up by the steamer's prow.
And I remember that I seemed to dwell upon these things with an instant
relish, like that with which my lungs devoured the fresh and plentiful
air. But when I looked towards the moon along the path of light, there
was something that stirred me more deeply. The prospect of an endless
journey opened {183} out before me, like an invitation to live, or a
fulness of opportunity. And I seemed to leap in response, rejoicing in
my power. But I did not act; it was as though I already achieved and
possessed. Presently I turned from the path of light to the blackness
that beset it on every side. In this blackness there seemed to lurk
every kind of unknown danger; I was moved with a sense of helplessness,
and shrank from the thought of being deserted there. And yet though I
was afraid, the fear never seemed to _possess_ me, but always to be
possessed _by_ me, as mine to prolong and exult in as I would.

Now I think that the interpretation of my dream is this. Deeply
implanted in the organism are certain co-ordinated responses such as
courage and fear, or such as love, hate, combativeness, pity, and
emulation. They may owe their present form to habit, but they are all
rooted in instinct, and so call the body into play as a unit.[4]
Primarily they are plans of action, through which the organism promptly
deals with practical emergencies. But it is possible for man to detach
himself from overt motor relations with his environment; and in this
case these responses return as it were into the body and reverberate
there, taking on a purely emotional form which may be valued for
itself. Thus courage and fear may lead to no act of bravery or
caution, but {184} remain simply _experiences_ of courage and fear,
promoted and treasured by the imagination. Nature will probably remain
the object which evokes these responses most keenly, because nature is
the hereditary environment towards which they were originally directed.
But human action is scarcely less moving. Hence dramatic art, or the
representation of social and moral confrontations, will both arouse and
prolong the old passions, thus evoking a deeper and more massive
response than the play of the senses.

I fully recognize that the value of dramatic art is by no means limited
to its emotional appeal. I contend only that it does make such an
appeal, and that it owes to that appeal, to its evoking of sympathy,
love, or hate, to its stirring of incipi