Part 31

“The writer well remembers his astonishment, when a boy of seven or eight, at fainting when he saw a horse bled. The blood was in a bucket, with a stick in it, and if memory does not deceive him, he stirred it round and saw it drip from the stick with no feeling save that of childish curiosity. Suddenly the world grew black before his eyes, his ears began to buzz, and he knew no more. He had never heard of the sight of blood producing faintness or sickness, and he had little repugnance to it, and so little apprehension of any other sort of danger from it, that even at that tender age, as he well remembers, he could not help wondering how the mere physical presence of a pailful of crimson fluid could occasion in him such formidable bodily effects” (p. 457).

Here we have a condition such as is sometimes experienced in connection with the most extreme degree of fear or grief unaccompanied by any emotion except astonishment at its occurrence. I presume that if a person should faint on hearing bad news, Professor James would consider that one of the causes of his intense emotion. Why did it have no such effect in this case?

Assuming that the emotions are the effects and not the causes of what are usually reckoned as their “expression,” it seems evident that a given movement or set of movements must uniformly, at least in the same subject, give rise to the same feeling, and that in the case of opposite emotions such as joy and grief, hope and fear, the more intense the emotion, the more unlike must be the actions from which it arises. Neither of these is the case. On the contrary, it would seem to be the fact that the actions accompanying emotion tend to become more alike in proportion to its intensity. It is not at all uncommon for people to weep from excess of joy as well as of grief. Pallor and trembling are frequent accompaniments of the extremes of hope as well as fear. The naturalist Wallace gives an account of his feelings on capturing a rare and beautiful butterfly, which is worth quoting in this connection:

“The beauty and brilliancy of this insect are indescribable, and none but a naturalist can understand the intense excitement I experienced when I at length captured it. On taking it out of the net and opening the glorious wings, my heart began to beat violently, the blood rushed to my head, and I felt more like fainting than I have done when in prospect of immediate death. I had a headache the rest of the day, so great was the excitement produced by what will appear to most people a very inadequate cause” (“Malay Archipelago,” p. 342).

Here it is evident that a feeling of intense exultation gave rise to sensations very similar, to say the least, to those of extreme fear.

One other argument brought forward by the author deserves special notice in this connection:

“The best proof that the immediate cause of emotion is a physical effect on the nerves is furnished by _those pathological states in which the emotion is objectless_. One of the chief merits, in fact, of the view which I propose, seems to be that we can so easily formulate by its means pathological cases and normal cases under a common scheme. In every asylum we find examples of absolutely unmotived fear, anger, melancholy, or conceit, and others of an equally unmotived apathy, which persists in spite of the best of outward reasons why it should give way. In the former cases we must suppose the nervous machinery to be so ‘labile’ in some one emotional direction that almost every stimulus (however inappropriate) causes it to upset in that way, and to engender the particular complex of feelings of which the psychic body of that emotion consists. Thus, to take one special instance, if inability to draw deep breath, fluttering of the heart, and that peculiar epigastric change felt as ‘precordial anxiety,’ with an irresistible tendency to take a somewhat crouching attitude and to sit still, and with perhaps other visceral processes not now known, all spontaneously occur together in a certain person; his feeling of their combination is the emotion of dread, and he is the victim of what is known as morbid fear” (p. 458).

Now, it is evident, of course, in such a case as this, that such a combination of feelings as is here described is not a fortuitous coincidence of so many independent sensations. They must have a common starting-point, which cannot well be elsewhere than in the brain. But if this is the case, it seems to me to be begging the question to assume that the sensations and not the emotion are the primary thing. On the assumption that fear, in the normal condition, is the cause of the disturbances of respiration, circulation, and the like, which accompany it, it is as easy to formulate normal and pathological cases under a common scheme, by supposing it to be the cause of the like disturbances in cases of morbid fear, as on the theory of Professor James.

It seems to me, then, that the theory does not satisfactorily account for the facts, so far as the involuntary, reflex accompaniments of motion are concerned.

The difficulty is greatly increased when we consider the relations of emotion to voluntary action. We have seen that reflex acts, similar to, or identical with those in which Professor James believes emotion to consist, may occur independently of emotion, in the ordinary acceptation of the term, at least. Strictly voluntary acts, on the contrary, are always the concomitants of emotion of some sort. In the great majority of the ordinary actions of life, they are the only motor phenomena of which we are aware in this connection. Our whole daily conduct, in our business and pleasure, our incomings and our outgoings, our downsittings and uprisings, is inseparably associated with our likings and dislikings, our hopes and fears. What is the nature of this association?

Under the theory we are considering, two relations of voluntary acts to emotion are possible. They may, like the involuntary reactions, constitute the emotion, or unlike them, result from it. Professor James does not express himself on the general question, but some of his illustrations seem to favor the former view. If the man who meets a bear is frightened because he runs, or the one who is insulted, angry because he strikes, the voluntary acts of running and striking must, in part, at least, constitute the emotions of fear and anger in these cases. Let us, then, consider this case first.

If I see a shower coming up, and run for a shelter, the emotion is evidently of the same kind, though perhaps less in degree, as in the case of the man who runs from the bear. According to Professor James, I am afraid of getting wet because I run. But supposing that, instead of running, I step into a shop and buy an umbrella. The emotion is still the same. I am afraid of getting wet. Consequently, so far as I can see, the fear, in this case, consists in buying the umbrella. Fear of hunger, in like manner, might consist in laying in a store of provisions; fear of poverty, in shoveling dirt at a dollar a day, and so on indefinitely. Anger, again, may be associated with many other actions than striking. Shylock’s anger at Antonio’s insults induced him to lend him money. Did the anger, or revengefulness, or whatever we may call the passion, consist in the act of lending the money? I hardly think it necessary to multiply instances in illustration of the fact that the same act is often associated with the most contradictory emotions, and acts which are ordinarily indifferent with the most intense feeling; that, in fact, there is no such uniformity in the associations of emotion with voluntary conduct as the hypothesis would seem to require. I incline to think that most people will believe, in the cases cited by Professor James, that the running and the striking are the results, not the causes of the fear and anger.

If we assume such to be the case, we are no better off under the hypothesis we are considering. Excluding voluntary movements, there is nothing left of the emotion, according to Professor James, but the consciousness of involuntary, reflex acts resulting from perception. The voluntary acts must, then, be directly caused by these. Now, in the first place, it is often difficult, if not impossible, to tell what these actions are. What are the involuntary muscular contractions that impel a day-laborer to go to the place of his work, and keep his voluntary muscular system in strenuous activity all day, enduring fatigue and all the discomforts of the summer’s heat or winter’s cold? It would probably puzzle him very much to tell, although he has a very clear idea of why he does it. I doubt if, on his own hypothesis, Professor James himself would find it easy to explain the constituents of the emotions which impel him to go to the class-room at the appointed hour and conduct a recitation. But even in cases in which we are distinctly conscious of involuntary action, there seems to be no connection between it and the voluntary acts accompanying the emotion. In the case of the man running from the bear, for instance, trembling lips, weakened limbs, goose-flesh and visceral stirrings have nothing to do with running, but, on the contrary, would rather tend to prevent it. In fact, it may be said, in general, that the two classes of emotional activities are mutually antagonistic. The more involuntary the action, the less efficient the voluntary activity is apt to be, as any one knows who has had an attack of the “buck ague.” We should have, therefore, diminution of the effect with increase of the cause.

It seems, then, on the hypothesis, impracticable to account for the association of voluntary action with emotion either on the supposition that the former is the cause or the result of the latter. A third alternative—that there is no relation of cause and effect in the case, and that the phenomena of emotion and action, although constantly associated, are really independent, I will not discuss, as it does not commend itself to my mind, and Professor James, elsewhere, expressly repudiates it. It seems to me that the only reasonable conclusion is that emotion is something different from either involuntary or voluntary muscular activity, and which may be the cause of either or both.

Professor James, after admitting that the view of the subject which he advocates is only a hypothesis, and that much is lacking to its definitive proof, goes on to say:

“The only way coercively to _dis_prove it, however, would be to take some emotion and then exhibit qualities of feeling in it which should be _demonstrably_ additional to all those which could possibly be derived from the organs affected at the time. But to detect with certainty such purely spiritual qualities of feeling would obviously be a task beyond human power....

“A positive proof of the theory would, on the other hand, be given, if we could find a subject absolutely anæsthetic inside and out, but not paralytic, so that emotion-inspiring objects might evoke the usual bodily expressions from him, but who, on being consulted, should say that no subjective emotional affection was felt. Such a man would be like one who, because he eats, appears to bystanders to be hungry, but who afterwards confesses that he had no appetite at all.” (P. 455.)

Whether the truth of the first of the above paragraphs is to be conceded or not, depends, I suppose, on the strength of proof necessary for coercion. The only way, for instance, coercively to disprove the once prevalent theory that “lunacy” is due to the influence of the moon would be to abolish the moon. Most intelligent people, however, at the present day, accept the fact that there seems to be no coincidence between the moon’s phases and the phenomena of insanity as sufficient proof for practical purposes of the incorrectness of that theory. It seems to me that the facts to which I have called attention show a somewhat similar lack of correspondence in the case we have been considering. I am, however, unable to see why a case of complete anæsthesia, such as is supposed in the second paragraph, would not answer nearly as well for one side of the question as the other, according to the presence or absence of emotion. To suppose that cutaneous and visceral sensations are preserved unimpaired for purposes of emotion, while absolutely abolished for all other purposes, would be putting a pretty severe strain on the faculty of belief.

Such cases, as Professor James says, are hard to find. He refers to one, reported by Strümpell, in which a boy, anæsthetic within and without, with the exception of one eye and one ear, was stated to have manifested shame, grief, surprise, fear, and anger. He goes on, however, to say: “In observing him, however, no such theory as the present one seems to have been thought of; and it always remains possible that, just as he satisfied his natural appetites and necessities in cold blood, with no inward feeling, so his emotional expressions may have been accompanied by a quite cold heart.”

Since Professor James’s work was published, two cases have been reported by Berkley,[57] which, although not, perhaps, conclusive, are of interest in this connection. In the first, the patient, a woman of English birth, age not stated, had complete loss of sense of pain, heat and cold, pressure and equilibrium, of smell, taste, and sight. The sense of touch, although not completely abolished, was very greatly impaired. She recognised a hat, for instance, only after feeling of it for a long time and then seemed doubtful about it. Her sense of the position of the extremities was also very imperfect, although not entirely abolished; and there was some deafness, although not enough to render her incapable of conversation. With regard to her mental state, Dr. Berkley says:

“The psychical condition has undergone but slight change, she is possibly a little apathetic, with some slight tendency towards a melancholic tone, but when aroused and induced to converse for some time, this in great measure passes away. The memory is quite good.”

Dr. Berkley was kind enough to give me the following additional information about this patient, who, at the time of writing, was still under observation:

“Since the coming on of the dullness in hearing there has been a considerable degree of apathy manifest. She is no longer conscious of the smaller noises that occur around her, but is very readily aroused by the voice, and then takes a lively interest in what is said to her: for instance a few days ago the resident physician remarked to her that he was going to obtain a pair of crutches for her use; she laughed heartily at the idea, and said she would fall and break her leg at the first step.”

In response to further inquiries, he writes as follows:

“1) Visceral sensations. The clearest evidence of visceral sensation I have noted in my article,” [warning of the necessity of evacuating the bowels and bladder by a pricking pain in the lower part of the abdomen,] “no others were sufficiently definite to be described. For two years there has been no feeling of hunger or thirst, and as the diet has only been a few mouthfuls of milk at a time for nearly that period, there has been no feeling of repletion.

“2) When the patient laughs at a joke, there is a slight flushing of the face, besides the ordinary contraction of the facial muscles; she is aware that she is laughing, but besides acknowledging that she perceives no difference between the act now, and some years ago, she is unable to describe the sensation further.

“3) Anger. As I think I mentioned in my last letter, the patient has been a person of unusually equal temper; an outbreak of real passion has never been observed with her. When annoyed or teased by some of the other women, there is a distinct corrugation of the forehead, accompanied by an exceedingly slight general movement as if of aversion, no words, movement of the chest, clenching of the hands, etc. She describes the sensation as one of repulsion.

“Like Strümpell’s case she shows definitely shame, grief, surprise, fear, and substituting for anger, repulsion.

“My own impression derived from observation of the patient is, that all mental emotional sensibilities are present and only a little less vivid than in the unanæsthetic state; and that emotions are approximately natural, and not at all coldly dispassionate.”

In the second case, that of a Russian woman, aged thirty-five, there was complete loss of cutaneous sensibility in all its qualities: the sense of position (“muscular sense”) was almost completely abolished; the sense of taste was absent in the anterior two-thirds of the tongue. Smell, sight, and hearing were preserved. She had left the hospital before the article was written. In regard to her case, Dr. Berkley writes:

“While in the most absolute state of anæsthesia (auditory and visual excepted) there was no departure from a normal psyche; the woman would sometimes be angered when she did not understand a question, at others would smile or shake her head, and would frequently laugh and talk with another Russian woman in the same ward. There was never the slightest apathy manifest after the first few days of febrile movement.”

I give these cases for what they are worth. In the first, it is evidently impossible to entirely exclude the presence of sensations caused by the reflex acts, and the second, not having, apparently, been examined with special reference to the subjective side of her emotional manifestations, may be open to the same objection which Professor James makes against Strümpell’s case. To me it seems extremely unlikely that, if the theory under discussion is correct, such an amount of anæsthesia as existed in these cases would have produced no obvious effect on the emotions. The fact that voluntary acts were performed by both these patients as well as by Strümpell’s case, seems to me conclusive as to the existence of emotions of some sort in all of them.

It seems clear to me, from the foregoing considerations, that there are serious difficulties in the way of accepting Professor James’s theory as an adequate explanation of all the phenomena of emotion. On the other hand, I think it contains an important truth, and that, by calling attention to it, he has rendered a real service to psychology. In order to make it clear how far I agree with him, it will be necessary to consider just what feelings are to be classed together under the head of emotion.

If we touch our fingers to a live coal, we are conscious of a sensation of heat, and also of pain. If we take quinine into our mouths, it tastes bitter, and also disagreeable. So in regard to a very large proportion of our sensations, we recognise two elements—one which has to do with the qualities of the object, and, another consisting of the pleasurable or painful way in which those qualities affect us. The former may be called the objective element in sensation. We think of the heat as residing in the coal, whether we are touching it or not, but it never occurs to us to think of the coal as in pain. The pain is in us—an entirely subjective feeling. Doubtless there is no more reason to think of heat, as it is appreciated by our senses, as a property of the coal, than pain, but that is the way in which we naturally think of it. That these two elements are really distinct is evident from the fact that the different senses furnish them in different proportions. Comparatively few sights, for instance, give any such sensuous pain to the eye as the sensation produced by getting a grain of sand under the lid, which gives us very little information in regard to the qualities of the offending substance. In fact, it is generally true that intensity of pleasurable or painful sensation is a hindrance to exact knowledge of its object. It is further evident from the fact that, in disease, one form of sensibility may be abolished while the other is retained. A person may be able to feel the slightest touch, and to recognise perfectly the size, shape, and texture of the objects he handles, and yet feel no pain when cut, struck, nor burned, or he may have even heightened sensibility to painful impressions with loss of the power to recognise the sensible qualities of objects.

Now, although we are accustomed to distinguish between emotions and purely sensuous pleasures and pains, there are some points, at least, at which it is not easy to draw the line. My pleasure in the anticipation of a good dinner is undoubtedly an emotion. Is not my pleasure in eating it entitled to the same name, and does not the latter consist in the reality of the sensations which in the former case were enjoyed in imagination? Is not the enjoyment we feel in the smell of mignonette, the tone of a sweet voice, the color and form of the rainbow, emotion? Yet it consists largely, if not entirely, in the agreeableness of the sensations. Most people would probably think it strange to hear hunger and thirst spoken of as emotions but would readily agree that desire of food or drink is as much an emotion as any other desire. Is the desire in this case anything more than the hunger or thirst?

I am inclined to think that it is proper to call such pleasures and pains as I have instanced above emotions, and if so, I see no reason for denying the name to any sensuous pleasures and pains. If Professor James’s view is that all feeling is sensation, I should say that all feeling is emotion. Whether this view is correct or not, I do not see how Professor James can consistently refuse to accept it. On his theory, the emotions which he discusses must owe their pleasurable or painful quality to the pleasurable or painful nature of the sensations in which they consist. I can see no valid ground for saying that some such feelings are emotions and others are not. But the essence of emotion is pleasure or pain. Abstracting these qualities, it would be an indifferent emotion, which, I think all would agree, is a contradiction in terms. Possibly he might wish to limit the use of the term to those pleasurable and painful feelings, which arise not directly, but in a reflex way. He might say, for instance, that the disagreeableness to the ear of the creaking of an ungreased axle is not, but the shudder which it gives a sensitive person is, emotion. In that case, it must be admitted that a sneeze is emotion. His contention is that we have no other pleasures or pains than those of sensation. If this be true, a setting off of some sensations as emotions is, if not an arbitrary, a comparatively useless procedure.

My own view, then, is that the elements of sensation which I have spoken of as objective and subjective might, with equal propriety, be characterised respectively as intellectual and emotional, and that in this direction the theory under discussion, although true as far as it goes, does not go far enough.