James H. Capshew

Engineering behavior: Project Pigeon, World War II, and the conditioning of B. F. Skinner.

During the Second World War the scientific outlook and professional goals of American psychologist B. F. Skinner underwent a remarkable metamorphosis. Wartime contingencies reshaped his research agenda and converted him to the cause of behavioral engineering. Before the war, Skinner was reluctant to venture very far outside the academic laboratory. He was a scientific purist who resisted extrapolating the results of his animal experimentation to the realm of human behavior. After the war, he attempted to make such connections boldly explicit, arguing that the scientific principles of behaviorism had widespread applicability to human affairs. By the 1950s Skinner had emerged as an advocate of the use of operant conditioning techniques for the control of individual and group behavior in a variety of settings and promoted applications ranging from teaching machines to the design of entire societies. Skinners transition from inventive scientist to social inventor can be

Psychology at Indiana University: From Bryan to Skinner

Indiana University is the location of the oldest continuing psychology laboratory in America. William Lowe Bryan, a future president of the American Psychological Association, opened the laboratory in January of 1888 and subsequently performed his classic experiments on Morse Code learning there in the 1890s. This article describes the individuals and themes that guided the development of psychology at Indiana in its first 60 years, ending with the chairmanship and activities of B. F. Skinner in 1945–48. The most significant contributions of the members of the department are reviewed and assessed.

Making Herman B Wells: Moral Development and Emotional Trauma in a Boone County Boyhood

My first encounter with Herman Wells, in April 1977, was a job interview for the position of houseman at the chancellor’s residence. I was working my way through college at Indiana University and was responding to a notice posted at the student financial aid office. The receptionist in Owen Hall ushered me into the expansive, high-ceilinged room, painted a pale blue, where the septuagenarian chancellor sat working at a roomy desk. Tall bookcases lined opposite walls; old paintings hung on the wall between. Every available surface was cluttered with objets d’art and gewgaws. A bank of open windows let in the springtime air, faintly perfumed with blossoming trees and flowers. I strode to greet him, my hand outstretched. Noticing my entrance, Wells struggled to rise from his chair, but he could not quite make it. With a rueful smile, he grabbed my proffered hand and pulled firmly, slowing easing his bulk upright. As he stood before me, a few inches shorter than my six feet, I noticed his large head, with wavy white hair and a small mustache, bright blue eyes beneath bushy eyebrows, an