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Instinctive Tendencies Which Have A Marked Accompaniment Of Feeling

( Originally Published 1916 )

WE come now to the third of the groups of instinctive tendencies, those in which there is a strongly marked accompaniment of feeling. As before, we-are reminded of the difficulties of psychological analysis when the most elementary form of experience is in question. Some distinguished psychologists have believed that a state of feeling is the simplest and most elementary form of consciousness. Some, on the other hand, place activity first ; others, some form of awareness. Ribot's "Psychologie des Sentiments"' contains one of the best-known advocacies of the priority of feeling ; though even he believes unconscious organic movement to be its necessary forerunner. Westermarck, in his theory of the funda mental emotions of repugnance and attraction, also connects movement and feeling very closely together. Herbart, on the other hand, starts with presentations ; then in the relation of presentational elements to each other he discovers feeling (interests) ; and from feeling-_laden ideas he derives volition.

In respect of all such theories we have to remember that genetic explanations of whatever kind are at present but tentative. And even when pushed to their limits they necessarily leave some residuum, some original element or condition apart from which it is inconceivable that any beginning should be made. As Hoffding says, in the context from which we have already quoted : "The inner unity, to which all elements refer, and by virtue of which the individuality is a psychical individuality, remains for us an eternal riddle."

Feeling is the quality or pleasurableness or painfulness which attaches in some degree to practically all our experience. We could conceive of beings capable of having experiences and not caring ; merely taking note or what was presented, but incapable of interfering or responding. But feeling is at the foundation of all conscious response. To say, then, that we are born with definite capacities for reeling is but another way of saying that we are born with one of the first essentials of conscious personality.

In its most general sense, interest is a synonym for this attitude of the self towards its own experience. And we are now to inquire ,how far we have, by sheer nature, tendencies which may be called "instinctive interests" or "emotional instincts."

One of the characteristic attempts to show how large a part may be assigned to instinctive aversive or appetitive feeling in the upbuilding of personality is that of Westermarck. Westermarck traces the play of instinctive feeling throughout a long process of development, taking over the instincts of indignation and approval from what we might roughly call the stickleback stage ; sticklebacks being cited by him as exemplifying a marked hostile reaction when their territory is invaded by other sticklebacks. (As we go lower in the scale of animal life, we find the conative element dwindling away till nothing is left but mere reflex action.) Ascending the scale from the elementary display of the emotion of indignation by creatures at this (stickle-back) stage, development takes place through a gradual rise in the purposiveness which characterises the hostile or friendly reactions ; there is a ceasing merely to strike out blindly, and a learning to direct the aim. From this point onwards, Westermarck traces a chain of emotional phenomena to which he gives the name of "non-moral resentment," a chain in which there is "no missing link," their common quality being that they are mental states marked by resentment of pain. So we come at last to the higher attitudes of the self towards conduct, which are known as moral, the chief feature of which is still the feeling-attitude, whether of indignation or approval. True, there are fresh adjustments. Moral indignation is tempered by deliberation as to the meaning and true cause of the injury, and by a consideration of the effects of retaliation. But even the rule of forgiveness leaves room for righteous indignation. By these degrees, Westermarck leads us at last to the stage at which we are capable of bringing the sanctions of our indignation and approval to bear upon our own conduct. We condemn ourselves when we recognise ourselves to be the cause of pain. We experience moral self-approval if we find ourselves to be the cause of pleasure. The essence of this moral judgment is that the characteristic emotion is aroused with reference to conduct as conduct, rather than with reference to its effects.' So Westermarck finds it possible to construct a complete ethical system on the basis of the two primary emotional instincts of attraction and aversion.

Ribot also furnishes us with a kind of ascending scale of states of feeling, arranged in their order of development. (1) He traces the beginnings of experience back to a pre-conscious plane : la vie affective, dont l'élément profona consiste dans les tendances. (The last word is somewhat vague in its use and meaning, and difficult of translation.) This "vie affective" is for Ribot a rudimentary, protoplasmic sensibility preceding the dawn of consciousness. It is manifested in well-marked tendencies of attraction and repulsion displayed in movements. But the gulf between pre-conscious and conscious can hardly be said to be spanned by Ribot's theory. Physical attractions and repulsions may have been there ; but they would not in any degree account for consciousness. There can be no feeling until consciousness has begun to translate into its own terms that which was erstwhile on the pre-conscious plane. The foundations may have been there,—what Ribot calls the motor manifestations (manifestations motrices). But they were there as blank cheques ; forms prepared for the expression of emotion before the emotion itself was present. (2) Then appear the primitive emotions, which we shall in a moment take up in detail. (3) Above these, in the order of development we have complex emotions, depending upon a more advanced mental life ; in connection with which Ribot deals with the passions.

Before considering the second of Ribot's groups, one elementary group of feelings should be mentioned. Reflex and instinctive activities have characteristic feeling accompaniments. There is an intimate association of bodily feeling with our organic life. 'We feel hungry, feel tired, feel rested, and so on. Healthy circulation, normal respiration, good digestion all yield their contributions to the massive consciousness expressed in the words "I feel well." A sense of gratification, moreover, attaches to the play or instinct. Bodily activity, when spontaneous, is pleasurable. Equally so is mental activity. And the more specific forms of activity of each kind have their accompanying pleasures.

But the question directly before us is as to the emotional instincts or primitive emotions. An exhaustive enumeration of these it is not easy to offer. The lists differ considerably. But we cannot do better than begin with Ribot's list. He singles out as undoubtedly instinctive : fear, anger, affection, positive and negative self-feeling (Selbstgefuhl), and the sexual emotion.

(1) The instinct of fear manifests itself in very early childhood and takes various forms. The child shows fear of noises, of some strange people, and of some strange animals. Black things, the dark, solitude, commonly give rise to fear, and, as an apparent relic of life in far back ages, fur, big eyes, and a display of teeth often have this effect. We must admit, says Ribot, that the bases of fear "exist in the organism, form part of the constitution of animals and men, and help them to live by a defensive adaptation which in most cases proves useful." _

(2) A deep-rooted instinct of aversion which is sufficiently akin to fear to be referred to in connection with it, is the dislike of the unaccustomed or the strange. This organic dislike, common to us and to animals, determines our attitude in important ways. It acts as a foil to the gregarious instincts ; and so in man adds intensity to the tribal consciousness, a consciousness which plays an important part in the growth of conscious, and especially of moral, personality. The gregarious instincts are complex in character ; and " the tribal self ... is something in the mind of each individual man which binds together his gregarious instincts." But a strong drawing to kin or kind has, as its necessary counterpart, a shrinking from the unaccustomed and the strange. In the " tribal" consciousness a place must be found for suspicion and insecurity in the presence of members of strange or hostile tribes.

" We do not like a man whose character is such that we may reasonably expect injuries from him." Nor do we feel at home with a man in whom there is such an element of the unknown that we cannot be sure of ourselves in his presence. In more advanced stages of social life, this emotional instinct shows itself in the framing of codes of conduct whereby men somewhat sternly ostracise those who do not conform to standard. Still further, and partly as a corollary from this code of the set or group, we find in the personal life a definite standing aloof from certain things as alien to us. A man is utilising instinctive as well as ideal sources of energy in holding himself aloof from any-thing which is " bad form" or which is unworthy of him. We are certainly able, as Adam Smith says, to take up an attitude resembling that of the impartial spectator towards our own conduct, and can condemn in ourselves behaviour that is alien to our own standards. Remorse is a post-factum rejection of the really alien in this sense. When the tribal self wakes up, the man says: "In the name of the tribe, I do not like this thing that I, as an individual, have done." "This Self-judgment in the name of the tribe "—these are Clifford's words—" is called Conscience. If the man goes further and draws an inference about his own character, he may say : ' In the name of the tribe I do not like myself.' This is remorse."

(3) Anger, like fear, is an instinctive expression of feeling. " I feel afraid," " I feel angry," is the account we give in common speech of these states. Anger might be described as an aggressive aspect of the instinct of self-preservation, as opposed to fear, which is essentially a retiring or recoiling attitude. Anger has its genesis in the primordial attitude of resentment, emphasised by Westermarck. And few examples illustrate more clearly than this that an instinctive emotion may carry itself forward into our adult experience, though the objects towards which it is directed and the forms which it assumes may vary almost indefinitely. Speaking generally, we may find in anger the substance of the spirited element (Plato's), which enters both into private conduct and into the public aspects of morality. In British educational history, David Stow's " moral review" before the whole school of events noticed during the week is an example of the use in mass-education of this instinct in arousing disapproval of wrong. It is only in its more unschooled forms that Tolstoi's remark holds good that there is in anger an element of assumption on the part of the angry person, an arrogating of the right to be indignant which implies that he thinks too much of himself. On the contrary, anger may reach an almost impersonal level ; and be directed not really at the doer of an action, nor even at the action itself, but at the doer's own attitude towards the action. "The delight of revenge," says Bacon, " seemeth to be not so much in doing the hurt, as in making the party repent.'' ' There is a sort of double entendre in the very decision to punish. "You shall be sorry for what you have done," may mean : "You shall be hurt enough by the punishment to wish you had not done this thing." This is most people's idea, of deterrent punishment, and throws the emphasis upon " sorry." Or it may mean, " You shall be so brought to see your action in its true light that you shall be sorry for it" ; the emphasis being thrown upon the action, and the offender's attitude towards it being altered. Tolstoi's assertion holds good only of lower and less-governed forms of anger. In respect of the higher forms we might assert the very opposite, and say that the incapacity for resentment amounts to thinking too little of oneself as a moral agent, and implies the absence of an emotion which is part of our moral personality. Even the "rule of forgiveness" leaves room for righteous indignation. -

(4.) Affection Ribot classes with fear and anger as emotions which man shares with animals, and as having like them, therefore, a very clear character of universality. Maternal love is the most striking and universal form in which the instinct of affection is found in animals. It is the first great stand-by of those who trace moral features in the lower creation, laying alongside of the self-preserving struggle for existence a primordial and continuous altruistic element, namely, struggle for the life of others. The instinct of affection implies spontaneous attachment to its object and often the rendering of spontaneous forms of service, as is seen most clearly in maternal affection. It branches out into many directions. It is as an unbreakable thread of gold running through and through our social life. It is the very soul of home-life and the family relationship. It is the root-element in friendship, loyalty, patriotism, comity of nations, the enthusiasm of humanity.

(5) Another distinguishable emotional instinct is one to which Ribot gives the name of "self-feeling" (Selbstgefuhl). No name, however, quite describes it. Observation of school children of all ages and of people in adult life goes to show that there is a broad and readily traceable distinction between what have been called the "motor " and "sensory " or the "active" and "sensitive" temperaments. These temperaments are very largely congenital, that is, are born with the child, not acquired by him. Ribot's types of self-feeling may be regarded as the instinctive emotional accompaniments of these two dispositions. Some, as he says, are born buoyant ; they manifest " positive " self-feeling in a marked degree. Others are naturally diffident ; they have an overdose of "negative" self-feeling, and tend unduly to efface themselves. It is with the dawn of the child's consciousness of himself as a person, not usually, Ribot thinks, before the end of the third year, that " new emotional manifestations" appear, which tend to assume one or other of these forms. They represent instinctive attitudes towards actual situations that arise ; and, in a vague diffused way, a feeling either of adequacy and readiness or of self-distrust in facing life as a whole. Nature, of course, knows better than to fix up congenital types which have no meaning ; and, in the present instance, there is no need to disparage either type. Of course, we cannot wisely or justly treat these two types alike ; but that is not at present before us. What we now need to notice is, first, that the distinction exists ; secondly, that each form of self-feeling has its place and meaning. The effect of education, indeed, of life's experience as a whole, should be to develop in each individual the capacities of adjustment which belong to both types. The most aggressive needs to know when to yield, and the most yielding when to be aggressive.

(6) Ribot is too scientific a psychologist to be willing to leave the analysis of the sex-instinct to the novelist. " The novelist's mode of analysis is different from the psychological mode, and does not exclude it." From the standpoint of scientific psychology, the sex-instinct repays study in several ways. (a) It illustrates the way in which instinct waits its time ; (b) it illustrates in a peculiar manner the transformations of which an instinct is capable ; (c) it shows how effectually the instinctive may accompany the conscious or the ideal as a source of energy throughout our life ; (d) it subserves the ends of man's social existence. These four points are so important in the study of the part which man's congenital endowment is capable of playing in his experience that they will repay a moment's separate consideration. (a) The time of the appearance of an instinct is usually evidence of a connection between physiological and psychical conditions. This is a general truth, the instinct in question being merely one example, of which child-study and genetic psychology at their present stage can hardly make too much. It is imperative that the physiologist should help the psychologist. And it is matter of congratulation, not only that specialists from either camp are contributing to these studies, but that a few who have attained to distinction in both fields are amongst the leaders of the movement. (b) As exemplifying the transformation of which an instinct is capable, the sexual emotion associaties with itself a very wide range of emotional experience, manifesting an almost " unlimited plasticity." It fuses into "one immense aggregate," as Spencer says, most of the elementary excitations of which we are capable—pride ; the pleasure of possession ; love of freedom ; love of sympathy ; and, as directed towards the object of its choice, admiration, affection, reverence. There could be no better example of the way in which an instinct may practically change the character of its manifestation though retaining much of its congenital direction and energy. The importance of enforcing this in a study of the unfolding of personality is that we depend so much upon the fact that instincts can be directed, modified, almost transformed. If, fear being instinctive, we were always destined to be afraid of the same things ; or, anger being instinctive, always to be angry at the same things ; and so on : our very instincts would effectually bar the way of personal development. - (c) In the case of the sex-instinct, on the contrary, we find how effectually it may adapt itself to our ideas, and even to our ideals. -But the original core of tendency still remains, retaining its energy and something of its old direction. Change of direction and elevation of aim may do much to lift up an instinctive tendency towards the heights of the ideal; but it remains true that the " irresistible element " is due to the force of the original instinct, and " only exists in virtue of it." (d) The fourth point to notice is that instincts which thus live on with us in adult experience, becoming enriched in tendency with the unfolding of our personality, subserve the ends of man's individual and social well-being. If in its more material form the sex-instinct tends to the conservation of the race, in its highest forms it subserves not only the good of society, but some of the highest ends of man's individual existence. Every healthy-minded person finds a natural human joy in seeing young people (or young-hearted people of any age) engaging themselves to each other and entering upon marriage. In spite of grievous failures, the imperative that is laid upon us—an imperative that is some--how latent within the sex-impulse itself—to exalt ourselves for the sake of a beloved works out its own good issues. Excepting only the religious impulse, there is no fundamental impulse of our nature which works more prevailingly in co-operation with the more general impulse of affection to evoke courage, industry, resolution, and to contribute to a sound and well-harmonised system of social ideals.

The chief question for the educator in this immediate connection is that of co-education. And the suggestion is twofold. Since the instinct is there and needs no hastening or encouraging, it is desirable to organise so far as possible against co-educational spare time. Also, by all not too obtrusive means within the educator's power, the aim should be to impregnate the instinct with an altruistic and chivalrous tendency.

So far we have considered the emotional instincts, described by Ribot. Before turning to Herbart's valuable contribution in the same direction in his theory of original "esthetic judgments," a word must be said as to the place Herbart assigns to feeling in our mental life. In the main he regards feeling as secondary, as in some way an outcome of ideas. True, he speaks—somewhat inconsistently with the primacy which he thus assigns to cognition--of five fundamental aesthetic judgments, which, he says, are necessary, original, and self-evident.' But, for the rest, he regards the mind as merely receiving ideas, which are at once material, machinery, and centres of energy in the mental process. Feeling is in the first instance an effect of this process. No interplay of ideas, no feeling; according to Herbart. But, once aroused, feeling actually co-operates in the interplay. It soon becomes the essential lubricator of the process. While ideas are the substance of our mental life, interest is the name Herbart gives to that energy of attraction and repulsion for one another whereby ideas are assimilated into knowledge-groups or discriminated and held apart one from another. Apart from interest, knowledge—if indeed it could exist at all—would be but a sleepy store of facts from which no volition could arise. Feeling vitalises ideas; and the activity of willing is a condition into which the mind is thrown by the definite arousal of feeling or interest in connection with ideas. Interests are thus the ground of the mind's selective activity and of a rightly ordered experience. According to this view, interests, i.e., ideas associated with and reinforced by feeling, do not begin from manifestations motrices, as with Ribot, but they end with such manifestations. The crux of his whole system, however, is stated by Herbart himself, in a postscript to the second edition of the " A. B. C. of Sense-Perception." Echoing the words of objectors, he says that he is asked whether " sense-perception and theoretical concepts ever change into either moral or religious feeling." To appear to assert that they do is the impasse created by a vast insistence upon interest whilst denying the primordiality of feeling.'

One of the points which stands out strongly in Herbart, and which may be noted before leaving this general account of his theory, is that the real up-building of our mental life is due to tastes, not to distastes. Intellectual and moral up-building cannot be compassed by plying ourselves with negatives. Herbart is the complement of Westermarck in this respect. Westermarck gives the prior place throughout to repugnance and to self-protection from injury and pain.

Genetically, Westermarck may be right; though it is not easy to see why, even in an evolutionary sense, aversion should have priority over appetence. Educationally, Herbart is right. Personality is positive; and education, as one of the agencies of its unfolding, is positive, and must ply positive interests, even though it may ultimately imply the self-activity which, excepting in the somewhat negative form of self-maintenance, Herbart practically excludes from his account of the original self. Latent also in this theory is the suggestion that the mind (and with it the character) is only nourished by that which strikes home. Either to teach or to train we must awaken the activity of the pupil's mind. Our enthusiasm is good ; but his is better. The arousal of our own interest is directly helpful. The arousal of the pupil's is essential. As the late Professor H. L. Withers used to phrase it, "We must begin at the boy's end."

What account, then, do we find in Herbart of the child's own standpoint ? Have children for him "a real character and an essential being of themselves " ? Or, do they only become what experience and intercourse, supplemented by instruction, make them ? If the former can be shown to be in any sense implied in Herbart's original aesthetic judgments, it may be that Ribot's list of emotional instincts will need to be supplemented from that of Herbart.

Herbart's fullest account of the esthetic judgments is contained in the essay on "The Aesthetic Presentation of the World as the Chief Work of Education." Antecedently to strictly ethical judgments he finds in man two "wills," which he describes as a "commanding" and an "obeying" will. The commanding will he finds in the form of original acts of mind which reject whatever is alien to themselves, thus marking off the worthy and the good from the unworthy and the evil. Now, the necessity which we thus discover, Herbart says, is neither theoretical, nor logical, nor (as yet) moral. "Amongst known necessities the only one remaining is the aesthetic." The characteristic of aesthetic necessity is that it speaks in absolute judgments, entirely with-out proof. It arises on the clear presentation of its object. Music, for example, without explaining or proving anything, asks and wins absolute judgments of approval for its intervals, harmonies, and progressions. "In the same way we can transfer to the relationships of will an approval or disapproval like those existing for the relationships of notes." Such a judgment of taste breaks forth from the depth of the mind, and is often, "thanks to the nature of its origin," felt with a degree of force which does not strictly lie in what it utters.

This description of an original aesthetic necessity suggests an inquiry as to whether the immediate aesthetic judgments which Herbart finds implied in it are not to be included with the native emotional impulses we are discussing.

These " judgments " are : the judgment of inner freedom ; the judgment of the efficiency of the will or of perfectibility; the instinct (" judgment") of benevolence ; and the two intuitive judgments of justice and equity, namely, that we should observe the rights of others, arid that infringements should be atoned for. "Tendances" Ribot would call these, if he included them; Westermarck "emotions of approval." Herbart compares them, as we have just seen, with man's original aesthetic or artistic judgments and impulses. The individual, Herbart believes, discovers within himself a sort of aesthetic necessity along these lines. They are deliverances of the " commanding " will. The question that naturally arises is as to whether it is possible to bridge over the gap between the intuitionism of this doctrine and the pronounced associationism of Herbart's doctrines of the growth of knowledge and the source of will. How are we to relate the original "build" as suggested by the intuitive, underived judgments with the "building " which is represented as wholly due to instruction? This difficulty the student of Herbart will at once realise. Yet, however difficult to harmonise with other parts of his philosophy, the aesthetic judgments, as emotional instincts or fundamental attitudes of feeling, are really necessary to Herbart's system, if it is to be a system at all

In examining the " aesthetic judgments " from this stand-point, the question will arise in connection with each separately as to whether it is essentially of the nature or an emotional instinct.

The aesthetic judgment of Inner freedom certainly has a claim to rank as an emotional instinct. It differs only from the specific instincts we have spoken of in that it is more general, having reference to the whole of our conscious behaviour, i.e., to the functioning of mind as mind. The mind is not at the mercy of external influences. It deter-mines in the main the direction of its own activity. The mind as truly directs its present activities by constant reference to its own past, as it interprets what is being presented in terms of its past experience. We both know and acquire new knowledge with our hitherto attained knowledge as the governing condition ; and we behave and acquit ourselves in fresh forms of behaviour with our hitherto acquired habits and capacities for behaviour as the chief determining influence. The mind moves forward from ground of its own occupying. This is one of the cardinal necessities in the case of an unfolding personality. All that we have been moves along with us, and moves forward into what we become. From the side of our intellectual development psychologists have given to this principle the name of apperception. From the side of our striving—the acting or behaving self—the principle may well bear the name of inner freedom. For example, we form our own intentions. The stuff our intentions are made of is not supplied solely by circumstances ; it comes also from the mind's own contents. Granting, of course, that new supplies are always coming in, ideas, choice, decision are but kaleidoscopic shiftings of a content within the mind itself. It is from within itself that the mind determines the direction of its own activity. That there exists a spontaneous tendency to act from ourselves as centre, no observer of children will for a moment doubt. This strong inward urging is instinctive. By its very nature, it cannot have been taught. It is the directest assertion of an inner life or self. And its immediately personal character causes it to be strongly charged with feeling. Hence the closest description we can give of what Herbart calls the " aesthetic judgment" of inner freedom (but what might more truly be called an inalienable tendency of mind as mind) is to call it an emotional instinct. It belongs, perforce, to a behaving organism, one of whose distinguishing qualities is self consciousness.

(7) The impulse to inner freedom is thus the seventh on our list of emotional instincts.

Closely related to this emotional instinct of inner freedom is the undoubtedly original factor which is present in courage. Cowardice, the negative of courage, differs from fear. There is certainly no instinct of cowardice, because there cannot be an instinct to unfreedom. The coward is the unfree man. His very intentions, or what should be his intentions, tend to lack completeness. Cowardice betokens a weak link in the chain which in the man or normal courage binds thought and will together into one act of intention or resolve. The human, even the infra human, organic impulse is towards this unity of impression and response, the following up of a seen way of dealing with a situation with the befitting action. The man or exceptional courage is he who thinks great thoughts and acts them out, be the sphere of action what it may. General Gordon's consciousness of mission to stamp out the slave trade led to a supreme act of human daring, when he outstripped his escort and alone and unarmed rode into the camp of six thousand slave dealers and rebels at Darfoor. They were so impressed with the sheer courage of the act, bearing out as it did the reputation he had already won amongst them, that they were awed into submission. Not that they rose to the level of his ideals in any sense ; but because they paid instinctive tribute to so great an exhibition of an instinctive quality of which they themselves were no mean possessors.

The second of Herbart's aesthetic judgments, that of ` efficiency or perfections is the presence within the mind of the demand for adequacy. It is the impulse to remedy defects, to make up for shortcomings, "wherever a human being proves to be pettier, smaller, weaker, more limited than he need of necessity be." Growth, says Herbart, is the child's natural destiny. And the aesthetic judgment we are now considering he calls Vollkommenheit, that of coming to fulness of being. In this second manifestation of the "commanding will," we have, as clearly as before, an unlearned or instinctive tendency. And the element or feeling is also as clearly marked, through its direct reference to the self, as in the case of inner freedom. It is, in a sense, the complement of the instinct of inner freedom. Inner freedom says : " Function !" Efficiency says : "Function to the full ! " The aesthetic judgment of incompleteness carries within it an urging towards completeness. This instinct towards efficiency is very like what has been called the " instinct to self-possession." We appeal to this instinct as well as to reason when we reprove a child for having "forgotten himself." Indeed, in so far as we can in these ways trace an instinctive nucleus in the impulse towards perfection, we can say that it is, in however rudimentary a way, instinctive in man to be equal to life's occasions, in a word, to be moral.

(8) The instinct of efficiency is, accordingly, to be included with the emotional instincts.

Benevolence, Herbart's third original judgment, has within it an instinctive emotional element, probably that of affection already spoken of. But, as it has figured so prominently in the discussion of ethical elements in our experience, its consideration is left over to a later work dealing with this subject.

Justice, whether as the preventive principle, or the principle or restoration, may also have associated with it instinctive emotional tendencies ; though it probably does not contain any quite direct instinctive element.

Including at present the first two only of Herbart's fundamental emotional principles, there remain to be considered some four or five others, namely, sympathy, reverence, a sense of dependence, surprise, wonder.

(9) Should there be, as experience and observation give reason to think, a "subtle susceptibility of nerve which renders one individual ready to catch the contagion of the emotions of another individual," : such sympathetic susceptibility would be instinctive. It would rank with the emotional instincts. And in it we should have, side by side with the instinct of efficiency, an emotional attitude tending to give a moral bias to behaviour intertwined with man's very being.

(10) Doubtless, too, we are endowed with an instinctive tendency to recognise superiority. There is, for example, an instinctive tendency within the child-and one which happily lives on with us long after childhood—which adds urgency to the command : "Honour thy father and thy mother !" Our parents are the first to whom we normally look up as superior in knowledge and strength to ourselves. To defer to superiority is instinctive ; and as a conscious attitude or adjustment of the self, it has a characteristic accompaniment of feeling. It is an emotional instinct.

The recognition of superiority and the spontaneous tendency to self-adjustment which accompanies it are closely allied to reverence. The difference would seem to be chiefly due to a larger intellectual appreciation of the worth of the object of reverence than need be the case in the recognition of superiority. Because of the higher ideas with which it is associated, the emotion is proportionally richer, and affects us more profoundly. We may, as our appreciation of his worth deepens, pass from a more primitive recognition of superiority to reverence with regard to the same person, whether a parent, a leader, a friend, or—in a religious sense—God. But, however we come to realise the impressiveness of an object as worthy of our reverence, the faculty of reverence is inherent in human personality. In a recent work, Mr. Frederic Harrison writes : "The instincts of the human soul towards some great Power external to itself . . . the yearning to know more of that fellowship we feel within us towards the mighty whole of which we are sons and members ; finally, the desire to put forth these instincts of sympathy in some common act of adoration—these are things, we say, of vast power, utterly ineradicable from the heart of man, essential to the life of man."'

(11) The sense of dependence is not far removed from the emotional instinct just referred to. It has a somewhat more practical reference, however. We can honour as superiors and hold in reverence those upon whom we do not, in any ordinary usage of the term, say that we depend. The willingness to depend is almost a tribute to a felt superiority. But there is just enough difference in the implied relationship to separate them as movements of the mind.

(12) Surprise is an apparently primitive mental attitude, which is in the main a peculiar kind of spontaneous interest, aroused by a break, usually a sudden break, in the continuity of an experience. The intellectual element in surprise is less marked than in curiosity, the reason probably being that there is a certain mental discomfiture owing to the sudden disturbance of the intellectual train. It is for the moment an arrest of the mental process ; though it is a less decided break than alarm would cause, because we are less overridden by feeling.

Wonder goes as much deeper than surprise as reverence does than the mere recognition of superiority. Here, again, there is a larger intellectual appreciation of the worth of the object than in surprise. And the emotion is proportionally richer, and affects us more deeply. Surprise may lead on to wonder : but only through the recognition of worthiness just spoken of.

We have thus included the following twelve emotional instincts : Fear ; Aversion towards the strange ; Anger; Affection ; Positive and Negative Self-Feeling ; the Sex-instinct ; Inner Freedom ; the Instinct of Efficiency ; Sympathy ; Reverence ; the Sense of Dependence; Surprise and Wonder.

As before, in order to make good the claim to call these emotional tendencies instincts, the way in which our bodily organisation co-operates with mental tendency needs to be briefly indicated. This is shown in Principal Lloyd Morgan's chapter on "Intelligence and the Acquisition of Habits."' He there shows how these tendencies, and, indeed, the whole of the growth of experience around emotional centres of preference or distaste, depend upon "an innate power of association." This spontaneous or instinctive tendency he finds illustrated in the behaviour of the chick. The chick instinctively pecks at what it takes to be food. It picks up an unpalatable caterpillar : but it does not, at least not soon, pick up this same kind of caterpillar again. Here, manifestly, is instinct supervening upon instinct. The earlier instinct was to peck indiscriminately at food ; the later instinct was to hold off—one experience being often sufficient for weeks of inhibition-. from the unpalatable caterpillars and to keep to the palatable ones. There is, evidently, some innate connection between the unpleasantness of experiences and the inhibition of movements tending to their repetition. A similar connection holds between pleasant experiences and the efforts we make for their perpetuation?

Such a conclusion is entirely in keeping with that of the two preceding chapters, which went to show the absolute importance of congenital psycho-physical foundations in all experience, and even for the beginnings of selfhood. "Hereditary likes and dislikes determine the general course of acquired behaviour, just as hereditary nerve-connections determine the course of instinctive behaviour." The only difference is that, whereas in instinct the nerve-connections are transmitted ready-made, in emotional reaction the connection depends upon a spontaneous and equally instinctive associative activity following individual experience.

The part which the emotional instincts, our " hereditary likes and dislikes" with their accompanying tendencies, play in the unfolding of personality will be sufficiently evident. It is seen chiefly in the intimate way in which feeling and behaviour are related. The emotional impulses by their very nature, affect the direction both of our mental activity and our outer behaviour. Add together the moods which are developed and the actions which are performed under the impulse of anger in its varied phases and transformations—all forms of resentment, protest, antagonism, moral indignation ; and to these all moods and activities arising from some shade or aspect of fear—precautions against accident, insurance against loss, sanitary and health precautions, support of armies, panics on 'Change, and, so on ; and to these again, the moods and activities to which we are impelled by affection, sympathy, reverence—personal care for others, the forms of charity, ameliorative legislation, religious enterprise and aspiration and to these the characteristic attitudes and behaviours attaching to our individual self-feeling ; and the zest imparted to all our activities by our sense of inner freedom, and our impulse towards adequacy—and the far-reaching effect upon behaviour of our instinctive emotional tendencies will need no further showing.

In this intimate connection between feeling and behaviour we see part of the plan according to which we are built. "Every primary emotion," as Ribot says, "is an innate complexus expressing directly the constitution of the individual ; the emotions are organised manifestations of the life of the feelings ; they are the reactions of the individual on every-thing which touches the course of his life." I The life of the individual and the primary emotions are inextricably inter-woven. Our emotional instincts are at the very heart of our personality. Accompanied, as they are, by instincts to behaviour and intellectual impulses, they are the motive forces within us tending to make us what we are. They are the mainspring of the movements which constitute the unfolding of personality, whether at the hand of Nature, or, as we are now for a moment or two to consider, at the hands of the teacher.

One or two of the educational bearings of this review of our emotional instincts may with advantage be referred to here. They turn almost entirely upon the place of interest in educational procedure.

(a) The first and almost self-evident consideration is that our interests follow in the direction of our fundamental emotional tendencies. We stand to gain in all our efforts to educate others, and not a little in our efforts to attain to self-mastery, by knowing the trend of the organism whose movements we wish to regulate. Plato saw that this was the royal way of moral education. To appeal to and direct the instincts of the child for the beautiful and the good will lead to his gladly receiving the beautiful and the good into his soul ; he will " feed upon them, and grow to be noble and good ; whereas he will rightly censure and hate all repulsive objects, even in his childhood, before he is able to be reasoned with ; and when reason comes, he will welcome her most cordially who can recognise her as already akin because he has been thus nurtured." The real interests of the child go beneath the surface. To evoke an interest that shall be deep and permanent, we must strike down to the basal tendencies of child-nature. We have to distinguish in making the unfolding of personality our educational aim between "interesting " children, i.e., merely amusing them ; and interesting them in the deeper sense, i.e., educating them. When in protest against the former kind of interest Mr. Dooley, as already quoted, says : "I don't care what ye larn thim so long as 'tis onpleasant to thim," he is not thereby riding rough-shod over the child's own craving. He is more really emphasising a deeper selfhood as opposed to a superficial amusability. The real wants of a child are symptomatic of native tendencies. They are hungers. The child, like the rest of us, would rather be interested than amused. The too easy permitting of the child to do what he pleases is not a way of respecting his individuality. The child has a bigger individuality than that ; and he knows it. If it were necessary to say in one word the utmost that one word could express about child-nature, it would be the word Hunger: The child is hungry to do things ; hungry to know ; hungry to admire and to love. An emotional accompaniment attaches to every instinctive tendency. These are the feelings that strike deepest ; and those who, as educators, wish to build up abiding interests will take them as their foundation. If we would teach well, still more if we would educate truly, we must be versed in " the elemental passions which move in the under-world of common life."

(b) For, in the second place, interests rule lives. In spite of discoverable mis-applications of theory, and of the care with which we need to lay our hands to the lever of interest in the work of education, interest and right appeal to feeling necessarily play an all-important part in the up-building of personality. Herbart saw how profoundly interests influence lives, and few philosophers have gone to the same trouble as he—till quite recently it would not have been easy to name one—to work out their philosophic and educational theories side by side. It is not surprising to find Ruskin, who approaches ethical (and even economic) questions with the mind of the artist, in substantial agreement with Herbart. In his lecture on " Traffic " he says : " Taste is not only a part and an index of morality—it is the only morality.. . To teach taste is inevitably to form character." To a somewhat similar effect, though with a tendency to give the moral precedence over the æsthetic, M. Paul Janet, reporting to the French Government in 1882 in connection with the teaching of morality in the newly laicised French schools, said : "There are many philosophies, there is only one morality. There are certain fundamental ideas without which the idea of education would be self-contradictory. There are works which are beautiful and sublime ; there are also things which are low and gross. To distinguish these in literature, we must first distinguish them in morality."

(c) The foundations of the child's power to respond to educative influences are, as we have seen, laid in an " innate power of association " whereby feeling and behaviour are inseparably connected. There are things which he is born to care for and to care about. Bad experiences—and it is largely decided for him beforehand what shall be " bad" to him—make him want to stop. Pleasurable experiences make him want to go on. This is really "natural selection," working through feeling-laden instinct. So sure is the working of this taw that, if there is any habit we wish to form or any kind of behaviour we wish to eliminate, we must avail ourselves of it if we are to hope for success. Supposing the habit we wish to inculcate runs counter to some existing tendency in the child, we can only secure his behaviour in the new direction by making the alter-native in some way attractive. The boy must be as much in the new behaviour as in the old, and slightly more so if he is to be got to substitute the one for the other. It is no case of teacher's way versus scholar's way. There is neither immediate profit that is of any account, nor permanent gain from that. It must be a case of the boy's new way versus the boy's old way. And for the boy to adopt the new, he must be got to put more of himself into it. An alternative to be effectual must preponderate in interest. There are more ways than one of making the old way distasteful. But those ways are most successful and abiding in results which set the will of the boy against it, and lead out his choice toward the new. Ina fine figure, Plato compares the soul to a chariot with a pair of winged horses and a driver. Only in the souls of the Gods are the horses and drivers entirely good. In other souls one of the horses is excellent, the other vicious. The business of the driver is, therefore, extremely difficult and troublesome. For "one of the two horses being of inferior nature, when he has not been exceedingly well trained by the driver, weighs down the vehicle and impels it towards the earth." For the educator, there can be no question as to who is to be the driver. We cannot be charioteers of each other's souls. The reins must be put into the boy's own hands. One might paraphrase the title of these studies and, still more closely plagiarising the terms of Herbart's essay, say that the ethical revelation of himself to himself is our chief work in his education. And this would not be very far from Herbart's own meaning. We hear much of moral education. Ultimately it will in all probability sum itself up in one single principle : Put the scholar in possession of his own will. Remind him of his will he will be in an honourable sense the prouder of himself and of his teacher ; trust, and lead him to trust, his will—each form of pride will strengthen ; do this because of a belief in his " instinct to self-possession " and from a frank sympathy with that instinct ; and the chances are that a personality will be developed such that the boy will retain control for life, and be in a worthy fashion the charioteer of his own soul.

(d) For all this the boy depends upon his teacher more than appears on the surface. Just as in the acquisition of knowledge by his class the art of the teacher is not less but greater the more he makes the acquisition really theirs, i.e., the more he relies upon their suggestions, their questions, their answers to his questions, their work at their desks or in their studies ; so, also, in developing taste and habits of behaviour there is really more of the educator's art implied in letting the boys come to it themselves. In seeking to impart knowledge the teacher may think that he is taking his due share by a method of lecturing, and explaining, and talking from his own point of view ; whilst the unfailing effect will be that the scholars will forget both the lesson and the teacher with that wonderful knack of unloading the undesirable which youthful nature possesses. So he may drive home precepts, as a few of undying fame have done, in a way that savours wholly of the strength of his determination and makes no move in the direction of enlisting the wills of his scholars. But the inner life has not been reached ; and the great truth has been forgotten that "life develops from within." Without the slightest mawkishness on their part or ours, we might greet with welcome any spontaneous tendency on the part of boys—I speak of men-teachers and boy-scholars, not knowing how it would apply in girls' schools—to come to us, their teachers, with questions, not always about their geography or their arithmetic or for permission to go out of bounds ; but sometimes to bring us confidences. To be to one's boys not merely the man who is putting them through the mill, but the man who has himself gone through the mill, who knows—perhaps in retrospect in a way that it would not have been possible or natural to realise at the time--the tug and the glow of it all, and who can by an occasional word or attitude flash in the inspiration when its need is felt—that is a large part of the schoolmaster's joy and reward. To have the confidence of the fellows, because he was once a fellow himself ; the sense of comradeship, of spiritual captaincy, which this implies—so to stand before the boys is to appeal to their real nature galore. Sympathy, dependence, hero-worship (in large degree the schoolboy's reverence), even a stimulating affection, will flow out from the younger hearts ; because the master on his part knows and respects their impulses of "inner freedom" and their desire to toe the line ( vollkommenheit).


1. "In general the real emotions should be aroused only for the sake of action " (Thorndike, " Principles of Teaching ").

2. Only by allowing adequately for the force and the character of the child's instinctive hungers to behave may we hope effectually to divert him from becoming a misbehaving organism.

3. The argument which Locke makes use of against the rod as an agent of discipline is worthy of notice, namely, that it is merely an appeal to the child's pleasure-loving, pain-avoiding instincts.

4. " In the course of teaching there is frequently a struggle of interests. The teacher . . . must learn the art of killing interest, as well as the art of rousing interest. Now the best way of killing interest is not by opposing it, but by gratifying it. So soon as an interest has been satisfied, it dies a natural death " (Professor Adams).

5. With respect to the two types of temperament conditioned by the quality of the instinctive "self-feeling," it is evident that the child will depend largely upon the guidance and influence of others if any excessive tendency in either direction is to be corrected. In later life we may ourselves come to see the necessity of a balance between the two tendencies. But we cannot expect this from the child. Suitable experiences must be planned for him.

6. Observation of children will enable us readily to collect examples of the display of emotional instincts : fear, anger, pugnacity, affection, sympathy. (An extreme case once came before the writer's attention of a girl in a private school who seemed to be utterly carried away by her sympathetic impulses. If the teacher spoke in the least degree sharply to another child, she seemed to be quite unstrung by it and had so far allowed the emotional tendency to have the mastery that she became, often for a considerable time, incapable of work. A morbid case, certainly ; but it is one of the tests of purely instinctive tendencies that they do yield pathological or morbid cases of this kind. See MacDougall's " Social Psychology," P. 49.)

7. The social instincts of children are particularly observable when they work together in class. They are directly impelled by a nature which they ought not to be expected unduly to control to take an interest in one another. We should think many times before constituting it into a school offence if a child wishes to help another in his work. Where there is no unfairness to others or hindrance of the work of others the child's social nature should have play. The " martinet " is probably not only the weak teacher but fundamentally the weak disciplinarian.

8. Fuller study may be made of the points raised in this chapter in Ribot's "Psychology of the Emotions" and "La Logique des Sentiments" ; McDougall's "Introduction to Social Psychology "; Westermarck's " Origin and Development of the Moral Ideas" ; Stout's "Groundwork of Psychology " and " Manual of Psychology " ; Sully's " Sensation and Intuition" ; Drummond's " The Child"; and, notably, in MacCunn's " Making of Character."

9. The five "Ambitious Impulses "—imitation, emulation, ambition, pugnacity, pride—referred to by Professor James (" Talks to Teachers," page 54.) would, in the classification of the preceding chapter, come under the heading of "efficiency impulses." Imitation, though doubt-less shading off towards emulation, has far less emotional colouring than the other four. It is dealt with in the following chapter.

10. The aesthetic sentiment is referred to on pages 213-214.

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