a physical effect on the nerves is furnished by _those
pathological states in which the emotion is objectless_. One of
the chief merits, in fact, of the view which I propose, seems
to be that we can so easily formulate by its means pathological
cases and normal cases under a common scheme. In every
asylum we find examples of absolutely unmotived fear, anger,
melancholy, or conceit, and others of an equally unmotived
apathy, which persists in spite of the best of outward reasons
why it should give way. In the former cases we must suppose
the nervous machinery to be so ‘labile’ in some one emotional
direction that almost every stimulus (however inappropriate)
causes it to upset in that way, and to engender the particular
complex of feelings of which the psychic body of that emotion
consists. Thus, to take one special instance, if inability to
draw deep breath, fluttering of the heart, and that peculiar
epigastric change felt as ‘precordial anxiety,’ with an
irresistible tendency to take a somewhat crouching attitude and
to sit still, and with perhaps other visceral processes not now
known, all spontaneously occur together in a certain person;
his feeling of their combination is the emotion of dread, and
he is the victim of what is known as morbid fear” (p. 458).
Now, it is evident, of course, in such a case as this, that such a
combination of feelings as is here described is not a fortuitous
coincidence of so many independent sensations. They must have a common
starting-point, which cannot well be elsewhere than in the brain. But if
this is the case, it seems to me to be begging the question to assume
that the sensations and not the emotion are the primary thing. On the
assumption that fear, in the normal condition, is the cause of the
disturbances of respiration, circulation, and the like, which accompany
it, it is as easy to formulate normal and pathological cases under a
common scheme, by supposing it to be the cause of the like disturbances
in cases of morbid fear, as on the theory of Professor James.
It seems to me, then, that the theory does not satisfactorily account for
the facts, so far as the involuntary, reflex accompaniments of motion are
concerned.
The difficulty is greatly increased when we consider the relations of
emotion to voluntary action. We have seen that reflex acts, similar to,
or identical with those in which Professor James believes emotion to
consist, may occur independently of emotion, in the ordinary acceptation
of the term, at least. Strictly voluntary acts, on the contrary, are
always the concomitants of emotion of some sort. In the great majority
of the ordinary actions of life, they are the only motor phenomena of
which we are aware in this connection. Our whole daily conduct, in our
business and pleasure, our incomings and our outgoings, our downsittings
and uprisings, is inseparably associated with our likings and dislikings,
our hopes and fears. What is the nature of this association?
Under the theory we are considering, two relations of voluntary acts
to emotion are possible. They may, like the involuntary reactions,
constitute the emotion, or unlike them, result from it. Professor James
does not express himself on the general question, but some of his
illustrations seem to favor the former view. If the man who meets a bear
is frightened because he runs, or the one who is insulted, angry because
he strikes, the voluntary acts of running and striking must, in part, at
least, constitute the emotions of fear and anger in these cases. Let us,
then, consider this case first.
If I see a shower coming up, and run for a shelter, the emotion is
evidently of the same kind, though perhaps less in degree, as in the
case of the man who runs from the bear. According to Professor James, I
am afraid of getting wet because I run. But supposing that, instead of
running, I step into a shop and buy an umbrella. The emotion is still
the same. I am afraid of getting wet. Consequently, so far as I can see,
the fear, in this case, consists in buying the umbrella. Fear of hunger,
in like manner, might consist in laying in a store of provisions; fear
of poverty, in shoveling dirt at a dollar a day, and so on indefinitely.
Anger, again, may be associated with many other actions than striking.
Shylock’s anger at Antonio’s insults induced him to lend him money.
Did the anger, or revengefulness, or whatever we may call the passion,
consist in the act of lending the money? I hardly think it necessary
to multiply instances in illustration of the fact that the same act is
often associated with the most contradictory emotions, and acts which
are ordinarily indifferent with the most intense feeling; that, in fact,
there is no such uniformity in the associations of emotion with voluntary
conduct as the hypothesis would seem to require. I incline to think that
most people will believe, in the cases cited by Professor James, that the
running and the striking are the results, not the causes of the fear and
anger.
If we assume such to be the case, we are no better off under the
hypothesis we are considering. Excluding voluntary movements, there
is nothing left of the emotion, according to Professor James, but the
consciousness of involuntary, reflex acts resulting from perception. The
voluntary acts must, then, be directly caused by these. Now, in the
first place, it is often difficult, if not impossible, to tell what these
actions are. What are the involuntary muscular contractions that impel
a day-laborer to go to the place of his work, and keep his voluntary
muscular system in strenuous activity all day, enduring fatigue and all
the discomforts of the summer’s heat or winter’s cold? It would probably
puzzle him very much to tell, although he has a very clear idea of why he
does it. I doubt if, on his own hypothesis, Professor James himself would
find it easy to explain the constituents of the emotions which impel him
to go to the class-room at the appointed hour and conduct a recitation.
But even in cases in which we are distinctly conscious of involuntary
action, there seems to be no connection between it and the voluntary acts
accompanying the emotion. In the case of the man running from the bear,
for instance, trembling lips, weakened limbs, goose-flesh and visceral
stirrings have nothing to do with running, but, on the contrary, would
rather tend to prevent it. In fact, it may be said, in general, that
the two classes of emotional activities are mutually antagonistic. The
more involuntary the action, the less efficient the voluntary activity
is apt to be, as any one knows who has had an attack of the “buck ague.”
We should have, therefore, diminution of the effect with increase of the
cause.
It seems, then, on the hypothesis, impracticable to account for the
association of voluntary action with emotion either on the supposition
that the former is the cause or the result of the latter. A third
alternative—that there is no relation of cause and effect in the case,
and that the phenomena of emotion and action, although constantly
associated, are really independent, I will not discuss, as it does not
commend itself to my mind, and Professor James, elsewhere, expressly
repudiates it. It seems to me that the only reasonable conclusion is
that emotion is something different from either involuntary or voluntary
muscular activity, and which may be the cause of either or both.
Professor James, after admitting that the view of the subject which
he advocates is only a hypothesis, and that much is lacking to its
definitive proof, goes on to say:
“The only way coercively to _dis_prove it, however, would be to
take some emotion and then exhibit qualities of feeling in it
which should be _demonstrably_ additional to all those which
could possibly be derived from the organs affected at the time.
But to detect with certainty such purely spiritual qualities of
feeling would obviously be a task beyond human power....
“A positive proof of the theory would, on the other hand, be
given, if we could find a subject absolutely anæsthetic inside
and out, but not paralytic, so that emotion-inspiring objects
might evoke the usual bodily expressions from him, but who,
on being consulted, should say that no subjective emotional
affection was felt. Such a man would be like one who, because
he eats, appears to bystanders to be hungry, but who afterwards
confesses that he had no appetite at all.” (P. 455.)
Whether the truth of the first of the above paragraphs is to be conceded
or not, depends, I suppose, on the strength of proof necessary for
coercion. The only way, for instance, coercively to disprove the once
prevalent theory that “lunacy” is due to the influence of the moon would
be to abolish the moon. Most intelligent people, however, at the present
day, accept the fact that there seems to be no coincidence between
the moon’s phases and the phenomena of insanity as sufficient proof
for practical purposes of the incorrectness of that theory. It seems
to me that the facts to which I have called attention show a somewhat
similar lack of correspondence in the case we have been considering. I
am, however, unable to see why a case of complete anæsthesia, such as
is supposed in the second paragraph, would not answer nearly as well
for one side of the question as the other, according to the presence or
absence of emotion. To suppose that cutaneous and visceral sensations are
preserved unimpaired for purposes of emotion, while absolutely abolished
for all other purposes, would be putting a pretty severe strain on the
faculty of belief.
Such cases, as Professor James says, are hard to find. He refers to one,
reported by Strümpell, in which a boy, anæsthetic within and without,
with the exception of one eye and one ear, was stated to have manifested
shame, grief, surprise, fear, and anger. He goes on, however, to say:
“In observing him, however, no such theory as the present one seems to
have been thought of; and it always remains possible that, just as he
satisfied his natural appetites and necessities in cold blood, with no
inward feeling, so his emotional expressions may have been accompanied by
a quite cold heart.”
Since Professor James’s work was published, two cases have been reported
by Berkley,[57] which, although not, perhaps, conclusive, are of interest
in this connection. In the first, the patient, a woman of English
birth, age not stated, had complete loss of sense of pain, heat and
cold, pressure and equilibrium, of smell, taste, and sight. The sense
of touch, although not completely abolished, was very greatly impaired.
She recognised a hat, for instance, only after feeling of it for a long
time and then seemed doubtful about it. Her sense of the position of the
extremities was also very imperfect, although not entirely abolished; and
there was some deafness, although not enough to render her incapable of
conversation. With regard to her mental state, Dr. Berkley says:
“The psychical condition has undergone but slight change, she
is possibly a little apathetic, with some slight tendency
towards a melancholic tone, but when aroused and induced to
converse for some time, this in great measure passes away. The
memory is quite good.”
Dr. Berkley was kind enough to give me the following additional
information about this patient, who, at the time of writing, was still
under observation:
“Since the coming on of the dullness in hearing there has been
a considerable degree of apathy manifest. She is no longer
conscious of the smaller noises that occur around her, but is
very readily aroused by the voice, and then takes a lively
interest in what is said to her: for instance a few days ago
the resident physician remarked to her that he was going to
obtain a pair of crutches for her use; she laughed heartily
at the idea, and said she would fall and break her leg at the
first step.”
In response to further inquiries, he writes as follows:
“1) Visceral sensations. The clearest evidence of visceral
sensation I have noted in my article,” [warning of the
necessity of evacuating the bowels and bladder by a pricking
pain in the lower part of the abdomen,] “no others were
sufficiently definite to be described. For two years there has
been no feeling of hunger or thirst, and as the diet has only
been a few mouthfuls of milk at a time for nearly that period,
there has been no feeling of repletion.
“2) When the patient laughs at a joke, there is a slight
flushing of the face, besides the ordinary contraction of the
facial muscles; she is aware that she is laughing, but besides
acknowledging that she perceives no difference between the
act now, and some years ago, she is unable to describe the
sensation further.
“3) Anger. As I think I mentioned in my last letter, the
patient has been a person of unusually equal temper; an
outbreak of real passion has never been observed with her.
When annoyed or teased by some of the other women, there is
a distinct corrugation of the forehead, accompanied by an
exceedingly slight general movement as if of aversion, no
words, movement of the chest, clenching of the hands, etc. She
describes the sensation as one of repulsion.
“Like Strümpell’s case she shows definitely shame, grief,
surprise, fear, and substituting for anger, repulsion.
“My own impression derived from observation of the patient
is, that all mental emotional sensibilities are present and
only a little less vivid than in the unanæsthetic state; and
that emotions are approximately natural, and not at all coldly
dispassionate.”
In the second case, that of a Russian woman, aged thirty-five, there was
complete loss of cutaneous sensibility in all its qualities: the sense of
position (“muscular sense”) was almost completely abolished; the sense of
taste was absent in the anterior two-thirds of the tongue. Smell, sight,
and hearing were preserved. She had left the hospital before the article
was written. In regard to her case, Dr. Berkley writes:
“While in the most absolute state of anæsthesia (auditory
and visual excepted) there was no departure from a normal
psyche; the woman would sometimes be angered when she did not
understand a question, at others would smile or shake her head,
and would frequently laugh and talk with another Russian woman
in the same ward. There was never the slightest apathy manifest
after the first few days of febrile movement.”
I give these cases for what they are worth. In the first, it is evidently
impossible to entirely exclude the presence of sensations caused by the
reflex acts, and the second, not having, apparently, been examined with
special reference to the subjective side of her emotional manifestations,
may be open to the same objection which Professor James makes against
Strümpell’s case. To me it seems extremely unlikely that, if the theory
under discussion is correct, such an amount of anæsthesia as existed in
these cases would have produced no obvious effect on the emotions. The
fact that voluntary acts were performed by both these patients as well
as by Strümpell’s case, seems to me conclusive as to the existence of
emotions of some sort in all of them.
It seems clear to me, from the foregoing considerations, that there are
serious difficulties in the way of accepting Professor James’s theory as
an adequate explanation of all the phenomena of emotion. On the other
hand, I think it contains an important truth, and that, by calling
attention to it, he has rendered a real service to psychology. In order
to make it clear how far I agree with him, it will be necessary to
consider just what feelings are to be classed together under the head of
emotion.
If we touch our fingers to a live coal, we are conscious of a sensation
of heat, and also of pain. If we take quinine into our mouths, it tastes
bitter, and also disagreeable. So in regard to a very large proportion of
our sensations, we recognise two elements—one which has to do with the
qualities of the object, and, another consisting of the pleasurable or
painful way in which those qualities affect us. The former may be called
the objective element in sensation. We think of the heat as residing
in the coal, whether we are touching it or not, but it never occurs
to us to think of the coal as in pain. The pain is in us—an entirely
subjective feeling. Doubtless there is no more reason to think of heat,
as it is appreciated by our senses, as a property of the coal, than pain,
but that is the way in which we naturally think of it. That these two
elements are really distinct is evident from the fact that the different
senses furnish them in different proportions. Comparatively few sights,
for instance, give any such sensuous pain to the eye as the sensation
produced by getting a grain of sand under the lid, which gives us very
little information in regard to the qualities of the offending substance.
In fact, it is generally true that intensity of pleasurable or painful
sensation is a hindrance to exact knowledge of its object. It is further
evident from the fact that, in disease, one form of sensibility may be
abolished while the other is retained. A person may be able to feel the
slightest touch, and to recognise perfectly the size, shape, and texture
of the objects he handles, and yet feel no pain when cut, struck, nor
burned, or he may have even heightened sensibility to painful impressions
with loss of the power to recognise the sensible qualities of objects.
Now, although we are accustomed to distinguish between emotions and
purely sensuous pleasures and pains, there are some points, at least, at
which it is not easy to draw the line. My pleasure in the anticipation of
a good dinner is undoubtedly an emotion. Is not my pleasure in eating it
entitled to the same name, and does not the latter consist in the reality
of the sensations which in the former case were enjoyed in imagination?
Is not the enjoyment we feel in the smell of mignonette, the tone of a
sweet voice, the color and form of the rainbow, emotion? Yet it consists
largely, if not entirely, in the agreeableness of the sensations. Most
people would probably think it strange to hear hunger and thirst spoken
of as emotions but would readily agree that desire of food or drink
is as much an emotion as any other desire. Is the desire in this case
anything more than the hunger or thirst?
I am inclined to think that it is proper to call such pleasures and
pains as I have instanced above emotions, and if so, I see no reason
for denying the name to any sensuous pleasures and pains. If Professor
James’s view is that all feeling is sensation, I should say that all
feeling is emotion. Whether this view is correct or not, I do not see how
Professor James can consistently refuse to accept it. On his theory, the
emotions which he discusses must owe their pleasurable or painful quality
to the pleasurable or painful nature of the sensations in which they
consist. I can see no valid ground for saying that some such feelings are
emotions and others are not. But the essence of emotion is pleasure or
pain. Abstracting these qualities, it would be an indifferent emotion,
which, I think all would agree, is a contradiction in terms. Possibly he
might wish to limit the use of the term to those pleasurable and painful
feelings, which arise not directly, but in a reflex way. He might say,
for instance, that the disagreeableness to the ear of the creaking of an
ungreased axle is not, but the shudder which it gives a sensitive person
is, emotion. In that case, it must be admitted that a sneeze is emotion.
His contention is that we have no other pleasures or pains than those of
sensation. If this be true, a setting off of some sensations as emotions
is, if not an arbitrary, a comparatively useless procedure.
My own view, then, is that the elements of sensation which I have
spoken of as objective and subjective might, with equal propriety, be
characterised respectively as intellectual and emotional, and that in
this direction the theory under discussion, although true as far as it
goes, does not go far enough.
However this may be, the admission or denial that these feelings are
emotions does not necessarily affect the question whether or not this is
the only origin, of pleasure and pain. As has already been said, those
feelings to which no one will deny the name of emotions are not usually,
in adult human beings, at least, direct reactions on sensation. If it
be true that the start we give at the unexpected slamming of a door
is a sort of fright, it is a very rudimentary sort compared with that
which one feels when the cry of fire is raised in a crowded theatre. “A
burnt child dreads the fire.” It is not the sight of the fire, but the
thought of the burning, that arouses the emotion. When a man reads in the
newspaper of the death of a friend, or a rise in the value of property
in which he is interested, it is not the sight of the black marks on the
white paper, but the beliefs which, through a long and intricate series
of associations they call up, which move his feelings. If he could not
read, he would see the same announcement without any emotion. The usual
origin of the emotions _par excellence_ is by way of association.
Suppose that I have taken a nauseous dose, and made a wry face over
it. No one, I presume, would question that the disagreeableness lay in
the unpleasant taste, and not in the distortion of the countenance.
Now, suppose I have to repeat the dose, and my face takes on a
similar expression at the anticipation to that which it wore when I
took it originally. How does this come about? If I can trust my own
consciousness, it is because the vivid reproduction, in memory, of the
unpleasant taste is itself unpleasant. I do not see how it can well be
otherwise. Professor James says (p. 649) that “the first element of
memory is the revival in the mind of an image or copy of the original
event.” How can I have a copy in my mind of a pain if it is not painful?
Take away the painfulness of it and there would be nothing left. I might
remember the circumstances under which it occurred, and judge from
them that I must have suffered pain, but I could not, it seems to me,
remember the pain itself. Whether that is possible or not, I feel sure
that the fact, in my own case, is, that my memory of a pain resembles it
in the same way that my memory of the circumstances in which it occurred
resembles them. If this be the fact, what can be more natural than that
it should excite the same sort of associated movements that were excited
by the original sensation? I cannot make it seem any more credible, to
return to the example mentioned above, that my repugnance to a repetition
of the dose is due to my involuntary movements than that my discomfort in
taking it originally was due to the similar movements that occurred then.
Suppose that a child who has eaten and enjoyed an orange is offered
another. The sight of it calls up the recollection of the agreeable
taste, and the expectation of a repetition of the pleasant experience
excites expressions of pleasure. If the fruit is snatched away, the
disappointment at the loss of the expected pleasure is distressing, and
very probably may result in his weeping. I hardly think that any one who
will consult his own consciousness will say that the reason he likes the
taste of an orange is that it makes him laugh or smile to get it. He
likes it because it tastes good, and is sorry to lose it for the same
reason. The laughing or weeping is, I think, unquestionably the result of
the pleasure or grief, not of the mere perception of an object in itself
indifferent.
It is true that emotions of this sort do not always arise by way of
personal association. Young children are apt to be afraid of strangers,
of large animals, and of loud noises. I can remember being frightened
at my first sight of a locomotive. Here we come upon the questions
of inherited experience and natural selection, which can hardly be
discussed in an article like this. The objects of which young children
are instinctively afraid, as a rule, are either dangerous themselves, or
more or less similar to dangerous objects. I see no more difficulty in
supposing that mental pleasure and pain, on the sight of special objects,
may be a matter of organisation than in the case of the analogous
physical sensations.