Feelings Transformed: Philosophical

Theories of the Emotions, 1270-1670

Dominik Perler
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Feelings Transformed
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E mot i on s of t he Past
Series Editors
Robert A. Kaster | David Konstan

This series investigates the history of the emotions in pre-​modern societies,

taking 1500 CE as the conventional threshold of modernity. In addition to new
work on Greco-​Roman and medieval European cultures, the series provides a
home for studies on the emotions in Near Eastern and Asian societies, including
pre-​modern Egypt, India, China, and beyond.

The Elegiac Passion

Jealousy in Roman Love Elegy
Ruth Rothaus Caston

Envy and Jealousy in Classical Athens

A Socio-​Psychological Approach
Ed Sanders

Hope, Joy, and Affection in the Classical World

Edited by Ruth R. Caston and Robert A. Kaster

The Ancient Emotion of Disgust

Edited by Donald Lateiner and Dimos Spatharas

The Emotions in Early Chinese Philosophy

Curie Virág

Feelings Transformed
Philosophical Theories of the Emotions, 1270–​1670
Dominik Perler
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Feelings Transformed
Philosophical Theories of the Emotions, 1270–​1670

Dominik Perler
Translated from the German by Tony Crawford

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Originally published as: Transformationen der Gefühle. Philosophische Emotionstheorien 1270–​1670

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The translation of this work was funded hy Geisteswissenschaften International – Translation

Funding for Humanities and Social Sciences from Germany, a joint initiative of the Fritz Thyssen
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Contents

Preface vii
Preface to the English Edition xi

Introduction 1
I.1 A Philosophical Approach to Emotions 1
I.2 Why Historical Analysis? 6
I.3 A Twofold Transformation 16

1. Thomas Aquinas: Emotions as Sensual Movements 23

1.1 A Simple Explanation? 23
1.2 The Soul and Its Faculties 27
1.3 The Characterization and Classification of the Emotions 37
1.4 The Cognitive Content of Emotions: Fear and Anger 53
1.5 How Can Emotions Be Rationally Controlled? 61

2. John Duns Scotus and William of Ockham: Emotions in the Will 73

2.1 Two Kinds of Emotions 73
2.2 Pain as a Sensual Suffering 79
2.3 Sadness and Free Will 87
2.4 The Separation of the Parts of the Soul and Its Consequences 95
2.5 Love, Enjoyment, and Voluntary Control 110

3. Michel de Montaigne: A Skeptical View of Emotions 123

3.1 A Theoretical Approach? 123
3.2 Dynamic Pyrrhonism 126
3.3 Applying the Skeptical Method: Sadness, Fear, and Anger 136
3.4 Is a Systematic Order of the Emotions Possible? 149
3.5 Natural Moderation Instead of Control 158

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vi Contents

4. René Descartes: A Dualist View of Emotions 175

4.1 A Mechanistic Theory of Feelings? 175
4.2 The Functional Unity of Body and Mind 180
4.3 Emotions as Representations 192
4.4 Wonder and the Taxonomy of Emotions 204
4.5 Self-​Control through Self-​Respect 214

5. Baruch de Spinoza: Emotions as Psychophysical Units 225

5.1 A Naturalistic Approach 225
5.2 The Metaphysical Frame: Monism and Causal Order 229
5.3 Passive and Active Emotions 242
5.4 An Intellectualistic and Egoistic Error? 254
5.5 A Rationalistic Therapy 263

Conclusion 281

Notes 293
Bibliography 325
Name Index 339
Subject Index 343
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Preface

We ask “What does ‘I am frightened’ really mean, what am I referring to when

I say it?” And of course we find no answer, or one that is inadequate. The ques-
tion is: “In what sort of context does it occur?”
—​Ludwig Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations II, ix

Over the past two decades, emotions have moved more and more into the focus
of scientific research and have been studied primarily in psychological, biolog-
ical, and neuroscientific perspectives. The empirical studies concentrate pre-
dominantly on explaining the origin and structure of such phenomena as joy,
fear, and sadness, which are grouped under the common rubric of “emotions.”
But what prompts us to apply a single rubric to a number of phenomena? By
what criteria are these phenomena distinguished from others and classified?
How are they described or even defined? And to whom are they ascribed? The
present book is concerned with answers to these questions. It is intended not as
an empirical study, but as a conceptual analysis. Its aim is to analyze the theoret-
ical map on which the individual emotions are charted and set in relation to one
another as well as to other mental and physical phenomena.
The perspective taken in its five chapters is that of the history of philosophy.
Each chapter reconstructs and discusses influential theories of the emotions
that originated in the late Middle Ages and the early modern period. The in-
tention is not to provide the most exhaustive treatment possible of the exten-
sive textual material, nor yet a history of the sources and their reception, but to
analyze systematically relevant problems and to compare different theoretical
approaches. The history of philosophy shows that there is far more than just one
map on which the emotions can be drawn in their relationship to sensations,
perceptions, beliefs, acts of volition, and other phenomena. Only when we ex-
amine a given map more closely can we explain what is meant by individual
emotions.

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viii Preface

In view of the multitude of theoretical maps, the intention of the present

book is not to pick out a certain explanatory model, but to call attention to
the transformations in the discussion of emotions that have occurred in the
contexts of metaphysics, action theory, and moral psychology. At the same time,
our investigation will also be concerned with how the question of transforming
emotions has been answered in the respective contexts. How did philosophers
explain that emotions are not something we only “suffer” passively, but often
something we actively control, moderating them, sometimes suppressing them,
or the opposite—​arousing them? Thus we are concerned with a twofold trans-
formation: change in the theoretical framework and, at the same time, in the
emotions themselves. The particular attraction of investigations in the history
of philosophy is that they bring to light the close connection between these
two transformations, for the possibility of moderating or arousing emotions is
explained very differently in the different theoretical frameworks.
The present study is not aimed exclusively at a specialist audience. For that
reason, it dispenses with a detailed discussion of the secondary literature.
However, the notes provide references to the most important commentaries
and point out the differences from previous interpretations. The references to
the primary sources have been integrated as far as possible into the text itself so
that every reader can turn to them to verify the interpretations and to try them
in greater depth. All quotations (with the exception of those from Montaigne,
Descartes, and Spinoza) are in my own translation from the Greek, Latin, and
French.
This book would not have been possible without the encouragement and ac-
tive support of many people. I thank first of all the staff of the Leibniz Prize
project “Transformations of the Mind: Philosophical Psychology from 1500 to
1750” at Humboldt-​Universität, Berlin. I have presented preliminary studies and
draft chapters to them in internal colloquia and learned a great deal from their
critical questions, suggestions for improvement, and clarifications. I warmly
thank Rebekka Hufendiek, Martin Lenz, Stephan Schmid, Pedro Stoichita,
and Markus Wild for their thorough written comments on earlier versions of
the individual chapters. In the spring of 2009, I had the opportunity as a vis-
iting professor at the University of Tel Aviv to teach a graduate seminar on the
texts discussed in this book. My talks with the students there, and also with
David Konstan, who was in Tel Aviv at the same time, were a great help to me.
I thank my colleagues at the Cohn Institute at the University of Tel Aviv for
their exceedingly warm reception. I am also indebted for many suggestions to
the students with whom I have discussed medieval and early modern texts in
seminars in Berlin.
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Preface ix

I have presented ideas that have found their way into this book in lectures
in Vancouver, Toronto, Montreal, St. Louis, Leuven, Utrecht, Jerusalem,
Würzburg, Munich, Freiburg im Breisgau, Basel, Graz, Rome, Jyväskylä, and
Berlin. I thank all the participants in discussions for valuable questions, but
most of all for pointing out unclear points and so motivating me to state my
arguments more precisely, and not to lose sight of the philosophical forest
for the many historical and philological trees. My sincere thanks go to Luz
Christoph Seiberth and Sebastian Bender, who have supported me in obtaining
literature and preparing the text for publication.
I am grateful to the stimulating interlocutors and also to the dedicated
helpers I found in organizing conferences and reading groups on theories of the
soul and the emotions in the Berlin Excellence Clusters “Topoi” and “Languages
of Emotion.” I was given the opportunity to finish the work in idyllic surround-
ings at the Istituto Svizzero di Roma. I thank the directors of the institute for
their hospitality and for a gift that is becoming more and more precious in the
bustling routine of the university: time to read and write.
Berlin, May 2010
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Preface to the English Edition

The present book is the English translation of a German book that I finished in
2010. The text, including the references, has not been changed. But a great deal
else has changed in the meantime, of course. For one thing, the scholarly debate
has continued to advance in recent years. Theories of the emotions have increas-
ingly taken the spotlight in studies of medieval and early modern philosophy,
and it has become still more evident that, in these theories in particular, central
problems of metaphysics, the philosophy of mind, moral psychology, and ethics
have been discussed with particular intensity. For another, my own perspective
on these theories has also changed in certain respects. I would briefly like to in-
dicate three areas that, in my present view, call for closer study.
The first of these areas concerns the relationship between theories of the
emotions and cognitive theory. A central thesis of this book is that medieval
and early modern philosophers were particularly interested in the question of
how we can alter our emotions. How can we overcome anger in ourselves in spe-
cific situations, decrease our wrath, or increase our joy? To answer this question,
many authors appealed to cognitive mechanisms of control. They argued that
we can change emotions only if we also change our perceptions, imaginings,
judgments, and other cognitive states. Only if we judge the object of our anger
differently, for example, can we reduce that anger, and only if we perceive the
object of our joy more intensely can we increase our joy. Of course, the critical
question is then how such a cognitive control is possible. Exactly how can we
influence our emotions by means of our perceptions or judgments? Aristotelian
authors addressed this question using a psychology of faculties. They argued
that the whole soul consists of various faculties that produce different kinds of
states or activities—​perceptions, judgments, emotions, etc. All the faculties are
coordinated with one another, so that activities of the faculty of judgment, for
example, have immediate effects on the activities of the affective faculty. This

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xii Preface to the English Edition

means, of course, that the unity and coordination of the faculties permit cogni-
tive control of the emotions.
However, this argument depends on two strong assumptions. First, it assumes
that there are in fact faculties that produce activities, and second, it presupposes
that there is in fact a perfect coordination of all faculties. But what is there to
justify the assumption of faculties in the first place? We cannot observe faculties;
we can observe only individual activities. And why should we assume that the
faculties, if they exist, are coordinated? Indeed, we observe over and over again
that cognitive control fails. We are often unable to reduce our anger or to increase
our joy. It would therefore seem all too optimistic to assume from the outset a
coordinated system of faculties. Reflections of this kind motivated many skep-
tical or anti-​Aristotelian authors in the early modern period to question, or to
reject completely, the psychology of faculties. In recent years I have studied the
debate on the faculties in depth (see The Faculties: A History, Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2015), and this debate seems to me to be of central impor-
tance for an understanding of theories of the emotions. Only if it is clear how
the assumption of faculties was justified in the context of an Aristotelian cog-
nitive theory can we also understand how the cognitive control of emotions
was explained. And only if it is clear how the Aristotelian assumption was
replaced with new assumptions—​in the context of a Cartesian or Spinozan cog-
nitive theory, for example—​can we also discern what anti-​Aristotelian authors
meant by references to a close relationship among perceptions, judgments, and
emotions. Hence it is very important to examine more closely the discussions
concerning the status and the function of faculties. This means, of course, that
theories of the emotions must be more comprehensively embedded in the cor-
responding cognitive theories.
A second area that requires closer analysis concerns the relationship among
the theories of the emotions and various areas of philosophy. Studies of emotions
are now so well established in the contemporary debate that the “philosophy of
the emotions” has become a discipline of its own. It is therefore tempting to ex-
pect such a discipline to have existed in the Middle Ages and the early modern
period too, and to try to delimit it from other disciplines. Such a temptation must
be resisted, however. In the period between the 13th and the 17th centuries, there
was no separate “philosophy of the emotions”; there was rather an investigation
of the emotions that took place as part of existing disciplines. The discipline
in which this investigation took place varied depending on the author and the
context, however. Two examples may serve to illustrate this. Thomas Aquinas
discussed the nature and the function of the emotions in the second part of
the Summa theologiae, that is, in a theological text, where his study follows a
thorough analysis of human actions and precedes an analysis of the virtues (see
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Preface to the English Edition xiii

Section 1.1). The questions that interested him primarily were how we can pro-
duce good actions by means of the emotions, and how we can over time acquire
a virtuous character so that we produce good actions again and again. Aquinas
embedded the discussion of these questions in the context of a comprehensive
moral theology. René Descartes proceeded very differently. In the preface to The
Passions of the Soul, he wrote that he was investigating the emotions “as a nat-
ural philosopher” (see Section 4.1). He wanted mainly to analyze how different
states originate in the brain through external influences, leading in turn to dif-
ferent emotions. Furthermore, he wanted to determine more precisely which
particular facial expressions and gestures are elicited by the various emotions.
He meant to explain these processes in the context of a mechanistic physiology.
Thus he did not intend to embed the analysis of the emotions in a moral the-
ology. Consequently, he concentrated not on moral questions in the strict sense
(such as the question of what the goal and the structure of morally good actions
are), but for the most part on questions that are relevant from a perspective of
science and natural philosophy.
This important difference must be borne in mind. It would be misleading
to assume that Thomas Aquinas and Descartes pursued a single project of a
“philosophy of the emotions.” There was no such project in the Middle Ages
and the early modern period. Rather, the issues investigated by the individual
authors were oriented after their various overarching projects or disciplines—​
such as those of moral theology or of natural philosophy. Daniel Garber re-
cently pointed out that it would be methodologically inappropriate to look for a
unified “philosophy of the emotions” in earlier texts. He concisely writes, “The
earlier theories of the passions and emotions we examined are embedded in
a rich web of philosophical context; modern theories are more autonomous”
(“Thinking Historically/​Thinking Analytically: The Passion of History and the
History of Passions,” in Thinking about the Emotions: A Philosophical History,
ed. A. Cohen and R. Stern, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017, 23). This ob-
servation cannot be overemphasized. We must always ask in what context a
medieval or early modern philosopher discussed a given problem, what sig-
nificance that context had for a theory of the emotions, and how that theory
was integrated in a more comprehensive theory. And, of course, we must also
ask how and why different problems were addressed in different contexts. In
any case, the context-​specific differences between individual authors must be
analyzed more closely.
Finally, there is a third area that calls for closer examination. This one concerns
the relation of medieval and early modern theories of the emotions to present-​
day theories. This book makes it plain that there are, in spite of all differences,
important points of correspondence. For example, Aquinas, Ockham, Descartes,
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xiv Preface to the English Edition

and Spinoza all agreed, as do many present-​day philosophers, that emotions

are not merely feelings, but states with a cognitive content. Indeed, that is the
reason why emotions can be transformed by other cognitive states. It would
therefore be misleading to say that it was only in the 20th century that a “cog-
nitive turn” took place in debates on the emotions (see the concluding chapter).
It was known long before the 20th century that emotions are a certain kind
of cognition. Does this mean that medieval and early modern authors simply
anticipated the findings of modern emotion research and that we can alternate
between older and present-​day theories at will? Not at all. The special attraction
of older theories consists in the fact that they seem to address familiar issues
in a completely different context and thus often arrive at different conclusions.
Again, an example may serve to illustrate this. Medieval authors agreed that
we humans are living beings with a body, and that our cognition in this life is
therefore physically grounded. However, they noted that our soul continues to
exist and can remain active after the body’s death. This moved some authors,
such as William of Ockham, to claim that the soul can still produce cognitions
when it is separated from the body—​purely intellectual cognitions with no phys-
ical basis. Ockham also thought that the soul can still produce emotions after
death—​purely volitive emotions that also have no physical basis (see Section
2.3). In concrete terms, that means that the soul separated from the body can
have a purely mental joy. This joy consists in nothing other than in the con-
sent that the will gives to an object that the intellect judges to be good. Thus
for Ockham there is a joy that clearly has a cognitive content but is completely
bodiless.
This is a thesis that hardly any philosopher would agree with today. However
cognitive states are conceived in contemporary debates, it seems to be clear that
they always have a physical basis. To present-​day philosophers, it makes little
sense to speak of a purely mental joy produced by a soul separated from the body.
At precisely this point we see that we must proceed very cautiously in speaking
of cognitive states: the states referred to as cognitive in different contexts are of
very different kinds. It would therefore be inappropriate to say that there is a
unified, much less a single, “cognitivist theory of the emotions” in the 14th cen-
tury and in the 21st century. But we also see that revisiting older theories can be
productive. It forces us to deal with fundamental questions: What do we mean
by an emotion with a cognitive content? What conditions must be fulfilled for
such an emotion to arise? And what kind of subjects can produce it—​only phys-
ical living beings, or bodiless souls too? We might even say that studying older
theories produces an alienation effect. (I describe this effect in detail in “The
Alienation Effect in the Historiography of Philosophy,” in Philosophy and the
Historical Perspective, ed. M. van Ackeren, Oxford: Oxford University Press,
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Preface to the English Edition xv

2018, 140–​154.) The characterization of emotions as physically grounded states,

which seems to go without saying today, is suddenly no longer a natural and
self-​evident fact—​looking at it in the light of another theory alienates it. It turns
out to be the product of a certain theory about the constitution of cognitive
subjects, just as Ockham’s view too, of course, is the product of a certain theory.
This study induces us to think about both theories—​the theory that is dominant
today as well as Ockham’s. We must ask ourselves what arguments there are for
and against each of the two theories. I find this a special benefit of studying the
history of philosophy. It not only leads to more exact knowledge of an older
theory, but it also motivates us to think about the specific characteristics of a
present-​day theory. It may also lead us to see the present-​day theory as being his-
torically contingent just as the older theory is. In any case, comparing older and
contemporary theories of the emotions does not simply amount to discovering
mere “earlier versions” or anticipations of present-​day theories. It rather makes
us examine the given theoretical frame more precisely. Future studies should
devote increasing attention to this purpose.
So much for some methodological considerations. After finishing the
German book, I pursued some ideas from it further in three essays in English.
For this reason, Chapters 1 and 2 overlap at certain points, although without lit-
eral repetitions, with the following texts: “Why Is the Sheep Afraid of the Wolf?
Medieval Debates on Animal Passions,” in Emotion and Cognitive Life in Medieval
and Early Modern Philosophy, ed. L. Shapiro and M. Pickavé, Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2012, 32–​52; “Ockham on Emotions in the Divided Soul,” in
Partitioning the Soul: Debates from Plato to Leibniz, ed. K. Corcilius and D. Perler,
Berlin: de Gruyter, 2014, 179–​198; and “Emotions and Rational Control: Two
Medieval Perspectives,” in Thinking about the Emotions: A Philosophical History,
ed. A. Cohen and R. Stern, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017, 60–​82.
Finally, I thank Tony Crawford for the careful English translation, which
I have read in draft.
Berlin, January 2018
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Feelings Transformed
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Introduction

I.1 A Philosophical Approach

to Emotions
Hardly anything seems more familiar to us than the abundance of emotions that
we experience every day. We are glad when we receive a nice gift; we are afraid
when we are threatened; and we get angry when we learn of a great injustice. We
often observe emotions occurring in other people too: we see someone gripped
by anger; we observe children laughing with joy; and we watch couples who
have fallen out separating in hatred. Emotions are so omnipresent and natural
in day-​to-​day life that they need no explanation. The need for an explanation
arises only when we want to go beyond listing the various emotions observed
at one point or another and analyze all the phenomena we observe in ourselves
and others. What analysis would be appropriate from a present-​day perspective?
It seems at first as if only an empirical analysis would teach us something,
because only that would provide us with insight into the origins and the general
structure of emotions. If we carry out biological, psychological, neuroscientific,
and other empirical investigations, we cannot only describe individual emotions,
but we can also explain what stimuli produce them, what brain structures they
are manifested in, and what behavior patterns they elicit. We can then also ex-
plain why certain types of emotions coincide with a certain physical expression,
and on this basis we may be able to draw up a classification of basic emotions.
If we use in addition the empirically grounded investigative methods of the so-
cial sciences, we can explain how, beginning with the basic emotions, different
socially and culturally shaped emotions arise, depending on different contexts.
We can also study what value is attached to these emotions, how that value has
changed in the course of historic development, and what differences can be
observed in different social groups. If these investigations are based on abun-
dant data, and if the established methods of empirical research are adequate,
we may go beyond a purely subjective, more or less anecdotal description of
individual emotions and construct a theory of emotions—​a theory that tells us
about the nature and the special function of emotions.
Is there any room left then for a philosophical analysis? The need for such
an analysis arises whenever the concepts we use, both in everyday life and

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2 Feelings Transformed

in empirical studies, are unclear or imprecise. Only when we have examined

these concepts and explained them in their relations to one another do they
acquire clear outlines. Only then can we see what they are supposed to explain
in the first place, what overall framework they operate in, and what explicit
or implicit assumptions they depend on. Philosophical problems are thus al-
ways conceptual problems: they concern not the empirical data, but the way
in which we integrate and evaluate the data. Consequently, philosophical
problems cannot be solved by accumulating more and more data and per-
forming more and more individual empirical investigations. Instead, we must
reflect on the schemas in which the data are ordered and the presuppositions
they bring with them.
Of course, such schemas are also discussed in the various empirical
disciplines. New empirical findings are often obtained by interpreting ex-
isting data in the context of new theories or by questioning assumptions that
had seemed self-​evident. For example, only critical reflection on behaviorism’s
assumptions allowed a “cognitive turn” in empirical research on emotions. Only
then was it possible to understand emotions as states with a cognitive content
and to study the formation of that content in detail.1 Thus there are by all means
theoretical debates in the empirical sciences, and theories are revised as a result
of them. However, such debates usually presuppose generally accepted funda-
mental concepts, as dissent can arise only from a shared conceptual basis in the
first place. It is possible to argue about how the cognitive content of emotions
arises, for example, only if we are more or less in agreement on what we mean
by cognitive content.2 It is precisely with these conceptual foundations that phil-
osophical analyses begin. Rather than assuming that the concept of cognitive
content, or other basic concepts, are already understood, philosophical analyses
are aimed at clarifying them. At least five problems then arise.
First, the seemingly naive but fundamental question arises of whether there
is such a thing as the emotions at all. We may call this the problem of unity: is the
concept of emotion sufficiently definite that it can be applied to a unified class of
phenomena? An affirmative answer seems obvious, because we seem to find it
easy to assign joy, fear, anger, outrage, and many other emotions to a single class,
which we distinguish from the class of beliefs and from that of sensations. But
objections to this answer have been raised time and time again. “Emotions do
not form a natural class,” Amélie Oksenberg Rorty has provocatively asserted.3
It is by no means plausible that all the phenomena that we ordinarily group
together under the term “emotion” really belong together. Perhaps our term is
misleading, just as the term “fish” is misleading when we apply it to trout and
whales. Just because we see these creatures in water doesn’t mean they belong to
the same category of animals.
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Introduction 3

Or perhaps our term is based on a historically developed convention that

could be changed at any time. Or perhaps it is based on the false assumption that
there must be something that connects joy, fear, anger, outrage, etc. But is there
in fact any such thing? Let us examine the spontaneous fear that grips a person
when a big dog lunges at her and the outrage that rises in her when she thinks
about executives receiving salaries in the millions while millions of people starve.
The fear is a reaction immediately triggered by sensory impressions, whereas
the outrage is the result of a moral reflection. A cat attacked by a dog would also
be afraid, but it would never be able to become outraged. Why should these two
phenomena nonetheless belong to one and the same class? Perhaps we should
classify the spontaneous fear together with instinctive sensory impressions but
classify outrage together with moral judgments. In any case, we need to explain
why we put very different kinds of phenomena in one bag. Perhaps what the bag
contains is an assortment of miscellaneous things.
This brings us to the second problem, which we may call the problem of struc-
ture. Even if we admit that we are using a single collective term for different
phenomena, the question arises of what characterizes those phenomena. In
other words, what is the particular structural characteristic that allows us to
distinguish emotions from other mental phenomena? Various answers come to
mind. We might answer that they are characterized by intentionality: that is, by
being directed at objects or states of affairs. We are always glad of something,
afraid of something; we hope for something, etc. But this characteristic is also
found in other mental phenomena. Some would even say it is the characteristic
of all mental phenomena, because beliefs, perceptions, wishes, imaginings, etc.
are also intentional.4 We might answer further that emotions have a physical
component. Thus we tremble when we are in great fear, and we blush with joy.
But this characteristic is also found in other phenomena, including in partic-
ular sensations (such as pain) and longer-​lasting states of mind or moods (such
as depression). We might also assert that emotions have a phenomenal com-
ponent. That is, it feels a certain way to be outraged or joyous. But, of course,
this component too is found in sensations and moods. We could also state that
emotions have a motivational component. When we are afraid of a big dog, we
are spontaneously motivated to flee, and when we are outraged at an injustice,
we want to do something to combat it. But this component is also found in
instincts, desires, and wishes; all of them motivate us to act. Finally, we might
point out that emotions are distinguished by an evaluative component. When
we are happy about a gift, we see it as something good, and when we are afraid of
the dog, we estimate it to be dangerous and bad for us. But, once again, this com-
ponent is not specific to emotions either; wishes and especially value judgments
are also evaluative. Is there nothing, then, that distinguishes only emotions? Or
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4 Feelings Transformed

should we be looking for a different kind of characteristic, a very particular one?

Or is the peculiarity of emotions the fact that they have a bundle of structural
characteristics that overlap with those of other mental phenomena? In that case,
how would we explain how emotions are related to sensations, moods, wishes,
value judgments, etc.? These questions show that it is not enough just to clarify
the concept of emotion. We need to lay out a whole network of concepts to or-
ganize different mental phenomena and set them in relation to one another.
Talking about mental phenomena immediately brings up a third problem,
the problem of ascription: to whom or to what should emotions be ascribed?
To the mind, of course, we might answer just as quickly. As obvious and as
trivial as this answer may be, it is no less questionable on a closer look. For if
emotions have a physical component, they also concern the body, and not only
in the sense that they have a neuronal basis, which is probably true of all mental
phenomena. Emotions manifest themselves in specific gestures and facial
expressions. Are they nonetheless simply mental phenomena? Is fear something
mental and the trembling merely a concomitant phenomenon or a contingent
effect? That hardly seems plausible. We do not tremble in addition to or after
being afraid; we tremble in fear; the physical behavior is a constitutive com-
ponent.5 Should emotions then be ascribed to the body? Or to a unity of body
and mind? What might we mean by such a unity? Questions like these lead us
directly into metaphysical territory, for only when we have sufficiently clarified
what entities body and mind are is it possible to explain the status of a subject to
which we would ascribe emotions as “mixed” phenomena.
The problem of ascription is relevant in another respect as well. If emotions
are to be ascribed to a mind–​body unity, then obviously only living things that
have a mind can be the subjects of emotions. But can we not ascribe emotions
to animals as well, as the example of the cat that is afraid of the dog illustrates?
Does that mean that we must ascribe a mind to the cat too? Or does it merely
mean that some kind of “minimum mind” with cognitive structures is necessary
for an emotion to occur? How might we characterize such a mind and distin-
guish it from a “maximum mind” such as we find in an adult human being?6
In any case, the concepts of mind and cognitive structure must be clarified if
the discussion of emotions as mental phenomena is not doomed to vagueness.
But the problem of ascription can also be posed as a mereological problem: Are
emotions ascribable to the whole of an organism, or only to a part, such as the
brain or a cognitive subsystem? Is it permissible to make the statement, which is
in fact customary in some empirical sciences, that joy and fear are in the brain
and can be seen there, by means of imaging techniques for example? This ques-
tion too can be answered only when the concepts of system and subsystem are
clear.7
5

Introduction 5

In addition, there is a fourth problem that is often obscured by talking about

phenomena. We may call this the problem of categories: What kind of entities are
the emotions? To what category do they belong? Once again, a spontaneous an-
swer comes to mind: we might answer that they are nothing other than states of
a mind or of a whole organism (whether human or animal). To be in fear or joy
would then mean nothing other than being in a certain state. But it can immedi-
ately be objected that an emotion is not something static. Let us examine a spe-
cific case. The parents of a ten-​year-​old girl are waiting for their daughter, who
has not come home from school, and in the evening they become afraid. The
longer they wait, the greater their fear becomes. Then they hear on the radio that
a severe traffic accident has occurred in their neighborhood: their fear grows to
panic. But a short time later, the parents of another girl in their daughter’s class
call them on the telephone and report that their daughter is with them: their fear
subsides. Evidently, fear in this case is a longer-​lasting process that can increase
and decrease in its intensity. Can such a process be characterized as a state? And
can it be described as a simple state? Or must we call it a complex state that
is composed of many individual states (perceptions, imaginings, sensations,
wishes, judgments, etc.) that can be altered or exchanged? What is it then that
makes all these states form a unit? Furthermore, the question arises whether
emotions are always actual states or processes. Suppose someone describes the
girl’s parents as a very anxious people who are always quick to worry. Is the dis-
position to become afraid an emotion in itself? Or is it only the precondition
for an emotion? And in that case, how does an actual state or process arise from
the disposition? These questions can be answered only when we have clarified
what we mean by states, processes, and dispositions. That is why emotions can
be categorized only in reference to a comprehensive metaphysical model.
Finally, there is a fifth problem that must be addressed, which we may call
the problem of imputation. It is not clear whether we can ascribe an emotion to
a person (or perhaps to an animal) as something that they can somehow direct
or control and that therefore falls within the sphere of what can be imputed to
them, for which they can be held responsible. Emotions have an ambivalent
character in this regard. They seem to be phenomena that we can in fact con-
trol by intentionally arousing or moderating them in ourselves. For example,
a person can open the newspaper and read so many articles about excessive
executive salaries that she becomes outraged and begins to curse furiously.
Conversely, she can also try to understand the complex economic background
and so moderate her outrage, or she can simply turn her attention to another
topic and change her emotional state in that way. But there are also emotions
that seem to overcome us and that are beyond our control. A person facing a
growling attack dog is overcome with fear. Try as she may to convince herself
6

6 Feelings Transformed

that the dog is well trained, her fear will not simply subside or disappear. And
a person who falls head over heels in love is overcome with an uncontrollable
feeling that cannot be moderated or extinguished by any rational reflection: she
is simply at the mercy of this feeling. But how can emotions be something we
can actively induce and control and at the same time be something we passively
undergo, something that overcomes us? Are there two kinds of emotions, active
and passive? Or do all emotions have an active and a passive aspect? And what
can we be held responsible for: only for the emotions that we can control? But to
what extent can we control them? Can a person moderate or shut off her outrage
as if at the push of a button by making the appropriate reflections? Or is there
an element here too that is beyond her control? An answer to these questions
is possible only when the concepts of activity and passivity are clear and when
we examine the cognitive mechanisms by which emotions are accessible. That
requires in turn an explanation of what we mean by such mechanisms to begin
with, and in what sense they can be ascribed to a person.
Of course, the five problems just mentioned are not a complete list of the
philosophical problems to be clarified. These are just some of the fundamental
issues, the entrance gates, so to speak, to further problems in the philosophy of
mind, metaphysics, action theory, and moral psychology. But those who study
emotions can hardly avoid discussing them. For we can gain an insight into the
nature and structure of emotions only if it is sufficiently clear what we mean
by mental phenomena and their characteristics, a mind–​body unity, a complex
state, and a cognitive mechanism. An analysis of these conceptual problems is of
course no substitute for empirical investigations, as we still need data to which
the individual concepts can be applied. Nor are they a substitute for the discus-
sion of methods and theories in the various empirical disciplines. It would be
unreasonable to simply substitute the conceptual work of philosophy for em-
pirical work or to assume there could be such a thing as pure conceptual work
that could ignore the empirical findings. But neither can empirical studies, con-
versely, take the place of the conceptual work of philosophy; rather, they inev-
itably lead to it because they always resort, in structuring and evaluating the
data, to fundamental concepts that are by no means self-​evident and that re-
quire explanation. Only when these concepts have been clarified do we discern
the frame in which the empirical findings are assimilated. And only then can we
see how the nature and the function of emotions can be explained.

I.2 Why Historical Analysis?

It would seem obvious to start the conceptual analysis against the back-
ground of contemporary empirical studies. It is therefore no surprise that the
7

Introduction 7

philosophical discussions in interdisciplinary contexts (such as the interdisci-

plinary cognitive sciences) have seen a new upsurge,8 because new empirical
findings can be immediately taken up in these contexts and used in testing the
applicability of individual terms and the explanatory power of whole theories.
Why should we choose the history of philosophy as a perspective from which
to study emotions? And why should we examine specifically the period be-
tween 1270 and 1670, as the following chapters do?9 Various answers come
to mind.
First, it may be pointed out that numerous conceptual distinctions and
definitions that are still relevant in present-​day discussions originated in the
late medieval and early modern debates. For example, the 13th-​century authors
(notably Thomas Aquinas) asserted that emotions always have a “formal ob-
ject,” that is, an object that is specified and evaluated in a certain respect. Fear,
for instance, is directed at an object that is evaluated as bad and threatening;
joy is directed at one that is estimated to be useful and good. Different kinds
of emotions can be distinguished and classified by examining their respec-
tive formal objects. Anthony Kenny and a number of contemporary authors
after him have revisited this insight.10 For another example, Baruch de Spinoza
declared that emotions necessarily have physical components and must there-
fore be described from both a physical and a mental perspective. In the recent
debates, Antonio Damasio has taken up this idea by advocating Spinoza’s theory
as a source of inspiration for neurobiological theories.11 In spite of their historic
remoteness, central elements of the theories from the 13th to 17th centuries are
still relevant.
Furthermore, we can observe that these theories are sometimes important
sources of negative inspiration. They serve a contrasting backdrop, so to speak,
to an appropriate theory of the emotions. Perhaps the most popular foil in this
regard is the Cartesian theory. It has been pointed out time and again that we
can offer an adequate explanation of the emotions only if we take leave of the
“Cartesian legacy” and discard a number of assumptions, such as the assump-
tion that emotions are merely mental feelings that are really distinct from the
physical states, and the further assumption that these feelings have no cog-
nitive value because they are not clear, exact ideas and hence do not indicate
how things really are in the world. Thus John Deigh, for example, has stated
that René Descartes marked the beginning of a long tradition of noncognitivist
theories that reduce the emotions to phenomenal experiences and that this is
precisely the tradition that must be opposed today.12 This estimation is certainly
disputable and is hard to reconcile with certain statements in which Descartes
does not separate the emotions from physical states, nor deny that they have any
cognitive value.13 But regardless of whether the negative reference to Descartes
8

8 Feelings Transformed

is exegetically appropriate, it shows that a theory from the 17th century is still
challenging.
Finally, another reason why the period between 1270 and 1670 is of particular
interest for contemporary debates is that a profound change took place at that
time. Aristotelian theories that explained the emotions in the context of hylo-
morphism (mainly that of Thomas Aquinas, John Duns Scotus, and William
of Ockham, who were influential well into the 17th century) were gradually
superseded by new theories based on a mechanistic understanding of natural
processes. That is, whereas the Aristotelians assumed that emotions arise by
the actualization of faculties and the absorption of forms, the anti-​Aristotelians
claimed that the notions of hidden faculties and transferred forms are not only
incomprehensible, but also empirically unfounded. Emotions can arise only by
objects affecting the body mechanically, that is, by pressing and impinging upon
it, producing stimulations that are processed in the brain and that in turn pro-
duce states in the mind or coincide with such states. Depending on the kind
of object affecting the body and the kind of physical stimulation, different
emotions arise, and the purpose of a theory of the emotions consists in exactly
describing the individual relata of this causal relation and the relation itself.
Stating his agenda, Descartes declared that he was concerned with emotions
not as an orator or a moral philosopher, “but only as a natural philosopher.”14
From a present-​day perspective, the mechanistic explanation he then gave of
the origins of individual emotions naturally seems antiquated in many respects.
But his methodical approach still seems appealing: emotions are to be studied as
part of a comprehensive theory on the apprehension and cognitive processing of
physical stimuli. Studying the Cartesian theory and earlier theories based on the
Aristotelian view is therefore stimulating because we can visualize the method-
ological transformation that has taken place, and because we can investigate the
reasons for this transformation that are still influential today. Furthermore, we
can then see clearly what assumptions have persisted to the present day in spite
of that transformation and are turning up again in discussions in the cognitive
sciences.
Thus it seems as if there is motivation enough to approach the problem of
emotions from a historical perspective and to examine the transition from
the late Middle Ages to the modern period in regard both to substance and
to method. The reasons named bring with them a danger, however. They all
start from the perspective of current debates and ask what positive or negative
points of reference there are in an earlier epoch. They presuppose as self-​evident
that the present-​day understanding of emotions and today’s methodological
assumptions are mandatory; earlier discussions serve only as a positive or neg-
ative backdrop. The danger then is that we subject ourselves to a “tyranny of the
9

Introduction 9

present,” as Daniel Garber has pointedly observed.15 Present-​day descriptions

of phenomena, present-​day conceptual distinctions, and present-​day meth-
odological postulates are seen as binding. Earlier theories are then interesting
only to the extent that they anticipate present-​day findings or point out errors
to be avoided. But studying older theories can also be philosophically stimu-
lating, to a high degree in fact, because they show that other descriptions of phe-
nomena, other conceptual distinctions, and other methodological postulates are
possible—​perhaps even ones that are diametrically opposed to those of today.
They open up another space, figuratively speaking, in which things are put to-
gether completely differently. This challenges us to look at our own space from a
critical distance and not simply assume it is the space of theory itself. Especially
in view of the question of the nature and function of emotions, it is a good
idea to take a step back from our explicit or implicit assumptions and envision
the historic contexts. Then we are unavoidably confronted with the five funda-
mental problems discussed in Section I.1.
Let us take the problem of unity. Even the English word “emotion” (or its
equivalent in another modern language) suggests that there is a more or less ex-
actly defined sphere of phenomena that is distinct from the spheres designated
by other words—​such as “sensation,” “bodily feeling,” or “mood.” But a brief
look at the etymology shows that it is quite a young word. Although “emotion”
is found in philosophical texts as early as the 16th and 17th centuries,16 the word
becomes a philosophical term of art only around 1820 and is established as a
psychological term only in the late 19th century.17 The word “feeling,” common
today, had no currency yet in the modern period. If it was used at all, it was
mentioned in discussions about perception to designate the sense of touch in
distinction from other sensory modes.18 The late medieval and early modern
authors, who wrote predominantly in Latin and French, used the expressions
passio and affectus (in Latin) and passion and affection (in French).19 This is far
more than a peculiarity of language, as two examples may illustrate.
John Duns Scotus opens his analysis of the passiones, written around 1300,
by distinguishing the “low” ones, in the sensual soul, from the “higher” ones,
which are in the rational soul. The first group includes, paradigmatically, pains;
the second, states of sadness.20 From a present-​day perspective, this is confusing.
Why should pain and sadness be assigned to a single category of states of the
soul? Shouldn’t we classify pain together with other sensations (such as tickling
feelings) and sadness together with other emotions (such as fear or joy)? Why
doesn’t Duns Scotus draw a dividing line here? Evidently he is classifying states
of the soul by different criteria from those that are familiar to us.21 For Duns
Scotus, the important thing to begin with is whether the state is one that the soul
actively produces (an actio or operatio), or one that is produced in the soul and
10

10 Feelings Transformed

which it passively suffers (a passio). Both pain and sadness are produced in the
soul and hence belong to the same category. Thus Duns Scotus’ understanding
of what belongs to a class of phenomena diverges from the present-​day notion,
and he is confronted with different problems. From his perspective, what needs
to be investigated is how a passio is produced and how the soul or the ensouled
body changes in the process.
Spinoza lists all the emotional states, which he calls affectus, at the end of the
third part of the Ethics. He finds that desire is a fundamental one of them, which
is nothing but a form of aspiration [appetitus], and then enumerates many other
forms, including love and hate, joy and sadness—​and also ambition [ambitio]
and indulgence [luxuria].22 This too seems confusing. Why is aspiration the
basic form of the emotions? Doesn’t that mix up wishes and intentions, which
are also forms of aspiration, with the emotions? And why does Spinoza include
phenomena in his list, alongside the classic emotions, that belong rather to the
category of character traits (like ambition) or to that of vices (like indulgence)?
He is evidently classifying them by a different criterion than Duns Scotus, and
again with a different one from that which many people would use today. For
Spinoza, everything that is a form of aspiration belongs to the same class, and
within this class, the individual types of phenomena can be separated only by
examining the respective kinds of aspiration. For this reason, he begins with the
questions of what we mean by an aspiration and how the different kinds of as-
piration are distinguishable.
These two examples, which we will examine in more detail,23 are interesting
not only because they show that very different classifications of mental phe-
nomena were made in two different contexts. They are remarkable primarily
because they demonstrate that it is by no means clear what makes up a uniform
class of phenomena. It is indeed questionable why everything we customarily
group together today under the rubric of emotions belongs to such a class at all.
Do love and hate really belong together, or joy and sadness, as is usually assumed
today? Or are not pain and sadness rather two of a kind? Or perhaps desire and
indulgence? To return to Oksenberg Rorty’s provocative statement, one might
say that emotions are not a natural class that has always been the same every-
where, and just waiting to be discovered. What people define as a natural class
depends crucially on which system of classification they use. Studying earlier
theories is fascinating and important for philosophy (and not just for the history
of ideas or reception history) because they force us to look at a given system and
examine its differences from the system we are familiar with.
We can say something similar about the second problem just presented, the
problem of structure. Present-​day discussions are usually based on the assump-
tion that emotions have several distinguishing characteristics, and particular
1

Introduction 11

attention is given to the phenomenal characteristic. That is, it appears to be self-​

evident that being joyful or angry feels a certain way, and that we can tell the
individual types of emotions apart with reference to their respective phenom-
enal content. The crucial question then is what we mean by this content: a phe-
nomenal property (a “quale”) to which we have privileged access? If so, what
exactly is this property? And how is it related to physical properties? Of course,
it is a subject of debate today whether such a property can be assumed to exist
at all, but there is a consensus at least that what we are trying to explain is some
kind of phenomenal characteristic of emotions.24 If we then turn to the late me-
dieval discussions, we are surprised to find that there is no interest in any such
characteristic. The Aristotelians ask merely what processes of change elicit the
passiones, how the soul itself changes, and what other processes—​especially
body movements—​are caused by them. Even when they explicitly discuss the
problem of what characterizes pain and sadness (as Duns Scotus does, for ex-
ample), they do not raise the question of how it feels to have pain or to be sad.
Does that mean they simply overlook the phenomenal characteristic? Or are
they trying to reduce it to other characteristics? Or do they see it as something
that simply needs no explanation? In any case, the medieval texts give us oc-
casion to think about what characteristics of emotions do require explanation.
Perhaps the characteristics that we spontaneously think require explanation are
not the particularly problematic characteristics at all, but simply the ones that
seem problematic in a certain theoretical context (such as the materialist frame-
work that dominates present-​day debates).25
The situation is still more confusing when we come to Michel de Montaigne,
who takes up many examples that had already been discussed by the Aristotelians.
In one of his Essays, for example, he presents a lengthy examination of anger,
which had been discussed as an exemplary case of an emotion since antiquity.26
But he makes no effort to analyze the particular characteristics of anger, nor
even to define it. He simply describes angry people one after another. Sometimes
angry people become violent and sometimes they do not; sometimes they get
very excited and sometimes they remain calm; sometimes they try to control
themselves and sometimes they do not, etc. He doesn’t seem to be interested in
a general characterization of anger, nor in differentiating between this emotion
and other emotions, but concentrates on individual, sometimes contradictory,
examples. This raises methodological questions: Does Montaigne think it is
meaningless, or perhaps impossible, to ascertain definitive characteristics? Does
he think emotions cannot be distinguished at all from one another and from
other mental phenomena by specific characteristics? How could it be possible,
then, to draw up a theory of the emotions? Montaigne’s skeptical attitude to-
ward the definition and classification of emotions obliges us to think about what
12

12 Feelings Transformed

we hope to accomplish by determining their characteristics. And his insistence

on the multitude and diversity of individual emotions prompts us to reflect on
whether the search for general characteristics is useful at all.
A certain confusion unavoidably arises when we turn to the third problem,
the problem of ascription. From a present-​day perspective, it seems self-​evident
that emotions have both physical and mental components and must therefore
be ascribed to a mind–​body unity. They are prime examples of “embodied”
mental appraisals of and reactions to certain situations.27 Many late medieval
and early modern philosophers also considered the physical component es-
sential. Thomas Aquinas, for example, pointed out that all passiones (including
love, joy, and many other states that are called emotions today) bring with them
physical changes, and therefore must be ascribed, strictly speaking, not to the
soul but to the ensouled body.28 Descartes too emphasized, in spite of his fa-
mous thesis that mind and body are really distinct, that emotions should be
ascribed to the unity of mind and body, thus to a person, not to a pure mind.29
But the two authors naturally diverge considerably in their explanations of this
unity. Whereas Thomas Aquinas thinks of it as a hylomorphic unity, Descartes
sees in it a combination of two substances. Thus the apparently self-​evident
thesis that emotions are states with physical and mental components takes on a
precise meaning only when it becomes clear what we mean by body and mind
(or soul). Studying these two authors is philosophically stimulating because it
inevitably prompts us to look at their respective metaphysical models. These
models do not simply anticipate present-​day models (neither Aquinas’ assump-
tion of a substantial form nor Descartes’s postulate of an immaterial substance
appears enticing to most contemporary philosophers), but that is exactly why
they are interesting. They illustrate the fact that contemporary models are not
without alternatives, and that contemporary models too are based on metaphys-
ical assumptions that must be examined.
In looking at past debates, we also see that the view that emotions always
have physical components was by no means undisputed. John Duns Scotus
claimed, as William of Ockham did more explicitly after him, that there are also,
in addition to the sensual emotions that are connected with the body, higher-​
level emotions that exist in the rational part of the soul. Because this rational
part is really distinct, according to Ockham, from the sensual part and the ra-
tional part can continue to exist even when the body decays, there can also be
nonbodily emotions.30 This view may seem strange today. What could a love or
a joy be that is not manifested in specific gestures and facial expressions, and in
fact does not even include physiological events? Is bodiless love still love at all?
But the provocativeness of this view, which was of course in part theologically
motivated (in Christian debates about love of God, for example, and about the
13

Introduction 13

condition of good and bad souls after death), is precisely what makes it attrac-
tive. It unavoidably raises the question of whether physical states or processes
are in fact necessary—​not merely contingent—​components of emotions. And it
challenges us to define exactly the structure of the purely mental states and their
bearers. Only when this structure is sufficiently clear will it also be apparent
what particular component is added when the emotion is ascribed to a mind–​
body unity. And of course we will only then understand the difference between
such a unity—​a person—​and a pure mind.
In the historic context, the problem of ascription arises in yet another re-
spect: that is, when it is posed—​as previously mentioned—​as a mereological
problem. Should emotions be ascribed to the whole person or to a part of the
person? This question inevitably comes up in reading medieval texts. First, all
the interpreters of Aristotle insisted that the person, as a natural living being,
has emotions. Following a famous passage in De anima, they held that anger
is a state of the whole animate body and that we can distinguish between only
different aspects of this state, not between particular internal bearers of the
emotion.31 But at the same time they claimed that anger could be ascribed to
a certain “part of the soul,” namely the sensual part. Aquinas went so far as to
subdivide this part and held that anger was ascribable to the sensual–​appetitive
part of the soul.32 Who is angry, then: the whole person, the soul, or a part
of the soul? This question can be answered only when the metaphysical frame
is clear in which the soul and its parts are conceived. Early modern authors
are similarly confusing. Descartes, for example, claimed in his official defini-
tion of the passions that they are special “perceptions of the soul”; but he also
emphasized that they can be ascribed only to the unity of soul and body and that
a nonreducible term for this unity is necessary.33 To whom shall we then ascribe
an emotion: to the whole person as such a unity or to the person’s soul as a part
of the unity? This question not only challenges us to examine the mereological
problem of ascription more closely in the given context; it also prompts us to
reflect on our own practice of ascription and to explain to whom or to what we
ascribe an emotion.34 The tensions that come to light in the historic texts make
this problem visible.
Now let us examine the fourth problem, the problem of categories. Once
again, a mere glance at the late medieval and early modern debates shows that
the idea of emotions as mental states is not at all as self-​evident as it would ap-
pear today. The Aristotelian authors spoke of them rather in terms of processes,
calling them movements [motus], changes [immutationes], or actualizations
[actus] of the soul’s faculties.35 This in turn raises the question as to what such a
process consists of and how it takes place. Does it have parts? Does it go on over
a certain time? Can it increase or decrease in intensity? How does it relate to
14

14 Feelings Transformed

other processes or states? The Aristotelians also tried to explain these processes
in the framework of the classical doctrine of categories, usually assigning them
to the category of quality.36 This too raises questions: What exactly is a quality?
How does it relate to a substance as its bearer and to other qualities? In what
sense can a process be a quality at all if does not occur as something static in
a substance (like a color), but instead develops? Only when we are aware of
the overall metaphysical framework can we understand how the Aristotelians
categorized the emotions and how they accounted for certain states of affairs
(such as the fact that emotions can last longer and not simply flare up momen-
tarily) by distinguishing different kinds of entities—​such as states and processes.
The early modern anti-​Aristotelians also did not call the emotions states, but
neither did they call them changes or actualizations of faculties. Spinoza, for
example, held the emotions, or affects, to be “modes of thinking,” and hence
ideas.37 Once again, this raises the question of what category they belong
to: What are modes? Do they have a static or a dynamic structure? How do they
relate to the substance in which they exist? Are there only simple modes, or
are there also complex ones? Can an emotion that goes on over a certain time
be characterized as a complex mode? What distinguishes such a mode from
other modes? The answers to these questions found in Spinoza seem odd at first
glance. He refuses to assume that there are independent bearers of the modes,
for example. In so doing, of course, he also rejects the model, common among
the Aristotelian (and many present-​day) authors, according to which there are
individual substances or independent things in which the emotions occur as a
states or processes. For Spinoza there is only one substance in which bundles of
modes occur; an emotion can only be a component of such a bundle. As strange
as this model may appear, and as much as it seems to require an explanation,
it is appealing because it is an alternative to the model common today, and not
merely an anticipation of it. At the same time, it very sharply brings to our at-
tention the fact that it is not enough simply to speak of mental states and to
study their respective origins and effects. It is at least as important to bring up
the metaphysical question of what kind of entities those states are and how they
relate to other entities.
Finally, let us take a look at the fifth problem, the problem of imputation.
One might at first get the impression that this problem never even arose for
the late medieval and early modern authors. After all, they say again and again
that we can master our emotions, that we must master them in fact if we want
to act responsibly. Thomas Aquinas, for example, claimed, in a famous passage
that was later quoted again and again, that we can control our emotions “in a
political way.”38 Descartes ended The Passions of the Soul with the remark that
all the good and evil of our life depends on the emotions, and that we should
15

Introduction 15

do everything we can to bring them under control.39 Montaigne gave practical

advice on how to overcome feelings of sadness and loneliness,40 and Spinoza de-
voted the whole last part of the Ethics to the “power of reason” over the affects.41
All of these authors seem consistently to have conceived the emotions as phe-
nomena that lie within the sphere of our responsibility: we can control them,
moderate them, or even completely overcome them. The question is how we
can achieve that and not so much whether it is possible in the first place. If we
read the explanations on regulating the emotions more closely, however, we no-
tice that these philosophers also conceded that emotions sometimes practically
overwhelm us, so that we are powerless against them. Aquinas pointed out em-
phatically that they are produced by the sensual—​not the rational—​faculty and
are sometimes simply elicited in us by processes of perception and imagination
whether we want them to be or not.42 Montaigne even wrote a whole essay on
the phenomenon that “our feelings reach out beyond us,”43 without our being
able to prevent it, and both Descartes and Spinoza point to causal processes
that go on in us because of certain laws of nature and that are beyond rational
control.44 Apparently they were aware that emotions cannot be switched on
and off or regulated as if at the push of a button. But then the question arises
of what sense it makes that they admonish us to master the emotions. How is
it possible to master something that is beyond our control? And how are we
supposed to be held responsible for something that sometimes overcomes us
just as feelings of pain or hunger do? Obviously some clarification is needed. It
needs to be explained which emotions can be controlled, if need be, and which
cannot; and it needs to be explained by what mechanisms such control (which
may perhaps be limited) can take place. In any case, we cannot assume at the
outset that emotions are only “low” states that are always subordinate to and
regulated by “higher,” rational states. Most of all, for the purposes of history, we
cannot simply assume that the problem of imputation was solved out of hand
for the medieval and early modern authors. On the contrary: the conception
of passiones as states that we “suffer” and that we nonetheless are supposed to
control somehow made this problem a pernicious one.
These preliminary remarks on the five fundamental problems are of course
too brief to permit a complete understanding of the problem-​solving strategies
and the theoretical assumptions of the late medieval and early modern authors.
The chapters that follow have the task of explaining and enlarging on the points
that have merely been indicated here through an analysis of specific texts.
Nonetheless, I hope these brief remarks have made it clear why it is worth-
while to take the history of philosophy as a perspective and to examine theories
of the emotions from the period between 1270 and 1670 more intensely. Our
principal reason cannot be, if we do not want to approach present-​day debates
16

16 Feelings Transformed

uncritically, that these theories anticipate a number of points that are still
discussed today and that we find positive or negative points of reference for
contemporary models. That would mean we were accepting today’s models as
binding and looking for only a backdrop for them. If it is worthwhile to study
earlier theories, it is primarily because doing so inevitably leads us to funda-
mental philosophical problems. The fact that late medieval and early modern
authors sometimes approached these problems with different conditions and
assumptions, and that they sometimes came to propose other solutions than
those we would expect today, makes it enticing to analyze their theories. They
allow us to enter unfamiliar theoretical spaces, to compare the different spaces
with one another, and so to arrive at a critical assessment—​of both the contem-
porary and the past theories.

I.3 A Twofold Transformation

Since the influential works of Thomas Kuhn, the transition from the late Middle
Ages to the early modern period is often called a time of “scientific revolution.”45
But this is misleading in two respects. First, there was no abrupt theoretical
switch in which mechanistic theories suddenly replaced “prerevolutionary”
Aristotelian theories. Rather, Aristotelian and non-​Aristotelian theories (and
Platonic, Stoic, and Epicurean theories too) coexisted for a long time side by
side, and indeed sometimes mixed, and the advocates of the “modern” theories
used existing elements.46 Second, there was no paradigm shift in which old
core concepts were suddenly replaced by new ones. Rather, terms were grad-
ually reinterpreted and in some cases used ambiguously. The science historian
Steven Shapin thus opened a book on the scientific revolution with this laconic
sentence: “There was no such thing as the scientific revolution, and this is a
book about it.”47 We could say something similar about the history of philos-
ophy: there was no such thing as a revolution that swept away the traditional
theories that were predominantly oriented after Aristotle. But that does not
mean there was nothing but a reception and continuous development of existing
theories. Certainly, fundamental criticism of earlier theories was expressed in
the 17th century, metaphysical assumptions were abandoned, and methodo-
logical principles were defined anew. But this was a process of gradual change
and reinterpretation, even if the “modern” authors portrayed themselves as rad-
ical innovators, and this process too is understandable only if we look at earlier
theories, in particular those of the Aristotelian-​scholastic tradition. For only
then does it become apparent which points the criticism attacked, what was af-
fected by the criticism, and what was not. And only then do the potentials and
limitations of the new theories become clear. Furthermore, the theories before
17

Introduction 17

1600 must not be seen as a monolithic block. Within the Aristotelian tradition
itself there were changes and reinterpretations of key terms. Hence we must
examine the processes of transformation that took place over several centuries.
This is all the more important for an investigation of theories of the emotions,
as an example may illustrate. Those who simply contrast “prerevolutionary”
Aristotelian theories with the “modern” theories usually assume they oppose
one another in the following respect: the Aristotelians worked with a model
that distinguished three parts of the soul (a vegetative, a sensual, and a rational
part) and ascribed the emotions to the sensual part. Because they localized this
part in the body, they conceived the emotions as physically bound states, or as
“movements” [motus] in the body. The early modern anti-​Aristotelians, on the
other hand—​above all, Descartes—​tended toward a mechanization of the sen-
sual soul, and therefore drew a sharp line between the mechanical processes
in the body and the ideas in the mind. Because they conceived the emotions
as ideas, they located them in the mind, conceiving them as “private” states or
events that are accessible only through an internal consciousness.48 In short,
the emotions were shifted from the physical–​sensual plane to the mental plane.
Such a crude opposition is inadequate for several reasons, however. First,
the Aristotelian model was not simply replaced by a mechanistic or a Cartesian
one. As late as 1641 (in the same year, that is, in which Descartes published the
Meditationes), the French moralist Jean-​François Senault claimed that the soul
was composed of three parts and the emotions were movements of the sen-
sual soul.49 And Eustachius a Sancto Paulo’s Summa philosophiae quadripartita,
which succinctly summarized the traditional model, was used as an oblig-
atory handbook well into the 17th century.50 Thus there was a coexistence of
Aristotelian and non-​Aristotelian models. Second, the “modern” philosophers
did not propound the simple thesis that emotions were nothing but ideas and
hence purely mental states. As previously noted, it is crucial for Descartes that
emotions are ascribable to the mind–​body unity and that they therefore nec-
essarily have physical components. Of course, he explains these components
differently than the Aristotelians do, appealing to mechanical operations and
not to processes such as the transfer of forms. But in so doing, he does not
shift the emotions from a physical to a mental plane; rather, he reinterprets the
physical plane in a different theoretical frame. Spinoza too, who, like Descartes,
builds on a mechanistic description of the body, staunchly defends the thesis
that emotions must be situated on both planes, and indeed that the two planes
are inseparable from one another.51 Third, and finally, we must note that, as early
as the 14th century, several authors—​notably Ockham—​were of the opinion
that the rational and the sensual souls are really distinct, and that there are
some emotions that exist only in the rational part and are not bound to physical
18

18 Feelings Transformed

events.52 Ironically, a number of Aristotelian authors too claimed that there are
purely mental emotions, whereas the mechanistically oriented authors referred
to the grounding of all emotions in the body.
As I hope these examples illustrate, it would hardly be helpful simply to col-
lect the prerevolutionary authors in a homogeneous group in opposition to
the revolutionary philosophers of the 17th century. A more nuanced picture
emerges only when we examine the models of individual thinkers more closely,
reconstructing them in their respective contexts and comparing them with alter-
native models, looking for the processes of transformation that were mentioned.
These processes concern first and foremost the metaphysical frame, as the locus
to which the emotions are ascribed changes with the given frame. That is, more
concretely: when Ockham distances himself from Thomas Aquinas and claims
there are emotions not only in the sensual, but also in the rational part of the
soul, and when he further opposes Aquinas in postulating a real distinction be-
tween these two parts of the soul, he evidently changes the metaphysical frame,
and he does so within the Aristotelian-​scholastic tradition. Then we must ask
what Aquinas and Ockham mean by parts of the soul, how they explain the
unity of the various parts, and how they distinguish the emotions in each part
from other psychological states or processes such as sensory perceptions (in
the sensual part) and from judgments or acts of volition (in the rational part).
Only when the whole frame is clear can we understand the specific place of the
emotions in it, and only then can we also understand what reinterpretations
have taken place. The same is true, of course, of later theories, such as those
of Descartes and Spinoza. Only when the dualistic or monistic frame takes on
clearer contours do the concepts of the physical and mental components of
the emotions become coherent. And only then does it become evident which
Aristotelian elements have been integrated in both frames and which have been
rejected. For this reason, particular attention is devoted in the analyses that
follow to the processes of transformation of the given metaphysical frame.
After the fifth of the problems previously enumerated, we examine one more
transformation. All authors in the late Middle Ages and in the early modern pe-
riod were interested not only in the question of how emotions arise as natural
states or processes in us (whether in a certain part of the soul or in the unity of
body and soul)—​they were just as much, if not more, interested in the further
question of how we can deal with the emotions and how we should deal with
them. Consequently, their investigations in metaphysics and natural philosophy
were always incorporated within a larger context of action theory and some-
times even of moral philosophy. This is apparent in the place they accord to
the investigation of emotions in their philosophical system. Thomas Aquinas,
for example, discusses the passiones animae in a large section of the Summa
19

Introduction 19

theologiae that is preceded by an equally large section on human action and

followed by another on the virtues. To him, it is an important question what
role the emotions play in the origination of actions and how we can become
moral actors by dealing with the emotions in a controlled way. For Spinoza
too, in spite of all his metaphysical differences from Aquinas and other earlier
authors, the prevailing context continues to be one of action theory or indeed of
therapeutics.53 A description and classification of the emotions in the third part
of the Ethics is immediately followed in the fourth part by an investigation “of
human bondage, or the strength of the affects,” which describes how we should
deal with the emotions and how dealing with them correctly helps us to live
a happier life. We might call this a rationalistic–​therapeutic approach to the
emotions: only when we have gained an insight into the genesis and structure of
the emotions can we deal with them appropriately; only then are we no longer
at their mercy; and only then can we use them so that they motivate us to good
actions.54
This interest, specific to action theory, is directed at a feature that is char-
acteristic of emotions. They are states or processes that are brought about in
us by the agency of external objects and that arise whether we want them to
or not, and that spontaneously move us to certain actions. If a snake suddenly
appears in front of us during a hike, for example, and spontaneously calls up
ideas of dangerous animals, we cannot help becoming afraid and running away
or taking other evasive action. And if we learn of the death of a close friend,
we are inevitably overcome with great sadness and prompted to take the corre-
sponding actions. Emotions are states that we suffer, in the literal sense, often
without controlling them. But if, during our hike, we look carefully at the an-
imal and discover that it is only a harmless slow worm or a garter snake, we can
make our fear diminish or even disappear completely, and not run away. And
if we reflect that our deceased friend is now finally released from a long, severe
illness, we can reduce our sadness, and perhaps commute it into a form of relief.
Then emotions turn out to be states that we can indeed control, and sometimes
even completely efface. How is that possible? How can emotions be states or
processes that we suffer passively but also control actively? And why are we so
helpless against them that they fully determine our actions, but also are able to
take them in hand—​figuratively speaking—​and elicit actions with them? How
can it be that we even use them purposefully to elicit good actions and avoid
bad ones?
All of these questions occupied the late medieval and early modern authors,
regardless of whether they analyzed emotions with an Aristotelian, a dualistic, a
monistic, or—​as in Montaigne’s case—​a skeptical attitude. They were interested
in the problem of how we can influence the naturally caused emotions in such
20

20 Feelings Transformed

a way that we obtain appropriate emotions that motivate us to right action. Or,
to put it briefly: they wanted to know how it is possible for the emotions to be
transformed. This interest naturally brought to the fore a number of questions
about the rationality of emotions: Are emotions sensual states that we can
somehow get a grip on and alter by rational reflection and voluntary decisions?
Or are they rational states themselves, which we need only to connect in an
appropriate way with other such states? In what way are they rational? And
if this is the case, how is it possible that some emotions cannot be rationally
controlled? Are there, in addition to the rational emotions, irrational or perhaps
arational ones too?
These questions can be meaningfully answered, of course, only if it is more
or less clear what we mean by rational states and by a controllability. When
Thomas Aquinas, for example, claims that emotions, as states or processes of
the sensual part of the soul, can be directed by the rational part of the soul,55 we
must first ask how the parts of the soul are interrelated and how such a directing
can take place. When Duns Scotus propounds the thesis that we can change ex-
isting emotions or produce new ones through a free act of volition,56 we must
ask how the will is supposed to operate on them and what kind of freedom it
has. And when Descartes goes so far as to say we have an “absolute power” over
our emotions,57 the question arises again of what this power consists in and how
it can be exercised. In short, the moment we speak of the emotions being sub-
ject to change or control, we must define what psychic agency is supposed to
effect each change and what kind of change is possible. This of course brings us
in turn back to the metaphysical model with which the individual authors op-
erate. Only when we examine a complete body–​mind model can we understand
how the given control mechanisms are explained. And only when we regard the
changes in the whole model in the transition from one author to another does
it become clear why each of them explains the control mechanisms differently.
For this reason, we will study the two transformations mentioned in close
connection with one another: a close look at the transformation of metaphys-
ical models will show how it resulted in a change in the theoretical frame in
which a possible transformation of the emotions was explained. In the chapters
that follow, this twofold transformation is analyzed through the use of specific
examples. Of course, we will look only at a small selection of the abundance
of authors and texts. The objective is not to provide the most comprehensive
survey possible.58 Furthermore, the present book is not aimed at providing a
source or reception history of the individual models. Nor will we investigate the
application of these models in practical contexts (such as mirrors for princes
or instructions for confession, which explained appropriate ways of dealing
with good and bad emotions).59 The focus will be on the models themselves: on
21

Introduction 21

their metaphysical and epistemological dimensions and on their dimensions

of moral psychology and action theory. I will try to show, using selected case
studies, how rich the late medieval and early modern debates were and how
intensely they revolved around fundamental philosophical questions. Their at-
traction lies precisely in the fact that they formulated very different answers to
these questions, thereby opening different theoretical approaches to the com-
plex problem of emotions.
2
23

Thomas Aquinas
Emotions as Sensual Movements

1.1 A Simple Explanation?

Imagine you are strolling casually along the street in front of your home when
suddenly you see a Rottweiler that is loose and running toward you. You are
immediately seized by fear. You stare at the dog as if spellbound, your breath
catches, you break out in a sweat, and you are rooted to the spot. But then you
reflect that the safest thing to do is walk past the dog calmly, paying it as little
attention as possible. You pull yourself together, and you walk past the dog, and
the farther you get from it, the more your fear subsides.
How can this phenomenon of an emotion that flares up and then slowly fades
away be explained? Indeed, how can fear as a specific state be aptly described
and classified? Many philosophers of the 13th to 17th centuries would have
responded to these questions first with a conceptual explanation: like any
other emotion, fear is a “movement of the sensual–appetitive faculty” [motus
appetitus sensitivi]. This characterization is found in a number of authors of
Aristotelian inspiration; prominent examples include Albertus Magnus and
Thomas Aquinas in the 13th century, Francisco Suárez in the late 16th century,
and Jean-​François Senault in the early 17th century.1 Such a “movement” is
caused, all of these authors assert, by perceiving a certain object and assessing it
as good or bad. In other words, it is your seeing the dog and your spontaneous
awareness of a danger that elicits fear in you. The fear thus has an intentional
aspect: it is directed at the dog you perceive and at its dangerous character. The
fear also has a physical aspect, because it is accompanied by halting breathing
and sudden sweating. Finally, it also has a motivational aspect, because it moves
you to stop where you are and look for the dog’s master.
As a sensual phenomenon, fear occurs in a cat that sees the dog just as it
does in you. Unlike the cat, however, you as a rational living being are able
to think about how you should best react to the dog. If you come to the con-
clusion that running away in panic will only make the situation worse and
that you had better keep calm, you can master the emotion to a certain extent
and choose an appropriate course of action. In other words, you are not at the

23
24

24 Feelings Transformed

mercy of a movement of the sensual–​appetitive faculty but can control it by

states of the superordinate rational faculty—​that is, by reflection and acts of vo-
lition. You can weigh the arguments for and against running away and decide
not to flee, but to walk on slowly. Then, as you continue walking and see the
dog at a safe distance behind you, your fear slowly subsides. But you can also
influence the emotion directly, for example, by reflecting that the Rottweiler is
your neighbor’s well-​trained pet. In that way, too, you can moderate your fear
or even make it disappear completely. Perhaps you can even produce a new
emotion by this reflection, such as admiration for the strong, perfectly trained
animal.
At first glance, this description and explanation of a specific case appears
easy to understand and plausible. Most of all it seems plausible to assume that
there are different faculties—​sensual as well as rational—​and to examine the in-
dividual states that are brought about by these faculties. Only when we analyze
how these states arise and how they are causally connected to one another can
we explain a phenomenon such as fear. Only in this way can we also illustrate
how such a phenomenon can be controlled or even overcome.
Yet on a closer look, this explanatory approach raises a number of questions.
First, it is remarkable how readily it takes for granted that a perception can elicit
fear. What does that mean exactly? Is it the perception of the whole dog that
provokes fear, or of individual properties of the dog (such as its color and size),
or perhaps the perception of a threatening character of the dog? How is such a
character perceptible? Can we see danger in the same way that we see landscapes
and objects? Another remarkable assumption is that the perception elicits fear
as a movement of the sensual–appetitive faculty. What is meant here by a move-
ment? A state, a process, a change occurring? How exactly does the sensual
faculty produce such a movement? And why is it accompanied by breathless-
ness and sweating? Are these concomitant effects merely contingent? Or are
they physical states that necessarily accompany fear? The relation between the
states in the sensual and rational faculties also needs to be explained. Can fear
actually be made to diminish or disappear by a thought? Or, to put it in modern
terms: is an emotion so cognitively penetrable that rational processes can affect
it at any time? That hardly seems plausible.2 Even a person who reminds him-
self that the Rottweiler is the neighbor’s well-​trained pet can still be practically
paralyzed by fear in certain circumstances: the sight of the powerful animal can
transfix him and preclude the effectiveness of rational reflection. Even if there
really is a causal relation between reflection and emotions, this connection can
hardly consist in reflections being switched on as if by pushing a button and
used to regulate emotions. The sensual states influence the rational ones at least
as strongly as the rational influence the sensual.
25

Thomas Aquinas 25

A theory that assumes an interaction between states in different faculties

must address all these problems. It is not enough to draw something like a circuit
diagram of the connection between the faculties and say that there are causal
relations. It is much more important to explain how and why such relations
are possible in the first place. But there is a more fundamental problem: the
Aristotelian authors assume that the faculties in question are faculties of the
soul. But what does it mean to say that the soul has faculties or that it consists
of faculties? And what does it mean to say that they interact? The expression
“movements of the sensual–appetitive faculty” takes on sharp outlines only
when we discern the metaphysical framework in which the whole theory of
faculties of the soul exists. Only then can we say precisely to whom or to what
this expression ascribes emotions. Is it the person facing the Rottweiler who is
afraid? Is it the person’s soul as a complex mesh of faculties? Or is it the sensual–​
appetitive faculty as a component of the soul? Answering these questions is a
good way to get a clear picture of the metaphysical assumptions and theses un-
derlying the work of the authors inspired by Aristotelianism. They were inter-
ested in emotions not only from the point of view of morals or action theory
(although they often discussed the question of how good actions can be brought
about by means of appropriate emotions). Their intentions were, to the same
if not to a greater degree, metaphysical and anthropological. They wanted to
clarify what kind of entities the emotions are, how they originate, and what their
place is in the overall constitution of a human being. In their view, we must un-
derstand what emotions are before we can analyze how to regulate and use them
as motivations for morally appraisable actions.
An analysis of the metaphysical frame is also important because it is this frame,
which had been assumed as something self-​evident in many debates from the
13th to the early 17th centuries, that was vehemently attacked by anti-​Aristotelian
authors of the early modern period. When Descartes, Spinoza, Leibniz, and
other philosophers attacked the traditional conception of emotions, their crit-
icism was aimed primarily at the assumption that the soul can be divided into
different faculties and the emotions ascribed to one of them. “I recognize no
distinction of parts within the soul,” Descartes wrote concisely in The Passions of
the Soul.3 Those who do make such a distinction, he observes, abandon the unity
of the soul and hence the principle of unity of a person. Furthermore, Descartes
believes that the idea of interacting faculties leads to the assumption of strange
entities within a person entering into contact with one another and acting like
internal agents.4 Leibniz takes this criticism still further. He fears, he writes, that
statements about faculties “have brought many people to the confused idea of so
many agents acting distinctly in us.”5 Precisely this idea must be avoided because
it is always the person who acts, not some hidden faculty.
26

26 Feelings Transformed

If we want to understand what is so problematic, from the perspective of

early modern authors, about a discussion of faculties (and what they may have
distorted or simplified in their rebuttal), we must first ask what meaning this
discussion has within a certain metaphysical theory. It was not least a shift in the
whole theoretical frame that led anti-​Aristotelian authors to see the reference to
a sensual–​appetitive faculty, which had great explanatory value to Aristotelian
authors, as an empty gesture. How this shift took place becomes apparent, of
course, only if we first examine the initial theory.
The present chapter is concerned with clarifying the metaphysical theory
and its consequences for the characterization and classification of emotions
through an exploration of texts by Thomas Aquinas. In doing so, of course,
it considers only one of numerous authors who identified the emotions as
movements of the sensual–​appetitive faculty. But the analyses that follow are
aimed, not at providing the most historically comprehensive account of the
textual material of several centuries, but at a systematic reconstruction and
discussion of a certain explanatory approach. In this perspective, the choice of
Aquinas suggests itself for at least four reasons. First, in the Summa theologiae
(part I–​ II, quaestiones 22–​ 48) he wrote the most substantial treatise on
emotions that has come down to us from the whole Latin Middle Ages.6 It is
embedded in a theory of the soul that has been elaborated in detail and is an
illustrative example of the potentials—​and of course also the limitations—​of
an approach to explaining the emotions by analyzing them in the context of a
theory of faculties. Second, the treatise is also integrated in a theory of action,
as its position in the Summa shows. It is enclosed between investigations on
the goals and structure of human actions (part I–​II, quaestiones 1–​21) and on
the virtues of human beings (part I–​II, quaestiones 49–​67).7 This textual ar-
rangement itself indicates that Aquinas closely connects the explanations of
action and emotion. To understand how actions can be incited and directed
toward a goal, according to Aquinas, we must always consider not only the
states of the intellect and the will, but also the sensual emotions. They are a cru-
cial source of motivation for actions, they often determine the goal of actions,
and virtues can arrive from them through processes of habituation. Aquinas’
analyses on the motivational function of the emotions is an example of how
problems of theoretical and practical philosophy were interconnected in the
Middle Ages. Third, Aquinas’ theory was received well into the early modern
period. In the 16th century it saw a revival after the Council of Trent.8 Suárez,
for example, developed his own theory of the emotions in a commentary on
Aquinas’ Summa, and even critics, such as Descartes, owed their orientation in
large part to it.9 Aquinas remained a point of reference for many theoreticians
of the emotions, whether friend or foe, into the early modern period. Fourth,
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
aunt Kindly has come to town again.
Fanny. Stop a minute, Laura; I am going shopping, and I want to
know where your mother bought that lovely French cambric. I mean
to tease my mother for one just like it.
Laura. Mother did not buy it; she would not think of getting me
anything so expensive. Aunt Kindly sent it to me.
Fanny. Oh ho! a present, was it? I never thought of that. I wonder
what put it into her head.
Laura. I believe she was pleased because, when mother was
fitting out two poor boys to go to sea, I did some plain sewing for
them. Your mother helped too, Susan.
Susan. Why, that was before the vacation, and you never missed
school a single day: how could you find time then?
Laura. I used to go at it before breakfast, and at every odd
moment; sometimes I could sew quarter of an hour while I was
waiting for something or somebody, and even that helped on the
work. I think that is a great advantage we girls have over boys.
Mother says the needle darns up idle minutes, that are like holes in
our time. Good-by; you creep so like snails, I should think you would
fall asleep. (Exit.)
Susan. Well, Laura always looks so lively! but I would not lead
such a life for anything.
Fanny. I begin to think I would, Susan! she really makes me
ashamed of myself; and I should think you would be so too, when
you know your mother is always grieving at your laziness. I have
heard her tell my mother twenty times that your indolence makes
your life a burden to you, and that she is mortified when she thinks
what kind of woman you will make.
Susan. It is better to be idle than to be always talking about
people, Fanny! (Pouting.)
Fanny. You are incurable, I do believe; but I am not, and I am
going home this minute to find some work, and mind my own affairs.
 Susan. Why, I thought we were going shopping!
Fanny. But I am not in want of anything; I was only going to kill
time and pick up some news. I will try the experiment, at any rate; I
will lead Laura’s life a couple of days and see how I like it. I really
think the time will not hang so heavy on my hands, and my tongue
will not get me into so many difficulties. Good-by, Susan.
Susan. Good-by. Oh dear! I wonder what I shall do with myself
now!

“In this country,” says an English editor, “it is considered the

height of folly for a man to get drunk and lie across a railroad with
the idea of obtaining repose.” The same opinion obtains to a
considerable extent in America.
 Antiquities of Egypt.

Egypt is situated in the northeastern part of Africa, and very near

to Asia. The descendants of Noah first settled in the valley of the
river Euphrates, and thence they spread over the land in all
directions. Egypt is about five hundred miles westward of this valley,
and being a very fruitful country, was speedily filled with inhabitants.
These soon began to build cities, and in the space of a few centuries
after the flood, Egypt was the seat of a great and powerful empire.
The people increased with astonishing rapidity; a knowledge of
various arts was diffused among them, schools of learning were
established, men of profound science flourished, and the kings and
princes built vast cities, made artificial lakes, constructed canals,
caused vast chambers as depositories of the dead to be cut out of
the solid rock, raised mighty pyramids which still defy the tooth of
time, and carried on other great and mighty works.
Thus it was that while America was unknown; while nearly all
Africa, nearly all Europe, and more than half of Asia, were
uninhabited, except by wild beasts; and while most of the people and
nations on the globe were rude and uncivilized, the empire of Egypt
contained many millions of people who were far advanced in
civilization. Thus at the earliest period Egypt took the lead in
knowledge and science, and therefore it is called the cradle of
learning. Here it was that Homer and other celebrated Greek
scholars, almost 3000 years ago, went to school, as young men go
to Cambridge and New Haven to acquire learning now-a-days. Here
it was that Moses, almost 3400 years ago, was educated, by
direction of Pharaoh’s daughter, in a very superior manner, thus
qualifying him, with the aid of Divine Providence, for the wonderful
task of leading the Jewish nation for forty years through the
wilderness of Arabia.
 The history of the Jewish nation, as told in the Bible, gives us a
good deal of information about Egypt in those early days, for the
Jews were held in bondage there, and after they escaped, they
settled in Palestine, a distance of only about 250 miles from Egypt.
There was much intercourse therefore between the two nations, and
the history of one naturally runs into that of the other.
But besides this knowledge of the history of Egypt afforded by the
Bible, much other information is given by the ancient Greek and
Roman historians; in addition to all this, the remains of ancient cities
scattered along the banks of the Nile,—a famous river that runs
through Egypt,—assure us that the half has hardly been told us.
Notwithstanding the wonderful accounts of the splendor and
populousness of ancient Egypt, handed down by antiquity, the
existing monuments prove that these accounts fall short of the truth.
And these remains are not only interesting as proving this, but also
because they illustrate history, and throw much light upon the
manners and customs of the ancient Egyptians.
Among the famous ruins of Luxor, which are found on the borders
of the Nile, and which excite the wonder of every beholder by their
splendor and magnificence, are the ornaments of buildings, which
consist of carvings in marble, portraying various scenes, some
relating to history and some to domestic life. Many of these
sculptures exhibit men fighting, and therefore show how they carried
on war 3500 years ago; there are carvings of men hunting, which
show how they pursued the chase in those times. There are
representations which show what kind of carts and carriages the
people had; how they harnessed their horses and cattle; what kind of
weapons they used in war; and many other things are shown by
these remains of antiquity.
But recent discoveries have developed still more curious and
interesting things. Vast chambers or rooms have been discovered,
cut in the rock beneath the ground, where it seems the people used
to live. On the walls of these chambers are paintings, which still
preserve their colors and outlines so perfectly as to be easily
understood. Here the traveller is able to study the manners and
customs of ancient Egypt: here he finds pictures telling how the
people dressed; how they cooked their food; what sort of furniture
they had; how they amused themselves; in short, how they lived, in
almost every respect. And what is curious to remark is this,—that
many articles which have been invented in modern times, appear to
have been in use among these Egyptians at least three thousand
years ago. This subject is full of interest, for by the monuments and
paintings of Egypt we have, as it were, discovered a wonderful book,
that tells us a story which has been more than half hidden for about
thirty centuries.

The Giraffe brought as tribute to Pharaoh.

But there is no aspect in which these modern discoveries seem
so interesting, as in regard to the light they throw upon numerous
passages in the Bible. I will mention a few instances; the following is
one. Among the animals mentioned as illustrative of the wisdom and
power of Providence, is one called in Hebrew the Reem, a word
which literally signifies “the tall animal.” It is thus described in
scripture: “Will the reem be willing to serve thee, or abide by thy
crib? Canst thou bind the reem with his band in the furrow? or will he
harrow the valleys after thee? Wilt thou trust him because his
strength is great? or wilt thou leave thy labor to him? Wilt thou
believe him, that he will bring home thy seed and gather it into thy
barn?” (Job xxxix. 9-12.) Our translators have rendered the word
reem, unicorn, which is absurd. Some commentators assert that it is
the rhinoceros, or the buffalo, because the cognate Arabic word is
sometimes applied to a species of gazelle, and the Arabs frequently
speak of oxen and stags as one species. But neither the rhinoceros
nor the buffalo can be called a tall animal, and the analogy between
them and any species of gazelle with which we are acquainted,
would be very difficult to demonstrate. But we find upon the
monuments an animal fulfilling all the conditions of the description,
and that is the giraffe, which is represented several times among the
articles of tribute brought to the Pharaohs from the interior of Africa.
The preceding sketch represents one of these carvings.
A most interesting proof of the accuracy and fidelity of the Bible
narration is furnished by the following considerations. The artists of
Egypt, in the specimens which they have left behind, delineated
minutely every circumstance connected with their national habits and
observances from the cradle to the grave; representing with equal
fidelity the usages of the palace and the cottage,—the king
surrounded by the pomp of state, and the peasant employed in the
humblest labors of the field. In the very first mention of Egypt, we
shall find the scriptural narrative singularly illustrated and confirmed
by the monuments.
“And there was a famine in the land (of Canaan,) and Abram went
down to Egypt to sojourn there, for the famine was grievous in the
land. And it came to pass, when he was come near to enter into
Egypt, that he said unto Sarai his wife, Behold now, I know that thou
art a fair woman to look upon; therefore it shall come to pass when
the Egyptians shall see thee, that they shall say, This is his wife; and
they will kill me, but they will save thee alive. Say, I pray thee, thou
art my sister, that it may be well with me for thy sake; and my soul
shall live because of thee. And it came to pass, that when Abram
was come into Egypt, the Egyptians beheld the woman that she was
very fair. The princes also of Pharaoh’s house saw her, and
commended her before Pharaoh, and the woman was taken into
Pharaoh’s house.” (Gen. xii. 10-15.)

Now let it be remembered that at present the custom for the

Egyptian women, as well as those of other eastern countries, is to
veil their faces somewhat in the manner here represented. Why then
should Abram have been so anxious because the princes of
Pharaoh’s house saw his wife Sarai? How indeed could they see her
face, and discover that she was handsome, if she had been veiled
according to the custom of the country now? The question is
answered by the monuments, for here is a representation of the
manner in which a woman was dressed in Egypt in ancient times.
 It seems therefore that they exposed their faces; and thus the
scripture story is shown to be agreeable to the manners and
customs of the country at the date to which the story refers. It is
impossible to bring a more striking and conclusive proof of the
antiquity and minute accuracy of the Bible record than this.
The period at which the custom of veiling the faces of women was
introduced into Egypt, was probably about 500 years before Christ,
when Cambyses, king of Persia, conquered that country. It was but
natural that the conquered country should adopt the fashions of the
conquering one, particularly as at this period Persia was an empire
of great wealth and power, and likely not only to give laws in respect
to government, but in respect to manners also. The probability,
therefore, that the Bible record was made previous to this event,
even had we not other testimony, is very strong, from the fact that it
relates, in the story of Abraham and his wife, a tale which implies a
fashion which probably never existed in Egypt after the conquests of
Cambyses. How wonderful it is, that these mute monuments, after
slumbering in silence for ages, should now be able to add their
indubitable testimony to the truth of that book, which we hold to be
the Word of God!
 A Drunkard’s Home.

It was a clear morning in April. The ground, bushes, and fences

sparkled with their frosty covering. The bare hills and leafless trees
looked as if they could not long remain bare and leafless beneath a
sky so bright. A robin here and there ventured a short and sweet
note, and earth and sky seemed to rejoice in the scene. The path
that led to the village school was trod by happy children, whose
glowing cheeks and merry voices testified that they partook of the
general gladness.
In the same path, at a distance from a group of neatly-dressed
and smiling children, was a little girl, whose pale, soiled face,
tattered dress, and bare feet, bespoke her the child of poverty and
vice. She looked upon the laughing band before her with a wistful
countenance, and hiding behind her shawl the small tin pail she
carried, lingered by the fence till the children were out of sight, and
then, turning into another road, proceeded to perform her usual
errand to a grocery called the Yellow Shop. The bright, calm morning
had no charm for her. Her little heart felt none of the lightness and
gayety the hearts of children feel when nature is beautiful around
them. She could not laugh as they laughed; and as the sound of their
merry voices seemed still to linger on her ear, she wondered that she
could not be as happy as they.
And then she thought of the dreariness and poverty of her home,
of the cruelty of her father, of the neglect and unkindness of her
mother, of the misery of the long, cold winter through which she had
just passed, of the hunger which her little brothers and herself often
felt; she thought of the neat appearance of the children she had just
seen, and then looked upon her own dress, torn and dirty as it was,
till the tears filled her eyes, and her heart became sadder than ever.
 Mary, for that was the name of the girl, possessed a degree of
intelligence above what her years seemed to warrant; she knew
what made those happy children so different from herself. She well
knew that they would spend that day in school, learning something
useful, while she would spend it in idleness at home, or in trying to
quiet the hungry baby, and please the other children, while her
mother was picking cranberries in the meadow. Mary knew she was
that very morning to carry home something that would make her
mother cross and wholly unmindful of her destitute children.
When she had reached the spirit shop, its keeper was not there,
but his son, a bright, intelligent boy of thirteen, stood behind the
counter, playing with his little sister. Mary asked for the rum with a
faltering voice, and as she offered the jug, our young tradesman,
looking upon her with mingled contempt and pity, said, “What does
your mother drink rum for?” Mary felt ashamed, and looked so sad
that the boy was sorry for what he had said. He gave her the liquor,
and tied up the scanty allowance of meal; and Mary, with a heavy
heart and hasty step, proceeded upon her way.
When she reached her dwelling—and who needs a description of
a drunkard’s dwelling?—her mother met her at the door, and hastily
snatching the jug from her hand, drank off its burning contents. She
then took the meal to prepare breakfast, and Mary was sent to
gather some sticks to kindle the flame. The dough was then placed
before the smoky, scanty fire, and the impatient children hovered
round to watch its progress. Long, however, before it was sufficiently
baked, they snatched it piece by piece away, till nothing but the
empty tin remained.
The little boys, with their hunger scarcely satisfied, then left the
house, to loiter, as usual, in the streets, while Mary, as she saw her
mother become every moment more incapable of attending to the
wants of her infant, took the poor little creature in her arms, and in
trying to soothe its sufferings half forgot her own. She had just
succeeded in lulling the baby, when her father entered. He had been
in the meadow, picking the cranberries which had been preserved
during the winter under the snow, and which could now be sold for a
few cents a quart. Though once a strong and active man, so
degraded had he become, that few persons were willing to employ
him, and he resorted to picking cranberries as the only means left
him of obtaining what his appetite so imperiously demanded.
On entering the room, and seeing the state his wife was in, he
uttered a loud curse, and at the same time bade Mary leave the
crying child and put on her bonnet, and hasten to the village to sell
the cranberries, and call at the Yellow Shop on her return.
Mary put on her bonnet, and with a trembling heart commenced
her walk. On her way, she met her brothers, and stopped to tell them
that, as their father was then at home, they had better keep away
from the house till her return. She then called from door to door; but
at every place her timid inquiry, “Do you want any cranberries here?”
met the same chilling answer, “No.”
At length, wearied out, and fearful that she could not dispose of
them at all, she sat down by the road-side and wept bitterly. But the
sun had long past his meridian, and was gradually lowering in the
western sky. She must go home, and what would her father say if
she returned with the cranberries unsold? This she could not do; and
she determined to try to exchange them at the shop for the spirit her
father wanted.
After waiting some time at the counter, till the wants of several
wretched beings were supplied, she told her errand, and after much
hesitation on the part of the shop-keeper, and much entreaty on her
own, the cranberries were exchanged for rum. Mary then rapidly
retraced her steps homeward, and with a beating heart entered the
cottage.
Her father was not there, but her mother was, and upon inquiring
where Mary had been, insisted on having the spirit. Mary refused as
long as she dared, for she knew how terrible the anger of her father
would be, if he found the quantity of rum diminished. But the mother,
regardless of everything but the gratification of her appetite, seized
the jug and drank a large part of its contents.
It was scarcely swallowed before her husband entered; and,
enraged at seeing the spirit so much lessened, he reproached Mary
first, and then his wife, in the most bitter terms. The provoking replies
of the latter excited his rage almost beyond control; and Mary,
fearing for the safety of herself and her brothers, crept with them into
an empty closet, where, with their arms round each other, they
remained, almost breathless with alarm, trembling at their father’s
loud threats and their mother’s fearful screams.
At length the discord was hushed, and all was silent except the
low groans of the suffering wife, and the cries of the helpless babe.
The children then crept from their hiding-place to seek for some
food, before they laid themselves down upon their wretched bed to
forget their fears for a while in sleep. But in vain did they look for a
crust of bread or a cold potato. Mary could find nothing but the
remainder of the meal she had procured in the morning, but it was
too late to attempt baking another cake. The fire was all out upon the
hearth, and it was too dark to go in search of wood. So the hungry
children, with their wants unsupplied, were obliged to lay themselves
down to sleep.
In the village in which Mary’s parents lived, the wretched condition
of the family had often attracted attention; but the case of the parents
seemed so hopeless, that little exertion was made to persuade them
to abandon their ruinous habits, till Mr. Hall, an energetic agent of the
temperance cause, visited the place. The husband and wife were
then induced to attend the temperance meeting and listen to his
address. Whispers and significant looks passed between the
acquaintances when Thomas and his wife entered the church, and
scarcely one among the number thought they could be at all
benefited by what they might hear. But they did not see Thomas’
heart, or know what a wretched being he felt himself to be. Through
necessity, neither he nor his wife had now tasted spirit for several
days, as their means of obtaining it had failed. The cranberries were
all gathered from the meadow, and persons of their character could
not obtain employment. Thus situated, Thomas knew he must take a
different course, or himself and family would be sent to the work-
house. It was on account of these circumstances that he this evening
consented with his wife to attend the meeting.
 When the speaker commenced, Thomas, feeling himself uneasy,
wished himself away. But by degrees he became more and more
interested, until his eye fixed upon the speaker, and the tear, rolling
down his bloated face, proved the depth of his feeling. He heard his
own case so well described, the remedy so plainly pointed out, so
affectionately urged, that new light seemed to break upon his mind,
and he inwardly exclaimed, “I can do it—I will do it, if I die in the
attempt;” and at the close of the service, going boldly up to a group
of temperance men, he requested that his name and the name of his
wife might be added to the temperance list. A murmur of approbation
followed his request, and hand after hand was presented for a shake
of congratulation. Nancy pulled her husband’s coat as she heard her
name mentioned, and said, faintly, “Not mine, not mine, Thomas.”
But the words were unheard or disregarded, and he bent steadily
over the shoulder of the secretary, till he actually saw the names of
Thomas and Nancy Millman among the names of those who pledged
themselves to abstain from all use of ardent spirits.
As he turned to leave the church, William Stevens, a sober,
industrious man, a friend of Thomas in his better days, but who had
long abandoned the society of a drunkard, took him by the hand, and
after expressing his satisfaction at the course he had pursued,
invited him to call at his house on his way home. After some
hesitation, Thomas and Nancy consented; the latter being
exceedingly pleased at being invited again to call on Hannah
Stevens.
As William opened the door, Hannah rose from her seat by the
cradle, and glanced first at her husband, and then at his
companions, with a look of astonishment and inquiry, which yielded,
however, to one of kind welcome and glad surprise, when her
husband said, “I have brought you some friends, Hannah.” “Yes,”
said Thomas, “and may we henceforth merit the title.” Nancy hung
down her head, as if ashamed of the thoughts that were passing
through her mind. Hannah, noticing her appearance, feared she did
not sympathize much in her husband’s feelings. “I must encourage
the poor woman,” thought she, “or her husband will be undone. If
Nancy does not encourage him by her example, all will be lost.”
 The company then seated themselves round the cheerful fire, and
while Thomas and William were engaged in conversation, Hannah
threw aside the quilt to let Nancy see the baby. It was just the age of
her own, but oh! how different. The rosy, healthy little creature before
her, in its clean nightgown, sleeping so soundly, recalled to her mind
her own pale, sickly, neglected child at home, in its ragged, dirty
dress, so seldom changed, and tears started into her eyes at the
recollection. Hannah saw the effect produced upon her feelings, and
wishing to increase it still more, asked her to walk into her bed-room
to see her other children. Hannah was a kind, careful mother, and
knowing the strength of a mother’s love, she wished to make use of
this strong principle to recall the wretched wanderer before her to a
sense of duty.
Nor was she disappointed at the success of her experiment.
Nancy was evidently affected at a view of the neat, comfortable
appearance of her neighbor’s house, and Hannah seized this
opportunity to point out to her her dreadful neglect of duty. It was a
kind, but a faithful reproof, calculated to awaken in her bosom every
feeling of a mother that yet remained. Nancy did not leave the room
until she had promised, by her own example, to encourage her
husband to return to the uniform practice of sobriety. Thomas and his
wife then took leave of their kind neighbors.
We will leave this happy fireside, and accompany Thomas and
Nancy to their desolate home. As they approached the house, the
faint cries of the neglected baby first struck the parents’ ears. Poor
Mary was endeavoring, as usual, to quiet the little sufferer. There
was no fire upon the hearth, and no light upon the table, but the
moonbeams through the changing clouds were sufficient to reveal
the gloom and wretchedness of the drunkards’ home. Thomas and
Nancy could not but perceive the contrast between the home they
had just left and their own. It was a contrast most sad and
humiliating.
Early the next morning, the first person the family saw coming
down the lane was little William Stevens. He had in his hand a
basket of potatoes, which his father had sent to Thomas Millman,
with a request that he would call at his work-shop after he had eaten
his breakfast. This unexpected present gave much joy to this
destitute family, and Mary, with her little brothers, will not soon forget
how acceptable were their roast potatoes that morning, though eaten
without butter or salt.
Thomas called, as he was requested, at William Stevens’ work-
shop, and found there a job which would employ him for a day or
two. It was joyfully and speedily undertaken, and after an industrious
day’s work, he received, at the close, a part of his wages to lay out in
food for his family. Thomas had little to struggle with this day, and on
the whole, it passed by easily and pleasantly. Not so with poor
Nancy. Having less to employ her mind than her husband, she was
sorely tempted, more than once, to send Mary to the Yellow Shop to
exchange what remained of her kind neighbor’s gift for rum. But the
thought of Hannah’s kindness, and her own promise, so solemnly
made, restrained her.
At last, the day wore by, and it was time for Thomas to return. As
soon as the children saw him enter the lane, they ran, as was their
custom, to their hiding-place; for, knowing nothing of what had
recently transpired, they expected to find him intoxicated, as usual.
“Can that be father?” whispered they to each other as they heard
a steady step and a calm voice. The youngest boy peeped out his
head to see.
“Come here, my poor boy,” said Thomas, kindly; “you needn’t be
afraid; I am not drunk.” “Oh, he isn’t drunk! he isn’t drunk!” said
Jemmy, clapping his hands in great joy; “come out, children, father
won’t hurt us.” Half faithless, half believing, the children left their
hiding-place and came around their father.
“Mother hasn’t sent you for any rum to-day, has she, Mary?” “No,
father; I hope I shall never go to that shop again.” “You never shall,
to buy rum, Mary, I promise you. Do you believe me?” Mary looked
as if she did not quite believe, but she said nothing.

A year has passed by since the period when our history

commenced. It is a fine morning in April, as it then was. The children
of the village are pursuing their way to school as pleasantly as they
then were. But where is the little girl, with soiled face, tattered dress,
and bare feet, that then attracted our attention? Look for one of the
happiest girls among that gay, laughing group, and you will find her.
Her dirty, tattered garments are exchanged for neat and comely
ones; her bare feet are covered with tidy shoes and stockings, and in
her hand she carries, not a tin pail, but a basket containing her
school-books and work. The scenes through which this day will carry
her will be very different from those through which she passed a year
ago.
A great and blessed change has indeed come over this once
wretched family. They have left the miserable habitation which was
once theirs, and are now living upon a small but excellent farm,
whose owner is not afraid to rent it to so sober and industrious
people as Thomas and Nancy have become. Within the year,
Thomas has been able to purchase comfortable clothing for his
family, decent furniture for his house, and has besides partly paid for
two yokes of oxen and four cows.
Look at Thomas at work in his field, and managing his little farm,
thriving at home and respected abroad, and say what would tempt
him to come again under the influence of his former ruinous habits?
Look at Nancy, too, superintending her dairy and supplying the
wants of her family—does she wish for a return of those days when
she was the intemperate mother of hungry, neglected children? But
are there not hundreds of mothers who are at this time what she
once was? and can they not, will they not, be induced to become
what she now is?
 The Boastful Ass.

I can hardly tell the reason, but the fact seems to be, that the ass,
an honest and somewhat stupid animal, seems to have given rise to
more fables than any other beast, except the fox. I have already told
some fables in which this long-eared personage is made to utter a
great many wise things. I am now going to tell another fable, in which
the creature is represented as talking rather foolishly.
A man was once going along the road with an ass, whom he
treated somewhat roughly, upon which the beast first whisked his
long tail, and then groaned, and finally spoke outright. “It seems to
me, sir,” said the honest creature, “that you use me very ill,
particularly as I belong to a race of great antiquity, and one that has
been honored above all four-footed beasts!”
“Why, how’s that?” said the man.
“How’s that? indeed!” said the ass. “If you had read the Bible as
much as you should, you would remember that it was one of my
ancestors which conversed with a prophet, and stood in the
presence of an angel on a certain occasion. This is an honor which
belongs exclusively to the ass family, of which I am one, and
therefore it seems meet that you should treat me with proper
respect.”
“Well done!” said the countryman; “well done! poor brute. This is
ever the way. It seems to be with asses as with men: when one has
no merit of his own, he always boasts the dignity of his family, or the
virtues of his ancestors. For my part, I know of nothing that sinks a
beast or a man lower, than to see him attempt to cover up his own
vices, or weakness, or folly, by showing off the dignity of his
pedigree, or the respectability of his connections.” Then, giving the
ass a somewhat contemptuous kick, the man passed on.
 Travelling Beehives.—In Switzerland, the traveller often sees a
man trudging up the mountains with a hive of bees on his back. The
people move the bees, because they know how good change of
place is for them. This, too, is done almost everywhere in Scotland.
In France, they put their hives into a boat, some hundreds together,
which floats down the stream by night, and stops by day. The bees
go out in the morning, return in the evening, and when they are all at
home, and quiet, the boat floats on.
 Architecture of Birds.

There is no topic in Natural History more curious than the

architecture of birds. In the building of nests many species are
exceedingly ingenious. The humming-bird constructs its nest of
thefinest silky down, or of cotton, or of the fibres of the flag-top that
the boys call cat-tail, or of some other similar material. Within, it is
lined in the most delicate manner with downy substances. The
outside is covered with moss, usually of the color of the bough or
twig to which the nest is attached, and giving it simply the
appearance of an excrescence. The delicacy and ingenuity of
workmanship in this case, as well as the skill displayed in the whole
management of the affair, could hardly be excelled by human art.