existence on something so volatile and irresponsible as thought is. A
sensation needs to be violent, like the sun's blinding light, to arrest
attention, and keep it taut, as it were, long enough for the system to
acquire a respectful attitude, and grow predisposed to resume it. A
repetition of that sensation will thereafter meet with a prepared
response which we call recognition; the concomitants of the old
experience will form themselves afresh about the new one and by their
convergence give it a sort of welcome and interpretation. The movement,
for instance, by which the face was raised toward the heavens was
perhaps one element which added to the first sensation, brightness, a
concomitant sensation, height; the brightness was not bright merely,
but high. Now when the brightness reappears the face will more quickly
be lifted up; the place where the brightness shone will be looked for;
the brightness will have acquired a claim to be placed somewhere. The
heat which at the same moment may have burned the forehead will also be
expected and, when felt, projected into the brightness, which will now
be hot as well as high. So with whatever other sensations time may
associate with this group. They will all adhere to the original
impression, enriching it with an individuality which will render it
before long a familiar complex in experience, and one easy to recognise
and to complete in idea.

[Sidenote: His primitive divinity.]

In the case of so vivid a thing as the sun's brightness many other
sensations beside those out of which science draws the qualities
attributed to that heavenly body adhere in the primitive mind to the
phenomenon. Before he is a substance the sun is a god. He is beneficent
and necessary no less than bright and high; he rises upon all happy
opportunities and sets upon all terrors. He is divine, since all life