Feelings Transformed: Philosophical

Theories of the Emotions, 1270-1670

Dominik Perler
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i

Feelings Transformed
ii

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
iii

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

Dominik Perler
Translated from the German by Tony Crawford

1
iv

1
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ISBN 978–​0–​19–​938348–​1

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Printed by Sheridan Books, Inc., United States of America

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

© 2011 S. Fischer Verlag GmbH, Frankfurt am Main

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
Foundation, the German Federal Foreign Office, the colleting society VG WORT und the German
Publishers & Booksellers Association.
v

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

v
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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
vi

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.

vii
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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.
ix

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
x
xi

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

xi
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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,
xv

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
xvi
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Feelings Transformed
xvi
1

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

1
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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.
3

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
4

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
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Practical
school discipline
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Title: Practical school discipline

Applied methods, part 2

Author: Ray Coppock Beery

Release date: September 27, 2023 [eBook #71746]

Language: English

Original publication: Pleasant Hill: International Academy of

Discipline, 1917

Credits: Richard Tonsing, MFR, Missing pages were produced

from images generously made available by University
of Victoria Libraries, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book
was produced from images made available by the
HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRACTICAL

SCHOOL DISCIPLINE ***
Transcriber’s Note:
New original cover art included with this eBook is
granted to the public domain.
PRACTICAL SCHOOL
DISCIPLINE
Applied Methods
PART II

By
RAY C. BEERY
A. B. (Columbia), M. A. (Harvard)

President of
International Academy of Discipline
PLEASANT HILL, OHIO, U. S. A.
 Copyrighted, 1917, by
RAY C. BEERY

Copyrighted in Great Britain, 1917

All Rights Reserved
 PREFACE

The present volume, the third on “Practical School Discipline” (the

second on “Applied Methods”), completes the series of books
designed for the I. A. D. Correspondence Course for Teachers.
Some of the members of our Teachers’ Club may be interested to
know that a similar course of correspondence and study has been
prepared for parents. Possibly some of your own “hard cases” can
best be reached indirectly, i. e., by introducing these volumes for the
parents into the home of the hard case. If you know a parent who has
failed to discipline his child properly, why not mention the
Correspondence Course for Parents in your next Parents’ meeting!
Take along your teachers’ book to illustrate the sort of practical
treatment the various “cases” receive in the parents’ books. In
helping the father or the mother, you are also helping the child, the
school, and yourself.
Regarding the present volume our readers will note that in
accordance with the statement contained in Part I, Part II is a
continuation of that book. Partly to emphasize this fact of continuity,
but also to avoid repetition in the complete index in Part II, the
pagination and the numbering of the cases follow in consecutive
order the two similar series of numbers in Part II. The division
between the two volumes is made between topics, however, so that
except for the very close relation between the two books, each of
them may be regarded as complete in itself.
Finally, permit us to express our hearty appreciation of the cordial
responses which are coming from the members of the Teachers’
Club, and again to assure them that their interests are ours.
 CONTENTS

DIVISION V
PAGE
Cases Arising Out Of The Adaptive Instincts 361

DIVISION VI
Cases Arising Out Of The Expressive Instincts 577

DIVISION VII
Cases Arising Out Of The Social Instincts 671

DIVISION VIII
Cases Arising Out Of The Regulative Instincts 745

DIVISION IX
Cases Arising Out Of The Sex Instincts 829

DIVISION X
An Illustrative Contrast Between Failure and Success 859
 DIVISION V

Adaptation may serve either of two ends. It may fix the child in a life of
indifference, of inefficiency, of crime, or it may fit him into a world of noble acts
and lofty endeavor.
 CASES ARISING OUT OF THE ADAPTIVE
INSTINCTS

What are the adaptive instincts? By the adaptive instincts is

meant the power that an individual possesses of fitting himself, more
or less easily, into the situation in which he finds himself. Such
power of adaptability is of the greatest possible value to the human
infant, coming as he does into an extremely complex environment,
physical and social, and with the further certainty before him of
extremely complex activities in adult life.
Fortunately the long period of plastic infancy offers constant
opportunity for readjusting one’s habits, tastes, accomplishments,
etc. Three chief means for making such readjustments are found in
the child’s tendencies, (1) to imitate, (2) to play, (3) to satisfy his
curiosity.
“Example is usually far better than rule and imitation more effective than
explanation....”

—Thorndike.

1. Imitation—of Acts; of Habits; of Social Ideals

Betts[1] defines imitation as “the instinct to respond to a suggestion
from another by repeating his act.” This is simple and entirely covers
the ground. He goes on to say that the instinct is one of the earliest to
appear, being very plainly discernible before the normal child has
reached the age of one year. It often reaches its height by the time the
baby is two or three years old, but is never lost and sometimes
persists strongly into old age. When a child imitates the same thing
several times his imitation becomes a habit, and so two powerful
factors unite to form a customary type of behavior.
1. The Mind and Its Education, 170.
One might think that imitation, being Appealing to the
strongest in young children, would appear Imitative Instinct
almost exclusively in the lower grades of school; but in fact it plays
an important part all the way through the high school. The things
imitated change, but the instinct remains. In treating cases which are
caused or influenced by this powerful instinct, which the great
French sociologist Tarde considers the greatest factor in human
conduct, there are four methods which can be used:

1. The expression of strong disapproval of the acts and their

results.
2. Forceful repression—punishment.
3. Changing the nature of the example imitated.
4. The substitution of another and better example for the one
imitated.
The first and second of these four methods are two degrees and
modes of the general means of opposition. They are sometimes
effective, and they are sometimes necessary and wise. If a very great
evil is going on, for instance, it is fully justifiable to use any means to
stop it, before its harmful effects cause too great suffering and
injustice. If a teacher finds a bully imposing on a small child, even
although he may know that a good example to the bully is the means
for his ultimate conversion to kindness and justice, he should stop
the bullying first by the best means at hand, and afterward set about
the character conversion of the bully.
Moreover, with very young children, in whom habitforming is
largely a matter of pleasure and pain in the reactions of their deeds,
punishment that is swift, sure and wise should follow the imitation of
a bad act after its evil nature has been made clear. With older
children, however, who have passed this early stage, the third and
fourth means are usually more effective. Common sense,
supplemented by a fair knowledge of child nature and the rudiments
of psychology, will dictate where one set of methods ends and the
higher set, which trusts more to the child’s developing judgment,
begins.
Imitation begins, as has been said, in infancy. Its forms will be
found to belong to one or another of the following types:
Types of
1. Imitation of commonly observed acts, Imitation
such as shaking hands, eating with a
spoon, making faces.
 2. Imitation of a strong personality, or of strong mannerisms in
any personality, which catch attention and command
admiration or disapproval.
3. Imitation of an imaged ideal, brought to the imitator through
fiction, vivid history instruction, seeing a play, etc.
4. Imitation which is unconscious, usually under stress of high
emotion—mob action.
Of course the most common of these types of imitation is that of
the common customs of the people who surround the young child.
Otherwise it would mean little to a child to be born into a family in
which gentle manners and kind deeds set a daily example fit to be
followed closely. The manners of most children are those of their
homes; only with a certain degree of maturity will they see the
manners of other homes and elect to imitate them instead. Next in
importance to this imitation of the social example, is that of some
strong personality.
This imitation usually comes through admiration, although most
people will also recall the disgust with which they have realized that
they have unconsciously imitated some mannerism of an
acquaintance, of which they heartily disapproved. This shows that it
is not necessary to admire an act in order to repeat it. It is necessary
only that the act make a vivid impression on one, an impression
which may be received by some persons just as readily through
strong repugnance as through strong liking. Twists in pronunciation
are thus imitated in spite of one’s dislike of them, as an involuntary
tribute to the strength of the impression made upon the hearer.
Another strong stimulus to imitation is the desire for the praise of
others. John wins father’s enthusiastic praise for the thorough way in
which he cleaned the motor-car, and his brother Carl cleans it the
next time it is muddy, not because he likes the work but because he
wants to be praised also. Winnie makes a face at the teacher and
wins the praise of her schoolmates in the shape of an approving
laugh, and Jennie imitates her at the first opportunity in the hope of
winning a laugh also. That is one reason why successful people are so
much imitated; in addition to what comes to them through the
admiration of the crowd, there are many who hope to win similar
rewards through similar efforts.
 And then there are those who imitate others because they want to
surpass them at their own game. This is emulation, usually classed as
a distinct instinct by psychologists, and yet so closely related to
imitation that the same general principles of treatment apply to both.
Faults which have been learned by imitation can rarely if ever be
cured by didactic instruction. They have been learned in a far more
vivid way, and their unlearning is best accomplished through the
substitution of other habits, imitated from some attractive and vivid
model. If the process of substitution can be made a pleasant one, the
work goes faster. In general, the dramatizing of the proposed new
order of things is the surest and quickest way of teaching it, with
children who are young enough for this method. Merely to condemn
old habits, without suggesting a new and better way, is usually pure
waste of time.
(1) Mimicry. “The young child imitates mainly the simpler bodily
attitudes and vocal and facial expressions of those with whom he is
in vital contact. As he develops he imitates ever more complex
activities of a social, political, ethical, æsthetic and industrial
character. In the beginning it is the doing of an act, not the results
thereof, that interests the individual; the reverse is usually true in
maturity.”[2] Not infrequently, however, does the child fail to
distinguish between the act that is suitable to imitate and that which
is not. Like every other instinct, although of great value to the
individual when properly directed, yet if not guided into legitimate
channels, it becomes often a source of great annoyance.
2. O’Shea, Social Development and Education, p. 422. Houghton, Mifflin.

CASE 62 (SIXTH GRADE)

Miss Burch was from Massachusetts, and Mimicry of

had an exquisitely soft voice and Speech
unimpeachable pronunciation. She came to Peoria, Illinois, to teach
in the public schools, and found these two assets very much in the
way. Mabel Gulliver, a little girl whose cleverness was largely the
product of much running of streets, turned both to account in a
series of imitations that “delighted crowded houses” whenever she
chose to hold forth. As she did this frequently, poor Miss Burch soon
found herself helpless and ridiculous in her own school-room.
“Authah, will you ausk the janitah to give us a little moah heat?”
Mabel would flute, with inimitable saccharinity. “And I want you all
to cease lawfing at once, foah this is the clauss in correct
pronunciation, and if youah to be cleavah like me you’ll learn how to
do it properly.” Miss Burch’s manner was the perfection of
simplicity, but in Mabel’s imitation it appeared with a simpering
ingenuousness both funny and untrue.
Miss Burch realized the situation and wept over it. She did not
know what to do. Realizing she was the subject of ridicule, she
became self-conscious and timid, and her discipline grew worse and
worse.

CONSTRUCTIVE TREATMENT

Things were in this bad shape when Mr. Nearing, the

superintendent, came to visit her one day. He was so kind and
sympathetic that after school Miss Burch told him the whole story,
and asked his advice.
“The trouble with you is,” he said, “that your most prominent
characteristic is one which lends itself to ridicule here in the Middle
West, where we don’t know an Italian “a” from a mud-pie. Now,
don’t think of changing your pronunciation; to do so consciously
would be to be affected. But make the children forget it in something
more exciting. If you’d start a museum for your nature study, or get
up a little play for Christmas, and make Mabel its chief factotum,
she’d have an outlet for her energies, she would still lead her crowd
and have their admiration, and your pronunciation would fade into
the background of the Things That Are. It’s all a matter of relative
emphasis.”
Miss Burch did try this plan. She had her room dramatize and then
play The Birds’ Christmas Carol, and in the intense interest of this
project the teacher-mocking was forgotten. When Mabel
remembered it again, she and Miss Burch were such good friends
that it was out of the question.
COMMENTS

When the imitation takes place in the school-room the matter is

much more under the teacher’s control, for there is no end of ways in
which the child can be kept too busy to indulge in histrionic
performances. But whatever is done, the teacher should not appear
to notice that a pupil is disrespectful to her.

ILLUSTRATION (SEVENTH GRADE)

George Henderson was dubbed by his classmates “the clown”

because he was always doing something laughable. Usually his fun
was of a harmless type, but occasionally his pranks overstepped the
bounds of propriety.
His teacher, Miss Stanton, had Mimicry of
unconsciously fallen into the habit of Gesture
making nervous little gestures when she was explaining lessons to
the pupils, and, indeed, when she was talking with the pupils outside
of school. Several times during recitations she had noticed George
entertaining the pupils near him by imitating, under the shelter of
the desk, of course, all the little movements of her nervous, energetic
hands. She resolved to overcome the habit of emphasizing her words
by gesture, but the more absorbed she became in her teaching, the
less could she think about her hands. If she concentrated attention
upon her hands, her teaching suffered and the whole class became
listless. Resolved not to sacrifice the class for the sake of one fun-
loving boy, Miss Stanton next tried another plan.
“Mary, you may name all the capitals of the countries of Europe,”
she said.
When Mary was about half through with her list of capitals, Miss
Stanton interrupted her with,
“That is far enough, Mary; George may finish.”
Now George knew the capitals perfectly, but he had been busy
behind the desk with a particularly successful imitation of Miss
Stanton’s movements, and suddenly surprised, could not recall
where Mary had left off.
 Miss Stanton waited just a moment, then said, gravely, but without
any indication of resentment,
“I am sorry to have you fail on anything so important as this,
George. Jack may go on.”
George sat quite demurely for several minutes, for he was a little
disappointed at losing a chance to recite a lesson which he had really
prepared with considerable care. However, he comforted himself by
thinking: “Well, she called on me once. She won’t do so again,” and
after a short time he went serenely on with his dramatics.
Miss Stanton also went on apparently oblivious to what was taking
place behind the desk. After a few minutes she said,
“Stephen, beginning with the northern countries, tell us what the
farmers raise in each of these countries.”
Again she stopped the recital in the midst of it, with
“That will do. George, go on.”
Again George lost his chance to recite, not because he did not
know the lesson, but because he had not been listening to Stephen.
In his confusion his face flushed, especially when Miss Stanton said,
in a low tone:
“How is this, George? Two failures in one day? I shall expect a
better lesson than this tomorrow. Wilbur, will you finish the
recitation?”
George sat quietly for the remainder of the recitation, thinking to
himself:
“Well, if she has called on me twice, she may get around again.
Gee! I knew all that.”
Miss Stanton did not call upon him again, however, that day. On
the following day George decided that it would be well to give enough
attention to the recitation, at least to “keep tab” on what the others
were reciting, and gradually he learned that he was likely to be called
up at any time that he allowed his attention to wander far away from
the work of the hour. Not a word had been said about his pranks, but
they ceased to be troublesome to teacher or class.
Some children are natural actors. They mimic grown-ups in a
ludicrous way. This may be done unconsciously, but sometimes
pupils purposely imitate a teacher’s walk, attitude, voice or
phraseology, just out of a desire to raise a laugh at the teacher’s
expense.

CASE 63 (FOURTH GRADE)

George had an unusual gift of ability to Mimicry of Walk

mimic others. Even at the age of nine years
he could easily entertain his classmates by imitating various men of
the town. His teacher, Miss Giles, was a stout little woman whose
arms seemed not to hang closely enough to her body, and as she
walked she swung them as if they propelled her through the air. Her
voice was fretful whenever she repeated a command, which was
often, or whenever she expected disobedience. One day as he
followed Miss Giles across the room, the impulse seized him to
mimic her gait. This he did, with marked success. When he returned
to his seat he began to study her mannerisms with a view to
entertaining others. At recess he showed the boys how she held her
hands and nodded her head while she talked. The next step was to
imitate her voice. This he did successfully.
One day, about ten minutes before the afternoon session began,
Miss Giles was sitting at her desk, grading penmanship papers, when
Marie Allbaugh rushed in and said: “Miss Giles, come out here and
listen to George. He’s playin’ like he was you.”
Miss Giles hardly understood what Marie wished to tell her, but
she followed the child to the front yard where a crowd of children
were around George. Unnoticed by most of them, she joined in the
circle in time to hear George say in a very good imitation of her voice,
“Children, quietly take your books,” then in a fretful tone with a
frown, “I said quietly.” “Whoo-ee,” shouted one of the listeners, and
all joined in a laugh when suddenly they noticed Miss Giles standing
there.
“George, march right into the house,” said she in her harshest
tones. “You shall not have another recess until you have apologized
to me for this.”
Soon the bell sounded for the afternoon session. When the recess
period came, George started to walk out with the other children.
Miss Giles saw him, and said, “George, take your seat.”
 After the other children had all left the room, she went to George’s
seat and said, “Are you ready to apologize?” Just then a shout came
through the window from the children at play. George wanted badly
to join them. He said, “I don’t know how.”
“Say, ‘Miss Giles, I’m sorry I mocked you at noon,’” said she.
George considered. If he said he was sorry he would be telling a
falsehood. He would try to be excused without that so he said:
“Mother lets me play like I was other people. She don’t care, so I
thought you wouldn’t.”
“But, George, you must always show respect for your teacher.”
George meditated again. The shouts of the children at play gave
him an idea. Wasn’t he sorry he did it? Wasn’t that just what was
keeping him indoors while others were at play? Of course, he didn’t
want to stay in, so of course he was sorry he had done the thing that
kept him in. With a bright, smiling look at Miss Giles, he said: “I am
sorry, Miss Giles, that I mocked you at noon.” It looked like a sincere
apology and it passed for such.
“You may go,” said she. She considered the case well handled.

CONSTRUCTIVE TREATMENT

Miss Giles would do well to join in the laugh at her own expense.
She should supervise every moment of the children’s play period.
George will not then have an opportunity to use his imitative powers.
He will be swept into active games and be only one of a crowd.
An apology should not be demanded of a pupil for any mark of
disrespect toward the teacher. Respect can not be developed by force.
If, in spite of these precautions, you sometimes find yourself the
butt of the children’s sport, quietly drop into the play school, take a
seat as one of the play pupils and carry off your part as a naughty
child. “Take off” the troublesome child so well—(not any particular
one, however)—that the children will laugh with you and the whole
thing will pass off as play, nothing more.

COMMENTS