margaret Woods, brought “a quiet radiance to all with whom she came into contact”,16 evident in the portrait of her which hung at Maria Grey College until its probable destruction during World War II. Helen Verrall (Salter), described as “a great lady of impressive presence” (Chrystal, 1960), worked for many years for the Society for Psychical Research, as research officer, vice-president and editor of their proceedings (1921–53), work

228 History which she pursued with imagination and strict integrity (Chrystal, 1960). She published Evidence for telepathy: The response to a broadcast request for cases (Salter, 1934) and delivered the F. W. H. Myers Memorial Lecture on ‘Psychical research: where do we stand?’ in 1945. Unsurprisingly, there is also a distinguished record of political awareness and public service. Sophie Bryant was one of the first women to sign the declaration for women’s suffrage in 1906, which later gained wide support. With Emily Davies, Lady Frances Balfour and Mrs Henry Fawcett, she headed the great procession to the Royal Albert Hall organised by the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies (NUWSS) in 1908. Amidst a very busy and demanding life, she found time to be president of the Hampstead committee of the NUWSS. Jessie Murray collected evidence and co-authored a report on the (mal)treatment of women’s deputations by the police in November 1910 (Murray & Brailsford, 1911). She was also a member of the Women’s Tax Resistance League. Susan Isaacs and Julia Turner supported the suffragettes. Jane Reaney worked gallantly as an ambulance driver for the Scottish Women’s Hospital Unit in Serbia and Roumania during World War I. Helen Verrall (Salter) played a prominent part in local affairs for most of her married life, as a member and chairman of Saffron Walden Rural District Council and that of Saffron Walden Teachers’ Training College. Despite the problem of lack of visibility for women at this time, four (Laura Brackenbury, Sophie Bryant, Beatrice Edgell and Susan Isaacs) had obituaries in The Times. Two received national honours: Susan Isaacs a CBE, and May Smith an OBE. Five (Sophie Bryant, Beatrice Edgell, Susan Isaacs, May Smith and Alice Woods) now have entries in biographical dictionaries.17

Networks It is probable that all these women knew each other, some better than others—as students, teachers, mentors and/or colleagues. Many of them would have met through educational or teacher training circles. Ida Saxby and Mary Smith were contemporaries at Newnham College, Cambridge. Jane Reaney was a student and Ida Saxby a lecturer at Maria Grey College under Alice Woods’ principalship. Victoria Hazlitt was a student and later colleague of Beatrice Edgell. Jessie Murray was a tutee, close friend and later colleague of Julia Turner at the MedicoPsychological Clinic. Jane Reaney and Helen Verrall were colleagues at King’s College London. They were all members of a small élite society (the British Psychological Society), which met four times a year. The frequency of their attendance varied greatly, owing to other commitments and geographical distance. Seven of them held office and ten of them presented papers. Beatrice Edgell and May Smith served on the Society’s Council together; the latter was a co-author of the former’s obituary in the British Journal of Psychology (Smith, McFarlane & Jenkin, 1949). Sophie Bryant and Alice Woods were both members of the University of London’s Board of Pedagogy; Bryant and Edgell were members of the University of London Senate.

Women members of the BPS 1901–1918 229 The women also supported and cited each other in their work. Sophie Bryant wrote an introduction to one of Caroline Graveson’s books on teaching scripture (Graveson, 1912) and Alice Woods read the manuscripts of Ida Saxby’s two books (Saxby, 1921, 1926).18 Alice Woods, in her turn, cites Jane Reaney’s work on play in her book, Educational Experiments in England (Woods, 1920).19 A systematic investigation of the links amongst this group of women would prove fruitful.

Conclusions The results of this study run counter to stereotypic gender-related territorial segregation, that is, separate spheres of operation for men and women, with women predominantly occupying ‘caring’ practitioner roles, and men predominantly ‘understanding’ scientist roles. Cahan (1991) has demonstrated this commonly found pattern for early American child psychology. By contrast, the British women pioneer psychologists in the present sample predominantly focussed on understanding rather than caring, although some of them clearly did care about children’s welfare, notably Caroline Graveson and Susan Isaacs. In some cases there was as much emphasis on the application of psychology to the teacher as to the child, for example in the writings of Caroline Graveson (1913) and Ida Saxby (1921). There is some evidence that territorial segregation increased in both Britain and America as the 20th century progressed, though the reasons for this are complex and difficult to disentangle (Valentine, 2006). The women were typically employed as lecturers in teacher training colleges or university education departments. Perhaps this is not so surprising and merely an extension of the fact that teaching was the commonest occupation for women at that time. It may have been partly a matter of preference and partly a matter of practical circumstances. According to Perrone (1993), the academic profession was more flexible and open to women in England in the early years of the 20th century than other professions—particularly law and medicine—in that university teaching required no well-defined training, certification examination or licensing procedure, and there was no central professional body to monitor the behaviour of its members. The fact that the women in the present sample worked predominantly in education rather than in psychology departments underlines the key role that departments of education played in providing employment opportunities for women in higher education before the development of university departments of psychology in Britain.

Acknowledgements Thanks to Professor Ruth Watts for her encouragement, and to Toni Brennan and Geoff Bunn for many useful comments on an earlier draft.

230 History

Notes This paper is based on presentations at the first joint meeting of Cheiron and the European Society for the History of the Human Sciences, Dublin, June 2007, and ‘Collecting Women’s Lives’, the 16th Annual Conference of the Women’s History Network, Winchester, September 2007. 1 Minutes of the British Psychological Society, I.S. 1901–1921, p. 1. (British Psychological Society Archives: BPS/001/1) 2 Minutes of the British Psychological Society, I.S. 1901–1921, obverse of p. 117. (British Psychological Society Archives: BPS/001/1). See also Lovie (2001). 3 British Federation of University Women Archives. Cited in Dyhouse (1995), p. 137. 4 In the case of women who married, I have used the name by which they were known as psychologists. Sophie Bryant’s maiden name was Willock. Nellie Carey’s married name was Wohlgemuth. Susan Isaacs’ maiden name was Fairhurst; her first married name was Brierley. Ida Saxby was born Sachs but anglicised her name to increase her chances of employment. Mary Smith’s married name was Bartlett; Helen Verrall’s was Salter. 5 The General Register of Births, Marriages and Deaths; census records; electoral registers and local directories; university records and histories; the Directory of Women Teachers, university (and schools)’ old students’ magazines; Google; The Times Digital Archive; the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography; and the psychologists’ own publications. 6 I have not been able to confirm this despite diligent searching but her son believes this to have been the case. 7 Her mother had become ill and died after the birth of a younger sister of Susan’s. 8 The fact that many of the women studied at Cambridge aided the collection of data on curricula vitae, as Newnham College, Cambridge has very good records. 9 Titular degrees were awarded in 1921 and full status granted in 1948. 10 Complete accuracy is somewhat difficult to obtain as some masters’ degrees are formalities. Laura Brackenbury and Nina Taylor were ‘steamboat ladies’, taking advantage of the offer made by Trinity College, Dublin to confer degrees on women who had qualified but were ineligible for the award of degrees by the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge. 11 I am grateful to Toni Brennan for these observations. 12 Female pioneer psychologists were not restricted in their areas of interest to ‘soft’ topics such as personality and social psychology, but were just as likely to work in the ‘hard’ areas of animal and cognitive psychology. 13 The papers of Rupert Chawner Brooke, Cambridge University: King’s College Archive Centre. RCB/D/6. 14 Laura Brackenbury, Sophie Bryant, Caroline Graveson and Jane Reaney were the daughters of a Wesleyan Methodist, Anglican, Quaker and Congregationalist minister respectively. Susan Isaacs’ father was a Methodist lay preacher. 15 Mrs S. A. Barnett in The Graphic, August 30th, 1922. 16 Tribute by Lucy Henderson (née Crickmay), courtesy of Brunel University Archive: MGC/1/7/1. 17 All five have entries in The Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (Matthew & Harrison, eds., 2004). Edgell and Woods also appear in the Dictionary of Twentieth Century British Philosophers (Brown, ed., 2005). 18 In the Preface to the first, Saxby wrote: “I should like . . . to express my obligation to Miss Alice Woods . . . for reading the whole of the manuscript and for giving me much valuable criticism and advice.” 19 “In our country Dr Jane Reaney has made an important study on the place of play in education, and has written a treatise on the psychology of the organized group game,

Women members of the BPS 1901–1918 231 and on the correlation between general intelligence and play ability. She looks forward to the time when there will be organization of the recreative facilities in large towns under uniform control. Persons will be trained in the theory and practice of play to act as administrators of public playgrounds and play centres” (Woods, 1920, p. 40).

References Bindman, L., Brading, A. & Tansey, T. (1993). Women Physiologists: An Anniversary Celebration of Their Contributions to British Physiology. London: Portland Press. Brown, S. C. (Ed.) (2005). Dictionary of Twentieth Century British Philosophers. Bristol: Thoemmes Continuum. Bryant, S. (1886). Experiments on testing the character of schoolchildren. Journal of the Anthropological Institute, 15, 338–349. Cahan, E. D. (1991). Science, practice and gender roles in early American child psychology. In F. S. Kessel, M. H. Bornstein & A. J. Sameroff (Eds.), Contemporary Constructions of the Child: Essays in Honor of William Kessen (pp. 225–49). Hillsdale, NJ: Erlbaum. Carey, N. (1915). Factors in the mental processes of school children. British Journal of Psychology, 7, 453–490; 8, 70–92, 170–182. Cattell, J. McK., Bryant, S., Stout, G. F., Hughes, E. P. & Collet, C. E. (1889). Mental association investigated by experiment. Mind, 14, pp. 230–250. Chrystal, E. M. (1960). Mrs Helen Woolgar De Gaudrion Salter (Verrall) 1883–1959. Newnham College Roll Letter, pp. 40–41. Dyhouse, C. (1995). No Distinction of Sex? Women in British Universities 1870–1939. London: Routledge. Furumoto, L. (1987). On the margins: women and the professionalization of psychology in the United States, 1890–1930. In M.G. Ash & W.R. Woodwood (Eds.), Psychology in Twentieth-Century Thought and Society (pp. 93–113). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gardner, D. E. M. (1969). Susan Isaacs. London: Methuen. Graveson, C. G. (1912). The United Monarchy of the Hebrews. London: Stafford A. Warner. Graveson, C. G. (1913). Lessons on the Kingdom of Israel. London: Stafford A. Warner. Hearnshaw, L. S. (1964) A Short History of British Psychology 1840–1940. London: Methuen. Lovie, A. D. (2001). Three steps to heaven: how the British Psychological Society attained its place in the sun. In G. Bunn, A.D. Lovie & G.D. Richards (Eds.), (2001) Psychology in Britain. Historical Essays and Personal Reflections (pp. 95–114). Leicester: BPS Books. Matthew, H. C. G. & Harrison, B. H. (Eds.) (2004). The Oxford Dictionary of National Biography. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Murray, J. M. & Brailsford, H. N. (1911). The Treatment of the Women’s Deputations by the Metropolitan Police. London: Women’s Press. Perrone, F. (1993). Women academics in England, 1870–1930. History of Universities 12, 39–67. Reaney, M. J. (1914). The correlation between general intelligence and play ability as shown by organized group games. British Journal of Psychology, 7, 226–252. Reaney, M. J. (1915). The Lads of Albion. London: Cramer. Reaney, M. J. (1927). The Place of Play in Education. London: Methuen. Rendel, M. (1980). How many women academics? In R. Deem (Ed.) Schooling for Women’s Work (pp. 142–61). London: Routledge & Kegan Paul.

232 History Salter, W. H. (1934). Evidence for Telepathy: The Response to a Broadcast Request for Cases. London: Sidgwick & Jackson. Saxby, I. B. (1921). The Education of Behaviour: A Psychological Study. London: University of London Press. Saxby, I. B. (1926). The Psychology of the Thinker. London: University of London Press. Sayers, J. (2001). British psychology and psycho-analysis: the case of Susan Isaacs. In G. Bunn, A. D. Lovie & G. D. Richards (Eds.), (2001) Psychology in Britain. Historical Essays and Personal Reflections (pp. 205–22). Leicester: BPS Books. Smith, M., McFarlane, M. & Jenkin, A. (1949). Obituary notice: Beatrice Edgell 1871–1948. British Journal of Psychology, 39, 388–406. Taylor, N. G. R. (1916). Further data towards the study of the Binet-Simon Scale. Journal of Experimental Pedagogy, 3, 256–66. Valentine, E. (2001). Beatrice Edgell: An appreciation. British Journal of Psychology 92, 23–36. Valentine, E. (2006). Beatrice Edgell: Pioneer Woman Psychologist. Hauppage, NY: Nova Science. Valentine, E. R. (2010). Ida Beata Saxby (formerly Sachs) (1883–1949). In H. Gundlach, R. Roe, M. Sinatra & G. Tanucci (Eds.) European Pioneer Women in Psychology (pp. 159–172). Milan, Italy: Franco Angeli. Wilson, D. A. H. (1998). Encouragements and constraints in the development of experimental animal behaviour studies in Great Britain since the late nineteenth century. (Unpublished doctoral dissertation, University of Leicester.) Woods, A. (1920). Educational Experiments in England. London: Methuen.

20 The other woman

Sixteen women became members of the British Psychological Society between its foundation in 1901 and the massive expansion of membership in 1919. In the early days women constituted about 15 per cent of the membership, whereas today they are almost 75 percent. Who were these sixteen women? Here is the story of one of them, who graduated a hundred years ago. Nellie Carey was born in 1886 in Hornsey, London, the daughter of a carpenter and a silk-weaver. In 1905, she entered University College London (UCL) and achieved a BSc in Psychology in 1908. Following graduation, Carey was employed as a teacher in a London County Council (LCC) Elementary School, at a salary of £100 p.a. In 1909 she also re-entered UCL as a research student in experimental psychology, under Charles Spearman’s supervision. He introduced her to the Society, to whom she presented three papers, subsequently published in the British Journal of Psychology and submitted for a DSc. This work earned Carey the Carpenter medal, awarded once every three years for a doctoral thesis of exceptional distinction in experimental psychology. It was worth £20 – a sizable sum of money in those days. Carey’s first study reported on ‘An improved colour wheel’ (Carey, 1914). Testing colour discrimination in school children using a two-disc colour mixer, she encountered a number of problems, including limited response choice and delay between stimulus presentations. These problems were substantially reduced by using five discs rather than two and employing pegs and spindles in place of screws; the improved apparatus markedly increased judgment reliability. She went on to publish three papers under the general title, ‘Factors in the mental processes of school children’. The first (Carey, 1915a) was on visual and auditory imagery. Carey tested about 150 ‘lower working class’ children aged 7–14 years from LCC schools (at least some of her research was carried out at the school where she was employed as a teacher), on sensory discrimination and memory in different modalities, general ability, and memory for a short story – designed specifically to elicit imagery. Scholastic ability was estimated from school tests and examinations; and teachers rated scholastic intelligence, practical intelligence, painstaking and social status. Carey took great care to test the reliability and validity of her data, using a variety of methods. Correlations amongst the various measures provided little evidence

234 History for imagery types or the value of any objective method of determining them. Neither did the low correlations between imagery and other mental processes lend any support to the function of imagery in ‘higher mental processes’. She even suggests that imagery may be detrimental to school studies. As many others have found subsequently, clarity of imagery is unrelated to mental efficacy. The next two papers, inspired by Spearman’s theory of general and specific factors, addressed the issue of factorial structure. The first (Carey, 1915b) employed the same data set with the addition of tests of verbal memory and tactile discrimination. Carey found no evidence for a discrimination factor other than g and evidence for only a very small general memory factor. Specific factors were of limited range. Correlations for fifteen measures of performance with g ranged from .75 for scholastic intelligence to zero for tactile discrimination. Since teachers’ estimates of scholastic ability predicted performance in scholastic subjects much better than they did performance on technical subjects, she inferred these latter were relatively independent. A moderate correlation between painstaking and social status suggested that social status is dependent on power of application. Given her background, the last two findings may have been of particular interest to Carey. In the final paper (Carey, 1916), Carey subjected theories of the structure of mental abilities to further test, using examination marks on 10 school subjects for about 500 children. She found evidence for a general factor, a large motor factor (evident in writing, painting and needlework) and a small factor which we might call ‘verbal/semantic’, evident in composition, reading and spelling tasks. Burt used these data in his 1917 report to the LCC on the distribution and relations of educational abilities. Carey terminated her registration at UCL mid-session at the end of 1920. She continues to be listed as a member of the Society up to 1925 but disappears after that. What happened? One of Carey’s fellow research students at UCL was Adolf Wohlgemuth. A native of Berlin, he had emigrated to Britain and ran a sausage-casing business. He entered UCL in 1902, achieving the second B.Sc. honours degree in Psychology awarded by the University of London, in 1905. His doctoral research appeared as the first monograph supplement of the British Journal of Psychology, a classic on the after-effect of seen movement (Wohlgemuth, 1911). According to Flugel (1954), “he continued work at the college for many years, carrying out research on memory and feeling, and though he was never a member of the staff he was a prominent and influential figure in the Department until his activities were curtailed by an accident during the First World War. He had considerable ability in the construction and use of apparatus and was always willing to ‘lend a hand’. . . in this sphere of the Department’s activities” (p. 25). It seems likely that he helped Carey with the colour wheel. What was this accident during the First World War? In 1913, Wohlgemuth married his housekeeper, a French widow, Clemence Morellet. However, the marriage was not a happy one. “They lived unhappily together and were always quarrelling” (The Times, September 13th, 1918, page 2, column F). Wohlgemuth provides a hint, as he confesses in his book: “The year I was 46 years of age was one of great importance to me, so to speak a new epoch

The other woman 235 began in my life, and in that year the number twenty-seven played a great rôle. However, as Freud says on a similar occasion, ‘the details are of too intimate a nature to allow of publication’” (Wohlgemuth, 1923, p. 214–15). Carey was 27 years of age that year. According to The Times, in the year of his marriage, Wohlgemuth had taken a flat in St Pancras because it was near the reading room of the British Museum. Here he was visited by ‘Miss X’, a woman he had met at UCL, who came there once or twice a week to discuss scientific subjects; but there were no sexual relations with her. Things came to a head in June, 1918. A row ended with Clemence shooting Adolf in the back. She was remanded in custody, proclaiming in court the following day, “It is all because of the other woman that I did it.” She was under the impression that her husband was consorting with another woman and was about to leave her for this other woman. The surgeon was unable to remove the bullet but Adolf recovered sufficiently to attend the trial at the Central Criminal Court in September. Clemence Morellet was acquitted on the charges of wounding her husband with intent to murder or to do him grievous bodily harm, but found guilty of unlawful wounding, and sentenced to six months’ imprisonment. There may not have been any sexual relations between Wohlgemuth and ‘Miss X’ in 1918, but on Christmas Day 1921, a daughter, Joan, was born to Adolf Wohlgemuth and Nellie Carey (having changed her name by deed poll to Wohlgemuth) in West Hampstead. By 1923, the Wohlgemuths had moved to a large Victorian house (now converted into six flats) in Shortlands, near Bromley, Kent. Here, a son, Bryan, was born in 1929. The Wohlgemuths attended a number of meetings of the Medical Section of the Society, particularly when phobias were the topic of discussion. They were present for Morton Prince’s paper on ‘“Meaning” and “setting” in relation to pathological states – a theory of phobias’ in 1924, for Adolf’s own presentation on ‘The “synthesis” of an anxiety neurosis’ in April the following year (Wohlgemuth, 1925), Anrep’s on ‘Conditioned responses and anxiety neurosis’ in 1928, Adler’s in 1931, and Money-Kyrle’s symposium on phobias in June later that year. They must have been a powerful intellectual partnership, proud of their academic achievements and champions of science. Adolf was highly critical of what he considered to be pseudo-science. In 1924, following claims made by Gilbert Murray and Lord Balfour concerning telepathy experiments, he wrote to The Times chastising the Society for Psychical Research for not enlisting the help of trained psychologists in investigating telepathic phenomena. In his book on psychoanalysis, he describes the Oedipus complex as a ‘ridiculous assumption’, stating that psycho-analysis, rather than being, as commonly believed, the royal road to the patient’s unconscious, is the royal road to the psychoanalyst’s unconscious. “The psychologist aims, as it were, at an aseptic treatment, whilst the psychoanalyst indulges in deliberate infection” (Wohlgemuth, 1923, p. 245). In 1936, following Clemence Morellet’s death, Adolf and Nellie were finally able to marry – 30 years after they had first met. Six years later, Adolf died at his home, aged 73. Nellie died at the same age, in 1960, at her son’s home in Shenfield Green, Essex. Interestingly, he adopted his mother’s maiden name as his surname.

236 History

References Burt, C. (1917). Three preliminary memoranda on the distribution and relations of educational abilities. London County Council. Carey, N. (1914). An improved colour-wheel. British Journal of Psychology, 7, 64–67. Carey, N. (1915a). Factors in the mental processes of school children. I. Visual and auditory imagery. British Journal of Psychology, 7, 453–490. Carey, N. (1915b). Factors in the mental processes of school children. II. On the nature of the specific mental factors. British Journal of Psychology, 8, 70–92 Carey, N. (1916). Factors in the mental processes of school children. III. Factors concerned in the school subjects. British Journal of Psychology, 8, 170–182. Flugel, J. C. (1954). A hundred years or so of psychology at University College London. Bulletin of the British Psychological Society, 21–31. Wohlgemuth, A. (1911). On the after-effect of seen movement. British Journal of Psychology Monograph Supplements, no. 1, 1–117. Wohlgemuth, A. (1923). A Critical Examination of Psycho-analysis. London: Allen & Unwin. Wohlgemuth, A. (1925). The ‘synthesis’ of an anxiety neurosis. British Journal of Medical Psychology, 5, 92–105.

21 “A brilliant and many-sided personality” Jessie Margaret Murray, founder of the Medico-Psychological Clinic

Abstract This paper outlines the life and career of Jessie Margaret Murray, the moving spirit behind the foundation of the Medico-Psychological Clinic, the first public clinic in Britain to offer psychoanalytic therapy and training in psychoanalysis. Biographical details of Murray and her close friend and collaborator, Julia Turner, are presented, and possible routes by which the two women may have met are explored. Murray’s role in the suffragist movement is described, as well as other networks and professional societies in which she was involved, in particular the British Society for the Study of Sex Psychology, and her relationship with Marie Stopes. An account is given of events leading up to the founding of the Clinic, its activities, Murray’s death, and other factors contributing to its demise. Finally, the Clinic’s heritage and implications of the personalities of Murray and Turner for understanding the subsequent development of psycho-analysis in Britain are considered.

Jessie Murray and Julia Turner Jessie Margaret Murray is known as the co-founder and moving spirit behind the Medico-Psychological Clinic, the first public clinic in Britain to offer both psychoanalytic therapy and also training in psychoanalysis, albeit somewhat unorthodox in nature by later standards. Two other women played key roles in the development of the Clinic, which existed in London from 1913 to 1923: Murray’s close friend and collaborator, Julia Turner, and May Sinclair, a psychological novelist, who provided major financial and other administrative support, including writing much of the publicity material. Sinclair’s role has received attention from several scholars of English literature.1 However, very little is known about Murray, a medical doctor and suffragist, or her friend Turner. This paper seeks to provide a portrait of Murray, in part by exploring some of the networks in which she was involved. Jessie Margaret Murray was born on February 9, 1867, in Hazaribagh, northeast India, the eldest daughter of Hugh Hildyard and Frances Jane Murray.2 Her father was serving at the time as a lieutenant in the 16th Brigade of the Royal Artillery.

238 History Jessie’s two sisters, Mary Ethel, five years younger, and Edith May, thirteen years younger, were also born in India. About 1880, when Jessie would have been 13 years old, Frances Murray and her children returned to Scotland, and were living in Edinburgh in 1881.3 By 1891, the family had moved south and were boarding in Marylebone, London.4 Hugh Murray, by then a retired colonel, collapsed and died in Bayswater five years later. At the end of 1898 Murray met Julia Turner;5 Murray was 31 and Turner was 35. They formed a close attachment, “typical of the intimate friendships that for so many pioneering women relieved the pressure of professional careers” (Showalter, 1985, p. 198). Such relationships were common among professional women at the time, who frequently remained unmarried, sometimes for purely pragmatic reasons such as economic independence or lack of availability of men. Murray’s and Turner’s relationship was almost certainly what Vicinus (2004) terms an “intimate friendship,” defined as “an emotional, erotically charged relationship between two women” (p. xxiv), and showed many of the signs of a life partnership, described by Marcus (2007), often referred to as a “marriage,” which replaced marriage to men, and was marked not only by a private sexual bond, but also by cohabitation; shared property, social networks, household labor, and holidays; physical and spiritual caretaking; use of pet names; and arrangements to be interred together. Julia Turner was born in Dagenham, Essex, in 1863, the daughter of Alfred and Marianne (née Venton) Turner. Julia was the middle child of seven. Her father and two brothers were solicitors. Julia studied at University College London, graduating with a B.A. honors degree in classics from London University in 1889. She was clearly proud of this achievement as she invariably styled herself “Miss J Turner, B.A. (Hons).” From 1900 to 1904 she was co-principal with Amelia Conway of Fir Grove House Ladies’ School, Godalming, which according to its advertisement was “a high-class Private School which aims at giving a liberal Education to the daughters of gentlemen.”6 From 1892 the family home was the Manor House, Upper Twickenham, Surrey, later occupied by two of Julia’s married siblings. Turner’s two younger sisters were, like herself, both spinsters. Bertha was an active supporter of the suffragist movement, being a member of the Women’s Social and Political Union. Rosa (or Rose) was a doctor, who had studied at the London School of Medicine for Women and qualified at the University of Glasgow in 1895. By 1897 she was Assistant Anaesthetist at the Royal Free Hospital, and Clinical Assistant in the Out-Patients Department at the New Hospital for Women in Euston Road. The New Hospital, founded by Elizabeth Garrett Anderson, was staffed entirely by women. Both Anderson and her daughter Louisa were active suffragists, as were many women doctors. Rosa Turner had become Assistant Pathologist at the Hospital by 1899 and by the following year had taken consulting rooms in Gower Street, London, which she retained for 40 years.7 Since the literary community was one of the most receptive groups to psychoanalysis (Hinshelwood, 1995),8 this may have been the route by which Turner became interested in and moved into dynamic psychology. Murray and Turner may

Jessie Margaret Murray 239 well have met in suffrage circles—possibly through Julia’s sister Bertha—or through medical circles, possibly through Julia’s sister Rosa. Rosa may even have encouraged Murray to pursue a career in medicine. In any event, Murray, having received private tuition from Turner, passed the preliminary examination of the College of Preceptors in December 1899 and entered the London School of Medicine for Women (LSMW) in February 1900.9 She was nearly 33 years old and at that time living with her widowed mother and sister Edith in Wimbledon, southwest London; her mother had also adopted a young daughter, Violet Dixon, then aged 5, born in Sunderland, Durham.10 Between 1902 and 1909 Murray took the medical examinations of the University of Durham, being a resident student at the College of Medicine, Newcastle, from 1905 to 1907.11 She qualified as Licentiate in Medicine and Surgery of the Society of Apothecaries in 1908, aged 41, and passed her final medical examinations at Durham in the Epiphany term the following year, graduating M.B., B.S. in April 1909. Her bachelor’s degree had included studies in psychological medicine.12 After graduating, Murray attended lectures by Pierre Janet at the Collège de France in Paris. She also had three periods of study in experimental psychology at University College London,13 on the last occasion being registered for a D.Sc., though she never completed a degree there. She was awarded an M.D. by the University of Durham on 1 July 1919, having passed the examination and presented a thesis entitled “Nervous Functional Diseases from the Point of View of Modern Clinical Psychology” in April of that year. It discussed the value of psychological discoveries in the treatment and prevention of nervous and mental diseases. Murray established a large private practice at her home at 14 Endsleigh Street, of which she had been the householder since 1905.14 From 1910 she is listed in the telephone directory as a physician and surgeon, but “from her earliest days of practice . . . she was quick to perceive the psychological element in many cases of illness, and her native insight into this fact enhanced the value of her advice as a physician.”15 She was Honorary Medical Adviser to the London Diocesan Shelter from about 1909 to 1911,16 and subsequently Consulting Physician at the Quinton Polyclinic for treatment by isotonized seawater.17 This treatment was introduced to the medical profession by the French physiologist and biologist René Quinton at the beginning of the twentieth century. Theoretically based on the similar saline composition of seawater and blood plasma, Quinton (1904) developed a method of filtering and diluting seawater prior to injection in the patient, where it was used to treat a variety of diseases and ailments. The London clinic, established in 1911, was modeled on one in Paris. The treatment was popular in France and Switzerland until superseded by the development of antibiotics. Among Murray’s colleagues at the Polyclinic was Dorothea Tudor, another 1909 medical graduate from Durham University, whose address is given as 14 Endsleigh Street in the 1914 Medical Directory. Coauthor with Arthur Gregory Sandberg of Isotonic Sea-Water Injections: Practical Hints for Treatment, published in 1912, she returned to 14 Endsleigh Street for a few years after Murray’s death.18

240 History

Suffragism The connection of many women doctors with the suffragist movement has already been noted. Murray was a member of the Women’s Freedom League (WFL), founded in 1907 as a breakaway movement from the Women’s Social and Political Union (WSPU), in protest at the latter’s undemocratic leadership. Turner’s sister Bertha and May Sinclair were both members of the WSPU. The WFL was likewise a militant organization but nonviolent; it opposed the WSPU’s campaign of arson and the destruction of private property. Instead, the League directed its efforts against the government, by refusing to pay taxes (its motto was “no taxation without representation”) or to complete census returns.19 A Dr. J. Murray and a Miss J. Turner donated one shilling to the League in 1911.20 Dorothea Tudor and Constance Long21 were also supporters. Murray collected evidence and coauthored a report with the journalist and socialist author Henry Noel Brailsford (Murray & Brailsford, 1911), on the (mal)treatment of women’s deputations by the police on “Black Friday,” November 18, 1910. In what was intended as a peaceful demonstration march by suffragettes from Caxton Hall to the Houses of Parliament, women clashed with the police (as they did also on November 22 and 23), whom they accused of excessive violence, torture, and indecent assault. The report, having been considered by the Conciliation Committee for Women Suffrage, of which Brailsford was chairman, was forwarded to the Home Office in support of the demand for a public inquiry, subsequently refused by Winston Churchill as Home Secretary. Intriguingly, two of the statements of evidence are from a Miss J.T. The first is among “Notes of verbal [sic] statements made to Dr. Jessie Murray,” which Turner, as Murray’s close friend, would certainly have been in a position to give: “Thumped, flung back into crowd, gripped by the throat by P.C. while held by two other P.C.s by the shoulders. Arm wrenched deliberately by man in plain clothes who let go when she called out, ‘This man will break my arm.’ Banner pole wrenched from her hands. Hat flung off “ (Murray & Brailsford, 1911, p. 70). The second is among “Other narratives”: “On the 18th the police behaved abominably . . . One hit me with his fist in the chest with great force . . . On the 22nd one policeman deliberately tried to get me away by bending my thumb back. I have been in a deputation before, and have come in contact with the police in a number of ways during the last two years, and can safely say I have never been treated with such wanton cruelty before” (Murray & Brailsford, 1911, p. 73). An offshoot of the WFL was the Women’s Tax Resistance League, of which Murray was also a member. Indeed, Harrison (1981), in his chapter on women doctors and the Women’s Movement, singles out Murray as a tax resister, without providing further documentation. Murray hosted a Drawing Room Meeting for the League at her home in May 1910, a formal affair for which cards were printed,22 which was attended by most of the leading figures, including Margaret Kineton Parkes, Clemence Housman, and Murray’s fellow doctors Kate Haslam and Constance Long.23 The following year Murray had property seized for failure to pay taxes, as reported in the Daily Chronicle under the heading “No Vote. No Tax. Lady doctor’s sideboard and chairs sold”:

Jessie Margaret Murray 241 . . .Yesterday a curious scene took place in Tooth’s Auction Rooms, Oxfordstreet. The place was thronged with ladies, most of whom wore suffrage badges, to the great astonishment of the dealers and other frequenters of the place. A sideboard and 12 chairs, the property of Dr. Jessie Murray, of Endsleigh-gardens [sic], were announced for sale, having been seized by the bailiffs on Dr. Murray’s refusal to pay inhabited house duty. The duty amounted to £4.10s.9d, and Dr. Murray wrote across the paper: “I, a member of the Tax Resistance League, hereby declare that I have conscientious objections to paying King’s taxes so long as women are denied the suffrage. I maintain that taxation without representation is unconstitutional.” . . . Few dealers were present, and the bidding was languid, as Dr. Murray had refused to allow the goods to be bought in on her behalf by suffragist friends. Finally, the sideboard was disposed of for £2.12s, and the 12 chairs for £2. Mrs. Pankhurst was among those present.24 According to another source,25 the latter’s entry was greeted with enthusiastic cheers. Murray donated ten shillings and sixpence to the League’s funds in 1913,26 money which was often used to buy back the property of tax resisters. Many women doctors—including such pioneers as Elizabeth Garrett Anderson, Sophia Jex-Blake, and Mary Scharlieb—were of a feminist persuasion and supported the suffrage movement from its earliest days (see Harrison, 1981, p. 51). Agnes Savill, later a member of staff at the Medico-Psychological Clinic, was one of those who spoke out against the forcible feeding of suffragist prisoners and coauthored a study (Savill, Mansell Moulin, & Horsley, 1912) that helped to change medical opinion on this issue. As professional women, female doctors had a particular interest in tax reform. But militant action was risky and required particular courage, in view of women’s precarious position and the need to retain their reputation among medical colleagues. Early women doctors had to be on their best behavior (Harrison, 1981, p. 56); the politically active among them engaged in a delicate balancing act. Their greatest fear was of appearing unprofessional. Geddes (2007) has demonstrated the political motivation underlying the Military Hospital in Endell Street, London, founded and run by the militant suffragists Flora Murray and Louisa Garrett Anderson during World War I and staffed entirely by women. This remarkably successful enterprise demonstrated that women were capable of fulfilling their obligations as citizens and doing a professional job as well as men, indeed better than men. One feature of the hospital was its “human” atmosphere, with attention paid to the psychological as well as the physical needs of their patients. It is thus possible that a suffragist agenda influenced the founding of the Medico-Psychological Clinic. However, it is more probable that the major motivation was philanthropic—a desire to make the new psychological treatments available to those with limited financial means. Whatever the case, the suffrage

242 History movement almost certainly afforded Murray several crucial contacts, one of whom, May Sinclair, supported the Clinic both financially and administratively.

The Medico-Psychological Clinic In July 1913, Murray convened a preliminary meeting in Bloomsbury to discuss the opening of the Clinic, which was chaired by Stanley Bligh, a barrister, and attended by many doctors. Hector Munro27 informed the meeting that the objects of the Clinic were threefold: to provide a place where treatment by psychotherapy might be carried out, to bring this method of treatment within the reach of the poorer classes, and to provide inquirers with opportunities for study and investigation.28 Charles Spearman, professor of psychology at University College London, stressed the benefits to be gained by psychological science from the setting up of the Clinic, and is reported as claiming that psychoanalysis was “nothing but an extension of the process followed in every psychological laboratory.”29 He offered the facilities of his laboratory for “careful observation and exact tests”30 and leaped to the Clinic’s defense when it came under attack.31 Constance Long said that it was proposed to use all forms of psychic treatment, including persuasion, reeducation, psychoanalysis, and hypnotism. An account published in the Journal of the Society for Psychical Research listed phobias and what would now be called delusions and obsessive compulsive disorders as cases of nervous and mental disorders to be treated at the Clinic, the causes of which were considered to be emotional shock or mental conflict, often unconscious.32 Murray announced that there was to be a nominal charge of half a crown (i.e., one-eighth of a pound sterling) but “as it was hoped that a large proportion of the patients would belong to the very poor, the smallest offerings would be received.”33 The result of this policy was that the Clinic became hugely popular but ran into debt. The medical committee was listed as Drs. Hector Munro, Jessie M. Murray, John Spencer, and Constance E. Long,34 with Miss J. Turner as honorary secretary and treasurer. A report of the meeting in The Observer appealed for subscriptions and donations of furniture.35 Murray opened the Clinic at her home, 14 Endsleigh Street, in Bloomsbury, London, in October 1913, the same month in which Ernest Jones founded the London Psychoanalytic Society. She was one of the four original directors, there being eight other founding members (Boll, 1962, p. 313). She was on the board of management, and listed under both medical and psychological staff. Six departments were outlined in the original prospectus. Murray and Turner are listed as joint heads of the Psychological Department, concerned with diagnosis and assessment, and of the Educational Department, responsible for lectures on mental hygiene. The other four departments were medical (to screen out and/or treat organic disorders), psychotherapeutic (headed by Munro), physical exercise, and electrical. However, the entry in the 1918 Medical Directory lists, in addition, staff with the following areas of expertise: surgery, gynecology, pathology, throat and ear surgery, dermatology, radiography, bacteriology, pathology, and dental surgery.36

Jessie Margaret Murray 243 An inaugural meeting was held at University College on November 5, chaired by Lord Sandwich,37 at which Spearman and Long again spoke, the latter explaining that the patients would include people suffering from depression, insomnia, loss of sensation, addiction, morbid attention to bodily ailments, and many other manifestations of ill health for which no adequate provision existed at that moment.38 She also stressed that the Clinic was intended as supplementary and complementary rather than in opposition to orthodox medicine. In a follow-up letter to the British Medical Journal,39 the medical committee further explained that they expected the Clinic to attract cases of threatened nervous breakdown in a stage at which preventive measures might avert calamity, and to offer a place of study for medical practitioners who wished to acquaint themselves with practical psychotherapy. In July 1915 Murray and her colleagues launched the associated Society for the Study of Orthopsychics (a term whose coinage is attributed to Sinclair40), which offered a three-year training course in psychoanalysis (applied psychology), notwithstanding the fact that neither Murray nor Turner had undergone any psychoanalytic training themselves. This included personal analysis, conducted initially by Murray; lectures on biology, philosophy, anthropology, general and experimental psychology, and comparative religion; a written thesis; and supervised work with patients. Murray and Turner were founding members of the Society, along with Percy Nunn, later succeeded as president by Leonard Hobhouse. Murray also served as a tutor for the Society. Among the well-known analysts trained there were James Glover, Sylvia Payne, Mary Chadwick, Ella Freeman Sharpe, Nina Searle, Susan Isaacs, Iseult Grant-Duff, Marjorie Brierley, Barbara Low, Joan Riviere, and Ethilda Meakin Herford (Boll, 1962, p. 324; Martindale, 2004, p. 180). Though the clinic had been intended primarily for voluntary and mostly female outpatients,41 the acquisition of further property enabled the opening of a residential unit, where occupational therapy was provided, and to which “shell-shocked” soldiers were admitted in 1917. For further details of the Clinic, see Boll (1962).42 For further discussion of the different types of psychotherapy employed, see Raitt (2004, pp. 72–74).

Networks Despite the fact that Murray was engaged in organization, assessment, treatment, training, and lecturing at the Clinic, she nevertheless found time to participate in a number of outside activities relevant to her interests. The suffragist movement was only one of the organizations with which she became actively involved. The limited amount of her correspondence now extant affords a picture of a great facilitator, making connections between people, and enthusiastically encouraging them in their endeavors. In addition to her medical affiliations—she was a member of the British Medical Association, the Association of Registered Medical Women, the Psycho-Medical Society,43 the Medico-Psychological Association,44 and a fellow of the Royal Society of Medicine—she was also a member of several other professional societies.

244 History Most important among these was probably the British Society for the Study of Sex Psychology (BSSSP), which she joined with Turner in 1914, soon after its formation. The Society45 pursued open-minded inquiry on sexual matters, embracing the radical, unconventional, and unorthodox. Its founding members included the homosexuals Edward Carpenter, George Ives, and Laurence Housman— younger brother of the poet A. E. Housman, whose sister was the suffragist Clemence Housman. The membership included psychologists such as Barbara Low, Jack Flugel (a fellow council member and fellow tutor of Murray’s at the Society for the Study of Orthopsychics), Margaret Lowenfeld, and Ernest Jones,46 and a number of women doctors, such as Constance Long, Mary Bell, and Ethilda Herford. Murray was soon elected to the committee, offering her house for meetings and contributing papers. She presented a paper on “The Evolution of the Instincts” to the first quarterly meeting of the Society in January 1915, at her home, at which Laurence Housman took the chair.47 In March that year, E. B. Lloyd, reporting on a recent committee meeting of the Society, wrote to Edward Carpenter concerning a conversazione the latter had planned that “they fixed it up to be held in Murray’s house (she was very nice about it)—as much unconstrained as possible, and a short address (10 minutes they wanted!) on some topical question (soldiers and sex trouble or something of the kind).”48 The Society for Psychical Research was founded in 1882 to research paranormal phenomena in an unbiased manner, so far as possible by scientific methods. Murray is listed as a new associate of the Society in July 1914.49 Its journal carried a sixpage article on the Medico-Psychological Clinic in its December 1914 issue,50 following this up with an approving mention in the annual Report to Council, which indicates the close connections between the Society and the Clinic: . . . so much has been done through the work of the S.P.R. both to advance knowledge and to arouse interest in hypnotic and allied states from a psychological as well as a therapeutic point of view, that new developments of this kind under the direction of properly qualified persons are always especially welcomed by the Council. Six members of the staff of the Clinic belong to the S.P.R., and the Chairman of the Board of Management [Lawrence Jones] is a member of our Council. We have already found occasion to send to the Clinic several persons who have come to the S.P.R. Rooms for advice and help in regard to mental or nervous symptoms.51 Unsurprisingly, Murray was also a member of the British Psychological Society, founded in 1901 (as the Psychological Society) with the aims of advancing psychological research and furthering the cooperation of investigations in the different branches of psychology. She first attended a meeting in 1908 but became a frequent attender from 1911 onwards. She was elected to membership in March 1915, proposed by Carveth Read and seconded by Jack Flugel (both members of staff in the Department of Psychology, University College London), and presented a paper on “The Involuntary Nervous System and the Involuntary Expression of Emotions” to a meeting of the Society in May of the following year. She joined

Jessie Margaret Murray 245 the Medical Section when it was formed in 1919 and became a member of its committee. Another very important network was the British Association for the Advancement of Science (BAAS), founded in 1831, with the aims of providing direction to scientific inquiry, promoting communication among scientists within the British Empire, and improving the public image of science. A Subsection for Psychology was formed within the Physiology Section in 1913. Various research committees and research projects—some in receipt of grants from the Association—were established within the Sections. An annual conference was held in a city in Britain or, on occasion, abroad somewhere in the British Empire. Both Murray and Turner attended the annual meeting in 1915 and 1916, Murray presenting a paper on the former occasion and both of them papers in the same session the following year, when Murray spoke on “Emotional Disturbances from a Biological Point of View,” followed by Turner on “Some Aspects of Infancy and Childhood in the Light of Freudian Principles.”52 Murray was also a member of the BAAS research committee on Psychological war research, which addressed the following research issues: (1) mental tests of industrial fatigue; (2) mental factors in alcoholism; (3) evidence and rumor; (4) efficacy of thrift posters; and (5) other problems.53 How Murray had time to participate in all these ventures is difficult to imagine. She must have been a woman of the most extraordinary energy.

Jessie Murray and Marie Stopes It is perhaps not surprising that Murray had little time for writing in her short life. Apart from the report on the treatment of women’s deputations, her only other publication was the Preface to Marie Stopes’ Married Love. How did this come about? Both Murray and Stopes had Edinburgh connections, but it is unlikely that their paths crossed north of the border. Stopes was born there in 1880 but her parents immediately moved south. Murray lived there in the 1880s but had moved south by the time Stopes returned to the north for two years’ schooling in 1892–1894. In addition, Murray was 13 years older than Stopes. Both were students at University College London (UCL) but not contemporaneously, though one of Murray’s periods of registration overlapped with Stopes’ time as a member of staff in the Botany Department. Stopes is reported to have been keen on seawater54 and one wonders whether she might have had some dealings with the Quinton Polyclinic. Both women were members of the Women’s Freedom League and Stopes was a vice president of the Women’s Tax Resistance League, so it is most likely that they met through suffrage circles. From correspondence between them, it is apparent that Murray had invited Stopes to lecture to the Society for the Study of Orthopsychics on two occasions but that Stopes declined. A crucial meeting appears to have been at the British Association for the Advancement of Science. Stopes was almost a child of the BAAS, as her parents had met there. She herself had been a member since 1903 and was an assiduous attender. Both Stopes and Murray presented papers to the meeting in Manchester in September 1915: Stopes on “The Aptian Flora of Britain: Early Angiosperms

246 History and Their Contemporaries”55 and Murray on “Therapeutic Re-Education.”56 It seems highly likely that Stopes, who had had an interest in psychology since her first term as an undergraduate at UCL,57 attended Murray’s paper. The following day, Murray wrote to Stopes: Dear Dr Stopes, We were very glad to find how interested you are in some of the problems & work that the Medico-Psychological Clinic is engaged on, all the more so as we were greatly disappointed when you refused to lecture for us! Although we hardly like,— after your second very definite refusal,—to open the subject again,—I am inclined to do so on my own initiative, encouraged thereto by your evident interest in the very problems we are attempting to meet.58 She goes on to give more details of the courses put on by the Orthopsychics Society, urging Stopes to contact those responsible for organizing the program. The following March Murray convened a select meeting of women doctors, at which Stopes read a paper. The meeting was hosted by Ethel Vaughan-Sawyer, Lecturer in Gynaecology at the London School of Medicine for Women, Senior Physician for Diseases of Women, and Obstetrics Physician at the Royal Free Hospital. A skilled and humane surgeon,59 she was also a feminist and a Fabian. Recently widowed, she was at the time in analysis with her Harley Street neighbor, Ernest Jones, with whom she fell in love and later delivered his first child.60 Others present61 besides Murray were Mary Scharlieb, Consultant Physician for Diseases of Women at the Royal Free Hospital and Consultant Surgeon at the South London Hospital for Women, one of the first women to qualify as a doctor in Britain and the first to be appointed to a post in a general hospital; Eleanor Davies-Colley, Assistant Surgeon at the South London Hospital for Women, Senior Assistant OutPatients at the New Hospital for Women, and Surgeon Registrar at the Royal Free Hospital; and possibly Maud Chadburn, Surgeon and Senior Obstetrician, the New Hospital for Women, and Agnes Savill, a dermatologist, both colleagues of Murray’s at the Medico-Psychological Clinic. The text of the paper presented by Stopes is preserved among her papers in the British Library. It was on cyclic variations in sexual desire in normal women, and put forward her hypothesis that there were two peaks, premenstrual and mid-cycle.62 It includes the charts which were later to appear in Married Love. On the cover sheet is penciled: “Written in 1916 this was never completed, but was used as the basis of a lecture to some women doctors arranged by Dr Jessie Murray. ‘Married Love’ grew out of this— MCS BL.”63 Stopes clearly wanted someone in authority to endorse her first and controversial book. She approached at least three people who declined to write a preface: P. Chalmers Mitchell, F.R.S., secretary of the Zoological Society; Russell Wakefield, Bishop of Birmingham, with whom she had had some flirtation; and W. R. Inge, Dean of St Paul’s, the most “advanced” of the church’s thinkers.64 Murray would have appealed to Stopes as she was medically qualified, although she did not at that time have a doctorate, whereas Stopes was not: Her doctorate was in

Jessie Margaret Murray 247 paleobotany. Murray tried to persuade Stopes to ask Ethilda Meakin Herford to do it, on the grounds that the latter was more appropriate for the task, being both married and a mother.65 Herford became an early convert to psychoanalysis and, like Murray, devoted herself “to the study and treatment of functional nervous disorders by psychotherapy and psychoanalysis” (Payne, 1957, p. 276). She attended the 1920 International Congress of Psychoanalysis in The Hague, where she annoyed Ernest Jones and met Karl Abraham. After a brief analysis with Jack Flugel, she continued under Abraham in Berlin, completing her training analysis with Sándor Ferenczi in Budapest. She initiated negotiations to try and bring Freud to England in 192166 and, after an initial rejection, was admitted to membership of the British Psychoanalytic Society in October 1921. Ernest Jones’s marked hostility towards her67 contrasts sharply with the favorable impression she made on virtually everyone else. Whereas Jones wrote that “Her behaviour in The Hague was certainly outrageous and alienated all who had to do with her in the hotel,”68 Murray described her as “fine, and unimpeachable morally.”69 Max Eitigon was pleasantly surprised by her qualities.70 Hanns Sachs and Karl Abraham also reported on her favorably.71 Sylvia Payne’s final judgment was that “Herford’s life was characterised by an outstanding interest in human nature, and a desire to use every means available to relieve human suffering” (Payne, 1957, p. 276), perhaps what attracted her to Murray. Whether Stopes asked Herford to write the Preface to Married Love is not known. In the event it was written by Murray in haste in December 1917, and the book published—after difficulties in finding a publisher—in 1918. May Sinclair, in her enthusiasm, even credits Murray with part authorship of the book. Writing to Stopes shortly after the book was published, she says: “Dear Dr Stopes,. . . I have ordered your & Dr. Murray’s book, (I did this at once a fortnight or three weeks [ago]) & I’m looking forward immensely to reading it.”72 The last extant letter from Murray to Stopes is rather poignant in retrospect. It reads: Dear Dr. Stopes, . . . I have only just got back to work to-day, having been to Durham to take my M.D. thesis (on the Functional Nervous Diseases from the point of view of Modern Clinical Psychology).73 I have been thinking often of you, and cannot help longing to know how things go. All my best wishes to all three [underlined in pencil] of you! Yours very sincerely, [signed] J.M. Murray74 It clearly refers to the child Stopes was at last expecting, which by the time this letter was written, had been stillborn.

248 History

Murray’s death and the demise of the Medico-Psychological Clinic Even more tragic was the fact that by this time Murray must have known she was terminally ill. Shortly after completing her M.D. degree, she had to retire from active work at the Clinic. She made her will on July 17, 1919, bequeathing the residue of her estate to Julia Turner, adding a codicil in September 1920, remedying the failure to appoint an executor and making Turner sole executrix. Murray died three weeks later, on September 25, aged 53, of ovarian cancer, not at her home in Endsleigh Street but at the Manor House, Twickenham, the Turners’ family home. Her death was certified by Rosa Turner. Murray’s ashes were interred in her mother’s grave in Highgate Cemetery. Murray was described in obituaries in the Lancet and the British Medical Journal as “a brilliant and many-sided personality,”75 whence the epithet in the title of this article. Her housemate for the last two years, Margaret Scoresby-Jackson, a medical student at the time, wrote an obituary in the London School of Medicine for Women Magazine, in which she says: A medical colleague76 writes: “Her work, in my eyes and in the eyes of many other workers, will stand out as a superb and far-reaching accomplishment. I refer to her quick perception of the new world of investigation and endeavour opened up by the infant Science of Psycho-Analysis . . . At a time when only a mere handful of people were practising it throughout the world . . . she actualized a scheme to bring it within reach of the student and the sufferer of small means. In doing so Dr. Murray has earned for herself a unique place in the history of mental Science, and mental Therapy. She was the first to do, and to do practically alone, what will be done all over the world within the next ten years.”77 Scoresby-Jackson continues: Those of us who had the privilege of knowing Dr. Murray and of working with her cannot speak too highly of her rare and beautiful character. She was one who lived for the Truth and for the Reality of things. She faced life with clear insight and unfaltering courage, undaunted by difficulties, and with a cheerful, happy sympathy and understanding which made her beloved alike by comrades and patients.78 According to Laura Price, a student at the Clinic at the time—in an oft-quoted remark—“Everyone at the clinic felt at that time that the heart of the clinic had stopped.”79

Jessie Margaret Murray 249 Who filled the gap? James Glover, a young doctor who had become interested in psychoanalysis and joined the Clinic, initially undergoing analysis with Turner, had been appointed co-director of the Clinic with her, and honorary secretary of the Society for the Study of Othopsychics early in 1918. Following the cessation of hostilities and days before Murray’s death, he took the opportunity to attend the 6th International Psychoanalytic Congress in The Hague, and to learn about psychoanalysis first hand. Here he met Karl Abraham, who persuaded him to go for further analysis with him in Berlin. When Glover returned in the spring of 1921, converted to orthodox Freudian psychoanalysis, there was a split between him and Turner. Glover wanted to make the Clinic purely psychoanalytic and for it to join with the recently founded80 British Psychoanalytical Society. Turner wished to remain loyal to her friend Murray’s vision and perhaps, as Raitt (2004) suggests, was also reluctant to give up her freedom, to join a male-dominated, restrictive society. The conflict between the two directors split the board of management of the Clinic and the council of the Society. Raitt (2004) has described the history of the Medico-Psychological Clinic as “one of the most significant repressed narratives in the history of psychoanalysis in Britain” (p. 82). It was not only repressed but rather suppressed by Freud’s disciple, Ernest Jones, who had his own agenda of building a psychoanalytic empire in Britain and took advantage of the crisis created by Murray’s death. Martindale (2004) has shown how Jones saw the Clinic as a threat—both were struggling for acceptance by orthodox medicine—and took every opportunity to devalue its work. He further denigrated it by always referring to the Brunswick Square Clinic rather than by using its official title, the Medico-Psychological Clinic, which might make it appear respectable to orthodox medicine. Jones had three major objections to the Clinic: The staff were lay rather than medically qualified and thus unlikely to win approval from orthodox medicine, the analyses carried out were unorthodox by Freudian standards, and Murray and Turner were too favorably inclined towards Jungian theory. It is clear from the Rundbriefe that Jones schemed to take over the Clinic and its assets. In November 1920, he wrote: . . . not one person there has been analysed by a real analyst. Our members rightly refuse to have anything to do with the place, for it is conducted throughout on quite unprofessional lines, turns out scores of so-called lay psycho-analysts every year who practice analysis on their own accord . . ., and so discredits psycho-analysis very seriously, especially in the eyes of the medical profession, many of whom identify psa [psychoanalysis] and lay quackery. We have the secret hope that some day the clinic will collapse and that we may be able to convert it into a proper place, like the Berlin Polyclinic.81 In February 1921 he elaborated: “Miss Turner is certainly the evil genius of the place and there is no hope till she goes, which perhaps will not be long.”82 Sachs and Abraham provide the reason for Jones’s antagonism toward Turner and Herford: “the director of the ‘Clinic’, Miss Turner, seems to exert a harmful

250 History influence with Ethilda and others, by larding psychoanalysis in the manner of Jung.”83 By May, Jones was able to report that “There seems a good hope of [the Clinic’s] falling into our hands if we proceed cautiously. . . [Glover] has not returned there since he came back from Berlin, but I advised him to do so, and thus keep his influence there till it is needed for the coup”;84 and in June that “Miss Turner, our only obstacle at the Brunswick Sq. Clinic, has offered to resign if a suitable substitute can be found . . . This brings our hopes perceptibly nearer, for Glover . . . should now have things in his own hands.”85 The following month he proclaimed triumphantly: “The B. Sq. Clinic is, as you know, closed, and Miss Turner is opening one on her own lines.”86 Showalter (1985, p. 199) has drawn attention to another factor that may have contributed to the demise of the Clinic: a cultural sea change at the time of World War I, when feminism and lesbianism were attacked in both the professional and the lay press. She points out that Karl Abraham (Glover’s analyst) saw feminism as a neurotic reaction, a “masculinity complex,” the sublimation of the desire to be male by aping men and masculine pursuits. The paper he gave at the 1920 Congress was entitled “Manifestations of the Female Castration Complex,” a view of which Freud approved and later elaborated in the Elektra complex. Although hugely popular, the Clinic had run into increasingly serious debt and went into voluntary liquidation in 1923. Turner was saved from financial disaster by her family’s firm of solicitors. As Showalter comments: “Within a few years, the work of Murray and Turner had passed into oblivion” (p. 198). Murray’s grave is symbolic. There is now no gravestone, only a broken cross bearing the words “In Loving Memory,” which may or may not belong to the grave.87 Although the cemetery has no record of the fact, it probably also contains the ashes of Julia Turner, the last clause of whose will reads: “It is my desire that my body be cremated and my ashes scattered upon the Grave of my said dear Friend Jessie Margaret Murray in Highgate Cemetery.” Turner withdrew from the Clinic and founded the Psychological Aid Society in September 1921. She lived at Endsleigh Street from 1922 onward, seeing patients and training therapists—among them Teresa Gosse, daughter of the writer Sir Edmund Gosse. She wrote three books. The Psychology of Self-Consciousness and The Dream and the Anxiety Hypothesis were both published in 1923. The latter bore the dedication: “To Jessie Margaret Murray, MD, BS (Durham) from whose inspired teaching and example is derived anything of value therein, this little book is dedicated.” Human Psychology as Seen through the Dream appeared the following year. In these books Turner expounds her philosophy and psychology, in which the role of anxiety in psychic life and dreams as a psychotherapeutic tool are central. She takes elements from both Freud and Jung but also distinguishes her ideas from both of these. Other central themes are the life force and the value of sublimation, both of which also recur in the writings of May Sinclair, Turner’s exact contemporary (they were born and died in the same year as each other). A comparison of these two authors might prove fruitful. In 1935, she moved to an apartment not far from Endsleigh Street, in Upper Woburn Place, and died in Muswell Hill, north London, in 1946.

Jessie Margaret Murray 251

Concluding comments Although the Clinic disappeared from view, as Boll (1962) recounts, it bequeathed the larger share of its endowment in experience and training to the Tavistock Clinic and the British Psychoanalytic Society. The “Tavistock Square Clinic for Functional Nervous Disorders,” which opened in 1920 at 51 Tavistock Square, in Bloomsbury, shared not only a location but also a vision with its predecessor. Hugh Crichton-Miller, its inspiration and founder, was among those doctors who had worked with “shell-shocked” soldiers in World War I. He set out to provide psychotherapy for outpatients suffering from psychoneurotic and personality disorders who were not catered to by other public services and who were unable to afford private fees. Like Murray, his approach to treatment was eclectic and holistic, favoring a range of therapeutic methods but predominantly those that were psychodynamic in orientation. His supporters and staff included E. Farquhar Buzzard, T. W. Mitchell, William McDougall, W. E. M. Armstrong, and Agnes Savill, who had been associated with the Medico-Psychological Clinic (Boll, 1962, p. 323).88 Like its predecessor, the Clinic also offered instruction in mental hygiene to both medical and nonmedical personnel concerned with mental health and human relations. It too was enormously successful but lastingly so, after a number of vicissitudes ultimately becoming absorbed into the National Health Service.89 In time it came to be associated with the work of Melanie Klein. The British Psychoanalytic Society Clinic opened in 1924. The British Psychoanalytic Society, founded by Ernest Jones in February 1919, included among its members W. H. B. Stoddart, Percy Nunn, T. W. Mitchell, James Glover, E. B. Meakin Herford, Sylvia Payne, J. C. Flugel, Ella Sharpe, Mary Chadwick, Nina Searl, Susan Isaacs, Iseult Grant-Duff, and Marjorie Brierley, all of whom had been staff at the Medico-Psychological Clinic and/or students of the Society for the Study of Orthopsychics. How does a knowledge of Murray’s and Turner’s personalities and social networks increase understanding of the subsequent development of psychoanalysis in Britain? Murray is revealed as a courageous, forceful, energetic, outgoing personality, dynamic in both senses of the word. Laura Price saw her as “the leading spirit in the foundation and work of the [Medico-Psychological] Clinic.”90 In contrast, her “animus,” Turner, appears as a much more introverted character, who withdrew from the Clinic rather than confront James Glover, and maintained her loyalty to Murray until her own death a quarter of a century later. Whereas Murray, with a medical background, spent her time networking and engaged in action, Turner, with her literary background, devoted her time to thinking, reading, and writing. She lacked Murray’s leadership qualities and was unable to take her mission forward. Murray’s approach was liberal, open-minded, and eclectic. She offered the new psychological therapies alongside the more traditional, orthodox approaches to treatment, employed a variety of different psychotherapeutic methods, and combined elements from Jung as well as Freud. She was motivated by egalitarian and philanthropic views: Her goal was to make therapy available to those unable

252 History to afford private treatment, and she welcomed both lay and medically qualified trainee therapists. With her death, this vision was lost. For the most part, the British psychoanalytic scene became dominated by strict adherence to a rigid, orthodox, masculine-oriented, Continental model, with resulting sectarianism and the “pure elixir” available only to those with financial means.

Acknowledgements I am grateful to Dr. Lesley Hall and Dr. Rhodri Hayward for making research notes available to me, and to them and three anonymous referees for comments on an earlier version of this paper; to the following for help in locating and/or interpreting source material: Wendy Butler, Beverley Cook, Dr. William Frame, Dr. Jennian Geddes, Prof. Neil McIntyre, Dr. Philippa Martindale, Victoria Rea, Andrew Roberts, and Michael Stansfield; and to Toni Brennan for help with translation.

Notes 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26

Raitt (2004), Martindale (2004); see also Raitt (2000). Baptismal certificate. British Library: Asia, Pacific and Africa Collections: N/1/119/33. 1881 Scotland Census. 1891 England Census. In her testimonial for Murray on her student form for the London School of Medicine for Women, dated February 2, 1900, Turner says she has known Murray for 14 months. Craddock’s Godalming Almanac and Directory, 1900. The information about Rosa Turner is taken from the Medical Directory. See also Rapp (1990), p. 222, note 16. London School of Medicine for Women application form. 1901 England Census. The College was part of the University of Durham at that time. Five years’ study and one year’s residence were conditions for obtaining a degree. Boll (1962), p. 311, note 5. She was registered as an internal student of the College 1908–1909, 1912–1915, and 1918–1920. Register of electors, St. Pancras south, 1905–1906. British Medical Journal, November 6, 1920, p. 723. Medical Directory, 1910, 1911, 1912. Medical Directory, 1912, 1913, 1914. The Polyclinic was later renamed the Sea Water Dispensary when it moved to 225 Euston Road in 1917. Register of electors, St. Pancras south, 1921 through 1923. To the disadvantage of future historians. Report of the Women’s Freedom League for the year 1911. Constance Long (1867–1923) became a leading disciple and advocate of C. G. Jung in Britain. Women’s Tax Resistance League Minute Book 1909–1913. Minutes for the meeting of April 29, 1910. The Women’s Library: 2WTR/1/2. Ibid. Minutes for the meeting of May 28, 1910. Daily Chronicle, April 26, 1911. Scrapbook of press cuttings relating to tax resistance, 1910–1912. The Women’s Library: 10/21. Scrapbook of press cuttings relating to tax resistance, 1910–1912, p. 203. The Women’s Library 10/21. Source of cutting not given. Fourth Annual Report of Women’s Tax Resistance League, 1914.

Jessie Margaret Murray 253 27 Hector Munro (1870–1916) was a member of the Psycho-Medical Society (see note 43). His main interests were hypnosis and medical psychology (Wittenberger & Tögel, 1999, p. 141). 28 British Medical Journal, July 19, 1913, p. 132. 29 Ibid. 30 “Medico-Psychological Clinic, Special Appeal in Time of War,” October 8, 1917, p. 5. Annenberg Rare Book and Manuscript Library, University of Pennsylvania: May Sinclair Papers, MS Coll. 184, box 49, f. 548. 31 “Psycho-Therapy,” letter from Spearman to the editor, dated December 9, The Times, December 12, 1913, p. 5, col. B; “London Medico-Psychological Clinic,” letter from Spearman, dated December 9, British Journal of Medicine, December 13, 1913, p. 1564; “The Medico-Psychological Clinic,” letter from Spearman to the editor, dated December 10, Lancet, December 20, 1913, p. 1803. 32 Journal of the Society for Psychical Research, 1913–1914, 16, p. 313. 33 British Medical Journal, July 19, 1913, p. 132. 34 Long later dissociated herself from the committee (British Medical Journal, November 29, 1913, p. 1462). 35 The Observer, July 13, 1913, p. 7, col. 4. 36 Medical Directory, 1918, p. 436. 37 This turned out to be an extremely unfortunate choice, as Ernest Jones later recounted: The chairman “scandalized the meeting by talking at length about supernatural powers that rare people, including himself, possessed. This was reported in the papers, and most of the medical men, in a panic at being identified with such quackery, withdrew their promised support.” Letter from Ernest Jones, November 2, 1920 (Wittenberger & Tögel, 1999, p. 141.) 38 British Medical Journal, November 15, 1913, p. 1312. 39 Ibid. 40 Boll (1962), p. 316. 41 Patients could not commit themselves voluntarily to an asylum at that time. 42 Also Showalter (1985); Raitt (2000), pp. 135–39; Raitt (2004); Martindale (2004). 43 The Psycho-Medical Society was formerly the Medical Society for the Study of Suggestive Therapeutics. 44 The Medico-Psychological Association was the forerunner of the Royal College of Psychiatrists. 45 For detailed treatment, see the excellent article by Hall (1995). 46 Jones even suggested at one point that the Society should merge with the British Psychological Society! 47 Minutes of the BSSSP 18th and First Quarterly Meeting, January 21, 1915. Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center, University of Texas at Austin. I am indebted to Dr. Lesley A. Hall for this information. 48 Lloyd to Carpenter, March 3, 1915, Sheffield City Archives, MSS 368/10. I am indebted to Dr. Lesley A. Hall for this information. 49 Journal of the Society for Psychical Research, 1913–1914, 16, p. 257. 50 Ibid, pp. 311–316. 51 Journal of the Society for Psychical Research, 1915–1916, 17, p. 25. 52 Report of the British Association for the Advancement of Science, 1916, p. 476. 53 Report of the British Association for the Advancement of Science, 1916, p. lvii. 54 Hall (1977), p. 25. 55 Report of the British Association for the Advancement of Science, 1915, p. 720–721. 56 Ibid., p. 700. 57 Maude (1933), pp. 240–241. 58 Murray to Stopes, September 12, 1915. British Library. Stopes Papers. Add 58683, ff. 96–97. 59 Lancet, March 19, 1949, p. 505.

254 History 60 Maddox (2006), pp. 127, 135, 163. 61 Murray to Stopes, March 16, 1916. British Library. Stopes Papers. Add. 58568 f. 7. 62 It appears from an examination of the current literature that this is still a topic of debate; see, for example, Tarin and Gómez-Piquer (2002). 63 British Library. Stopes Papers. Add 58506, ff. 18–37. 64 Hall (1977), p. 126. 65 Murray to Stopes, December 7, 1917. Wellcome Library: PP/MCS/A.283. 66 Letter from Ernest Jones, February 11, 1921 (Wittenberger & Tögel, 2001, pp. 66–67). 67 Letters from Ernest Jones, November 2, 1920; January 21, 1921; March 1, 1921; May 21, 1921 (Wittenberger & Tögel, 1999, p. 140; 2001, pp. 42, 96, 170, respectively). 68 Letter from Ernest Jones, November 2, 1920 (Wittenberger & Tögel, 1999, p. 140). A footnote indicates that it could not be established what this remark refers to. 69 Letter from Jessie Murray to Marie Stopes, December 7, 1917. Wellcome Library: PP/MCS/A.283. 70 Letter from Max Eitigon, October 27, 1920 (Wittenberger & Tögel, 1999, p. 123). 71 Letter from Eitigon and Sachs, January 31, 1921 (Wittenberger & Tögel, 2001, p. 41). 72 Sinclair to Stopes, March 21, 1918. British Library. Stopes Papers. Add. 58684, ff. 108–109. 73 This is not quite in accord with the information from Durham University that she was awarded the degree on July 1, having passed the examination and presented her thesis in April. 74 Letter from Murray to Stopes, August 8, 1919. British Library. Stopes Papers. Add. 58568, f. 73. 75 Lancet, October 30, 1920, p. 922; British Medical Journal, November 6, 1920, p. 723. 76 Perhaps Ethilda Meakin Herford, if the high regard in which Murray held her was reciprocated. 77 In Memoriam. Jessie Margaret Murray, M.D., B.S. (Durh.). London School of Medicine for Women Magazine, 15, no. 77, November 1920; quote from p. 203. 78 Ibid., p. 204. 79 Letter from Laura Price to Theophilus Boll, December 18, 1961. May Sinclair Papers, Rare Book and Manuscript Library, University of Pennsylvania. Cited by Raitt (2004), p. 81. 80 February 20, 1919. 81 Letter from Ernest Jones to friends, November 2, 1920 (Wittenberger & Tögel, 1999, p. 142). See also letters of November 21, 1920, and January 21, 1921. 82 Letter from Ernest Jones, February 11, 1921 (Wittenberger & Tögel, 2001, p. 66). 83 Letter from Hanns Sachs and Karl Abraham to Lieber Freunde, January 31, 1921. The original German passage is: “die Leiterin der ‘Clinic’, Miss Turner, Schädlich zu wirken, d.h. die PsA nach Jung’s Art mit Ethil usw. zu befetten” (Wittenberger & Tögel, 2001, p. 46). 84 Letter from Ernest Jones, May 21, 1921 (Wittenberger & Tögel, 2001, p. 159). 85 Letter from Ernest Jones, June 1, 1921 (Wittenberger & Tögel, 2001, p. 182). 86 Letter from Ernest Jones, October 11, 1921 (Wittenberger & Tögel, 2001, p. 249). 87 Visitors should continue on past the grave of Karl Marx. The first large horse chestnut tree on the right belongs to the burial plot of the Murray family. 88 Boll also includes C. S. Myers in this list, as have others following him. Myers is listed in the original prospectus and the “Special Appeal in Time of War,” but in a letter to the Lancet, February 13, 1918, p. 312, he denied any connection with the MedicoPsychological Clinic. I am grateful to an anonymous referee for drawing this to my attention. 89 For a detailed history of the Tavistock Clinic, see Dicks (1976). 90 Letter from Laura Price to Theophilus Boll, October 20, 1959. Annenberg Rare Book and Manuscript Library, University of Pennsylvania: May Sinclair Papers, MS Coll. 184, box 48, f. 530. Cited in Martindale (2004), p. 178.

Jessie Margaret Murray 255

References Boll, T. E. M. (1962). May Sinclair and the Medico-Psychological Clinic of London. Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society, 106, 4, 310–326. Dicks, H. V. (1970). Fifty years of the Tavistock Clinic. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Geddes, J. F. (2007). Deeds and words in the suffrage military hospital in Endell Street. Medical History, 51, 79–98. Hall, L. A. (1995). “Disinterested enthusiasm for sexual misconduct”: The British Society for the Study of Sex Psychology, 1913–47. Journal of Contemporary History, 30, 665–686. Hall, R. (1977). Marie Stopes: A biography. London: Deutsch. Harrison, B. (1981). Women’s health and the Women’s Movement: 1840–1940. In C. Webster (Ed.), Biology, medicine and society: 1840–1940 (pp. 51–72). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hinshelwood, R. D. (1995). Psychoanalysis in Britain: Points of cultural access, 1893–1918. International Journal of Psychoanalysis, 76, 135–151. Maddox, B. (2006). Freud’s wizard: Ernest Jones, and the transformation of psychoanalysis. Cambridge, MA: Da Capo Press. Marcus, S. (2007). Between women: Friendship, desire, and marriage in Victorian England. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Martindale, P. (2004). “Against all hushing up and stamping down”: The MedicoPsychological Clinic of London and the novelist May Sinclair. Psychoanalysis and History, 6, 177–200. Maude, A. (1933). Marie Stopes: Her work and play. London: Peter Davies. Murray, J., & Brailsford, H. N. (1911). The treatment of women’s deputations by the Metropolitan Police. London: The Women’s Press. Payne, S. M. (1957). Obituary. Dr. Ethilda Budgett-Meakin Herford. International Journal of Psychoanalysis, 38, 276. Quinton, R. (1904). L’eau de mer milieu organique. Paris: Masson. Raitt, S. (2000). May Sinclair: A modern Victorian. Oxford: Clarendon. Raitt, S. (2004). Early British psychoanalysis and the Medico-Psychological Clinic. History Workshop Journal, 58, 63–85. Rapp, D. (1990). The early discovery of Freud by the British general educated public, 1912–1912. Social History of Medicine, 3, 217–243. Savill, A. F., Mansell Moulin, C. W., & Horsley, V. (1912). Preliminary report on the forcible feeding of suffrage prisoners. Lancet, 2, 549–551. Showalter, E. (1985). The female malady: Women, madness and English culture, 1830–1980. New York: Pantheon. Tarin, J. J., & Gómez-Piquer, V. (2002). Do women have a hidden heat period? Human Reproduction, 17, 2243–2248. Vicinus, M. (2004). Intimate friends: Women who loved women, 1778–1928. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Wittenberger, G., & Tögel, C. (Eds.). (1999). Die Rundbriefe des “Geheimen Komittees,” Band I: 1913–1920. Tübingen: Diskord. Wittenberger, G., & Tögel, C. (Eds.). (2001). Die Rundbriefe des “Geheimen Komittees,” Band II: 1921. Tübingen: Diskord.

Index

action: conscious control of see consciousness: causal efficacy anomalous monism 79 artificial intelligence 117–8 association 113–14; see also Stout, G. F., criticism of association associative memory 115, 118–19; see also neural nets Aveling, F. A. P. 206, 209, 216n40 Bain, A. 150–1 Bedford College London: psychology at 149; 1849–97 149–52; 1898–1933 152–8; 1945–68 159–60; 1968–85 161; psychological laboratory 153, 156, 166–9 behaviourism 78 ‘Black Friday’ 240 boundary work 197–8 Brailsford, H. N. 240 British Association for the Advancement of Science 245–6 British Child Study Association 142, 143n10 British College of Psychic Science 202 British Psychoanalytic Society 251 British Psychological Society 153, 174–5, 177, 220–2, 244–5 British Society for the Study of Sex Psychology 244 Brown, W. 204–5, 207, 212, 215n28 Burt, C. 192, 206, 208, 210–14, 215n33 Carey, N. 233–5 cause 95, 97; see also explanation: causal child study: history 139–43; baby diaries 140 Childhood Society 142

commissurotomy 60–1, 68–9 Conceptual issues in psychology: contents 4–5; changes to second edition 4–5 connectionism 114, 118, 120 consciousness: causal efficacy 17, 52, 61–2, 72; conceptual problems 47, 56–7; dissociation 56–63; neuropsychological theories 86–8; phenomenal features 86; physical theories 88–90; relation to non-conscious processes 62–3; scientific study 47, 49–53 Crichton-Miller, H. 251 Darwin, C. 140–1 Dennett, D. C. 71 determinism 15–16; and predictability 16 Dixon, E. T. 191 dualism see mind-body problem Duncan, H. 203–5 Edgell, B. 7–8, 152–8, 163–4, 176; biography 164–5; doctoral thesis 165–6; factors contributing to success 173–6; family 164, 173; education 164–5; personal qualities 174–5; research 169–71; strategies 175–6; teaching 152, 154, 171–3 eliminative materialism 78 emergence 17 empiricism 19 Endell Street military hospital 241 epiphenomenalism 52–3, 77 epistemology 13, 75, 83, 132 evolutionary theory 140–1 experience see consciousness experimental method in psychology 20 explanation: types 93, 101; causal 96–8; correlational 95–6; description and

Index 257 classification 94–5; functional 98–9; mentalistic 100; neurophysiological 99; purposive 16–17, 100 Fildes, L. 172 Flugel, J. C. 206–8, 210, 215n30 folk psychology: contrasted with scientific psychology 24; description 22–4; functions 23; relation to scientific psychology 24 Foss, B. M. 161 Frentzen-Hoesch, L. 189–9 functionalism 80 Galton, F. 143n6, 188, 192; role in University College London psychological laboratory 183–9 Gestalt psychology 127–8 Glover, J. 249–50 Hall, G. S. 142 Harding, D. W. 159–60, 176 Hazlitt, V. 154–5, 157–8, 172 Herford, E. M. 247 hermeneutics 100–1 history of psychology: nature 3–4; relation to philosophy of psychology 3 holographic memory 116 idealism 77 implicit memory and thought 59–60 implicit perception 57–9 Institut Métapsychique International 205 intentional stance see stance: theoretical intentionality 76 International Institute for Psychical Research 202 introspection: analysis 32–3; content of experience 33–7; determinants of behaviour 38–9; evaluation 42–3; limitations 29–32; nature and status 28–9; process of behaviour 37–8; relation to physiological measures 34–7; validation 40–2 Jones, E. 247, 249–50 levels of description 17, 99; see also reduction; see also stance: theoretical Long, C. 242–3 Loweman, Mr 208 McDougall, W. 191, 204–7, 210–11, 213, 215n26

Mace, C. A. 158–9, 206, 208–9, 216n37 materialism 78 measurement, psychological 20 mechanistic model: relation to purpose 16–17 Medico-Psychological Clinic 237, 241–3, 249–51 memory development: Edgell’s experiments 169–70 Meredith, G. 139 metaphysics 74 mind-body problem 75, 82–6, 90; attitudes to the explanatory gap 83–4; different forms 83–5, 90; dualist positions 76–7; mental distinguished from physical 75–6; monist positions 77–8; ontological monist but conceptual dualist positions 78–80 mind-brain identity theory 79 Morellet, C. 234–5 Mınsterberg, H. 142–3, 188–9 Murray, J. M. 9, 237, 251–2; biography 237–9; death 248, 250; networks 243–5; suffragism 240–2; see also Medico-Psychological Clinic; see also Stopes, M. National Laboratory of Psychical Research 202–5 natural vs social sciences 2–3 neural nets: history 113–20 observation: as a psychological method 19–20 ontology 74, 83 parallel distributed processing 72, 116–20 parapsychology see psychical research perceptrons 115–19 philosophy of psychology: relation to history of psychology see history of psychology philosophy: relation to psychology 13–14 physicalism see materialism pioneer women psychologists 220–1; careers 224–6; demographics 222–3; education 223–4; publications 226–8; suffragism 228; teacher training 225, 229; territorial segregation 229 Price, H. 202–10, 213–4 privacy: of mental states 28–9, 48–9, 53, 90 psychical research: experimental procedures 203; inter-war period

258 Index 200–2; reasons for academic psychologists’ involvement 209–14; relation to mainstream psychology 8, 198–9, 212–13; relation to psychoanalysis 200; University of London 205–6 psychological laboratories 179, 185, 190; reasons for Britain’s backwardness 180; see also University College London psychological laboratory psychology: in Britain in early 20th century 196–7, 221; relation of professional to popular 213–14; as science 15–20 Raphael, W. 172 rationalisation 31, 75, 101 Read, C. 192 reduction 17, 104, 108–9; arguments against 107–8; arguments in favour 106–7; conditions for 104–6 reflexivity of psychology 18 Rivers, W. H. R. 151–2, 190–1 Schneider, R. 203–4 scientific laws: generality 18; systematicity 18; testability 19 Scoresby-Jackson, M. 248 seawater treatment 239 self 63, 66–72; Buddhist view 69–70; ecological 66–7; multiple selves 68–9; no-self 69, 71–2; universalism 70–1 Sinclair, M. 242, 247, 250 Soal, S. 208 Society for Psychical Research 199–201, 244 Society for the Study of Orthopsychics 243 Spearman, C. 191–2, 242 split-brain patients see commissurotomy

stance: theoretical 75 Stopes, M. 245–7 Stout, G. F. 123, 134–5; biography 123–4; criticism of associationism 125–9; influence and assessment 124; noetic synthesis 130; published works 124–5; realism 132–3; relation between sensation and conception 130–2; representation 133–4 Studies of childhood 137–9 Sully, J. 182, 187–8; biography 137–8; child study 140–3; see also University College London psychological laboratory supervenience 79 Symes, W. L. 169, 175 Tavistock Clinic 251 teleological explanation see purposive explanation Turner, J. 238–9, 243, 248–50 type vs token identity 79 University College London psychological laboratory: equipment 190; experiments 191; foundation 8, 183–92; motivation for foundation 179–83 University of London Council for Psychical Investigation 206 Verstehen 18, 75, 100 Wheatstone-Hipp chronoscope 169 Wheeler, O. 172 Wohlgemuth, A. 191–2, 234–5 Women’s Freedom League 240 Women’s Tax Resistance League 240–1 Wırzburg: University 165–6