MEMORY
In discussing memory as it is to be observed in the lower animals, I
think it best to divide the subject into four parts; viz., _Memory of
Locality_ (_Surroundings_), _Memory of Friends_ (_Kindred_), _Memory of
Strangers_ (_Other Animals not Kin_), and _Memory of Events_
(_Education_, _Happenings_, _etc._).
_Memory of Locality._--There can be no doubt but that the rhizopods
observed by Carter displayed memory of locality. He distinctly asserts
that he saw the actinophrys, after it had incepted a starch grain,
"crawl away to a good distance" and then return to the spore-cell from
which it was taking the grains of starch. The creature must have
remembered the route to and from the spore-cell. The same must be said
of the water-louse observed by myself, which not only came back to the
source of its food-supply, but also returned to a certain lurking-spot
at which it hid itself each time until it had eaten the hydra buds. It
must be remembered that a journey of one inch, to these minute little
creatures, is, comparatively speaking, an immense distance. Each grain
of sand, each particle of decayed vegetable matter, etc., is, to these
microscopic animalcules, a gigantic boulder, a mighty muck heap. These
obstacles in the path undoubtedly serve as landmarks to the wandering
myriads of microscopic animalcules.
It can be demonstrated that the snail has memory of locality. This
creature is essentially a homing animal, as I will show in the chapter
on Auxiliary Senses, consequently we would naturally expect to find it
possessing memory of locality. An interesting observation by Mr.
Lonsdale, an English observer, which has been often quoted, clearly
proves that this creature does possess this psychical function. Mr.
Lonsdale placed two snails in a small and badly kept garden. One of them
was weak and poorly nourished, the other strong and well. The strong one
disappeared and was traced by its slimy track over a wall into a
neighboring garden where there was plenty of food. Mr. Lonsdale thought
that it had deserted its mate, but it subsequently appeared and
conducted its comrade over the wall into the bountiful food-supply of
the neighboring garden. It seemed to coax and assist its feeble
companion when it lingered on the way.[35]
[35] Darwin, _Descent of Man_, pp. 262, 263.
Marked bees and ants invariably return to places where they have found
food-supplies, thus showing the possession of a memory of locality and
route. It is very interesting to watch a marked ant during her journey
back to her nest, after she has been carried away and placed among
unfamiliar scenes and surroundings. At first, owing to her fright, she
will dash away helter-skelter; but soon recovering, she will head in the
direction of home, and moderate her pace until she creeps along at a
very cautious and circumspect gait, indeed. Every now and then she will
climb a tall grass-blade or weed and take observations. After a while
she sees certain landmarks, and her speed becomes faster; soon the
surrounding country becomes familiar, and she ceases to climb blades of
grass, etc., now she is in the midst of well-known scenes, and at last
she fairly races into her nest.
In this instance the ant is led at first by her sense of direction
alone; as soon, however, as she comes to country which she has hunted
over, and with which she is familiar, memory comes into play and the
sense of direction ceases to act, or, if it acts at all, it acts
unconsciously.
Sand-wasps build their nests in the ground, and, when leaving their
tunnels in search of food for the prospective grubs, always circle about
them and observe the lay of the land before taking their departure.
Numerous sand-wasps build in the interstices between the bricks of a
pavement in front of my house. When one leaves her tunnel she will fly
about the orifice for several seconds (taking observations) before she
finally flies away. When she returns, she hovers about the orifice, or,
rather, in its neighborhood, until she is quite certain that it is the
entrance to her home, when she will dart in with such rapidity that the
eye can scarcely follow her movements.
On one occasion, I covered the pavement surrounding the entrance with
newspapers, leaving, however, about three inches on all sides of the
orifice uncovered. When the wasp returned she seemed to be completely at
a loss what to do. She hovered about for at least an hour, and then flew
away.
Thinking that this experiment was too great a tax on the wasp's
intelligence, I tried the following, which seemed to me to be nearer a
natural happening than the former experiment. I believe that, in
studying mind in the lower animals, one's experiments should be as near
nature as they can possibly be.
As soon as the wasp had left her tunnel, I covered the surface of the
bricks and the interstices between them, for several feet around the
orifice of the tunnel, with sand. This might have happened, naturally,
through the agency of the wind.
When the wasp returned, it was perfectly apparent that she did not
recognize her domicile. She flew here and there and round about, but she
would not alight. Finally, I swept the sand away, when she at once flew
to her nest and entered.
In my opinion, these experiments prove very clearly the presence of
memory of locality in these insects. The sense of direction, which a
vast majority of the lower animals possess in some degree, is, however,
of material assistance to their memory; this special sense will be fully
discussed in another chapter.
Most of the beetles are homing animals; that is, they have certain spots
to which they will return after excursions in search of food.
Heretofore, observers have held to the opinion that beetles made their
homes wherever they happened to be; but close study of marked
individuals, especially of _Carabidæ_ and _Cicindelidæ_ has taught me
otherwise. Some of the long-horned beetles appear to be rovers, but
these are always males, and their roving habits are due to sexual
promptings. The females are, however, to a great extent, homing animals,
and do not wander far after they have once established a home. Being
creatures which recognize certain surroundings as home, they must,
necessarily, have some memory of locality. This proposition is new,
being formulated and advanced by myself alone, therefore I expect that
it will be negatived by many investigators. All that I ask, however, is
that _marked_ specimens of the different genera be closely watched; I am
confident that if this plan be followed, the truthfulness of this
proposition will soon be universally acknowledged.
Reptiles and certain fishes are homing animals, and this habit is
especially noticeable in the land or box terrapin. One of these animals
had its home for many years in my lawn, and I have often satisfied
myself in regard to its knowledge of locality. I have frequently taken
it several hundred yards (its usual "using-place" is circumscribed at
about one hundred yards) away from its home and set it free.
At first, led by its sense of direction, it would turn towards home and
slowly crawl in that direction. It would not feed _en route_, but seemed
intent only on arriving at its home as quickly as possible. Finally,
when it arrived among familiar surroundings, it would begin to feed, but
would still make its way homeward. It clearly and unmistakably indicated
by its actions that it had a memory of locality.
This treatise on mind in the lower animals is, mainly, a study of
psychical manifestations as they are to be observed in insects;
therefore, the higher animals will only be studied incidentally. Suffice
it to say that, among the higher animals, evidences of memory of
locality are very abundant, and are so patent that they do not need
discussion.
_Memory of Friends_ (_Kindred_).--This phase of mind in ants has been
closely studied and graphically described by Sir John Lubbock. Most of
his experiments and observations have been verified by myself, therefore
the reader will pardon me if I quote freely from his valuable work,
_Ants, Bees, and Wasps_.
The observations of Huber, Ford, Lubbock, and other observers declare
that ants can remember and recognize their kindred after having been
separated from them for several months. "Huber mentions that some ants
which he had kept in captivity having accidentally escaped, met and
recognized their former companions, fell to mutual caresses with their
antennæ, took them up by their mandibles, and led them to their own
nests; they came presently in a crowd to seek the fugitives under and
about the artificial ant-hill, and even ventured to reach the
bell-glass, where they effected a complete desertion by carrying away
successively all the ants they found there. In a few days, the ruche was
depopulated. These ants had remained four months without any
communication."[36]
[36] Huber, p. 172; quoted by Lubbock, _Ants, Bees, and Wasps_, p.
120; also by Kirby and Spence, _Introduction to Entomology_, Vol. III.
p. 66; also by Newport, _Trans. Ent. Soc._, London, Vol. II. p. 239.
On one occasion, I took ten _Lasius niger_ and confined them in a
specially constructed formicary so that they could not possibly leave
the nest. I supplied these colonists with a gravid queen, so they very
quickly became satisfied with their new home. Four months thereafter, I
put three of these ants, previously marked with a paint of zinc oxide
and gum arabic, into their former nest. They were at once recognized by
their kindred, which began to caress them with their antennæ and to
remove the paint from their bodies. In the course of a half hour, the
paint had all been removed, and I lost sight of them among the other
ants.
A month after the performance of this experiment, I took three marked
ants from the parent nest and placed them in the new nest. They were at
once recognized by the colonists, which received them, as it were, with
open arms and began to cleanse their bodies by removing the paint. In
both of these experiments the recognition appeared to be instantaneous;
there was no hesitancy whatever.
On the other hand, when performing like experiments with _Lasius
flavus_, it took the ants (on two occasions) some little time to
recognize their kindred; when the marked ants were put into the nest
they were at once seized by the other ants, which pulled them about the
nest for some time. They were finally recognized, however, and the paint
removed from their bodies by the busy little tongues of their kindred.
This would seem to indicate that _Lasius niger_ had a better memory than
_Lasius flavus_; whether the failure of the latter to recognize their
friends at once was due, however, to faulty memory or not, is a
psychical problem that will, probably, never be solved.
Lubbock's experiments with _Myrmica ruginodis_ clearly demonstrate that
these ants can recognize their kin. Says he:--
"On August 20, 1875, I divided a colony of _Myrmica ruginodis_ so that
one half were in one nest, A, and the other half in another, B, and were
kept entirely apart.
"On October 3, I put into nest B a stranger and an old companion from
nest A. They were marked with a spot of color. One of them immediately
flew at the stranger; of the friend they took no notice.
"October 18.--At 10 A.M. I put in a stranger and a friend from nest A.
In the evening the former was killed, the latter was quite at home.
"October 19.--I put one in a small bottle with a friend from nest A.
They did not show any enmity. I then put in a stranger, and one of them
immediately began to fight with her."[37]
[37] Lubbock, _Ants, Bees, and Wasps_, p. 121 _et seq._
These experiments show that _Myrmica ruginodis_ recognize their kin at
sight, and that they are able to remember and recognize one another
after long separations.
Lubbock states that _Lasius flavus_ accept others of the same species as
their friends, no matter how great a distance lies between the nests.
His experiments were made with ants taken from contiguous nests as well
as those located some distance apart, and, in one instance, with ants
taken from a nest in another part of the country. He states that, in
the last-mentioned experiment, "in one or two cases they seemed to be
attacked, though so feebly that I could not feel sure about it; but in
no case were the ants killed."[38]
[38] Lubbock, _loc. cit. ante_, p. 124.
My experiments and observations with this ant are directly the reverse.
As long as the individuals experimented with belonged to contiguous
nests, and were, probably, derived from the same root-stock, there was
no fighting; but, in the case of ants taken from opposite sides of the
house, which, probably, sprang from two different sources, there was,
invariably, much fighting, in which not a few of the combatants lost
their lives. Whether or not the American species of _Lasius flavus_ are
naturally more pugnacious than the English species, I know not; if they
are, then this fact will account for the difference in behavior of the
two species to a certain extent, though not entirely.
Others of the social Hymenoptera--for instance, bees and wasps--remember
kindred. On one occasion, I clipped the wings of a wasp, and, after she
had learned that she could no longer fly, placed her on a strange nest.
She was at once attacked, and was soon stung to death. I kept a wasp
confined in a glass for three weeks, carefully feeding her meanwhile,
and then placed her on the nest from which she had been taken. She was
at once recognized by the other wasps, which caressed her with their
antennæ, and licked her with their tongues.
Bees, though they seem able to recognize kindred, and to remember them
also for some time, do not show these faculties of the mind as plainly
as do wasps and ants. This is probably due to the fact that bees are a
later development, socially speaking, and are not as psychically mature
as the other social insects.
In the higher animals the memory of kindred, especially in monkeys, is
quite well developed, and is so well known that it does not need
demonstration.
_Memory of Strangers_ (_Animals other than Kin_).--The recognition of
enemies can be noticed in animals quite low in the scale of life, and,
although this psychical phase is almost universally instinctive, it
carries with it certain elements of consciousness. As we ascend the
scale, however, we discover that certain animals are capable of
remembering other animals after a hostile encounter with them; thus, a
pet squirrel remembered the turtle which had bitten him after two years
had elapsed, and a white mouse showed, very plainly, that he had not
forgotten the pet crow from whose clutches he had been rescued, even
after three years had passed by. I might enumerate quite a number of
instances like these, but think it hardly necessary; any one who has
paid any attention to natural history has seen evidences of this phase
of memory in animals. I will, however, give one more illustration of
this form of memory, which, in my opinion, is quite remarkable. In my
front yard, last summer, there dwelt a large colony of bumblebees. One
day, in a moment of idleness, I tossed a tennis ball, with which I was
teaching a young dog to retrieve, into the nest. The dog dashed after
it, scratching up the ground and barking loudly; immediately the bees
sallied forth, pounced upon the dog and stung him severely. During the
entire summer this dog could never come near the nest without being
stung; his companions, two in number, trotted to and fro on the path
near which the nest was located without being noticed in the slightest
degree by the bees. The disturber, and, to them, would-be ravisher and
destroyer of their home, however, was always assailed and put to flight.
He eventually learned to give that portion of the yard a wide berth, and
could not be coaxed into coming within thirty yards of the home of his
savage little foes.
Instances of memory of individuals, incited by friendship or regard,
between animals of different species is quite rare among the lower
animals (insects, reptiles, etc.), yet, I have fortunately been able to
note this phase of memory as occurring in several animals, comparatively
speaking, low in the scale of intellectual development. I have every
reason for believing that even the toad remembers individuals, at
least, it remembers the sound of some particular voice or whistle. It
most certainly remembers localities and places, and that, too, when
unaided by its sense of direction which it possesses in a high degree. A
toad which I had under observation, and which I was in the habit of
feeding, would come at my call or whistle, and this it learned to do
after only two weeks of teaching. It would do this even in the middle of
a hot summer day (toads feed at dusk and during the night), showing,
thereby, that it remembered that this call meant food.
I have strong reasons for believing that certain spiders possess this
phase of memory; at least, a certain lycosid once evinced such
unmistakable evidences of a recognition of my individual person, that
more than one observer became convinced that she knew me from other
people. At the time these observations were made, I was confined to the
house by sickness.
In my room and dwelling beneath my table was a large black spider, one
of the most beautiful of her species. When I first made her acquaintance
she was very timid, and would run to her den if I made the slightest
motion. As time passed, however, she grew bolder and would come to the
edge of the table which was close beside my bed, and regard me intently
with her beady black eyes. Finally she became so tame that she would
take flies and insects from my fingers. She learned to know me so well
that she could easily tell the difference when others came into the
room. When I would leave the room for a short outing, on my return I
would find her waiting for me on the top of the table. When others
entered the room, she would hide herself in her den, and remain there,
very frequently, until they took their departure.
It has been known for quite a while that in the nests of ants there are
always to be found other insects, which appear to dwell in perfect
harmony with the real builders and owners of the domiciles. Some of
these creatures (the aphides, for instance) are brought into the nests
by the ants themselves, which use them as we do cows, milking from their
bodies a clear, sweet fluid, which they greedily lap up with their
tongues. But there are other animals in the teeming formicary which seem
to subserve no useful purpose other than that of ministering to the
ants' love of pets or playmates. One notable little alien in certain ant
communities is a minute claviger beetle (so called from its peculiar
claviger, or club-shaped antennæ), which seems to be a well-beloved
friend and companion, and which is always treated with great
kindness.[39] These little beetles sometimes leave the nest, and may be
observed sunning themselves at the entrance. The busy workers are never
so busy but that they can spend a fraction of a second for the purpose
of caressing their diminutive playmates. On one occasion, a swarm was
about to take place in one of my formicaries. The young princes and
princesses had emerged and had congregated about the entrance; they
seemed loath to take wing and fly away on their honeymoon jaunt out into
the unknown world. The workers were gently urging them to depart,
sometimes even nipping them slightly with their mandibles. Several
little clavigers could be seen running here and there and everywhere
through the crowd of anxious workers and timid young males and females.
They irresistibly reminded me of a lot of little dogs in a crowd of men
around some centre of excitement or attraction. I have seen dogs, on
more than one occasion, act in just such a manner. The ants,
notwithstanding their evident worry and excitement, seemed to notice
their little pets, and to give them, every now and then, an encouraging
pat, as it were, on their backs or heads.
[39] Consult Lubbock, _Ants, Bees, and Wasps_, pp. 75, 76.
The clavigers are not the only pets in a formicary; several other
species of beetles and one bug also live in ants' nests, and seem to
occupy places in the affection of the masters of the home akin to those
which dogs, cats, and other pets occupy in our own affections.
It has been asserted, most frequently by superficial observers, however,
that the reptilian _psychos_ is exceedingly low; this is a popular error,
for many reptiles give evidence, on occasions, of a, comparatively
speaking, high degree of intelligence. Especially is this true in regard
to their memory of individuals.
I kept for some time in my room, some years ago, a male black snake
(_Bascanion constrictor_). Whenever this creature became hungry, he
would follow me about the room like a dog or a cat. He would wind his
way up my legs and body, until his head was on a level with my own; he
would then bow repeatedly, darting out his tongue with inconceivable
rapidity.
He would never attempt to crawl up the legs of a visitor (some visitors
knew "Blacky" quite well and were not at all afraid of him), thus
showing that he knew me personally.
Again, a friend sent me two Floridian chameleons, which dwelt in my
desk, and which, in course of time, became very tame. My desk is a
combination bookcase and writing-table, and these creatures passed most
of their time among the books, changing color so perfectly, especially
when alarmed, that it took a very sharp eye indeed to descry them when
they were quiescent. When I sat at my desk writing they would jump down
on my head or shoulders and explore my entire body, running here and
there and everywhere about me, sometimes tickling me with their sharp
little claws until I, too, was forced into making a tour of discovery,
in order to bring them once more to the light. But let a stranger enter
the room, and, presto! they were gone in the twinkling of an eye. I
left home on one occasion and was gone for two months. When I came to my
room and sat down at my desk, I looked about for my little pets, and
could not see them. I had come to the conclusion that they had either
died or escaped from the room, when suddenly I saw a tiny little head
peep out from between two books and as suddenly disappear. I pulled out
a writing-pad and went to work, keeping a watch, however, for my shy
little friends. They gradually became bolder and bolder, until all at
once they seemed to recognize me, first one and then the other leaping
to my shoulders. In a few moments they were making their usual tour over
my person. In this instance these lizards remembered me after an absence
of at least two months; it took them about two hours fully to recall my
personality, yet they did it in the end.
Birds remember individuals, and testify their love or hatred for such
individuals in actions that are unmistakable. Thus, an eagle in Central
Park, for some--to me--unknown reason, took a great dislike to myself,
and, whenever I approached its cage, would erect its crest and regard me
in the most belligerent manner. On several occasions it even left its
perch and flew to the bars in its desire to attack me. A large, handsome
gobbler belonging to my mother has shown the house boy that it is war to
the death between them. This turkey never fails to attack the boy
whenever opportunity offers; no other person is ever molested by him.
A lady writes me as follows: "Last week my brother" (a lad of twelve)
"killed a snake which was just in the act of robbing a song-sparrow's
nest. Ever since then, the male sparrow has shown gratitude to George in
a truly wonderful manner. When he goes into the garden the sparrow will
fly to him, sometimes alighting on his head, at other times on his
shoulder, all the while pouring out a tumultuous song of praise and
gratitude. It will accompany him about the garden, never leaving him
until he reaches the garden gate. George, as you know, is a quiet boy,
who loves animals, and this may account, in a degree, for the sparrow's
extraordinary actions."
I am perfectly convinced that the nesting birds on my place know me, and
that they remember me from one nesting-time to another. I have
repeatedly approached my face to within a foot of setting birds without
alarming them. On one occasion I even placed my hand on a brooding
cardinal, which merely fluttered from beneath it without showing further
alarm; yet no wild bird has ever evinced toward myself any special
degree of friendship. When I was a lad I remember that a certain
decrepit old drake would follow me like a dog, and appeared to enjoy
himself in my society. I could not appreciate his friendship then, and
greatly fear that I was, at times, rather cruel to the old fellow.
One of the queerest friendships that ever came under my observation was
that which existed between a bantam cock and a pekin drake. The cock was
the most diminutive specimen of his kind that I ever saw, being hardly
larger than a quail, while the drake was almost as large as a full-grown
female goose. These two birds, so widely dissimilar as to genus and
species, were always together. If "One Lung" (the cock) took it into his
head to go into the garden and flew over the fence, "Chung" (the drake)
would solemnly waddle to a certain hole in the fence well known to
himself, and, by dint of much pushing with his strong, yellow feet,
would squeeze himself through, and rejoin his companion with many a
guttural quack and flirt of his tail. If "Chung" desired to take a bath,
he would make for the brook, where "One Lung" would soon join him,
always remaining, however, on the bank, where he would strut about and
crow continuously. On one occasion, a chicken-hawk attacked the cock,
which, though it defended itself valiantly, was in great danger of being
destroyed. The drake soon became aware of what was happening, and hurled
himself, with many a squawking quack, like a white avalanche against the
hawk, and, with one quick blow of his horny, flat bill, laid this pirate
of the air dead at his feet! He then examined the cock, with low-voiced
exclamations issuing from his throat all the while. Then, finding him
uninjured, he flapped his wings and quacked loud and long, as if in
thankfulness. As for "One Lung," he pecked the dead hawk several times,
then hopped up on its body and crowed as loud as he could, as if to say,
"Look-what-I-have-do-o-o-ne!"
"One Lung" was taken to a neighboring farm for breeding purposes by his
owner, and "Chung" moped and appeared utterly inconsolable during his
absence. When the bantam was finally brought home, the drake recognized
him "afar off" and came hurrying to meet him with flapping wings and
much vociferation. He caressed him with his bill, and appeared to make a
close examination of his person. These birds have always passed the
night close together, the bantam roosting among the branches of a low
bush, while his faithful companion squatted on the ground at its root.
Several years ago I knew a hen which was devotedly attached to an old
white horse. When the horse was confined to the stable, the hen was
always to be found in his stall, either in the manger, on the floor, or
perched upon his back. This last position was a favorite one, and it was
only abandoned when the hen was in search of food. When the horse was
out on pasture, the hen went with him and stayed close beside him until
nightfall, when she always returned and roosted on one of the stall
partitions.
Many cow owners of my town are in the habit of turning out their cows in
the morning, allowing them to roam about in the search of grass during
the day. As there are many large open commons in the immediate
neighborhood of town, the cows easily find an abundance of food. In my
early morning walks I repeatedly noticed a large red cow which was
always accompanied by a small black dog. When the cows came back into
town in the evening, many of them passed my house, and among the number
was the red cow and the dog in attendance. I became very much interested
in the cow and dog, and, one evening, followed the former to her home. I
asked her owner if he had trained the dog to follow the cow, whereupon
he disclaimed all knowledge of any dog, declaring that he had not
allowed a dog on his premises for many years. The next morning I was at
his cow-house before the animal was turned out. When this occurred I
followed her. A few blocks from her home, she was met by the dog, which
bounded about her and showed his delight by wagging his tail. When she
returned home in the evening he accompanied her until he arrived at his
own home (the place where he met her in the morning), when he left her
and crawled through a hole in the fence. His owner declared that his dog
had been leaving home early in the morning and returning in the evening
during the entire spring and summer (it was then September), and that he
had often wondered where he stayed during the day. This queer friendship
continued until November, when some miscreant put an end to it by
shooting the dog. Neither the favored cow nor any of her companions
(there were, sometimes, at least a hundred cows on the commons grazing
together) appeared to pay the slightest attention to the dog or to
notice him in any way. The dog kept close to his friend, the red cow,
during the day, sometimes sitting gravely on his haunches and watching
her eat, at other times frisking about her, as though asking for a romp.
When she started to return home he followed close at her heels.
Another of my dog acquaintances struck up a friendship with a hog, and
seemed to be highly pleased when he was allowed to play with his porcine
friend. What is more wonderful, the hog appeared to be just as fond of
his dog friend, and always greeted him with a series of delighted
grunts. If permitted, they would play together for hours at a time. The
dog was the bitter enemy of other hogs, and would worry them at every
opportunity.[40]
[40] These animals sometimes did not meet for months, yet they never
forgot each other, and their friendship continued for several years.
I have had many friends among the lower animals, but have always gained
and retained their good-will through their appetite. Some of these
creatures will be considered queer pets, for instance, grasshoppers,
spiders, and crickets, yet they were very interesting and often showed
much intelligence. The lower animals, with the single exception of the
dog (I do not include the cat, for I doubt her friendship), rarely
accept man as a companion and friend spontaneously. Their appetites or
the exigencies of their surroundings very frequently occasion them to
act in a friendly manner towards man, simply in order to induce him to
befriend them. It is the rarest thing in the world for them to
experience disinterested friendship for him. As I have said elsewhere in
this paper, a few instances of disinterested and spontaneous affection
of animals, other than dogs, for human beings are, however, on record,
and I am happy in being able to record another.
In 1882 there was received at the Fair Grounds in St. Louis, Missouri, a
consignment of South American monkeys. Among the lot were several large
individuals of a species then unknown to me, and which remain unknown to
me to this day. When I entered the monkey house I went at once to the
cage of the newcomers. One of the creatures, after examining me very
carefully, uttered a peculiar cry, and then leaped to the bars and began
jabbering at a great rate. I told the keeper that I believed that the
monkey wished to make friends with me; that the tones of its voice were
decidedly pacific. He laughed at the idea, and declared that this same
animal had bitten him severely when he was removing it from the box in
which it had been shipped to the cage in which it was then confined. I
said nothing more, but, going behind the rail, inserted my hand between
the bars of the cage. The monkey immediately seized it with its paws,
kissed it, and then licked it with its tongue. It then drew its head
down beside it, murmuring all the while in low tones. It showed great
pleasure when I scratched its head and body, and, in fact, seemed to
regard me with the greatest affection. When the keeper, in his
astonishment, drew near, the monkey bounded toward him, chattering and
showing every indication of great anger. This animal never forgot me,
but always recognized me the very moment I entered the monkey house.
In the same house there was a large dog-faced ape (chacma) named "Joe,"
whose friend and companion was a little white and black kitten. "Joe"
called no living thing, except the cat, his friend; he had many
acquaintances, but only one friend. He would tolerate me, and even
invented a name for me, so the keeper declared, yet his friendship never
got beyond tolerance. But he loved the cat, and the cat seemed to love
him--that is, as much as a cat could love. He could not bear to have her
taken from his cage; whenever this was done he would rage up and down
his den, coughing, growling, and yelling like a mad creature. When she
was restored to him he would seize her by the nape of the neck and carry
her to the back of his cage, from which coign of vantage he would growl
forth maledictions on the heads of his tormentors.
In order to test this monkey's memory, the cat was removed from the
cage, and another cat was substituted. "Joe" at first appeared to be
afraid of the new cat, and retired to the rear of his den. He would
avoid the cat, whenever she approached him, by moving about the cage.
Finally, he became very angry, and seizing poor puss, he broke her back
and then pulled her head from her body! This was done so quickly that
the tragedy was over before we could make a move to prevent it.
At the end of three months his pet was returned to him. The kitten had
grown considerably during this interval, yet "Joe" recognized her at
once, and welcomed her with many extravagant acts denoting joy and
satisfaction.
All of the higher animals, such as the dog, horse, cat, ox, elephant,
monkey, etc., possess this phase of memory.
_Memory of Events_ (_Education_, _Happenings_, _etc._).--The memory of
events and their sequences is a faculty of the mind that is to be
noticed in animals very low in the scale of life. In fact, psychical
development is based almost wholly upon this mental attribute. The vast
majority of what are now entirely instinctive habits were, in the
beginning, the results of sensual perceptions formulated and remembered
(consciously and unconsciously), which gave rise to conscious ideation;
this conscious ideation, in turn, became instinct.
This part of my subject is treated at length in the chapter on Reason,
therefore I will only introduce here certain evidence of this phase of
memory as it is to be observed in the lower animals, especially in
insects. A wasp of the variety commonly called "mud-dauber" last summer
built her nest on the ceiling of my room in one corner. The windows of
this room remained open night and day during the hot summer months, so
her nest was easy of access. One day, while the wasp was busy about her
home, I closed all the windows and awaited developments. At length she
flew toward a window, against which she landed with a thump which for a
moment or two completely dazed her. The wasp soon discovered that she
was barred from the outer world by some transparent, translucent
substance; she then proceeded on a voyage of discovery, flying around
the room and searching here and there and everywhere for an exit. She
finally found a small hole in a window casing which communicated with
the outside; through this she made her escape from the room. Upon
opening the window I saw her examining the passage through which she had
come, going through it repeatedly. She finally flew away, but shortly
returned with a pellet of mud. Notwithstanding the fact that all the
windows were then open, the wasp went at once to the hole in the casing,
through which she made her way into the room and thence to her nest on
the ceiling. She never again, so far as I was able to ascertain, made
an exit or an entrance through the windows, but always made use of the
hole in the casing. This little creature undoubtedly gave unmistakable
evidences of ratiocination; she found that a transparent barrier had
been placed in her way--a barrier so translucent and transparent that
she could not see it until she actually felt it. She therefore concluded
that she would never again risk injury by flying through the windows.
What is most remarkable about this instance is that this insect derived
her knowledge from a single experience, and at once profited thereby.
The wasp remembered the event--her experience with the window glass--and
avoided a like occurrence by going through the hole in the casing. Her
experience was a bit of education.
There are many people alive to-day, probably, who saw the trained fleas
which were on exhibition in the large cities of the United States some
thirty or forty years ago. These little creatures had been taught to
perform military evolutions, to dance, to draw miniature carts, to feign
death, etc., at the command or signal of their owner and trainer. The
mere fact that they possessed memory enough to learn, retain, and
remember their lessons is not proof positive of reason, but the fact of
their having restrained their natural tendency and desire to escape,
when they could so easily gratify such a desire or tendency, is a potent
factor in an argument for their possession of the ratiocinative
faculty. Their teacher explained that he "brought them to reason" by
keeping them at first in a glass vessel, where they jumped and bumped
their heads to no purpose against the transparent walls of their prison.
Thus their vaulting ambition was held in check, and they learned to
reason from cause and effect.
It is a well-known fact that many of the higher animals can be taught to
do many things entirely foreign to their natures. This is brought about
entirely through the faculty of remembering events. I am confident that
many of the lower animals, insects, crustaceans, reptiles, are likewise
the possessors of this faculty, and are capable of being taught. I,
myself, have succeeded in teaching a toad to hop over a stick at the
word of command. Again, I taught two chameleons to take certain
positions and to retain them at feeding time. These little creatures
remembered their lesson, and at my whistle would "line up" on the
particular book that I had designated as their dining-table. We have
seen that fleas are capable of being highly educated, hence it is
reasonable to presume that other insects, specially and generically akin
to the flea, likewise possess the faculty of remembering events. Of
course, this faculty is necessarily more highly developed in some
animals than in others; it differs in degree of development, not in
kind.