no doubt depends on their intelligence not having been sufficiently
advanced. The possession by them of organs, which with long-continued
practice might have been used for speech, although not thus used, is
paralleled by the case of many birds which possess organs fitted for
singing, though they never sing. Thus, the nightingale and crow have
vocal organs similarly constructed, these being used by the former for
diversified song, and by the latter only for croaking.
DEVELOPMENT OF LANGUAGES AND SPECIES COMPARED.
[Descent of
Man, page 90.]
The formation of different languages and of distinct species and
the proofs that both have been developed through a gradual process
are curiously parallel. But we can trace the formation of many
words further back than that of species, for we can perceive how
they actually arose from the imitation of various sounds. We find in
distinct languages striking homologies due to community of descent,
and analogies due to a similar process of formation. The manner in
which certain letters or sounds change when others change is very
like correlated growth. We have in both cases the reduplication of
parts, the effects of long-continued use, and so forth. The frequent
presence of rudiments, both in languages and in species, is still
more remarkable. The letter _m_ in the word _am_ means _I_; so that,
in the expression _I am_, a superfluous and useless rudiment has
been retained. In the spelling also of words, letters often remain
as the rudiments of ancient forms of pronunciation. Languages, like
organic beings, can be classed in groups under groups; and they can
be classed either naturally according to descent, or artificially by
other characters. Dominant languages and dialects spread widely, and
lead to the gradual extinction of other tongues. A language, like a
species, when once extinct, never, as Sir C. Lyell remarks, reappears.
The same language never has two birthplaces. Distinct languages may be
crossed or blended together. We see variability in every tongue, and
new words are continually cropping up; but, as there is a limit to the
powers of the memory, single words, like whole languages, gradually
become extinct. As Max Müller has well remarked: “A struggle for life
is constantly going on among the words and grammatical forms in each
language. The better, the shorter, the easier forms are constantly
gaining the upper hand, and they owe their success to their own
inherent virtue.” To these more important causes of the survival of
certain words, mere novelty and fashion may be added; for there is in
the mind of man a strong love for slight changes in all things. The
survival or preservation of certain favored words in the struggle for
existence is natural selection.
The perfectly regular and wonderfully complex construction of the
languages of many barbarous nations has often been advanced as a proof,
either of the divine origin of these languages, or of the high art and
former civilization of their founders. Thus F. von Schlegel writes: “In
those languages which appear to be at the lowest grade of intellectual
culture, we frequently observe a very high and elaborate degree of art
in their grammatical structure. This is especially the case with the
Basque and the Lapponian, and many of the American languages.” But it
is assuredly an error to speak of any language as an art, in the sense
of its having been elaborately and methodically formed. Philologists
now admit that conjugations, declensions, etc., originally existed
as distinct words, since joined together; and, as such words express
the most obvious relations between objects and persons, it is not
surprising that they should have been used by the men of most races
during the earliest ages. With respect to perfection, the following
illustration will best show how easily we may err: a crinoid sometimes
consists of no less than one hundred and fifty thousand pieces of
shell, all arranged with perfect symmetry in radiating lines; but a
naturalist does not consider an animal of this kind as more perfect
than a bilateral one with comparatively few parts, and with none of
these parts alike, excepting on the opposite sides of the body. He
justly considers the differentiation and specialization of organs
as the test of perfection. So with languages; the most symmetrical
and complex ought not to be ranked above irregular, abbreviated, and
bastardized languages.
THE SENSE OF BEAUTY.
[Descent of
Man, page 92.]
This sense has been declared to be peculiar to man. I refer here only
to the pleasure given by certain colors, forms, and sounds, and which
may fairly be called a sense of the beautiful; with cultivated men
such sensations are, however, intimately associated with complex
ideas and trains of thought. When we behold a male bird elaborately
displaying his graceful plumes or splendid colors before the female,
while other birds, not thus decorated, make no such display, it is
impossible to doubt that she admires the beauty of her male partner.
As women everywhere deck themselves with these plumes, the beauty of
such ornaments can not be disputed. As we shall see later, the nests of
humming-birds and the playing passages of bower-birds are tastefully
ornamented with gayly-colored objects; and this shows that they must
receive some kind of pleasure from the sight of such things. With the
great majority of animals, however, the taste for the beautiful is
confined, as far as we can judge, to the attractions of the opposite
sex. The sweet strains poured forth by many male birds during the
season of love are certainly admired by the females, of which fact
evidence will hereafter be given. If female birds had been incapable of
appreciating the beautiful colors, the ornaments, and voices of their
male partners, all the labor and anxiety exhibited by the latter in
displaying their charms before the females would have been thrown away;
and this it is impossible to admit. Why certain bright colors should
excite pleasure can not, I presume, be explained, any more than why
certain flavors and scents are agreeable; but habit has something to do
with the result, for that which is at first unpleasant to our senses,
ultimately becomes pleasant, and habits are inherited.
DEVELOPMENT OF THE EAR FOR MUSIC.
[Descent of
Man, page 568.]
A critic has asked how the ears of man, and he ought to have added
of other animals, could have been adapted by selection so as to
distinguish musical notes. But this question shows some confusion on
the subject; a noise is the sensation resulting from the co-existence
of several aërial “simple vibrations” of various periods, each of
which intermits so frequently that its separate existence can not be
perceived. It is only in the want of continuity of such vibrations,
and in their want of harmony _inter se_, that a noise differs from a
musical note. Thus an ear to be capable of discriminating noises--and
the high importance of this power to all animals is admitted by every
one--must be sensitive to musical notes. We have evidence of this
capacity even low down in the animal scale; thus crustaceans are
provided with auditory hairs of different lengths, which have been seen
to vibrate when the proper musical notes are struck. As stated in a
previous chapter, similar observations have been made on the hairs of
the antennæ of gnats. It has been positively asserted by good observers
that spiders are attracted by music. It is also well known that some
dogs howl when hearing particular tones. Seals apparently appreciate
music, and their fondness for it “was well known to the ancients, and
is often taken advantage of by the hunters at the present day.”
Therefore, as far as the mere perception of musical notes is concerned,
there seems no special difficulty in the case of man or of any other
animal.
But if it be further asked why musical tones in a certain order and
rhythm give man and other animals pleasure, we can no more give the
reason than for the pleasantness of certain tastes and smells. That
they do give pleasure of some kind to animals we may infer from
their being produced during the season of courtship by many insects,
spiders, fishes, amphibians, and birds; for, unless the females were
able to appreciate such sounds and were excited or charmed by them,
the persevering efforts of the males and the complex structures often
possessed by them alone would be useless; and this it is impossible to
believe.
IX.
DEVELOPMENT OF THE MORAL SENSE.
[Descent of
Man, page 97.]
I fully subscribe to the judgment of those writers who maintain
that, of all the differences between man and the lower animals, the
moral sense or conscience is by far the most important. This sense,
as Mackintosh remarks, “has a rightful supremacy over every other
principle of human action”; it is summed up in that short but imperious
word _ought_, so full of high significance. It is the most noble of
all the attributes of man, leading him without a moment’s hesitation
to risk his life for that of a fellow-creature; or, after due
deliberation, impelled simply by the deep feeling of right or duty, to
sacrifice it in some great cause.
* * * * *
[Page 111.]
A moral being is one who is capable of comparing his past and future
actions or motives, and of approving or disapproving of them. We have
no reason to suppose that any of the lower animals have this capacity;
therefore, when a Newfoundland dog drags a child out of the water, or a
monkey faces danger to rescue its comrade, or takes charge of an orphan
monkey, we do not call its conduct moral. But in the case of man, who
alone can with certainty be ranked as a moral being, actions of a
certain class are called moral.
FROM THE SOCIAL INSTINCTS TO THE MORAL SENSE.
[Page 98.]
The following proposition seems to me in a high degree
probable--namely, that any animal whatever, endowed with well-marked
social instincts, the parental and filial affections being here
included, would inevitably acquire a moral sense or conscience, as
soon as its intellectual powers had become as well, or nearly as
well, developed as in man. For, _firstly_, the social instincts lead
an animal to take pleasure in the society of its fellows, to feel a
certain amount of sympathy with them, and to perform various services
for them. The services may be of a definite and evidently instinctive
nature; or there may be only a wish and readiness, as with most of the
higher social animals, to aid their fellows in certain general ways.
But these feelings and services are by no means extended to all the
individuals of the same species, only to those of the same association.
_Secondly_, as soon as the mental faculties had become highly
developed, images of all past actions and motives would be incessantly
passing through the brain of each individual; and that feeling of
dissatisfaction, or even misery, which invariably results, as we shall
hereafter see, from any unsatisfied instinct, would arise, as often as
it was perceived that the enduring and always present social instinct
had yielded to some other instinct, at the time stronger, but neither
enduring in its nature, nor leaving behind it a very vivid impression.
It is clear that many instinctive desires, such as that of hunger,
are in their nature of short duration; and, after being satisfied,
are not readily or vividly recalled. _Thirdly_, after the power of
language had been acquired, and the wishes of the community could be
expressed, the common opinion how each member ought to act for the
public good would naturally become in a paramount degree the guide
to action. But it should be borne in mind that, however great weight
we may attribute to public opinion, our regard for the approbation
and disapprobation of our fellows depends on sympathy, which, as we
shall see, forms an essential part of the social instinct, and is,
indeed, its foundation-stone. _Lastly_, habit in the individual would
ultimately play a very important part in guiding the conduct of each
member; for the social instinct, together with sympathy, is, like any
other instinct, greatly strengthened by habit, and so consequently
would be obedience to the wishes and judgment of the community. These
several subordinate propositions must now be discussed, and some of
them at considerable length.
It may be well first to premise that I do not wish to maintain that any
strictly social animal, if its intellectual faculties were to become
as active and as highly developed as in man, would acquire exactly the
same moral sense as ours. In the same manner as various animals have
some sense of beauty, though they admire widely different objects, so
they might have a sense of right and wrong, though led by it to follow
widely different lines of conduct. If, for instance, to take an extreme
case, men were reared under precisely the same conditions as hive-bees,
there can hardly be a doubt that our unmarried females would, like the
worker-bees, think it a sacred duty to kill their brothers, and mothers
would strive to kill their fertile daughters; and no one would think
of interfering. Nevertheless, the bee, or any other social animal,
would gain in our supposed case, as it appears to me, some feeling of
right or wrong, or a conscience. For each individual would have an
inward sense of possessing certain stronger or more enduring instincts,
and others less strong or enduring; so that there would often be a
struggle as to which impulse should be followed; and satisfaction,
dissatisfaction, or even misery would be felt, as past impressions were
compared during their incessant passage through the mind. In this case
an inward monitor would tell the animal that it would have been better
to have followed the one impulse rather than the other. The one course
ought to have been followed, and the other ought not; the one would
have been right and the other wrong.
HUMAN SYMPATHY AMONG ANIMALS.
[Page 102.]
Who can say what cows feel when they surround and stare intently on a
dying or dead companion? Apparently, however, as Houzeau remarks, they
feel no pity. That animals sometimes are far from feeling any sympathy
is too certain; for they will expel a wounded animal from the herd, or
gore or worry it to death. This is almost the blackest fact in natural
history, unless, indeed, the explanation which has been suggested is
true, that their instinct or reason leads them to expel an injured
companion, lest beasts of prey, including man, should be tempted to
follow the troop. In this case their conduct is not much worse than
that of the North American Indians, who leave their feeble comrades to
perish on the plains; or the Feejeeans, who, when their parents get
old, or fall ill, bury them alive.
* * * * *
[Page 103.]
Several years ago a keeper at the Zoölogical Gardens showed me some
deep and scarcely healed wounds on the nape of his own neck, inflicted
on him, while kneeling on the floor, by a fierce baboon. The little
American monkey, who was a warm friend of this keeper, lived in the
same large compartment, and was dreadfully afraid of the great baboon.
Nevertheless, as soon as he saw his friend in peril, he rushed to the
rescue, and by screams and bites so distracted the baboon that the man
was able to escape, after, as the surgeon thought, running great risk
of his life.
Besides love and sympathy, animals exhibit other qualities connected
with the social instincts, which in us would be called moral; and I
agree with Agassiz that dogs possess something very like a conscience.
* * * * *
[Page 107.]
With mankind, selfishness, experience, and imitation, probably add,
as Mr. Bain has shown, to the power of sympathy; for we are led by
the hope of receiving good in return to perform acts of sympathetic
kindness to others; and sympathy is much strengthened by habit. In
however complex a manner this feeling may have originated, as it is
one of high importance to all those animals which aid and defend one
another, it will have been increased through natural selection; for
those communities which included the greatest number of the most
sympathetic members would flourish best and rear the greatest number of
offspring.
It is, however, impossible to decide in many cases whether certain
social instincts have been acquired through natural selection, or are
the indirect result of other instincts and faculties, such as sympathy,
reason, experience, and a tendency to imitation; or, again, whether
they are simply the result of long-continued habit. So remarkable an
instinct as the placing of sentinels to warn the community of danger
can hardly have been the indirect result of any of these faculties; it
must, therefore, have been directly acquired. On the other hand, the
habit followed by the males of some social animals of defending the
community, and of attacking their enemies or their prey in concert, may
perhaps have originated from mutual sympathy; but courage, and in most
cases strength, must have been previously acquired, probably through
natural selection.
THE LOVE OF APPROBATION.
[Page 109.]
Although man has no special instincts to tell him how to aid
his fellow-men, he still has the impulse, and with his improved
intellectual faculties would naturally be much guided in this respect
by reason and experience. Instinctive sympathy would also cause him
to value highly the approbation of his fellows; for, as Mr. Bain has
clearly shown, the love of praise and the strong feeling of glory, and
the still stronger horror of scorn and infamy, “are due to the workings
of sympathy.” Consequently, man would be influenced in the highest
degree by the wishes, approbation, and blame of his fellow-men, as
expressed by their gestures and language. Thus the social instincts,
which must have been acquired by man in a very rude state, and probably
even by his early ape-like progenitors, still give the impulse to
some of his best actions; but his actions are in a higher degree
determined by the expressed wishes and judgment of his fellow-men, and
unfortunately very often by his own strong selfish desires. But as
love, sympathy, and self-command become strengthened by habit, and as
the power of reasoning becomes clearer, so that man can value justly
the judgments of his fellows, he will feel himself impelled, apart from
any transitory pleasure or pain, to certain lines of conduct. He might
then declare--not that any barbarian or uncultivated man could thus
think--I am the supreme judge of my own conduct, and, in the words of
Kant, I will not in my own person violate the dignity of humanity.
FELLOW-FEELING FOR OUR FELLOW-ANIMALS.
[Page 123.]
Sympathy beyond the confines of man, that is, humanity to the lower
animals, seems to be one of the latest moral acquisitions. It is
apparently unfelt by savages, except toward their pets. How little
the old Romans knew of it is shown by their abhorrent gladiatorial
exhibitions. The very idea of humanity, as far as I could observe,
was new to most of the Gauchos of the Pampas. This virtue, one of the
noblest with which man is endowed, seems to arise incidentally from
our sympathies becoming more tender and more widely diffused, until
they are extended to all sentient beings. As soon as this virtue is
honored and practiced by some few men, it spreads through instruction
and example to the young, and eventually becomes incorporated in public
opinion.
The highest possible stage in moral culture is when we recognize that
we ought to control our thoughts, and “not even in inmost thought to
think again the sins that made the past so pleasant to us.” Whatever
makes any bad action familiar to the mind renders its performance by
so much the easier. As Marcus Aurelius long ago said: “Such as are thy
habitual thoughts, such also will be the character of thy mind; for the
soul is dyed by the thoughts.”
* * * * *
[Page 125.]
Looking to future generations, there is no cause to fear that the
social instincts will grow weaker, and we may expect that virtuous
habits will grow stronger, becoming perhaps fixed by inheritance. In
this case the struggle between our higher and lower impulses will be
less severe, and virtue will be triumphant.
DEVELOPMENT OF THE GOLDEN RULE.
[Page 125.]
There can be no doubt that the difference between the mind of
the lowest man and that of the highest animal is immense. An
anthropomorphous ape, if he could take a dispassionate view of his own
case, would admit that though he could form an artful plan to plunder
a garden, though he could use stones for fighting or for breaking open
nuts, yet that the thought of fashioning a stone into a tool was quite
beyond his scope. Still less, as he would admit, could he follow out a
train of metaphysical reasoning, or solve a mathematical problem, or
reflect on God, or admire a grand natural scene. Some apes, however,
would probably declare that they could and did admire the beauty of the
colored skin and fur of their partners in marriage. They would admit
that, though they could make other apes understand by cries some of
their perceptions and simpler wants, the notion of expressing definite
ideas by definite sounds had never crossed their minds. They might
insist that they were ready to aid their fellow-apes of the same troop
in many ways, to risk their lives for them, and to take charge of their
orphans; but they would be forced to acknowledge that disinterested
love for all living creatures, the most noble attribute of man, was
quite beyond their comprehension.
Nevertheless, the difference in mind between man and the higher
animals, great as it is, certainly is one of degree and not of kind.
We have seen that the senses and intuitions, the various emotions and
faculties, such as love, memory, attention, curiosity, imitation,
reason, etc., of which man boasts, may be found in an incipient, or
even sometimes in a well-developed condition, in the lower animals.
They are also capable of some inherited improvement, as we see in the
domestic dog compared with the wolf or jackal. If it could be proved
that certain high mental powers, such as the formation of general
concepts, self-consciousness, etc., were absolutely peculiar to man,
which seems extremely doubtful, it is not improbable that these
qualities are merely the incidental results of other highly-advanced
intellectual faculties; and these again mainly the result of the
continued use of a perfect language. At what age does the new-born
infant possess the power of abstraction, or become self-conscious, and
reflect on its own existence? We can not answer; nor can we answer in
regard to the ascending organic scale. The half-art, half-instinct of
language still bears the stamp of its gradual evolution. The ennobling
belief in God is not universal with man; and the belief in spiritual
agencies naturally follows from other mental powers. The moral sense
perhaps affords the best and highest distinction between man and the
lower animals; but I need say nothing on this head, as I have so lately
endeavored to show that the social instincts--the prime principle of
man’s moral constitution--with the aid of active intellectual powers
and the effects of habit, naturally lead to the golden rule, “As ye
would that men should do to you, do ye to them likewise”; and this lies
at the foundation of morality.
REGRET PECULIAR TO MAN, AND WHY.
[Descent of
Man, page 112.]
Why does man regret, even though trying to banish such regret, that
he has followed the one natural impulse rather than the other? and
why does he further feel that he ought to regret his conduct? Man in
this respect differs profoundly from the lower animals. Nevertheless
we can, I think, see with some degree of clearness the reason of this
difference.