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Editors’ Introduction

Why Teach Modern Philosophy?

In this introduction, we would like to discuss how to teach modern philosophy to undergrads. In
order to answer the question of how, though, it might be useful first to ask why.
Why do we teach surveys of modern philosophy to undergrads? Most departments offer such
a course and many require it for the major. Why is this course such a staple of departments
across the country? Now, we are not simply asking why this course is worthy, full stop; rather,
we are interested in why we so often offer or even require this course rather than other courses
we could offer or require. Is the hoary History of Modern survey worthy of its central location
in undergraduate curricula? If so, why? That is the question we would like to investigate.
Let me begin by stating what should be the obvious, given this volume: we DO think we
should teach surveys in modern philosophy to our undergrads! In this section, however, we are
going to look more critically at a bunch of reasons that we normally hear in answer to the why
question. We will finally settle on a modest answer to the why question and then see how that
answer shapes how and what we should teach in modern surveys.
Before we consider a bunch of reasons we often hear, let us make a distinction between the
group of reasons one might give for conducting research in the history of modern philosophy
(or perhaps teaching grad seminars in it) and requiring it of undergrads. Given that most under-
grad majors do not go to grad school to become philosophy professors, these two groups of
reasons might be fairly distinct. What we will say concerns only teaching to undergrads.
Though some of our observations might apply to the work of graduate students and researchers,
we will leave such applications aside today.
So: why teach modern to undergrads? We suppose one reason someone might give is that we
ought to do so because we always have (for rather short values of “always,” given that the tradi-
tion of doing so is not more than a century or so old). Call this institutional inertia. We think we
can all agree this reason stinks, frankly, and so we won’t spend much time on it.
OK, we shall divide the reasons we often encounter into two groups, intrinsic value (A) and
instrumental value (B). Most people probably believe the modern survey has both intrinsic and
instrumental value for undergrads, and we agree, so we do not take the taxonomy here to be
exclusive—or exhaustive, for that matter. First, we will consider some claims about the intrin-
sic value of the modern survey course for undergrads.
(A1) The first claim of intrinsic value we sometimes hear given to support why we should
teach modern philosophy to undergrads could be called the “Great Books” justification. One
might say that studying Descartes or Kant is part of this complete philosophical education, that a
student has not properly been educated in philosophy until they have studied this or that. We find
this argument problematic. Why value Descartes intrinsically over a thinker from another period
or culture, for example? Why not a survey of a different period in history, such as Medieval or
Renaissance philosophy? Or a survey of philosophy from outside of Western Europe, such as one
of Ancient Chinese ethics and politics instead? Or even one on Alan Turing or Octavia Butler?
viii   Editors’ Introduction

Recall this discussion concerns the real world, in which we cannot simply say, “Yes students
should study ALL of these.” Yes, they should, but we are concerned instead with the question a
curriculum subcommittee of a philosophy department at an Amer­ican university takes up when
it decides what courses to offer and what to require for the major. Modern surveys usually make
the cut, while Medieval and Confucius and Turing and Butler usually do not. Unless one adopts
a problematically old fashioned notion of a canon of Great Books that includes Descartes but
excludes more recent work, or that by women and people of color, as well as anyone writing
outside of the Western European context, this justification falls flat. We often find the more
hagiographic teachers and writers assume such things, that their chosen authors or periods are
somehow the only ones who got it right. OK, let’s hope we can find a better reason for requir-
ing modern than this.
(A2) Still, someone might wish to argue that such a survey does have intrinsic value. For
example, one might invoke Dan Garber’s reasons for his own interest in the history of philo-
sophy, what he calls an antiquarian interest. These concepts and debates are really interesting
and beautiful on their own terms and that might just be enough justification for some people to
study them and, indeed, for some students to learn about them. This would frame the reasons
for teaching the history of philosophy as similar to the reasons for teaching art history, perhaps.
That is, these “masterworks” from the past reward careful study.
Though we think this is a noble and, to me, quite familiar motivation for studying the more
obscure elements of Spinoza or Cavendish, say, we don’t find it as effective as a justification.
After all, all the courses we listed above, those on Medieval or Confucius or Alan Turing or
Octavia Butler, for example, could provide the same justification. So, while the antiquarian jus-
tification might be enough to, for example, justify offering a modern survey as an elective (hey
it’s neat, so why not?), it is less effective as a reason to require such a survey … unless, of
course, a case could be made that the texts and debates of the Modern Period are objectively
more interesting from an antiquarian perspective than those others. But that’s not an argument
we are willing to make, as we mentioned above.
It looks like the usual justifications for teaching modern philosophy because of its intrinsic
value over other worthy courses has a hard road to travel. What about instrumental reasons to
favor it over other courses? We will turn to those now.
(B1) Most commonly, when someone offers an instrumental justification for why a depart-
ment should offer or require a modern survey, they will claim that one can understand present
philosophical problems by studying their origins (or, if the speaker wishes not to offend the
ancient philosopher in the room, they might refer to the modern period as the time at which
these philosophical problems took their modern form). We shall refer to this as a genealogical
justification of modern surveys.
(B1a) we have three worries about this approach. The first is simply to wonder whether the
assumptions here are true. First, do our major twenty-­first century philosophical problems in
fact derive from those of the modern period, rather than being new, or rather than deriving from
some other period of philosophy? And second, even if present problems really derive from this
period, do students get a better grasp of them by studying their histories? This may be an
assumption that flirts with the genetic fallacy, if not outright commits it. After all, just because
these problems might have some history that stretches back to the early modern period, it does
not follow that the present form of these problems resemble their seventeenth century
forebears.
(B1b) The second comes from the contextualist historian of philosophy within, who says
that this is a presentist, anachronistic way to approach seventeenth or eighteenth century philo-
sophy. Bringing one’s twenty-­first century philosophical problems and looking for them in the
seventeenth century will inevitably distort our historical understanding, and so on.
On the other hand, we then say, this is supposed to be an instrumental justification for teach-
ing these courses to undergrads—if the purpose here is to give them certain skills, or to help
 Editors’ Introduction   ix

them think about twenty-­first century philosophy, who cares if they get the seventeenth century
wrong? After all, why should we think that getting the seventeenth century right is of intrinsic
or instrumental value for undergrads in a modern survey? So we are not sure just yet about that
line of thought, though we shall return to it below.
(B1c) We have a third, more serious worry about this genealogical justification for teaching
modern surveys, however. We worry that this justification—that twenty-­first century philo-
sophy originates from the texts of the modern period—may turn on an unnecessarily conser-
vative view of what present philosophical practice looks like, for it assumes a too narrow
continuity between what mostly white male Christian Europeans cared about four hundred
years ago, due to their having significantly more access to education and publishing, and the
whole practice of philosophy today. For if twenty-­first century philosophy is truly to be broader
and more inclusive than how it was then, the justification for a modern survey course could
apply equally to a course in any other national/continental context, such as Asian Philosophy,
indigenous philosophy, Africana philosophy, etc. … But those courses never get justified by
presentist concerns (i.e., this course will help us to understand present debates) And not just
with regard to the perspectives and subject positions, but also the content. After all, some might
think that philosophy has sufficiently changed, perhaps due to scientific advance, say, so that
the concepts and arguments of Descartes are different enough in kind that no good presentist
justification is forthcoming. So, we worry that one must make a fairly conservative assumption—
where philosophers in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries hit upon “timeless debates and
eternal concepts”—for this argument to work.
(B2) An entirely different sort of instrumental justification given for studying modern
­philosophy—indeed, a kind of photo negative of the above—is as tales of warning. You know
the type: people teach Descartes only so that they can focus on how bad the Circle is and so on.
Students leave such classes wondering why they needed to learn about these guys at all if they
got everything so badly wrong. We do not find this pedagogically very valuable. If we simply
want a list of bad negative examples, we are not sure why we would need to slog through a
bunch of weird historical context and terms to get to them. We will also include in this category
those who say that teaching modern philosophy is somehow the best way to teach critical think-
ing. We agree that it is a way to teach critical thinking, but surely not the best. Indeed, we
suspect that it is in fact worse than many contemporary classes, given the extra historical
baggage one must unpack before one gets to any argument analysis, for example. Surely, there
are enough examples of bad philosophy published more recently?
(B3) OK, it’s looking bad for modern philosophy here; so far, all the common reasons given
for its inclusion seem pretty weak. But take heart, for now we would like to propose another
instrumental reason for teaching modern surveys, one that might be somewhat more successful.
We would like to suggest that one special value that a modern survey can offer is a chance to
study an alternative history of ideas, so to speak.1
One worry we raised concerning the genealogical justification is its inherently conservative
nature. As Eric Schliesser puts it, this justification displays a clear status quo bias. Perhaps we
can reduce this bias, however. It is true that, if one focuses on the “winners” of the debate, the
“canonical” texts, this bias emerges. But what if one considers those who “lost” the debates, or
those who were forgotten—or even erased?2
It might be that, in showing students the alternatives to our present conceptions—the stories
that failed, so to speak—we can render more contingent the victors. And, to the extent that they
see the reasonableness—in the historical context, at least—of those views, they can come to
understand the reasonableness of views that they currently do not accept, in principle at least.
And, finally, if it is true that these philosophical concepts shape their worldview beyond just the
realm of academic philosophy—as in political philosophy, ethics, metaphysics broadly con-
strued, topics of race and gender, etc.—getting students to encounter and buy into the views
that “lost” really can help them to develop a multiplicity of philosophical perspective taking, so
x   Editors’ Introduction

to speak, which might very well be a good thing. Note that this is not merely being able to
recount the various perspectives the thinkers had, but something more. By trying not just to
recognize but motivate those views, one can see the degree of reasonableness or philosophical
attractiveness the views might hold—and it is this practice that delivers the benefits we have in
mind here.
It is also worth reminding the reader of just why some of these views lost, so to speak, and
have been erased from history. To be sure, some of the views simply conflicted with scientific
and philosophical evidence and argument to such an extent that they fell by the wayside. But
many other views, texts, and authors disappeared for social and political reasons, namely,
because those writing the histories of philosophy in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries
often intentionally omitted them.3
So, perhaps something like a genealogical justification can work, but not a hagiographic atti-
tude of praising the victors, elevating the Great Books. Rather, one could adopt a critical genea-
logical justification for teaching the history of modern philosophy survey. If it is the case that at
least some of our prevailing philosophical worldview and at least some of our central philo-
sophical debates took their modern form in early modern Europe, then studying the period criti-
cally, and doing so in a way that recovers and considers the lost and forgotten from the period,
will actually have instrumental value for the students, in that it will help them to consider more
fully their own assumptions and the assumptions underlying those contemporary concepts and
debates.
Let us try now to pull out the positive elements here and put them together into a unified jus-
tification for teaching modern philosophy. First of all, surveys in modern philosophy can be
inherently interesting and worthwhile, in the same way that the content of most other courses is,
so it is not unreasonable to consider including such courses in a department curriculum. Second,
one can teach critical thinking and close reading skills via a history survey, though probably no
better than via any other philosophy class. Again, these can serve as a reason not to exclude
such classes, but not yet a reason to include them over others.
Finally, though, we might say that surveys in the history of modern philosophy that attend to
the debates out of which some of our prevailing philosophical concepts originated, making sure
to include the losers of those debates, so to speak, can provide students with a way to take up
philosophical perspectives different from their own. That is, assuming that at least some of the
concepts and assumptions that shape twenty-­first century America have some of their origin in
early modern Europe, it follows that surveys in modern philosophy are better positioned than
most other courses to provide students a chance to see the contingency of their own beliefs—or,
at least, of the beliefs they encounter in the world around them. Thus modern surveys may have
a special justification that most other courses might lack.
In short, then, there is a qualified sense in which a critical genealogical justification for
favoring the teaching of the history of modern philosophy over some other courses might work,
namely, that it is uniquely situated to help students understand not only how the prevailing con-
cepts around them came to be, but to see those concepts are being contingent, as having reason-
able alternatives, and being vulnerable to challenge.
Now to return to our reason for raising the question of why we should teach history of
modern surveys, if indeed we should at all. We think that this answer conditions how one
should teach the course—and what one should include. In short, one has to tell the story of how
some prevailing norms or concepts came out of live debates in the period and one must include
a sympathetic or charitable focus on those who lost those debates as well as those who are per-
ceived to have won. Only the inclusion of such thinkers can achieve the effect we have identi-
fied as being especially well suited for modern surveys.
Secondarily, our courses should include texts and arguments that are also intrinsically inter-
esting, to appeal to the antiquarian in our students. And finally, they should also teach critical
thinking and reading skills, as all philosophy courses should.
 Editors’ Introduction   xi

It may be, however, that the above given justifications also work for teaching nineteenth
century philosophy and even an historical approach to twentieth century philosophy. So be it;
we for one would welcome the inclusion of a late modern (nineteenth–twentieth century)
history of philosophy survey alongside the early modern one.
Let use offer one further, more speculative justification that favors modern philosophy in
particular, even over nineteenth and twentieth century courses, though we are less convinced of
the following reason than we are of those we gave in the previous paragraph.
Perhaps modern surveys are better than other courses we require of students because the
texts that modern surveys cover may very well be the last real examples of philosophical texts
that cover debates across a wide scope of topics and disciplines in a way that an undergrad
would be able to understand. In short, we would suggest that, after the late eighteenth century
or early nineteenth century, the division of labor in philosophy and scholarship in general
advanced to such a point that really serious work was either highly specialized and thus not
accessible to undergrads, or fairly narrow and thus did not give students a chance to dabble in
as rich of a conceptual experience as they could in the seventeenth century, say.
For example, the ethics or political philosophy of the seventeenth century is often explicitly
metaphysical and in dialogue with the natural philosophy of the time; indeed, many texts one
might read in the seventeenth century will tie together science, religion, metaphysics, and pol-
itics in a way few texts in the past two hundred years are able to do. This is beneficial because it
allows students to see the connections across these areas in a way that is harder to bring to the
surface in more recent texts. And seeing these connections—how aesthetics connects to philo-
sophy of mind and metaphysics and on to religion and science, for example—uniquely situates
the modern philosophy survey as a gateway to more specialized study in philosophy.
So, perhaps, in addition to the critical genealogical justification we gave above, we might
offer one final, more tentative justification for favoring modern surveys over other courses: it is
the last time philosophy texts were written that would allow undergrads to engage philosophical
issues across a wide range of topics, without requiring them to have studied a great deal of
philosophy beforehand, which makes the modern philosophy survey a good gateway, if
you will.
And if this is a legitimate rationale, the teaching upshot would be that we should include
texts that do indeed engage a variety of topics in philosophy, broadly construed. Putting this
last speculative reason together with what came before, then, we are left with the following.
One should teach modern philosophy surveys that cover a range of philosophical subfields, not
one that focuses solely on epistemology or metaphysics, for example, and one should further be
sure to include all sides of the various debates of the period, so as to promote the practice of
taking alternative philosophical perspectives.4

How to Teach Modern Philosophy

As has been implicit in the discussion above, we believe that the history of modern philosophy
is a hybrid enterprise.5 Historians of modern philosophy are philosophers and, so, engage with
arguments and analyze concepts, yet our work also differs from ahistorical philosophers, in that
we practice philosophy through an engagement with historical texts. Philosophers disagree,
sometimes strongly, about the degree to which the work of historians of philosophy differs—or
ought to differ—from that of ahistorical philosophers.6
We will not recount those disputes here, nor adjudicate the difficult questions they concern.
Even so, we can hear echoes of such disputes when we consider how (or whether!) to teach the
history of modern philosophy. How different ought the course goals for a history of modern
philosophy class be from those of an ahistorical course? Ought the assignments involve more
analysis of the readings, say, than in an ahistorical course? The answers to these questions
depend, in part, on what one thinks of the practice of the history of modern philosophy.
xii   Editors’ Introduction

In this section, we shall propose several viable ways to approach such questions, rather
than argue for a single way to teach the history of modern philosophy. This pluralist approach
is a reflection of a theoretical position in the methodological debates we mentioned above, to
be sure, but it also reflects the attitudes that most historians of modern philosophy have
toward teaching their field. Whereas there may once have been a single, relatively canonical
way to teach modern philosophy, scholars of the field now depart from it regularly—and
sometimes radically, as we shall discuss below. Though one may still teach the course
“canonically,” one also has the option to personalize this course, both concerning the read-
ings, topics, and assignments.
In the next subsection, we shall discuss the goals that one might adopt in teaching a course
in modern philosophy. We shall discuss our own course goals and explain why we choose the
ones we do. In the subsection following, we shall address the question of what topics one could
cover in the course. How one answers this question will largely determine the reading list and
help to structure the syllabus. Furthermore, this is probably the area of broadest diversity among
people who teach modern philosophy. We shall first provide a “canonical” set of topics and
authors, followed by some alternatives.
In the next subsection, we shall then argue for at least one way in which teachers ought to
depart from the canonical set of readings, specifically, by using a more diverse set of authors.
We argue that doing so is beneficial for two reasons. First, syllabuses containing only white
males may alienate some of our best students and, we suggest, may partially explain the relative
lack of diversity among professional philosophers. Second, apart from such concerns, the philo-
sophical content of the syllabus can be improved by doing so, because several of the most
important debates of the period included critically important women. In other words, one can
create a syllabus with women authors, which is actually better, both historically and philosophi-
cally, than the “canonical” all-­male lineup. Or so we shall argue in this subsection.
In the next subsection, we discuss writing assignments and methods of student evaluation,
followed in a further subsection by in-­class activities and other teaching strategies that we have
found to be particularly helpful in teaching the history of modern philosophy. In the final sub-
section, we shall end this essay with a consideration of the particular challenges and rewards of
teaching modern philosophy.

Course Goals
The course goals for a history of modern philosophy class will resemble those of other philo-
sophy courses. For example, the course goals for Marshall’s history of modern philosophy
course are as follows. Students are

1 to become familiar with the central themes and arguments of the early modern period;
2 to learn to read historical texts in philosophy in their historical and philosophical context,
so that the students may grasp more accurately the arguments therein;
3 to improve their philosophical writing and speaking, so that they may present and discuss
these arguments clearly and accurately; and
4 to learn to engage these historical arguments critically, considering their strengths and
weaknesses, presenting objections and considering replies.

We include a version of each of these goals in all of our courses. In general, students are to
become familiar with the course material and concepts, to learn to read the relevant philo-
sophical prose and identify the central arguments, to become able to present those (and their
own) arguments clearly, and to develop a facility for critical engagement with and evaluation of
arguments, objections, and replies. As we said, these goals generally apply to most philosophy
courses.
 Editors’ Introduction   xiii

The goals of a history of modern philosophy course, on the other hand, also involve learning
to read specifically historical texts and engaging with historical arguments.7 By “historical
arguments” here we mean those arguments that were made at a sufficiently distant time in the
past, which were a response to a certain historically distant philosophical milieu, or perhaps in
response to a particular historically distant philosophical argument or problem. This is not to
say that these arguments are merely historical, but to note that there may be aspects of the argu-
ment, or at least of its presentation and context, that require some historical awareness to under-
stand completely. In other words, in order to make the most of the arguments they find in these
historical texts, students are best served if they can understand at least some of the context in
which those arguments were presented.
Here is one place where debates about the nature and proper methodology of the history of
philosophy arise. On the one hand, in writing the syllabus for a history of modern philosophy
course, a professor could approach the texts ahistorically, considering Locke on personal iden-
tity alongside Parfit, say. The course goals, then, would be very much like those of ahistorical
courses, in that they would focus exclusively on identifying problems and engaging with argu-
ments, period. On the other hand, a professor could approach the text in a more contextualist
mode, writing goals that treat the arguments as historically situated phenomena that must be
analyzed as part of a past conversation. In this case, the course goals would focus more on exe-
getical elements, though they should still involve argument analysis and engagement, of course.
In short, one can approach the history of philosophy in a variety of ways, from differing per-
spectives, with different agendas.8
We would argue that, to get the most out of Locke on identity or Descartes on knowledge,
say, it helps to understand what they might have meant by those concepts and in response to
what other views they might have been presenting as their own. Given that these historical
figures might be operating under assumptions that they, their audience, and their interlocutors
all shared, but that we do not, it behooves us to know something of that philosophical context
when evaluating their arguments. And once twenty-­first century readers understand this context,
they will be better positioned to engage with those historical arguments.
What’s more, when we attempt to understand the historical and philosophical context in this
way, we gain insight into our own philosophical practice. Jerry Schneewind stated this point
well in a book review, saying:

Historians of philosophy are sometimes criticized for making their study relevant to current
issues at the cost of being anachronistic, of reading the past through today’s conceptual
spectacles. If they avoid this, they may be criticized for being mere antiquarians, loving
study of the past for its own sake (that is, for being historians).… Daniel Garber, who
insists on contextualizing past writings to avoid anachronism, passionately embraces anti-
quarianism. And he argues that it is from antiquarian history that problem-­solving analytic
philosophers have the most to learn … What properly and fully contextualized study of the
past can do is to show us the many different things philosophers were doing in working on
the problems we take as central … History gives us fresh views of what philosophy has
done and so can do—of what it was and so can be. And this is what is needed by problem-­
solvers today.9

Garber’s approach, one that he himself calls antiquarian, can bring students to adopt radic-
ally different philosophical perspectives and assumptions, if only for a short time. Doing so
reveals their own assumptions to be contingent in a way they very often did not realize. The
spirit of Garber’s approach informs the course goals we presented above. By first understanding
the arguments in their context, students get to try on different philosophical perspectives and
assumptions. Only after having done so should they engage these arguments ahistorically,
asking whether they are sound. This two-­step process is, we think, one of the most distinctive
xiv   Editors’ Introduction

and important contributions a history of philosophy course can offer, because it teaches stu-
dents to read others more accurately and charitably while also causing them to see their own
assumptions more clearly. In two of the subsections below we shall describe how we structure
assignments and classroom activities around this ideal.
We have presented and explained the course goals we use in teaching the history of modern
philosophy, but we could imagine other ways to write goals for such a course. For one thing,
our goals are fairly general, whereas others might prefer more specific goals. For example, our
first goal requires students to become familiar with the themes and arguments of the early
modern period. One could instead indicate more precisely which arguments or themes one
wants the students to master, particularly if one has structured the course around one or two
themes or arguments. We shall turn next to the question of choosing particular topics and
themes of history of modern philosophy courses.

Topics and Themes

What to teach in a history of modern philosophy course? At one time this may have been an
easier question to answer; one taught the seven canonical figures: Descartes, Spinoza, Leibniz,
Locke, Berkeley, Hume, and Kant. We shall begin this subsection by elaborating on this canon-
ical picture in some detail.
Traditionally, one begins a class in modern philosophy with Descartes, telling the story of
the rationalists’ pursuit of certainty, with their emphasis on firm foundations, innate ideas, and
eternal truths. One reads Descartes’s Meditations, focusing particularly on the First through
Third Meditations, where Descartes presents his method of doubt, his “I think” intuition, his
argument for clarity and distinctness as a criterion for discovering truth, and, finally, his argu-
ment for the existence of God, and ending with the wax analogy. Next one would read the Sixth
Meditation, emphasizing particularly the proof of the existence of the external world and the
real distinction arguments (though sometimes such classes will also read the Fourth and Fifth
Meditations, looking at Descartes’s take on the will and his second argument for the existence
of God).
Next, a canonical class would likely, but not always, include excerpts from Part One of
Spinoza’s Ethics, especially the first 15 propositions of Part One, which together constitute his
argument for substance monism. Up next is Leibniz, the third and final rationalist. Standard
readings include his Discourse on Metaphysics and/or Monadology.
After Leibniz, one pivots to the empiricists and reads Locke, particularly Book One and
excerpts from Book Two of his Essay. The focus in this canonical narrative often rests on his
rejection of innate ideas in Book One and his empiricism in the early to middle sections of
Book Two, including the primary/secondary quality distinction. One then may read his critique
of the concept of substance, which can serve as a reply to Spinoza and Leibniz. Sometimes his
account of essences, freedom of the will, and other topics are also included, though most of the
time such “canonical” courses do not go beyond Book Two (unfortunately). After Locke, such
courses will usually turn to Berkeley’s Three Dialogues, focusing on his arguments there for
immaterialism. Finally, the empiricists are completed with Hume’s Enquiry Concerning Human
Understanding, at least sections one through five, and section seven, and also section eight if
one has decided to include Locke on free will. One then concludes the course with a bit of Kant,
with his Prolegomena to Any Future Metaphysics, explaining how he synthesizes the rationalist
and empiricist worldviews.
This is how we were taught the history of modern philosophy as undergrads and it is likely
how it is most often taught today. We shall call this the canonical narrative. This story is
canonical along two lines. First, the list of authors and works included is fairly standard. Some-
times other works from the same authors are included or substituted; students might read other
works of Leibniz, or excerpts from Hume’s Treatise or Kant’s first Critique, and so on. The
 Editors’ Introduction   xv

story is canonical along a second line as well, however—that of theme. The narrative above
focuses heavily on epistemology, from Descartes’s quest for certain knowledge, to the empiri-
cist challenge, to Kant’s self-­described revolutionary Copernican synthesis.
We do not wish to suggest that this is an unreasonable way to teach the course. Indeed, it can
be effective. One can begin with some historical background, introducing students to the crisis
of religious authority in the sixteenth century from the Reformation and the crisis of scientific
and metaphysical authority from the likes of Copernicus, Kepler, and Galileo. This sets up Des-
cartes’s enterprise nicely and, with the move to the empiricists, allows us to tell a story (perhaps
a just-­so story) about the origin of modern science. It also places Kant in the role of savior of
philosophy, which might suit some philosophers (though not us!) as well. In short, in the
previous five paragraphs, someone new to teaching the history of modern philosophy can find
the outlines of a workable syllabus.
For those who are willing to do only a bit more work, however, we would suggest a more
interesting syllabus. After all, consider whom the canonical narrative omits from its list of
authors: Bacon, Cavendish, Hobbes, Pascal, Malebranche, Newton, Reid, Rousseau, and Woll-
stonecraft, to name a few. Now, if the theme of the course is indeed the quest for knowledge or
the rise of modern science, why isn’t Newton or his philosophical associate Clarke on the list?
Why not Bacon?
What’s more, we would argue that the division into rationalists and empiricists is itself prob-
lematic. For example, if we consider the question of whether reality is ultimately intelligible—
that is, if the Principle of Sufficient Reason is true—we arguably find that Descartes sides with
Hume against Spinoza and Leibniz. If we ask, on the other hand, whether human reason can
control the passions, we find Spinoza siding with Hume against Descartes. And if we consider
their political views, we find Descartes, Leibniz, and Hume to be relatively conservative, Locke
to be liberal, and Spinoza to be relatively radical.
In other words, the canonical narrative, though serviceable, is not the only way to teach the
history of modern philosophy. Indeed, most scholars of the history of modern philosophy will
avoid or at least complicate this canonical narrative in their own teaching. Recently, historians
of modern philosophy have held several public discussions about teaching modern philosophy
and one thing is clear: the canonical narrative is no longer the only way to teach this period.10
Interestingly, no single alternative has emerged. Rather, scholars of the period are now teaching
modern philosophy in a wide range of different ways. It seems that the history of modern philo-
sophy course is in flux. We have already sketched the canonical narrative. In what follows we
shall provide a few alternatives.
Given that most people teaching the history of modern philosophy for the first time will not
already be steeped in the details and scholarship of the period, it may be easier not to stray too
far from the aforementioned canonical narrative, with which we take most philosophers to have
some familiarity. For example, one could elect to include the canonical narrative, while enrich-
ing the course by broadening to include some broader metaphysical topics, such as causation,
substance, or the mind–body problem. So, if one chooses to include the theme of substance, one
might begin with Descartes, as described above, but making sure to focus on his arguments
about the real distinction and substantial union in the Sixth Meditation. Next one could study
Hobbes’s materialism, reading the first six or sections from his Leviathan. One would continue
to follow the canonical narrative, looking at substance in Spinoza and Leibniz, as well as its cri-
tique in Locke, Berkeley, and Kant. In short, one need not stray from the canonical syllabus;
rather, one simply emphasizes distinct arguments in the canonical texts.
If one wishes to include causation, which was a hot topic in the period, one would likely
have to supplement the canonical syllabus a bit more. For example, one would have to include
some work from the seventeenth century occasionalists, who wrestle with the challenges of
causation in Cartesian mechanism, of whom Malebranche is the best exemplar, both as an inter-
esting critic of Descartes and as a predecessor to Hume. Then one would likely spend more
xvi   Editors’ Introduction

time talking about causation in Hume and Kant. Again, this is not a significant departure from
the canonical syllabus and, so, is not beyond the pale for those new to teaching the course.
Finally, if one wishes to include some of the mind–body problem, one ought to include Elis-
abeth’s critiques of the Cartesian real distinction argument, as well as, again, Hobbes’s materi-
alist account. After having considered Cartesian dualism and Hobbesian materialism, one could
turn to Margaret Cavendish for a third option, panpsychism, which is roughly the view that
mind is a fundamental feature of the world and, for Cavendish, a fundamental feature of matter.
She attempts to position herself as rejecting both Cartesian dualism and Hobbesian materialism
and, as such, presents a fascinating third perspective on the debate. Given that twenty-­first
century philosophers have recently begun to reconsider panpsychism as a new way to approach
the mind–body problem, Cavendish may have new relevance. After Cavendish, one could then
return to the canonical syllabus in considering two further panpsychists, Spinoza and Leibniz,
and then on to other views on the mind as found in Locke, Hume, and Kant. Again, this is a rel-
atively minor tweak to the canonical syllabus, though it would require most new teachers to
encounter a philosopher they might not have read before, Margaret Cavendish.
So far we have presented a canonical syllabus, one that should be familiar to most philo-
sophers. We have then suggested a few minor tweaks to broaden the focus beyond the narrowly
epistemological to include some topics in metaphysics. We shall now propose one final, more
significant deviation from the canonical syllabus. Specifically, one could teach the course with
a substantial political philosophy component. One’s syllabus might include selections from
Hobbes’s Leviathan, Spinoza’s Theological–Political Treatise, and Locke’s Second Treatise of
Government. One could then look to Mandeville’s Fable of the Bees and Rousseau’s Social
Contract, as well as Hume’s “Of the Original Contract.” Finally, one could conclude with an
excerpt from Burke’s Reflections on the Revolution in France and at least the first few sections
of Wollstonecraft’s Vindication of the Rights of Woman. Such a path would involve discussions
of the relationship between citizen and society, the origin of sovereignty, and questions of
education and gender. With effort, this thread can be presented in the same class as the more
metaphysics and epistemology oriented material; when this social and political material is
included, students get a much richer picture of the history of modern philosophy, as well as a
better understanding of the significance of the Enlightenment.11
Which of these many topics and authors ought one choose? As we said, there is a canonical
narrative, but one can choose to focus on a variety of different topics within the canonical texts,
being guided by instructor and student interest. So, for example, if one is teaching on a quarter
schedule, one might not have time for several distinct themes, in which case one might wish to
track only one or two threads. If one expects that most students will not be majors, then one
might opt to include the social and political theme (due to its broad appeal) and avoid the
debates around substance and causation, as those might alienate or confuse students with no
philosophy background. Similarly, if the course serves as an introduction to philosophy for
many students, then including some social and political philosophy and, perhaps, a sampling of
the metaphysical issues could provide a nice overview of philosophical questions.
In sum, when a professor is to teach the history of modern philosophy for the first time, she
might wish to stick to the familiar, canonical narrative with which we began this subsection.
Perhaps the second time she teaches, she might shift her focus within the canonical syllabus to
a wider variety of metaphysical topics. Finally, if she wishes to deviate more significantly from
this traditional narrative, we would suggest that she incorporate a social and political philo-
sophy component.

Challenging the Canon

By broadening the themes one might emphasize in a history of modern philosophy course, one
will usually alter the list of authors one will teach. We have claimed, above, that the needs of
 Editors’ Introduction   xvii

one’s students and one’s own philosophical interests might lead one to include panpsychism, or
political philosophy, for example, in a history of modern philosophy course; such changes
would naturally alter the list of authors one teaches.
Now, the focus-­shifting and broadening we discussed above already provides several altern-
ative author lists that include women; Elisabeth of Bohemia, Margaret Cavendish, and Mary
Wollstonecraft all received mention. In this subsection, however, we shall argue that we ought
to consider altering the list of authors we teach in modern philosophy in at least one salient
way, namely, with regard to gender representation, and that we have reason to do so beyond the
thematic ones we have already discussed in the previous subsection.12
We propose that we might make philosophy more open to women if we change how we
think of the discipline’s history and, more precisely, how we teach it. Consider the fact that the
authors in the canonical narrative are all white men. Philosophy is a discipline that values its
history greatly and that takes these canonical figures very seriously, both as interlocutors and
models. We suggest that this presents a picture of philosophy that is contrary to our goals of
inviting a more diverse student body to study philosophy. By presenting philosophy as the prac-
tice of a pantheon of white male Europeans, we suggest, we make it somewhat more difficult to
create an inclusive environment, one in which women and minorities might be able to visualize
themselves succeeding.
To be sure, women philosophers have been making their way on to history of modern philo-
sophy syllabuses for the past few decades. Thanks to trail-­blazing work by feminist historians
of philosophy like Eileen O’Neill, for example, who has called our attention to the erasure of
these women from the history of philosophy, we now have useful resources and anthologies of
work by women philosophers from the period, such as Margaret Atherton’s collection.13 And
the work of women interlocutors is sometimes included in anthologies of the canonical
men—for example, Elisabeth of Bohemia is now sometimes included with Descartes.14 This is
progress, to be sure, but it is not enough.
To see why this is a problem—and to get an idea of what a more inclusive syllabus might
look like—we propose a version of the Bechdel Test for philosophy syllabuses. For those who
do not know, Alison Bechdel is a comic artist who proposed the following test for movies in
1985 in her comic Dykes to Watch Out For.15 The test requires that a film has (1) at least two
women characters, (2) who speak to each other, (3) about something other than a man. A shock-
ingly low percentage of films pass this test.
A philosophy syllabus—and, indeed, philosophy itself—is in many ways a conversation or
set of conversations about philosophical matters. We suggest then the following as a philosophy
syllabus Bechdel Test. A philosophy syllabus passes the test just when (1) it contains two or
more texts by women authors (2) who are, preferably, in dialogue with each other, (3) but, at
least, doing something other than merely responding to the ideas of a man. Let’s see what it
would look like to apply this to a syllabus.
Merely including Elisabeth of Bohemia in one’s history of modern syllabus, for example,
would only meet the first condition. In order to pass the test, one would have to have at least
two women philosophers, not merely discussing the philosophical work of a man. Rather, and
more importantly, they must be discussing their own philosophical issues and theories, or those
of another woman.
If we wish to empower women students and make them see that philosophy is not only a dis-
cipline in which they could succeed, but a discipline that takes women to be a part of its canon,
we need to have syllabuses that can pass some version of this test. Including Elisabeth is a good
start, but merely including her objections to Descartes, even though they are philosophically
brilliant, still places the woman philosopher in a dependent and secondary position to Descartes.
Even if we line up a series of women respondents to the men, we still have not presented
women as authentically worthy of study in their own right; they get their philosophical relev-
ance only from their engagement with men.
xviii   Editors’ Introduction

The real purpose behind the philosophy syllabus Bechdel Test is to guide us in creating a syl-
labus that could present philosophy in a way that frees women philosophers from being mere
addenda to the thought of men, when they are included at all. The goal, then, is to include women
philosophers, but also to make women philosophers robust and independent philosophers to the
same extent men are. We propose that, for a woman’s work to be robust and independent in that
way, it need primarily be able to stand alone as a work of philosophy in its own right. More pre-
cisely, if the woman largely sets her own philosophical agenda, then her thought has the sort of
independence necessary to satisfy the third criterion.16
The work of Mary Wollstonecraft meets this criterion, as does much of the work of Margaret
Cavendish and others. Each of these writers is sometimes responding to other authors in their
philosophical milieu, many of whom are men, but often they are writing in their own voice, setting
their own philosophical agenda in their texts to the same extent that the canonical males are.
How best to include such authors? We suggest that the discussion in the previous sections,
about the Why of teaching the history of modern philosophy, as well as of broadening the
themes of the course, can help. By including the mind–body problem, say, one can easily
include Elisabeth and Cavendish, among other women. Indeed, there are many women who set
their own philosophical agendas in this period, and they belong alongside and equal to their
interlocutors, male and female. Furthermore, if we take the most important questions of the
period to include social and political philosophy, we can include Wollstonecraft and many more
women as primary interlocutors.17
So, by broadening the questions we take to be salient, and by committing ourselves, at the
very least, to the minimal standard of placing women authors in our syllabuses who can set
their own philosophical agenda, we can (a) tell the story of philosophy in a way that includes
women as primary interlocutors worthy of study in their own right, (b) get a richer and more
interesting picture of philosophy’s history, and (c) get a more accurate account of the (relat-
ively) diverse people and topics under discussion in the period.
In sum, our profession is in a sorry state with regard to diversity and we ought to do what we
can to address that.18 One way we can do so is by reconceiving philosophy and its history, espe-
cially with regard to how we teach its history. One tool for restructuring one’s syllabus along
more equitable gender lines, at least, is our proposed philosophy syllabus Bechdel Test, in
which at least two women speak to each other, or set their own agenda, in a way that is inde-
pendent of and not merely a reply to some male thinkers.

Writing Assignments and Evaluation

In the previous subsections, we have considered what themes and authors one might include in
teaching the history of modern philosophy. In this subsection, we shall discuss specific assign-
ments and methods of evaluation. Remember, though, that one has a choice with regard to how
historically or ahistorically one approaches this course. That choice will be reflected in the
activities and assignments one uses.
We keep Marshall’s course goals in mind when we design assignments and in-­class activ-
ities. We take a step-­wise approach, with assignments early on aimed at developing skills
related to the first three course goals—to become familiar with themes and arguments of the
period, to practice reading philosophical arguments in historical texts, and to present those argu-
ments clearly and accurately in writing and speech. Only gradually do we include the last
goal—engaging with these arguments philosophically. We find that building skills slowly in
this way helps students to develop and is particularly useful for students without a great deal of
philosophy background. A course for higher level students or majors only might not require
such a gradual approach, though such students might still benefit.
In the beginning of the course, we want them to become familiar with the arguments from
these texts, so we begin with small writing assignments in which students reconstruct
 Editors’ Introduction   xix

a­ rguments. Students often struggle more in a history of philosophy class than contemporary
classes with identifying and restating arguments, perhaps because the terminology and world-
view is often so foreign that it serves as an additional barrier. We require them both to restate
the argument in the author’s terms, via quotations, and to do so in their own. We do not always
require formal reconstructions of the arguments, though we may do so for specific instances.
For example, we might ask them to attempt to reconstruct Descartes’s argument for the
existence of God in the Third Meditation—a task they inevitably struggle with. This reconstruc-
tion can then serve as the basis for a subsequent assignment in which they are tasked with
evaluating the Cartesian Circle. We also like to explain to them that scholars disagree about
how to reconstruct this particular argument as well; in other words, we want them to understand
the difficulty of this task, because they might then feel better about their own struggles with the
assignment. We also have them attempt a formal reconstruction of the real distinction argument
from the Sixth Meditation. We then discuss these reconstructions in class in detail, re-­reading
the relevant passage together. This reconstruction then serves as the basis for a subsequent
assignment in which they evaluate Elisabeth’s interaction objection. If one is approaching the
course more ahistorically, this reconstruction assignment can serve as an occasion to discuss
whether conceivability entails possibility, the necessity of identity, and other principles.
As we said, we opt for a step-­wise approach, one in which we assign tasks that begin with
basic skills of reading and accurate exegesis, followed then by philosophical engagement. We
begin with reading a text and reconstructing its argument, followed in a subsequent assignment
in which they consider an objection and engage the debate themselves. After these largely exe-
getical assignments, we ask them to write short papers putting two philosophical positions into
dialogue.
For example, we might ask them to consider Descartes and Elisabeth on mind–body inter-
action. They are asked to present Descartes’s argument and then Elisabeth’s reply. At the end
we ask them to provide a brief evaluation of the debate. This way they get the practice of dia-
logical thinking, considering objections and replies, but they can do so first from the safety of
explaining other people’s thought rather than their own. Beyond Descartes, we might task them
to present Locke and Leibniz on innate ideas and then to take a side and argue against their
opponent and on behalf of their chosen ally. Or we might ask them to present and critique (or
defend!) Mandeville’s claim that private vice makes public virtue.
Only in the second half of the class do we begin assigning “traditional” philosophical essays,
asking them first to present a philosophical question raised in the text(s) and then to engage
with it themselves. We ask them to put together the skills they’ve been practicing of reading,
writing, and reconstructing arguments, objections, and replies. This usually involves two
papers, the first of which we might also require them to revise, because we find students do not
practice the act of revision nearly enough, either!
For later or final essays, we might ask them to take on one of the central questions we have
been discussing, to lay out the problem, consider possible solutions, and then to make their own
case for their position. Questions we might ask include the following: are we justified in believ-
ing that we can make empirical claims about the world that are necessarily true? Can we be
rationally justified when we assert that the sun not only will rise tomorrow but that it must? If
so, how do our minds gain access to these necessary laws or features of the natural world? Or,
if we have included political philosophy in the course, we might ask, when, if ever, do the rights
of the citizen in a state include a right to revolution? Or, we might ask, how is sovereignty con-
stituted, or how ought it to be?
With all of these essay prompts, we include specific details about what components we
require in their essay. First they must introduce the philosophical problem clearly; next, they
must present two or three attempts to answer the question found in our readings—and they must
do so clearly and accurately; next, they must engage those attempts, considering objections and
replies; finally, they must present a final evaluation, arguing on behalf of their chosen position.
xx   Editors’ Introduction

Through it all we ask them to practice clarity, charity, and straightforward language, but also to
attempt to be rationally persuasive.
In short, then, we begin with short writing assignments that give students practice at reading
texts in the history of modern philosophy and finding the arguments therein. We evaluate those
reconstructions on their accuracy and clarity. Next we ask them to pit two arguments (or an
argument and an objection) against one another. We evaluate these assignments not only for
accuracy and clarity, but also for how well the two arguments are put into dialogue. Does the
student capture what each author is trying to say? Does the student present the objection in a
way that is relevant to the original argument? Does the student account for or plausibly imagine
the original author’s reply? This provides them practice not only with reading and reporting
arguments, but putting them into dialogue with each other. Finally, in the final essays, we also
look for sound and cogent arguments in addition to the previously mentioned evaluative
criteria.

Activities and Strategies

Beyond writing assignments, we also work on philosophical fundamentals, so to speak, through
in-­class activities, both reading and writing. For example, we will put an important but perhaps
opaque passage on the overhead or a handout and we will read it together, taking turns para-
phrasing sentences, identifying the conclusion and premises, etc. We also do this sort of thing
with small groups so that we can compare their differing ways of reading the same passage. We
find that students—even philosophy majors—often benefit immensely from some extra help
and practice simply reading and summarizing arguments from historical texts.
We also employ in-­class writing activities. For example, after having been assigned to read a
difficult passage, we will ask students, in pairs, to write a 200-word abstract of the article or
section they have just read. We find students are better able to articulate their questions after
they have tried to summarize a reading with a classmate.
We regularly have a debate in classes as well. We will task the students with reading at least
two different takes on a philosophical problem and assign each of them to (or have them sign
up for) one of the positions. On the day of the debate, students break into their groups and
discuss the strongest argument or two for their own position, anticipate objections to their own
view, and prepare objections to the other groups’ views. We then reconvene and each group
presents its arguments, followed by objections and replies, in a debate format. We find that this
sort of in-­class activity helps students to practice the back-­and-forth dialogue of argument,
objection, and reply and, thus, serves as good practice for their writing.
Beyond these in-­class activities, we employ a few other strategies specific to the history of
modern philosophy course. For example, in order to broaden the catalogue of thinkers that stu-
dents encounter in the course and, furthermore, to provide them some special expertise, we
sometimes assign each student a “secondary thinker.” In addition to the 7–9 authors included in
the main syllabus, we have compiled a list of about 20 other significant figures in the period.
Depending on the syllabus, the secondary thinker list might include Bacon, Montaigne, Male-
branche, Hobbes, Cavendish, Pascal, Masham, and so on.
At the beginning of the term, we ask the student to complete a lighthearted survey of their
opinions, from their thoughts on the nature of the mind–body relation to their preferred vacation
spot—Paris or London? Or the moon? They also indicate their majors and other interests. We
take these results and try to match up the students with the thinkers. Sometimes the matching is
easy—a student interested in feminism? How about Wollstonecraft? A chemistry major? Boyle.
And so on. Other times the matches are looser, but we allow students to swap or plead for a
different thinker, and so on. The point, really, is to get them invested in their thinker.
That way, some of the diversity of the period gets represented, each of the students get to
attain some expertise (she’ll be the resident expert on her thinker), and it will also invest the
 Editors’ Introduction   xxi

student in the period—she’ll have a horse in the race, so to speak. We find that this helps to
enliven the material for the students.
First we have the students write a short assignment simply summarizing some of the main
arguments of their assigned thinker. They then take that knowledge into their encounters with
the “primary” thinkers for the class—Descartes and the canonical gang, perhaps. In their later
essay assignments, we might ask them not only to present and evaluate, say, the Cartesian
method of doubt, but also to speculate as to what their thinker might say in response. Next, after
having created this dialectic between primary and secondary thinker, we ask them to weigh in
on the debate. That way, they not only get an idea of the argument of the primary thinker, but
they also have to think about that argument in dialogue with other philosophers of the period.
Finally, they engage the arguments from their own perspective, offering critiques and
rebuttals.19
In summary, then, we utilize in-­class activities that focus on the fundamentals of reading and
summarizing arguments, practicing debate, and considering objections and replies. We also try
to get students invested in the controversies of the period through defending a view in a class-
room debate or through their secondary thinker assignment. These techniques, in concert with
complementary writing assignments, help students to develop toward the course goals.

Challenges and Rewards

It should be clear by now what we take to be the challenges to teaching a course in the history
of modern philosophy. First, one must decide how historical or ahistorical one wishes to be.
Second, one must choose which themes to track and, thus, which texts to use, hopefully with an
eye on diversity in the syllabus. Third, one must create assignments and activities that give stu-
dents the chance to develop their philosophical skills, but also their skills as active readers of
historical texts. Fourth, students must become invested in the controversies of the period, which
is sometimes difficult given their historical distance.
Beyond those challenges, though, we find that the most difficult part is unifying the class.
We for one prefer to teach a course that is thematically unified, rather than merely being a dis-
parate grab bag of some ideas that came from a place and time. We struggle with telling the
story of mind and nature, or citizen and state, say, through the early modern period, though in a
way that is also minimally historically responsible. After all, people in the seventeenth century
did not necessarily think of these issues as we might; what’s more, they considered many
authors as critically important that we would likely leave out of our syllabus entirely. For
example, few people include Malebranche in their undergrad syllabus nowadays, even though
he was considered an equal of Leibniz in his day.
The rewards, however, are also substantial. Such courses, if executed well, can create a
student who can (a) do philosophy better than when she came in, (b) engage with historical texts
in a sophisticated way, and (c) understand more of the origins of contemporary philosophy—and
society. In other words, a good course in the history of modern philosophy should prepare a
student for more sophisticated work in philosophy, not only by giving her a chance to improve
her reading, writing, and thinking skills, but also to understand the modern historical origin of
some of our central philosophical debates.
What’s more, by engaging with these historically distant arguments in a charitable and con-
textually sophisticated fashion, students will learn to discern their own, historically contingent
and previously unrecognized assumptions which can make them better philosophers in other
contexts. After all, many of her assumptions have their modern origin in the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries and, so, a student taking the history of modern philosophy could come
away with a newfound, deeper understanding of our modern world and its origin.
xxii   Editors’ Introduction

Editors’ Note on the Texts

In order to modernize these texts and make it more accessible to the early twenty-­first century
undergraduate reader, we have substantially modified the syntax with its attendant punctuation,
and, to a lesser extent, the lexicon.

Notes
1 What follows is in part inspired by something Eric Schliesser wrote on his blog. Eric Schliesser,
Digressions&Impressions, October 23, 2014, http://digressionsnimpressions.typepad.com/digressionsim-
pressions/2014/10/teaching-­the-history-­of-philosophy-­and-a-­bit-more.html#more, accessed December
10, 2015.
2 See Eileen O’Neill, “Disappearing Ink: Early Modern Women Philosophers and Their Fate in
History,” in Philosophy in a Feminist Voice, ed. Janet Kourany (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University
Press, 1998).
3 See ibid. See also Margaret Atherton, Women Philosophers of the Early Modern Period (Indianapolis:
Hackett Pub. Co., 1994). For a similar and more extensive story of how philosophers from Africa and
Asia were erased, see Peter K. J. Park, Africa, Asia, and the History of Philosophy: Racism in the For-
mation of the Philosophical Canon, 1780–1830 (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2014).
This point will be discussed again below.
4 Of course, what we have offered here very well might only be one viable way to justify a modern
philosophy survey. And, certainly, we do not mean it as an attack on those who do not wish to teach in
just the way we have suggested here. Instead, we see this as a way to defend modern surveys to col-
leagues on the curriculum committee, so to speak.
5 Much of this introduction is taken from Eugene Marshall’s “How to Teach Modern Philosophy,”
Teaching Philosophy, Volume 37, Issue 1, March 2014.
6 We recommend the following two anthologies, which contain a number of excellent discussions of the
nature and methodologies of the history of philosophy: Tom Sorell and G. A. J. Rogers, Analytic
Philosophy and History of Philosophy (Oxford; New York: Clarendon Press; Oxford University Press,
2005). And, more recently, Eric Schliesser, Justin E. H. Smith, and Mogens Lærke, The Methodology
of the History of Philosophy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013).
7 We shall not delineate which texts, precisely, count as historical, just as we shall not speak dogmati-
cally about when the modern period begins or ends, precisely, though some notion of those boundaries
may be inferred from the readings we include in this volume.
8 Lewis Powell and Tim Yenter discuss various continua along which the history of philosophy could be
placed with regard to contextualism and instrumental value in two excellent blog posts at The Mod
Squad, A Group Blog in Modern Philosophy. See Lewis Powell, “The Ladder of Historicity,” The Mod
Squad, September 26, 2012, http://philosophymodsquad.wordpress.com/2012/09/26/the-­ladder-of-­
historicity/, accessed October 23, 2013; Timothy Yenter, “Historicity, Philosophy, and the History of
Philosophy,” The Mod Squad, October 4, 2012, http://philosophymodsquad.wordpress.com/2012/10/04/
historicity-­philosophy-and-­the-history-­of-philosophy/, accessed October 23, 2013.
9 J. B. Schneewind, “Review of Tom Sorrell and G. A. J. Rogers (eds.), Analytic Philosophy and History
of Philosophy,” Notre Dame, October 2006, http://ndpr.nd.edu/news/24982/?id=5962, accessed
November 27, 2018. See also “What’s Philosophical About the History of Philosophy?,” in Analytic
Philosophy and History of Philosophy, 129–146.
10 Yenter and Powell each have further blog posts at The Mod Squad on the question of what to teach
in history of modern courses. Even more valuable is the comment section, in which a dozen more
historians of modern philosophy discuss their distinctive approaches. See Lewis Powell, “Discus-
sion: Survey Early Modern Courses,” The Mod Squad, August 6, 2013, http://philosophymodsquad.
wordpress.com/2013/08/06/discussion-­survey-early-­modern-courses/, accessed October 23, 2013;
Timothy Yenter, “Teaching Rationalism and Empiricism,” The Mod Squad, August 14, 2013, http://
philosophymodsquad.wordpress.com/2013/08/14/teaching-­rationalism-and-­empiricism/, accessed
October 23, 2013.
11 One could multiply alternatives. For example, one could include a more explicitly history of science
focus, including the more philosophical comments of Bacon, Boyle, Newton, du Châtelet, and so on.
Or one could look at the period from the perspective of skepticism, from Montaigne, Cartesian doubt,
and the mitigated skepticism of Hume, considering Kant’s rejection of skepticism at the end. For more
on that story, see Richard Henry Popkin, The History of Scepticism: From Savonarola to Bayle
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003). One could even teach history of modern philosophy around
the problem of evil. See Susan Neiman, Evil in Modern Thought: An Alternative History of Philosophy
 Editors’ Introduction   xxiii

(Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2004); Elmar J. Kremer and Michael John Latzer, The
Problem of Evil in Early Modern Philosophy (Toronto [Ont.]: University of Toronto Press, 2001).
12 We believe that some of the considerations we offer here also apply to issues of ethnicity, sexuality,
disability, or class. For now, though, we shall focus on gender.
13 See note 3.
14 See, for example, Elisabeth, Lisa Shapiro, and René Descartes, The Correspondence Between Princess
Elisabeth of Bohemia and René Descartes (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007).
15 Alison Bechdel, Dykes to Watch Out For (Ithaca, NY: Firebrand Books, 1986), 22.
16 We cannot provide necessary and sufficient conditions for when a text sets its own agenda or instead
merely replies to someone else’s. After all, every philosophical text is in part a response to existing
discussions. Nevertheless, we would say there is a family resemblance among those that do.
17 A focus on philosophy of education in the period would allow an even more diversified syllabus,
including Masham, de Gouges, and more. And in these texts, we can find cases where women are not
only setting the agenda, but speaking directly to one another. Those new to teaching the history of
modern philosophy may feel more comfortable sticking to the authors and issues with which they are
familiar, however, which is certainly understandable. Even so, we would urge them to consider adding
at least one new woman to their syllabus each time they teach the course.
18 If the reader insists that this claim is in need of defense, we would recommend he consult the follow-
ing excellent recent summaries of the issue, to begin with: Sally Haslanger, “Women in Philosophy?
Do the Math,” New York Times Opinionator: The Stone, September 2, 2013, http://opinionator.blogs.
nytimes.com/2013/09/02/women-­in-philosophy-­do-the-­math/, accessed November 27, 2018; Rae
Langton, “The Disappearing Women,” New York Times Opinionator: The Stone, September 4, 2013,
http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/09/04/the-­disappearing-women/, accessed November 27, 2018.
19 Eugene Marshall has discussed this secondary thinker assignment, and provides a list of secondary
thinkers, in a blog post at The Mod Squad. See Eugene Marshall, “On the Problem of the Canon in
Modern Philosophy,” The Mod Squad, January 27, 2012, http://philosophymodsquad.wordpress.
com/2012/01/27/on-­the-problem-­of-the-­canon-in-­modern-philosophy/, accessed November 27, 2018.

Further Reading
Berges, S. 2015. “On the Outskirts of the Canon: The Myth of the Lone Female Philosopher, and What to
Do about It,” Metaphilosophy, 46: 380–397.
Gordon-­Roth, Jessica and Nancy Kendrick. 2015. “Including Early Modern Women Writers in Survey
Courses,” Metaphilosophy, 46: 364–379.
The New Narratives in the History of Philosophy project, led by Lisa Shapiro, Marguerite Deslauriers, and
Karen Detlefsen. www.newnarrativesinphilosophy.net.
O’Neill, Eileen. 1998. “Disappearing Ink: Early Modern Women Philosophers and Their Fate in History,”
in Philosophy in a Feminist Voice, ed. Janet Kourany. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.
Park, Peter K. J. 2014. Africa, Asia, and the History of Philosophy: Racism in the Formation of the Philo-
sophical Canon, 1780–1830. Albany: State University of New York Press.
Project Vox, led by Andrew Janiak, Cheryl Thomas, Liz Milewicz, and Will Shaw. http://projectvox.
library.duke.edu.
Walsh, Kristen and Adrian Currie. 2015. “Caricatures, Myths, and White Lies,” Metaphilosophy, 46:
414–435.
Acknowledgments

Susanne Sreedhar
The hard work of my research assistant, Paul Goldberg, is much appreciated.

Eugene Marshall
My wife, Professor Amy Bliss Marshall, for her moral support, and my student, Diana Castro,
for editorial assistance with the Boyle chapter.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 A folding table frame, designed as a support for a circular split-
bamboo tray, is shown in the photographs reproduced and detailed
in the working drawing. It is a serviceable and inexpensive piece of
furniture, and can be constructed readily by the home mechanic. As
the trays vary in size, the frame must be made to correspond, those
from 24 to 28 in. in diameter being satisfactory. The tray may be
made by the ambitious craftsman or purchased at stores dealing in
Oriental goods. A wooden top may, of course, be substituted. The
frame is made preferably of soft wood. The following finished pieces
are required for a 24-in. tray: 4 legs, ⁷⁄₈ by 3 by 30 in.; 4 crosspieces,
1 by 2 by 25 in. Mortise the legs to the ends of the crosspieces, one
set of mortises being ⁷⁄₈ in. below the other. Assemble the parts and
fasten the joints with glue and 2-in. flat-head screws, countersunk.
 This Tray Table Is Readily Portable, and Useful in the House and on the
Porch or Lawn

Adjust the crosspieces of each set so that their centers match, and
fasten them in this position with screws, from the under side. The
two parts of the frame revolve on them when the table is “knocked
down.” On the ends of the lower crosspieces of each set, fasten
blocks to level the support for the tray. Finish the frame to harmonize
with the furniture of the room. Conceal the screw heads under bands
of hammered or oxidized copper, fastened with copper or brass pins.
A second tray may be placed on the lower crosspieces.—F. E. Tuck,
Nevada City, Calif.
 Small Desk Lamp Supported by Paper Weight
Those who wish a small desk light that may be pushed back out of
the way in the daytime, will find the accompanying sketch of interest.
When in use on a roll-top desk, the lamp is placed on top near the
edge, so that the bulb overhangs. A 25-watt lamp will light the bed of
the desk, and the small metal shade is so placed that no part of the
bulb is visible to the eye of the worker. By providing a suitable base,
the lamp may be adapted to other uses. A stock paper weight, about
2 in. in diameter and covered with green felt, was used as a base. An
ordinary drop-cord socket is provided, and to one side of the top cap
a strip of brass, ¹⁄₁₆ by ¹⁄₂ in., is soldered. A hole is drilled near the
end of this strip so that the screw which holds the knob will also hold
the socket. Connect the flexible cord in the usual manner.
 The shade is made of sheet metal, bent in the form of a cone,
having the front shorter than the opposite edge. Make a sketch of the
bulb, and determine the lengths of the two sides A and B, and then
draw two concentric circles of corresponding radii on paper, as
indicated in the small diagram. The proper curve for the shade will
then lie between these two circles. Cut a paper pattern, and form it
into a cone. After the proper shape is determined, mark it on the
metal, cut it to shape, and solder it. A small spring clip, C, engages
the tip of the bulb; the back of the shade is held by a piece of spring
wire, D. It is easy to spring the shade off in replacing the bulb. The
outside of the shade should be enameled an olive-green.—John D.
Adams, Phoenix, Arizona.
 Device Frightens Flies at Screen Door

The Scalloped Roller is Revolved Rapidly When the Door is Opened,

Frightening Flies

An effective means of frightening flies away from a screen door

may be made from a spring curtain rod and cotton duck. Scallops of
8-oz. duck, 6 in. long, are fastened to the pole, on opposite sides, as
shown. The ratchet on the end of the pole is arranged so as not to
catch. A small cord is wound around the pole and fastened to the
screen door. The rod supports are fixed near the top of the door
frame.—Josef H. Noyes, Paris, Tex.
Porch Swing Made from Automobile Seat
The Seat Discarded from a Rebuilt Car was Put to Good Use
 When an obsolete type of automobile was converted into a truck
for marketing purposes, a leather-upholstered seat, discarded, was
utilized as an attractive and comfortable porch swing. Hooks were
secured to the front corners of the seat and to the upper edge of the
back, for the chains attached to suitable supports.—George L.
Ayers, Washington, D. C.
 Linoleum Panels for a Homemade Chest
A strong packing box was converted into a useful and not
unsightly chest by covering it with panels of linoleum left over from a
job of covering a floor. Strips, ¹⁄₂ by 2 in. wide, were nailed around
the corners of the box to form a panel on the top, sides, and ends.
The wood and the linoleum were shellacked, and made a good
appearance.

¶The lower corner of an envelope may be used as a small funnel.

Camera for Bird Photography
 Bird Images Large Enough to Show Identification Markings are Obtained
with This Camera

A reasonably large image must be obtained in photographing bird

life, or the details of plumage and identification are lost, reducing the
value of the pictures. The “gun camera” shown in the photograph
was devised for this purpose, and with it exposures may be made
more quickly than with the telephoto type of camera, a feature of
great value in this class of photography. The device consists of an
ordinary reflecting-type camera, mounted on a carriage for ready
portability and quick adjustment. The bellows is supplemented with a
tube, permitting the use of lenses of upward of 30-in. extreme focus.
This gives a larger image without loss in speed. A ¹⁄₄-in. image of a
bird was obtained with a 7¹⁄₂-in. extreme-focus lens, as against a 2-
in. image with one of 30-in. focus, from the same position. The lens
is set near the rear end of the tube, giving a deep hood for shading
the sunlight. Lenses of an old type, known as “Long Toms,” were
used. They are inexpensive compared with newer types with iris
diaphragms, and give good results even at ¹⁄₁,₀₀₀ exposures.—Arthur
Farland, New Orleans, La.
 Electric Fan an Aid to Heating Room
The electric fan is useful not only for cooling the air in summer, but
also for distributing the warm air to advantage in the winter. An
efficient way of warming a room fairly uniformly is to place an electric
fan near a radiator, so that its breeze passes through the heating
coils, or near another source of heat. The heat is circulated around
the room, instead of being kept in a limited area.—Peter J. M. Clute,
Schenectady, N. Y.
Cat-and-Bells Scarecrow
 A scarecrow resembling a living animal is often more effective
than other devices, and the cat-and-bells arrangement shown in the
sketch was found especially so. The hide of a cat was stretched over
a hollow frame and suspended by a cord from a large weather vane.
Several bells were attached to the cord, and when the vane shifts in
the wind, the movement of the hide and the rattling of the bells
combine to frighten the birds.—F. H. Sweet, Waynesboro, Va.

¶A coating of five parts of coal tar, one part gasoline, and one part
japan drier will make canvas nearly water-tight.
 A Small Hydraulic Turbine
By FRANK D. BELL

C onsiderable power and speed can be developed under ordinary

water-supply pressure by the turbine, or water motor, shown in
the sketch and detailed in the working drawings. The parts are of
simple construction, and the machine may be assembled or taken
down easily. It is useful for either belt or direct connection to
electrical generators, small machines, etc., the direct connection
being preferable for a generator. The wheel is built up of sheet metal
and provided with curved buckets set in the saw-tooth edge. The
water is admitted through an opening in the lower part of the housing
and passes out at the opposite end into a suitable drain pipe. The
housing is made of two sections, the main casting and a cover plate.
Bearings for the shaft are cast into the housing, which is reinforced
on the back by ribs radiating from the center.
View of the Water Turbine with the Cover Plate Removed, Showing Inlet and
Drain

Wooden patterns are made for the housing, the main casting and
the cover plate being cast separately. The pattern for the cover plate
should provide for the bearing lug, as shown in the sectional detail,
and for the angle forming a support at the bottom. Special attention
should be given to allowance for proper draft in making the pattern
for the main casting; that is, the edges of the reinforcing ribs, and the
sides of the shell should be tapered slightly to make removal from
the sand convenient. The advice of a patternmaker will be helpful to