Is spontaneous, Is deliberate,
" necessary, " conditional,
" invariable, " modifiable,
" innate, comes from observation and experience,
" fatal, is free,
" particular. " general.
Thus the building faculty of the beaver is an instinct, for it acts
spontaneously, and always in the same way. It is not a general faculty
of building in all places and ways, but a special power of building
houses of sticks, mud, and other materials, with the entrance under
water and a dry place within. When beavers build on a running stream,
they begin by making a dam across it, which preserves them from losing
the water in a drought; but this also is a spontaneous and invariable
act. The old stories of their driving piles, using their tails for
trowels, and having well-planned houses with many chambers, have been
found to be fictitious. That the beaver builds by instinct, though
intelligence comes in to modify the instinct, appears from his wishing
to build his house or his dam when it is not needed. Mr. Broderip,
the English naturalist, had a pet beaver that manifested his building
instinct by dragging together warming-pans, sweeping-brushes, boots,
and sticks, which he would lay crosswise. He then would fill in his
wall with clothes, bits of coal, turf, laying it very even. Finally,
he made a nest for himself behind his wall with clothes, hay, and
cotton. As this creature had been brought from America very young, all
this procedure must have been instinctive. But his intelligence showed
itself in his adapting his mode of building to his new circumstances.
His instinct led him to build his wall, and to lay his sticks
crosswise, and to fill in with what he could find, according to the
universal and spontaneous procedure of all beavers. But his making use
of a chest of drawers for one side of his wall, and taking brushes and
boots instead of cutting down trees, were no doubt acts of intelligence.
A large part of the wonderful procedure of bees is purely instinctive.
Bees, from the beginning of the world, and in all countries of the
earth, have lived in similar communities; have had their queen, to
lay eggs for them: if their queen is lost, have developed a new one
in the same way, by altering the conditions of existence in one of
their larvæ; have constructed their hexagonal cells by the same
mathematical law, so as to secure the most strength with the least
outlay of material. All this is instinct--for it is spontaneous and not
deliberate; it is universal and constant. But when the bee deflects his
comb in order to avoid a stick thrust across the inside of the hive,
and begins the variation before he reaches the stick, this can only be
regarded as an act of intelligence.
Animals, then, have both instincts and intelligence; and so has man. A
large part of human life proceeds from tendencies as purely, if not as
vigorously, instinctive as those of animals. Man has social instincts,
which create human society. Children play from an instinct. The
maternal instinct in a human mother is, till modified by reflection, as
spontaneous, universal, and necessary as the same instinct in animals.
But in man the instincts are reduced to a minimum, and are soon
modified by observation, experience, and reflection. In animals they
are at their maximum, and are modified in a much less degree.
It is sometimes said that animals do not reason, but man does. But
animals are quite capable of at least two modes of reasoning, that of
comparison and that of inference. They compare two modes of action, or
two substances, and judge the one to be preferable to the other, and
accordingly select it. Sir Emerson Tennent tells us that elephants,
employed to build stone walls in Ceylon, will lay each stone in its
place, then stand off and look to see if it is plumb, and, if not, will
move it with their trunk, till it lies perfectly straight. This is a
pure act of reflective judgment. He narrates an adventure which befell
himself in Ceylon while riding on a narrow road through the forest. He
heard a rumbling sound approaching, and directly there came to meet him
an elephant, bearing on his tusks a large log of wood, which he had
been directed to carry to the place where it was needed. Sir Emerson
Tennent's horse, unused to these monsters, was alarmed, and refused to
go forward. The sagacious elephant, perceiving this, evidently decided
that he must himself go out of the way. But to do this, he was obliged
first to take the log from his tusks with his trunk, and lay it on the
ground, which he did, and then backed out of the road between the trees
till only his head was visible. But the horse was still too timid to go
by, whereupon the judicious pachyderm pushed himself farther back, till
all of his body, except the end of his trunk, had disappeared. Then Sir
Emerson succeeded in getting his horse by, but stopped to witness the
result. The elephant came out, took the log up again, laid it across
his tusks, and went on his way. This story, told by an unimpeachable
witness, shows several successive acts of reasoning. The log-bearer
inferred from the horse's terror that it would not pass; he again
inferred that in that case he must himself get out of the way; that, to
do this, he must lay down his log; that he must go farther back; and
accompanying this was his sense of duty, making him faithful to his
task; and, most of all, his consideration of what was due to this human
traveler, which kept him from driving the horse and man before him as
he went on.
There is another well-authenticated anecdote of an elephant; he was
following an ammunition wagon, and saw the man who was seated on it
fall off just before the wheel. The man would have been crushed had
not the animal instantly run forward, and, without an order, lifted
the wheel with his trunk, and held it suspended in the air, till the
wagon had passed over the man without hurting him. Here were combined
presence of mind, good will, knowledge of the danger to the man, and a
rapid calculation of how he could be saved.
Perhaps I may properly introduce here an account of the manifestations
of mind in the animals I have had the most opportunity of observing.
I have a horse, who was named Rubezahl, after the mountain spirit of
the Harz made famous in the stories of Musaeus. We have contracted his
name to Ruby for convenience. Now I have reason to believe that Ruby
can distinguish Sunday from other days. On Sunday I have been in the
habit of driving to Boston to church; but on other days, I drive to the
neighboring village, where are the post-office, shops of mechanics, and
other stores. To go to Boston, I usually turn to the right when I leave
my driveway; to go to the village, I turn to the left. Now, on Sunday,
if I leave the reins loose, so that the horse may do as he pleases, he
invariably turns to the right, and goes to Boston. On other days, he
as invariably turns to the left, and goes to the village. He does this
so constantly and regularly, that none of the family have any doubt
of the fact that he knows that it is Sunday; _how_ he knows it we are
unable to discover. I have left my house at the same hour on Sunday
and on Monday, in the same carriage, with the same number of persons
in it; and yet on Sunday he always turns to the right, and on Monday
to the left. He is fed at the same time on Sunday as on other days,
but the man comes back to harness him a little later on Sunday than at
other times, and that is possibly his method of knowing that it is the
day for going to Boston. But see how much of observation, memory, and
thought is implied in all this.
Again, Ruby has shown a very distinct feeling of the supernatural.
Driving one day up a hill near my house, we met a horse-car coming down
toward us, running without horses, simply by the force of gravity. My
horse became so frightened that he ran into the gutter, and nearly
overturned me; and I got him past with the greatest difficulty. Now
he had met the cars coming down that hill, drawn by horses, a hundred
times, and had never been alarmed. Moreover, only a day or two after,
in going up the same hill, we saw a car moving uphill, before us, where
the horses were entirely invisible, being concealed by the car itself,
which was between us and the horses. But this did not frighten Ruby
at all. He evidently said to himself, "The horses are there, though I
do not see them." But in the other case it seemed to him an effect
without a cause--something plainly supernatural. There was nothing
in the aspect of the car itself to alarm him; he had seen that often
enough. He was simply terrified by seeing it move without any adequate
cause--just as we should be, if we saw our chairs begin to walk about
the room.
Our Newfoundland dog's name is Donatello; which, again, is shortened
to Don in common parlance. He has all the affectionate and excellent
qualities of his race. He is the most good-natured creature I ever saw.
Nothing provokes him. Little dogs may yelp at him, the cat or kittens
may snarl and spit at him: he pays no attention to them. A little
dog climbs on his back, and lies down there; one of the cats will
lie between his legs. But at night, when he is on guard, no one can
approach the house unchallenged.
But his affection for the family is very great. To be allowed to come
into the house and lie down near us is his chief happiness. He was very
fond of my son E----, who played with him a good deal, and when the
young man went away, during the war, with a three months' regiment,
Don was much depressed by his absence. He walked down regularly to the
station, and stood there till a train of cars came in; and when his
friend did not arrive in it, he went back, with a melancholy air, to
the house. But at last the young man returned. It was in the evening,
and Don was lying on the piazza. As soon as he saw his friend, his
exultation knew no bounds. He leaped upon him, and ran round him,
barking and showing the wildest signs of delight. All at once he turned
and ran up into the garden, and came back bringing an apple, which he
laid down at the feet of his young master. It was the only thing he
could think of to do for him--and this sign of his affection was quite
pathetic.
The reason why Don thought of the apple was probably this: we had
taught him to go and get an apple for the horse, when so directed. We
would say, "Go, Don, get an apple for poor Ruby;" then he would run up
into the garden, and bring an apple, and hold it up to the horse; and
perhaps when the horse tried to take it he would pull it away. After
doing this a few times, he would finally lie down on his back under the
horse's nose, and allow the latter to take the apple from his mouth.
He would also kiss the horse, on being told to do so. When we said,
"Don, kiss poor Ruby," he leaped up and kissed the horse's nose. But he
afterwards hit upon a more convenient method of doing it. He got his
paw over the rein and pulled down the horse's head, so that he could
continue the osculatory process more at his ease, sitting comfortably
on the ground.
Animals know when they have done wrong; so far, at least, as that means
disobeying our will or command. The only great fault which Don ever
committed was stealing a piece of meat from our neighbor's kitchen. I
do not think he was punished or even scolded for it; for we did not
find it out till later, when it would have done no good to punish him.
But a week or two after that, the gentleman whose kitchen had been
robbed was standing on my lawn, talking with me, and he referred,
laughingly, to what Don had done. He did not even look at the dog, much
less change his tones to those of rebuke. But the moment Don heard his
name mentioned, he turned and walked away, and hid himself under the
low branches of a Norway spruce near by. He was evidently profoundly
ashamed of himself. Was this the result of conscience, or of the love
of approbation? In either case, it was very human.
That the love of approbation is common to many animals we all know.
Dogs and horses certainly can be influenced by praise and blame, as
easily as men. Many years ago we had occasion to draw a load of gravel,
and we put Ruby into a tip-cart to do the work. He was profoundly
depressed, and evidently felt it as a degradation. He hung his head,
and showed such marks of humiliation that we have never done it since.
But on the other hand, when he goes out, under the saddle, by the side
of a young horse, this veteran animal tries as hard to appear young
as any old bachelor of sixty years who is still ambitious of social
triumphs. He dances along, and goes sideways, and has all the airs and
graces of a young colt. All this, too, is very human.
At one time my dog was fond of going to the railway station to see
the people, and I always ordered him to go home, fearing he should
be hurt by the cars. He easily understood that if he went there, it
was contrary to my wishes. Nevertheless, he often went; and I do not
know but this fondness for forbidden fruit was rather human, too. So,
whenever he was near the station, if he saw me coming, he would look
the other way, and pretend not to know me. If he met me anywhere else,
he always bounded to meet me with great delight. But at the station
it was quite different. He would pay no attention to my whistle or my
call. He even pretended to be another dog, and would look me right in
the face without apparently recognizing me. He gave me the cut direct,
in the most impertinent manner; the reason evidently being that he knew
he was doing what was wrong, and did not like to be found out. Possibly
he may have relied a little on my near-sightedness, in this manœuvre.
That animals have acute observation, memory, imagination, the sense of
approbation, strong affections, and the power of reasoning is therefore
very evident. Lord Bacon also speaks of a dog's reverence for his
master as partaking of a religious element. "Mark," says he, "what
a generosity and courage a dog will put on, when he finds himself
maintained by a man, who to him is instead of a God--which courage
he could not attain, without that confidence in a better nature than
his own." Who that has seen the mute admiration and trust in a dog's
eye, as he looks up at his master, but can see in it something of a
religious reverence, the germ and first principle of religion?
What, then, is the difference between the human soul and that of the
animal in its highest development?
That there is a very marked difference between man and the highest
animal is evident. The human being, weaker in proportion than all other
animals, has subjected them all to himself. He has subdued the earth by
his inventions. Physically too feeble to dig a hole in the ground like
a rabbit, or to fell a tree like a beaver; unable to live in the water
like a fish, or to move through the air like a bird; he yet, by his
inventive power and his machinery, can compel the forces of nature to
work for him. They are the true genii, slaves of his lamp. Air, fire,
water, electricity, and magnetism build his cities and his stately
ships, run his errands, carry him from land to land, and accept him as
their master.
Whence does man obtain this power? Some say it is _the human hand_
which has made man supreme. It is, no doubt, a wonderful machine; a
box of tools in itself. The size and strength of the thumb, and the
power of opposing it to the extremities of the fingers, distinguishes,
according to most anatomists, the human hand from that of the
quadrumanous animals. In those monkeys which are nearest to man, the
thumb is so short and weak, and the fingers so long and slender,
that their tips can scarcely be brought in opposition. Excellent for
climbing, they are not good for taking up small objects or supporting
large ones. But the hand of man could accomplish little without the
mind behind it. It was therefore a good remark of Galen, that "man is
not the wisest of animals because he has a hand; but God has given him
a hand because he is the wisest of animals."
The size of the human brain, relatively greater than that of almost any
other animal; man's structure, adapting him to stand erect; his ability
to exist in all climates; his power of subsisting on varied food: all
these facts of his physical nature are associated with his superior
mental power, but do not produce it. The question recurs, What enables
him to stand at the head of the animal creation?
Perhaps the chief apparent distinctions between man and other animals
are these:--