Of all the instincts, two groups or classes stand out from the rest:

the responses to organic needs, and the responses to other persons.

The first class includes eating, avoiding injury, and many others; the

second class includes the herd instinct, the mating instinct and the

parental instinct, these three and perhaps no others.

{139}

These two groups out, the rest are rather a miscellaneous collection,

including the "random" or playful activity of young children,

locomotion, vocalization, laughter, curiosity, rivalry and fighting.

They might be named the "non-specific instincts", because the stimulus

for each is not easy to specify, being sometimes another person, so

that this group has great social importance, but sometimes being

impersonal. This third class might also be called the "play

instincts", since they are less essential than the other classes for

maintaining the individual life or for propagating the species; and

are, we may say, less concerned with the struggle for existence than

with the joy of living.

Our classification then has three heads:

(1) Responses to organic needs,

(2) Responses to other persons,

(3) Play responses.

Responses to Organic Needs

Something has already been said [Footnote: See above, pp. 79-81, 112.]

of the manner in which an organic state, such as lack of water, acting

on internal sensory nerves, arouses in the nerve centers an adjustment

towards an end-result, and how, if the end-result cannot immediately

be attained, preparatory reactions occur, the preparatory reactions

being in some cases closely attached, by nature, to the main tendency,

and in other cases only loosely attached so that the tendency leads to

trial and error behavior. The reactions that are nearest to the

end-result are likely to be closely attached to the main tendency,

while those that are farther from the end-result are loosely attached.

Thus, in the case of _thirst_, the drinking movement itself is about

all, in man, that is purely instinctive, {140} and the way of getting

water to the mouth, or the mouth to the water, is a matter for trial

and error, and only becomes fixed as the result of a process of

learning. Still less can we mention any specific water-seeking

reactions, in the human being, that are provided by the native

constitution. Yet the whole business of relieving thirst is directed

by the native thirst-impulse, and to that extent is an instinctive

activity. And shall we say that so simple a matter as meeting this

organic need is below the dignity of psychology, and can have little

influence on the behavior of mankind? Hardly, when we think of the

rôle played by springs, wells and drinking places of all kinds in the

life of the race, of aqueducts and reservoirs, of all the beverages

that have been invented, and of all the people whose job it has been

to provide and dispense them. To be sure, any beverage with a taste,

or a "kick", is not simply a thirst-reliever, but makes some

additional appeal, good or bad; but all this simply illustrates the

way instincts become modified, by combination with other instincts,

and by the learning and fixing of various preparatory reactions that

were not provided, ready-made, in the native constitution. The

drinking instinct, or thirst impulse, is a very good example of this

whole class of organic instincts.

Instincts connected with hunger.

Here again, the reactions nearest to the end-result (food in the

stomach) are provided by nature. Sucking and swallowing appear at

birth, chewing with the appearance of the teeth; and the infant also

makes what seem to be instinctive movements of seeking the breast, as

well as movements of rejecting it when satiated and of spitting out

bad-tasting food. Putting food (and other things) into the mouth by

the hands seems almost instinctive, and yet it has to be fixed by

trial and error. Anything like definite food-seeking behavior,

amounting to a _hunting_ instinct, scarcely gets a chance to show

itself in {141} the human child, because his food is provided for him.

In many animals, hunting is a highly organized instinct; thus,

crouching, stalking, springing and teasing the mouse when caught, have

been proved to be instinctive in young cats. Some animals have

definite food-storing instincts also, and possibly food-storing shows

the acquisitive or collecting tendency in its lowest terms. Possibly,

that is to say, hunting and collecting, as well as disgust (primarily

of bad-tasting or bad-smelling food), are originally parts of the

food-getting behavior, having the general character of reactions

preparatory to eating. However this may be, we can easily see the

great importance of the hunger motive in human life; we have only to

consider the matter in the same way as we considered thirst just

above.

Breathing and air-getting.

Breathing, obviously a native reaction, is ordinarily automatic and

needs no preparatory reactions, simply because air is so easy to get.

But let breathing be difficult, for any reason, and the stifling

sensation is as impulsive as hunger or thirst. The stuffy air in a

cave or in a hole under a haymow will lead a child to frantic escape.

Possibly the delight in being out of doors which shows itself in young

children, and is not lost in adults, represents a sort of air-hunting

instinct, parallel to food-hunting. Closely connected with breathing

is the function of circulation, automatic for the most part; and we

should mention also the organic needs of waste-elimination, which give

impulsive sensations akin to hunger and thirst, and lead to more or

less organized instinctive reactions.

Responses to heat and cold.

The warm-blooded animals, birds and mammals, have the remarkable power

of keeping the body temperature constant (at 98-99 degrees Fahrenheit,

in man, somewhat higher in birds), in spite of great variations in the

external temperature to which the body is exposed, and in spite of

great variations in the {142} amount of heat generated in the body by

muscular exercise. Sweating and flushing of the skin are reactions to

heat, and prevent the body temperature from rising; paling of the

skin, shivering and general muscular activity are responses to cold

and prevent the body temperature from falling. Shrinking from great

heat or cold are also instinctive, while seeking shelter from the heat

or cold is a preparatory reaction that is not definitely organized in

the native constitution of man, but gives rise to a great variety of

learned reactions, and plays a considerable part in life.

Shrinking from injury.

The "flexion reflex" of the arm or leg, which pulls it away from a

pinch, prick or burn, is the type of a host of defensive

reactions--winking, scratching, rubbing the skin, coughing, sneezing,

clearing the throat, wincing, limping, squirming, changing from an

uncomfortable position--most or all of them instinctive reactions.

With each goes some sort of irritating sensation, as pain, itching,

tickling, discomfort; and a conscious impulse to get rid of the

irritation is often present. When the simpler avoiding reactions do

not remove the irritating stimulus, they are repeated more vigorously

or give way to some bigger reaction tending towards the same result.

The climax of the avoiding reactions is flight or running away. Akin

to flight are cowering, shrinking, dodging or warding off a blow,

huddling into the smallest possible space, getting under cover,

clinging to another person; and most or all of these, too, are

instinctive reactions. With flight and the other larger

danger-avoiding reactions there is often present, along with the

impulse to escape, the stirred up organic and conscious state of

_fear_.

The stimuli that arouse movements of escape are of two sorts: those

that directly cause some irritating sensation, and those that are

simply signs of danger. The smaller avoiding reactions--flexion

reflex, coughing, etc.--are {143} aroused by stimuli that are directly

painful or irritating; whereas flight, cowering, etc., are mostly

responses to mere signs of danger. A "sign of danger" is usually seen

or heard at some distance, not felt directly on or in the body. Now,

while avoiding reactions are attached by nature to the irritating

stimuli, it is not at all clear whether escape movements are

_natively_ attached to any signs of danger, or, if they are, to what

particular signs of danger they are attached. What visual or auditory

stimuli, that are not directly irritating, will arouse escape

movements in a young child? For the youngest children, no such stimuli

have been found. You can easily get avoiding reactions from a little

baby by producing pain or discomfort; you can get the clinging

response by letting the child slip when he is being held in your arms;

and you get crying and shrinking on application of a loud, grating

noise, such a noise as is irritating in itself without regard to what

it may signify. But you cannot get any shrinking from stimuli that are

not directly irritating.

For example, you get no sign of fear from a little child on suddenly

confronting him with a furry animal. With older children, you do get

shrinking from animals, but it is impossible to be sure that the older

child has not _learned_ to be afraid of them. I have seen a child of

two years simply laugh when a large, strange dog came bounding towards

him in the park; but a year later he would shrink from a strange dog.

Whence the change? There are two possibilities: either a native

connection between this stimulus and the shrinking response only

reached its maturity when the child was about three years old--and

there is nothing improbable in this--or else the child, though

actually never bitten by a dog, had been warned against dogs by his

elders or had observed his elders shrinking from dogs. Children do

pick up fears in this way; for example, children who are {144}

naturally not the least bit afraid of thunder and lightning may

acquire a fear of them from adults who show fear during a

thunderstorm.

On the whole, the danger-avoiding reactions are probably not linked by

nature to any special signs of danger. While the emotion of fear, the

escape impulse, and many of the escape movements are native, the

attachment of these responses to specific stimuli--aside from directly

irritating stimuli--is acquired. Fear we do not learn, but we learn

what to fear.

Crying.

We have the best of evidence that this is a native reaction, since the

baby cries from birth on. He cries from hunger, from cold, from

discomfort, from pain, and, perhaps most of all, as he gets a little

older, from being thwarted in anything he has set out to do. This last

stimulus gives the "cry of anger", which baby specialists tell us

sounds differently from the cries of pain and of hunger. Still, there

is so much in common to the different ways of crying that we may

reasonably suppose there is some impulse, and perhaps some emotional

state, common to all of them. The common emotion cannot be anger, or

hunger, or discomfort or pain. To name it grief or sorrow would fit

the crying of adults better than that of little children. The best

guess is that the emotional state in crying is the feeling of

_helplessness_. The cry of anger is the cry of helpless anger; anger

that is not helpless expresses itself in some other way than crying;

and the same is true of hunger, pain and discomfort. Crying is the

reaction appropriate to a condition where the individual cannot help

himself--where he wants something but is powerless to get it. The

helpless baby sets up a wail that brings some one to his assistance;

that is the utility of crying, though the baby, at first, does not

have this result in view, but simply cries because he is hungry and

helpless, uncomfortable and {145} helpless, thwarted and helpless. The

child cries less as he grows older, because he learns more and more to

help himself.

With the vocal element of crying goes movement of the arms and legs,

which also has utility in attracting attention; but what may be the

utility of shedding copious tears remains a mystery, in spite of

several ingenious hypotheses that have been advanced to explain it.

Fatigue, rest and sleep.

That fatigue, primarily an organic state, gives rise to fatigue

sensations and to a neural adjustment for rest--a disinclination to

work any longer--and that drowsiness is a somewhat different organic

state that gives an inclination to sleep--all this has been

sufficiently set forth in earlier chapters. Going to sleep is a

definite act, an instinctive response to the drowsy state. In the way

of preparatory reactions, we find many interesting performances in

birds and mammals, such as the curling up of the dog or cat to sleep,

the roosting of hens, the standing on one leg of some birds; and we

see characteristic positions adopted by human beings, but do not know

how far these are instinctive and how far acquired. Closing the eyes

is undoubtedly a native preparatory reaction for sleep.

Like the other responses to organic needs, rest and sleep figure

pretty largely in the behavior of the adult, as in finding or

providing a good place to sleep. Certainly if fatigue and sleep could

be eliminated, as some over-enthusiastic workers have pretended to

hope, life would be radically changed.

Instinctive Responses to Other Persons

We are next to look for action and emotion aroused by persons,

specifically--not by persons and things alike. Fear can be aroused by

persons, but also by things. In a social animal, such as man, almost

any instinct comes to have {146} social bearings. Eating and drinking

become social matters, and all the organic instincts figure in the

placing and making of a home. Home is a place of shelter against heat

and cold, it is a refuge from danger, it is where you eat and where

you sleep. It meets all these organic needs but--it is specially where

"your people" are.

Home is a place where _unlike_ persons foregather, male with female,

adults with children, and thus it symbolizes the "family instincts",

mating and child-care, which are responses to persons unlike in sex or

age. But home also illustrates very well the herd instinct, which is a

response to like persons, "birds of a feather flocking together". It

is not the single home that illustrates this, but the almost universal

grouping of homes into villages or cities.

The herd instinct or gregarious instinct.

It might be argued that a city or village was the result of economic

causes, or, in the olden days, a means of protection against enemies,

and not a direct satisfaction of any instinct in man to flock

together. But often a family who know perfectly well that their

economic advantage demands their remaining where they are, in some

isolated country spot, will pull up stakes and accept an inferior

economic status in the city, just because the country is too lonely

for them. One woman, typical of a great many, declined to work in a

comfortable and beautiful place in the country, because "she didn't

want to see trees and rocks, she wanted to see people". There is no

doubt that man belongs by nature with the deer or wolf rather than

with solitary animals such as the lion. He is a gregarious creature.

The gregarious instinct does not by any manner of means account for

all of man's social behavior. It brings men together and so gives a

chance for social doings, but these doings are learned, not provided

ready-made by the instinct. About all we can lay to the herd instinct

is uneasiness when {147} alone, seeking company, remaining in company,

and following the rest as they move from place to place. The feeling

of loneliness or lonesomeness goes with being alone, and a feeling of

satisfaction goes with being in company.

Probably there is one more fact that belongs under the herd instinct.

A child is lonely even in company, unless he is allowed to

_participate_ in what the others are doing. Sometimes you see an adult

who is gregarious but not sociable, who insists on living in the city

and wishes to see the people, but has little desire to talk to any one

or to take part in any social activities; but he is the exception. As

a rule, people wish not only to be together but to do something

together. So much as this may be ascribed to the instinct, but no

more. "Let's get together and _do something_"--that is as far as the

gregarious instinct goes. _What_ we shall do depends on other motives,

and on learning as well as instinct.

The mating instinct.

Attraction towards the opposite sex is felt by a small number of

children, by most young people beginning from 15 to 20 years of age,

by a minority not till a few years later, and, by a small number,

never at all. On account of the late maturing of this instinct, in

man, instinctive behavior is here inextricably interwoven with what

has been learned. A definite organic and emotional state, lust, goes

with this instinct. Preparatory reactions, called "courtship", are

very definitely organized in many animals, and often quite elaborate.

In man, courtship is elaborate enough, but not definitely organized as

an instinct; and yet it follows much the same line as we observe in

animal courtship. It begins with admiring attention to one of the

opposite sex, followed by efforts to attract that one's attention by

"display" (strutting, decoration of the person, demonstrating one's

prowess, especially in opposition to rivals). Then the male takes an

aggressive attitude, the {148} female a coy attitude; the male woos,

the female hangs back, and something analogous to pursuit and capture

takes place, except that the capture may be heartily accepted by both

parties.

The "survival value" of this instinct is absolute; without it the race

would not long survive. But it has "play value" also, it contributes

to the joy of living as well as to the struggle for survival. There is

much in social intercourse, and in literature and art, that is

motivated by the sex impulse. Some would-be psychologists have been so

much impressed by the wide ramifications of the sex motive in human

conduct that they have attributed to it all play, all enjoyment, all

the softer and lighter side of life, even all the spiritual side of

life. One need only run over the long list of instincts, especially

those that still remain to be mentioned, in order to be convinced of

the one-sidedness of such a view. On the other hand, some moralists

have been so deeply impressed by the difficulties that arise out of

the sex motive, as to consider it essentially gross and bad; but this

is as false as the other view. The sex impulse is like a strong but

skittish horse that is capable of doing excellent work but requires a

strong hand at the reins and a clear head behind. It is a horse that

does not always pull well in a team; yet it is capable of fine

teamwork. It can be harnessed up with other tendencies, and when so

combined contribute some of its motive force to quite a variety of

human activities.

The parental or mothering instinct.

In many species of animals, though not by any means in all, one or

both of the parents stays by the young till some degree of maturity is

reached. In some kinds of fish, it is the male that cares for the

young; in birds it is often both parents. In mammals it is always the

mother. Instinctively, the mammalian mother feeds, warms and defends

her young. Just as {149} instinctively, the human mother does the

same. This instinctive reaction to the little baby is attended by a

strong emotion, called, for want of a better name, the "tender

emotion".

The strongest stimulus to arouse this instinct is the little, helpless

baby. The older child has to take second place with the mother, so

soon as there is a little baby there. After a child is weaned, and

after he is able to get about and do for himself to quite an extent,

he has less hold on the maternal instinct. The love and care that he

may still get is less a simple matter of instinct.

Though the little baby is the strongest stimulus to this instinct,

older children and even adults, provided they are like the baby in

being winsome and helpless in some way, may arouse the same sort of

feeling and behavior, tender feeling and protective behavior. A pet

animal may arouse the same tendency, and a "darling little calf" or a

"cute little baby elephant" may awaken something of the same thrill.

Even a young plant may be tended with a devotion akin to the maternal.

The fact seems to be here, as with other instincts, that objects

similar to the natural stimulus may arouse the same impulse and

emotion. Love between the sexes is often a compound of sex attraction

and the mothering instinct; and it is interesting to watch a happily

mated couple each mothering the other.

But is it allowable to speak of this instinct as present in the male

human being, or in any one not a mother? Undoubtedly the woman who has

recently become a mother is most susceptible to the appeal of a little

baby, but the response of other women and of girls to a baby is so

spontaneous that we cannot but call it instinctive. Men and boys have

no special desire to feed or cuddle a little baby, and are quite

contented to leave the care of the baby mostly to the "women folks".

But they do object strongly to seeing the {150} baby hurt or

ill-treated, and will respond by protecting it. Also, they like to

watch the baby act, and like to help it along in its efforts to do

things. This may be instinctive in the man; at least it reminds us of

the behavior of a mother cat or dog or horse, when she plays with her

young and stimulates them to action. When the mother cat brings a live

mouse for her half-grown kittens to practise on, she is acting

instinctively, and probably a man is obeying the same instinct when he

brings the baby a toy and derives pleasure from watching the baby's

attempts to use it.

The parental instinct would thus seem to lie at the root of education,

considered as an enterprise of adults directed towards getting the

young to acquire the behavior of the race; and it also lies at the

root of charity, the desire to protect the helpless.

Is there any instinct in the child answering to the parental, any

"filial" instinct, as it were? Psychologists have usually answered no,

but possibly they have been misled by the word "filial" and looked in

the wrong direction. The parental instinct is an instinct to give, and

the answering instinct would be one to take--not to give in return. It

is probably not instinctive for the child to do for the parent, but is

it not instinctive for the child to take from the parent, and to look

to the parent for what he wants? It is not exactly "unnatural conduct"

in a child to impose on his mother, as it would be in the mother to

impose on the child; but would it not be unnatural in a child to take

an unreceptive and distrustful attitude towards his mother?

Filial love is different. It is not purely instinctive, but depends on

intelligence. It is only possible if the child has the intelligence to

see the parent as something besides a parent--as some one needing care

and protection--and if the child himself takes a parental attitude

towards the parent. But that is a grown-up attitude, seldom taken by

{151} young children. It is not the infantile instinct, which, if

there is such an instinct, is the spring of trustful, docile,

dependent, childlike and childish behavior.

The Play Instincts

Any instinct has "play value", but some have also "survival value" and

so are serious affairs. Survival value characterizes the instincts we

have already listed, both the responses to organic needs and the

responses to other people. But there are other instincts with less of

survival value, but no less of play value, and these we call the play

instincts, without attaching any great importance to the name or even

to the classification.

Playful activity.

The kicking and throwing the arms about that we see in a well-rested

baby is evidently satisfying on its own account. It leads to no result

of consequence, except indeed that the exercise is good for the

child's muscles and nerves. The movements, taken singly, are not

uncoordinated by any means, but they accomplish no definite result,

produce no definite change in external objects, and so seem random and

aimless to adult eyes. It is impossible to specify the stimulus for

any given movement, though probably stimuli from the interior of the

body first arouse these responses. They are most apt to occur during

the organic state of "euphoria", and tend to disappear during fatigue.

There is a counter-tendency to this tendency towards general activity,

and that is _inertia_, the tendency towards inactivity or _economy of

effort_. Most pronounced in fatigue, this also appears in lassitude

and inert states that cannot be called fatigue because not brought on

by excessive activity. After sleep, many people are inert, and require

a certain amount of activity to "warm up" to the active condition. As

the child grows older, the {152} "economy of effort" motive becomes

stronger, and the random activity motive weaker, so that the adult is

less playful and less responsive to slight stimuli. He has to have

some definite goal to get up his energy, whereas the child is active

by preference and just for the sake of activity.

During the first year or so of the child's life, his playful activity

takes shape in several ways. First, out of the great variety of the

random movements certain ones are picked out and fixed. This is the

way with putting the hand into the mouth or drumming on the floor with

the heels, and these instances illustrate the important fact that many

learned acts develop out of the child's random activity. Without play

activity there would be little work or accomplishment of the

distinctively human type. Second, certain specific movements, those of

locomotion and vocalization, appear with the ripening of the child's

native equipment, and take an important place in his play. Third, his

play comes to consist more and more of responses to external objects,

instead of to internal stimuli as at first. The playful responses to

external objects fall into two classes, according as they manipulate

objects or simply examine them.

We have, then, a small group of instincts that is very closely related

to the fundamental instinct of random activity.

Locomotion.

Evidence has already been presented [Footnote: See p. 95.] indicating

that walking is instinctive and not learned, so that the human species

is no exception to the rule that every species has its instinctive

mode of locomotion. Simpler performances which enter into the very

complex movement of walking make their appearance separately in the

infant before being combined into walking proper. Holding up the head,

sitting up, kicking with an alternate motion of the {153} two legs,

and creeping, ordinarily precede walking and lead up to it.

What is the natural stimulus to locomotion? It is as difficult to say

as it is to specify the stimulus in other forms of playful activity.

From the fact that blind children are usually delayed in beginning to

walk, we judge that the sense of sight furnishes some of the most

effective stimuli to this response. Often the impulse attending

locomotion is the impulse to approach some seen object, but probably

some satisfaction is derived simply from the free movement itself.

There certainly is no special emotion going with locomotion.

Locomotion has, of course, plenty of "survival value", and might have

been included among the organic instincts.

Some of the other varieties of human locomotion, such as running and

jumping, are probably native. Others, like hopping and skipping, are

probably learned. As to climbing, there is some evolutionary reason

for suspecting that an instinctive tendency in this direction might

persist in the human species, and certainly children show a great

propensity for it; while the acrobatic ability displayed by those

adults whose business leads them to continue climbing is so great as

to raise the question whether the ordinary citizen is right when he

thinks of man as essentially a land-living or surface-living animal.

As to swimming, the theory is sometimes advanced that this too is a

natural form of locomotion for man, and that, consequently, any one

thrown into deep water will swim by instinct. Experiments of this sort

result badly, the victim clutching frantically at any support, and

sometimes dragging down with him the theorist who is administering

this drastic sort of education. In short, the instinctive response of

a man to being in deep water is the same as in other cases of sudden

withdrawal of solid support; it consists in clinging and is attended

by the emotion of fear.

{154}

Vocalization.

Crying at birth proves voice-production to be a native response, but

we are more interested just here in the playful cooing and babbling

that appear when the child is a few weeks or months old. This cheerful

vocalization is also instinctive, in all probability, since the baby

makes it before he shows any signs of responding imitatively to the

voices of other people. It seems to be one form of the random activity

that goes with euphoria. The child derives satisfaction not so much

from the muscular activity of vocalization as from the sounds that he

produces, so that deaf children, who begin to babble much like other

children, lag behind them as the months go by, from not deriving this

auditory satisfaction from the vocal activity. Though whistling,

blowing a horn, shaking a rattle and beating a drum are not native

responses, it is clear that the child naturally enjoys producing

sounds of various sorts.

The baby's cheerful babbling is the instinctive basis on which his

speech later develops through a process of learning.

Manipulation.

While the first random activity of the baby has nothing to do with

external objects, but simply consists of free movements of the arms

and legs, after a time these give place to manipulation of objects.

The baby turns things about, pulls and pushes them, drops them, throws

them, pounds with them. Thus he acquires skill in handling things and

also learns how things behave. This form of playful activity contains

the germ of constructiveness and of inventiveness, and will come into

view again under the head of "imagination."

Exploration or curiosity.

Along with manipulation goes the examination of objects by the hand,

the mouth, the eyes and ears, and all the senses. Listening to a

sudden noise is one of the first exploratory reactions. Following a

moving light with the eyes, fixing the eyes upon a {155} bright

object, and exploring an object visually by looking successively at

different parts of it, appear in the first few months of the baby's

life. Exploration by the hands and by the mouth appear early. Sniffing

an odor is a similar exploratory response. When the child is able to

walk, his walking is dominated largely by the exploring tendency; he

approaches what arouses his curiosity, and embarks on little

expeditions of exploration. Similar behavior is seen in animals and is

without doubt instinctive. With the acquisition of language, the

child's exploration largely takes the form of asking questions.

The stimulus that arouses this sort of behavior is something new and

unfamiliar, or at least relatively so. When an object has been

thoroughly examined, it is dropped for something else. It is when the

cat has just been brought into a strange house that she rummages all

over it from garret to cellar. A familiar object is "taken for

granted", and arouses little exploratory response.

Quite a group of conscious impulses and emotions goes with exploratory

behavior. The feeling or impulse of curiosity is something that

everybody knows; like other impulses, it is most strongly felt when

the end in view cannot be immediately reached. When you are prevented

by considerations of propriety or politeness from satisfying your

curiosity, then it is that curiosity is most "gnawing". A very

definite emotion that occurs on encountering something extremely novel

and strange is what we know as "surprise", and somewhat akin to this

is "wonder".

Exploration, though fundamentally a form of playful activity, has

great practical value in making the child acquainted with the world.

It contains the germ of seeking for knowledge. We shall have to recur

to this instinct more than once, under the head of "attention" and

again under "reasoning".

{156}

Manipulation and exploration go hand in hand and might be considered

as one tendency rather than two. The child wishes to get hold of an

object, that arouses his curiosity, and he examines it while handling

it. You cannot properly get acquainted with an object by simply

looking at it, you need to manipulate it and make it perform; and you

get little satisfaction from manipulating an object unless you can

watch how it behaves.

Tendencies running counter to exploration and manipulation.

Just as playful activity in general is limited by the counter

tendencies of fatigue and inertia, so the tendency to explore and

handle the unfamiliar is held in check by counter tendencies which we

may call "caution" and "contentment".

Watch an animal in the presence of a strange object. He looks at it,

sniffs, and approaches it in a hesitating manner; suddenly he runs

away for a short distance, then faces about and approaches again. You

can see that he is almost evenly balanced between two contrary

tendencies, one of which is curiosity, while the other is much like

fear. It is not full-fledged fear, not so much a tendency to escape as

an alertness to be ready to escape.

Watch a child just introduced to a strange person or an odd-looking

toy. The child seems fascinated, and can scarcely take his eyes from

the novel object, but at the same time he "feels strange", and cannot

commit himself heartily to getting acquainted. There is quite a dose

of caution in the child's make-up--more in some children than in

others, to be sure--with the result that the child's curiosity gets

him into much less trouble than might be expected. Whether caution is

simply to be identified with fear or is a somewhat different native

tendency, it is certainly a check upon curiosity.

By "contentment" we mean here a liking for the familiar, {157} which

offsets to some extent the fascination of the novel. If you are

perfectly contented, you are not inclined to go out exploring; and

when you have had your fill of the new and strange, you like to get

back to familiar surroundings, where you can rest in content. Just as

playful behavior of all sorts decreases with increasing age, so the

love for exploring decreases, and the elderly person clings to the

familiar. But even children may insist in occupying their own

particular chair, on eating from a particular plate, and on being sung

to sleep always with the same old song. They are "little creatures of

habit", not only in the sense that they readily form habits, but in

the sense that they find satisfaction in familiar ways and things.

Here we see the germ of a "conservative" tendency in human nature,

which balances, to a greater or less extent, and may decidedly

overbalance, the "radical" tendency of exploration.

Laughter.

We certainly must not omit this from our list of instincts, for,

though it does not appear till some time after birth, it has all the

earmarks of an instinctive response. If it were a learned movement, it

could be made at will, whereas, as a matter of fact, few people are

able to produce a convincing laugh except when genuinely amused, which

means when the instinctive tendency to laugh is aroused by some

appropriate stimulus. The emotion that goes with laughing may be

called mirth or amusement, and it is a strongly impulsive state of

mind, the impulse being simply to laugh, with no further end in view.

The most difficult question about laughter is to tell in general

psychological terms what is the stimulus that arouses it. We have

several ingenious theories of humor, which purport to tell; but they

are based on adult humor, and we have as yet no comprehensive genetic

study of laughter, tracing it up from its beginnings in the child.

Laughing certainly belongs with the play instincts, and possibly the

{158} stimulus is no more definite, at first, than that which arouses

other playful activity. The baby seems to smile, at first, just from

good spirits (euphoria). The stimuli that, a little later, arouse a

burst of laughter have an element of what we may call "expected

surprise" (as dropping a rattle and exploding with laughter when it

bangs on the floor, and keeping this up time after time), and this

element can still be detected in various forms of joke that are

effective mirth-provokers in the adult. But why the child should laugh

when tickled, at the same time trying to escape, is a poser. Many

students of humor have subscribed to the theory that what makes us

laugh is a sudden sense of our own superiority, thus attaching

laughter to the self-assertive instinct, soon to be discussed. The

laugh of victory, the laugh of defiance, the laugh of mockery, the sly

or malicious laugh, support this theory, but can it be stretched to

cover the laugh of good humor, the tickle laugh, or the baby's laugh

in general? That seems very doubtful, and we must admit that we do not

know the essential element in a laughter stimulus. One thing is fairly

certain: that, while laughing is a native response, we learn what to

laugh at, for the most part, just as we learn what to fear.

Fighting.

Hold the new-born infant's arms tightly against its sides, and you

witness a very peculiar reaction: the body stiffens, the breath may be

held till the face is "red with anger"; the child begins to cry and

then to scream; the legs are moved up and down, and the arms, if they

can be got free, make striking or slashing movements. In somewhat

older children, any sort of restraint or interference with free

movement may give a similar picture, except that the motor response is

more efficient, consisting in struggling, striking, kicking, and

biting. It is not so much pain as interference that gives this

reaction. You get it if you take away a toy the child is playing with,

or if you forbid {159} the child to do something he is bent on doing.

In animals, the fighting response is made to restraint, to being

attacked, or to being interfered with in the course of feeding, or

mating, or in the instinctive care of the young. The mother lioness,

or dog or cat or hen, is proverbially dangerous; any interference with

the young leads to an attack by the mother. The human mother is no

exception to this rule. In human adults, the tendency to fight is

awakened by any interference with one's enterprises, by being insulted

or got the better of or in any way set down in one's self-esteem.

In general, the stimulus to fighting is restraint or interference. Let

any reaction-tendency be first aroused and then interfered with, and

pugnacious behavior is the instinctive result.

The stimulus may be an inanimate object. You may see a child kick the

door viciously when unable to open it; and grown-ups will sometimes

tear, break or throw down angrily any article which they cannot make

do as they wish. A bad workman quarrels with his tools. Undoubtedly,

however, interference from other persons is the most effective

stimulus.

The impulse so aroused is directed primarily towards getting rid of

the restraint or interference, but also towards inflicting damage on

the opponent; and with this impulse often goes the stirred-up organic

and emotional state of anger. As brought out in the chapter on

emotion, the organic state in anger is nearly or quite identical with

that in fear of the active type; and the two states of the individual

differ in respect to impulse rather than in respect to emotion. In

fear, the impulse is to get away from the adversary, in anger to get

at him. The emotion of anger is not always aroused in fighting, for

sometimes there is a cold-blooded desire to damage the adversary.

The motor response, instinctively consisting of struggling, kicking,

etc., as already described, becomes modified {160} by learning, and

may take the form of scientific fistwork, or the form of angry talk,

favored by adults. Or, the adversary may be damaged in his business,

in his possessions, in his reputation, or in other indirect ways. The

fighting spirit, the most stimulating of the emotions, gives energy to

many human enterprises, good as well as bad. The successful reformer

must needs be something of a fighter.

Thus far we have said nothing to justify our placing fighting here

among the play instincts. Fighting against attack has survival value,

fighting to protect the young has survival value, and, in general, the

defensive sort of fighting has survival value, even though

interference with play activity is just as apt to give this response

as interference with more serious activities.

But there is more than this to the fighting instinct. The stimulus of

interference is not always required. Consider dogs. The mere presence

of another dog is often enough to start a scrap, and a good fighting

dog will sally forth in search of a fight, and return considerably

mauled up, which does not improve his chances for survival, to say the

least. Fighting of this aggressive sort is a luxury rather than a

necessity. It has play value rather than survival value. There can be

no manner of doubt that pugnacious individuals, dogs or men, get more

solid satisfaction from a good fight than from any other amusement.

You see people "itching for a fight", and actually "trying to pick a

quarrel", by provoking some other person who is strictly minding his

own business and not interfering in the least. A battle of words

usually starts in some such way, with no real reason, and a battle of

words often develops into a battle of tooth and nail. Two women were

brought before the judge for fighting, and the judge asked Mrs. Smith

to tell how it started. "Well, it was this way, your honor. I met Mrs.

Brown carrying a basket on her arm, and I says {161} to her, 'What

have ye got in that basket?' says I. 'Eggs', says she. 'No!' says I.

'Yes!' says she. 'Ye lie!' says I. 'Ye lie!' says she. And a 'Whoop!'

says I, and a 'Whoop!' says she; and that's the way it began, sir."

We have, then, to recognize aggressive fighting, in addition to

defensive, and the aggressive sort certainly belongs among the play

instincts.

The instincts that by acting counter to fighting hold it in check are

several: laughter--a good laugh together allays hostility; or the

parental instinct--a parent will stand treatment from his child that

he would quickly resent from any one else; or self-assertion--"Too

proud to fight!" But the most direct checks are afforded by

inertia--"What's the use?"--and especially by fear and caution.

Fighting, both defensive and aggressive, has so close a connection

with the more generalized self-assertive tendency that it might be

included under that instinct. It may be regarded as a special form of

self-assertive behavior, often complicated with the emotion of anger.

Self-assertion.

What then is this wonderful instinct of self-assertion, to which

fighting and much of laughing are subordinate? "Assertiveness",

"masterfulness", and the "mastery impulse" are alternative names. Of

all the native tendencies, this is the one most frequently aroused,

since there is scarcely a moment of waking (or dreaming) life when it

is not more or less in action. It is so much a matter of course that

we do not notice it in ourselves, and often not in other persons; and

even clever psychological observers have seemed entirely blind to it,

and given it no place in their list of instincts.

Self-assertion, like fighting, has two forms, the defensive and the

aggressive, and in either case it may be a response to either people

or things. That gives four varieties of self-assertive behavior, which

may be labeled as follows:

{162}

1. Defensive reaction to things, overcoming obstruction, putting

through what has been undertaken--the success motive.

2. Defensive reaction to persons, resisting domination by them--the

independence motive.

3. Aggressive reaction to things--seeking for power.

4. Aggressive reaction to persons--seeking to dominate. We will take

these up in order, beginning with the most elemental.

1. Overcoming obstruction. The stimulus here is much the same as that

which induces fighting, but the response is simpler, without anger and

without the impulse to do damage. Take hold of a baby's foot and move

it this way or that, and you will find that the muscles of the leg are

offering resistance to this extraneous movement. Obstruct a movement

that the baby is making, and additional force is put into the movement

to overcome the obstruction. An adult behaves in a similar way. Let

him be pushing a lawn-mower and encounter unexpected resistance from a

stretch of tough grass; involuntarily he pushes harder and keeps on

going--unless the obstruction is too great. Let him start to lift

something that is heavier than he thinks; involuntarily he "strains"

at the weight, which means that a complex instinctive response occurs,

involving a rigid setting of the chest with holding of the breath, and

increased muscular effort. This instinctive reaction may be powerful

enough to cause rupture.

Other than purely physical resistance is overcome by other

self-assertive responses. When the child's toy will not do what he

wants it to do, he does not give up at once, but tries again and puts

more effort into his manipulation. When, in school, he is learning to

write, and finds difficulty in producing the desired marks, he bends

over the desk, twists his foot round the leg of his chair, screws up

his face, {163} and in other ways reveals the great effort he is

making. An adult, engaged in some piece of mental work, and

encountering a distraction, such as the sound of the phonograph

downstairs, may, of course, give up and listen to the music, but, if

he is very intent on what he is doing, he puts more energy into his

work and overcomes the distraction. When he encounters a baffling

problem of any sort, he does not like to give it up, even if it is as

unimportant as a conundrum, but cudgels his brains for the solution.

As a general proposition, and one of the most general propositions

that psychology has to present, we may say that obstruction of any

sort, encountered in carrying out any intention whatever, acts as a

stimulus to the putting of additional energy into the action.

Anger is often aroused by obstruction, but anger does not develop a

tenth as often, in the course of the day, as the plain overcoming

reaction. The impulse is not to do damage, but to overcome the

obstruction and do what we have set out to do. The emotional state

might sometimes be called "determination", sometimes "zeal"; but the

most elementary state belonging here is _effort_. The feeling of

effort is, partly at least, a sensation complex resulting from

stiffening the trunk and neck, knitting the brows, and other muscular

strains that have practical utility in overcoming physical resistance

and that are carried over to the overcoming of other sorts of

resistance, where they have no obvious utility. Effort is a simpler

emotion than anger, and occurs much more frequently.

2. Resisting domination by other persons. The child shows from an

early age that he "has a will of his own", and "wants his own way" in

opposition to the commands of other persons. There is an independent

spirit in man that is native rather than acquired. The strength of

this impulse differs, to be sure, in different individuals, some {164}

children being more "contrary" and others more docile; but there

probably never was a child without a good dose of disobedience in his

make-up. In order to have a nice, obedient child, you have to "break"

him like a colt, though you can use reason as well as force in

breaking a child. This process of "breaking" gives a habit of

obedience to certain persons and along certain lines; but, outside of

these limits, the child's independence is still there and ready to be

awakened by any attempt to dominate him. In youth, with the sense of

power that comes from attaining adult stature and muscular strength,

the independent spirit is strengthened, with the result that you

seldom see a youth, or an adult, who can take orders without at least

some inner opposition and resentment.

3. Seeking for power over things. The self-assertive response to

things is not limited to overcoming the obstructions offered by things

to the accomplishment of our purposes; but we derive so much positive

satisfaction from overcoming obstruction and mastering things that we

go out in search of things to master. The child's manipulation has an

element of masterfulness in it, for he not only likes to see things

perform, but he likes to be the one that makes them perform. If he has

a horn, he is not satisfied till he can sound it himself. The man with

his automobile is in the same case. When it balks, he is stimulated to

overcome it; but when it runs smoothly for him, he has a sense of

mastery and power that is highly gratifying. Chopping down a big tree,

or moving a big rock with a crowbar, affords the same kind of

gratification; and so does cutting with a sharp knife, or shooting

with a good bow or gun, or operating any tool or machine that

increases one's power. Quite apart from the utility of the result

accomplished, any big achievement is a source of satisfaction to the

one who has done it, because it gives play to aggressive

self-assertion. Many {165} great achievements are motived as much by

the zest for achievement as by calculation of the advantages to be

secured.

4. Seeking to dominate other people. The individual not simply resists

domination by other people, but he seeks to dominate them himself.

Even the baby gives orders and demands obedience. Get a number of

children together, and you will see more than one of them attempt to

be the leader in their play. Some must necessarily be followers just

now, but they will attempt to take the lead on another occasion. The

"born leader" is perhaps one who has an exceptionally strong dose of

masterfulness in his make-up, but he is, still more, one who has

abilities, physical or mental, that give him the advantage in the

universal struggle for leadership.

Besides giving orders and taking the lead, there are other ways in

which the child finds satisfaction for his instinct to dominate.

Showing off is one, bragging is one, doing all the talking is one;

and, though in growing older and mixing with people the child becomes

less naive in his manner of bragging and showing off, he continues

even as an adult to reach the same end in more subtle ways. Going

about to win applause or social recognition is a seeking for

domination. Anything in which one can surpass another becomes a means

of self-assertion. One may demonstrate his superiority in size,

strength, beauty, skill, cleverness, virtue, good humor,

coöperativeness, or even humility, and derive satisfaction from any

such demonstration. The impulse to dominate assumes literally a

thousand disguises, more rather than less.

_Rivalry_ and _emulation_, sometimes accorded a separate place in a

list of the instincts, seem well enough provided for under the general

head of self-assertion. They belong on the social side of assertive

behavior, i.e., they are responses to other people and aim at the

domination of other {166} people or against being dominated by them.

But the struggle for mastery, in rivalry, does not take the form of a

direct personal encounter. Compare wrestling with a contest in

throwing the hammer. In wrestling the mastery impulse finds a direct

outlet in subduing the opponent, while in throwing the hammer each

contestant tries to beat the other indirectly, by surpassing him in a

certain performance. This you would call rivalry, but wrestling is

scarcely rivalry, because the struggle for mastery is so direct.

Rivalry may seek to demonstrate superiority in some performance, or to

win the favor of some person or social group, as in the case of rivals

in love.

When we speak of "emulation", we have in mind the sort of behavior

observed when one child says, "See what I can do!" and the other

counters with, "Pooh! I can do that, too". Or, the first child wins

applause by some performance, and we then notice the second child

attempting the same. It is a case of resisting the indirect domination

of another, by not letting him surpass us in performance or in social

recognition.

_Thwarted self-assertion_ deserves special mention, as the basis for

quite a number of queer emotional states. Shame, sulkiness,

sullenness, peevishness, stubbornness, defiance, all go with wounded

self-assertion under different conditions. Envy and jealousy belong

here, too. Shyness and embarrassment go with self-assertion that is

doubtful of winning recognition. Opposed to all these are

self-confidence, the cheerful state of mind of one who seeks to master

some person or thing and fully expects to do so, and elation, the

joyful state of one who has mastered.

Submission.

Is there any counter-tendency that limits self-assertion and holds it

in check? Inertia and fear of course have this effect, but is there

any specific instinct precisely opposite to self-assertion? A

difficult question, not {167} yet to be answered with any assurance;

but there is some evidence of a native submissive or yielding

tendency. Two forms may be distinguished: yielding to obstruction, and

yielding to the domination of other persons.

Giving up, in the face of obstacles, is certainly common enough, but

at first thought we should say that the individual was passive in the

matter, and simply forced to yield, as a stone is brought to a stop

when it strikes a wall. In reality, giving up is not quite so passive

as this. There is no external force that can absolutely force us to

give up, unless by clubbing us on the head or somehow putting our

reactive mechanism out of commission. As long as our brain, nerves and

muscles are able to act, no external force can absolutely compel us to

cease struggling. Since, then, we do cease struggling before we are

absolutely out of commission, our giving up is not a purely passive

affair, but our own act, a kind of reaction; and no doubt a native

reaction. Further, when struggling against a stubborn obstacle, we

sometimes feel an _impulse to give up_, and giving up brings relief.

The ability to give up is not a mere element of weakness in our

nature, but is a valuable asset in adapting ourselves to the

environment. Adaptation is called for when the reaction first and most

naturally made to a given situation does not meet the requirements of

the situation. A too stubborn assertiveness means persistence in this

unsuitable reaction, and no progress towards a successful issue;

whereas giving up the first plan of attack, and trying something else

instead, is the way towards success. Some people are too stubborn to

be adaptable.

The docility of the child, who believes whatever is told him, has in

it an element of submissiveness. There is submissiveness also in the

receptive attitude appropriate in observation and forming

opinions--the attitude of looking for the facts and accepting them as

they are rather than seeking {168} to confirm one's own

prepossessions. Bias is self-assertive, impartiality is submissive to

some degree.

Yielding to the domination of other persons often occurs unwillingly,

and then comes under the head of "thwarted self-assertion"; but the

question is whether it ever occurs willingly and affords satisfaction

to the individual who yields. We certainly yield with good grace to

one who so far outclasses us that competition with him is unthinkable.

An adult may arouse the submissive response in a child; and the social

group, by virtue of its superior power and permanence, may arouse it

in the individual adult. Hero worship seems a good example of willing

submission, agreeable to the one who submits. There are persons who

are "lost" without a hero, without some one to lean on, some one to

tell them what to do and even what to believe. This looks much like

the "filial" or "infantile" instinct that was mentioned before as a

possibility, and the dependent spirit in an adult possibly represents

a continuation of the infantile attitude into adult life.

Some behavior that looks submissive is really self-assertion in

disguise. There are two forms of self-assertion that are specially

likely to be taken for submission. Wounded or thwarted self-assertion

is one. Shame and envy are like submission in this respect, that they

involve an absence of self-confidence or self-assurance, but they do

not afford the satisfaction of willing submission, nor the relief of

giving up the struggle against obstacles. So far from being genuinely

submissive, they are states in which the self is making a violent and

insistent demand for justification or social recognition. The other

form of self-assertion which looks like submission occurs when a

person identifies himself with a superior individual or with a social

group. He will then boast of the prowess of his hero or of the

prestige of his group, whether it be his family, his school, {169} his

town or his country. Now, boasting cannot by any stretch of the

imagination be regarded as a sign of submissiveness; it is a sign of

assertiveness, and nothing else. What has happened here is that the

individual, having identified himself with his hero or his group,

finds in their greatness a means of asserting himself as against other

individuals who have not the good fortune to be so identified. This

transferred self-assertion is a strong element in loyalty and public

spirit, and plays a large and useful part in public affairs.

{170}

EXERCISES

1. Make an outline of the chapter, in the form of a table, which

shall show for each instinct: (a) the natural stimulus, (b) the

native motor response, (c) the end-result that the instinct tends

towards, in its adult as well as its native condition, and (d) the

emotion, if any, that goes with the activity of the instinct.

2. An adult tendency or propensity may be simply an unmodified

instinct, or it may be derived from instincts by combination, etc.

Try to identify each of the following as an instinct, or to analyze

it into two or more instincts:

(a) Love for adventure.

(b) Patriotism.

(c) A father's pride in his children.

(d) Love for travel.

(e) Insubordination.

(f) Love for dancing.

3. Which of the instincts are most concerned in making people work?

4. Show how self-assertion finds gratification in the life-work of

an actor.

a physician.

a housekeeper.

a teacher.

a railroad engineer.

5. Arrange the following impulses and emotions in the order of the

frequency of their occurrence in your ordinary day's work and play:

(a) Fear.

(b) Anger.

(c) Disgust

(d) Curiosity.

(e) Self-assertion.

(f) Submission.

(g) The tendency to protect or "mother" another.

6. How do "practical jokes" lend support to the view that laughter

is primarily aroused by a sense of one's own superiority?

7. Get together a dozen jokes or funny stories, and see how many

of them can be placed with the practical jokes in this respect.

8. Mention some laughter-stimuli that do not lend support to the

theory mentioned in Exercise 6.

9. What instincts find outlet in (a) dress, (b) automobiling, (c)

athletics, (d) social conversation?

{171}

REFERENCES

McDougall's _Social Psychology_ gives, in Chapters III and IV, an

inventory of the instinctive equipment of mankind, and in Chapter V

attempts to analyze many complex human emotions and propensities into

their native elements.

Thorndike, in his _Educational Psychology, Briefer Course_, 1914,

Chapters, II-V, attempts a more precise analysis of stimulus and

response.

Watson's _Psychology from the Standpoint of a Behaviorist_, 1919,

attempts in Chapter VI to show that there are only three primary

emotions, fear, rage and love; and in Chapter VII gives a critical

review of the work on human instincts.

H. C. Warren, in Chapter VI of his _Human Psychology_, 1919, gives a

brief survey of the reflexes and instincts.

{172}

CHAPTER IX

THE FEELINGS

PLEASANTNESS AND UNPLEASANTNESS, AND OTHER

STATES OF FEELINGS AND THEIR INFLUENCE UPON

BEHAVIOR

Feeling is subjective and unanalyzed. It is conscious, and an

"unconscious feeling" would be a contradiction in terms. But, while

conscious, it is not cognitive; it is not "knowing something", even

about your subjective condition; it is simply "the way you feel". As

soon as you begin to analyze it, and say, "I feel badly here or there,

in this way or in that", you _know_ something about your subjective

condition, but the feeling has evaporated for the instant. In passing

over into definite knowledge of facts, it has ceased to be feeling.

Feeling is an undercurrent of consciousness, or we might call it a

background. The foreground consists of what you are taking notice of

or thinking about, or of what you are intending to do; that is to say,

the foreground is cognitive or impulsive, or it may be both at once,

as when we are intent on throwing this stone and hitting that tree. In

the background lies the conscious subjective condition. Behind facts

observed and acts intended lies the state of the individual's feeling,

sometimes calm, sometimes excited, sometimes expectant, sometimes

gloomy, sometimes buoyant.

The number of different ways of feeling must be very great, and it

would be no great task to find a hundred different words, some of them

no doubt partly synonymous, to complete the sentence, "I feel

_______". All the {173} emotions, as "stirred-up states of mind",

belong under the general head of the feelings.

But when the psychologist speaks of _the feelings_, he usually means

the _elementary_ feelings. An emotion is far from elementary. If you

accept the James-Lange theory, you think of an emotion as a blend of

organic sensations; and if you reject that theory, you would still

probably agree that such an emotion as anger or fear seems a big,

complex state of feeling. It seems more complex than such a sensation

as red, warm, or bitter, which are called elementary sensations

because no one has ever succeeded in decomposing them into simpler

sensations. Now, the question is whether any feelings can be indicated

that are as elementary as these simple sensations.

Pleasantness and Unpleasantness Are Simple Feelings

No one has ever been able to break up the feelings of pleasantness and

unpleasantness into anything simpler. "Pleasure" and "displeasure" are

not always so simple; they are names for whole states of mind which

may be very complex, including sensations and thoughts in addition to

the feelings of pleasantness and unpleasantness. "Pain" does not make

a satisfactory substitute for the long word "unpleasantness", because

"pain", as we shall see in the next chapter, is properly the name of a

certain sensation, and feelings are to be distinguished from

sensations. Red, warm and bitter, along with many others, are

sensations, but pleasantness and unpleasantness are not sensations.

How, then, do the elementary feelings differ from sensations? In the

first place, sensations submit readily to being picked out and

observed, and in fact become more vivid when they are brought into the

"foreground", while feelings grow vague and lose their character when

thus singled {174} out for examination. Attend to the noises in the

street and they stand out clearly, attend to the internal sensation of

breathing and it stands out clearly, but attend to your pleasant state

of feeling and it retreats out of sight.

In the second place, sensations are "localized"; you can tell pretty

well where they seem to come from. Sensations of light, sound and

smell are localized outside the body, sensations of touch are

localized on the skin (or sometimes outside), taste sensations are

localized in the mouth, organic and muscular sensations in some part

of the body. On the other hand, pleasantness and unpleasantness are

much less definitely localized; they seem to be "in us", without being

in any special part of us.

In the third place, feelings differ from sensations in having no known

sense organs. There is no special sense organ or set of sense organs

for the feeling of pleasantness or unpleasantness, as there is for

warmth or cold. Some sensations are pleasant, to be sure, and some

unpleasant; but there is no one kind of sense organ that has the

monopoly of either sort of feeling.

Feeling-Tone of Sensations

The pleasantness or unpleasantness characteristic of many sensations

is called their "feeling-tone", and sensations that are markedly

pleasant or unpleasant are said to have a strong or pronounced

feeling-tone. Bitter is intrinsically unpleasant, sweet pleasant, the

salty taste, when not too strong, neither one nor the other, so that

it has no definite feeling-tone. Odors, as well as tastes, usually

have a rather definite feeling-tone. Of sounds, smooth tones are

pleasant, grating noises unpleasant. Bright colors are pleasant, while

dull shades are sometimes unpleasant, sometimes merely indifferent or

lacking in feeling-tone. Pain is usually unpleasant, moderate warmth

and cold pleasant, simple touch {175} indifferent. Very intense

sensations of any kind are likely to be unpleasant.

The statements made above as to the subjectivity and non-localization

of feeling do not apply altogether to the feeling-tone of sensations.

The pleasantness or unpleasantness of a sensation is localized with

the sensation and seems to belong to the object rather than to

ourselves. The unpleasantness of a toothache seems to be in the tooth

rather than simply "in us". The pleasantness of a sweet taste is

localized in the mouth, and we even think of the sweet substance as

being objectively pleasant. We say that it is a "pleasant day", and

that there is a "pleasant tang in the air", as if the pleasantness

were an objective fact.

By arguing with a person, however, you can get him to admit that,

while the day is pleasant _to him_, and the tang in the air pleasant

to him, they may be unpleasant to another person; and he will admit

that a sweet substance, ordinarily pleasant, is unpleasant when he has

had too much of sweet things to eat. So you can make him realize that

pleasantness and unpleasantness depend on the individual and his

condition, and are subjective rather than objective. Show a group of

people a bit of color, and you will find them agreeing much better as

to what color that is than as to how pleasant it is. Feeling-tone is

subjective in the sense that people disagree about it.

Theories of Feelings

1. Pleasantness might represent a general _organic state_, and

unpleasantness the contrary state, each state being an internal bodily

response to pleasant or unpleasant stimuli, and making itself felt as

an unanalyzable compound of vague internal sensations.

This theory of feeling is certainly attractive, and it would {176}

account very well for all the facts so far stated, for the

subjectivity of feeling, for its lack of localization, and for the

absence of specific sense organs for the feelings. It would bring the

feelings into line with the emotions. But the real test of the theory

lies just here: can we discover radically different organic states for

the two opposite feelings?

Numerous experiments have been conducted in the search for such

radically different organic states, but thus far the search has been

rather disappointing. Arrange to record the subject's breathing and

heart beat, apply pleasant and unpleasant stimuli to him, and see

whether there is any characteristic organic change that goes with

pleasant stimuli, and an opposite change with unpleasant stimuli. You

should also obtain an introspective report from your subject, so as to

be sure that the "pleasant stimuli" actually gave a feeling of

pleasantness, etc. Certain experiments of this sort have indicated

that with pleasantness goes slower heart beat and quicker breathing,

with unpleasantness quicker heart beat and slower breathing. But not

all investigators have got these results; and, anyway, it would be

impossible to generalize to the extent of asserting that slow heart

beat always gave a pleasant state of feeling, and rapid heart beat an

unpleasant; for there is slow heart beat during a "morning grouch",

and rapid during joyful expectation. Or, in regard to breathing, try

this experiment: hasten your breathing and see whether a feeling of

pleasantness results; slacken it and see whether unpleasantness

results. The fact is that pleasantness can go with a wide range of

organic states, so far as these are revealed by heart beat and

breathing; and the same with unpleasantness. If there is any organic

fact definitely characteristic of either state of feeling, it is a

subtle fact that has hitherto eluded observation.

{177}

2. Pleasantness might represent smooth and easy brain action,

unpleasantness slow and impeded brain action. According to this

theory, unimpeded progress of nerve currents through the brain is

pleasant, while resistance encountered at the brain synapses is

unpleasant. A stimulus is pleasant, then, because the nerve currents

started by it find smooth going through the brain centers, and another

stimulus is unpleasant because it finds the going poor.

While this theory looks good in some ways, and fits some cases very

well--as the great unpleasantness of blocked reaction, where you

cannot make up your mind what to do--there are two big objections to

it. The first objection is found in the facts of practice. Practising

any reaction makes it more and more smooth-running and free from inner

obstruction, and should therefore make it more and more pleasant; but,

as a matter of fact, practising an unfamiliar act of any sort makes it

more pleasant for a time only, after which continued practice makes it

automatic and neither pleasant nor unpleasant. The smoothest

reactions, which should give the highest degree of pleasant feeling

according to the theory, are simply devoid of all feeling.

The second objection lies in the difficulty of believing unpleasant

stimuli to give slow, impeded reactions. On the contrary, the

instinctive defensive reactions to unpleasant stimuli are very quick,

and give no sign of impeded progress of nerve currents through the

brain centers.

3. There is one fact, not yet taken into account, that may point the

way to a better theory. Feeling is impulsive. In pleasantness, the

impulse is to "stand pat" and let the pleasant state continue; in

unpleasantness, the impulse is to end the state. The impulse of

pleasantness is directed towards keeping what is pleasant, and the

impulse of unpleasantness is directed towards getting rid of the

unpleasant. In indifference there is no tendency either to keep or to

be {178} rid of. These facts are so obvious as scarcely to need

mention, yet they may be the core of this whole matter of feeling.

Certainly they are the most important facts yet brought out as

relating feeling to conduct.

Putting this fact into neural terms, we say that pleasantness goes

with a neural adjustment directed towards keeping, towards letting

things stay as they are; while unpleasantness goes with an adjustment

towards riddance. Bitter is unpleasant because we are so organized, by

native constitution, as to make the riddance adjustment on receiving

this particular stimulus. In plain language, we seek, to be rid of it,

and that is the same as saying it is unpleasant. Sweet is pleasant for

a similar reason.

There is some evidence that these adjustments occur in that part of

the brain called the thalamus. [Footnote: See p. 65.]

Sources of Pleasantness and Unpleasantness

Laying aside now the difficult question of the organic and cerebral

nature of the feelings, we turn to the simpler question of the stimuli

that arouse them. A very important fact immediately arrests our

attention. There are two different kinds of stimuli for pleasantness,

and two corresponding kinds for unpleasantness. The one kind is

typified by sweet and bitter, the other by success and failure. Some

things are pleasant (or unpleasant) without regard to any already

awakened desire, while other things are pleasant (or unpleasant) only

because of such a desire. A sweet taste is pleasant even though we

were not desiring it at the moment, and a bitter taste is unpleasant

though we had no expectation of getting it and no desire awakened to

avoid it. On the other hand, the sight of our stone hitting the tree

is pleasant only because we were aiming at the tree, and {179} the

sight of the stone going to one side of the tree is unpleasant just

for the same reason.

Some things we want.

Because we like them;

Some things we like.

Because we want them.

We want candy, because we like the sweet taste; but we like a cold

drink because and when we are thirsty and not otherwise. Thirst is a

want for water, a state of the organism that impels us to drink; and

when we are in this state, we like a drink, a drink is pleasant then.

How absurd it would be to say that we were thirsty because we liked to

drink! when the fact is that we like to drink because we are thirsty.

The desire to drink must first be aroused, and then drinking is

pleasant.

What is true of thirst is true of hunger, or of any organic need. The

need must first be aroused, and then its satisfaction is pleasant.

This applies just as well to fighting, laughing, fondling a baby, and

to all the instincts. It gives you no pleasure to strike or kick a

person, or to swear at him, unless you are first angry with him. It

gives you no pleasure to go through the motions of laughing unless you

"want to laugh", i.e., unless you are amused. It gives you no pleasure

to fondle the baby unless you love the baby. Let any instinct be first

aroused, and then the result at which the instinct is aimed causes

pleasure, but the same result will cause no pleasure unless the

instinct has been aroused.

The same can be said of desires that are not exactly instinctive. At a

football game, for example, when one of the players kicks the ball and

it sails between the goal posts, half of the spectators yell with joy,

while the other half {180} groan in agony. Why should the appearance

of a ball sailing between two posts be so pleasant to some, and

unpleasant to others? This particular appearance is by itself neither

pleasant nor unpleasant, but because the desire to see this happen has

been previously aroused in the partisans of one team, and the desire

that it should not happen in the partisans of the other, therefore it

is that the pleasantness or unpleasantness occurs. First arouse any

desire, and then you can give pleasure by gratifying it, displeasure

by thwarting it. This is the pleasure of success, and the

unpleasantness of failure.

Pleasures of this class may be named secondary, because they depend

upon pre-aroused desires.

Primary Likes and Dislikes

Though many of the most intense pleasures and displeasures of life are

of the secondary type, this fact must not blind us to the existence of

the primary pleasures and displeasures, typified by sweet and bitter.

Any sensation with a pronounced feeling-tone is a primary pleasure or

displeasure. We like or dislike it just for itself, and without regard

to the gratification of any pre-aroused instinct or desire.

There are natural likes and dislikes--apart from the satisfaction of

instincts--and there are others that are acquired. In other words,

there are native tastes and acquired tastes. Individuals differ

considerably in their native tastes, and still more in their acquired

tastes. Liking for sweets is native, liking for fragrant odors is

native, but liking for lemonade, or black coffee, or olives, or

cheese, is acquired, and not acquired by everybody. Liking for bright

colors is native, but liking for subdued colors, and the special

pleasure in color harmonies, are acquired. So we might {181} run

through the list of the senses, finding under each some sensations

with native feeling-tone, and other sensations that acquire

feeling-tone through experience.

Some people have a native liking for numbers and other facts of a

mathematical nature. We say of such a one that he has a natural taste

for mathematics. Another has a natural dislike for the same. Some have

a taste for things of the mechanical sort, others fight shy of such

things. Some have a natural taste for people, being sociable

creatures--which means more than being gregarious--while others are

little interested in mixing with people, observing their ways, and the

give and take of friendly intercourse.

Now the question arises whether these native likes and dislikes, for

odors, colors, tones, numbers, machinery, and people, are really

independent of the instincts. Some psychologists have insisted that

all the interest and satisfaction of life were derived from the

instincts, laying special stress on the instincts of curiosity and

self-assertion.

With respect to our "natural liking for mathematics", these

psychologists would argue as follows: "First off, curiosity is aroused

by numbers, as it may be by any novel fact; then the child, finding he

can do things with numbers, gratifies his mastery impulse by playing

with them. He encounters number problems, and his mastery impulse is

again aroused in the effort to solve the problems. Later, he is able

to 'show off' and win applause by his mathematical feats, and thus the

social form of self-assertion is brought into play. This particular

child may have good native ability for mathematics, and consequently

his mastery impulse is specially gratified by this kind of activity;

but he has no real direct liking for mathematics, and all his industry

in this field is motivated by curiosity and especially by

self-assertion."

The instinct psychologists have a strong case here, as {182} they

would have also in regard to the liking for machinery. Still, the

mathematical individual would not be convinced, for he would testify

that numbers, etc., made a direct appeal to him. Numbers, geometric

forms, and algebraic transformations are fascinating to him, and there

is something beautiful, to his mind, in the relationships that are

discovered. The same could be said of the liking for plant or animal

life that appears in the "born biologist". If the objects of the world

make a direct appeal to the man whose mind is attuned to them, then

his interest and zeal in studying them are not wholly derived from the

instincts. The instincts come into play, truly enough, in all

scientific work, and add impetus to it, but the primary motive is a

direct liking for the kind of facts studied.

"Primary likes and dislikes" are still more clearly in evidence in the

arts than in the sciences. Take the color art, for example. There can

be no manner of doubt that bright colors are natively pleasant. Can we

explain the liking for color as derived from satisfaction of the

instincts? Is it due simply to curiosity? No, for then the color would

no longer be attractive after it had ceased to be a novelty. Is color

liked simply for purposes of self-display? No, this would not explain

our delight in the colors of nature. Or do color effects constitute

problems that challenge the mastery impulse? This might fit the case

of intricate color designs, but not the strong, simple color effects

that appeal to most people. There is no escape from the conclusion

that color is liked for its own sake, and that this primary liking is

the foundation of color art.

Music, in the same way, is certainly based on a primary liking for

tones and their combinations, as well as for rhythm. Novel effects

also appeal to curiosity, musical performance is a means of display to

the performer, and the problem set by a piece of music to the

performer in the {183} way of execution, and to the listener in the

way of understanding and appreciation, gives plenty of play to the

mastery impulse. Besides, music gets associated with love, tenderness,

war and religion; but none of the impulses thus gratified by music is

the fundamental reason for music, since without the primary taste for

tone and rhythm there would be no music to start with, and therefore

no chance for these various impulses to find an outlet in this

direction.

Still another field of human activity, in which native likes and

dislikes play their part alongside of the instincts, is the field of

social life. The gregarious instinct brings individuals together into

social groups, and probably also makes the individual crave

participation in the doings of the group. The sex instinct lends a

special interest to those members of the group who are of the opposite

sex, and the parental instinct leads the adults to take a protective

attitude towards the little children. Also, it is probably due to the

parental instinct that any one spontaneously seeks to help the

helpless. Self-assertion has plenty of play in a group, both in the

way of seeking to dominate and in the way of resisting domination; and

the submissive tendency finds an outlet in admiring and following

those who far surpass us. Thwarted self-assertion accounts for many of

the dislikes that develop between the members of a group. But none of

these instincts accounts for the interest in personality, or for the

genuine liking that people may have for one another.

Let a group of persons of the same age and sex get together, all

equals for the time being, no one seeking to dominate the rest, no one

bowing to another as his superior nor chafing against an assumed

superiority which he does not admit, no one in a helpless or

unfortunate condition that arouses the pity of the rest. What an

uninteresting affair! No instincts called into play except bare

gregariousness! {184} On the contrary, such a group affords almost or

quite the maximum of social pleasure. It affords scope for comradeship

and good fellowship, which are based on a native liking for people,

and not on the instincts.

Enough has perhaps been said to convince the reader that, besides the

things we like for satisfaction of our instinctive needs and cravings,

there are other things that we "just naturally like"--and the same

with dislikes--and that these primary likes and dislikes have

considerable importance in life.

Other Proposed Elementary Feelings

Pleasantness and unpleasantness are the only feelings generally

accepted as elementary, though several others have been suggested.

Wundt's tri-dimensional theory of feeling.

This author suggested that there were three pairs of feelings:

pleasantness and unpleasantness; tension and its opposite, release or

relief; and excitement and its opposite, which may be called numbness

or subdued feeling. Thus there would be three dimensions of feeling,

which could be represented by the three dimensions of space, and any

given state of feeling could be described by locating it along each of

the three dimensions. Thus, one moment, we may be in a pleasant,

tense, excited state; another moment in a pleasant, relieved and

subdued state; and another moment in an unpleasant, tense and subdued

state, etc. As each feeling can also exist in various degrees, the

total number of shades of feeling thus provided for would be very

great, indeed.

Though this theory has awakened great interest, it has not won

unqualified approval. Excitement and the rest are real enough states

of feeling--no one doubts that--but the question is whether they are

fit to be placed alongside of pleasantness and unpleasantness as

elementary feelings. It {185} appears rather more likely that they are

blends of sensations. In the excited states that have been most

carefully studied, that is to say, in fear and anger, there is that

big organic upstir, making itself felt as a blend of many internal

sensations. Tension may very probably be the feeling of tense muscles,

for tension occurs specially in expectancy, and the muscles are tense

then.

Whether elementary or not, these feelings are worthy of note. It is

interesting to examine the striving for a goal and the attainment of

the goal with respect to each "dimension" of feeling. Striving is

tense, attainment brings the feeling of release. Striving is often

excited, but fatigue and drowsiness (seeking for rest) are numb, and

self-assertion may be neutral in this respect, as in "cool

assumption". Reaching the goal may be excited or not; all depends on

the goal, whether it be striking your opponent or going to sleep. On

the other hand, reaching the goal is practically always pleasant

(weeping seems an exception here), while striving for a goal is

pleasant or unpleasant according as progress is being made towards the

goal, or stiff obstruction encountered.

The _feeling of familiarity_, and its opposite, the feeling of

strangeness or newness, also have some claim to be considered here.

The first time you see a person, he seems strange, the next few times

he awakens in you the feeling of familiarity, after which he becomes

so much a matter of course as to arouse no definite feeling of this

sort, unless, indeed, a long time has elapsed since you saw him last;

in this case the feeling of familiarity is particularly strong.

The feelings of doubt or hesitation, and of certainty or assurance,

also deserve mention as possibly elementary.

{186}

EXERCISES

1. Outline the chapter.

2. Complete the sentence, "I feel_____" in 20 different ways

(not using synonyms), and measure the time required to do this.

3. What can be meant by speaking in psychology of only two feelings,

when common speech recognizes so many?

4. If the states of mind designated by the words, "feeling sure",

or "feeling bored", are compound states, what elements besides the

feelings of pleasantness and unpleasantness may enter into the

compounds?

5. Attempt an analysis of the "worried feeling", by your own

introspection, i.e., try to discover elementary feelings and

sensations in this complex state of mind.

6. Following Wundt's three-dimensional scheme of feeling, analyze

each of the following states of mind (for example, a child just

admitted to the presence of the Christmas tree would be in a state

of mind that is pleasant, tense, and excited):

(a) Watching a rocket go up and waiting for it to burst.

(b) Just after the rocket has burst.

(c) Waiting for the dentist to pull.

(d) Just after he has pulled.

(e) Enjoying a warm bed.

(f) Lying abed after waking, not quite able as yet to decide

to get up.

(g) Seeing an automobile about to run down a child.

7. Make a list of six primary dislikes, and a list of six dislikes that

are dependent on the instincts.

REFERENCES

For a much fuller treatment of the subject, see E. B. Titchener,

_Textbook of Psychology_, 1909, pp. 225-264.

{187}

CHAPTER X

SENSATION

AN INVENTORY OF THE ELEMENTARY SENSATIONS OF THE DIFFERENT SENSES

With reflex action, instinct, emotion and feeling, the list of native

mental activities is still incomplete. The senses are provided by

nature, and the fundamental use of the senses goes with them. The

child does not learn to see or hear, though he learns the meaning of

what he sees and hears. He gets sensation as soon as his senses are

stimulated, but recognition of objects and facts comes with

experience. Hold an orange before his open eyes, and he sees, but the

first time he doesn't see _an orange_. The adult sees an object, where

the baby gets only sensation. "Pure sensation", free from all

recognition, can scarcely occur except in the very young baby, for

recognition is about the easiest of the learned accomplishments, and

traces of it can be seen in the behavior of babies only a few days

old.

Sensation is a response; it does not come to us, but is aroused in us

by the stimulus. It is the stimulus that comes to us, and the

sensation is our own act, aroused by the stimulus. Sensation means the

activity of the receiving organ (or sense organ), of the sensory

nerves, and of certain parts of the brain, called the sensory centers.

Without the brain response, there is apparently no conscious

sensation, so that the activity of the sense organ and sensory nerve

is preliminary to the sensation proper. Sensation may be called the

first response of the brain to the external stimulus. It is usually

only the first in a series of brain {188} responses, the others

consisting in the recognition of the object and the utilization of the

information so acquired.

Sensation, as we know it in our experience, goes back in the history

of the race to the primitive sensitivity (or irritability) of living

matter, seen in the protozoa. These minute unicellular creatures,

though having no sense organs--any more than they have muscles or

digestive organs--respond to a variety of stimuli. They react to

mechanical stimuli, as a touch or jar, to chemical stimuli of certain

kinds, to thermal stimuli (heat or cold), to electrical stimuli, and

to light. There are some forces to which they do not respond:

magnetism, X-rays, ultraviolet light; and we ourselves are insensitive

to these agents, which are not to be called stimuli, since they arouse

no response.

The Sense Organs

In the development of the metazoa, or multicellular animals,

specialization has occurred, some parts of the body becoming muscles

with the primitive motility much developed, some parts becoming

digestive organs, some parts conductors (the nerves) and some parts

becoming specialized receptors or sense organs. A sense organ is a

portion of the body that has very high sensitivity to some particular

kind of stimulus. One sense organ is highly sensitive to one stimulus,

and another to another stimulus. The eye responds to very minute

amounts of energy in the form of light, but not in other forms; the

ear responds to very minute amounts of energy in the form of sound

vibrations, the nose to very minute quantities of energy in certain

chemical forms.

There is only one thing that a sense organ always and necessarily

contains, and that is the _termination of a sensory nerve_. Without

that, the sense organ, being isolated, would have no effect on the

brain or muscles or any other {189} part of the body, and would be

entirely useless. The axons of the sensory nerve divide into fine

branches in the sense organ, and thus are more easily aroused by the

stimulus.

Besides the sensory axons, two other things are often found in a sense

organ--sometimes one of the two, sometimes the other and sometimes

both. First, there are special sense cells in a few sense organs; and

second, in most sense organs there is accessory apparatus which,

without being itself sensitive, assists in bringing the stimulus to

the sense cells or sensory nerve ends.

[Illustration: Fig. 25.--Diagram of the taste end-organ. Within the

"Taste bud" are seen two sense cells, and around the base of these

cells are seen the terminations of two axons of the nerve of taste.

(Figure text: surface of tongue, taste bud, pit)]

_Sense cells_ are present only in the eye, ear, nose and mouth--always

in very sheltered situations. The taste cells are located in little

pits opening upon the surface of the tongue. In the sides of these

pits can be found little flask-shaped chambers, each containing a

number of taste cells. The taste cell has a slender prolongation that

protrudes from the chamber into the pit; and it is this slender tip of

the cell that is exposed to the chemical stimulus of the {190} tasting

substance. The stimulus arouses the taste cell, and this in turn

arouses the ending of the sensory axon that twines about the base of

the cell at the back of the chamber. The taste cell, or its tip, is

extra sensitive to chemical stimuli, and its activity, aroused by the

chemical stimulus, in turn arouses the axon and so starts a nerve

current to the brain stem and eventually to the cortex.

[Illustration: Fig. 26.--The olfactory sense cells and their brain

connections. (Figure text: axon to brain cortex, dendrites, synapses in

brain stem, axons of sense cells sense cells in nose.)]

The olfactory cells, located in a little recess in the upper and back

part of the nose, out of the direct air currents going toward the

lungs, are rather similar to the taste cells. They have fine tips

reaching to the surface of the mucous membrane lining the nasal cavity

and exposed to the chemical stimuli of odors. The olfactory cell has

also a long slender branch extending from its base through the bone

into the skull cavity and connecting there with dendrites of nerve

cells. This central branch of the olfactory cell is, in fact, an axon;

and it is peculiar in being an axon growing from a sense cell. This is

the rule in invertebrates, but in vertebrates the sensory axon is

regularly an outgrowth of a {191} nerve cell, and only in the nose do

we find sense cells providing their own sensory nerve.

[Illustration: Fig. 27.--Sense cells and nerve cells of the retina.

Light, reaching the retina from the interior of the eyeball (as shown

in Fig. 28), passes through the nearly transparent retina till stopped

by the pigment layer, and then and there arouses to activity the tips

of the rods and cones. The rods and cones pass the impulse along to

the bipolar cells and these in turn to the optic nerve cells, the

axons of which extend by way of the optic nerve to the thalamus in the

brain. (Figure text: pigment layer, rods, cones, light, bipolar Cells,

optic Nerve Cells)]

In the eye, the sense cells are the rods and cones of the retina.

These are highly sensitive to light, or, it may be, to chemical or

electrical stimuli generated in the pigment of the retina by the

action of light. The rods are less highly developed than the cones.

Both rods and cones connect at their base with neurones that pass the

activity along through the optic nerve to the brain.

The internal ear contains sense cells of three rather similar kinds,

all being "hair cells", Instead of a single {192} sensitive tip, each

cell has a number of fine hair-tips, and it is these that first

respond to the physical stimulus. In the cochlea, the part of the

inner ear concerned with hearing, the hairs are shaken by sound

vibrations that have reached the liquid in which the whole end-organ

is immersed. In the "semicircular canals", a part of the inner ear

that is concerned not with sound but with rotary movements of the

head, we find hair cells again, their hair-tips being matted together

and so located as to be bent, like reeds growing on the bottom of a

brook, by currents of the liquid filling the canals. In the

"vestibule", the central part of the inner ear, the hair-tips of the

sense cells are matted together, and in the mat are imbedded little

particles of stony matter, called the "otoliths". When the head is

inclined in any direction, these heavy particles sag and bend the

hairs, so stimulating them; and the same result occurs when a sudden

motion up or down or in any direction is given to the head. Around the

base of the sense cells, in any of these parts of the internal ear,

are twined the fine endings of sensory axons, which are excited by the

activity of the sense cells, and pass the activity on to the brain.

Accessory sense-apparatus.

Every sense except the "pain sense" has more or less of this. The

hairs of the skin are accessory to the sense of touch. A touch on a

hair is so easily felt that we often think of the hairs as sensitive;

but really it is the skin that is sensitive, or, rather, it is the

sensory axon terminating around the root of the hair in the skin. The

tongue can be thought of as accessory apparatus serving the sense of

taste, and the breathing apparatus as accessory to the sense of smell,

"tasting" being largely a tongue movement that brings the substance to

the taste cells, and "smelling" of anything being largely a series of

little inspiratory movements that carry the odor-laden air to the

olfactory part of the nasal cavity.

{193}

But it is in the eye and the ear that the highest development of

accessory sense apparatus has taken place. All of the eye except the

retina, and all of the ear except the sense cells and the sensory

axons, are accessory.

[Illustration: Fig. 28.--Horizontal cross section through the right

eyeball. (Figure text: cornea, ciliary muscle, retina, choroid.

sclerotic, Optic Nerve)]

The eye is an optical instrument, like the camera. In fact, it is a

camera, the sensitive plate being the retina, which differs indeed

from the ordinary photographic plate in recovering after an exposure

so as to be ready for another. Comparing the eye with the camera, we

see that the eyeball corresponds to the box, the outer tough coat

{194} of the eyeball (the "sclerotic" coat) taking the place of the

wood or metal of which the box is built, and the deeply pigmented

"choroid" coat, that lines the sclerotic, corresponding to the coating

of paint used to blacken the inside of the camera box and prevent

stray light from getting in and blurring the picture. At the front of

the eye, where light is admitted, the sclerotic is transformed into

the transparent "cornea", and the choroid into the contractile "iris",

with the hole in its center that we call "the pupil of the eye".

[Illustration: Fig. 29.--Diagram to show the course of the sound waves

through the outer and middle ear and into the inner ear. The arrow is

placed within the "meatus," and points in the direction taken by the

sound waves. See text for their further course. (Figure text: cochlea,

vestibule, semicircular canal, ossicles, Eustachian, ear drum)]

The iris corresponds to the adjustable diaphragm of the camera. Just

behind the pupil is the lens of the eye, which also is adjustable by

the action of a little muscle, called the "ciliary muscle". This

muscle corresponds to the focussing mechanism of the camera; by it the

eye is focussed on near or far objects. The eye really {195} has two

lenses, for the cornea acts as a lens, but is not adjustable. The

"aqueous and vitreous humors" fill the eyeball and keep it in shape,

while still, being transparent, they allow the light to pass through

them on the way to the retina. The retina is a thin coat, lying inside

the choroid at the back of the eyeball, and having the form of a

hollow hemisphere. The light, coming through the pupil and traversing

the vitreous humor, strikes the retina from the inside of the eyeball.

Other accessory apparatus of the eye includes the lids, the tear

glands, and the muscles that turn the eyeball in any direction.

[Illustration: Fig. 30.--Two views of the internal ear. These views

show the shape of the internal ear cavity. The sense organs lie inside

this cavity. Notice how the three semi-circular canals lie in three

perpendicular planes. (Figure text: cochlea, vestibule, 3 Canals)]

The ear is about as complex a piece of mechanism as the eye. We speak

of the "outer", "middle" and "inner" ear. The outer, in such an animal

as the horse, serves as a movable ear trumpet, catching the sound

waves and concentrating them upon the ear drum, or middle ear. The

human external ear seems to accomplish little; it can be cut off

without noticeably affecting hearing. The most essential part of the

external ear is the "meatus" or hole that allows the sound waves to

pass through the skin to the tympanic membrane or drum head. The sound

waves throw this membrane into vibration, and the vibration is

transmitted, by an assembly of three little bones, across the

air-filled cavity {196} of the middle ear to an opening leading to the

water-filled cavity of the inner ear. This opening from the middle to

the inner ear is closed by a membrane in which one end of the assembly

of little bones is imbedded, as the other end is imbedded in the

tympanic membrane; and thus the vibrations are transmitted from the

tympanic membrane to the liquid of the inner ear. Once started in this

liquid, the vibrations are propagated through it to the sense cells of

the cochlea and stimulate them in the way already suggested.

[Illustration: Fig. 31.--A small sample of the sense cells of the

cochlea. The hairs of the sense cells are shaken by the vibration of

the water, and pass the impulse back to the end-brushes of the

auditory axons, The tectorial membrane looks as if it might act as a

damper, but may be concerned, as "accessory apparatus," in the

stimulation of the hair cells. The basilar membrane consists in part

of fibers extending across between the ledges of bone; these fibers

are arranged somewhat after the manner of piano strings, and have

suggested the "piano theory" of hearing, to be mentioned later in the

chapter. (Figure text: water space, membrane, Tectorial membrane, bone,

soft tissue, basilar membrane, auditory axons to brain stem, nerve

cells of auditory nerves, auditory hair cells with end brushes of

auditory axons)]

Further study of the accessory apparatus of the eye and ear can be

recommended as very interesting, but the little that has been said

will serve as an introduction to the study of sensation.

{197}

Analysis of Sensations

Prominent among the psychological problems regarding sensation is that

of analysis. Probably each sense gives comparatively few elementary

sensations, and many blends or compounds of these elements. To

identify the elements is by no means a simple task, for under ordinary

circumstances what we get is a compound, and it is only by carefully

controlling the stimulus that we are able to get the elements before

us; and even then the question whether these are really elementary

sensations can scarcely be settled by direct observation.

Along with the search for elementary sensations goes identification of

the stimuli that arouse them, and also a study of the sensations

aroused by any combination of stimuli. Our task now will be to ask

these questions regarding each of the senses.

The Skin Senses

Rough and smooth, hard and soft, moist and dry, hot and cold, itching,

tickling, pricking, stinging, aching are skin sensations; but some of

these are almost certainly compounds. The most successful way of

isolating the elements out of these compounds is to explore the skin,

point by point, with weak stimuli of different kinds. If a blunt metal

point, or the point of a lead pencil, a few degrees cooler than the

skin, is passed slowly over the skin, at most points no sensation

except that of contact arises, but at certain points there is a clear

sensation of cold. Within an area an inch square on the back of the

hand, several of these _cold spots_ can be found; and when the

exploration is carefully made, and the cold spots marked, they will be

found to give the same sensation every time. Substitute a metal point

a few {198} degrees warmer than the skin, and a few spots will be

found that give the sensation of warmth, these being the _warmth

spots_. Use a sharp point, like that of a needle or of a sharp

bristle, pressing it moderately against the skin, and you get at most

points simply the sensation of contact, but at quite a number of

points a small, sharp pain sensation arises. These are the _pain

spots_. Finally, if the skin is explored with a hair of proper length

and thickness, no sensation at all will be felt at most points,

because the hair bends so readily when one end of it is pressed

against the skin as not to exert sufficient force to arouse a

sensation; but a number of points are found where a definite sensation

of touch or contact is felt; these are the _touch spots_.

No other varieties of "spots" are found, and the four sensations of

touch, warmth, cold and pain are believed to be the only elementary

skin sensations. Itch, stinging and aching seem to be the same as

pain. Tickle is touch, usually light touch or a succession of light

touches. Smooth and rough are successions of touch sensations. Moist

is usually a compound of smooth and cold. Hard and soft combine touch

and the muscular sensation of resistance.

Hot and cold require more discussion. The elementary sensations are

warmth and coolness, rather than hot and cold. Hot and cold are

painful, and the fact is that strong temperature stimuli arouse the

pain spots as well as the warmth or cold spots. Hot, accordingly, is a

sensation compounded of warmth and pain, and cold a sensation composed

of coolness and pain. More than this, when a cold spot is touched with

a point heated well above the skin temperature (best to a little over

100 Fahrenheit), the curious fact is noted that the cold spot responds

with its normal sensation of cold. This is called the "paradoxical

cold sensation". From this fact it is probable that a hot object

excites the cold sensation, along with those of warmth and {199} pain;

so that the sensation of heat is a blend of the three. Another curious

fact is that a very cold object produces a burning sensation

indistinguishable from that of a hot object; so that the sensation of

great cold, like that of heat, is probably a blend of the three

elementary sensations of warmth, cold and pain.

[Illustration: Fig. 32.--Diagram of various sorts of sensory

end-organ found in the skin.

A is a hair end-organ; the sensory axons can be seen coiling around

the root of the hair; evidently a touch on the hair, outside, would

squeeze the coiled axon and stimulate it. The hair is a bit of

"accessory apparatus."

B is a touch corpuscle, consisting of a coiled axon-end surrounded

by a little cone of other tissue.

C is an end-bulb, presumably belonging to the temperature sense. It

has, again, a coiled axon-end surrounded by other tissue. The

"coils" are really much more finely branched than the diagram shows.

D is a free-branched nerve end, consisting simply of a branched

axon, with no accessory apparatus. It is the pain-sense organ.

E is a corpuscle of a type found in the subcutaneous tissue, as well

as in more interior parts of the body. It contains an axon-end

surrounded by a layered capsule.]

The stimulus that arouses the touch sensation is a bending of the

skin. That which arouses warmth or cold is of {200} course a

temperature stimulus, but, strange as it may seem, the exact nature of

the effective stimulus has not been agreed upon. Either it is a

warming or cooling of the skin, or it is the existence of a higher or

lower temperature in the skin than that to which the skin is at the

moment "adapted". This matter will become clearer when we later

discuss adaptation. The stimulus that arouses the pain sensation may

be mechanical (as a needle prick), or thermal (heat or cold), or

chemical (as the drop of acid), or electrical; but in any case it must

be strong enough to injure or nearly to injure the skin. In other

words, the pain sense organ is not highly sensitive, but requires a

fairly strong stimulus; and thus it is fitted to give warning of

stimuli that threaten injury.

Several kinds of sensory end-organ are found in the skin. There is the

"spherical end-bulb", into which a sensory axon penetrates; it is

believed to be the sense organ for cold. There is the rather similar

"cylindrical end-bulb" believed to be the sense organ for warmth.

There is the "touch corpuscle", found in the skin of the palms and

soles, and consisting, like the end-bulbs, of a mass of accessory

cells with a sensory axon ramifying inside it; this is an end-organ

for the sense of touch. There is the hair end-organ, consisting of a

sensory axon coiled about the root of the hair; this, also, is a touch

receptor. Finally, there is the "free-branched nerve end", consisting

simply of the branching of a sensory axon, with no accessory apparatus

whatever; and this is the pain receptor. Perhaps the pain receptor

requires no accessory apparatus because it does not need to be

extremely sensitive.

Now since we find, in the skin, "spots" responsive to four quite

different stimuli, giving four quite different sensations, and

apparently provided with different types of end-organs, it has become

customary to speak of four skin senses in place of the traditional

"sense of touch". We {201} speak of the pain sense, the warmth sense,

the cold sense, and the pressure sense, which last is the sense of

touch proper.

The Sense of Taste

Analysis has been as successful in the sense of taste as in cutaneous

sensation. Ordinarily we speak of an unlimited number of tastes, every

article of food having its own characteristic taste. Now the interior

of the mouth possesses the four skin senses in addition to taste, and

many tastes are in part composed of touch, warmth, cold or pain. A

"biting taste" is a compound of pain with taste proper, and a "smooth

taste" is partly touch. The consistency of the food, soft, tough,

brittle, gummy, also contributes, by way of the muscle sense, to the

total "taste". But in addition to all these sensations from the mouth,

the flavor of the food consists largely of odor. Food in the mouth

stimulates the sense of smell along with that of taste, the odor of

the food reaching the olfactory organ by way of the throat and the

rear passage to the nose. If the nose is held tightly so as to prevent

all circulation of air through it, most of the "tastes" of foods

vanish; coffee and quinine then taste alike, the only _taste_ of each

being bitter, and apple juice cannot be distinguished from onion

juice.

But when the nose is excluded, and when cutaneous and muscular

sensations are deducted, there still remain a few genuine tastes.

These are sweet, sour, bitter and salty--and apparently no more. These

four are the elementary taste sensations, all others being compounds.

The papillae of the tongue, with their little "pits" already spoken

of, correspond to the "spots" of the skin, with this difference,

however, that the papillae do not each give a single sensation. Some

of them give only two, some only three of the four tastes; and the

bitter taste is aroused principally from {202} the back of the tongue,

the sweet from the tip, the sour from the sides, the salty from both

tip and sides.

The stimulus to the sense of taste is something of a chemical nature.

The tasteable substances must be in solution in order to penetrate the

pits and get to the sensitive tips of the taste cells. If the upper

surface of the tongue is first dried, a dry lump of sugar or salt laid

on it gives no sensation of taste until a little saliva has

accumulated and dissolved some of the substance.

Exactly what is the chemical agent that produces a given taste

sensation is a problem of some difficulty. Many different substances

give the sensation of bitter, and the question is, what there is

common to all these substances. The sweet taste is aroused not only by

sugar, but by glycerine, saccharine, and even "sugar of lead" (lead

acetate). The sour taste is aroused by most acids, but not by all, and

also by some substances that are not chemically acids. Thus the

chemistry of taste stimuli involves something not as yet understood.

Though there is this uncertainty regarding the stimulus, on the whole

the sense of taste affords a fine example of success achieved by

experimental methods in the analysis of complex sensations. At the

same time it affords a fine example of the fusion of different

sensations into characteristic _blends_. The numerous "tastes" of

every-day life, though found on analysis to be compounded of taste,

smell, touch, pain, temperature and muscle sensations, have the effect

of units. The taste of lemonade, for example, compounded of sweet,

sour, cold and lemon odor, has the effect of a single characteristic

sensation. It can be analyzed, but it ordinarily appears as a unit.

This is true generally of blends; indeed, what we mean by blending is

that, while the component sensations are still present and can be

found by careful attention, they are not simply present together {203}

but are compounded into a characteristic total. Each elementary

sensation entering into the blend gives up some of its own quality,

as, in the case of lemonade, neither the sweet nor the sour is quite

so distinct and obtrusive as either would be if present alone. The

same is true of the lemon odor, and it is true generally of the odor

components that enter into the "tastes" of food. Were the odor

components in these tastes as clear and distinct as they are when the

same substance is smelled outside the mouth, we could not fail to

notice that the "tastes" were largely composed of odor. The obtrusive

thing about a blend is the total effect, not the elementary sensations

that are blended.

The Sense of Smell

The great variety of odors long resisted every attempt at

psychological analysis, largely because the olfactory end-organ is so

secluded in position. You cannot apply stimuli to separate parts of

it, as you can to the skin or tongue. But, recently, good progress has

been made, [Footnote: By Henning.] by assembling almost all possible

odors, and becoming thoroughly acquainted with them, not as

substances, but simply as odors, and noting their likenesses and

differences. It seems possible now to state that there are _six

elementary odors_, as follows:

1. Spicy, found in pepper, cloves, nutmeg, etc.

2. Flowery, found in heliotrope, etc.

3. Fruity, found in apple, orange oil, vinegar, etc.

4. Resinous, found in turpentine, pine needles, etc.

5. Foul, found in hydrogen sulphide, etc.

6. Scorched, found in tarry substances.

These being the elements, there are many compound odors. The odor of

roasted coffee is a compound of resinous and scorched, peppermint a

compound of fruity and spicy.

{204}

Each elementary odor corresponds to a certain characteristic in the

chemical constitution of the stimulus.

The sense of smell is extremely delicate, responding to very minute

quantities of certain substances diffused in the air. It is extremely

useful in warning us against bad air and bad food. It has also

considerable esthetic value.

Organic Sensation

The term "organic sensation" is used to cover a variety of sensations

from the internal organs, such as hunger, thirst, nausea, suffocation

and less definite bodily sensations that color the emotional tone of

any moment, contributing to "euphoria" and also to disagreeable states

of mind. Hunger is a sensation aroused by the rubbing together of the

stomach walls when the stomach, being ready for food, begins its

churning movements. Careful studies of sensations from the internal

organs reveal astonishingly little of sensation arising there, but

there can be little doubt that the sensations just listed really arise

where they seem to arise, in the interior of the trunk.

Little has been done to determine the elementary sensations in this

field; probably the organic sensations that every one is familiar with

are blends rather than elements.

The Sense of Sight

Of the tremendous number and variety of visual sensations, the great

majority are certainly compounds. Two sorts of compound sensation can

be distinguished here: _blends_ similar to those of taste or smell,

and _patterns_ which scarcely occur among sensations of taste and

smell, though they are found, along with blends, in cutaneous

sensation. Heat, compounded of warmth, cold and pain sensations, is an

{205} excellent example of a blend, while the compound sensation

aroused by touching the skin simultaneously with two points--or three

points, or a ring or square--is to be classed as a pattern. In a

pattern, the component parts are spread out in space or time (or in

both at once), and for that reason are more easily attended to

separately than the elements in a blend. Yet the pattern, like the

blend, has the effect of a unit. A spatial pattern has a

characteristic shape, and a temporal pattern a characteristic course

or movement. A rhythm or a tune is a good example of a temporal

pattern.

Visual sensations are spread out spatially, and thus fall into spatial

patterns. They also are in constant change and motion, and so fall

into temporal patterns, many of which are spatial as well. The visual

sensation aroused, let us say in a young baby, by the light entering

his eye from a human face, is a spatial pattern; the visual sensation

aroused by some one's turning down the light is a pure temporal

pattern; while the sensation from a person seen moving across the room

is a pattern both spatial and temporal. Finding the elements of a

visual pattern would mean finding the smallest possible bits of it,

which would probably be the sensations due to the action of single

rods and cones, just as the smallest bit of a cutaneous sensation

would be due to the exciting of a single touch spot, warmth spot, cold

spot or pain spot.

Analyzing a visual blend is quite a different job. Given the color

pink, for example, let it be required to discover whether this is a

simple sensation or a blend of two or more elementary sensations.

Studying it intently, we see that it can be described as a whitish

red, and if we are willing to accept this analysis as final, we

conclude that pink is a blend of the elementary sensations of white

and red. Of the thousands and thousands of distinguishable hues,

shades {206} and tints, only a few are elements and the rest are color

blends; and our main problem now is to identify the elements. Notice

that we are not seeking for the physical elements of light, nor for

the primary pigments of the painter's art, but for the elementary

_sensations_. Our knowledge of physics and painting, indeed, is likely

to lead us astray. Sensations are our responses to the physical

stimulus, and the psychological question is, what fundamental

responses we make to this class of stimuli.

Suppose, without knowing anything of pigments or of the physics of

light, we got together a collection of bits of color of every shade

and tint, in order to see what we could discover about visual

sensations. Leaving aside the question of elements for the moment, we

might first try to _classify_ the bits of color. We could sort out a

pile of reds, a pile of blues, a pile of browns, a pile of grays,

etc., but the piles would shade off one into another. The salient fact

about colors is the gradual transition from one to another. We can

arrange them in _series_ better than we can classify them. They can be

serially arranged in three different ways, according to brightness or

intensity, according to color-tone, and according to saturation.

The _intensity series runs from light to dark_. We can arrange such a

series composed entirely of reds or blues or any other one color; or

we can arrange the whole collection of bits of color into a single

light-dark series. It is not always easy to decide whether a given

shade of one color is lighter or darker than a given shade of a

different color; but in a rough way, at least, every bit of whatever

color would have its place in the single intensity series. An

intensity series can, of course, be arranged in any other sense as

well as in sight.

The _color-tone series_ is best arranged from a collection consisting

entirely of full or saturated colors. Start the {207} series with any

color and put next to this the color that most resembles it in

color-tone, i.e., in specific color quality; and so continue, adding

always the color that most resembles the one preceding. If we started

with red, the next in order might be either a yellowish red or a

bluish red. If we took the yellowish red and placed it beside the red,

then the next in order would be a still more yellowish red, and the

series would run on to yellow and then to greenish yellow, green,

bluish green, blue, violet, purple, purplish red, and so back to red.

The color-tone series returns upon itself. It is a circular series.