underrate the mental powers of the higher animals, and especially of
man, when we compare their actions founded on the memory of past events,
on foresight, reason and imagination, with exactly similar actions
instinctively performed by the lower animals; in this latter case the
capacity of performing such actions has been gained, step by step,
through the variability of the mental organs and natural selection,
without any conscious intelligence on the part of the animal during each
successive generation. No doubt, as Mr. Wallace has argued, much of the
intelligent work done by man is due to imitation and not to reason; but
there is this great difference between his actions and many of those
performed by the lower animals, namely, that man cannot, on his first
trial, make, for instance, a stone hatchet or a canoe, through his power
of imitation. He has to learn his work by practice; a beaver, on the
other hand, can make its dam or canal, and a bird its nest, as well, or
nearly as well, and a spider its wonderful web quite as well, the first
time it tries as when old and experienced.
To return to our immediate subject: the lower animals, like man,
manifestly feel pleasure and pain, happiness and misery. Happiness is
never better exhibited than by young animals, such as puppies, kittens,
lambs, etc., when playing together, like our own children. Even insects
play together, as has been described by that excellent observer, P.
Huber, who saw ants chasing and pretending to bite each other, like so
many puppies.
The fact that the lower animals are excited by the same emotions as
ourselves is so well established that it will not be necessary to weary
the reader by many details. Terror acts in the same manner on them as on
us, causing the muscles to tremble, the heart to palpitate, the
sphincters to be relaxed, and the hair to stand on end. Suspicion, the
offspring of fear, is eminently characteristic of most wild animals. It
is, I think, impossible to read the account given by Sir E. Tennent, of
the behaviour of the female elephants used as decoys, without admitting
that they intentionally practise deceit, and well know what they are
about. Courage and timidity are extremely variable qualities in the
individuals of the same species, as is plainly seen in our dogs. Some
dogs and horses are ill-tempered and easily turn sulky; others are
good-tempered; and these qualities are certainly inherited. Every one
knows how liable animals are to furious rage and how plainly they show
it. Many, and probably true, anecdotes have been published on the
long-delayed and artful revenge of various animals. The accurate Rengger
and Brehm[59] state that the American and African monkeys which they
kept tame certainly revenged themselves. Sir Andrew Smith, a zoologist
whose scrupulous accuracy was known to many persons, told me the
following story of which he was himself an eye-witness: At the Cape of
Good Hope an officer had often plagued a certain baboon, and the animal,
seeing him approaching one Sunday for parade, poured water into a hole
and hastily made some thick mud, which he skilfully dashed over the
officer as he passed by, to the amusement of many bystanders. For long
afterwards the baboon rejoiced and triumphed whenever he saw his victim.
The love of a dog for his master is notorious; as an old writer quaintly
says: "A dog is the only thing on this earth that luvs you more than he
luvs himself." In the agony of death a dog has been known to caress his
master, and every one has heard of the dog suffering under vivisection,
who licked the hand of the operator; this man, unless the operation was
fully justified by an increase of our knowledge, or unless he had a
heart of stone, must have felt remorse to the last hour of his life.
As Whewell has well asked: "Who that reads the touching instances of
maternal affection, related so often of the women of all nations and of
the females of all animals, can doubt that the principle of action is
the same in the two cases?" We see maternal affection exhibited in the
most trifling details; thus, Rengger observed an American monkey (a
Cebus) carefully driving away the flies which plagued her infant; and
Duvaucel saw a Hylobates washing the face of her young ones in a stream.
So intense is the grief of female monkeys for the loss of their young
that it invariably caused the death of certain kinds kept under
confinement by Brehm in N. Africa. Orphan monkeys were always adopted
and carefully guarded by the other monkeys, both males and females. One
female baboon had so capacious a heart that she not only adopted young
monkeys of other species, but stole young dogs and cats, which she
continually carried about. Her kindness, however, did not go so far as
to share her food with her adopted offspring, at which Brehm was
surprised, as his monkeys always divided everything quite fairly with
their own young ones. An adopted kitten scratched this affectionate
baboon, who certainly had a fine intellect, for she was much astonished
at being scratched, and immediately examined the kitten's feet, and
without more ado bit off the claws.[60] In the Zoological Gardens I
heard from the keeper that an old baboon (C. chacma) had adopted a
Rhesus monkey; but when a young drill and mandrill were placed in the
cage she seemed to perceive that these monkeys, though distinct species,
were her nearer relatives, for she at once rejected the Rhesus and
adopted both of them. The young Rhesus, as I saw, was greatly
discontented at being thus rejected, and it would, like a naughty child,
annoy and attack the young drill and mandrill whenever it could do so
with safety; this conduct exciting great indignation in the old baboon.
Monkeys will also, according to Brehm, defend their master when attacked
by any one, as well as dogs to whom they are attached, from the attacks
of other dogs. But we here trench on the subjects of sympathy and
fidelity to which I shall recur. Some of Brehm's monkeys took much
delight in teasing a certain old dog whom they disliked, as well as
other animals, in various ingenious ways.
Most of the more complex emotions are common to the higher animals and
ourselves. Every one has seen how jealous a dog is of his master's
affections if lavished on any other creature; and I have observed the
same fact with monkeys. This shows that animals not only love, but have
a desire to be loved. Animals manifestly feel emulation. They love
approbation or praise; and a dog carrying a basket for his master
exhibits in a high degree self-complacency or pride. There can, I think,
be no doubt that a dog feels shame, as distinct from fear, and something
very like modesty when begging too often for food. A great dog scorns
the snarling of a little dog, and this may be called magnanimity.
Several observers have stated that monkeys certainly dislike being
laughed at; and they sometimes invent imaginary offenses. In the
Zoological Gardens I saw a baboon who always got into a furious rage
when his keeper took out a letter or book and read it aloud to him; and
his rage was so violent that, as I witnessed on one occasion, he bit his
own leg till the blood flowed. Dogs show what may be fairly called a
sense of humour as distinct from mere play; if a bit of stick or other
such object be thrown to one, he will often carry it away for a short
distance; and then squatting down with it on the ground close before
him, will wait until his master comes quite close to take it away. The
dog will then seize it and rush away in triumph, repeating the same
maneuver, and evidently enjoying the practical joke.
We will now turn to the more intellectual emotions and faculties, which
are very important, as forming the basis for the development of the
higher mental powers. Animals manifestly enjoy excitement, and suffer
from ennui, as may be seen with dogs, and, according to Rengger, with
monkeys. All animals feel _Wonder_ and many exhibit _Curiosity_. They
sometimes suffer from this latter quality, as when the hunter plays
antics and thus attracts them; I have witnessed this with deer, and so
it is with the wary chamois, and with some kinds of wild ducks. Brehm
gives a curious account of the instinctive dread, which his monkeys
exhibited, for snakes; but their curiosity was so great that they could
not desist from occasionally satiating their horror in a most human
fashion by lifting up the lid of the box in which the snakes were kept.
I was so much surprised at his account that I took a stuffed and
coiled-up snake into the monkey-house at the Zoological Gardens, and the
excitement thus caused was one of the most curious spectacles which I
ever beheld. Three species of Cercopithecus were the most alarmed; they
dashed about their cages and uttered sharp signal cries of danger, which
were understood by the other monkeys. A few young monkeys and one old
Anubis baboon alone took no notice of the snake. I then placed the
stuffed specimen on the ground in one of the larger compartments. After
a time all the monkeys collected round it in a large circle, and,
staring intently, presented a most ludicrous appearance. They became
extremely nervous; so that when a wooden ball, with which they were
familiar as a plaything, was accidentally moved in the straw, under
which it was partly hidden, they all instantly started away. These
monkeys behaved very differently when a dead fish, a mouse, a living
turtle, and other new objects were placed in their cages; for though at
first frightened, they soon approached, handled, and examined them. I
then placed a live snake in a paper bag, with the mouth loosely closed,
in one of the larger compartments. One of the monkeys immediately
approached, cautiously opened the bag a little, peeped in, and instantly
dashed away. Then I witnessed what Brehm has described; for monkey after
monkey, with head raised high and turned on one side, could not resist
taking a momentary peep into the upright bag, at the dreadful object
lying quietly at the bottom. It would almost appear as if monkeys had
some notion of zoological affinities, for those kept by Brehm exhibited
a strange, although mistaken, instinctive dread of innocent lizards and
frogs. An orang, also, has been known to be much alarmed at the first
sight of a turtle.
The principle of _Imitation_ is strong in man, and especially, as I have
myself observed, with savages. In certain morbid states of the brain
this tendency is exaggerated to an extraordinary degree; some hemiplegic
patients and others, at the commencement of inflammatory softening of
the brain, unconsciously imitate every word which is uttered, whether in
their own or a foreign language, and every gesture or action which is
performed near them. Desor has remarked that no animal voluntarily
imitates an action performed by man, until, in the ascending scale, we
come to monkeys, which are well known to be ridiculous mockers. Animals,
however, sometimes imitate each other's actions; thus two species of
wolves, which had been reared by dogs, learned to bark, as does
sometimes the jackal, but whether this can be called voluntary imitation
is another question. Birds imitate the songs of their parents, and
sometimes of other birds; and parrots are notorious imitators of any
sound which they often hear. Dureau de la Malle gives an account of a
dog reared by a cat, who learned to imitate the well-known action of a
cat licking her paws, and thus washing her ears and face; this was also
witnessed by the celebrated naturalist Audouin. I have received several
confirmatory accounts; in one of these, a dog had not been suckled by a
cat, but had been brought up with one, together with kittens, and had
thus acquired the above habit, which he ever afterward practised during
his life of thirteen years. Dureau de la Malle's dog likewise learned
from the kittens to play with a ball by rolling it about with his
fore-paws and springing on it. A correspondent assures me that a cat in
his house used to put her paws into jugs of milk having too narrow a
mouth for her head. A kitten of this cat soon learned the same trick,
and practised it ever afterward whenever there was an opportunity.
The parents of many animals, trusting to the principle of imitation in
their young, and more especially to their instinctive or inherited
tendencies, may be said to educate them. We see this when a cat brings a
live mouse to her kittens; and Dureau de la Malle has given a curious
account (in the paper above quoted) of his observations on hawks which
taught their young dexterity, as well as judgment of distances, by first
dropping through the air dead mice and sparrows, which the young
generally failed to catch, and then bringing them live birds and letting
them loose.
Hardly any faculty is more important for the intellectual progress of
man than _Attention_. Animals clearly manifest this power, as when a cat
watches by a hole and prepares to spring on its prey. Wild animals
sometimes become so absorbed when thus engaged that they may be easily
approached. Mr. Bartlett has given me a curious proof of how variable
this faculty is in monkeys. A man who trains monkeys to act in plays
used to purchase common kinds from the Zoological Society at the price
of five pounds for each; but he offered to give double the price if he
might keep three or four of them for a few days in order to select one.
When asked how he could possibly learn so soon whether a particular
monkey would turn out a good actor, he answered that it all depended on
their power of attention. If when he was talking and explaining anything
to a monkey its attention was easily distracted, as by a fly on the
wall or other trifling object, the case was hopeless. If he tried by
punishment to make an inattentive monkey act, it turned sulky. On the
other hand, a monkey which carefully attended to him could always be
trained.
It is almost superfluous to state that animals have excellent _memories_
for persons and places. A baboon at the Cape of Good Hope, as I have
been informed by Sir Andrew Smith, recognised him with joy after an
absence of nine months. I had a dog who was savage and averse to all
strangers, and I purposely tried his memory after an absence of five
years and two days. I went near the stable where he lived and shouted to
him in my old manner; he showed no joy, but instantly followed me out
walking, and obeyed me exactly as if I had parted with him only half an
hour before. A train of old associations, dormant during five years, had
thus been instantaneously awakened in his mind. Even ants, as P. Huber
has clearly shown, recognised their fellow-ants belonging to the same
community after a separation of four months. Animals can certainly by
some means judge of the intervals of time between recurrent events.
The _Imagination_ is one of the highest prerogatives of man. By this
faculty he may unite former images and ideas, independently of the will,
and thus create brilliant and novel results. A poet, as Jean Paul
Richter remarks, "who must reflect whether he shall make a character say
yes or no--to the devil with him; he is only a stupid corpse." The value
of the products of our imagination depends of course on the number,
accuracy, and clearness of our impressions, on our judgment and taste in
selecting or rejecting the involuntary combinations, and to a certain
extent on our power of voluntarily combining them. As dogs, cats,
horses, and probably all the higher animals, even birds, have vivid
dreams, and this is shown by their movements and the sounds uttered, we
must admit that they possess some power of imagination. There must be
something special which causes dogs to howl in the night, and especially
during moonlight, in that remarkable and melancholy manner called
baying. All dogs do not do so; and, according to Houzeau, they do not
then look at the moon, but at some fixed point near the horizon. Houzeau
thinks that their imaginations are disturbed by the vague outlines of
the surrounding objects, and conjure up before them fantastic images; if
this be so, their feelings may almost be called superstitious.
Of all the faculties of the human mind, it will, I presume, be admitted
that _Reason_ stands at the summit. Only a few persons now dispute that
animals possess some power of reasoning. Animals may constantly be seen
to pause, deliberate, and resolve. It is a significant fact, that the
more the habits of any particular animal are studied by a naturalist,
the more he attributes to reason and the less to unlearned instincts. In
future chapters we shall see that some animals extremely low in the
scale apparently display a certain amount of reason. No doubt it is
often difficult to distinguish between the power of reason and that of
instinct. For instance, Dr. Hayes, in his work on "The Open Polar Sea,"
repeatedly remarks that his dogs, instead of continuing to draw the
sledges in a compact body, diverged and separated when they came to thin
ice, so that their weight might be more evenly distributed. This was
often the first warning which the travellers received that the ice was
becoming thin and dangerous. Now, did the dogs act thus from the
experience of each individual, or from the example of the older and
wiser dogs, or from an inherited habit, that is from instinct? This
instinct may possibly have arisen since the time, long ago, when dogs
were first employed by the natives in drawing their sledges; or the
Arctic wolves, the parent-stock of the Esquimau dog, may have acquired
an instinct impelling them not to attack their prey in a close pack,
when on thin ice.
We can only judge by the circumstances under which actions are
performed, whether they are due to instinct, or to reason, or to the
mere association of ideas; this latter principle, however, is
intimately connected with reason. A curious case has been given by
Professor Möbius, of a pike, separated by a plate of glass from an
adjoining aquarium stocked with fish, and who often dashed himself with
such violence against the glass in trying to catch the other fishes,
that he was sometimes completely stunned. The pike went on thus for
three months, but at last learned caution, and ceased to do so. The
plate of glass was then removed, but the pike would not attack these
particular fishes, though he would devour others which were afterward
introduced; so strongly was the idea of a violent shock associated in
his feeble mind with the attempt on his former neighbours. If a savage
who had never seen a large plate-glass window, were to dash himself even
once against it, he would for a long time afterward associate a shock
with a window-frame; but, very differently from the pike, he would
probably reflect on the nature of the impediment, and be cautious under
analogous circumstances. Now with monkeys, as we shall presently see, a
painful or merely a disagreeable impression, from an action once
performed, is sometimes sufficient to prevent the animal from repeating
it. If we attribute this difference between the monkeys and the pike
solely to the association of ideas being so much stronger and more
persistent in the one than the other, though the pike often received
much the more severe injury, can we maintain in the case of man that a
similar difference implies the possession of a fundamentally different
mind?
Houzeau relates that, while crossing a wide and arid plain in Texas, his
two dogs suffered greatly from thirst, and that between thirty and forty
times they rushed down the hollows to search for water. These hollows
were not valleys, and there were no trees in them, or any other
difference in the vegetation, and as they were absolutely dry, there
could have been no smell of damp earth. The dogs behaved as if they knew
that a dip in the ground offered them the best chance of finding water,
and Houzeau has often witnessed the same behaviour in other animals. I
have seen, as I dare say have others, that when a small object is thrown
on the ground beyond the reach of one of the elephants in the Zoological
Gardens, he blows through his trunk on the ground beyond the object, so
that the current reflected on all sides may drive the object within his
reach. Again, a well-known ethnologist, Mr. Westropp, informs me that he
observed in Vienna a bear deliberately making with his paw a current in
some water, which was close to the bars of his cage, so as to draw a
piece of floating bread within his reach. These actions of the elephant
and bear can hardly be attributed to instinct or inherited habit, as
they would be of little use to an animal in a state of nature. Now, what
is the difference between such actions, when performed by an
uncultivated man, and by one of the higher animals?
The savage and the dog have often found water at a low level, and the
coincidence under such circumstances has become associated in their
minds. A cultivated man would perhaps make some general proposition on
the subject; but from all that we know of savages it is extremely
doubtful whether they would do so, and a dog would certainly not. But a
savage, as well as a dog, would search in the same way, though
frequently disappointed, and in both it seems to be equally an act of
reason, whether or not any general proposition on the subject is
consciously placed before the mind. The same would apply to the elephant
and the bear making currents in the air or water. The savage would
certainly neither know nor care by what law the desired movements were
effected; yet his act would be guided by a rude process of reasoning, as
surely as would a philosopher in his longest chain of deductions. There
would no doubt be this difference between him and one of the higher
animals, that he would take notice of much slighter circumstances and
conditions, and would observe any connection between them after much
less experience, and this would be of paramount importance. I kept a
daily record of the actions of one of my infants, and when he was about
eleven months old, and before he could speak a single word, I was
continually struck with the greater quickness with which all sorts of
objects and sounds were associated together in his mind, compared with
that of the most intelligent dogs I ever knew. But the higher animals
differ in exactly the same way in this power of association from those
low in the scale, such as the pike, as well as in that of drawing
inferences and of observation.
The promptings of reason, after very short experience, are well shown by
the following actions of American monkeys, which stand low in their
order. Rengger, a most careful observer, states that when he first gave
eggs to his monkeys in Paraguay they smashed them and thus lost much of
their contents; afterward they gently hit one end against some hard
body, and picked off the bits of shell with their fingers. After cutting
themselves only once with any sharp tool, they would not touch it again,
or would handle it with the greatest caution. Lumps of sugar were often
given them wrapped up in paper; and Rengger sometimes put a live wasp in
the paper, so that in hastily unfolding it they got stung; after this
had once happened they always held the packet to their ears to detect
any movement within.