McDougall reading

Section I The Mental Characters of Man of Primary Importance for His Life in Society Chapter II The Nature of Instincts and Their Place in the Constitution of the Human Mind The human mind has certain innate or inherited tendencies which are the essential springs or motive powers of all thought and action, whether individual or collective, and are the bases from which the character and will of individuals and of nations are gradually developed under the guidance of the intellectual faculties. These primary innate tendencies have different relative strengths in the native constitutions of the individuals of different races, and they are favoured or checked in very different degrees by the very different social circumstances of men in different stages of culture; but they are probably common to the men of every race and of every age. If this view, that human nature has everywhere and at all times this common native foundation, can be established, it will afford a much-needed basis for speculation on the history of the development of human societies and human institutions. For so long as it is possible to assume, as has often been done, that these innate tendencies of the human mind have varied greatly from age to age and from race to race, all such speculation is founded on quicksand and we cannot hope to reach views of a reasonable degree of certainty. The evidence that the native basis of the human mind, constituted by the sum of these innate tendencies, has this stable unchanging character is afforded by comparative psychology. For we find, not only that these tendencies, in stronger or weaker degree, are present in men of all An Introduction to Social Psychology/27 races now living on the earth, but that we may find all of them, or at least the germs of them, in most of the higher animals. Hence there can be little doubt that they played the same essential part in the minds of the primitive human stock, or stocks, and in the pre-human ancestors that bridged the great gap in the evolutionary series between man and the animal world. These all-important and relatively unchanging tendencies, which form the basis of human character and will, are of two main classes? (1) The specific tendencies or instincts; (2) The general or non-specific tendencies arising out of the constitution of mind and the nature of mental process in general, when mind and mental process attain a certain degree of complexity in the course of evolution. In the present and seven following chapters I propose to define the more important of these specific and general tendencies, and to sketch very briefly the way in which they become systematised in the course of character-formation; and in the second section of this volume some attempt will be made to illustrate the special importance of each one for the social life of man. Contemporary writers of all classes make frequent use of the words ?instinct? and ?instinctive,? but, with very few exceptions, they use them so loosely that they have almost spoilt them for scientific purposes. On the one hand, the adjective ?instinctive? is commonly applied to every human action that is performed without deliberate reflexion; on the other hand, the actions of animals are popularly attributed to instinct, and in this connexion instinct is vaguely conceived as a mysterious faculty, utterly different in nature from any human faculty, which Providence has given to the brutes because the higher faculty of reason has been denied them. Hundreds of passages might be quoted from contemporary authors, even some of considerable philosophical culture, to illustrate how these two words are used with a minimum of meaning, generally with the effect of disguising from the writer the obscurity and incoherence of his thought. The following examples will serve to illustrate at once this abuse and the hopeless laxity with which even cultured authors habitually make use of psychological terms. One philosophical writer on social topics tells us that the power of the State ?is dependent on the instinct of subordination, which is the outcome of the desire of the people, more or less distinctly conceived, for certain social ends?: another asserts that ancestor-worship has survived amongst the West28/ William McDougall ern peoples as a ?mere tradition and instinct?: a medical writer has recently asserted that if a drunkard is fed on fruit he will ?become instinctively a teetotaler?: a political writer tells us that ?the Russian people is rapidly acquiring a political instinct?: from a recent treatise on morals by a distinguished philosopher two passages, fair samples of a large number, may be taken; one describes the ?notion that blood demands blood? as an ?inveterate instinct of primitive humanity?; the other affirms that ?punishment originates in the instinct of vengeance?: another of our most distinguished philosophers asserts that ?popular instinct maintains? that ?there is a theory and a justification of social coercion latent in the term ?self-government.?? As our last illustration we may take the following passage from an avowedly psychological article in a recent number of the Spectator: ?The instinct of contradiction, like the instinct of acquiescence, is inborn.... These instincts are very deep-rooted and absolutely incorrigible, either from within or from without. Both springing as they do from a radical defect, from a want of original independence, they affect the whole mind and character.? These are favourable examples of current usage, and they justify the statement that these words ?instinct? and ?instinctive? are commonly used as a cloak for ignorance when a writer attempts to explain any individual or collective action that he fails, or has not tried, to under, stand. Yet there can be no understanding of the development of individual character or of individual and collective conduct unless the nature of instinct and its scope and function in the human mind are clearly and firmly grasped. It would be difficult to find any adequate mention of instincts in treatises on human psychology written before the middle of last century. But the work of Darwin and of Herbert Spencer has lifted to some extent the veil of mystery from the instincts of animals, and has made the problem of the relation of instinct to human intelligence and conduct one of the most widely discussed in recent years. Among professed psychologists there is now fair agreement as to the usage of the terms ?instinct? and ?instinctive.? By the great majority they are used only to denote certain innate specific tendencies of the mind that are common to all members of any one species, racial characters that have been slowly evolved in the process of adaptation of species to their environment and that can be neither eradicated from the mental constitution of which they are innate elements nor acquired by individuals in the course of their lifetime. A few writers, of whom Professor Wundt is the most prominent, apply the terms to the very strongly An Introduction to Social Psychology/29 fixed, acquired habits of action that are more commonly and properly described as secondarily automatic actions, as well as to the innate specific tendencies. The former usage seems in every way preferable and is adopted in these pages. But, even among those psychologists who use the terms in this stricter sense, there are still great differences of opinion as to the place of instinct in the human mind. All agree that man has been evolved from prehuman ancestors whose lives were dominated by instincts; but some hold that, as man?s intelligence and reasoning powers developed, his instincts atrophied, until now in civilised man instincts persist only as troublesome vestiges of his pre-human state, vestiges that are comparable to the vermiform appendix and which, like the latter, might with advantage be removed by the surgeon?s knife, if that were at all possible. Others assign them a more prominent place in the constitution of the human mind; for they see that intelligence, as it increased with the evolution of the higher animals and of man, did not supplant and so lead to the atrophy of the instincts, but rather controlled and modified their operation; and some, like G. H. Schneider6 and William James,7 maintain that man has at least as many instincts as any of the animals, and assign them a leading part in the determination of human conduct and mental process. This last view is now rapidly gaining ground; and this volume, I hope, may contribute in some slight degree to promote the recognition of the full scope and function of the human instincts; for this recognition will, I feel sure, appear to those who come after us as the most important advance made by psychology in our time. Instinctive actions are displayed in their purest form by animals not very high in the scale of intelligence. In the higher vertebrate animals few instinctive modes of behaviour remain purely instinctive?i.e., unmodified by intelligence and by habits acquired under the guidance of intelligence or by imitation. And even the human infant, whose intelligence remains but little developed for so many months after birth, performs few purely instinctive actions; because in the human being the instincts, although innate, are, with few exceptions, undeveloped in the first months of life, and only ripen, or become capable of functioning, at various periods throughout the years from infancy to puberty. Insect life affords perhaps the most striking examples of purely instinctive action. There are many instances of insects that invariably lay their eggs in the only places where the grubs, when hatched, will find the food they need and can eat, or where the larvae will be able to attach 30/William McDougall themselves as parasites to some host in a way that is necessary to their survival. In such cases it is clear that the behaviour of the parent is determined by the impressions made on its senses by the appropriate objects or places: e.g., the smell of decaying flesh leads the carrion-fly to deposit its eggs upon it; the sight or odour of some particular flower leads another to lay its eggs among the ovules of the flower, which serve as food to the grubs. Others go through more elaborate trains of action, as when the mason-wasp lays its eggs in a mud-nest, fills up the space with caterpillars, which it paralyses by means of well-directed stings, and seals it up; so that the caterpillars remain as a supply of fresh animal food for the young which the parent will never see and of whose needs it can have no knowledge or idea. Among the lower vertebrate animals also instinctive actions, hardly at all modified by intelligent control, are common. The young chick runs to his mother in response to a call of peculiar quality and nestles beneath her; the young squirrel brought up in lonely captivity, when nuts are given him for the first time, opens and eats some and buries others with all the movements characteristic of his species; the kitten in the presence of a dog or a mouse assumes the characteristic feline attitudes and behaves as all his fellows of countless generations have behaved. Even so intelligent an animal as the domesticated dog behaves on some occasions in a purely instinctive fashion; when, for example, a terrier comes across the trail of a rabbit, his hunting instinct is immediately aroused by the scent; he becomes blind and deaf to all other impressions as he follows the trail, and then, when he sights his quarry, breaks out into the yapping which is peculiar to occasions of this kind. His wild ancestors hunted in packs, and, under those conditions, the characteristic bark emitted on sighting the quarry served to bring his fellows to his aid; but when the domesticated terrier hunts alone, his excited yapping can but facilitate the escape of his quarry; yet the old social instinct operates too powerfully to be controlled by his moderate intelligence. These few instances of purely instinctive behaviour illustrate clearly its nature. In the typical case some sense-impression, or combination of sense-impressions, excites some perfectly definite behaviour, some movement or train of movements which is the same in all individuals of the species and on all similar occasions; and in general the behaviour so occasioned is of a kind either to promote the welfare of the individual animal or of the community to which he belongs, or to secure the perAn Introduction to Social Psychology/31 petuation of the species.8 In treating of the instincts of animals, writers have usually described them as innate tendencies to certain kinds of action, and Herbert Spencer?s widely accepted definition of instinctive action as compound reflex action takes account only of the behaviour or movements to which instincts give rise. But instincts are more than innate tendencies or dispositions to certain kinds of movement. There is every reason to believe that even the most purely instinctive action is the outcome of a distinctly mental process, one which is incapable of being described in purely mechanical terms, because it is a psycho-physical process, involving psychical as well as physical changes, and one which, like every other mental process, has, and can only be fully described in terms of, the three aspects of all mental process?the cognitive, the affective, and the conative aspects; that is to say, every instance of instinctive behaviour involves a knowing of some thing or object, a feeling in regard to it, and a striving towards or away from that object. We cannot, of course, directly observe the threefold psychical aspect of the psycho-physical process that issues in instinctive behaviour; but we are amply justified in assuming that it invariably accompanies the process in the nervous system of which the instinctive movements are the immediate result, a process which, being initiated on stimulation of some sense organ by the physical impressions received from the object, travels up the sensory nerves, traverses the brain, and descends as an orderly or co-ordinated stream of nervous impulses along efferent nerves to the appropriate groups of muscles and other executive organs. We are justified in assuming the cognitive aspect of the psychical process, because the nervous excitation seems to traverse those parts of the brain whose excitement involves the production of sensations or changes in the sensory content of consciousness; we are justified in assuming the affective aspect of the psychical process, because the creature exhibits unmistakable symptoms of feeling and emotional excitement; and, especially, we are justified in assuming the conative aspect of the psychical process, because all instinctive behaviour exhibits that unique mark of mental process, a persistent striving towards the natural end of the process. That is to say, the process, unlike any merely mechanical process, is not to be arrested by any sufficient mechanical obstacle, but is rather intensified by any such obstacle and only comes to an end either when its appropriate goal is achieved, or when some stronger incompatible tendency is excited, or when the creature is exhausted by its persistent 32/William McDougall efforts. Now, the psycho-physical process that issues in an instinctive action is initiated by a sense- impression which, usually, is but one of many sense-impressions received at the same time; and the fact that this one impression plays an altogether dominant part in determining the animal?s behaviour shows that its effects are peculiarly favoured, that the nervous system is peculiarly fitted to receive and to respond to just that kind of impression. The impression must be supposed to excite, not merely detailed changes in the animal?s field of sensation, but a sensation or complex of sensations that has significance or meaning for the animal; hence we must regard the instinctive process in its cognitive aspect as distinctly of the nature of perception, however rudimentary. In the animals most nearly allied to ourselves we can, in many instances of instinctive behaviour, clearly recognise the symptoms of some particular kind of emotion such as fear, anger, or tender feeling; and the same symptoms always accompany any one kind of instinctive behaviour, as when the cat assumes the defensive attitude, the dog resents the intrusion of a strange dog, or the hen tenderly gathers her brood beneath her wings. We seem justified in believing that each kind of instinctive behaviour is always attended by some such emotional excitement, however faint, which in each case is specific or peculiar to that kind of behaviour. Analogy with our own experience justifies us, also, in assuming that the persistent striving towards its end, which characterises mental process and distinguishes instinctive behaviour most clearly from mere reflex action, implies some such mode of experience as we call conative, the kind of experience which in its more developed forms is properly called desire or aversion, but which, in the blind form in which we sometimes have it and which is its usual form among the animals, is a mere impulse, or craving, or uneasy sense of want Further, we seem justified in believing that the continued obstruction of instinctive striving is always accompanied by painful feeling, its successful progress towards its end by pleasurable feeling, and the achievement of its end by a pleasurable sense of satisfaction. An instinctive action, then, must not be regarded as simple or compound reflex action if by reflex action we mean, as is usually meant, a movement caused by a sense-stimulus and resulting from a sequence of merely physical processes in some nervous arc. Nevertheless, just as a reflex action implies the presence in the nervous system of the reflex nervous arc, so the instinctive action also implies some enduring nerAn Introduction to Social Psychology/33 vous basis whose organisation is inherited, an innate or inherited psychophysical disposition, which, anatomically regarded, probably has the form of a compound system of sensori-motor arcs. We may, then; define an instinct as an inherited or innate psychophysical disposition which determines its possessor to perceive, and to pay attention to, objects of a certain class, to experience an emotional excitement of a particular quality upon perceiving such an object, and to act in regard to it in a particular manner, or, at least, to experience an impulse to such action. It must further be noted that some instincts remain inexcitable except during the prevalence of some temporary bodily state, such as hunger. In these cases we must suppose that the bodily process or state determines the stimulation of sense-organs within the body, and that nervous currents ascending from these to the psycho-physical disposition maintain it in an excitable condition.9 The behaviour of some of the lower animals seems to be almost completely determined throughout their lives by instincts modified but very little by experience; they perceive, feel, and act in a perfectly definite and invariable manner whenever a given instinct is excited? i.e., whenever the presence of the appropriate object coincides with the appropriate organic state of the creature. The highest degree of complexity of mental process attained by such creatures is a struggle between two opposed Instinctive tendencies simultaneously excited. Such behaviour is relatively easy to understand in the light of the conception of instincts as innate psycho-physical dispositions. While it is doubtful whether the behaviour of any animal is wholly determined by instincts quite unmodified by experience, it is clear that all the higher animals learn in various and often considerable degrees to adapt their instinctive actions to peculiar circumstances; and in the long course of the development of each human mind, immensely greater complications of the instinctive processes are brought about, complications so great that they have obscured until recent years the essential likeness of the instinctive processes in men and animals. These complications of instinctive processes are of four principal kinds, which we may distinguish as follows:? (1) The instinctive reactions become capable of being initiated, not only by the perception of objects of the kind which directly excite the innate disposition, the natural or native excitants of the instinct, but also by ideas of such objects, and by perceptions and by ideas of objects of 34/William McDougall other kinds: (2) the bodily movements in which the instinct finds expression may be modified and complicated to an indefinitely great degree: (3) owing to the complexity of the ideas which can bring the human instincts into play, it frequently happens that several instincts are simultaneously excited; when the several processes blend with various degrees of intimacy: (4) the instinctive tendencies become more or less systematically organised about certain objects or ideas. The full consideration of the first two modes of complication of instinctive behaviour would lead us too far into the psychology of the intellectual processes, to which most of the textbooks of psychology are mainly devoted. It must suffice merely to indicate in the present chapter a few points of prime importance in this connection. The third and fourth complications will be dealt with at greater length in the following chapters, for they stand in much need of elucidation. In order to understand these complications of instinctive behaviour we must submit the conception of an instinct to a more minute analysis. It was said above that every instinctive process has the three aspects of all mental process, the cognitive, the affective, and the conative. Now, the innate psycho-physical disposition, which is an instinct, may be regarded as consisting of three corresponding parts, an afferent, a central, and a motor or efferent part, whose activities are the cognitive, the affective, and the conative features respectively of the total instinctive process. The afferent or receptive part of the total disposition is some organised group of nervous elements or neurones that is specially adapted to receive and to elaborate the impulses initiated in the sense-organ by the native object of the instinct; its constitution and activities determine the sensory content of the psycho-physical process. From the afferent part the excitement spreads over to the central part of the disposition; the constitution of this part determines in the main the distribution of the nervous impulses, especially of the impulses that descend to modify the working of the visceral organs, the heart, lungs, blood-vessels, glands, and so forth, in the manner required for the most effective execution of the instinctive action; the nervous activities of this central part are the correlates of the affective or emotional aspect or feature of the total psychical process.10 The excitement of the efferent or motor part reaches it by way of the central part; its constitution determines the distribution of impulses to the muscles of the skeletal system by which the instincAn Introduction to Social Psychology/35 tive action is effected, and its nervous activities are the correlates of the conative element of the psychical process, of the felt impulse to action. Now, the afferent or receptive part and the efferent or motor part are capable of being greatly modified, independently of one another and of the central part, in the course of the life history of the individual; while the central part persists throughout life as the essential unchanging nucleus of the disposition. Hence in man, whose intelligence and adaptability are so great, the afferent and efferent parts of each instinctive disposition are liable to many modifications, while the central part alone remains unmodified: that is to say, the cognitive processes through which any instinctive process may be initiated exhibit a great complication and variety; and the actual bodily movements by which the instinctive process achieves its end may be complicated to an indefinitely great extent; while the emotional excitement, with the accompanying nervous activities of the central part of the disposition, is the only part of the total instinctive process that retains its specific character and remains common to all individuals and all situations in which the instinct is excited. It is for this reason that authors have commonly treated of the instinctive actions of animals on the one hand, and of the emotions of men on the other hand, as distinct types of mental process, failing to see that each kind of emotional excitement is always an indication of, and the most constant feature of, some instinctive process. Let us now consider very briefly the principal ways in which the instinctive disposition may be modified on its afferent or receptive side; and let us take, for the sake of clearness of exposition, the case of a particular instinct, namely the instinct of fear or flight, which is one of the strongest and most widely distributed instincts throughout the animal kingdom. In man and in most animals this instinct is capable of being excited by any sudden loud noise, independently of all experience of danger or harm associated with such noises. We must suppose, then, that the afferent inlet, or one of the afferent inlets, of this innate disposition consists in a system of auditory neurones connected by sensory nerves with the ear This afferent inlet to this innate disposition is but little specialised, since it may be excited by any loud noise. One change it may undergo through experience is specialisation; on repeated experience of noises of certain kinds that are never accompanied or followed by hurtful effects, most creatures will learn to neglect them;11 their instinct of flight is no longer excited by them; they learn, that is to say, to discriminate between these and other noises; this implies that the per36/ William McDougall ceptual disposition, the afferent inlet of the instinct, has become further specialised. More important is the other principal mode in which the instinct may be modified on its afferent or cognitive side. Consider the case of the birds on an uninhabited island, which show no fear of men on their first appearance on the island. The absence of fear at the sight of man implies, not that the birds have no instinct of fear, but that the instinct has no afferent inlet specialised for the reception of the retinal impression made by the human form. But the men employ themselves in shooting, and very soon the sight of a man excites the instinct of fear in the birds, and they take to flight at his approach. How are we to interpret this change of instinctive behaviour brought about by experience? Shall we say that the birds observe on one occasion, or on several or many occasions, that on the approach of a man one of their number falls to the ground, uttering cries of pain; that they infer that the man has wounded it, and that he may wound and hurt them, and that he is therefore to be avoided in the future? No psychologist would now accept this anthropomorphic interpretation of the facts. If the behaviour we are considering were that of savage men, or even of a community of philosophers and logicians, such an account would err in ascribing the change of behaviour to a purely intellectual process. Shall we, then, say that the sudden loud sound of the gun excites the instinct of fear, and that, because the perception of this sound is constantly accompanied by the visual perception of the human form, the idea of the latter becomes associated with the idea of the sound, so that thereafter the sight of a man reproduces the idea of the sound of the gun, and hence leads to the excitement of the instinct by way of its innately organised afferent inlet, the system of auditory neurones? This would be much nearer the truth than the former account; some such interpretation of facts of this order has been offered by many psychologists and very generally accepted.12 Its acceptance involves the attribution of free ideas, of the power of representation of objects independently of sense- presentation, to whatever animals display this kind of modification of instinctive behaviour by experience? that is to say, to all the animals save the lowest; and there are good reasons for believing that only man and the higher animals have this power. We are therefore driven to look for a still simpler interpretation of the facts, and such a one is not far to seek. We may suppose that, since the visual presentation of the human form repeatedly accompanies the excitement of the instinct of fear by the sound of the gun, it acquires An Introduction to Social Psychology/37 the power of exciting directly the reactions characteristic of this instinct, rather than indirectly by way of the reproduction of the idea of the sound; i.e., we may suppose that, after repetition of the experience, the sight of a man directly excites the instinctive process in its affective and conative aspects only; or we may say, in physiological terms, that the visual disposition concerned in the elaboration of the retinal impression of the human form becomes directly connected or associated with the central and efferent parts of the instinctive disposition, which thus acquires, through the repetition of this experience, a new afferent inlet through which it may henceforth be excited independently of its innate afferent inlet. There is, I think, good reason to believe that this third interpretation is much nearer the truth than the other two considered above. In the first place, the assumption of such relative independence of the afferent part of an instinctive disposition as is implied by this interpretation is justified by the fact that many instincts may be excited by very different objects affecting different senses, prior to all experience of such objects. The instinct of fear is the most notable in this respect, for in many animals it may be excited by certain special impressions of sight, of smell, and of hearing, as well as by all loud noises (perhaps also by any painful sense-impression), all of which impressions evoke the emotional expressions and the bodily movements characteristic of the instinct. Hence, we may infer that such an instinct has several innately organised afferent inlets, through each of which its central and efferent parts may be excited without its other afferent inlets being involved in the excitement. But the best evidence in favour of the third interpretation is that which we may obtain by introspective observation of our own emotional states. Through injuries received we may learn to fear, or to be angered by, the presence of a person or animal or thing towards which we were at first indifferent; and we may then experience the emotional excitement and the impulse to the appropriate movements of flight or aggression, without recalling the nature and occasion of the injuries we have formerly suffered; i.e., although the idea of the former injury may be reproduced by the perception, or by the idea, of the person, animal, or thing from which it was received, yet the reproduction of this idea is not an essential step in the process of re-excitement of the instinctive reaction in its affective and conative aspects; for the visual impression made by the person or thing leads directly to the excitement of the central and efferent parts of the innate disposition. In this way our emo38/ William McDougall tional and conative tendencies become directly associated by experience with many objects to which we are natively indifferent; and not only do we not necessarily recall the experience through which the association was set up, but in many such cases we cannot do so by any effort of recollection.13 Such acquisition of new perceptual inlets by instinctive dispositions, in accordance with the principle of association in virtue of temporal contiguity, seems to occur abundantly among all the higher animals and to be the principal mode in which they profit by experience and learn to adapt their behaviour to a greater variety of the objects of their environment than is provided for by their purely innate dispositions. In man it occurs still more abundantly, and in his case the further complication ensues that each sense-presentation that thus becomes capable of arousing some emotional and conative disposition may be represented, or reproduced in idea; and, since the representation, having in the main the same neural basis as the sense-presentation, induces equally well the same emotional and conative excitement, and since it may be brought to mind by any one of the intellectual processes, ranging from simple associative reproduction to the most subtle processes of judgment and inference, the ways in which any one instinctive disposition of a developed human mind may be excited are indefinitely various. There is a second principal mode in which objects other than the native objects of an instinct may lead to the excitement of its central and efferent parts. This is similar to the mode of reproduction of ideas known as the reproduction by similars; a thing, or sense-impression, more or less like the specific excitant of an instinct, but really of a different class, excites the instinct in virtue of those features in which it resembles the specific object. As a very simple instance of this, we may take the case of a horse shying at an old coat left lying by the roadside. The shying is, no doubt, due to the excitement of an instinct whose function is to secure a quick retreat from any crouching beast of prey, and the coat sufficiently resembles such a crouching form to excite the instinct. This example illustrates the operation of this principle in the crudest fashion. In the human mind it works in a much more subtle and widereaching fashion. Very delicate resemblances of form and relation between two objects may suffice to render one of them capable of exciting the emotion and the impulse which are the appropriate instinctive response to the presentation of the other object; and, in order that this shall occur, it is not necessary that the individual shall become explicAn Introduction to Social Psychology/39 itly aware of the resemblance between the two objects, nor even that the idea of the second object shall be brought to his consciousness; though this, no doubt, occurs in many cases. The wide scope of this principle in the human mind is due, not merely to the subtler operation of resemblances, but also to the fact that through the working of the principle of temporal contiguity, discussed on the foregoing page, the number of objects capable of directly exciting any instinct becomes very considerable, and each such object then serves as a basis for the operation of the principle of resemblance; that is to say, each object that in virtue of temporal contiguity acquires the power of exciting the central and efferent parts of an instinct renders possible the production of the same effect by a number of objects more or less resembling it. The conjoint operation of the two principles may be illustrated by a simple example: a child is terrified upon one occasion by the violent behaviour of a man of a peculiar cast of countenance or of some special fashion of dress; thereafter not only does the perception or idea of this man excite fear, but any man resembling him in face or costume may do so without the idea of the original occasion of fear, or of the terrifying individual, recurring to consciousness. As regards the modification of the bodily movements by means of which an instinctive mental process achieves,14 or strives to achieve, its end, man excels the animals even to a greater degree than as regards the modification of the cognitive part of the process. For the animals acquire and use hardly any movement-complexes that are not natively given in their instinctive dispositions and in the reflex co-ordinations of their spinal cords. This is true of even so intelligent an animal as the domestic dog. Many of the higher animals may by long training be taught to acquire a few movement-complexes?a dog to walk on its hind legs, or a cat to sit up; but the wonder with which we gaze at a circus-horse standing on a tub, or at a dog dancing on hind legs, shows how strictly limited to the natively given combinations of movements all the animals normally are. In the human being, on the other hand, a few only of the simpler instincts that ripen soon after birth are displayed in movements determined purely by the innate dispositions; such are the instincts of sucking, of wailing, of crawling, of winking and shrinking before a coming blow. Most of the human instincts ripen at relatively late periods in the course of individual development, when considerable power of intelligent control and imitation of movement has been acquired; hence the 40/William McDougall motor tendencies of these instincts are seldom manifested in their purely native forms, but are from the first modified, controlled, and suppressed in various degrees. This is the case more especially with the large movements of trunk and limbs; while the subsidiary movements, those which Darwin called serviceable associated movements, such as those due to contractions of the facial muscles, are less habitually controlled, save by men of certain races and countries among whom control of facial movement is prescribed by custom. An illustration may indicate the main principle involved: One may have learnt to suppress more or less completely the bodily movements in which the excitement of the instinct of pugnacity naturally finds vent; or by a study of pugilism one may have learnt to render these movements more finely adapted to secure the end of the instinct; or one may have learnt to replace them by the habitual use of weapons, so that the hand flies to the sword-hilt or to the hip-pocket, instead of being raised to strike, whenever this instinct is excited. But one exercises but little, if any, control over the violent beating of the heart, the flushing of the face, the deepened respiration, and the general redistribution of blood-supply and nervous tension which constitute the visceral expression of the excitement of this instinct and which are determined by the constitution of its central affective part. Hence in the human adult, while this instinct may be excited by objects and situations that are not provided for in the innate disposition, and may express itself in bodily movements which also are not natively determined, or may fail to find expression in any such movements owing to strong volitional control, its unmodified central part will produce visceral changes, with the accompanying emotional state of consciousness, in accordance with its unmodified native constitution; and these visceral changes will usually be accompanied by the innately determined facial expression in however slight a degree; hence result the characteristic expressions or symptoms of the emotion of anger which, as regards their main features, are common to all men of all times and all races. All the principal instincts of man are liable to similar modifications of their afferent and motor parts, while their central parts remain unchanged and determine the emotional tone of consciousness and the visceral changes characteristic of the excitement of the instinct. It must be added that the conative aspect of the psychical process always retains the unique quality of an impulse to activity, even though the instinctive activity has been modified by habitual control; and this felt impulse, when it becomes conscious of its end, assumes the characAn Introduction to Social Psychology/41 ter of an explicit desire or aversion. Are, then, these instinctive impulses the only motive powers of the human mind to thought and action? What of pleasure and pain, which by so many of the older psychologists were held to be the only motives of human activity, the only objects or sources of desire and aversion? In answer to the former question, it must be said that in the developed human mind there are springs of action of another class, namely, acquired habits of thought and action. An acquired mode of activity becomes by repetition habitual, and the more frequently it is repeated the more powerful becomes the habit as a source of impulse or motive power. Few habits can equal in this respect the principal instincts; and habits are in a sense derived from, and secondary to, instincts; for, in the absence of instincts, no thought and no action could ever be achieved or repeated, and so no habits of thought or action could be formed. Habits are formed only in the service of the instincts. The answer to the second question is that pleasure and pain are not in themselves springs of action, but at the most of undirected movements; they serve rather to modify instinctive processes, pleasure tending to sustain and prolong any mode of action, pain to cut it short; under their prompting and guidance are effected those modifications and adaptations of the instinctive bodily movements which we have briefly considered above.15 We may say, then, that directly or indirectly the instincts are the prime movers of all human activity; by the conative or impulsive force of some instinct (or of some habit derived from an instinct), every train of thought, however cold and passionless it may seem, is borne along towards its end, and every bodily activity is initiated and sustained. The instinctive impulses determine the ends of all activities and supply the driving power by which all mental activities are sustained; and all the complex intellectual apparatus of the most highly developed mind is but a means towards these ends, is but the instrument by which these impulses seek their satisfactions, while pleasure and pain do but serve to guide them in their choice of the means. Take away these instinctive dispositions with their powerful impulses, and the organism would become incapable of activity of any kind; it would lie inert and motionless like a wonderful clockwork whose mainspring had been removed or a steam-engine whose fires had been drawn. These impulses are the mental forces that maintain and shape all the life of individuals and societies, and in them we are confronted with 42/William McDougall the central mystery of life and mind and will. The following chapters, I hope, will render clearer, and will give some support to, the views briefly and somewhat dogmatically stated in the present chapter.16 Chapter III The Principal Instincts and the Primary Emotions of Man Before we can make any solid progress in the understanding of the complex emotions and impulses that are the forces underlying the thoughts and actions of men and of societies, we must be able to distinguish and describe each of the principal human instincts and the emotional and conative tendencies characteristic of each one of them. This task will be attempted in the present chapter; in Chapter V. we shall seek to analyse some of the principal complex emotions and impulses, to display them as compounded from the limited number of primary or simple instinctive tendencies;17 and in the succeeding chapters of this section we shall consider the way in which these tendencies become organised within the complex dispositions that constitute the sentiments. In the foregoing chapter it was said that the instinctive mental process that results from the excitement of any instinct has always an affective aspect, the nature of which depends upon the constitution of that most stable and unchanging of the three parts of the instinctive disposition, namely the central part. In the case of the simpler instincts, this affective aspect of the instinctive process is not prominent; and though, no doubt, the quality of it is peculiar in each case, yet we cannot readily distinguish these qualities and we have no special names for them. But, in the case of the principal powerful instincts, the affective quality of each instinctive process and the sum of visceral and bodily changes in which it expresses itself are peculiar and distinct; hence language provides special names for such modes of affective experience, names such as anger, fear, curiosity; and the generic name for them is ?emotion.? The word ?emotion? is used of course in popular speech loosely and somewhat vaguely, and psychologists are not yet completely consistent in their use of it. But all psychological terms that are taken from common speech have to undergo a certain specialisation and more rigid definition before they are fit for scientific use; and in using the word ?emoAn Introduction to Social Psychology/43 tion? in the restricted sense which is indicated above, and which will be rigidly adhered to throughout these pages, I am but carrying to its logical conclusion a tendency displayed by the majority of recent English writers on psychology. Each of the principal instincts conditions, then, some one kind of emotional excitement whose quality is specific or peculiar to it; and the emotional excitement of specific quality that is the affective aspect of the operation of any one of the principal instincts may be called a primary emotion. This principle, which was enunciated in my little work on physiological psychology, proves to be of very great value when we seek to analyse the complex emotions into their primary constituents. Several writers have come very near to the recognition of this principle, but few or none of them have stated it clearly and explicitly, and, what is more important, they have not systematically applied it in any thoroughgoing manner as the guiding principle on which we must chiefly rely in seeking to define the primary emotions and to unravel the complexities of our concrete emotional experiences.18 In adapting to scientific use a word from popular speech, it is inevitable that some violence should be done to common usage; and, in adopting this rigid definition of emotion, we shall have to do such violence in refusing to admit joy, sorrow, and surprise (which are often regarded, even by writers on psychology, as the very types of emotions) to our list whether of simple and primary or of complex emotions. Some arguments in justification of this exclusion will be adduced later. At this stage I will only point out that joy and sorrow are not emotional states that can be experienced independently of the true emotions, that in every case they are qualifications of the emotions they accompany, and that in strictness we ought rather to speak always of a joyful or sorrowful emotion? e.g.t a joyful wonder or gratitude, a sorrowful anger or pity. In considering the claim of any human emotion or impulse to rank as a primary emotion or simple instinctive impulse, we shall find two principles of great assistance. First, if a similar emotion and impulse are clearly displayed in the instinctive activities of the higher animals, that fact will afford a strong presumption that the emotion and impulse in question are primary and simple; on the other hand, if no such instinctive activity occurs among the higher animals, we must suspect the affective state in question of being either a complex composite emotion or no true emotion. Secondly, we must inquire in each case whether the emotion and impulse in question occasionally appear in human beings 44/William McDougall with morbidly exaggerated intensity, apart from such general hyperexcitability as is displayed in mania. For it would seem that each instinctive disposition, being a relatively independent functional unit in the constitution of the mind, is capable of morbid hypertrophy or of becoming abnormally excitable, independently of the rest of the mental dispositions and functions. That is to say, we must look to comparative psychology and to mental pathology for confirmation of the primary character of those of our emotions that appear to be simple and unanalysable.19 The Instinct of Flight and the Emotion of Fear The instinct to flee from danger is necessary for the survival of almost all species of animals, and in most of the higher animals the instinct is one of the most powerful. Upon its excitement the locomotory apparatus is impelled to its utmost exertions, and sometimes the intensity and long duration of these exertions is more than the visceral organs can support, so that they are terminated by utter exhaustion or death. Men also have been known to achieve extraordinary feats of running and leaping under this impulse; there is a well-known story of a great athlete who, when pursued as a boy by a savage animal, leaped over a wall which he could not again ?clear? until he attained his full stature and strength. These locomotory activities are accompanied by a characteristic complex of symptoms, which in its main features is common to man and to many of the higher animals, and which, in conjunction with the violent efforts to escape, constitutes so unmistakable an expression of the emotion of fear that no one hesitates to interpret it as such; hence popular speech recognises the connection of the emotion with the instinct that determines the movements of flight in giving them the one name fear. Terror, die most intense degree of this emotion, may involve so great a nervous disturbance, both in men and animals, as to defeat the ends of the instinct by inducing general convulsions or even death. In certain cases of mental disease the patient?s disorder seems to consist essentially in an abnormal excitability of this instinct and a consequent undue frequency and intensity of its operation; the patient lives perpetually in fear, shrinking in terror from the most harmless animal or at the least unusual sound, and surrounds himself with safeguards against impossible dangers. In most animals this instinct may be excited by a variety of objects and sense-impressions prior to all experience of hurt or danger; that is An Introduction to Social Psychology/45 to say, the innate disposition has several afferent inlets. In some of the more timid creatures it would seem that every unfamiliar sound or sight is capable of exciting it.20 In civilised man, whose life for so many generations has been more or less sheltered from the dangers peculiar to the natural state, the instinct exhibits (like all complex organs and functions that are not kept true to the specific type by rigid selection) considerable individual differences, especially on its receptive side. Hence it is difficult to discover what objects and impressions were its natural excitants in primitive man. The wail of the very young infant has but little variety; but mothers claim to be able to distinguish the cries of fear, of anger, and of bodily discomfort, at a very early age, and it is probable that these three modes of reaction become gradually differentiated from a single instinctive impulse, that of the cry, whose function is merely to signal to the mother the need for her ministrations. In most young children unmistakable fear is provoked by any sudden loud noise (some being especially sensitive to harsh deep-pitched noises even though of low intensity), and all through life such noise remains for many of us the surest and most frequent excitant of the instinct. Other children, while still in arms, show fear if held too loosely when carried downstairs, or if the arms that hold them are suddenly lowered. In some, intense fear is excited on their first introduction at close quarters to a dog or cat, no matter how quiet and well- behaved the animal may be; and some of us continue all through life to experience a little thrill of fear whenever a dog runs out and barks at our heels, though we may never have received any hurt from an animal and may have perfect confidence that no hurt is likely to be done us.21 In other persons, again, fear is excited by the noise of a high wind, and though they may be in a solidly built house that has weathered a hundred storms, they will walk restlessly to and fro throughout every stormy night. In most animals instinctive flight is followed by equally instinctive concealment as soon as cover is reached, and there can be little doubt that in primitive man the instinct had this double tendency. As soon as the little child can run, his fear expresses itself in concealment following on flight; and the many adult persons who seek refuge from the strange noises of dark nights, or from a thunderstorm, by covering their heads with the bed-clothes, and who find a quite irrational comfort in so doing, illustrate the persistence of this tendency. It is, perhaps, in the opposed characters of these two tendencies, both of which are bound up 46/William McDougall with the emotion of fear, that we may find an explanation of the great variety of, and variability of, the symptoms of fear. The sudden stopping of heart-beat and respiration, and the paralysis of movement in which it sometimes finds expression, are due to the impulse to concealment; the hurried respiration and pulse, and the frantic bodily efforts, by which it is more commonly expressed, are due to the impulse to flight.22 That the excitement of fear is not necessarily, or indeed usually, the effect of an intelligent appreciation or anticipation of danger, is especially well shown by children of four or five years of age, in whom it may be induced by the facial contortions or playful roarings of a familiar friend. Under these circumstances, a child may exhibit every symptom of fear even while he sits upon his tormentor?s lap and, with arms about his neck, beseeches him to cease or to promise not to do it again. And many a child has been thrown into a paroxysm of terror by the approach of some hideous figure that he knew to be but one of his playfellows in disguise. Of all the excitants of this instinct the most interesting, and the most difficult to understand as regards its mode of operation, is the unfamiliar or strange as such. Whatever is totally strange, whatever is violently opposed to the accustomed and familiar, is apt to excite fear both in men and animals, if only it is capable of attracting their attention. It is, I think, doubtful whether an eclipse of the moon has ever excited the fear of animals, for the moon is not an object of their attention; but for savage men it has always been an occasion of fear. The well-known case of the dog described by Romanes, that was terrified by the movements of an object jerked forward by an invisible thread, illustrates the fear-exciting powers of the unfamiliar in the animal world. The following incident is instructive in this respect: A courageous child of five years, sitting alone in a sunlit room, suddenly screams in terror, and, on her father hastening to her, can only explain that she saw something move. The discovery of a mouse in the corner of the room at once explains and banishes her fear, for she is on friendly terms with mice. The mouse must have darted across the peripheral part of her field of vision, and this unexpected and unfamiliar appearance of movement sufficed to excite the instinct. This avenue to the instinct, the unfamiliar, becomes in man highly diversified and intellectualised, and it is owing to this that he feels fear before the mysterious, the uncanny, and the supernatural, and that fear, entering as an element into the complex emotions of awe and An Introduction to Social Psychology/47 reverence, plays its part in all religions. Fear, whether its impulse be to flight or to concealment, is characterised by the fact that its excitement, more than that of any other instinct, tends to bring to an end at once all other mental activity, riveting the attention upon its object to the exclusion of all others; owing, probably, to this extreme concentration of attention, as well as to the violence of the emotion, the excitement of this instinct makes a deep and lasting impression on the mind. A gust of anger, a wave of pity or of tender emotion, an impulse of curiosity, may co-operate in supporting and re-enforcing mental activities of the most varied kinds, or may dominate the mind for a time and then pass away, leaving but little trace. But fear, once roused, haunts the mind; it comes back alike in dreams and in waking life, bringing with it vivid memories of the terrifying impression. It is thus the great inhibitor of action, both present action and future action, and becomes in primitive human societies the great agent of social discipline through which men are led to the habit of control of the egoistic impulses. The Instinct of Repulsion and the Emotion of Disgust The impulse of this instinct is, like that of fear, one of aversion, and these two instincts together account probably for all aversions, except those acquired under the influence of pain. The impulse differs from that of fear in that, while the latter prompts to bodily retreat from its object, the former prompts to actions that remove or reject the offending object This instinct resembles fear in that under the one name we, perhaps, commonly confuse two very closely allied instincts whose affective aspects are so similar that they are not easily distinguishable, though their impulses are of different tendencies. The one impulse of repulsion is to reject from the mouth substances that excite the instinct in virtue of their odour or taste, substances which in the main are noxious and eviltasting; its biological utility is obvious. The other impulse of repulsion seems to be excited by the contact of slimy and slippery substances with the skin, and to express itself as a shrinking of the whole body, accompanied by a throwing forward of the hands. The common shrinking from slimy creatures with a ?creepy? shudder seems to be the expression of this impulse. It is difficult to assign any high biological value to it (unless we connect it with the necessity of avoiding noxious reptiles), but it is clearly displayed by some children before the end of their first year; thus in some infants furry things excite shrinking and tears at their first 48/William McDougall contact. In others the instinct seems to ripen later, and the child that has handled worms, frogs, and slugs with delight suddenly evinces an unconquerable aversion to contact with them. These two forms of disgust illustrate in the clearest and most interesting manner the intellectualisation of the instincts and primary emotions through extension of the range of their objects by association, resemblance, and analogy. The manners or speech of an otherwise presentable person may excite the impulse of shrinking in virtue of some subtle suggestion of sliminess. Or what we know of a man?s character? that it is noxious or, as we significantly say, is of evil odour?may render the mere thought of him an occasion of disgust; we say, ?It makes we sick to think of him?; and at the same time the face exhibits in some degree, however slight, the expression produced by the act of rejection of some evil-tasting substance from the mouth. In these cases we may see very clearly that this extension by resemblance or analogy does not take place in any roundabout fashion; it is not that the thought of the noxious or ?slippery? character necessarily reproduces the idea of some evil-tasting substance or of some slimy creature. Rather, the apprehension of these peculiarities of character excites disgust directly, and then, when we seek to account for, and to justify, our disgust, we cast about for some simile and say, ?He is like a snake,? or ?He is rotten to the core!? The common form of emotion serves as the link between the two ideas. The Instinct of Curiosity and the Emotion of Wonder The instinct of curiosity is displayed by many of the higher animals, although its impulse remains relatively feeble in most of them. And, in fact, it is obvious that it could not easily attain any considerable strength in any animal species, because the individuals that displayed a too strong curiosity would be peculiarly liable to meet an untimely end. For its impulse is to approach and to examine more closely the object that excites it?a fact well known to hunters in the wilds, who sometimes by exciting this instinct bring the curious animal within the reach of their weapons. The native excitant of the instinct would seem to be any object similar to, yet perceptibly different from, familiar objects habitually noticed. It is therefore not easy to distinguish in general terms between the excitants of curiosity and those of fear; for we have seen that one of the most general excitants of fear is whatever is strange or unfamiliar. The difference seems to be mainly one of degree, a smaller element of An Introduction to Social Psychology/49 the strange or unusual exciting curiosity, while a larger and more pronounced degree of it excites fear. Hence the two instincts, with their opposed impulses of approach and retreat, are apt to be excited in animals and very young children in rapid alternation, and simultaneously in ourselves. Who has not seen a horse, or other animal, alternately approach in curiosity, and flee in fear from, some such object as an old coat upon the ground? And who has not experienced a fearful curiosity in penetrating some dark cave or some secret chamber of an ancient castle? The behaviour of animals under the impulse of curiosity may be well observed by any one who will lie down in a field where sheep or cattle are grazing and repeat at short intervals some peculiar cry. In this way one may draw every member of a large flock nearer and nearer, until one finds oneself the centre of a circle of them, drawn up at a respectful distance, of which every pair of eyes and ears is intently fixed upon the strange object of their curiosity. In the animals nearest to ourselves, namely, the monkeys, curiosity is notoriously strong, and them it impels not merely to approach its object and to direct the senses attentively upon it, but also to active manipulation of it. That a similar impulse is strong in children, no one will deny Exception may perhaps be taken to the use of wonder as the name for the primary emotion that accompanies this impulse; for this word is commonly applied to a complex emotion of which this primary emotion is the chief but not the sole constituent.23 But, as was said above, some specialisation for technical purposes of words in common use is inevitable in psychology, and in this instance it is, I think, desirable and justifiable, owing to the lack of any more appropriate word. This instinct, being one whose exercise is not of prime importance to the individual, exhibits great individual differences as regards its innate strength; and these differences are apt to be increased during the course of life, the impulse growing weaker for lack of use in those in whom it is innately weak, stronger through exercise in those in whom it is innately strong. In men of the latter type it may become the main source of intellectual energy and effort; to its impulse we certainly owe most of the purely disinterested labours of the highest types of intellect. It must be regarded as one of the principal roots of both science and religion. 50/William McDougall The Instinct of Pugnacity and the Emotion of Anger This instinct, though not so nearly universal as fear, being apparently lacking in the constitution of the females of some species, ranks with fear as regards the great strength of its impulse and the high intensity of the emotion it generates. It occupies a peculiar position in relation to the other instincts, and cannot strictly be brought under the definition of instinct proposed in the first chapter. For it has no specific object or objects the perception of which constitutes the initial stage of the instinctive process. The condition of its excitement is rather any opposition to the free exercise of any impulse, any obstruction to the activity to which the creature is impelled by any one of the other instincts.24 And its impulse is to break down any such obstruction and to destroy whatever offers this opposition. This instinct thus presupposes the others; its excitement is dependent upon, or secondary to, the excitement of the others, and is apt to be intense in proportion to the strength of the obstructed impulse. The most mean-spirited cur will angrily resent any attempt to take away its bone, if it is hungry; a healthy infant very early displays anger, if his meal is interrupted; and all through life most men find it difficult to suppress irritation on similar occasions. In the animal world the most furious excitement of this instinct is provoked in the male of many species by any interference with the satisfaction of the sexual impulse; since such interference is the most frequent occasion of its excitement, and since it commonly comes from other male members of his own species, the actions innately organised for securing the ends of this instinct are such actions as are most effective in combat with his fellows. Hence, also, the defensive apparatus of the male is usually, like the lion?s or the stallion?s mane, especially adapted for defence against the attacks of his fellows. But the obstruction of every other instinctive impulse may in its turn become the occasion of anger. We see how among the animals even the fear- impulse, the most opposed in tendency to the pugnacious, may on obstruction give place to it; for the hunted creature when brought to bay?i.e., when its impulse to flight is obstructed?is apt to turn upon its pursuers and to fight furiously, until an opportunity for escape presents itself. Darwin has shown the significance of the facial expression of anger, of the contracted brow and raised upper lip; and man shares with many of the animals the tendency to frighten his opponent by loud roars or bellowings. As with most of the other human instincts, the excitement of this one is expressed in its purest form by children. Many a little boy An Introduction to Social Psychology/51 has, without any example or suggestion, suddenly taken to running with open mouth to bite the person who has angered him, much to the distress of his parents. As the child grows up, as self-control becomes stronger, the life of ideas richer, and the means we take to overcome obstructions to our efforts more refined and complex, this instinct ceases to express itself in its crude natural manner, save when most intensely excited, and becomes rather a source of increased energy of action towards the end set by any other instinct; the energy of its impulse adds itself to and reinforces that of other impulses and so helps us to overcome our difficulties. In this lies its great value for civilised man. A man devoid of the pugnacious instinct would not only be incapable of anger, but would lack this great source of reserve energy which is called into play in most of us by any difficulty in our path. In this respect also it is the opposite of fear, which tends to inhibit all other impulses than its own. The Instincts of Self-abasement (or Subjection) and of Self-assertion (or Self-display), and the Emotions of Subjection and Elation (or Negative and Positive Self-feeling) These two instincts have attracted little attention, and the two corresponding emotions have, so far as I know, been adequately recognised by M. Ribot alone,25 whom I follow in placing them among the primary emotions. Ribot names the two emotions negative and positive self-feeling respectively, but since these names are awkward in English, I propose, in the interests of a consistent terminology, to call them the emotions of subjection and elation. The clear recognition and understanding of these instincts, more especially of the instinct of self-display, is of the first importance for the psychology of character and volition, as I hope to show in a later chapter. At present I am only concerned to prove that they have a place in the native constitution of the human mind. The instinct of self-display is manifested by many of the higher social or gregarious animals, especially, perhaps, though not only, at the time of mating. Perhaps among mammals the horse displays it most clearly. The muscles of all parts are strongly innervated, the creature holds himself erect, his neck is arched, his tail lifted, his motions become superfluously vigorous and extensive, he lifts his hoofs high in air, as he parades before the eyes of his fellows. Many animals, especially the birds, but also some of the monkeys, are provided with organs of display that are specially disposed on these occasions. Such are the tail of the peacock and the beautiful breast of the pigeon. The instinct is 52/William McDougall essentially a social one, and is only brought into play by the presence of spectators. Such self-display is popularly recognised as implying pride; we say ?How proud he looks!? and the peacock has become the symbol of pride. By psychologists pride is usually denied the animals, because it is held to imply self-consciousness, and that, save of the most rudimentary kind, they probably have not. But this denial arises from the current confusion of the emotions and the sentiments. The word ?pride? is no doubt most properly to be used as the name of one form of the selfregarding sentiment, and such sentiment does imply a developed selfconsciousness such as no animal can be credited with. Nevertheless, popular opinion is, I think, in the right in attributing to the animals in their moments of self-display the germ of the emotion that is the most essential constituent of pride. It is this primary emotion which may be called positive self-feeling or elation, and which might well be called pride, if that word were not required to denote the sentiment of pride. In the simple form, in which it is expressed by the self-display of animals, it does not necessarily imply self-consciousness. Many children clearly exhibit this instinct of self-display; before they can walk or talk the impulse finds its satisfaction in the admiring gaze and plaudits of the family circle as each new acquirement is practised; 26 a little later it is still more clearly expressed by the frequently repeated command, ?See me do this,? or ?See how well I can do so-andso?; and for many a child more than half the delight of riding on a pony, or of wearing a new coat, consists in the satisfaction of this instinct, and vanishes if there be no spectators. A little later, with the growth of selfconsciousness the instinct may find expression in the boasting and swaggering of boys, the vanity of girls; while, with almost all of us, it becomes the most important constituent of the self-regarding sentiment and plays an all-important part in the volitional control of conduct, in the way to be discussed in a later chapter. The situation that more particularly excites this instinct is the presence of spectators to whom one feels oneself for any reason, or in any way, superior, and this is perhaps true in a modified sense of the animals; the ?dignified? behaviour of a big dog in the presence of small ones, the stately strutting of a hen among her chicks, seem to be instances in point. We have, then, good reason to believe that the germ of this emotion is present in the animal world, and, if we make use of our second criterion of the primary character of an emotion, it answers well to the test For in certain mental diseases, especially in the early stages of An Introduction to Social Psychology/53 that most terrible disorder, general paralysis of the insane, exaggeration of this emotion and of its impulse of display is the leading symptom. The unfortunate patient is perpetually in a state of elated self-feeling, and his behaviour corresponds to his emotional state; he struts before the world, boasts of his strength, his immense wealth, his good looks, his luck, his family, when, perhaps, there is not the least foundation for his boastings. As regards the emotion of subjection or negative self-feeling, we have the same grounds for regarding it as a primary emotion that accompanies the excitement of an instinctive disposition. The impulse of this instinct expresses itself in a slinking, crestfallen behaviour, a general diminution of muscular tone, slow restricted movements, a hanging down of the head, and sidelong glances. In the dog the picture is completed by the sinking of the tail between the legs. All these features express submissiveness, and are calculated to avoid attracting attention or to mollify the spectator. The nature of the instinct is sometimes very completely expressed in the behaviour of a young dog on the approach of a larger, older dog; he crouches or crawls with legs so bent that his belly scrapes the ground, his back hollowed, his tail tucked away, his head sunk and turned a little on one side, and so approaches the imposing stranger with every mark of submission. The recognition of this behaviour as the expression of a special instinct of self-abasement and of a corresponding primary emotion enables us to escape from a much-discussed difficulty. It has been asked, ?Can animals and young children that have not attained to self-consciousness feel shame?? And the answer usually given is, ?No; shame implies self-consciousness.? Yet some animals, notably the dog, sometimes behave in a way which the popular mind interprets as expressing shame. The truth seems to be that, while fully developed shame, shame in the full sense of the word, does imply self-consciousness and a selfregarding sentiment, yet in the emotion that accompanies this impulse to slink submissively we may see the rudiment of shame; and, if we do not recognise this instinct, it is impossible to account for the genesis of shame or of bashfulness. In children the expression of this emotion is often mistaken for that of fear; but the young child sitting on his mother?s lap in perfect silence and with face averted, casting sidelong glances at a stranger, presents a picture very different from that of fear. Applying, again, our pathological test, we find that it is satisfied by 54/William McDougall this instinct of self- abasement In many cases of mental disorder the exaggerated influence of this instinct seems to determine the leading symptoms. The patient shrinks from the observation of his fellows, thinks himself a most wretched, useless, sinful creature, and, in many cases, he develops delusions of having performed various unworthy or even criminal actions; many such patients declare they are guilty of the unpardonable sin, although they attach no definite meaning to the phrase?that is to say, the patient?s intellect endeavours to justify the persistent emotional state, which has no adequate cause in his relations to his fellowmen. The Parental Instinct and the Tender Emotion As regards the parental instinct and tender emotion, there are wide differences of opinion. Some of the authors who have paid most attention to the psychology of the emotions, notably Mr. A. F. Shand, do not recognise tender emotion as primary;27 others, especially Mr. Alex. Sutherland28 and M. Ribot,29 recognise it as a true primary and see in its impulse the root of all altruism; Mr. Sutherland, however, like Adam Smith and many other writers, has confused tender emotion with sympathy, a serious error of incomplete analysis, which Ribot has avoided. The maternal instinct, which impels the mother to protect and cherish her young, is common to almost all the higher species of animals. Among the lower animals the perpetuation of the species is generally provided for by the production of an immense number of eggs or young (in some species of fish a single adult produces more than a million eggs), which are left entirely unprotected, and are so preyed upon by other creatures that on the average but one or two attain maturity. As we pass higher up the animal scale, we find the number of eggs or young more and more reduced, and the diminution of their number compensated for by parental protection. At the lowest stage this protection may consist in the provision of some merely physical shelter, as in the case of those animals that carry their eggs attached in some way to their bodies. But, except at this lowest stage, the protection afforded to the young always involves some instinctive adaptation of the parent?s behaviour. We may see this even among the fishes, some of which deposit their eggs in rude nests and watch over them, driving away creatures that might prey upon them. From this stage onwards protection of offspring becomes increasingly psychical in character, involves more profound modification of the parent?s behaviour and a more prolonged period of An Introduction to Social Psychology/55 more effective guardianship. The highest stage is reached by those species in which each female produces at a birth but one or two young and protects them so efficiently that most of the young born reach maturity; the maintenance of the. species thus becomes in the main the work of the parental instinct. In such species the protection and cherishing of the young is the constant and all-absorbing occupation of the mother, to which she devotes all her energies, and in the course of which she will at any time undergo privation, pain, and death. The instinct becomes more powerful than any other, and can override any other, even fear itself; for it works directly in the service of the species, while the other instincts work primarily in the service of the individual life, for which Nature cares little. All this has been well set out by Sutherland, with a wealth of illustrative detail, in his work on ?The Origin and Growth of the Moral Instinct.? When we follow up the evolution of this instinct to the highest animal level, we find among the apes the most remarkable examples of its operation. Thus in one species the mother is said to carry her young one clasped in one arm uninterruptedly for several months, never letting go of it in all her wanderings. This instinct is no less strong in many human mothers, in whom, of course, it becomes more or less intellectualised and organised as the most essential constituent of the sentiment of parental love. Like other species, the human species is dependent upon this instinct for its continued existence and welfare. It is true that reason, working in the service of the egoistic impulses and sentiments, often circumvents the ends of this instinct and sets up habits which are incompatible with it. When that occurs on a large scale in any society, that society is doomed to rapid decay. But the instinct itself can never die out, save with the disappearance of the human species itself; it is kept strong and effective just because those families and races and nations in which it weakens become rapidly supplanted by those in which it is strong. It is impossible to believe that the operation of this, the most powerful of the instincts, is not accompanied by a strong and definite emotion; one may see the emotion expressed unmistakably by almost any mother among the higher animals, especially the birds and the mammals?by the cat, for example, and by most of the domestic animals; and it is impossible to doubt that this emotion has in all cases the peculiar quality of the tender emotion provoked in the human parent by the spectacle of her helpless offspring. This primary emotion has been very generally 56/William McDougall ignored by the philosophers and psychologists; that is, perhaps, to be explained by the fact that this instinct and its emotion are in the main decidedly weaker in men than in women, and in some men, perhaps, altogether lacking. We may even surmise that the philosophers as a class are men among whom this defect of native endowment is relatively common. It may be asked, ?How can we account for the fact that men are at all capable of this emotion and of this disinterested protective impulse? For in its racial origin the instinct was undoubtedly primarily maternal. The answer is that it is very common to see a character, acquired by one sex to meet its special needs, transmitted, generally imperfectly and with large individual variations, to the members of the other sex. Familiar examples of such transmission of sexual characters are afforded by the horns and antlers of some species of sheep and deer. That the parental instinct is by no means altogether lacking in men is probably due in the main to such transference of a primarily maternal instinct, though it is probable that in the human species natural selection has confirmed and increased its inheritance by the male sex. To this view, that the parental tenderness of human beings depends upon an instinct phylogenetically continuous with the parental instinct of the higher animals, it might be objected that the very widespread prevalence of infanticide among existing savages implies that primitive man lacked this instinct and its tender emotion. But that would be a most mistaken objection. There is no feature of savage life more nearly universal than the kindness and tenderness of savages, even of savage fathers, for their little children. All observers are agreed upon this point. I have many a time watched with interest a bloodthirsty head-hunter of Borneo spending a day at home tenderly nursing his infant in his arms. And it is a rule, to which there are few exceptions among savage peoples, that an infant is only killed during the first hours of its life. If the child is allowed to survive but a few days, then its life is safe; the tender emotion has been called out in fuller strength and has begun to be organised into a sentiment of parental love that is too strong to be overcome by prudential or purely selfish considerations.30 The view of the origin of parental tenderness here adopted compares, I think, very favourably with other accounts of its genesis. Bain taught that it is generated in the individual by the frequent repetition of the intense pleasure of contact with the young; though why this contact should be so highly pleasurable he did not explain.31 Others have attribAn Introduction to Social Psychology/57 uted it to the expectation by the parent of filial care in his or her old age. This is one form of the absurd and constantly renewed attempt to reveal all altruism as arising essentially out of a more or less subtle regard for one?s own welfare or pleasure. If tender emotion and the sentiment of love really arose from a disguised selfishness of this sort, how much stronger should be the love of the child for the parent than that of the parent for the child! For the child is for many years utterly dependent on the parent for his every pleasure and the satisfaction of his every need; whereas the mother?s part?if she were not endowed with this powerful instinct?would be one long succession of sacrifices and painful efforts on behalf of her child. Parental love must always appear an insoluble riddle and paradox if we do not recognise this primary emotion, deeply rooted in an ancient instinct of vital importance to the race. Long ago the Roman moralists were perplexed by it. They noticed that in the Sullan prosecutions, while many sons denounced their fathers, no father was ever known to denounce his son; and they recognised that this fact was inexplicable by their theories of conduct. For their doctrine was like that of Bain, who said explicitly: ?Tender feeling is as purely self-seeking as any other pleasure, and makes no inquiry as to the feelings of the beloved personality. It is by nature pleasurable, but does not necessarily cause us to seek the good of the object farther than is needful to gratify ourselves in the indulgence of the feeling.? And again, in express reference to maternal tenderness, he wrote: ?The superficial observer has to be told that the feeling in itself is as purely self-regarding as the pleasure of wine or of music. Under it we are induced to seek the presence of the beloved objects and to make the requisite sacrifices to gain the end, looking all the while at our own pleasure and to nothing beyond.?32 This doctrine is a gross libel on human nature, which is not so far inferior to animal nature in this respect as Bain?s words imply. If Bain, and those who agree with his doctrine, were in the right, everything the cynics have said of human nature would be justified; for from this emotion and its impulse to cherish and protect spring generosity, gratitude, love, pity, true benevolence, and altruistic conduct of every kind; in it they have their main and absolutely essential root, without which they would not be.33 Like the other primary emotions, the tender emotion cannot be described; a person who had not experienced it could no more be made to understand its quality than a totally colour-blind person can be made to understand the experience of colour-sensation. Its impulse is primarily 58/William McDougall to afford physical protection to the child, especially by throwing the arms about it; and that fundamental impulse persists in spite of the immense extension of the range of application of the impulse and its incorporation in many ideal sentiments.34 Like all the other instinctive impulses, this one, when its operation meets with obstruction or opposition, gives place to, or is complicated by, the pugnacious or combative impulse directed against the source of the obstruction; and, the impulse being essentially protective, its obstruction provokes anger perhaps more readily than the obstruction of any other. In almost all animals that display it, even in those which in all other situations are very timid, any attempt to remove the young from the protecting parent, or in any way to hurt them, provokes a fierce and desperate display of all their combative resources. By the human mother the same prompt yielding of the one impulse to the other is displayed on the same plane of physical protection, but also on the higher plane of ideal protection; the least threat, the smallest slight or aspersion (e.g., the mere speaking of the baby as ?it,? instead of as ?he? or ?she?), the mere suggestion that it is not the most beautiful object in the world, will suffice to provoke a quick resentment. This intimate alliance between tender emotion and anger is of great importance for the social life of man, and the right understanding of it is fundamental for a true theory of the moral sentiments; for the anger evoked in this way is the germ of all moral indignation, and on moral indignation justice and the greater part of public law are in the main founded. Thus, paradoxical as it may seem, beneficence and punishment alike have their firmest and most essential root in the parental instinct. For the understanding of the relation of this instinct to moral indignation, it is important to note that the object which is the primary provocative of tender emotion is, not the child itself, but the child?s expression of pain, fear, or distress of any kind, especially the child?s cry of distress; further, that this instinctive response is provoked by the cry, not only of one?s own offspring, but of any child. Tender emotion and the protective impulse are, no doubt, evoked more readily and intensely by one?s own offspring, because about them a strongly organised and complex sentiment grows up. But the distress of any child will evoke this response in a very intense degree in those in whom the instinct is strong. There are women?and men also, though fewer?who cannot sit still, or pursue any occupation, within sound of the distressed cry of a child; if circumstances compel them to restrain their impulse to run to An Introduction to Social Psychology/59 its relief, they yet cannot withdraw their attention from the sound, but continue to listen in painful agitation. In the human being, just as is the case in some degree with all the instinctive responses, and as we noticed especially in the case of disgust, there takes place a vast extension of the field of application of the maternal instinct. The similarity of various objects to the primary or natively given object, similarities which in many cases can only be operative for a highly developed mind, enables them to evoke tender emotion and its protective impulse directly?i.e., not merely by way of associative reproduction of the natively given object. In this way the emotion is liable to be evoked, not only by the distress of a child, but by the mere sight or thought of a perfectly happy child; for its feebleness, its delicacy, its obvious incapacity to supply its own needs, its liability to a thousand different ills, suggest to the mind its need of protection. By a further extension of the same kind the emotion may be evoked by the sight of any very young animal, especially if in distress; Wordsworth?s poem on the pet lamb is the celebration of this emotion in its purest form; and indeed it would be easy to wax enthusiastic in the cause of an instinct that is the source of the only entirely admirable, satisfying, and perfect human relationship, as well as of every kind of purely disinterested conduct. In a similar direct fashion the distress of any adult (towards whom we harbour no hostile sentiment) evokes the emotion; but in this case it is more apt to be complicated by sympathetic pain, when it becomes the painful, tender emotion we call pity; whereas the child, or any other helpless and delicate thing, may call it out in the pure form without alloy of sympathetic pain. It is amusing to observe how, in those women in whom the instinct is strong, it is apt to be excited, owing to the subtle working of similarity, by any and every object that is small and delicate of its kind?a very small cup, or chair, or book, or what not. Extension takes place also through association in virtue of contiguity; the objects intimately connected with the prime object of the emotion? such objects as the clothes, the toys, the bed, of the beloved child? become capable of exciting the emotion directly. But the former mode of direct extension of the field of application is in this case the more important. It is in virtue of such extension to similars that, when we see or hear of, the ill- treatment of any weak, defenceless creature (especially, of course, if the creature be a child) tender emotion and the protective impulse are aroused on its behalf, but are apt to give 60/William McDougall place at once to the anger we call moral indignation against the perpetrator of the cruelty; and in bad cases we are quite prepared to tear the offender limb from limb, the tardy process of the law with its mild punishments seeming utterly inadequate to afford vicarious satisfaction to our anger.35 How is this great fact of wholly disinterested anger or indignation to be accounted for, if not in the way here suggested? The question is an important one; it supplies a touchstone for all theories of the moral emotions and sentiments. For, as was said above, this disinterested indignation is the ultimate root of justice and of public law; without its support law and its machinery would be most inadequate safeguards of personal rights and liberties; and, in opposition to the moral indignation of a majority of members of any society, laws can only be very imperfectly enforced by the strongest despotism, as we see in Russia at the present time. Those who deny any truly altruistic motive to man and seek to reduce apparent altruism to subtle and far-sighted egoism, must simply deny the obvious facts, and must seek some far-fetched unreal explanations of such phenomena as the anti-slavery and Congo-reform movements, the anti-vivisection crusade, and the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children. Let us examine briefly the way in which Bain sought to account for ostensibly disinterested emotion and action. As we have seen above, he regarded tender emotion as wholly self-seeking, and, like many other authors, he attributed such actions as we are considering to sympathy. He wrote: ?From a region of the mind quite apart from the tender emotion arises the principle of sympathy, or the prompting to take on the pleasures and pains of other beings, and act on them as if they were our own. Instead of being a source of pleasure to us, the primary operation of sympathy is to make us surrender pleasures and to incur pains. This is a paradox of our constitution to be again more fully considered.?36 Here he has clearly committed himself to a position that needs much explanation. But, when we seek his fuller consideration of this paradox, all we find is a passage of a few lines in his section on moral disapprobation. This passage tells us that, when another?s conduct inspires a feeling of disapprobation as violating the maxims recognised to be binding. ?It is to be supposed that the same sense of duty that operates upon one?s own self, and stings with remorse and fear in case of disobedience, should come into play when some other person is the guilty agent. The feeling that rises up towards that person is a strong feeling of displeaAn Introduction to Social Psychology/61 sure or dislike, proportioned to the strength of our regard to the violated duty. There arises a moral resentment, or a disposition to inflict punishment upon the offender.?37 That is to say, according to Bain, the source of all disinterested moral indignation is the reflection, ?If I had done that, I should have been punished; therefore he must be punished.? Now, this attitude is not uncommon, especially in the nursery, and it plays some small part, no doubt, in securing equal distribution of punishments; but it is surely wholly inadequate to account for that paradox of our constitution previously recognised by Bain. In order to realise how far from the truth this doctrine is, we have only to consider what kinds of conduct provoke our moral indignation most strongly. If we hear of a man robbing a bank, holding up a mail train, or killing another in fair fight, we may agree that he should be punished; for we recognise intellectually that the interests of society demand that such things shall not be done too frequently, and we ourselves might shrink from similar conduct; but our feeling towards the criminal may be one of pity, or perhaps merely one of amusement dashed with admiration for his audacity and skill. But let the act be one inflicting pain on a helpless creature?an act of cruelty to a horse, a dog, or, above all, to a child?and our moral indignation blazes out, even though the act be one for which the law prescribes no punishment. Bain?s explanation of his ?paradox? of sympathy is then utterly inadequate, and a closer examination of his statement of the principle of sympathy shows that it is false, and that any plausibility it may seem to possess depends upon the vague and rhetorical language in which it is made, His statement is that sympathy is the prompting to take on the pains and pleasures of another being, and to endeavour to abolish that other?s pain and to prolong his pleasure. But, if we use more accurate language, we shall have to say that the sympathetic pain or pleasure we experience is immediately evoked in us by the spectacle of pain or of pleasure, and that we then act on it because it is our own pain or pleasure; and the action we take (so long as no other principle is at work) is directed to cut short our own pain and to prolong our own pleasure, quite regardless of the feelings of the other person. Now, the easiest and quickest way of cutting short sympathetically induced pain is to turn our eyes and our thoughts away from the suffering creature; and this is the way invariably followed by all sensitive natures in which the tender emotion and its protective impulse are weak. They pass by the sick and suffering with averted gaze, and resolutely banish all thoughts of them, surrounding themselves as far as possible with gay 62/William McDougall and cheerful faces. No doubt the spectacle of the poor man who fell among thieves was just as distressing to the priest and the Levite, who passed by on the other side, as to the good Samaritan who tenderly cared for him. They may well have been exquisitely sensitive souls, who would have fainted away if they had been compelled to gaze upon his wounds. The great difference between them and the Samaritan was that in him the tender emotion and its impulse were evoked, and that this impulse overcame, or prevented, the aversion naturally induced by the painful and, perhaps, disgusting spectacle.38 Our susceptibility to sympathetically induced pain or pleasure, operating alone, simply inclines us, then, to avoid the neighbourhood of the distressed and to seek the company of the cheerful; but tender emotion draws us near to the suffering and the sad, seeking to alleviate their distress. It is to be noted also that the intensity of the emotion and the strength of its impulse to cherish and protect, and also the violence of the anger we feel against him who inflicts pain on any weak and defenceless creature?all these bear no constant relation to the intensity of our sympathetically induced pain. There are natures so strong and so happily constituted that they hardly know pain; yet they may be very tender- hearted and easily roused to anger by the spectacle of cruelty. Again, the mere threat of injury to a feeble creature may provoke an instantaneous anger; and it would be absurd to suppose that in such a case one first pictures the suffering of the creature that would result if the threat were executed, then sympathetically experiences the pain, and then, putting oneself in the place of the prospectively injured, goes on to feel anger against him who threatens. The response is as direct and instantaneous as the mother?s emotion at the cry of her child or her impulse to fly to its defence; and it is essentially the same process. In no other way than that here proposed is it possible to account for disinterested beneficence and moral indignation. If this view is rejected, they remain a paradox and a miracle?tendencies, mysteriously implanted in the human breast, that have no history in the evolutionary process, no analogy and no intelligible connection with, no resemblance to, any of the other features of our mental constitution. The importance of establishing the place of tender emotion among the primary emotions necessitates in this place a brief criticism of Mr. Shand?s treatment of it, although this criticism may be more easily understood after reading Chapters V and VI, in which the organisation of the sentiments is discussed. An Introduction to Social Psychology/63 According to Mr. Shand,39 tender emotion is always complex, and into its composition there enter always both joy and sorrow. He arrives at this view in the following way: Accepting the traditional view that joy and sorrow are primary emotions, he says that joy is a diffusive emotion that has no specific tendency (for he has not accepted the guiding principle followed in these pages, namely, that each primary emotion accompanies the excitement of an instinctive disposition of specific tendency); and sorrow, he says, has two impulses, namely, to cling to its object and to restore it, to repair the injury done to it that is the cause of the sorrow. He then takes pity as the simplest type of tender emotion, and finds that it has the fundamental impulses of sorrow, to restore and to cling to its object; but pity is not pure sorrow, because it has an element of sweetness; which element he identifies with joy. Hence pity, the simplest variety of tender emotion, is, he says, a fusion of joy and sorrow. Mr. Shand does not attempt to account for sorrow, or to trace its history in the race, or to show how it gets its disinterested impulse to restore and do good to its object. And this is the all- important question, for this impulse of tender emotion is, as has been said, the source of all altruistic conduct. He simply begs the question in assuming sorrow to be a primary emotion having this impulse. Further, in the course of his discussion Shand recognises the existence of a kind of sorrow or grief that has no impulse to restore its object? the hard, bitter variety of grief; and in doing that he implicitly admits that sorrow is complex and derived from simpler elements. He makes also this significant admission: ?The tenderness of pity seems to come from the ideas and impulses that go out to relieve suffering.? Now, that is just the point I wish to insist upon?that there is in pity as one element this impulse to cherish and protect, with its accompanying tender emotion; and that this is present also in sorrow proper, but that it is not in itself painful?as sorrow is? and therefore is not sorrow, but is one of the primary elements of which sorrowful emotion is compounded. According to the view here adopted, the element of pain in pity is sympathetically induced pain,40 and the element of sweetness is the pleasure that attends the satisfaction of the impulse of the tender emotion. That this view is truer than the other is, I think, shown by the fact that pity may be wholly devoid of this element of sweetness without losing its essential character? namely, in the case of pity evoked by some terrible suffering that we are powerless to relieve; in this case the pain 64/William McDougall of the obstructed tender impulse is added to the sympathetic pain, and our pity is wholly painful. Another good reason for refusing to regard sorrow as one of the primary emotions is the fact that sorrowful emotion of every kind presupposes the existence of an organised sentiment, and is, in fact, the tender emotion developed within the sentiment of love and rendered painful either by sympathetically induced pain?as in the case of injury to the beloved object, or by the baffling of its impulse?as in the case of the loss of that object. If, as seems to me indisputable, sorrow presupposes the organised sentiment of love, it clearly cannot be regarded as a primary emotion. Some other Instincts of less well-defined Emotional Tendency The seven instincts we have now reviewed are those whose excitement yields the most definite of the primary emotions; from these seven primary emotions together with feelings of pleasure and pain (and perhaps also feelings of excitement and of depression) are compounded all, or almost all, the affective states that are popularly recognised as emotions, and for which common speech has definite names. But there are other human instincts which, though some of them play but a minor part in the genesis of the emotions, have impulses that are of great importance for social life; they must therefore be mentioned. Of these by far the most important is the sexual instinct or instinct of reproduction. It is unnecessary to say anything of the great strength of its impulse or of the violence of the emotional excitement that accompanies its exercise. One point of interest is its intimate connection with the parental instinct. There can, I think, be little doubt that this connection is an innate one, and that in all (save debased) natures it secures that the object of the sexual impulse shall become also the object in some degree of tender emotion.41 The biological utility of an innate connection of this kind is obvious. It would prepare the way for that cooperation between the male and female in which, even among the animals, a lifelong fidelity and mutual tenderness is often touchingly displayed. This instinct, more than any other, is apt in mankind to lend the immense energy of its impulse to the sentiments and complex impulses into which it enters, while its specific character remains submerged and unconscious. It is unnecessary to dwell on this feature, since it has been dealt with exhaustively in many thousands of novels.42 From the point An Introduction to Social Psychology/65 of view of this section the chief importance of this instinct is that it illustrates, in a manner that must convince the most obtuse, the continuity and the essential similarity of nature and function between the human and the animal instincts. In connection with the instinct of reproduction a few words must be said about sexual jealousy and female coyness. These are regarded by some authors as special instincts, but perhaps without sufficiently good grounds. Jealousy in the full sense of the word is a complex emotion that presupposes an organised sentiment, and there is no reason to regard the hostile behaviour of the male animal in the presence of rivals as necessarily implying any such complex emotion or sentiment. The assumption of a specially intimate innate connection between the instincts of reproduction and of pugnacity will account for the fact that the anger of the male, both in the human and in most animal species, is so readily aroused in an intense degree by any threat of opposition to the operation of the sexual impulse; and perhaps the great strength of the sexual impulse sufficiently accounts for it. The coyness of the female in the presence of the male may be accounted for in similar fashion by the assumption that in the female the instinct of reproduction has specially intimate innate relations to the instincts of self-display and self-abasement, so that the presence of the male excites these as well as the former instinct The desire for food that we experience when hungry, with the impulse to seize it, to carry it to the mouth, to chew it and swallow it, must, I think, be regarded as rooted in a true instinct. In many of the animals the movements of feeding exhibit all the marks of truly instinctive behaviour. But in ourselves the instinct becomes at an early age so greatly modified through experience, on both its receptive and its executive sides, that little, save the strong impulse, remains to mark the instinctive nature of the process of feeding. The gregarious instinct is one of the human instincts of greatest social importance, for it has played a great part in moulding societary forms. The affective aspect of the operation of this instinct is not sufficiently intense or specific to have been given a name. The instinct is displayed by many species of animals, even by some very low in the scale of mental capacity. Its operation in its simplest form implies none of the higher qualities of mind, neither sympathy nor capacity for mutual aid. Mr. Francis Galton has given the classical description of the operation of the crude instinct. Describing the South African ox in 66/William McDougall Damaraland,43 he says he displays no affection for his fellows, and hardly seems to notice their existence, so long as he is among them; but, if he becomes separated from the herd, he displays an extreme distress that will not let him rest until he succeeds in rejoining it, when he hastens to bury himself in the midst of it, seeking the closest possible contact with the bodies of his fellows. There we see the working of the gregarious instinct in all its simplicity, a mere uneasiness in isolation and satisfaction in being one of a herd. Its utility to animals liable to the attacks of beasts of prey is obvious. The instinct is commonly strongly confirmed by habit; the individual is born into a society of some sort and grows up in it, and the being with others and doing as they do becomes a habit deeply rooted in the instinct It would seem to be a general rule, the explanation of which is to be found in the principle of sympathetic emotion to be considered later, that the more numerous the herd or crowd or society in which the individual finds himself the more complete is the satisfaction of this impulse. It is probably owing to this peculiarity of the instinct that gregarious animals of so many species are found at times in aggregations far larger than are necessary for mutual protection or for the securing of any other advantage. Travellers on the prairies of North America in the early days of exploration have told how the bison might sometimes be seen in an immense herd that blackened the surface of the plain for many miles in all directions. In a similar way some kinds of deer and of birds gather together and move from place to place in vast aggregations. Although opinions differ widely as to the form of primitive human society, some inclining to the view that it was a large promiscuous horde, others, with more probability, regarding it as a comparatively small group of near blood relatives, almost all anthropologists agree that primitive man was to some extent gregarious in his habits; and the strength of the instinct as it still exists in civilised men lends support to this view. The gregarious instinct is no exception to the rule that the human instincts are liable to a morbid hypertrophy under which their emotions and impulses are revealed with exaggerated intensity. The condition known to alienists as agoraphobia seems to result from the morbidly intense working of this instinct?the patient will not remain alone, will not cross a wide empty space, and seeks alwavs to be surrounded by other human beings. But of the normal man also it is true that, as Professor James says: ?To be alone is one of the greatest of evils for him. Solitary confinement is by many regarded as a mode of torture too cruel An Introduction to Social Psychology/67 and unnatural for civilised countries to adopt. To one long pent up on a desert island the sight of a human footprint or a human form in the distance would be the most tumultuously exciting of experiences.?44 In civilised communities we may see evidence of the operation of this instinct on every hand. For all but a few exceptional, and generally highly cultivated, persons the one essential condition of recreation is the being one of a crowd. The normal daily recreation of the population of our towns is to go out in the evening and to walk up and down the streets in which the throng is densest?the Strand, Oxford Street, or the Old Kent Road; and the smallest occasion?a foreign prince driving to a railway-station or a Lord Mayor?s Show? will line the streets for hours with many thousands whose interest in the prince or the show alone would hardly lead them to take a dozen steps out of their way. On their few short holidays the working classes rush together from town and country alike to those resorts in which they are assured of the presence of a large mass of their fellows. It is the same instinct working on a slightly higher plane that brings tens of thousands to the cricket and football grounds on half-holidays. Crowds of this sort exert a greater fascination and afford a more complete satisfaction to the gregarious instinct than the mere aimless aggregations of the streets, because all their members are simultaneously concerned with the same objects, all are moved by the same emotions, all shout and applaud together. It would be absurd to suppose that it is merely the individuals? interest in the game that brings these huge crowds together. What proportion of the ten thousand witnesses of a football match would stand for an hour or more in the wind and rain, if each man were isolated from the rest of the crowd and saw only the players? Even cultured minds are not immune to the fascination of the herd. Who has not felt it as he has stood at the Mansion House crossing or walked down Cheapside? How few prefer at nightfall the lonely Thames Embankment, full of mysterious poetry as the barges sweep slowly onward with the flood-tide, to the garish crowded Strand a hundred yards away! We cultivated persons usually say to ourselves, when we yield to this fascination, that we are taking an intelligent interest in the life of the people. But such intellectual interest plays but a small part, and beneath works the powerful impulse of this ancient instinct The possession of this instinct, even in great strength, does not necessarily imply sociability of temperament. Many a man leads in London a most solitary, unsociable life, who yet would find it hard to live far away from the thronged 68/William McDougall city. Such men are like Mr. Galton?s oxen, unsociable but gregarious; and they illustrate the fact that sociability, although it has the gregarious instinct at its foundation, is a more complex, more highly developed, tendency. As an element of this more complex tendency to sociability, the instinct largely determines the forms of the recreations of even the cultured classes, and is the root of no small part of the pleasure we find in attendance at the theatre, at concerts, lectures, and all such entertainments. How much more satisfying is a good play if one sits in a well-filled theatre than if half the seats are empty; especially if the house is unanimous and loud in the expression of its feelings! But this instinct has in all ages produced more important social effects that must be considered in a later chapter. Two other instincts of considerable social importance demand a brief mention. The impulse to collect and hoard various objects is displayed in one way or another by almost all human beings, and seems to be due to a true instinct; it is manifested by many animals in the blind, unintelligent manner that is characteristic of crude instinct. And, like other instinctive impulses of man, it is liable to become morbidly exaggerated, when it appears, in a mild form, as the collecting mania and, in greater excess, as miserliness and kleptomania. Like other instincts, it ripens naturally and comes into play independently of all training. Statistical inquiry among large numbers of children has shown that very few attain adult life without having made a collection of objects of one kind or another, usually without any definite purpose; such collecting is no doubt primarily due to the ripening of an instinct of acquisition. We seem to be justified in assuming in man an instinct of construction. The playful activities of children seem to be in part determined by its impulse; and in most civilised adults it still survives, though but little scope is allowed it by the circumstances of the majority. For most of us the satisfaction of having actually made something is very real, quite apart from the value or usefulness of the thing made. And the simple desire to make something, rooted in this instinct, is probably a contributing motive to all human constructions from a mud-pie to a metaphysical system or a code of laws. The instincts enumerated above, together with a number of minor instincts, such as those that prompt to crawling and walking, are, I think, all that we can recognise with certainty in the constitution of the human mind. Lightly to postulate an indefinite number and variety of human instincts is a cheap and easy way to solve psychological problems, and An Introduction to Social Psychology/69 is an error hardly less serious and less common than the opposite error of ignoring all the instincts. How often do we not hear of the religious instinct! Renan asserted that the religious instinct is as natural to man as the nest-building instinct is to birds, and many authors have written of it as one of the fundamental attributes of the human mind.45 But, if we accept the doctrine of the evolution of man from animal forms, we are compelled to seek the origin of religious emotions and impulses in instincts that are not specifically religious. And consideration of the conditions, manifestations, and tendencies of religious emotions must lead to the same search. For it is clear that religious emotion is not a simple and specific variety, such as could be conditioned by any one instinct; it is rather a very complex and diversified product of the co-operation of several instincts, which bring forth very heterogeneous manifestations, differing from one another as widely as light from darkness, according to the degree and kind of guidance afforded by imagination and reason. Much has been written in recent years of instincts of imitation, of sympathy, and of play, and the postulation of these instincts seems to have been allowed to pass without challenge. Yet, as I shall show in the following section, there is no sufficient justification for it; for all the behaviour attributed to these three supposed instincts may be otherwise accounted for. Professor James admits an instinct of emulation or rivalry, but the propriety of this admission is to my mind questionable. It is possible that all the behaviour which is attributed to this instinct may be accounted for as proceeding from the instincts of pugnacity and of selfdisplay or self- assertion. It would, I think, be difficult to make out any good case for the existence of such an instinct in the animal world. But a suggestion as to the peculiar position and origin of a human instinct of emulation will be made in the next chapter. Chapter IV Some General or Non-Specific Innate Tendencies