It must be possible to arrive at a complete knowledge of the consciousness
of the brutes, for we can construct it by abstracting certain properties
of our own consciousness. On the other hand, there enters into the
consciousness of the brute instinct, which is much more developed in all
of them than in man, and in some of them extends to what we call
mechanical instinct.
The brutes have understanding without having reason, and therefore they
have knowledge of perception but no abstract knowledge. They apprehend
correctly, and also grasp the immediate causal connection, in the case of
the higher species even through several links of its chain, but they do
not, properly speaking, _think_. For they lack _conceptions_, that is,
abstract ideas. The first consequence of this, however, is the want of a
proper memory, which applies even to the most sagacious of the brutes, and
it is just this which constitutes the principal difference between their
consciousness and that of men. Perfect intelligence depends upon the
distinct consciousness of the past and of the eventual future, _as such_,
and in connection with the present. The special memory which this demands
is therefore an orderly, connected, and thinking retrospective
recollection. This, however, is only possible by means of _general
conceptions_, the assistance of which is required by what is entirely
individual, in order that it may be recalled in its order and connection.
For the boundless multitude of things and events of the same and similar
kinds, in the course of our life, does not admit directly of a perceptible
and individual recollection of each particular, for which neither the
powers of the most comprehensive memory nor our time would be sufficient.
Therefore all this can only be preserved by subsuming it under general
conceptions, and the consequent reference to relatively few principles, by
means of which we then have always at command an orderly and adequate
survey of our past. We can only present to ourselves in perception
particular scenes of the past, but the time that has passed since then and
its content we are conscious of only in the abstract by means of
conceptions of things and numbers which now represent days and years,
together with their content. The memory of the brutes, on the contrary,
like their whole intellect, is confined to what they _perceive_, and
primarily consists merely in the fact that a recurring impression presents
itself as having already been experienced, for the present perception
revivifies the traces of an earlier one. Their memory is therefore always
dependent upon what is now actually present. Just on this account,
however, this excites anew the sensation and the mood which the earlier
phenomenon produced. Thus the dog recognises acquaintances, distinguishes
friends from enemies, easily finds again the path it has once travelled,
the houses it has once visited, and at the sight of a plate or a stick is
at once put into the mood associated with them. All kinds of training
depend upon the use of this perceptive memory and on the force of habit,
which in the case of animals is specially strong. It is therefore just as
different from human education as perception is from thinking. We
ourselves are in certain cases, in which memory proper refuses us its
service, confined to that merely perceptive recollection, and thus we can
measure the difference between the two from our own experience. For
example, at the sight of a person whom it appears to us we know, although
we are not able to remember when or where we saw him; or again, when we
visit a place where we once were in early childhood, that is, while our
reason was yet undeveloped, and which we have therefore entirely
forgotten, and yet feel that the present impression is one which we have
already experienced. This is the nature of all the recollections of the
brutes. We have only to add that in the case of the most sagacious this
merely perceptive memory rises to a certain degree of _phantasy_, which
again assists it, and by virtue of which, for example, the image of its
absent master floats before the mind of the dog and excites a longing
after him, so that when he remains away long it seeks for him everywhere.
Its dreams also depend upon this phantasy. The consciousness of the brutes
is accordingly a mere succession of presents, none of which, however,
exist as future before they appear, nor as past after they have vanished;
which is the specific difference of human consciousness. Hence the brutes
have infinitely less to _suffer_ than we have, because they know no other
pains but those which the _present_ directly brings. But the present is
without extension, while the future and the past, which contain most of
the causes of our suffering, are widely extended, and to their actual
content there is added that which is merely possible, which opens up an
unlimited field for desire and aversion. The brutes, on the contrary,
undisturbed by these, enjoy quietly and peacefully each present moment,
even if it is only bearable. Human beings of very limited capacity perhaps
approach them in this. Further, the sufferings which belong _purely_ to
the present can only be physical. Indeed the brutes do not properly
speaking feel death: they can only know it when it appears, and then they
are already no more. Thus then the life of the brute is a continuous
present. It lives on without reflection, and exists wholly in the present;
even the great majority of men live with very little reflection. Another
consequence of the special nature of the intellect of the brutes, which we
have explained is the perfect accordance of their consciousness with their
environment. Between the brute and the external world there is nothing,
but between us and the external world there is always our thought about
it, which makes us often inapproachable to it, and it to us. Only in the
case of children and very primitive men is this wall of partition so thin
that in order to see what goes on in them we only need to see what goes on
round about them. Therefore the brutes are incapable alike of purpose and
dissimulation; they reserve nothing. In this respect the dog stands to the
man in the same relation as a glass goblet to a metal one, and this helps
greatly to endear the dog so much to us, for it affords us great pleasure
to see all those inclinations and emotions which we so often conceal
displayed simply and openly in him. In general, the brutes always play, as
it were, with their hand exposed; and therefore we contemplate with so
much pleasure their behaviour towards each other, both when they belong to
the same and to different species. It is characterised by a certain stamp
of innocence, in contrast to the conduct of men, which is withdrawn from
the innocence of nature by the entrance of reason, and with it of prudence
or deliberation. Hence human conduct has throughout the stamp of intention
or deliberate purpose, the absence of which, and the consequent
determination by the impulse of the moment, is the fundamental
characteristic of all the action of the brutes. No brute is capable of a
purpose properly so-called. To conceive and follow out a purpose is the
prerogative of man, and it is a prerogative which is rich in consequences.
Certainly an instinct like that of the bird of passage or the bee, still
more a permanent, persistent desire, a longing like that of the dog for
its absent master, may present the appearance of a purpose, with which,
however, it must not be confounded. Now all this has its ultimate ground
in the relation between the human and the brute intellect, which may also
be thus expressed: The brutes have only _direct_ knowledge, while we, in
addition to this, have _indirect_ knowledge; and the advantage which in
many things—for example, in trigonometry and analysis, in machine work
instead of hand work, &c.—indirect has over direct knowledge appears here
also. Thus again we may say: The brutes have only a _single_ intellect, we
a _double_ intellect, both perceptive and thinking, and the operation of
the two often go on independently of each other. We perceive one thing,
and we think another. Often, again, they act upon each other. This way of
putting the matter enables us specially to understand that natural
openness and naivete of the brutes, referred to above, as contrasted with
the concealment of man.
However, the law _natura non facit saltus_ is not entirely suspended even
with regard to the intellect of the brutes, though certainly the step from
the brute to the human intelligence is the greatest which nature has made
in the production of her creatures. In the most favoured individuals of
the highest species of the brutes there certainly sometimes appears,
always to our astonishment, a faint trace of reflection, reason, the
comprehension of words, of thought, purpose, and deliberation. The most
striking indications of this kind are afforded by the elephant, whose
highly developed intelligence is heightened and supported by an experience
of a lifetime which sometimes extends to two hundred years. He has often
given unmistakable signs, recorded in well-known anecdotes, of
premeditation, which, in the case of brutes, always astonishes us more
than anything else. Such, for instance, is the story of the tailor on whom
an elephant revenged himself for pricking him with a needle. I wish,
however, to rescue from oblivion a parallel case to this, because it has
the advantage of being authenticated by judicial investigation. On the
27th of August 1830 there was held at Morpeth, in England, a coroner’s
inquest on the keeper, Baptist Bernhard, who was killed by his elephant.
It appeared from the evidence that two years before he had offended the
elephant grossly, and now, without any occasion, but on a favourable
opportunity, the elephant had seized him and crushed him. (See the
_Spectator_ and other English papers of that day.) For special information
on the intelligence of brutes I recommend Leroy’s excellent book, “_Sur
l’Intelligence des Animaux_,” _nouv. éd._ 1802.