THE FEELINGS OF ANIMALS: THEIR APPETENCES AND EMOTIONS.
There is one aspect of the mental processes of men and animals that we
have so far left unnoticed--the aspect of feeling, the aspect of
pleasure and pain. Quite distinct from, and yet intimately associated
with, our perception of a beautiful scene, is the pleasure we derive
therefrom; and quite distinct from, and yet inseparably bound up with,
our perception of a discordant clang, is the painful effect that it
produces.
We have, however, no separate organs for the appreciation of pleasure
and pain. These feelings arise out of, and are bound up with, our
sensations, our perceptions, and especially with the conscious exercise
of our bodily activities. There may be, at any rate in some cases,
separate nerves for the appreciation of the pleasurable and the painful;
but even if this be so, these shades of feeling are so closely
associated with our other activities, mental and bodily, that we may for
the present regard them simply as the accompaniments of these
activities.
The question has been raised and much discussed whether all our
activities are accompanied by some shade or colouring of feeling,
pleasurable on the one hand, or painful on the other; or whether some of
these activities may not be indifferent in this respect, affording us
neither pleasure nor pain. Put in this way, I think we may say that
there may be activities which are thus indifferent. But if it be asked
whether, in addition to the pleasurable and painful feelings, there is a
third class of _feelings_, which we may call indifferent or neutral, I
am inclined to answer it in the negative. I hold that every feeling, as
such, must belong either to the painful or pleasurable class, and that
if the pleasurable and painful, so to speak, exactly balance each other,
then feeling, as such, does not emerge into consciousness at all. For,
as Lotze says, "We apply the name 'feelings' exclusively to states of
pleasure and pain, in contrast with sensations as [the elements of]
indifferent perceptions of a certain content."
The broadest division of the feelings is, therefore, into pleasurable on
the one hand, and painful on the other.
Another general question with regard to the feelings is--With what
condition or state of the bodily organization are they associated? In
answer to this question we may say (1) that any very violent and
abnormal stimulus produces pain; (2) that the conditions of pleasure are
to be sought within the limits of the healthy and normal exercise of the
bodily functions and mental activities; (3) that within these limits the
changes of activity consequent upon the rhythmic flow of normal organic
processes bring with them, in the aggregate, pleasure, the delight of
healthy life; (4) that within these limits, again, we experience
pleasure or pain, enjoyment or weariness, ease or discomfort, happiness
or unhappiness, with the continued rise and fall of our life-tide. For,
as Spinoza says, "We live in perpetual mutation, and are called happy or
unhappy according as we change for the better or the worse." So long as
our activities remain at a dead level, there is indifference--neither
pleasure nor pain. A rise of the tide of activity brings pleasure, a
fall the reverse. Lastly, we may say (5) that beyond the limits of
healthy and normal exercise there is, on the one hand, excessive
exercise which, carried far enough, may give rise, first to fatigue, and
then to acute pain; and, on the other hand, deficient exercise, which
may produce that dull and numb form of pain which we call discomfort, or
a sense of craving or want.
Pleasures and pains may thus be either massive or acute, diffused or
locally concentrated. On the whole, we may say, with Mr. Grant
Allen,[HG] that "the acute pains, as a class, arise from the action of
surrounding destructive agencies; the massive pains, as a class, from
excessive function or insufficient nutriment." But since massive pains,
when pushed to an extreme, merge into the acute class, "the two classes
are rather indefinite in their limits, being simply a convenient working
distinction, not a natural division." "Massive pleasure can seldom or
never attain the intensity of massive pain, because the organism can be
brought down to almost any point of innutrition or exhaustion; but its
efficient working cannot be raised very high above the average.
Similarly, any special organ or plexus of nerves can undergo any amount
of violent disruption or wasting away, giving rise to very acute pains;
but organs are very seldom so highly nurtured and so long deprived of
their appropriate stimulant as to give rise to very acute pleasure." The
amount of pleasure varies, according to Mr. Grant Allen, whose
discussion of the subject is, perhaps, the best and clearest we have,
directly as the number of nerve-fibres involved, and inversely as the
natural frequency of their excitation. No doubt the principles above
sketched out are somewhat vague and general; but we are scarcely
justified in formulating any that are more precise and exact.
Accepting now the theory of evolution, we may say, furthermore, that
during the long process of the moulding of life to its environment,
there has been a constant tendency to associate pleasure with such
actions as contribute towards the preservation and conservation of the
individual and the race, and to associate pain with such actions as tend
to the destruction or detriment of the individual or the race. For there
can be little doubt that pleasure and pain are the primary incentives to
action. Without the association of pleasure with conservative action,
and pain with detrimental action, it is difficult to conceive how the
evolution of conscious creatures would be possible. Conservative action,
if it is to be persisted in by a conscious creature, must be associated
directly or indirectly with pleasurable feelings; nay, more, if it is to
be persistently persevered in, its non-performance must be associated
with that dull form of pain which we call a craving or want. Only under
such conditions could activities which tend to the survival of the
individual and the race be fostered and furthered.
It must be remembered, however, that such association is founded on
experience, and has no necessary validity beyond experience. That
quinine, though unpleasant to the taste, is, under certain
circumstances, beneficial to the individual, and that acetate of lead,
though sweet-tasted, is harmful, cannot be fairly urged in opposition to
this principle, since the effects of these drugs form no part of the
normal experience of the individual and the race. Nor can it be fairly
objected that animals transported to new countries often eat harmful and
poisonous plants presumably because they are nice; for these plants form
part of an unwonted environment. Nor, again, is the fact that the
association of pleasure with conservative action and pain with harmful
action is not always perfect, in any sense fatal to the general
principle. For the establishment of the association is still in
progress; and with the increase in the complexity of life its accurate
establishment is more and more difficult. No one is likely to contend
that what appears to be a general principle must also be an invariable
rule. The general principle is that under the joint influence of
pleasure (attractive) and pain (repellent) the needle of animal life
sets towards the pole of beneficial action. That the needle does not
always point true only illustrates the fact that life-activities are
still imperfect.
Let us notice that it is under the joint action of pleasure and pain
that the needle sets. We must not think only of the positive aspect, and
neglect the negative. What we know as wants, cravings, appetites,
desires, and dissatisfactions, are dull and continuous pains,[HH] which
tend to drive us to actions by which they shall be annulled, and the
performance of which shall give us the pleasures of gratification. Dr.
Martineau regards a felt want as a mainspring of our energy. "Life," he
says,[HI] "is a cluster of wants, physical, intellectual, affectional,
moral, each of which may have, and all of which may miss, the fitting
object. Is the object withheld or lost? There is pain: is it restored or
gained? There is pleasure: does it abide or remain constant? There is
content. The two first are cases of disturbed equilibrium, and are so
far dynamic that they will not rest till they reach the third, which is
their posture of stability and their true end." To this I would only add
that the content which follows on the keen pleasure of satisfaction is
evanescent, and ere long lapses into indifference, on which in due time
follows the dull pain resulting from the recurrent pressure of the want
or desire.
It is clear that, in introducing these wants and desires, we are
entering the sphere of the emotions, and it is sometimes said that the
emotions have their basis in pleasure and pain. If by this it is meant
that the emotions often exhibit more or less prominently one or other of
these two aspects of feeling, we may agree with the statement. It will
be well, however, to lead up to our consideration of the emotions by
taking a general review of the manner in which the organism responds to
external stimuli.
A dog is lying dreamily on the lawn in the sunshine. Suddenly he raises
his head, pricks his ears, scents the air, looks fixedly at the hedge,
and utters a low growl. Place your hand upon his shoulder, and you will
find that his muscles are all a-tremble. He can restrain himself no
longer, and darts through the hedge. You follow him, look over the
hedge, and see that it is his old enemy, the butcher's cur. They are
moving slowly past each other, head down, teeth bared, back roughened.
You whistle softly. Such a whistle would generally bring him bounding to
your feet. But now it is apparently unheard. The two dogs have a short
scuffle, and the cur slinks off. Your dog races after him; but after a
few minutes returns, jumps up at you playfully, and then lies down again
on the grass. But every now and then, for ten minutes or so, he raises
his head and growls softly.
Let us briefly analyze the dog's actions, reading into them,
conjecturally, the accompaniments in consciousness. As he lies on the
lawn, he receives a sense-stimulus, auditory or olfactory, which gives
rise to the construction of the percept dog (perhaps particularized
through olfactory discrimination). About the formation of constructs or
percepts, however, we have already said enough; we have now to consider
their effects. The head is raised, the ears pricked, and so on. The dog
is on the alert. His attention is roused. What are the physiological
effects? Certain motor-activities or tendencies to activity. These are
of two kinds--first, in connection with the sense-organs, the muscles of
which are brought into play in such a way as to bring the organs to bear
upon the exciting object; secondly, in connection with many other
muscles, which are innervated, so as to be ready to act rapidly and
forcibly. The first motor-effect, that on the muscles of the
sense-organs, is a very characteristic physical concomitant of the
psychological state which we term "attention;" the second effect, the
incipient innervation of muscles likely to be called into play, is
equally characteristic of the psychological state we call alertness.
Meanwhile an emotional state is rising in the mind of the dog. We may
call it, conjecturally, anger and combativeness. But what we name it
does not much signify for our present purpose. It has a growing tendency
to work itself out in a series of definitely directed actions. And this
reaches its point of culmination when the dog rushes through the hedge
and stands with bared teeth before his antagonist. A whole set of
appropriate muscles are now strongly innervated. There is probably a
double innervation--an innervation prompting to activity and an
innervation inhibiting or restraining from activity. The attention is so
concentrated that he heeds not, probably hears not, his master's
whistle. He is keenly on the alert. Then he sees his chance; the
inhibition or restraint is withdrawn, and he flies at his opponent. The
emotional tendency works itself out in action. Even after he has resumed
his place on the lawn, memories of the emotional state return, and lead
him to lift his head, slightly bare his teeth, and growl.
Now, with regard to the emotional state here indicated, we may notice,
first, that it is initiated by a percept; secondly, that associations of
pleasure or pain are by no means the most important or predominant
characteristics; thirdly, that the motor-tendencies seem to be
essential, the emotional state being the psychological aspect of these
motor-tendencies; and, fourthly, that we should perhaps be justified in
speaking of a presentative emotion when the percept which gives rise to
the emotion is presentative; and a representative emotion where the
originating percept is represented in memory. And with regard to the
attention which was incidentally introduced, we may notice that it, too,
has motor-concomitants, and that it is directly associated with the
emotional state. If no emotional state is aroused by a percept,
attention is not specially directed to the object. The concentration of
the attention is directly proportional to the intensity of the emotion
evoked.
Emotions, then, would seem from this illustration to be certain
psychological states which accompany activities or tendencies to
activity. They are evoked by appropriate objects perceived or
remembered. Where the tendency is towards the object, as in the sexual
emotions, we may speak of it as an _appetence_; where it is away from
the object, as in the emotion of fear, we may speak of it as an
_aversion_. Appetences are normally pleasurable; aversions, painful.
It is clear that the organism must be in a condition fitting it to carry
out its various activities. And this condition is more or less variable.
In the terms of our previous analogy (Chapter II.) the tissues are
"explosive." After a series of explosions have taken place in a tissue,
its store of explosive material becomes exhausted, and a powerful
stimulus is required to liberate further energy in the exhausted tissue.
A period of rest is required to enable the plasmogen to generate a fresh
store of explosive material. As this store increases to its maximum
pitch, the tissue becomes more and more ready to respond at the
slightest touch. Responsiveness to external stimuli is spoken of as
_sensitiveness_; emotional responsiveness is called _sensibility_. What
we have before spoken of as a want or craving is a state of heightened
sensibility, which often gives rise to a painful state of general
uneasiness. It may also give rise to perceptual representations in
memory, as may be seen in the dreams experienced during a state of
extreme sexual sensibility. If we seek a basis for the emotional states,
therefore, we shall find it in sensibility rather than in pleasure and
pain.
The motor-accompaniments of the emotional states have long been known
under the title of the "expression" of the emotions. The term is too
deeply rooted to be altered; but we may notice that what is called the
expression of an emotion is really _its partial fulfilment in action_.
Some psychologists, dissatisfied with the term "expression of the
emotions," as seeming to imply that the emotion is one thing and its
expression another, go so far as to say that the motor-accompaniments
are the objective aspect of what, under its subjective aspect, is the
emotion. It is quite possible, however, to experience an emotion without
any motor-accompaniments at all. Nevertheless, there is, I believe, in
such cases an unfulfilled tendency to action.
A most important feature in general physiology and psychology is _the
postponement or suppression of action_. The physiological faculty on
which it is based is inhibition. I do not propose to discuss the
somewhat conflicting views on the physiological mechanism of inhibition.
It is, however, a fact of far-reaching importance which no one is likely
to deny. In its higher ranges it is the objective basis and aspect of
self-restraint.
A stimulus gives rise to sensation and perception; the perception gives
origin to an emotional state; and the emotional state is fulfilled in
appropriate motor-activities. The process is a continuous one, and, in
the absence of inhibition, would in all cases inevitably fulfil itself.
But through the faculty of inhibition, the final state of activity may
be postponed or suppressed. We may place side by side the physiological
series and the accompanying psychological series thus--
Stimulus of } --> nervous processes in brain --> { Stimulus of
sense-organ } { motor-organs.
Consciousness of } <-- perception, emotion --> { Consciousness of
sense-stimulus } { activity.
The arrows pointing away from perception and emotion are intended to
indicate the fact that the consciousness of sense-stimulus on the one
hand, and of activity on the other hand, are accompaniments of the
nervous processes in the brain, and are referred outwards to the
sense-organ or the motor-organ, as the case may be. It must be
remembered that the two series, physiological and psychological, belong
to distinct phenomenal orders. If one speaks of emotion being fulfilled
in activity, and thus seems to jump from the psychological to the
physiological series, one does so merely to avoid the appearance of
pedantry.
Now, by the postponement or suppression of action, the process is either
arrested in its middle phase, the motor-organs not being innervated at
all, or, as I believe to be more probable, the motor-organs are doubly
innervated, a stimulus to activity being counteracted by an inhibitory
stimulus, the two neutralizing each other either in the motor-organ or
the efferent nerves which convey the stimuli. In any case, there is no
consciousness[HJ] of activity. And the mind occupies itself more and
more completely with the central processes, perception, and emotion, and
also, in human beings, conceptual thoughts and emotions. Nevertheless,
at any rate _so long as we confine ourselves to the perceptual sphere_,
these processes have their normal fulfilments in action, and, if they
become sufficiently intense, actually do so fulfil themselves.
Now, since the emotions with which we are now dealing (we may call them
emotions in the perceptual sphere) are stages in the fulfilment of
activities (though the activities themselves may be suppressed), it is
clear that there may be as many emotional states as there are modes of
activity. Hence, no doubt, the extreme difficulty of anything like a
satisfactory classification of these emotions, especially when the
activities are regarded as a merely extraneous expression.
Moreover, when certain emotions reach a high pitch of intensity, they
may defeat their own object, and give rise, not to definite
well-executed motor-activities, but to helpless contradictory actions,
affections of glandular and other organs, and a general condition of
collapse. The emotion of fear, for example, will lead to
motor-activities tending to remove a man from the source of danger; but
when it reaches the degree of dread, or its culmination terror, the
effects are markedly different. The countenance pales, the lips tremble,
the pupils of the eyes become dilated, and there is an uncomfortable
sensation about the roots of the hair. The bowels are often strongly
affected, the heart palpitates, respiration labours, the secretions of
the glands are deranged, the mouth becomes dry, and a cold sweat bursts
from the skin. The muscles cease to obey the will, and the limbs will
scarcely support the weight of the body. Here we have all the effects of
a prolonged struggle to escape. Just as such a prolonged struggle will
at length produce these motor and other effects accompanied by the
emotion of terror; so, if the emotion of terror be produced directly,
these motor and other effects are seen to accompany it.
Mr. Charles Richardson, the well-known engineer of the Severn Tunnel,
has recorded several instances of railway servants and others being so
affected by the approach of a train or engine that they have been unable
to save themselves by getting out of the way, though there was ample
time to do so. This may have been through the effect of terror. But one
man, who was nearly killed in this way, only just saving himself in
time, informed me that he experienced no feeling of terror; he was
unable to explain why, but he couldn't help watching the train as it
darted towards him. In this case it seems to have been a sort of
hypertrophy of attention. His attention was so rivetted that he was
unable to make, or rather he felt no desire to make, the appropriate
movements. He said, "I had to shake myself, and only did so just in
time. For in another moment the express would have been on me. When it
had passed, I came over all a cold sweat, and felt as helpless as a
baby. I was frightened enough _then_." Cases of so-called fascination in
animals may be due in some cases to terror, but more often, perhaps, to
a hypertrophy of attention, such as is seen in the hypnotic state.
Speaking of the effects of artificial light on fish, Mr. Bateson
says,[HK] "Bass, pollack, mullet, and bream generally get quickly away
at first, but if they can be induced to look steadily at the light with
both eyes, they generally sink to the bottom of the tank, and on
touching the bottom commonly swim away.... In the case of mullet,
effects apparently of a mesmeric character sometimes occur, for a mullet
which has sunk to the bottom as described will sometimes lie there quite
still for a considerable time. At other times it will slowly rise in the
water until it floats with its dorsal fin out of the water, as though
paralyzed.... When the light is first shown, turbot generally take no
notice of it, but after about a quarter of an hour I have three times
seen a turbot swim up, and lie looking into the lamp steadily. It seemed
to be seized with an irresistible impulse like that of a moth to a
candle, and throws itself open-mouthed at the lamp." As a boy I used
frequently to "mesmerize" chickens by making them look at a chalk mark.
They would then lie for some time perfectly motionless. Some such effect
has, perhaps, led to the instinct displayed by some animals of "shamming
dead."
Returning now to the emotions as displayed in man, we may take one more
example in anger. This is an emotion that arises from the idea of evil
having been inflicted or threatened. "Under moderate anger," says
Darwin, "the action of the heart is a little increased, the colour
heightened, and the eyes become bright. The respiration is likewise a
little hurried; and as all the muscles serving for this purpose act in
association, the wings of the nostrils are sometimes raised to allow of
a free draught of air; and this is a highly characteristic sign of
indignation. The mouth is commonly compressed, and there is almost
always a frown on the brow. Instead of the frantic gestures of extreme
rage, an indignant man unconsciously throws himself into an attitude
ready for attacking or striking his enemy, whom he will, perhaps, scan
from head to foot in defiance. He carries his head erect, with his chest
well expanded, and the feet planted firmly on the ground. With Europeans
the fists are generally clenched." "Under rage the action of the heart
is much accelerated, or, it may be, much disturbed. The face reddens, or
it becomes purple from the impeded return of the blood, or may turn
deadly pale. The respiration is laboured, the chest heaves, and the
dilated nostrils quiver. The whole body often trembles. The voice is
affected. The teeth are clenched or ground together, and the muscular
system is commonly stimulated to violent, almost frantic, action. But
the gestures of a man in this state usually differ from the purposeless
writhings and struggles of one suffering from an agony of pain; for they
represent more or less plainly the act of striking or fighting with an
enemy."
These examples will serve to remind the reader of the nature of those
complex aggregates of organized feelings which we call emotions, and
will also show the close connection of these emotions with the
associated bodily movements and activities which constitute their normal
fulfilment. So close is this connection, that the assumption of the
appropriate attitude will conjure up a faint revival of the associated
emotion. Let any one stand with squared shoulders, clenched fists, and
set muscles, and he will find the respiration affected, and perhaps also
the heart-beat, and will experience a faint revival of the emotion of
anger. Very different will be his feelings as he reseats himself,
abandons his limbs to a posture of leisurely repose, and allows a
pleasant smile to steal over his features.
The next point to notice about these emotions is that they are to a
large extent instinctive, and are evidenced in the infant at so early a
period that individual acquisition is out of the question. In any case,
the basis of sensibility is innate. As Mr. Sully says,[HL] "There are
instinctive capacities of emotion of different kinds, answering to such
well-marked classes of feeling as fear, anger, and love. These emotions
arise uniformly when the appropriate circumstances occur, and for the
most part very early in life. Thus there is an instinctive disposition
in the child to feel in the particular way known as anger or resentment
when he is annoyed or injured."
In this, as in other cases of instinctive action, of which we shall have
more to say in the next chapter, it is, of course, impossible to say for
certain how far the activities observed are associated with
psychological states. The activities are undoubtedly instinctive. And
their performance by an adult would be accompanied by an emotional
state. It is, therefore, probable that in the very young child they have
their emotional concomitants. Still, we must remember that oft-repeated
actions tend to become automatic, that the accompanying consciousness
sinks into evanescence, and that it is, therefore, _possible_ that the
emotional state may not have that vividness which the activities seem to
bespeak.
There only remains, before passing on to consider the feelings and
emotions of animals, to indicate what Mr. Sully terms[HM] "the three
orders of emotion." The first order comprises the individual and
personal emotions--those which are self-interested and have sole
reference to the individual who feels, enjoys, or suffers. They take
origin in percepts, either in presentations of sense or representations
in memory. The second order introduces the sympathetic emotions. They
are evoked on sight of the sufferings or emotional states of others. If
we see a woman insulted, we are filled with indignation; and this
emotion has a sympathetic origin. The third order comprises the complex
feelings known as _sentiments_. They have reference to certain qualities
of objects or activities of individuals which inspire admiration or
disapprobation. They are abstract in their nature, and belong to the
conceptual sphere. Such are love of truth, beauty, virtue, liberty,
justice. To become operative on conduct, however, they need, at any rate
in the case of most people, to be particularized and individualized, or
brought within the perceptual sphere, ere they arouse anything that is
emotional in much more than in name. As Dr. McCosh has well said, "No
man ever had his heart kindled by the abstract idea of loveliness, or
sublimity, or moral excellence, or any other abstraction. That which
calls forth our admiration is a lovely scene; that which raises wonder
or awe is a grand scene; that which calls forth love is not loveliness
in the abstract, but a lovely and loving person; that which evokes moral
approbation is not virtue in the abstract, but a virtuous agent
performing a virtuous act. The contemplation of the beautiful and the
good cannot evoke deep or lively emotion. He who would create admiration
for goodness must exhibit a good being performing a good action."
* * * * *
Turning now to the lower animals, the first question that suggests
itself is--What are their capacities for pleasure and pain? A very
difficult question to answer. We cannot, I think, hope to know how much
or how little the invertebrates feel--to what degree they are
psychologically sensitive. Even among the higher vertebrates we are very
apt, I imagine, to over-estimate the intensity of their feelings. Among
human-folk it is not he who halloas loudest that is necessarily most
hurt. And it is only through the expression of their feelings in cries
and gestures that we can conjecture the feelings of animals. There are
grounds for supposing that savages are far less keenly sensitive than
civilized people. And we have some reason for believing and hoping that
our dumb companions are less sensitive to pain than we are. Mr. G. A.
Rowell, for example, in his "Essay on the Beneficent Distribution of the
Sense of Pain," tells us that "a post-horse came down on the road with
such violence that the skin and sinews of both the fore fetlock joints
were so cut that, on his getting up again, the bones came through the
skin, and the two feet turned up at the back of the legs, the horse
walking upon the ends of its leg-bones. The horse was put into a field
close by, and the next morning it was found quietly feeding about the
field, with the feet and skin forced some distance up the leg-bones,
and, where it had been walking about, the holes made in the ground by
the leg-bones were three or four inches deep." Mr. Lamont gives a
somewhat similar observation in the case of the reindeer. "On one
occasion," he says, "we broke one of the fore feet of an old fat stag
from an unseen ambush; his companions ran away, and the wounded deer,
after making some attempts to follow them, which the softness of the
ground and his own corpulence prevented him doing, looked about him a
little, and then, seeing nothing, actually began to graze on his three
remaining legs, as if nothing had happened of sufficient consequence to
keep him from his dinner." Colonel Sir Charles W. Wilson, in his work
"From Korti to Khartoum," gives similar instances with regard to camels.
"The most curious thing," he says,[HN] "was that they showed no alarm,
and did not seem to mind being hit. One heard a heavy thud, and, looking
round, saw a stream of blood oozing out of the wound, but the camel went
on chewing his cud as if nothing at all had happened, not even giving a
slight wince to show he was in pain." And, again,[HO] "I heard the rush
of the shot through the air, and then a heavy thud behind me. I thought
at first it had gone into the field-hospital; but, on looking round,
found it had carried away the lower jaw of one of the artillery camels,
and then buried itself in the ground. The poor brute walked on as if
nothing had happened, and carried its load to the end of the day."
With regard to this question, then, of the susceptibility of animals to
pleasure and pain, no definite answer can be given. That they feel more
or less acutely we may be sure; how keenly they feel we cannot tell; but
it is better to over-estimate than to under-estimate their
sensitiveness. In any case, whether their pain be acute or dull, whether
their pleasures be intense or the reverse, we should do all in our power
to increase the pleasures and diminish the pains of the dumb creatures
who so meekly and willingly minister to our wants.
That the bodily feelings and wants occupy a large relative space in the
conscious life of brutes can scarcely be questioned. On the one hand are
the dull pains resulting from the organic wants and appetences, and
driving the animal to their gratification; the keen pleasure that
accompanies this gratification, when intelligence is so far developed
that it can be foreseen, being a pull in the same direction. And on the
other hand are the pleasures of the normal and healthy exercise of the
sense-organs and bodily activities giving rise to the pleasures of
existence, the joys of active and vigorous life. In the main, these
bodily feelings, or sense-feelings, as they are sometimes called, seem
to cluster round three chief centres--food, sex, and the free exercise
of the bodily activities, including in some cases what seems to be play.
Give a wild creature liberty and the opportunity of gratifying its
appetites; allow its bodily functions the alternating rhythm of healthy
and vigorous exercise and restorative repose; and its life is happy and
joyous. It is not troubled by the pressure of unfulfilled ideals. The
very struggle for existence, keen as it often is, by calling into play
the full exercise of the activities, ministers to the health and
happiness of brutes as well as men. Sir W. R. Grove has preached [HP]
the advantages of antagonism. Speaking of the rabbit, he says, "To keep
itself healthy, it must exert itself for its food; this, and perhaps
avoiding its enemies, gives it exercise and care, brings all its organs
into use, and thus it acquires its most perfect form of life. An estate
in Somersetshire, which I once took temporarily, was on the slope of the
Mendip Hills. The rabbits on one part of it, that on the hillside, were
in perfect condition, not too fat nor too thin, sleek, active, and
vigorous, and yielding to their antagonists, myself and family,
excellent food. Those in the valley, where the pasturage was rich and
luxuriant, were all diseased, most of them unfit for human food, and
many lying dead on the fields. They had not to struggle for life; their
short life was miserable and their death early; they wanted the sweet
uses of adversity--that is, of antagonism." Without endorsing the view
that these rabbits were unhealthy _only_ because they had too much food
and comfort--for the food, though abundant, may have been in some way
noxious, and the damp situation may have been prejudicial--we may still
believe that a struggle for life is better for animals (and men) than
unlimited ease and plenty.
Under the influence, then, of these bodily pleasures and wants, the
activities of animals are drawn out and guided. As Darwin says, in his
autobiography,[HQ] "An animal may be led to pursue that course of action
which is most beneficial to the species by suffering, such as pain,
hunger, thirst, and fear; or by pleasure, as in eating and drinking, and
in the propagation of the species; or by both means combined, as in the
search for food. But pain or suffering of any kind, if long continued,
causes depression, and lessens the power of action, yet it is adapted to
make a creature guard itself against any great or sudden evil.
Pleasurable sensations, on the other hand, may be long continued without
any depressing effect; on the contrary, they stimulate the whole system
to increased action. Hence it has come to pass that most or all sentient
beings have been developed in such a manner, through natural selection,
that pleasurable sensations serve as their habitual guides. We see this
in the pleasure from exertion, even occasionally of great exertion, of
the body or mind--in the pleasure of our daily meals, and especially in
the pleasure derived from sociability, and from loving our families. The
sum of such pleasures as these, which are habitual or frequently
recurrent, give, as I can hardly doubt, to most sentient beings an
excess of happiness over misery, although they occasionally suffer much.
Such suffering is quite compatible with belief in natural selection;
which is not perfect in its action, but tends only to render each
species as successful as possible in the battle for life with other
species, in wonderfully complex and changing circumstances."
Passing now from the bodily feelings and wants to the emotions, there
can be no question that the simpler emotions, of which I have taken fear
and anger as typical, are shared with us by the dumb brutes. And the
interesting observations of Mr. Douglas Spalding showed beyond doubt
that they are instinctive--their manifestation being prior to, and not
the outcome of, individual experience. Writing in _Macmillan's
Magazine_, he says, "A young turkey, which I had adopted when chirping
within the uncracked shell, was, on the morning of the tenth day of its
life, eating a comfortable breakfast from my hand, when the young hawk
in a cupboard just beside us gave a shrill 'Chip! chip! chip!' Like an
arrow, the poor turkey shot to the other side of the room, and stood
there, motionless and dumb with fear, until the hawk gave a second cry,
when it darted out at the open door right to the extreme end of the
passage, and there, silent and crouched in a corner, remained for ten
minutes. Several times during the course of that day it again heard
these alarming sounds, and in every instance with similar manifestations
of fear." And as an example of combined fear and anger, Mr. Spalding
says, "One day last month, after fondling my dog, I put my hand into a
basket containing four blind kittens three days old. The smell my hand
had carried with it sent them puffing and spitting in a most comical
fashion."
A remarkable instance of inherited antipathy in the dog was communicated
by Dr. Huggins to Mr. Darwin. He possessed an English mastiff, Kepler,
which was brought when six weeks old from the stable in which he was
born. The first time Dr. Huggins took him out he started back in alarm
at the first butcher's shop he had ever seen, and throughout his life he
manifested the strongest and strangest antipathy to butchers and all
that pertained to them. On inquiry, Dr. Huggins ascertained that in the
father, in the grandfather, and in two half-brothers of Kepler the same
curious antipathy was innate. Of these, Paris, a half-brother, on one
occasion, at Hastings, sprang at a gentleman who came into the hotel at
which his master was staying. The owner caught the dog, and apologized,
saying he had never known him to behave thus before except when a
butcher came into the house. The gentleman at once said that was his
business.
That many animals display affection towards their offspring and their
mates, towards man and towards other companions, is a matter of familiar
observation. Often the attachments are strange, as of cats and horses,
or contrary to instinctive tendencies, as between cats and dogs.
Sometimes they are capricious, as when Mr. Romanes's wounded widgeon
conceived a strong, persistent, and unremitting attachment to a
peacock;[HR] or even insane, as where a pigeon became the victim of an
infatuation for a ginger-beer bottle. Strong attachment to man is often
exhibited. Every one knows the story which Mr. Darwin tells[HS] of the
little monkey who bravely rushed at the dreaded baboon which had
attacked his keeper. A friend of my own (the Rev. George H. R. Fisk, of
Capetown) tells me the following story (which may be added to the many
similar cases reported of dogs) concerning a favourite cat he had as a
boy. It happened that the children of the house, my friend among the
number, were confined to their room by measles. Their mother remained
with the children by day and night until they were convalescent. She
then came down and resumed her usual daily life, but was shocked at the
appearance of the cat, which was little more than skin and bones, and
would not touch food or milk. The cat seemed to know that Mrs. Fisk
could help her, and gave her no peace till she had taken her upstairs to
the convalescent patients. To Mrs. Fisk's surprise, the cat snarled and
beat the young master with her paws. Why the cat chose this peculiar
method of venting her feelings it is difficult to say. But immediately
afterwards she went down into the kitchen, ate the meat and drank the
milk which she had before refused to touch. Early next morning she mewed
outside the young master's room; and, having gained admittance, sat at
the foot of the bed until he woke, and then licked his face and hair.
This leads us on to the class of sympathetic emotions. For the
sympathetic emotions are those which centre, not round the self, but
round some other self in whose welfare an interest is, in some way and
for some reason, aroused. Not long ago, at the Hamburg Zoological
Gardens, I saw two baboons fighting savagely. One at last retreated
vanquished, with his arm somewhat deeply gashed. He climbed to a corner
of the cage and sat down, moodily licking his wound. Thither followed
him a little capuchin, and, though his bigger friend took mighty little
notice of his overtures, seemed anxious to comfort him, nestling against
him, and laying his head against his side. So far as one could judge, it
was not curiosity, but sympathy, that prompted his action.
The following example of sympathetic action on the part of a dog towards
a stranger-dog is communicated to me by Mrs. Mann, a friend of mine at
the Cape. Carlo was a favourite black retriever, and a highly
intelligent animal. "One day," says Mrs. Mann, "a miserable-looking
white dog came into our yard. Carlo went up to him, looking displeased,
dog-fashion, and ready to fly at the intruder. It was clear, however,
that some communication passed between them, for Carlo's wrath seemed
disarmed, and he trotted into the kitchen, coming out again with a
chop-bone (one with a good deal of meat on it) which the cook had given
him. On looking into the yard, the miserable cur was seen enjoying the
bone, Carlo sitting straight up watching him with a look of
satisfaction."[HT]
That dogs feel sympathy with man will scarcely be questioned by any one
who has known the companionship of these four-footed friends. At times
they seem instinctively to grasp our moods, to be silent with us when we
are busy, to lay their shaggy heads on our knees when we are worried or
sad, and to be quickened to fresh life when we are gay and glad--so keen
are their perceptions. Their life with man has implanted in them some of
the needs of social beings; and as they are ever ready to sympathize
with us, so do they rejoice in our sympathy. To be deprived of that
sympathy, to be neglected, to have no attention bestowed on them, is to
some dogs a punishment more bitter than direct reproof. Mr. Romanes
quotes[HU] an account given him by Mrs. E. Picton of a Skye terrier who
had the greatest aversion to being washed, snarling and biting during
the operation. Threats, beating, and starvation were all of no avail;
but the animal was reduced to submission by persistent neglect on the
part of his mistress. At the end of a week or ten days he looked
wretched and forlorn, and yielded himself quite quietly and patiently to
one of the roughest ablutions it had ever been his lot to experience.
So far I have been content to credit animals with very general and
simple forms of emotion--anger, fear, antipathy, affection, and some
form of sympathy. If, on the perusal of familiar anecdotes, we also
credit them with jealousy, envy, emulation, pride, resentment, cruelty,
deceitfulness, and other more complex emotional states, we must remember
that every one of these, as we know them, is essentially human. It is
necessary to insist on the need of caution and the danger of
anthropomorphism. This is, perhaps, even more necessary in the case of
the emotions than in that of the perceptions, which we have before
considered. Even among men, different individuals and different races
probably vary far more in their emotions than in their perceptions. The
emotions of civilized man have assumed their present form in the midst
of complex social surroundings. They one and all bear ineffaceably
stamped upon them the human image and superscription. In terms of these
complex human emotions we have to decipher the simpler emotional states
of the lower animals. We call them by the same names; we think of them
as like unto those that we experience. And we can do no otherwise, if we
are to consider them at all. But let us not lose sight of the fact that
all we can ever hope to see in the mirror of the animal mind is a
distorted image of our own mental and emotional features. And since the
mirrors are of varying and unknown curvature, we can never hope to be in
a position accurately to estimate the amount of distortion.
Remembering this, it is always well to look narrowly at every anecdote
of animal intelligence and emotion, and endeavour _to distinguish
observed fact from observer's inference_. If we take the great number of
stories illustrative of revenge, consciousness of guilt, an idea of
caste, deceitfulness, cruelty, and so forth, in the higher mammalia, we
shall find but few that do not admit of a different interpretation from
that given by the narrator. A cat's treatment of a mouse is adduced by a
number of witnesses as illustrative of cruelty; but others see in this
conduct, not cruelty, but practice and training in an important branch
of the business of cat-life. That is to say, the act, though objectively
cruel from the human standpoint, is not on this view performed from a
motive of cruelty. Some time ago I ventured to stroke the nose of a
little lion-cub which had tottered, kitten-like, to the bars of its
cage. "I wish," I said shortly afterwards to a distinguished animal
painter, "you could have caught the look of conscious dignity (I speak
anthropomorphically) with which the lioness turned and seemed to say,
'How dare you meddle with my child!'" "I have seen such a look and
attitude," said Mr. Nettleship; "but I attributed it, not to pride, but
to fear." Mr. Romanes quotes,[HV] as typically illustrative of an "idea
of caste," the case of Mr. St. John's retriever, which struck up an
acquaintance with a rat-catcher and his cur, but at once cut his humble
friends, and denied all acquaintanceship with them, on sight of his
master. I, on the other hand, should regard this case as parallel with
that which I have noted a hundred times. My dogs would go out with the
nurse and children when I was busy or absent; but if I appeared within
sight, they raced to me. The stronger affection prevailed. A dog is
described[HW] as "showing a deliberate design of deceiving," because he
hobbled about the room as if lame and suffering from pain in his foot. I
would suggest that there was no pretence, no "deliberate design of
deceit," in this case, but a direct association of ideas between a
hobbling gait and more sympathy and attention than usual. I am not
denying objective deceitfulness to the dog any more than I deny
objective cruelty to the cat. My only question is whether the _motive_
is deceit. We must not forget that the deceitful intent is a piece, not
of the observed fact, but of the observer's inference. Mr. Romanes, for
example, tells[HX] of a black retriever who was asleep, or apparently
asleep, in the kitchen of a certain dignitary of the Church. The cook,
who had just trussed a turkey for roasting, was suddenly called away.
During her temporary absence, "the dog carried off the turkey to the
garden, deposited it in a hollow tree, and at once returned to resume
his place by the fire, where he pretended to be asleep as before."
Unfortunately, a perfidious gardener had watched him, and brought back
the turkey, so that the retriever did not enjoy the feast he had
reserved for a quiet and undisturbed moment. Assuming that the gardener
and cook were accurate in their statement of fact, the deceitful intent
is an inference on their part, or that of the dignitary of the Church,
or Mr. Romanes. I do not deny its correctness from the objective
standpoint. Deceitfulness is apparently exhibited by children at a very
tender age. But for us civilized adults deceit and its converse,
truthfulness in action, mean something a good deal more definite than
for dogs and infants.
Animals are often described as harbouring feelings of revenge and
vindictiveness. To test this in the elephant, Captain Shipp gave an
elephant a sandwich of cayenne pepper. "He then waited," says Mr.
Romanes,[HY] "for six weeks before again visiting the animal, when he
went into the stable, and began to fondle the elephant as he had
previously been accustomed to do. For a time no resentment was shown, so
that the captain began to think that the experiment had failed; but at
last, watching an opportunity, the elephant filled his trunk with dirty
water, and drenched the captain from head to foot." Here the facts are
that an injury was received, and that the retaliation followed after an
interval of six weeks. The inference seems to be that the elephant
harboured feelings of revenge or vindictiveness during this period. It
may have been so. It may be, however, that the elephant never once
pictured the captain during the six weeks; but, on seeing him again,
remembered the injury, and, as we say, paid him out. But what we
understand by revenge and vindictiveness is the keeping of an injury
before the mind for the express purpose of ultimately avenging it. And
this the elephant, to say the least of it, may not have done.
In Miss Romanes's interesting observations on the Cebus monkey, she
says,[HZ] "He bit me in several places to-day when I was taking him away
from my mother's bed after his morning's game there. I took no notice;
but he seemed ashamed of himself afterwards, hiding his face in his
arms, and sitting quiet for a time." But, in a footnote, we read, "On
subsequent observation, I find this quietness was not due to shame at
having bitten me; for whether he succeeds in biting any person or not,
he always sits quiet and dull-looking after a fit of passion, being, I
think, fatigued." I quote this to illustrate the difference which I am
endeavouring to insist upon between observed fact and observer's
inference.
Mr. Romanes comments[IA] on the remarkable change which has been
produced in the domestic dog as compared with wild dogs, with reference
to the enduring of pain. "A wolf or a fox will sustain the severest
kinds of physical suffering without giving utterance to a sound, while a
dog will scream when any one accidentally treads upon its toes. This
contrast," says Mr. Romanes, "is strikingly analogous to that which
obtains between savage and civilized man: the North American Indian, and
even the Hindoo, will endure without a moan an amount of physical
pain--or, at least, bodily injury--which would produce vehement
expressions of suffering from a European. And, doubtless, the
explanation is in both cases the same; namely, that refinement of life
engenders refinement of nervous organization, which renders nervous
lesions more intolerable." I cannot accept this as the most probable
explanation. In the first place, the human beings referred to have
different ideals in the matter of conduct under pain and suffering. The
American Indian and the Hindoo have a stoic ideal, which does not
influence the average European. On the other hand, the dog, from his
association with man, has learnt more and more to give expression to his
feelings in barks, whines, and yelpings. To howl at every little pain
would do a wolf no good, but rather advertise him to his enemies; to
howl when his toes are trodden on makes most men look where they are
stepping, and probably pet the sufferer for his pains. In the one case,
to howl is disadvantageous; in the other, it is advantageous. I do not,
however, put forward my own explanation as necessarily more correct than
that given by Mr. Romanes (though I regard it myself as more probable).
My object is to show that it is possible for two observers to regard the
same activities of animals, and read into them different psychological
accompaniments. Throughout the sections of Mr. Romanes's work which deal
with the emotions, I feel myself forced at almost every turn to question
the validity of his inferences.
From all that I have said in the last chapter, it will be gathered that
I am not prepared to credit our dumb companions with a single
_sentiment_. A sense of beauty, a sense of the ludicrous, a sense of
justice, and a sense of right and wrong,--these abstract emotions or
sentiments, _as such_, are certainly impossible to the brute, if, as I
have contended, he is incapable of isolation and analysis. But, as we
have already seen, even with us these emotions have to be particularized
and brought within the perceptual sphere ere they are strongly operative
on conduct. We are not roused to indignation by an abstract sense of
injustice, but by the particular performance of an unjust deed. Even so,
however, the emotional state aroused carries with it in us some of the
spirit of the conceptual sphere from which it has descended. The
analogous emotions in animals cannot possess, if I am right, any
tincture of this conceptual spirit. And since we cannot divest ourselves
of our conceptual spirituality, we cannot justly estimate what these
emotional states, in dog or ape, are like. Remembering this, let us see
what can be said in favour of a perceptual sense of injustice, guilt,
the ludicrous, and the beautiful. In evidence of a sense of justice, we
have the oft-quoted case of the turnspit-dog reported by Arago the
astronomer.[IB] This dog refused, with bared teeth, to enter out of his
turn the drum by the revolution of which the spit was rotated. M. Arago,
for whom the pullet on the spit was being dressed, requested that the
dog's companion, after turning the spit for a short time, should be
released. Whereupon the dog who had before been so refractory seemed
satisfied that his turn for drudgery had come, and, entering the wheel
of his own accord, began without hesitation to turn it as usual. Many
will be prepared to maintain that dogs resent unjust chastisement. A
gentleman I met near Rio de Janeiro possessed a dog whose sensitiveness
was such that, after a reproof, he would leave the house, and sometimes
not return for several days. His owner assured me of his belief that in
such cases the reproof had always been undeserved; and he told me of one
definite instance in which the reproof--never more than verbal--had been
for a theft which was afterwards found to have been committed by his
garden-boy. On this occasion the dog was away for three days, and
returned in a wretched and miserable condition. What shall we say of
such cases? Seeing how complex is what we call a sense of justice, I am
not prepared to credit the dog therewith; and I am disposed to regard
such actions as I have just described as the result of a breach of
normal association. Dogs, like men, are creatures of habit; and breaches
of normal association--occurrences contrary to expectation--give rise to
uneasiness, dissatisfaction, and consequent resentment.
Conversely, many of the cases where dogs and other animals are said to
know when they have done wrong, and to suffer the pricks of conscience,
may probably be satisfactorily explained by association. When my friend,
coming down into his drawing-room, sees Tim's "guilty" look, he suspects
that the dog has, contrary to rule, been taking a nap on one of the
chairs; and his suspicions are not a little strengthened by the
unnatural warmth of the easiest armchair. "Ah! Tim always knows when he
has done wrong," says my friend. But not improbably the association in
Tim's mind is a direct one between a nap on that chair and his master's
displeasure. What Tim knows is, perhaps, not that he _has_ done wrong,
but that he will "catch it." It is the expectation of a reproof, or
something more, that gives rise to his look of conscious guilt. In the
same way, the look of "conscious rectitude" we often see in some dogs
may be due to the anticipation of a word of commendation. And, in
general, I fancy that the association in an animal's mind is between the
performance of a given act and the occurrence of certain consequences.
When this association becomes definite it must, I imagine, draw after it
a dislike of such actions as have been accompanied by evil consequences,
and a delight in such actions as have been accompanied by pleasant
consequences. And eventually this dislike or delight is transferred from
his own actions to the similar actions of others. Thus dogs punish their
puppies for acts of uncleanliness, while cats are even more particular
in this respect. A correspondent in _Nature_[IC] gives a case of a cat
chastising by a violent blow with her paw her kitten, who was about to
enjoy a herring which had been set down before the fire to keep hot. So,
too, according to Mr. Darwin,[ID] "when the baboons in Abyssinia plunder
a garden, they silently follow their leader, and, if an imprudent young
animal makes a noise, he receives a slap from the others to teach him
silence and obedience." And Mr. Schaub communicated to Professor
Nipher[IE] a case of a black-and-tan terrier bitch, whose pup had stolen
a stocking from his bedroom, and who followed the young offender, took
the stocking from him, and returned it to the owner. Her action gave
evidence, he says, of displeasure at the action of the pup. And Mr.
Schaub contrived to have the offence committed on many successive
mornings, the same performance being repeated each time.
In this connection I will give two anecdotes of Carlo, communicated to
me by Mrs. Mann. "Once I came upon Carlo sitting in the dining-room
doorway, Dulceline, the cat, angrily watching him from the stairs, and
also evidently having an eye on a leg of mutton half dragged off the
dish on the dining-table. Carlo had clearly caught the thief in the act.
He was on guard; and he seemed much relieved when higher powers came on
the scene. Honesty seemed part of Carlo's nature. In this matter we
never had to give him any lessons. Nor could he bear to see dishonesty
in others. One Sunday, one of the little girls saw Carlo coming along
looking so anxiously at her that she knew he wanted her to come. She
therefore followed him, and Carlo took her to the store-room, the door
of which her sister had left open. In the doorway Carlo stopped, and
looked first up at his mistress and then into the store-room, as much as
to say, 'What can we think of this?' And truly there was a certain
little black-and-tan terrier, whose principles were by no means of a
high order, regaling himself with some cold meat that he had dragged on
to the floor. Toby knew he was in the wrong, and tried to flee. But
Carlo stopped him as he endeavoured to fly past. And when Toby was
thereupon duly slapped, Carlo sat straight up, with a face of conscious
rectitude."
These anecdotes, communicated to me by a lady of culture and
intelligence, illustrate how, in describing the actions of animals,
phraseology only, in strictness, applicable to the psychology of man, is
unwittingly and almost unavoidably employed. Toby's "_principles_ were
not of a high order," yet he "_knew he was in the wrong_," while Carlo
watched him receive his punishment, and "sat straight up, with a face of
_conscious rectitude_."
Coming now to a sense of humour or a sense of the ludicrous, Darwin
himself said,[IF] "Dogs show what may fairly be called a sense of
humour, as distinguished 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 close to take it away. The dog
will seize it and rush away in triumph, repeating the same man[oe]uvre,
and evidently enjoying the practical joke." Mr. Romanes had a dog who
used to perform certain self-taught tricks, "which clearly had the
object of exciting laughter. For instance, while lying on his side and
violently grinning, he would hold one leg in his mouth. Under such
circumstances, nothing pleased him so much as having his joke duly
appreciated, while, if no notice was taken of him, he would become
sulky." To these I may add an observation of my own. I used sometimes,
when staying at Lancaster with a friend, to take his dog Sambo, a highly
intelligent retriever, to the seashore. His chief delight there was to
bury small crabs in the sand, and then stand watching till a leg or a
claw appeared above the surface, upon which he would race backwards and
forwards, giving short barks of keen enjoyment. This I saw him do on
many occasions. He always waited till a helpless leg appeared, and then
bounded away as if he could not contain the canine laughter that was in
him. Who shall say, however, what was passing through the mind of the
dog in any of these three cases? The motive of Mr. Darwin's dog may have
been to prolong the game, though I expect there was something more than
this. Mr. Romanes's dog exemplified, perhaps, the sense of satisfaction
at being noticed. Sambo's performance is now, as it was years ago,
beyond me. But a sense of humour, involving a delicate appreciation of
the minor incongruities of life, is, I imagine, too subtle an emotion
for even Sambo.
I pass now to the sense of beauty, and I shall consider this at greater
length, because of its bearing on sexual selection and the origin of
floral beauty.
The interesting experiments of Sir John Lubbock already alluded to seem
to establish the fact that bees have certain colour-preferences. Blue
and pink are the most attractive colours; yellow and red are in less
favour. No doubt these preferences have arisen in association with the
flowers from which the bees obtain their nectar. They have a practical
basis of biological value. But there seems no doubt that certain colours
are now for them more attractive than others. Bees and other insects
are, undoubtedly, attracted by flowers; these flowers excite in us an
æsthetic pleasure; the bees are, therefore, supposed to be attracted to
the flowers through their possession of an æsthetic sense. Now, this
does not necessarily follow. It is the nectar, not the beauty of the
flower, that attracts the bee. So long as the flower is sufficiently
_conspicuous_ to be rapidly distinguished by the insect, the conditions
of the case are met so far as insect psychology is concerned. The fact
remains, however, that the flowers thus conspicuous to the insect are
fraught with beauty _for us_.
In the case of sexual selection among birds, again, I believe that the
gorgeous plumage has its basis of origin in that pre-eminent vitality
which Mr. Tylor and Mr. Wallace have insisted on. But, as before
indicated, this will not serve to explain its special character for each
several species of birds. Here, again, conspicuousness and recognition
are unquestionably factors. But that the bright plumage of male birds
awakens emotional states in the hens, that it probably also arouses
sexual appetence, seems to be shown by the manner in which the finery is
displayed by the male before the female. I think it is probable, also,
that pleasure, becoming thus associated with bright colours in the mate,
is also aroused by bright colours in other associations. Thus the
gardener bower-bird, described by Dr. Beccari,[IG] collects in front of
its bower flowers and fruits of bright and varied colours. It removes
everything unsightly, and strews the ground with moss, among which it
places the bright objects from among which the cock bird is said to
select daily gifts for his mate's acceptance! Dr. Gould states that
certain humming-birds decorate their nests "with the utmost taste,"
weaving into their structure beautiful pieces of flat lichen. If by
crediting birds with a sense of beauty we mean that in them pleasurable
emotions may be aroused on sight of objects which we regard as
beautiful, I am not prepared to deny them such a sense of beauty, nay, I
fully believe that such pleasurable feelings are aroused in them. When,
however, it is said that the gorgeous plumage of male birds has been
produced by the æsthetic choice of their mates, I am not so ready to
agree. A consciously æsthetic motive has not, I believe, been a
determining cause. The mate selected has been that which has excited the
strongest sexual appetence; his beauty has probably not, as such, been
distinctly present to consciousness. Here, then, we have again the
question which arose in connection with floral beauty--How is it that
the sight of the mates selected by hen birds excites in us, in so many
cases, an æsthetic pleasure?
It is clear that this is a matter rather of human than of animal or
comparative psychology. As such, except for purposes of illustration, it
does not fall within the scope of this work. I can, therefore, say but a
few words on the subject. The view that I think erroneous is that either
floral beauty or the beauty of secondary sexual characters has been
produced on æsthetic grounds, that is to say, for the sake of the beauty
they are seen by man to possess. It is, therefore, to the point to draw
attention to the fact that many of the objects and scenes which excite
in us this æsthetic sense have certainly not been produced for the sake
of their beauty. Their beauty is an adjunct, a by-product of rarest
excellence, but none the less a by-product.
Nothing can be more beautiful in its way than a well-grown beech or lime
tree; and yet it cannot be held to have been produced for its beauty's
sake. The leaves of many trees, shrubs, and plants are scarcely less
beautiful than the flowers. But _they_ cannot have been produced by the
æsthetic choice of insects. From the depth of a mine there may be
brought up a specimen of ruby copper ore, or malachite, or a nest of
quartz crystals, or an agate, or a piece of veined serpentine, which
shall be at once pronounced a delight to the eye. But for the eye it was
not evolved. The grandeur of Alpine scenery, the charm of a winding
river, the pleasing undulations of a flowing landscape,--no one can say
that these were evolved for the sake of their beauty. The fact of their
being beautiful is, therefore, no proof that the blue gentian, or the
red admiral, or the robin redbreast were evolved for the sake of, or by
means of, the beauty that they possess. Again, one leading feature in
the beauty of flowers is their symmetry. The beauty is, so to speak,
kaleidoscopic beauty. It is not so much the single veined or marbled
petal that is so lovely, as the group of similar petals symmetrically
arranged. But this symmetry can hardly be said to have been selected for
its æsthetic value; it is rather part of the natural symmetry of the
plant. Even with butterflies and birds and beasts the symmetrical
element is an important one in their beauty.[IH]
I must not attempt to analyze our sense of beauty or endeavour to trace
its origin. It appears to involve a pleasurable stimulation of the
sense-organs concerned, together with perceptions of symmetry, of
diversity and contrast, and of proportion, with a basis of unity. It is
rich in suggestions and associations. It is heightened by sympathy. A
beautiful scene is doubly enjoyable if a congenial companion is by our
side.
"The whole effect of a beautiful object, so far as we can explain it,"
says Mr. Sully,[II] "is an harmonious confluence of these delights of
sense, intellect, and emotion, in a new combination. Thus a beautiful
natural object, as a noble tree, delights us by its gradations of light
and colour, the combination of variety with symmetry in its contour or
form, the adaptation of part to part, or the whole to its surroundings;
and, finally, by its effect on the imagination, its suggestions of
heroic persistence, of triumph over the adverse forces of wind and
storm. Similarly, a beautiful painting delights the eye by supplying a
rich variety of light and shade, of colour, and of outline; gratifies
the intellect by exhibiting a certain plan of composition, the setting
forth of a scene or incident with just the fulness of detail for
agreeable apprehension; and, lastly, touches the many-stringed
instrument of emotion by an harmonious impression, the several parts or
objects being fitted to strengthen and deepen the dominant emotional
effect, whether this be grave or pathetic on the one hand, or light and
gay on the other. The effect of beauty, then, appears to depend on a
simultaneous presentment in a single object of a well-harmonized mass of
pleasurable material or pleasurable stimulus for sense, intellect, and
emotion."
This, too, is what I understand by an æsthetic sense of beauty; and if a
hen bird has her sexual appetence evoked by the bright display of her
mate, the emotional state she experiences is something very different
from what we know as a sense of beauty. The adjective "æsthetic" should
in any case, I think, be resolutely excluded in any discussion of sexual
selection.
Æsthetics, like conceptual thought, accompany the suppression or
postponement of action. As we have already seen, the normal and
primitive series is (1) sense-stimulus; (2) certain nerve-processes in
the brain which are associated with perception and emotion; and (3)
certain resulting activities. By the suppression of action the mind
comes to occupy itself more and more completely with the central
processes. Perception blossoms forth into conceptual thought; emotion
blossoms forth into æsthetics.
"'Throughout the whole range of sensations, perceptions, and emotions
which we do not class as _æsthetic_,'[IJ] says Mr. Herbert Spencer, 'the
states of consciousness serve simply as aids and stimuli to guidance and
action. They are transitory, or, if they persist in consciousness some
time, they do not monopolize the attention; that which monopolizes the
attention is something ulterior, to the effecting of which they are
instrumental. But in the states of mind we class as æsthetic the
opposite attitude is maintained towards the sensations, perceptions, and
emotions. These are no longer links in the chain of states which prompt
and guide conduct. Instead of being allowed to disappear with merely
passing recognition, they are kept in consciousness and dwelt upon,
their natures being such that their continued presence in consciousness
is agreeable.' The action which is the normal consequent on sensation is
here postponed or suppressed; and thus we are enabled to make knowledge
or beauty an end to be sought for its own sake; and thus, too, we are
able to make progress, otherwise impossible, in science and in art.
Sensations and perceptions are the roots from which spring the sturdy
trunk of action, the expanded leaves of knowledge, and the fair blossoms
of art. The leaves and the flowers are the terminal products along
certain lines of development; but the function of the leaves is to
minister to the growth of the wood, and the function of the flowers is
to minister to the continuance and well-being of the race. So, too, in
human affairs. Knowledge and art are justified by their influence on
conduct; truth and beauty must ever guide us towards right living; and
æsthetics are true or false according as they lead towards a higher or a
lower standard of moral life."[IK]
* * * * *
To sum up, then, concerning this difficult subject, the following are
the propositions on which I would lay stress: (1) What we term an
æsthetic sense of beauty involves a number of complex perceptual,
conceptual, and emotional elements. (2) The fact that a natural object
excites in us this pleasurable emotion does not carry with it the
implication that the object was evolved for the sake of its beauty. (3)
Even if we grant, as we fairly may, that brightly coloured flowers, in
association with nectar, have been objects of appetence to insects; and
that brilliant plumage, in association with sexual vigour, has been a
factor in the preferential mating of birds;--this is a very different
thing from saying that, either in the selection of flowers by insects,
or in the selection of their mates by birds, a consciously æsthetic
motive has been a determining cause. (4) In fine, though animals may be
incidentally attracted by beautiful objects, they have no æsthetic sense
of beauty. A sense of beauty is an abstract emotion. Æsthetics involve
ideals; and to ideals, if what has been urged in these pages be valid,
no brute can aspire.
What applies thus to æsthetics applies also to ethics. Few, however,
will be found to contend that animals can be moral or immoral, or have
any moral ideas properly so called. Mr. Romanes does indeed state, in
the table he prefixes to his works on Mental Evolution, that the
anthropoid apes and dogs are capable of "indefinite morality." He leaves
this to be explained, however, in a future work. In the published
instalment of "Mental Evolution in Man" he seems to contend,[IL] or, at
least, admit, "that the fundamental concepts of morality are of later
origin than the names by which they have been baptized." But he says
nothing of indefinite morality, which still remains for consideration in
another work. In the mean while we may, I think, confidently assume that
ethics, like conceptual thought and æsthetics, are beyond the reach of
the brute. Morality is essentially a matter of ideals, and these belong
to the conceptual sphere.
* * * * *
I have now said enough[IM] to indicate what I mean by advocating the
exercise of extreme caution in our inferences concerning the emotional
states of animals. We must remember, first, how liable to error are our
inferences in these matters; we must remember, next, how complex and
essentially human are our own emotions. I do not for one moment deny
that in animals are to be found the perceptual germs of even the higher
emotional states. Nevertheless, if we employ, in our interpretation of
the actions of animals, such terms as "consciousness of guilt," "sense
of right and wrong," "idea of justice," "deceitfulness," "revenge,"
"vindictiveness," "shame," and the rest, we must not forget that these
terms stand for human products, that they are saturated with conceptual
thought, and that they must be to a large extent emptied of their
meaning before they can become applicable to the emotional consciousness
of brutes.
NOTES
[HG] "Physiological Æsthetics:" chapter on "Pleasure and Pain."
[HH] All of these, at any rate, satisfy Mr. Herbert Spencer's
definition. Pleasure he describes as a feeling which we seek to
bring into consciousness and retain there; pain, as a feeling
which we seek to get out of consciousness and keep out.
[HI] "Types of Ethical Theory," vol. ii. p. 350.
[HJ] Such consciousness of activity is probably associated with the
innervation of afferent, not efferent, nerves.
[HK] Journal of Marine Biological Association, New Series, vol. i. No.
2, pp. 216, 217.
[HL] "Outlines of Psychology," p. 481.
[HM] Ibid. p. 494.
[HN] Page 70.
[HO] Page 104.
[HP] _Nature_, vol. xxxvii. p. 619.
[HQ] Vol. i. p. 310, under date 1876.
[HR] "Mental Evolution in Animals," p. 318.
[HS] "Descent of Man," pt. i. chap. iii.
[HT] Miss Nellie Maclagan describes how her Newfoundland similarly took
a roll to a hungry pauper-friend (_Nature_, vol. xxviii. p. 150).
Mr. Duncan Stewart gives (_Nature_, vol. xxviii. p. 31) the case
of a cat who used frequently to provide her blind mother with
food. Sir Harry Lumsden states that during the cold autumn of 1878
some tame partridges in Aberdeenshire brought two wild coveys to
be fed near the doorstep of the house. And a case has been
communicated to me by Miss Agnes Tanner, of Clifton, of a thrush
that pulled up worms on the lawn for a lame companion.
[HU] "Animal Intelligence," p. 440.
[HV] "Animal Intelligence," p. 442.
[HW] Ibid. p. 444.
[HX] Ibid. p. 451.
[HY] "Animal Intelligence," p. 387.
[HZ] "Animal Intelligence," p. 486.
[IA] Ibid. p. 141.
[IB] "Animal Intelligence," p. 443.
[IC] Mr. Alexander Mackennal, vol. xxi. p. 397.
[ID] "Descent of Man," pt. i. chap. iii., quoted from Brehm's
"Thierleben."
[IE] _Nature_, vol. xxviii. p. 32.
[IF] "Descent of Man," quoted by Romanes, p. 445.
[IG] _Nature_, vol. xl. p. 327.
[IH] Another example of beauty which can hardly be said to have been
evolved for beauty's sake is to be seen in birds' eggs. Mr. Henry
Seebohm regards the bright colours of some birds' eggs as a
difficulty in the way of the current interpretation of organic
nature. "Few eggs," he says (_Nature_, vol. xxxv. p. 237), "are
more gorgeously coloured [than those of the guillemot], and no
eggs exhibit such a variety of colour. [They are sometimes of a
bluish green, marbled or blotched with full brown or black;
sometimes white streaked with brown; sometimes pale green or
almost white with only the ghosts of blotches and streaks; and
sometimes the reddish brown extends so as to form the ground-tint
which is blotched with deeper brown.] It is impossible to suppose
that protective selection can have produced colours so conspicuous
on the white ledges of chalk cliffs; and sexual selection must
have been equally powerless. It would be too ludicrous a
suggestion to suppose that a cock guillemot fell in love with a
plain-coloured hen because he remembered that last season she laid
a gay-coloured egg."
If we connect colour with metabolic changes, its occurrence in
association with the products of the highly vascular oviduct will
not be surprising. Some _guidance_ is, however, on the principles
advocated in Chapter VI., required to maintain a standard of
coloration. In many cases such guidance is found in protective
selection, as in the plover's eggs in our frontispiece. In the
guillemot's egg such protective selection seems to be absent, and,
as Mr. Seebohm himself says, "no eggs exhibit such a variety of
colour."
In our present connection, however, the point to be noticed is that
many eggs are undoubtedly beautiful. But they cannot have been in
any way selected for the sake of their beauty.
[II] "Outlines of Psychology," p. 537.
[IJ] I should add, "or as _conceptual thought_."
[IK] This paragraph is quoted from the author's "Springs of Conduct,"
p. 263.
[IL] Page 347.
[IM] I have said nothing about the emotions of invertebrates, because I
have nothing special to say. They have, no doubt, emotions
analogous to fear, anger, and so on. But it is difficult to
interpret their actions. The "angry" wasp is, perhaps, a good deal
more frightened than furious. Sir John Lubbock's interesting
experiments seem to show that ants have what is termed the
instinct of play. But this admirable observer has rendered it
probable that sympathy and affection in ants and bees have been
somewhat exaggerated.