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Perceptual Imagination and Perceptual Memory
Perceptual Imagination
and Perceptual Memory

edited by
Fiona Macpherson
and Fabian Dorsch

1
3
Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, OX2 6DP,
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First Edition published in 2018
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In memory of Fabian Dorsch (1974–2017)

An honest man here lies at rest,

The friend of man, the friend of truth,
The friend of age, and guide of youth:
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm’d,
Few heads with knowledge so inform’d;
If there’s another world, he lives in bliss;
If there is none, he made the best of this.
—Epitaph On A Friend
Robert Burns
Contents

Preface and Acknowledgements ix

Notes on Contributors xi

1. Perceptual Imagination and Perceptual Memory: An Overview 1

Fiona Macpherson

Part I. The Nature of Perceptual Imagination and Perceptual

Memory
2. Aristotle on Distinguishing Phantasia and Memory 9
R. A. H. King
3. Sensory Memories and Recollective Images 28
Dominic Gregory
4. Imagining the Past: On the Nature of Episodic Memory 46
Robert Hopkins
5. Memory, Imagination, and Narrative 72
Dorothea Debus
6. Imaginative Content 96
Paul Noordhof

Part II. The Epistemic Role of Imagination and Memory

7. Infusing Perception with Imagination 133
Derek H. Brown
8. Superimposed Mental Imagery: On the Uses of Make-Perceive 161
Robert Eamon Briscoe
9. Visually Attending to Fictional Things 186
Gregory Currie
10. Justification by Imagination 209
Magdalena Balcerak Jackson
11. How Imagination Gives Rise to Knowledge 227
Amy Kind

Index 247
Preface and Acknowledgements

The chapters forming this volume were first presented as talks at a conference on
‘Perceptual Imagery and Perceptual Memory’ held at the Centre for the Study of
Perceptual Experience at the University of Glasgow. Further details of the Centre can
be found at <www.gla.ac.uk/cspe>. Fabian Dorsch and I were very grateful to the Scots
Philosophical Association, the Mind Association, the University of Fribourg, and the
College of Arts at the University of Glasgow for providing the funding to run the
conference.
I would like to thank enormously all of the contributors for their essays, and for their
quite considerable patience while we produced this volume containing them. I would
also like to thank Peter Langland-Hassan and an anonymous referee for their invalu-
able comments on the specific chapters, and the volume as a whole. Finally, I thank
Peter Momtchiloff and his staff at Oxford University Press for their help and advice in
preparing the volume.
The writing of this preface coincided with my receiving the shocking news of
Fabian’s unexpected and untimely death at the age of 42. Fabian wrote much important
work about perception, imagination, and aesthetics throughout his career. He gradu-
ated with a PhD from University College London in 2005, and thereafter spent time at
several institutions around the world, including Berkeley, Paris, and Warwick. I met
him at various conferences and remember great nights talking to him over many a
beer—not only about philosophy but about all concerns in life. We became great
friends.
Fabian took up a position in Fribourg, Switzerland, and not long after, we organized
a conference there on ‘Phenomenal Presence’ in 2010. He spent the Spring semester of
2011 as a visiting faculty member at the University of Glasgow where he partook in all
the various academic and social aspects of life at Glasgow with gusto. During that time,
we organized and held the conference on perceptual imagination and perceptual
memory on which this volume is based.
Fabian founded the European Society for Aesthetics in 2008. The organization has
now named the newly launched European Society for Aesthetics Essay Prize after him.
He served for over four years as an associate editor of the journal Dialectica and
then became Editor-in-Chief of the journal Estetika: The Central European Journal
of Aesthetics. In 2009 he became the Research Coordinator of the Fribourg-based
research group Experience & Reason (EXRE). Among other things, he recently pub-
lished a monograph The Unity of Imagining (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2012), and at the time
of his death was preparing to publish a monograph on imagination with Routledge. In
addition to this volume, we were also jointly editing a volume on Phenomenal Presence
(Oxford University Press, forthcoming).
x Preface and Acknowledgements

Fabian leaves behind a wife, Evgenia, and a young son Maxim. Fabian’s love for his son
and the great pleasure that he took in watching him grow and develop was a joy to see.
Throughout his life, Fabian greatly promoted the study of perception, imagination,
and memory not only by his numerous activities outlined above but also by his personal
influence on people. So many philosophers report having wonderful conversations
with Fabian and the influence that he had on their work. He will be remembered by
his colleagues with great fondness, not least for his good company, sense of fun, and his
enthusiasm for, and great contribution to, philosophy. He will be sorely missed.
FM
Glasgow, February 2017
Notes on Contributors

Robert Eamon Briscoe is Professor in the Department of Philosophy at

Ohio University and a contributing editor at Brains, a group blog on topics in the
philosophy of mind and cognitive science. His research takes an empirically oriented,
interdisciplinary approach toward a range of issues in the philosophy of cognitive
science and neuroscience, philosophy of perception, and philosophy of mind.
Derek H. Brown is Associate Professor in Philosophy at Brandon University. He
will take up a lectureship in Philosophy based in the Centre for the Study of Perceptual
Experience at the University of Glasgow in April 2017. His primary research interests
are in philosophy of perception, especially colour vision, theory of knowledge,
philosophy of mind, and philosophy of language.
Gregory Currie is Professor of Philosophy at the University of York and the
Executive Editor of the journal Mind & Language. He works mostly on the arts and
cognition. Presently, he is thinking about literature and the mind, the way the mind
is represented in literature, and how well or badly these representations comport with
the picture given us by experimental psychology. He also writes about film, empathy
and the emotions, irony, and about cognitive archaeology.
Dorothea Debus teaches Philosophy at the University of York. Her research inter-
ests lie in the philosophy of mind and psychology, and ethics, epistemology, and
metaphysics. At present, she is mainly thinking and writing about memory and the
emotions, and exploring how subjects take an active part in their own mental lives.
Fabian Dorsch was Research Professor in Philosophy at the University of Fribourg,
Switzerland, and the Director of the EXRE Centre of Research for Mind and
Normativity where he ran two research projects: The Normative Mind and The
Aesthetic Mind. The main foci of his research were interrelated issues in aesthetics, the
philosophy of mind, epistemology, and the philosophy of normativity, notably
meta-ethics. Among other things, he recently published a monograph on the various
forms of imagining and their unity. Together with Fiona Macpherson he has edited
another volume forthcoming shortly from Oxford University Press on Phenomenal
Presence. In addition, he served for over four years as an associate editor of the journal
Dialectica and was Editor-in-Chief of the journal Estetika: The Central European
Journal of Aesthetics.
Dominic Gregory is a philosopher at the University of Sheffield. Some of his pub-
lished research has concentrated on philosophical and logical issues concerning
xii Notes on Contributors

necessity and possibility. More recently, however, he has worked on the philosophical
problems that are raised by the contents of a wide range of distinctively sensory forms
of representation, including pictures and sensory mental images. He is currently
working both on that material and also on modal epistemology.
Robert Hopkins is Professor of Philosophy at New York University. His research is
mostly in the philosophy of mind and aesthetics. He has worked on pictorial repre-
sentation and picture perception, and on other topics central to the philosophy of the
visual arts, including the aesthetics of sculpture, photography, painting, and film. He
has also conducted research on other mental states that relate in interesting ways to
our perception of pictures: perception itself, experiential imagining, and episodic
memory. He has also written on the epistemology and metaphysical status of aes-
thetic and moral judgement.
Magdalena Balcerak Jackson is Assistant Professor at the Philosophy
Department at the University of Miami. She works mainly in philosophy of mind and
epistemology but is also interested in the philosophy of language, certain areas of
philosophy of science, and phenomenology. Before coming to Miami, she was
Co-Director of the Emmy Noether Research Group ‘Understanding and the A Priori’
at the University of Konstanz.
Amy Kind is Professor of Philosophy at Claremont McKenna College. Her research
interests lie broadly in the philosophy of mind, though most of her published work
has concerned issues relating either to the imagination or to phenomenal conscious-
ness. She has also written about the nature of persons and personal identity.
R. A. H. King is Professor ordinarius with focus on history of philosophy at the
University of Bern. He has published works on Aristotle and life and death, and
Aristotle and Plotinus on memory. He has carried out research comparing different
conceptions of life in early China and in Græco-Roman Antiquity.
Fiona Macpherson is Professor and Head of Philosophy at the University of
Glasgow, where she is also director of the Centre for the Study of Perceptual
Experience. She is a fellow of the Royal Society of Edinburgh. She sits on the Arts and
Humanities Research Council and is a trustee of the Kennedy Memorial Trust. Her
work concerns the nature of consciousness, perception and perceptual experience,
introspection, imagination, and the metaphysics of mind. She has written on the
nature of the senses, on cognitive penetration, and on illusion and hallucination. She
has published previous edited collections: Hallucination, MIT Press (with Dimitris
Platchais), The Senses, OUP, The Admissible Contents of Experience (with Katherine
Hawley), Wiley-Blackwell, and Disjunctivism (with Adrian Haddock), OUP. Together
with Fabian Dorsch she has edited another volume forthcoming shortly from Oxford
University Press on Phenomenal Presence.
 Notes on Contributors xiii

Paul Noordhof is Anniversary Professor of Philosophy at the University of York.

He has interests in various kinds of sensuous states—for example, perception, sensuous
imagination and memory (sometimes known as experiential or episodic memory),
and sensations such as pain. He is also conducting research on causation and related
topics in mind and metaphysics, and belief, self-deception, and delusion.
 1
Perceptual Imagination
and Perceptual Memory
An Overview

Fiona Macpherson

The essays in this volume explore the nature of perceptual imagination and perceptual
memory. How do perceptual imagination and memory resemble and differ from each
other and from other kinds of sensory experience? And what role does each play in
perception and in the acquisition of knowledge? These are the two central questions
that the essays in this volume seek to address.
One important fact about our mental lives is that sensory experience comes in
(at least) three central variants: perception, imagination, and memory. For instance,
we may not only see the visible appearance of a person or a building, but also recall or
imagine it in a visual manner. The three types of experience share certain important
features that are intimately linked to their common sensory character, many of which
distinguish them from thought. Among these features are their apparent presentation
of external objects or events (rather than propositions about them), their perspectival
nature, that is that they present the world from a certain point of view, and their
connection to one (or more) of the sense modalities, such as by having some modality-
specific content and phenomenal character.
But there are also important differences among the three types of sensory experiences.
Most notably, there is usually taken to be a fundamental divide between perceptions,
on the one hand, and recollections and imaginings, on the other. Perceptual experiences
are typically taken to be distinct from imaginative and mnemonic ones in that they
present objects with a certain sense of immediacy. When we see objects, they seem to
be present directly before us in our environment; while the objects of our memory or
imagination don’t seem to exist now in front of us they may be given to us as being
located in the past or in some imagined world or in some location in this world other
than our environment (although we may imagine that objects are now in front of us).
This difference in kind between perceptual experiences, on the one hand, and
memories and imaginings, on the other, is often accompanied by certain differences
2 Fiona Macpherson

in degree. Thus sensory episodes of imagining or remembering are typically said to

have less “force and vivacity”, to quote David Hume, than episodes of perceiving; while
the latter often appear to be less open to the influence of voluntary mental activity than
the former.1 Whether Hume’s description should be taken literally or metaphorically is
a matter of debate.
In addition, all three types of sensory experience are typically taken to play different
motivational and justificatory roles; and these rational differences are taken, by some
at least, to be phenomenologically salient to a certain extent. We are inclined and
entitled to different beliefs in response to perceptions, memories, and imaginings;
and this is arguably reflected by differences in what it is subjectively like to undergo
these sensory experiences.
The nature of perception has always been one of the major topics in the philosophy
of mind, while the opposite has been true of perceptual imaginings and perceptual
memories. In particular, not much attention is paid to the similarities and differences
between memory and imagination in their sensory forms, as well as to the fact that
both are, from a phenomenal point of view, much closer to each other than to per-
ception.2 One central aim of the volume is, therefore, to remedy this situation and to
get clearer about the nature of perceptual imaginings and perceptual memories by
comparing them with each other and with perceptions.
One important issue in this domain is what makes it possible for imaginings and
memories to possess the features distinctive of sensory experiences despite lacking
perceptual immediacy. When we perceptually imagine an object does this consist in
imagining having a perceptual experience of that object? And when we perceptually
recall an object, do we perceptually remember a perceptual experience of such an object?
Another important issue is whether perceptual imaginings and perceptual mem-
ories differ intrinsically or extrinsically from each other. For instance, do the differ-
ences between them stem solely from how they originate in, and depend on, past
perceptions, or solely in how they are related to the will and to mental agency?
Our sensory imagination is not completely unconstrained. What we can visualize,
say, is restricted to the visible and, arguably, to what we have seen in the past or can
extrapolate from our past perceptions (cf. Hume’s missing shade of blue). But the
imagination is, nonetheless, that aspect of our mental lives concerning which we
enjoy most freedom, at least compared to perception and memory. We typically enjoy
voluntary control with respect to when and what we imagine. This has led some

1
David Hume, Philosophical Essays Concerning Human Understanding (London: A. Millar, 1777),
Section 2, E2.1.
2
At least this was the case until very recently. One exception comes in the form of the newly published
Amy Kind (ed.), The Routledge Handbook of Philosophy of Imagination (Oxford and New York: Routledge,
2016). Another is the work on aphantasia—the condition in which people lack the ability to form mental
images. See Adam Zeman, Michaela Dewar, and Sergio Della Sala, ‘Lives without imagery: congenital
aphantasia’, Cortex 73 (2015): 378–80 and Matthew MacKisack, Susan Aldworth, Fiona Macpherson, John
Onians, Crawford Winlove, and Adam Zeman, ‘On picturing a candle: the prehistory of imagery science’,
Frontiers in Psychology 7 (2016): 00515.
 An Overview 3

to argue that there is a certain kind of agency that is constitutive of imagining and
differentiates it from both perceiving and remembering. But is this conception viable
given that people report involuntary instances of imagining? And, in any case, isn’t
some perceptual remembering voluntary?
Some people have thought that only our sensory recollections, but not our sen-
sory imaginations, are inescapably particular in their presentation of objects. While
we recall the appearances of specific objects which we perceived in the past by
means of particular perceptions, imaginings—like depictions—allow for the pres-
entation of generic objects and do not require any specific past acquaintance
(although they do not exclude it). This raises the question of how, and in virtue of
what, we can imagine particular objects rather than generic ones, or to what extent
particular and generic imaginings involve some form of particular or generic sen-
sory memory. It may be helpful in this context to compare the imagination with the
phenomenon of depiction.
The first half of this volume opens with an illuminating essay by R. A. H. King
investigating Aristotle’s conception of imagination and memory, and their relations to
perception. Dominic Gregory then investigates different forms of perceptual memory,
arguing that there are two kinds of perceptual memories—both memories of what
things were subjectively like for one at a certain time, and memories simply of
how things were at a certain time. Experiential or episodic memory is also the topic
of Robert Hopkins’ essay. He argues that an important feature of this type of memory is
that it involves imagining the past in a sensory way. Dorothea Debus considers how
it is that we recognize perceptual memory as presenting the way the past was and we
recognize that we should not take perceptual imagination to do so. The answer that
she gives in her essay is that perceptual memories are related to a host of beliefs and
experiences that allow a subject to tell a certain narrative about that perceptual mem-
ory, in a way that perceptual imaginings are not, and thereby provide the subject with
a reason to take the perceptual memory to be a memory. Paul Noordhof turns his
attention to the nature of perceptual imaginings and whether an account of their
phenomenal character (that is, what it is like for the subject to have them) can provide
reason to believe something about the metaphysical nature of the properties which
determine that phenomenal character.
The second main aim of the volume is to specify and clarify the epistemic roles that
the imagination and memory play in our mental lives.
One part of this discussion consists in the investigation of interactions between
imagination and perception. Sometimes, we project mental imagery onto a perceived
scene; and doing so may help us to acquire certain pieces of knowledge (e.g. whether a
painting would look good on a particular wall), or to successfully perform a certain
practical task (e.g. to pot a ball in billiards or snooker). Similarly, the sensory imagination
has been said to be involved in the perception of hidden or occluded aspects of objects
(e.g. when we see something as a voluminous building, rather than as a mere facade),
or in the perception of ambiguous figures (e.g. seeing a wire cube in one of two possible
4 Fiona Macpherson

ways, rather than the other). This raises the question of what the relationship between
perception and imagination is in these cases, and whether they involve experiences
that are amalgams of perception and imagination, and whether this relationship may
help to explain central features of experience.
Another important issue is whether sensory imaginings can provide us with evi-
dence for belief, and ground knowledge, by themselves, that is, independently of
perception. Standardly, discussions of this issue have been focused on our modal
knowledge of the external world and the closely related knowledge of counterfactual
conditionals. By contrast, this volume also addresses the questions of whether the sen-
sory imagination can also give us access to non-modal knowledge, and whether it can
play an evidential, rather than a merely enabling role, in the acquisition of modal
and non-modal knowledge about experiences (i.e. about the mind itself). Thus the
emphasis is not only on the kind of knowledge needed for certain fairly ordinary
practical tasks, but also on knowledge about the essence of our own experiences. One
key thought that needs to be spelled out is whether, and if so how, the imagination
has to be constrained by our existing beliefs about relevant facts in order to be able to
justify new beliefs.
Finally, it is interesting whether the insights gained into the perceptual and
epistemic role of the sensory imagination can help to answer the question of the nature
of sensory imagination and of its similarities and differences to other kinds of sensory
experience. If perceptual imagination can enrich perception and ground knowledge
then this would seem to indicate that it cannot be too far removed in its nature from
perception and memory since, otherwise, it would be unable to play any comparable
epistemic role.
The second half of this volume consists of five essays addressing these questions.
Derek Brown defends the idea that all perceptual experiences receive some input from
imagination, and spells out what kind of input. Robert Briscoe starts by assuming that
perception and imagination interact and that we can superimpose mental imagery
onto a perceived scene. He considers what knowledge and skills this ability bestows on
us. He then goes on to consider how this phenomenon might explain the phenomenal
character of occlusion. Gregory Currie addresses the question of what interaction
there is between perception and imagination when watching films. He investigates
the relationship between what he argues are distinct systems involving purely visual
activity on the one hand, and the imagination on the other. Magdalena Balcerak
Jackson argues that sensory imagination can provide us with knowledge of the nature
and structure of our own experiences. She investigates this by examining the way in
which sensory imagination is voluntary in a way that perception and memory are
not. What we imagine seems up to us in a way that what we perceive and what we
remember is not. Investigating exactly the way in which it is up to us leads her to
draw interesting conclusions about the justificatory nature of imagination. Amy
Kind’s essay deals with the issue of whether perceptual imagination can provide
 An Overview 5

non-modal knowledge. She argues that it can and gives a detailed account of the sort
of imagination that can play this role.
Fabian and I believe that the essays in this volume substantially push forward the
debates about the nature of perceptual imagination and perceptual memory, and hope
that they will inspire a great deal more work on these interesting topics by philo-
sophers in the future.
PA RT I
The Nature of Perceptual
Imagination and Perceptual
Memory
 2
Aristotle on Distinguishing
Phantasia and Memory
R. A. H. King

1. Accounting for Memory Using Imagination

Like many ancient philosophers Coriscus worked for a potentate: he left Athens where
he had been a member of Plato’s Academy for Atarneus near his home city of Scepsis in
Asia Minor, where Hermias held power. And Aristotle remembers Coriscus.1 What
does he do, when he does this?
Aristotle is the first theorist to use ‘imagination’ or phantasia to account for memory.
But just how phantasia forms part of the explanation of memory, and just how Aristotle
distinguishes phantasia when not used in memory, from memory, is not easy to say.
This is the first of two contrasts we shall be pursuing in Aristotle—phantasia in
memory and phantasia apart from memory. Two fundamental strategies for making
this contrast may be crudely distinguished—let us call their proponents ‘the Activist’
and ‘the Phenomenalist’. An Activist will say, or say that Aristotle will say: imagining
is doing something different from remembering. A Phenomenalist will say that
memories and imaginings appear different to their subject. The aim of this chapter is
to show that neither Phenomenalist nor Activist can stand alone in an account of

My thanks to Fabian Dorsch and Fiona Macpherson for organizing a bracing conference, and to the
participants for a spiky discussion. I dedicate this chapter to the memory of Fabian—he is sorely missed,
very warmly remembered. For a (German) translation of and commentary on On Memory and Recollection,
see King (2004); and for an account of the theory in English and a comparison with Plotinus’ work on
memory, King (2009).
1
Coriscus plays the role of the example for an individual in a variety of Aristotle’s works: On the
Generation of Animals 767b25, 768a1; Posterior Analytics 85a24; Soph. Ref. 22 178b39ff; Phys. 219b20;
Eudemian Ethics 1240b45. His name has survived largely because of this use; and also because the sixth
Platonic epistle is addressed to him, Hermias, and Erastos. The final reason he is known is that his son
Neleus was left Theophrastus’ library which contained Aristotle’s works and library as well (Strabo 13.1.54).
Aristotle may be remembering Coriscus in the latter’s absence either before Aristotle leaves Athens for
Assos and Lesbos around the time of Plato’s death in 348 bc, or else when Aristotle has returned to Athens
in 336, leaving Coriscus behind, as far as we know. It is not known what happened to Coriscus after the
death of Hermias at the hands of the Persians in 341. See Lasserre (1987).
10 R. A. H. King

memory such as Aristotle’s. For, to put it in a slogan, remembering is an activity

involving appearances.
So one contrast is that between imagining and remembering. Another contrast is
that between remembering rightly and wrongly.2
To see how this may look, let us see how Aristotle approaches memory through what
I call the Canonical Formula:
For always whenever someone is active with respect to remembering, then he says in this way
in the soul that he heard this or perceived it or thought it before. (On memory 1 449b22–23)

Here we are given a canon or standard for deciding when memory is present, when
someone is remembering. Actively remembering is saying something, and relates to a
past perception or thought. Of course, the person remembering need say nothing out
loud; it can be in the soul: Aristotle says to himself, I saw Coriscus. If an act of memory
is saying something, one important implication is that it can be assessed as to truth and
falsity. “I saw Coriscus”, said by particular person at a particular time, may be true or
false. Depending on that, the memory claim of which it is the content is successful or
not. One may be deceived or not, as to whether one is remembering or not, or remem-
bering rightly or not. This is the second important contrast for a theory of memory.
Apparently, there is no ‘imagination’ here at all. We will see that phantasia is called
in to explain memory; the occurrence of memory, as described here, requires no
occurrent “image”. And it is good that we are neither asked to consider remembering
an image, nor that all memory requires occurrent images. But while the “image”
(phantasia or phantasma) is not the object of memory, it may form part of the explan-
ation of memory. The theorist appeals to it in her theory. The theory is then that the
fact that we are able to remember is based on the fact that we have phantasia. Phantasia
forms part of the capacity to remember.
This approach to memory through the Canonical Formula is an application of an
insight which relates generally to capacities: to understand a capacity, you need to look
at the related activity, and to look at the activity you have to consider the object
(De anima II 4 415a16–22). This points to the first step Aristotle takes in his account of
memory, and which the Canonical Formula forms part of: to explain memory we need
to understand what it is we remember. A crucial element in the answer to this question
is the past (449b15), that is, I take it, past perceptions and so what we perceived in past
perceptions. When someone is active with memory, the Canonical Formula says, we
say I perceived this or that earlier. And this or that may be Coriscus, for example.
Aristotle is adamant that animals apart from humans possess the capacity to
remember.3 The account in On Memory and Recollection applies to animals besides
humans; as has often been pointed out, the Canonical Formula presents a problem
here in that animals do not say anything. So, humans are the main witnesses, but

2
On these two contrasts, cf. Pears (1991), Ch. 3, ‘Memory’.
3
Cf. Historia Animalium I 1 488b24–25 with On memory 1 449b28–30, 2 453a7–9.
 aristotle on distinguishing phantasia and memory 11

Aristotle remains committed to explaining living behaviour in general, and one

determinant of his view of memory is the conviction that it is not an activity of reason,
since then only humans would have it. The one cognitive faculty all animals possess is
perception, and perception is, ultimately, responsible for imagination. This is an
important result of the treatment of phantasia in De anima, which Aristotle refers
expressly back to in the account of memory (1 449b30). The memory involved is per-
ceptual in that it relies on an act of perception, and has as its object the object of that
perception. Thus, in remembering, Aristotle says, I saw Coriscus. (For the purposes of
this chapter, I ignore remembering relating to thought.)
He explains memory by relying on his account of the faculties of the soul given in
De anima—above all, perception and phantasia. We will have to be selective in using
this general theory of the soul here; but here are some theses, in descending order of
generality which help support the theory of memory. Soul is, by definition, embodied:
it is the primary activity of an organic body. Ends are involved in living behaviour.
Perception gives rise to the ability to have and activate phantasia. In turn memory
depends on phantasia. Thus memory is not a fundamental faculty of the soul. So we
have in our case a capacity to remember, and its exercise, being active with memory.4
This is the patch where the Activist will pitch her camp.
We may distinguish two perspectives from which one should be able to distinguish
between phantasia and memory. It is firstly something that you and I, Aristotle and
Coriscus need to be able to do on a day-to-day basis. If we cannot distinguish between
the two, we would be in trouble, practically, and, presumably, psychologically. But
besides this everyday perspective, there is secondly the philosophical or theoretical
question.5 Posing the puzzle of distinguishing between imagination and memory
forces the question on us, at least for some ways of thinking, what each of them is. In
everyday use, we do not have such an account. Nor, since we make this distinction as a
matter of course, do we need to have such an account. You’re imagining things, you say.
No, I remember it clearly, I reply, I heard her say that. Clearly, there are cases and cases
to be distinguished in everyday talk here.
Aristotle is committed to a methodology which consists in making precise what is
held to be the case, by the wise or the many, about the explanandum. In an important
sense, his philosophy is a refinement of what we anyway know. He does not construct
a conception of memory, and of imagination, to then rely exclusively on technical
definitions to distinguish them. This would anyway be a problematic procedure in the
case of memory and imagination. What right would we then have to say that what we
have defined is memory? As we have seen, Aristotle in fact starts his investigation from

4
David Bloch (2007: 72) claims that for Aristotle memory is a passive state which is not discussed in
terms of activity and capacity. As he sees, this would make Aristotle’s view of memory very different from
ours. His argument is largely based on linguistic considerations; and he has considerable trouble in reinter-
preting the phrase “being active with memory” in the Canonical Formula.
5
Sorabji (2004) rests content with the theoretical distinction between the two.
12 R. A. H. King

the way we talk about memory: we say (as co-conversationalists) that we are active
with memory when we say we have perceived or thought something before.
Aristotle uses the way we attribute memory to someone, in saying something, but
also what the animal or human remembering does, to investigate what is contained in
an act of memory. The Aristotelian scientist relies on a basic recognition of the distinc-
tion to arrive at the definition of the explanandum.
Thus he is committed to saying that we do distinguish between memory and
phantasia. But this is not a phenomenal distinction, the Activist will say: it is not
“vivacity” or “intimacy and warmth”, to mention characteristics which have been
appealed to more recently in the history of philosophy in this context,6 that allows us to
distinguish between the two. These terms, phenomenal terms, are not the ones he uses
to make the distinction. Rather, it is a matter of what we are doing. Part of what this
means is that there is non-transitional awareness of what we are doing when we
remember something. The activity of imagining something (‘putting it before the eye
of the soul’) is only one activity of phantasia (De anima III 3 427b18–20). Here too
one could argue from the Activist’s perspective that the work of distinguishing is not
phenomenal, but drawn by awareness of what you are doing. So, the argument would
go, when you imagine something it may well be phenomenally identical to a memory,
but talking about what you are doing, you would not say: “I can remember such and
such”,7 but “I am imagining such and such”, or “he appears to me such”. Since memory
is an activity of phantasia, and phantasia an activity of perception, this line of thought
is rooted in Aristotle’s view that perception itself is responsible for our awareness of
perception (De anima III 2 425b12–25).
How can the Phenomenalist reply? He or she must admit that there is no talk of
vividness or familiarity. But her arsenal is not exhausted. Firstly, she may appeal to a
further aspect of Aristotle’s account: time. Aristotle links memory closely to knowing
about the past, as we have seen. And one might argue that perceiving time in Aristotle’s
view—“I saw her yesterday”—changes the phenomenon. Here it is not just the simple
image (assuming for a moment that phantasmata are images) that passes through
my mind, but this image, plus, in some sense, yesterday, or at least, past. Since time
is perceived, and phantasmata arise from perception, the perception of time will not
be just a symbolic temporal index. A second limb of the Phenomenalist’s reply will be
expanded on presently: phantasmata may be pictures, and pictures have phenomenal
characteristics.

6
Respectively, David Hume, Treatise of Human Nature, I.I.3, ‘Of the ideas of the memory and the
imagination’; William James, The Principles of Psychology, Ch. 16, ‘Memory’. There is no indication in
Aristotle’s ‘physical’ works of the influential account of phantasia as a ‘weak perception’ from the Rhetoric
(I 11 1370a28). The Rhetoric is written to appeal to what most people usually think; that is the basis of the
speaker’s ability to persuade. The importance of this omission is that there is no indication of an interest in
the weakness or strength, or indeed in any qualities of the phantasia.
7
There are interesting distinctions in English between saying, I remember and I can remember, where
even the latter may be used to pick out actual memory.
 aristotle on distinguishing phantasia and memory 13

Time is the hero of Aristotle’s account; for memory is of the past (449b15).8 This is
part of the way he distinguishes between phantasia and memory: clearly it is possible
to have a phantasia without any index of time. Aristotle thinks one perceives time; and
a full account would have to tackle the question of the perception of time, whether
measured (yesterday, in the 50th Olympiad), or indefinite (past). The tricky question
dividing Activist and Phenomenalist here is whether time has a phenomenal quality.
The Activist can insist that time, strictly, needs counting; the Phenomenalist will
counter that Aristotle (realistically) does not insist that every memory comes date
stamped: they need merely the odour of pastness, in some sense. Memory is restricted
to animals with a sense of time (On memory 1 449b24–30).
How does the Activist react to this? Aristotle uses the way we attribute memory to
someone, in saying something, but also what the person remembering does, to investi-
gate what is contained in an act of memory. There are thus two perspectives on
memory: what we say about someone remembering, and what the human or animal
remembering does. Thus one question concerns the change in perspective from inside
to outside—for how else do we know what occurs when remembering occurs, if not
because we remember? And there is no word of justification of the move from us to
others, from our remembering to anyone or anything remembering. No doubt, there
are things to be said that explain why Aristotle feels no need here. At this stage of the
investigation into the behaviour of living things, it is already clear that soul always
occurs with body, since it is the primary activity of body. Thus there is no problem here
about appealing to other living things, and indeed to what they say, insofar as they
speak at all, in appraising the deliverances of memory. Humans serve here as a model,
and it is not clear what the brute analogue of speaking might be. This change in
perspective is also important for the move from the way we talk to the scientific
account offered by the Aristotelian definitions. This question is related to two others—
one is about generality: are there general accounts of memory? Now, memory has been
subjected to a variety of taxonomies; and Aristotle’s is very economical; one may well
wonder if he can cope with all the ways we talk about memory, let alone theoretical
uses in modern psychology. He argues that memory has to do with perception, and
then accidentally with intellectual activities. Both thinking and perception are
included in the Canonical Formula. Here, I will concentrate entirely on perceptual
memory. (Thought here is the systematic thought of the scientist.)

2. Phantasia—appearances and apparitions

Now, we have already seen that Aristotle refers back to his definition of phantasia in
De anima towards the beginning of his account of memory. And for the Aristotelian

8
Sorabji (2004: 13) criticizes Aristotle for this view of memory; cf. Castagnoli (2018). Aristotle will try
to accommodate things that are not past, either as accidental memory, or else he will say that when actually
using what we have learnt, we are not remembering. Doing maths is not remembering.
14 R. A. H. King

scientist it is straightforward to distinguish between phantasia and memory, given

their definitions. Phantasia and memory are defined differently, hence they are
different. Phantasia is, according to the official definition, “a kind of change remaining
from an actual perception” (De anima III 3 428b30–429a2). The final definition of
memory is equally quickly stated, “the possession of a phantasma, possessed as a
likeness (eikôn) of that of which it is the phantasma” (On memory 1 451b15–16).
A formal and fairly trivial point may be made before we embark on the interpretation of
these hard sayings. The definition of memory makes use of the notion of a phantasma,
the product of the capacity phantasia. So not only are memory and imagination not
identical, memory requires phantasia, and requires more than phantasia.
Let us begin by unpacking the definition of phantasia. Phantasia refers both to the
capacity and its product, whereas a phantasma is only the latter (De anima III 3 428a1).
Phantasia is attributed to or explained by the capacity to perceive (for phantasma cf.
On memory 1 450a10–11). In a loose way of speaking, phantasia is a capacity of living
things; but it is not one of the primitive capacities of living things since it is derived
from perception.9
Aristotle is ambitious: phantasia is meant to explain a wide range of phenomena;
and a question mark must hang over his success in this enterprise.10 There are varieties
of phantasia, apparently, and it is not clear how they all fall under the general account.
There are various etymological connections of the word phantasia which are relevant
in Aristotle’s account. He himself relates it to phôs, light, and says that this is because
there is no sight without light, and sight is the primary form of perception: etymologies
of this kind are of course a feature of Greek philosophy—Plato fills a book with them
(the Cratylus). But there are two other connections, reflected in the language Aristotle
himself uses when discussing phantasia. One is with the verb “to appear” phainesthai,
the other is with the verb phantazesthai (cf. 433b12), and hence with phantasma,
“apparition, phantom”.11 These three associations may be seen as pulling the account of
imagination in different directions—the connection with light and perception may
suggest that phantasia reveals the way things are; whereas the connection with appear-
ance suggests we should be careful about it; and as to apparitions, well, can they give us
any guidance at all as to the way things are? Presumably not. The fact that Aristotle
himself underscores a presumed connection with light and perception, suggests that
he sees phantasia in some sense as a useful capacity. And the use he puts it to explain-
ing not only dreams (which serve no purpose in his book), but also action and memory
confirms its ability to guide us undeceptively, as well as to mislead us.
Let us look briefly at appearances and apparitions. Both aspects of phantasia are
relevant to the treatment of memory: we can be deceived by apparent memory, but
need not be. And as to phantasmata, well, it is not just phantoms that are meant in
Aristotle’s book, but also what we might call images—persisting delusions. But care

9
See Johansen (2012), Ch. 5. 10
See Schofield (1992). 11
Schofield (1992).
Another random document with
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compensated. The gathering mist, which had cleared just for our
glimpse, warned us to seek our path, and we rapidly descended to
the Appalachian camp, where we found our friends and a glowing
fire. After a rest and lunch we continued our descent. An hour’s ride
after we reached the base brought us to our Jefferson “home” again,
delighted with the day’s experience. The sun went down in great
glory, and the weather authorities declared the morrow would be a
fine day for Mt. Washington; so, despite stiffened and aching joints,
we took our breakfast at halfpast five, and at six o’clock we were
snugly packed in our phaeton, with blankets and wraps all in use, for
it was cold. Our good horse felt the inspiration of the morning, and
we started off briskly on our thirteen miles’ drive over Cherry
Mountain to the Fabyan House, where we took the early train up Mt.
Washington. Everybody does this, so we will leave without comment,
except on the unusual clearness of the view, and hasten to our
driving.
We reached Fabyan’s again after the slow descent at half-past four.
Our carriage was ready; and in less than five minutes we were on
our way. Passing the Crawford House, with its attractive
surroundings, we entered the Notch. What grandeur! Such a contrast
to the quiet beauty of the Franconia Notch! The road through this
narrow gap is very rough, with only here and there a place where
vehicles can meet or pass, and constant watchfulness is required.
We spent the night at the Willey House, with Mt. Webster looming up
before us, and Mt. Willard and others near by shutting us in
completely. We reluctantly left this quiet spot. The drive to North
Conway was full of picturesque beauty; then, as we journeyed, the
mountains dwindled into hills, the lovely meadows became pasture
land, and Nature seemed dressed in every-day attire.
Not yet satisfied, we turned toward the seashore again, following the
coast from Newburyport to Gloucester, this time rounding Cape Ann,
delighted with the unsuspected charms of Pigeon Cove, and
spending a night at “Squam.” Our next day’s drive through Magnolia,
Manchester-by-the-Sea and Beverly Farms took us to the Essex
House, Salem, where our course meets that of the “other two.” The
interesting account of their drive to this point need not be repeated,
as we retrace their steps through Marblehead, Swampscott, Lynn
and Saugus, thence to Boston. Here we visited, and our horse
rested a few days, when he proved himself more than equal to the
forty miles in one day, which ended our last summer’s journey.
These recollections have been put together on the cars (literally at
railroad speed), without reference to diary, home letters, map or
guidebook, and briefly outline our nine journeys and about three
thousand miles’ driving. We have told you very little of our every-day
enjoyment. The perfect ease and safety with which we have
accomplished this we attribute mainly to extreme caution and
constant consideration for our horse, and we are full of courage for
the future. We have friendly invitations from Maine to Colorado and
Wyoming, and trust we may be spared to visit at least one of these
points, when we celebrate our tenth anniversary.
 CHAPTER II.
CHRONICLE OF THE TENTH ANNUAL DRIVE.
Some of the many readers of the Transcript may remember seeing in
its columns about one year ago (Dec. 27, 1880) a letter under the
heading “Summer Travels in a Phaeton,” which gave an outline of
nearly three thousand miles’ driving by two ladies in nine successive
summer journeys. Since then we two ladies have enjoyed our tenth
anniversary, and will tell you something about this last journey, which
lost no charms from having become an old story.
Many times during the winter and spring came the query, “Shall you
take your carriage journey next summer?” and as many times we
answered “We hope so,” but often with a smothered doubt, as we
thought of the fate of hosts of “best-laid plans,” and feared we would
not always be exceptions to such a general rule.
As the early summer weeks passed, the obstacles multiplied; after a
while circumstances began to combine in our favor, and by the 15th
of August the way was clear for a start. A new difficulty now arose.
Where could we go?
All through the year we had thought of Maine, which was sufficient
reason why we should not go there, for we never go where we have
thought of going. We have driven through the valley of the
Connecticut, and along the coast from Newport, R. I., to Wells, Me.,
over the Berkshire Hills, up to Lake Winnipiseogee four times, all
through the White Mountains, over the Green Mountains to Lake
Champlain, Lake George and Saratoga, and taken in all the big hills,
little mountains, inhabited island and country resorts on the way.
Where should we find “new worlds to conquer”? In our perplexity, we
remembered that a party of friends were in Dublin, N. H., for the
summer, and resolved to make that our starting point.
The morning of the 15th of August dawned bright and cool, and we
held our wraps close about us, as we stowed ourselves away for the
tenth time in our same cosy phaeton, with all our equipments in the
way of bags, straps, waterproofs, umbrellas, books, maps, writing
materials, fancy work, lunch basket, and—the only thing we take
which we never use—our revolver.
Our first day’s drive was very enjoyable; the air was so cool we could
not dispense with our wraps even at midday. We said good-morning
to our friends in Fitchburg, rested our horse, and sent our first mail
home at Ashburnham, lunched by the wayside, surprised friends
from Boston who were rusticating in the berry pastures of Rindge,
and finally passed the night at East Jaffrey, the only place in the
vicinity where we had not proposed spending the first night. The
hotel proprietor was suffering from a recent sunstroke, but had
recovered sufficiently to provide every comfort, including a fire in our
room, and after another contribution to the mail, refreshing sleep and
a good breakfast, we were ready for our morning drive to Dublin,
where we found our friends delightfully located in the suburbs, close
by the lovely Monadnock Lake, with the grand old mountain looming
up on the opposite shore. We lost no time, but proceeded to “do”
Dublin, inspired by the cool, bracing atmosphere. We walked and
talked, rode and rowed, and verified all the glowing descriptions,
even to sifting the sand on the lake shore for garnets.
It now became necessary to decide in which direction to journey. As
we drove towards the village next morning, it occurred to us that we
had made a great omission in “doing” Dublin, not having called on
the postmaster; in the words of another, “Our genial, ubiquitous
postmaster, whose talents are so universal, whose resources so
unlimited that he will build you a house, match your worsted, stock
your larder, buy a horse, put up your stove, doctor your hens or cash
a check with equal promptness, skill and courtesy.” Surely, he could
help us. We took our maps to him, and asked a few questions, but,
strange to say, he did not seem to get any definite idea of what we
wanted, and, after a little hesitation, politely inquired, “Where do you
wish to go?” We then hesitated, and as politely replied, “We do not
know; we are driving, and would like to go where we have never
been, and return by a different route.” Immediately his face
brightened, he pointed out various places of interest, to which we
could only say, “Yes, very delightful; but we have been there.”
Finally, he produced a map of his own, and soon started us off
somewhere, I forget where, and, perhaps, we did not go there at all.
Suffice it to say, we now felt Dublin was “done,” and turned our horse
north, as we always do, when at a loss.
On we drove through Hancock, Bennington, Antrim and
Hillsborough, wondering where we should find ourselves at night.
We referred to our map and decided to go to ——, but on making
inquiries at a farmhouse, the woman consulted her goodman and
advised us not to go there, for a passing stranger had told them the
hotel was filled to overflowing, and the dancing hall, dining-room and
neighbors’ houses were occupied. She was much interested, and
said, “If you do not wish to drive much farther, there is a little village
two miles on, and widow —— sometimes puts up people.” We had
driven far enough, and thought it best to make a trial of private
hospitality. It was a new experience, we had never been “put up,”
and felt as if we were imposing upon the good old lady as we lifted
the knocker and asked if we could stay there over night. She looked
at us over her glasses, then sent her one boarder to take care of our
horse, while she helped us deposit our innumerable things in the
“spare room.” We quietly put the revolver in a safe place, and
glanced at each other as we thought, “What would she say?”
Widow —— and her boarder had supped, but soon a supper was
prepared for us in the sitting-room, which we lazily enjoyed seated in
old-fashioned rocking-chairs. After our cosy repast we went to the
barn to see how Charlie was faring. He looked at us as if he thought
meal a poor return for his day’s service, and we went to the “store”
for oats. Several bystanders assured us it was a bad season for
oats, and advised corn; but an old gentleman enlisted himself in our
behalf, and said we should have some oats in the morning if he had
to go to ——, two miles away, for them.
We went up to the churchyard to watch the sunset clouds, strolled
down to the bridge, and when it grew dark we went “home.” Our
hostess borrowed a yesterday’s paper, as we were anxious for the
latest news from the President, and after reading we crocheted and
chatted. The good lady opened her heart to us, and freely poured
forth her lifetime joys and sorrows. Speaking of the children and
grandchildren reminded her how much she enjoyed the seraphine in
the other room when they visited her. We said we would like to try it,
when she eagerly proposed having it brought into the sitting-room,
where it was warm. We moved it for her, and sang through all the
psalm-tune and Moody and Sankey books we could find. Our friend
was very grateful, and when at a late hour we proposed removing
the instrument to its proper place, she said, “Oh! leave it, and
perhaps you will sing one more tune in the morning.” We rested well
on a feather bed, in an unpretentious room, with odds and ends of
furniture and ware which would tempt the enthusiastic relic hunters,
and breakfasted in the kitchen. While waiting for Charlie, we sang
another gospel hymn, and the good lady once more thanked us,
saying she always liked to take care of good people, and really
rather “put up” a gentleman than a tin peddler.
The day was misty and disagreeable, but on we went, imagining the
charms of Sunapee Lake on a bright, sunny day, as we followed its
shores, and resting and writing at Newport. Here, too, we again
considered our course, but with no inclination to face about. We
talked of going to Claremont and following the river, but were
advised to keep our present direction and avoid the sandy valley
roads. We left Newport without any idea where we should find
shelter for the night, as hotels were scarce, but before dark we were
again very comfortably “put up.”
The clouds were heavy next morning when we resumed our driving,
and in the afternoon the rain fell in torrents. When the first shower
came, we drove under a church shed for protection, but after a half-
hour we concluded time was too precious to be spent in that way, so
put aside our books and prepared to brave the storm. Our courage
and waterproofs were put to the test, but neither failed, and at night
we hung ourselves up to dry in a little country tavern.
The next day we crossed the Connecticut River into Thetford,
leaving New Hampshire to begin our wanderings in Vermont; and
wanderings they proved to be, for the first day at least. We were in
the region of copper mines and of friends, but we did not know
exactly where either the mines or the friends were to be found. We
drove to West Fairlee, for we had ordered our mail forwarded there,
and our first letters from home were eagerly anticipated. The news
was good, and after dinner we began inquiries about our mining
explorations. There seemed to be as many opinions as there were
people, but we started off at last with directions to turn twice to the
right, go two miles, leave the red school-house to the left, cross a
bridge, go down a hill and through Bear or Bare Gap (we never
found out which), strike a new road, etc. We were not sure that we
remembered the precise order of these directions, but we did strike a
new road, and went down a hill—such a hill! We preferred walking,
and Charlie was willing to be led, so that difficulty was overcome.
After quite an afternoon’s experience we found a little hotel, where
we passed the night, and next morning we retraced the latter part of
our drive in search of Pike Hill, where we were told we should find
friends and mines all together.
We were heartily welcomed and initiated into the mysteries of
mining, and collected some specimens, all of which were very
interesting to us.
It would seem as if we ought now to be content to turn towards
home; but, after some deliberation, we convinced ourselves it was
advisable to go a little farther, now we had got so far, for we might
not have another opportunity so good. “A bird in the hand,” you
know, and it is just as true of a horse. So, after supper and a little
music, we got together a good supply of maps, and organized our
friends into a geography class. We were very familiar with our own
map, but drove into the northern margin last year, and now we
seemed likely to entirely overstep its borders. As we studied and
questioned our friends, we began to feel as if we could go anywhere;
but prudence prompted us to follow the line of the railroad, so we
traced the towns along the Passumpsic, and pinned the precious
scrap of paper to our map.
We watched the clouds until half-past ten next day (we never heed
the weather except we are with friends, who always think it seems
inhospitable to let us drive off in a storm); then started for Wells
River, a drive of thirty-one miles. This was the first time since we left
home that we had any idea in the morning where we should sleep at
night. The twelve-miles’ drive to Bradford was as lovely as our
friends described it; the road follows Wait’s River very closely nearly
all the way; it is a clear stream, with a bright, stony bottom, much
more beautiful than many larger rivers with greater reputation.
We lunched as we drove, on bread and honey, the last sweet gift of
our friends at Pike Hill, then rested our horse and made our daily
contribution to the mail at Bradford. We had our prettiest view of the
Connecticut that afternoon as we drove through Newbury and made
another of our “surprise calls” on friends visiting in that vicinity.
Our landlord at Wells River, an old gentleman, made many inquiries
when he found we lived very near his birthplace. His face brightened
as we told him of his friends, who were our next-door neighbors, and
he wondered at the distance we had driven “alone.”
It seemed quite natural to make another start with uncertainty before
us. We followed the Connecticut to Barnet, and just as we left the
hotel, after two hours’ rest, the contents of a huge black cloud were
poured upon us; it was such a deluging rain, that as soon as we
were out of the village we drove under a tree for partial shelter, and
while waiting, finished up our honey. We got to St. Johnsbury in
advance of our mail, and ordered it forwarded to Newport, thinking
we might leave our horse for a day or two, and take a little trip by rail.
Strange as it may seem to those unused to such aimless
wanderings, we went on and on, facing north at every fresh start,
and gathering a bright bunch of golden-rod for our carriage each
morning, as we walked up the long, sandy hills (no wraps needed
now), and winding about such queer, forlorn roads, with fields of
burnt stumps and disagreeable marshes on either side, our map
“annex” and infallible guide, the Passumpsic, assuring us we were
not lost, until one bright morning we drove into Newport, and a “trip
by rail” had not even been mentioned.
As we drove leisurely along the main street, taking our first look at
Lake Memphremagog, a friend from Boston stepped off the piazza of
the hotel and recognized us, as he paused to allow our carriage to
pass. When recovered from his surprise, that we had strayed so far
from home, he told us he was on his way to meet his family, and
pitch his tents on the shores of the lake about twenty miles from
Newport, and suggested we should drive to Georgeville, and visit
their camp. Now we realized the convenience of having no plans to
change, and went directly to inquire about the roads, and secure
oats for Charlie, lest we should find none on our way. People
generally go by boat, but we were assured we should find good
roads. Having learned by experience that “good roads” in Vermont
take one up and down such hills as in Massachusetts we should
drive many miles to avoid, we asked more particularly about the hills.
“Oh! yes, a little hilly, but a good road.” So with minute directions for
the lake-shore route, we left our friend to the mercy of the waters,
while we traveled by land. We never knew when we crossed the
Derby line, for we were absorbed in watching for a turn which would
take us near the lake, but we learned after a while that our “lake-
shore road” was a mile inland. “A little mite hilly”! We went up and
down such hills as we never saw but in dreams, leading our good
Charlie, who picked his way very cautiously. At the top of a high hill
we found a house, and a little Canadian girl said we could stop there,
if we could take care of our horse; she assisted us in unharnessing
and arranging a place for Charlie and his oats. We declined kind
invitations to go into the house, and spread our blanket under a tree,
where we had a fine view of Owl’s Head. Our little friend brought us
milk and fruit, and after our lunch we wrote for an hour, then
resumed our driving, in blissful ignorance of the fact that the worst
hills were yet before us. We met men leading their horses, which
encouraged us to feel that our precaution was not feminine timidity.
The last hill reminded us of our drive over Hoosac Mountain. We left
Newport at 10 A. M., and at 6 P. M. we arrived at the Camperdown
House in Georgeville, a quaint Canadian village, feeling as if we had
driven or walked one hundred miles, rather than twenty.
We were cordially received at this most homelike of places, and a
room was ready for us. Our windows opened on the piazza, which
was shaded by a row of cut spruce trees that were replaced by fresh
ones occasionally. After supper we strolled down to the boat landing
and took a survey of the lake and fine shore scenery. We have not
time or space to tell you all we enjoyed while there. We spent the
days in “camp” and the nights at the Camperdown, going back and
forth in a row-boat, the Nymph, our friend’s steam yacht, or driven at
breakneck speed by one of the party who considered those
perpendicular hills “good roads.”
Only those who have tried it know the charms of camping. From the
time the one whose turn it is goes over the pastures to get the cream
for breakfast, until the last one is served to cocoa at night, there is
something to do, and that which is work at home becomes pastime
on the borders of a lovely lake, with fresh air and good company. We
fish with great interest when a dinner depends on our success; then,
while the potatoes are boiling is just the time for bathing, after which,
the table spread under the overarching trees looks very inviting.
When all have helped to clear away and “do up” the dishes, then
comes a time to separate for an hour—some to write, some to sleep,
and others to read Spanish, English, prose or poetry, according to
taste and ability. As the afternoon wears away, some one proposes a
sunset row, and so the time too quickly flies. Rainy days have a
charm of their own, and all the sympathy for “those people in camp”
is wasted.
We shall not soon forget our trip to Magog in the Nymph. There were
eight of us that afternoon, and we had a delightful sail. We left the
gentlemen to find supplies of wood for our return trip (sometimes we
helped saw and carry), while we ladies went shopping. We found a
little store where tools, groceries, dry goods, jewelry and
confectionery were kept; they had no axe, the only thing we wanted,
so we bought lace pins at five cents a pair. The clerk quietly asked if
we were going to have a thunder storm, which startled us, and we
lost no time in getting back to the boat. Clouds gather rapidly on
Lake Memphremagog, and our three hours’ sail looked long. We
kept the steam up, and talked about everything but a shower until
dark, when we were quiet, and observed, with only casual comment,
the clouds which grew blacker and blacker, hiding the stars, and
occasionally obscuring a light-house. We watched eagerly for the
light we had left on the “Point” to guide us into our little harbor, but
the wind had blown it out. One of the party took a row-boat (we had
two with us) and went in search of our landing; the rising wind
drowned the calls back and forth, but after a few anxious moments, a
welcome light glimmered on the shore, and soon we heard the
splashing of the oars. It was with difficulty the boat was guided to the
Nymph, and just as the last boat-load was leaving her to go ashore,
the storm burst in sudden fury over our heads. We rushed to the
tents and gave up rowing or riding to the Camperdown that night.
After securing the boats, the gentlemen, came in dripping, but quite
ready for the lunch prepared by quick hands. We talked it all over as
we sipped our cocoa, then separated, and soon were lulled to rest by
the pattering of the rain on the canvas, and the distant rumbling
thunder.
The next day was Sunday, and we enjoyed every hour of it. At the
time appointed we assembled for service. The preacher sat with
rubber boots on, and the audience, small but appreciative, were in
hammocks and cosy corners. The sermon was good, and the
singing, which was congregational, was well sustained. The day was
not long enough, for it was our last in camp, and we looked back
wishfully as we started off on our last row. We reached the
Camperdown just as the sun was setting in gorgeous splendor.
Supper was waiting for the “prodigals,” and after we had given an
account of ourselves, we went to our room to plan for the morrow.
We decided to go to Newport by water, and, as if to favor our
decision, the morning dawned perfect. It had been hazy and yellow
for several days, but the veil was lifted. Our friends rowed over to
see us aboard the Lady of the Lake, especially Charlie, who objects
to water. We sat in the bow, fanned by the soft breezes, recalling just
such a day on Lake George, while poor Charlie was frightened and
stamping furiously beneath us, evidently thinking some effort on his
part was necessary to effect an escape.
As we stood on the wharf at Newport an official-looking person came
to us and asked if that was our carriage. We looked inquiringly, and
said “Yes.”
“Have you anything you did not carry from the States?”
We now recognized our inquisitor, and answered so promptly, “Oh!
no,” that we quite forgot the pins we bought at Magog. Charlie was
quite excited, and we allowed him to be led to the stable, while we
went to the Memphremagog House for dinner. We wanted to go to
Willoughby Lake that afternoon, but we did not anticipate this when
we pieced our map, and were now obliged to go in search of a new
one. We went first for our mail, which was fresh to us, though a week
old, and ordered the letters expected at night returned to St.
Johnsbury. We found a little advertising map, then started on
seemingly a new journey. Charlie had fared as well as we in Canada,
and our twenty miles’ drive was easily accomplished. The glorious
sunset and moonrise on Lake Willoughby was a fitting close to the
day begun on Lake Memphremagog.
We watched the clouds from our window until quite late, then drew
the shade and pinned to it our map with the two supplements.
For an hour or more we studied diligently, trying to find an unfamiliar
route home, but all in vain. We had jestingly remarked, one day, that
“we would go home through the mountains to avoid the hills,” and as
a last resort we decided to do so, for that is a drive that will bear
repeating any number of times.
The lake was dotted with white-caps next morning, and our desire to
row was forgotten. We experienced our idea of a lakeshore drive as
we followed the lovely road close to the water’s edge for four miles,
Mt. Hor and Mt. Pisgah towering so high above, and looking as if
they were one mountain, but rent in twain by some convulsion of
nature, while the water had rushed in to fill the gap, as they drifted
apart. The drive was a striking contrast to the sandy hills we went
over in the afternoon, which we remembered too well, but no
planning could avoid. We passed the night at St. Johnsbury, and just
as the mail came for which we were waiting, Charlie returned from
the blacksmith’s with his new shoes.
We now turned our faces towards the mountains, feeling quite at
home as we journeyed off the supplements on to our old map, and
still more so, when after a long, hot drive, we reached Franconia,
where we struck the route of our last year’s journey, which we must
now follow all the way, even spending the nights at the same places.
We took a good view of the mountains at Franconia, recalling the
names of the different peaks, and very fortunately, for in the morning
there was not one to be seen. The sun looked like a huge ball of fire,
and the atmosphere was very smoky. We drove on, trying to realize
we were surrounded by grand mountains; but not until we were close
to them in the Notch could we discern the faintest outline, and the
“Old Man” looked as if dissolving in the clouds. It seemed dreamy
and mysterious until we got to the Basin, Pool and Flume, which
were not affected by the atmosphere.
Our night at Campton passed pleasantly, but we started in the rain
next day for Weirs, Lake Winnipiseogee, where we proposed to rest
our horse for a day or two. From Plymouth to Weirs is a crooked
way, and the pouring rain so changed the aspect of everything, that
we felt every turn was a wrong one. It was chilly and disagreeable,
but we put on all our wraps, the waterproof hoods over our heads,
and brought the “boot” close up to our chins, then kept warm with
ginger cookies. From the manner of the people of whom we made
inquiries as we passed, we suspected our appearance was
ludicrous. After many twistings and turnings we arrived at Hotel
Weirs. We had never been there except when ministers and
meetings abounded, but the place was now deserted, and we read
“Endymion” instead of being preached to four times a day.
After two days’ rest we journeyed towards Concord, N. H., spending
a night with the Canterbury Shakers on our way. Sister Philinda
thought she remembered us, and found our names registered in her
book eight years ago. The “yellow day” we passed with friends in
Concord. Only two days more! We wanted to go to Boston as we did
last year, but thought it best to follow the same old route to Milford,
which we had been over so many times, then varied our course by
going through Mason instead of Townsend Harbor, although we were
told it was “very hilly.” We knew they were not Vermont or Canada
hills. This new road, with its charming bits of scenery, gave a touch
of freshness to the latter part of our journey. According to our annual
custom, we supped with friends in Fitchburg, then drove home by
moonlight. Nearly four weeks, and just five hundred miles’ driving, is
the brief summing up of our tenth anniversary.
 CHAPTER III.
OLD ORCHARD AND BOSTON.
“We shall look for a report of your journey in the Transcript,” has
been said to us many times, and we will respond to the interest
manifested in our wanderings by sharing with our friends through
your columns as much of our pleasure as is transferable.
The fact that we had driven between three and four thousand miles
in ten successive summers by no means diminished our desire to go
again, and it gave us great pleasure when, in reply to “Can we have
the horse for a journey this summer?” Mr. A. said “Why, I suppose of
course you will go.” We decided to start about the middle of July, a
little earlier than usual, and one might well imagine that in the
intervening weeks many routes were planned and talked over, but in
truth we said nothing about it until the last moment, when we asked
each other, “Have you thought where to go?” and in turn each
answered “No.” It may seem strange and suggest lack of purpose,
but we like our journeys to make themselves, as a certain novelist
says her stories write themselves, and she cannot tell when they
begin how they will end.
As we tried to decide which direction to take first, we wondered if we
ever could have another journey as delightful as the last, when we
crossed the borders into Canada; then we recalled all we enjoyed on
our White Mountain drive, and that suggested never-to-be-forgotten
roads among the Green Mountains, and again the glories of our own
Berkshire Hills, and so on until Lake Memphremagog, the White
Mountains, Green Mountains, Berkshire Hills, Martha’s Vineyard,
Lake Winnipiseogee, Newport, the Connecticut Valley and the
network of highways we have traveled were all in a tangle, and there
seemed to be no places of interest left within our reach. Next came
to mind the chance suggestion of friends. One had said, “Why not
take your horse aboard one of the Maine steamers and explore that
part of the country?” Another thought the St. Lawrence drives very
delightful, and suggested we should take our horse by rail to some
point in that vicinity. A third only wished we could transport ourselves
to Colorado to begin our journey. We think, however that a carriage
journey taken by steamer or rail loses something of its genuineness,
and brought our minds back to the familiar towns and villages
adjoining our own, through some one of which we must go, and
somehow decided on Shirley.
As we packed our “things” into the phaeton for the eleventh time, we
asked how long such vehicles are warranted to last, and felt sure no
other could serve us as well. The bags, lunch basket, umbrellas and
wraps seem to know their respective places. Yes, the revolver, too,
drops instinctively into its hiding place. At last we were off, but a half
hour was now spent searching the shops for a drinking-cup and
saying good-morning to friends, by which time we thought of a word
unsaid at home, and dropped our first mail at our own postoffice. Our
“reporter,” watching for items while waiting for his mail, was attracted
by our traveling outfit and eagerly “interviewed” us, but with little
satisfaction, as you may well know. That we were going to Shirley,
six miles distant, was of little interest to him or his readers.
We now started in real earnest and soon were on the winding road to
Shirley. We took our first wayside lunch before we got to Groton,
where Charlie had two hours’ rest, and we passed the time
pleasantly with friends. An uneventful drive of ten miles in the
afternoon brought us to Westford, where we spent the first night.
There is no hotel in the place, but we found a good woman who took
care of us, and a jolly blacksmith opposite who promised good care
for our horse. We strolled down street in the evening and called on
friends who were enjoying country air and rest for a few weeks. Our
sleep was refreshing, and morning found us ready for an early start
somewhere, but exactly where we had no idea. After a brief
consultation we concluded we should like to go to the Isles of Shoals
again, and accordingly we traced the way on our map towards
Portsmouth, N. H. It was hot and dusty, and we passed through
Lowell with no inclination to stop, but when out of sight of the city
with its heat and dust and rattling machinery, we left Charlie to enjoy
his dinner and took our books in the shade down by the Merrimac
River, and were fanned by its breezes for two hours. The drive
through Lawrence to Haverhill, where we passed the second night,
was quite pleasant.
The chief recollections of the thirty-two miles we traveled the next
day are a few drops of rain in the morning, just enough to aggravate,
for we were almost ready to welcome a deluge; Jumbo, whose wake
we had struck, and the green beach-flies. The proprietor of the quiet
tavern where we took our mid-day rest brought us “Jumbo
Illustrated” for our literary entertainment, and told us his probable
losses on horse-hire, etc., the following month, on account of all the
people in the vicinity giving their money to Barnum. He also assured
us the “green heads” would trouble us for about three miles. True to
prophecy, they took possession of our horse and phaeton for that
distance, then disappeared as suddenly as they came. We
speculated as to their habits of life; wondered why they did not stay
on the beach, where their name implies they belong, and why they
did not steal five miles’ ride as well as three; then thought how
humiliating it would be to feel compelled to turn away from the
seashore overcome by an insignificant insect, when we could follow
our own sweet will for all fear of highway robbers, or a Jumbo even.
Night found us at Portsmouth, where the discomfort was in keeping
with the day, and it was with pleasure we granted our horse a rest in
the morning and took passage ourselves for the Isles of Shoals. The
day was perfect on the water—so fresh and cool. We landed at
Appledore, and an hour passed very quickly as we met one friend
after another. Suddenly a thunderstorm burst upon us; the rain fell in
torrents, and hailstones rolled like marbles along the broad piazza.
Surely the deluge we wished for had come, and, although it was not
needed where water was everyhere, it could do no harm, and we
enjoyed it to the utmost. We had planned to spend the night amid
ocean, but it was so glorious after the skies cleared, we could not
resist the temptation to have a drive while Nature was fresh and
dripping. After dinner, we visited Mrs. Celia Thaxter’s fascinating
parlor; then took the boat for Portsmouth. The calm after the storm
was delightful, and we sailed on, full of anticipation for our drive.
On reaching Portsmouth we were surprised to learn it had been
intensely hot all day, and not a drop of rain had fallen. It was too late
to repent, and we ordered our horse, drove to the post office for our
mail, our first news from home, then started for the ocean again. Our
enthusiasm was somewhat abated by the sultry atmosphere; but a
drive of eight miles brought us to York Beach, and a brisk walk on
the hard, moist sand while the sunset clouds were fading quite
restored us.
The next morning we drove leisurely along the beach, looking for
familiar faces we knew were in that vicinity, from the East and West,
visited one party after another, and in the afternoon drove on through
Wells to Kennebunk. We had another visitation from the beach flies,
but this time their persecutions continued for only a mile and a half.
We looked in vain for a hotel in Kennebunk, and on inquiring were
directed to a house attractively located, which we had thought to be
a very pleasant private residence. The homelikeness inside
harmonized with the exterior, and the host and hostess helped us to
pass the evening very agreeably. This was only one of many proofs
of Maine hospitality.
Before leaving Kennebunk we called at the home of a lady, one of
the many pleasant people we have met in our summer wanderings,
and promised to remember, “if we ever drove that way.” She is the
mother of Lizzie Bourne, whose sad story and monument of stones
every visitor to Mt. Washington will remember.
At Kennebunkport we surprised a party of young friends on the cliffs,
and made another promised call. We found the place with some
difficulty, and learned our friend was in Massachusetts. We thought
hospitality reigned supreme there, when we and our horse were
taken bodily possession of for luncheon and a three-hours’ visit, by a
lady whom we had never seen before. Every moment passed
pleasantly, and we reluctantly left our new-found friend en route to
Old Orchard, towards which point we had been driving for days, just
as if it had all been planned instead of “happening.”
It was our first visit to this favorite resort, and we stayed several
days, waiting for letters, and doing what everybody does at such
places—driving, walking and gathering shells on the beach; reading,
chatting and crocheting on the piazzas, occasionally wondering
where we should find ourselves next. The heat was almost
insufferable—land breeze night and day. Perhaps we could have
borne it better if we had known then that the invalid we watched with
some interest was Vennor himself, sharing with the rest the tortures
of the fulfilment of his prophecies. As it was we were ready for a
change. Our letters assured us all was well at home, and we decided
to drive across country to Lake Winnipiseogee.
As we sat at the breakfast table the morning we were to leave, a lady
at our right casually addressed us, and when she learned we were
driving for pleasure enthusiastically exclaimed, “Oh! you must visit
Hollis, a deserted village on the Saco.” She fascinated us with her
description of that quiet nook she had chosen for a summer resting
place, and the charmed circle of friends there, and offered us her
rooms which she had left for a few days, if we would spend a night
there, at the same time wishing we might meet all her friends and
assuring us of a kindly reception. We thought this the climax of
Maine hospitality. Only a moment before we were entire strangers,
except that we recognized the face of our friend as one well known
in the literary circles of Boston. We referred to our map, and found
Hollis directly in our course, but unfortunately, only about half the
distance we had proposed driving that day. We promised, however,
to take dinner there, if possible.
We rarely spend more than one night in a place, and as we packed
ourselves into our phaeton once more it seemed like starting on a
fresh journey. Old Orchard has its charms; still we rejoiced as we left
the scorching sand. The drive of seventeen miles to Hollis seemed
short, and it was only eleven o’clock when we introduced ourselves
to our new friends, and so very friendly were they that after an hour’s
chat in the parlor and a pleasant dinner company we were loth to
leave, and stated the rest of our friend’s proposition to the lady of the
house, whereupon we were taken to the promised apartments, and
at once made to feel at home. The heat was hardly less intense than
on the beach, and we passed the afternoon pleasantly indoors.
Supper was served early, as one of the ladies proposed a walk to the
charm of Hollis, the Saco River. Only a few rods from the house we
entered the woods and followed the little path up and down, picking
our way carefully over the swampy places, occasionally losing
balance as we stepped on a loose stone, until we reached the
favorite spot by a great rock overhanging the river bank. Our ears
were deafened and voices silenced by the mighty roaring of the
waters as they angrily surged through the narrow gorge. As far back
as we could see there was nothing but the foaming white and the
high wet rocks on either side. We gave ourselves up to the roar and
turmoil, and thought the stirring life and restless activity of this bit of
the Saco was worth the whole Atlantic Ocean. It was growing dark in
the woods, and we had to take a last look and retrace our steps
while we could see the path. A wish was expressed by our lady
escort that we might meet a delightful company of friends a mile or
two from the village whom we felt we knew already, through our
friend at the beach, who had also mentioned this as a part of the
pleasant programme she planned for us. Our phaeton was soon at
the door, and we exchanged our rubbers for wraps and were off in
the moonlight, assured it was perfectly safe all about there, night or
day. Of course our friend knew all the pretty roundabout ways, and
we had a lovely drive. The pleasant call we shall never forget, and as
we drove back, the “short cut” across the pastures was pointed out
as a favorite summer-evening walk. We did not sleep that night until
we had written our friend, thanking her for all we had enjoyed
through her kindness. But for her we should probably have driven
through Hollis with no recollection save one glimpse of the Saco.
Directly after breakfast next morning we bade our friends good-by,
promising to report to them from Weirs which of the various routes
suggested we took. There is no direct way, for it is literally across
country, and we felt as if we were leaving everybody and had nothing
but a wilderness between us and Lake Winnipiseogee. The morning
drive was hot and very uninteresting, no ocean or mountains, river or
hills, nothing but sandy roads and dry pastures.
We inquired the “best way” to Wolfeboro every time we saw anybody
to inquire of, and as we refreshed ourselves with sardines by the
wayside, wondered where Charlie was to get his dinner. We asked at