In the matter of learning by heart, for example, there are two facts to be noted and two memories to be distinguished. When I know a poem by heart and can repeat it I say that I remember it. But I say also, perhaps, that I remember the stages by which I came to learn it. I remember, or may remember, occasion after occasion of my more or less successful repetition of the poem while I was learning it. I can recall, or may recall, step after step of my advance towards perfectly 'remembering' it. When it is learnt I say that it is imprinted on my memory; but I may also say that the steps of my progress towards knowing the poem are in like manner imprinted on my memory. Yet a very little thought shows that these are two kinds of memory, not one; and that there are two kinds of imprinting, not one. The memory of the poem itself has every mark of an acquired habit, even that of the disastrous effect of an interruption. When I have repeated a poem for the twentieth time without mistake I may be thrown out of my declamatory stride by the banging of a door, and become unable either to tell myself how far I had gone in the poem or to pick up its broken thread. About a memory like this there is the mechanical look of an ingrained and almost unconscious habit. It is bodily, like the memory of a sonata for the pianist as he is playing, a memory which seems to him rather in his fingers than in his mind. But the memory of the steps and process by which I gradually learnt my poem is quite different. That is a history, not a habit. Each stage occurred only once; no one was graven into permanence by repetition, indeed no one was, or could be, ever repeated. Each was unique and had its own date in the history of the process and of my enduring life. Here is a difference indeed to be reckoned with. There is a kind of memory that _represents_ our past to us; and there is another kind (if it is memory at all) that _acts_ it. I say, emphatically, if it is memory at all, this latter; for it does not really preserve the past, it only continues into the present an effect or a result of happenings of the past. In true memory history is preserved; the history of our whole lives is preserved in our true memory. But only the effects or results, only indeed certain effects and results, of the living real happenings in our living and real duration are graven in the body stuff as habits, as, if we like to call them so, habit-memories. The establishing of these memories is an affair of training and practice. The brain and body have to be forced into them; structure has to be shaped and taught, that it may carry on automatically, or all but automatically, some particular mode of action. And we note that the more nearly automatic these habit-memories are the better they work. When the nerve-paths in the structure of the brain and body are beaten smooth by treading and retreading the work goes easily and well.