is altogether absent. I am conscious of the harmony, and if I do not
direct, I still verify results. As an entire phrase of music rolls off
my rapid fingers, I judge it to be good. But if one of the notes
sticks, or I perceive that the phrase might be improved by a slightly
changed stress, I can check my spontaneous movements and correct the
error. There is therefore a watchful, if not a prompting,
consciousness at work. It is true that, the first note started, all
the others follow of themselves in natural sequence. Though I withdraw
attention from my fingers, they run their round as a part of the
associated train. But if they go awry, consciousness is ready with its
inhibition. I accordingly call this the stage of negative
consciousness. In it consciousness is not employed as a positive
guiding force, but the moment inhibition or check is required for
reaching the intended result, consciousness is ready and asserts
itself in the way of forbiddal. This third stage, therefore, differs
from the first through having its results embody a conscious purpose;
from the second, through having consciousness superintend the process
in a negative and hindering, rather than in a positive and prompting
way. It is the stage of habit. I call it second nature because it is
worked, not by original instincts, but by a new kind of associative
mechanism which must first be laboriously constructed.

Years ago when I began to teach at Harvard College, we used to regard
our students as roaring animals, likely to destroy whatever came in
their way. We instructors were warned to keep the doors of our lecture
rooms barred. As we came out, we must never fail to lock them. So
always in going to a lecture, as I passed through the stone entry and
approached the door my hand sought my pocket, the key came out, was
inserted in the keyhole, turned, was withdrawn, fell back into my
pocket, and I entered the room. This series of acts repeated day after