“_The tumult of unproved desire, the unaimed,
Uncertain yearnings, aspirations blind._”
If the scope of life and the qualities of intelligence differ from race
to race of animals, the strictly moral qualities appear to differ from
individual to individual.
Cats are called “selfish”; but even on the undiscriminating view such
qualities differ from cat to cat. Ra was certainly self-absorbed, but
I attribute this greatly to unhappy family circumstances when he was
young. Persis and Mentu were not selfish in this sense at all. Again
and again they have been found in the room with food untouched. When
one came in there was a greeting and short display of affection, and
not till then would the cat go to its food, and eat with good appetite.
Few people think of accusing a straightforward genial collie of
selfishness; yet if I left Taffy alone with his dinner, or even with
some one else’s dinner, there is a strong presumption that I should
find the plate clean and shining on return.
What people usually mean by this assertion is that the cat does not,
like the dog, depend entirely on human companionship; there are no
touching stories of faithfulness to a departed master; there is no
overwhelming interest in the human race. A cat has more of what the
average Briton calls “self-respect,” a quality he likes far better in
himself than in others.
On the other hand, a cat has more interest in other races of beings
than a dog. The only creatures in which most dogs show spontaneous
interest, unsolicited and untaught, are horses; and even here the
interest rests on association. But we have all known cases of cats
which deliberately set themselves to woo dogs; Ra and his grandmother,
unlike in all else, adored the same fox-terrier. I have indeed seen
a dog which had lost her puppies nurse a half-grown cat, but the cat
seemed to take the initiative. On the other hand, a Manx cat, in a
house where I was staying, allowed a beloved terrier to take food out
of her mouth. A cat has been known to bring up squirrels; a tom-cat of
our own fondled and protected chickens; finally, a cat has been known
to bring a half-starved friend to share its dinner.
So-called “animal instincts” cannot account for the greater part of
these cases, which involve rather definite sacrifice. Dog friendships,
on the other hand, rarely involve sacrifice except for the sake of man.
This instinct of benevolence may be noticed among birds. I have heard
on good authority of an Uncle canary bringing up a deserted brood,
and even with apparent embarrassment taking his place on the nest; of
sparrows bringing up young starlings, which, taken from their own nest
and placed on a window-ledge, sought refuge in the sparrows’ nest; and
finally, of a sparrow helping a wagtail to feed a young cuckoo. Unless
birds absolutely enjoy filling each other’s mouths, such operations
involve sacrifice; but in any case there is a large social instinct
shown; and when, as I sit in the garden, the bean poles and seed sticks
near me begin to blossom into robins, I find I am suddenly the centre
towards which such social instincts are directed.
Temper differs in the same way from individual to individual, in extent
and quality. Ra had a cross temper; it irritated him if one took
liberties, and he struck without warning; but with regard to other
animals cowardice kept his temper in check. Mentu had the occasional
irritability of a nervous temperament, whether animal or human; he
often kept a bold front upon danger, when fear made him afterwards
positively sick and unable to eat for some time. Persis was a very
fiend to other animals, but had an utterly sweet and grateful temper
towards human beings unless jealousy came into play.
Dogs are more often misjudged in respect to temper than cats,
probably because their ill-temper is more formidable; and the nervous
excitability of the collie is often mistaken for bad temper. I have
known a bad-tempered collie, but the clergyman who owned him did not
keep him long, as it was apt to make difficulties in the parish if the
congregation of the mission church was kept at bay on a dark, windy
evening.
Pugnacity is perhaps a different thing from ill-temper, and appears
to be a very wide-spread quality in bird-life. A great robin-tamer
told me that no robin could support his position unless he was very
pugnacious. Those who have tried to tame wild birds, or even those who
feed birds in the winter, will notice the extraordinary displays of
temper among them; how the blackbird loses half his meal through trying
to chase other birds away; how the tits play with him, reckoning on
this pugnacity; how the robin after he has made a hearty meal lies in
wait for late comers. Barn-door cocks are too universally condemned in
respect of temper; my patriarch has been several times reported to me
as having placed himself between two young combatants; and he lives
on excellent terms with a younger replica of himself, the only point
of quarrel being the distance to which the young cock may chase a hen
of the other’s harem which has strayed into his own yard. Pugnacity
is indeed apt to develop into ill-temper with caged birds, but gentle
handling in taming and increased freedom would probably go far to
obviate this.
I have spoken of moral qualities, but the centre of all these is the
question of conscience. It is impossible to deny that at any rate the
higher animals have conscience, if conscience means the recognition
of a law or principle higher than the immediate personal desire and
sometimes antagonistic to it.
Even if we allow that the sense of duty in human beings is based on
the “sanctions” of pleasures and pain, this makes no difference to the
quality of the sense once evolved; neither can it make any difference
in the quality of the sense in animals whether this is produced by the
“sanction” of nature or of the human race.
The more intelligent domestic creatures accept to some extent a
standard given by the power above them. The human standard is to them
in a sense as the law written on stone to us; and all know the law has
gone forth against the indulgence of ill-temper. Joey recognises this
law, and it is a moral effort he makes (very seldom) to refrain from
biting; he, too, has a conscience, though a singularly bad one. Taffy
with the nozzle of the bellows in his mouth can choose whether to
accept the situation cheerfully or crossly.
But the dog accepts his moral code more entirely from the human
being than the cat does. In this respect the cat is as the Gentile,
without the law, but a law unto himself. There is sacrifice of the
lower desires to the higher when the cat brings a friend to share
her dinner; when she lets a dog take food out of her mouth; when
she carries on towards her kittens, after the immediate needs and
desires of motherhood have ceased, a course of conduct more or less
consistently educative. A cat, the Egyptians said, reasoned like a man,
and this is true in that she determines, like a man, her own ends and
purposes in life. It is not approbation but admiration that the cat
demands from man; the dog accepts the purposes of life as given from
above. But he recognises, as clearly as he recognises the sanction
of the ginger-bread and the whip, the sanction of moral appreciation
or disapproval. He claims applause when he has done well, and when
the whip has been endured he still clings with renewed trust to his
diviner friend, and seeks by affection to win back approval.
Such animals have wills essentially free as our own, but with dimmer
intelligence these wills are more at the mercy of their passions;
and the blinder intelligence leaves them, too, more at the mercy of
spiritual influences which flow out from us to them. There is a quick
response, as with children, not only to our treatment, but to the
spirit of our treatment, for they reward our trust with trust, and
answer our cheerfulness with heart and courage. And we, too, war with
principalities and powers, and are helped in the high and hidden places
by influences unseen. We call these creatures blind and unconscious,
but our consciousness, too, is dim, and our eyes blinder to things
divine than theirs to things human; we both move gropingly and feebly
in a great world and battle against the Will that made us and has mercy
on us--“so many men that know not their right hand from their left, and
also much cattle.” [Illustration: Kitten by Madame Ronner]
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