are conscious organisms in the particulars for which it is claimed,
it matters not, for enough have been set forth to demonstrate beyond
the shadow of a doubt the position that they are endowed with a
consciousness, no matter how infinitesimally small a part it plays
in nature. Everyday observation of the botanist teaches the fact.
Sensation, which is consciousness, has preceded in time and in history
the evolution of the greater part of plants and animals, unicellular
and multicellular, and, therefore, if kinetogenesis, or the doctrine of
the effects of molar motion, be true, “consciousness,” as Cope alleges,
“has been essential to a rising scale of organic evolution.” Animals
which do not perform simple acts of self-preservation must necessarily,
sooner or later, perish. Impossible it is to understand how the lowest
forms of life, wholly dependent as they are on physical conditions of
many kinds, should to-day exist if they were not possessed of some
degree of consciousness under stimuli at least. We have but to picture
to ourselves the condition of a vertebrate, without general or special
sensation, would we obtain a clear perception of the essentiality of
consciousness to its existence. If now use, as has been maintained,
has modified structure, and so, in coöperation with the environment,
has directed evolution, we can understand the origin and development
of useful organs, and also how, by parasitism, or some other mode
of gaining a livelihood without exertion, the adoption of new and
skilful movements would be unnecessary, and consciousness itself seldom
aroused, for continual repose would be followed by sub-consciousness,
and later by unconsciousness. Such appears to be largely the history
of degeneracy everywhere, and such is, perhaps, in a great measure
the history of the entire vegetable kingdom, for plants, from their
ability to manufacture protoplasm from inorganic substances, do not
bodily move about in quest of food as animals generally do, and
therefore require no conscious conditions, it would seem, to guide
their movements. They become fixed, and their entire organization,
except in specialized instances, becomes monopolized by the functions
of nutrition and reproduction. Their movements are mostly rhythmic or
rotary, but that they exhibit the quality of impromptu design more
frequently than scientists are willing to allow must be admitted, or
facts and the conclusions which naturally flow therefrom constitute
no criteria of judging. Too much stress, I fear, is placed in these
days upon the action of certain supposed forces that are resident in
the plant’s or animal’s environment in accounting for its behavior, to
the utter exclusion of any energy that may be acting from within the
organism itself. “That consciousness as well as life preceded organism,
and has been the _primum mobile_ in the creation of organic structure,”
as Cope assumes, there is no doubt; but that it early abandoned the
vegetable world, and also that all the energies of vegetable protoplasm
soon became automatic, causing plants in general to become sessile,
and therefore parasitic and in one sense degenerate, I cannot wholly
accept. That insects have, in the matter of evolution of plant-types,
exerted considerable influence on the conditions of almost all of their
organs, the forms of the organs of fructification and especially of the
flowers, through certain stimuli and strains to which they have become
subjected by reason of these insects and their occupancy of parts as
dwelling-places, there can be no doubt; and it is probable also, as has
been maintained, that we owe to insects, directly or indirectly, not
only the forms, but also the colors of the flowers, and their odors and
peculiar markings as well. And thus while degeneracy, as observed in
the abortion of ovules, carpels and perianth, may be seen everywhere,
which the influences that have acted upon them have induced, yet it is
the height of presumption to assert that consciousness has entirely
abandoned the members of the vegetable kingdom, and that they are
reduced to the condition of mere automata. It is true, as has been
claimed, that the permanent and the successful forms of organization
have ever been those in which motion and sensibility have been
preserved, as well as the most highly developed; and just as true it
is that plants, even though fixed to the soil and unable to effect a
change of environment in consequence, are not so incapable of conscious
actions as not to be able to meet any changes, and these changes do
very often occur, that climate, new conditions of soil, helps or
hindrances to growth and wear, may bring about. That they must adapt
themselves to such changes, or perish in their struggle to exist, none
can question. It is not enough to say that natural selection affords
an explanation of every phenomenon that they may exhibit. There is an
energy within the plant, think and write as we will, and it is this
that comes to its aid and directs the movement that will be productive
of the most good.
Concluding, then, let me aver that no plant can exist or fulfil its
allotted part in the drama of life without the possession of some form
or degree of consciousness. If it be true that life and consciousness
preceded organization, and the statement can hardly be disputed, and
have been the _primum mobile_ in the creation of organic structure,
what reason, seeing that life necessarily persists in vegetable
organism, can be given for their dissociation in existing forms of
plants, as seems to be the tendency of modern scientific thought?
That plants once possessed consciousness, there can be no difference
of opinion. Well, then, what has become of this consciousness? It
could not have been destroyed, for energy or force, and consciousness
certainly must be placed under this category, can never be destroyed.
I repeat the question. What has become of it? Either it exists in the
plant in a dormant condition, awaiting opportunities to call it into
existence, or it has returned to the great Source of all consciousness,
whence each individual organism, whether of plant or animal, obtained
its _quantum_. It still exists, but how or under what conditions,
I cannot affirm, and is to plants what mind is to man and animals,
controlling their actions when such are for their well-being and good.
If mind persists in a future state, then consciousness, which may be
considered as mind in plants, must also persist, for it is not at all
likely that the Source of all consciousness, which we worship as God,
the Creator of all things, could be unmindful of the least of His
children.
MIND IN ANIMALS.
That the lower animals are in possession of all the characters of the
mind or soul that are either the inherited or acquired properties of
man, some evidence will now be adduced. Foremost among these qualities
is Reason. Much vagueness of idea exists as to what constitutes reason,
the general tendency being to confound it with instinct, and to wonder
where the one ends and the other begins. Hundreds of anecdotes, too
familiar for mention, might be instanced, which have been described as
wonderful examples of instinct, but which, upon careful examination,
have been shown to be undoubted proofs of reason. That disposition of
mind by which, independent of all instruction or experience, animals
are unerringly directed to do spontaneously whatever is necessary
for the preservation of the individual or the continuation of the
species, is instinct. It is instinct that teaches the newly-born child
to breathe, or to seek its mother’s breast and obtain its nourishment
by suction. Instinct teaches the bird how to make its nest after the
manner of its kind, but it is reason that leads it to construct a
fabric radically different from the typical form. Taking the case of
insects, there can be no doubt that it is instinct that teaches the
caterpillar to make its cocoon, to remain there until it has developed
into an imago, and then to force its entrance into the world. Ducks,
though hatched under a hen, instinctively make their way to the water,
while chickens, though hatched under a duck, instinctively keep away
from it. Man, as well as the lower animals, has his instincts, but very
few of them are apparent, for he is able to bring the most of them
under subjection by the power of his reason. Some, however, remain and
assert themselves throughout the entire period of his life.
There is the widest possible difference between reason and instinct,
the former being an exercise of the will, while the latter is
independent thereof. Instinct comes in at birth, but reason is an
after-growth of the mind. No exercise of thought does instinct require,
but when the mind reasons some conclusion is deduced from the premises
which it has assumed. All animals, in common with ourselves, possess
the power of reasoning, although in a less degree. It is by the
superiority of our reason over theirs that we maintain our supremacy.
False premises often lead to wrong deductions, but their process is
still one of pure reason. With them, as well as with ourselves, reason,
especially in the case of domestic animals, often conquers instinct,
and so by contact with a higher order of reason, that of man’s, their
own is more fully developed. They, in a sense, become civilized. Let
a hungry dog and a cat be left in a room where food is unguarded,
and their instincts will urge them to jump upon the table and help
themselves. But if they have been trained, their reason restrains their
instinct, and, no matter how hungry they may be, they will not touch
the food until it is given to them. Some few years ago a matronly lady
and her dog, a beautiful pug, were accustomed to take their dinner at a
saloon which the writer daily visited. The dog was given a chair on the
side opposite his mistress. He was a well-mannered animal, and never
during his many visits to the place did he ever violate the laws of
good manners. Patiently he would wait until the food was put upon his
plate, and not even then would he take it, for he had been taught that
it was something that should not be hastily seized and eaten. The idea
that food cost money was distinctly impressed upon his mind, and this
the owner did by thrice repeating, “This cost money.” It was evident
that the dog understood what was said from the thoughtful look he gave
her. In a little while he was given the command to eat, but, like the
cultured he was, everything was done orderly and decently. Almost any
animal can be thus trained to subject its natural instincts to its
reason.
Fishes are not known to possess much reason. There is not an angler,
nevertheless, that will not tell you that he has had the powers of his
mind taxed to the utmost in his efforts to induce an old and wary trout
to take the bait, and even when he has succeeded in hooking him, it has
greatly tried his genius for planning to prevent the fish from breaking
his line. Natural instinct teaches a fish to fly from man, and even
one’s shadow on the water will frighten away the fish and destroy an
angler’s hopes of success. Yet we have seen a pond full of gold-fish
which were quite tame, and which, when they saw a human being at the
side of the pond, would come forward instead of showing alarm. They
were so perfectly confiding that they would take a piece of bread or
biscuit out of his hand. Here, then, is an example of the instinct,
which urges them to flee from man, being overcome by the reason, which
tells them to approach him.
Animals of burden may often be seen attending to prescribed work
without any supervision. Dray-horses, as is well known, sometimes take
pleasure in their work. I knew of a horse of the kind that was as much
interested, apparently, his work as his owner. He never had to be told
when to move, for all the while the dray was loading he was observant
of everything, and, knowing the capacity thereof, was ready when the
look from the master told him to proceed. Horses have sometimes shown a
knowledge of the amount of work they are supposed to perform in a day.
A case has been cited of a horse by Mr. Wood that was capable of doing
his work without a driver. He belonged to the owner of an American
mine. As soon as his cart was filled with ore, at a given signal he
went off to the spot where the ore was to be dumped, waited until the
cart was unloaded, and then returned for another load. So many loads
had to be carried daily, and, strange to relate, the animal knew when
his task was finished as well as any of the men. When the last load for
the day was deposited, he could be seen trotting off in the direction
of home, where he knew he would receive a kind reception from his
mistress.
[Illustration: WONDERFUL EQUINE INTELLIGENCE.
A Horse That Knew When His Day’s Work Was Done.]
Enough has been said to show that animals have and do exercise powers
of reason. That they have the means of transmitting ideas to their
fellows is not to be questioned. Language is the means of transmission.
Not only are they able to interchange thoughts with each other, but
with man also when they are brought into contact with him. They must
possess a language of some kind, whereby they can understand each
other, can comprehend human language, and make themselves intelligible
to man. All these conditions are fulfilled in the lower animals, but
there is one distinction between the capability of understanding their
own language and that of man, and that is, that they are born with the
one and have to learn the other. Newly-hatched chickens, although they
have only entered the world an hour or so ago, understand perfectly
well their mother. They know what to do when she calls them to find
what food she has unearthed, and they know what to do when she warns
them of danger. Who has not heard them talk to her? But how different
are their tones under various circumstances. The little piping notes of
content when all is going on well can never be confounded with the cry
of alarm when they have lost their way or are otherwise frightened.
Wasps, as everybody knows who has studied these insects, carry out one
of the first principles of military art. They always have the gate of
their fortress guarded by a sentinel. Should danger be imminent, the
alarm is given by the sentinel, and out rush the inhabitants to wreak
vengeance upon the offender. Out of a full-sized nest, consisting of
many hundred wasps, it is evident that the individual who is to act as
sentinel must be selected, and its task appointed. How the selection is
made, no one knows. But that such is done, there can be no question,
for the rest of the community acknowledge their sentinel, trust to it
for guarding the approaches of the nest, while they busy themselves
with the usual task of collecting food for the young and new material
for the nest.
Nearly related to wasps are the ants. Some of their performances are
truly astonishing. They have armies commanded by officers, who issue
orders, insist on obedience, and will not permit, while on the march,
any of the privates to stray from the ranks. There are other ants
which till the ground, weed it, plant the particular grain on which
they feed, cut it when ripe, and store it in their subterranean
granaries. Arrant slaveholders are others, who make systematic raids
upon neighboring species, carry off their yet unhatched cocoons, and
rear them in their own nests to be their servants. Somewhat recent
discoveries show that there are ants which bury their dead. Two pairs
of bearers are chosen to carry the corpse, one pair relieving the other
when tired, while the main body, often several hundred in number,
follow behind. So much could be said about ants, so closely do their
performances resemble the customs of human civilization, that the
subject could never grow uninteresting, but we must, for the present,
forbear. All these various performances could not be possible were
there not some way by which communication, or interchange of ideas,
could be carried on among the individual members of the same community.
Sometimes one species of ant is capable of carrying on a conversation,
so to speak, with another. Bees, wasps and ants are the best linguists
of the insect race, their language being chiefly conducted by means of
their antennæ.
Who has not often observed two dogs, members of the same household,
holding sweet converse with each other? Pug and Gyp were two animals
that belonged to the family where I spent a summer vacation. They
thought much of each other when romping together in the yard, or in
foraging the neighboring woods and fields for rabbits and ground-hogs.
Never would they start out on an expedition for game without having
previously laid their plans. It was interesting and amusing to watch
them. They would bring their heads into close contiguity, remaining
in this position for two or three minutes, when, by mutual consent,
they would separate, look each other in the eyes, and then start off
in different directions for the scene of their projected enterprise.
Times out of number I have observed such behavior and have always
discovered that they meant something of the kind. There were no audible
utterances, no visible gestures, yet there was an interchange of
ideas. Through the medium of the eye were the thoughts conveyed. It
was spirit speaking directly to spirit, conveying by a single glance of
the eye thoughts which whole volumes would fail to express.
Each species of animal has its own dialect. Yet there is another
language, a sort of animal _lingua franca_, which is common to all.
A cry of warning, no matter from what bird or animal it emanates, is
understood by them all, as is well known to many a sportsman who has
lost his only chance of a shot by reason of an impertinent crow, jay or
magpie which has espied him, and has given its cry of alarm. There is
not a bird of garden or orchard, or a fowl of the barnyard or doorside,
that does not understand the peculiar cry of the rooster when a hawk is
seen careering overhead, or perched upon the summit of a near-by tree.
With one accord they flee to their coverts, and there remain until the
danger is past.
No more quarrelsome and pugnacious species of bird exists than
the English sparrow. He appropriates every available locality for
nesting purposes, and our native species are driven to the necessity
of fighting for their rights, or of seeking quarters in the rural
districts which these birds do not infect. Thus it is that many a
useful robin, bluebird or martin is driven from our midst. Many have
witnessed encounters between these birds and the robins. The author
once saw a contest between a pair of sparrows and a pair of robins for
the possession of a certain tree that grew in his yard. Now the robin,
single-handed, is more than a match for a sparrow. In the engagement
referred to, the robins were getting the better of the sparrows, which
the latter were not slow in perceiving. Instantly the sparrows set up
the wild, ear-piercing harangue for which they are peculiarly noted,
when more than a score of friends from the immediate vicinity gathered
to their assistance. But the war-cry which they sounded not only
summoned help to their standard, but it was equally understood by all
the other birds of the neighborhood, who flocked to the defence of
their brethren against the alien. The battle waged warm and fiercely
for some minutes, when the sparrows were forced to seek safety in
retreat.
Not only can crows and rooks assemble, hold council and agree to act on
the result of their deliberations, but other birds are known to do the
same things. Birds are able to communicate their thoughts to each other
by means of a language, but it is not likely that in their language,
or the language of animals in general, there are any principles of
construction such as are possessed by all human languages. But the
same effect may be produced by different means, and the reader will
see that in the above instance no human language, however perfect
its construction, could have served its purpose better than did the
inarticulate language of the sparrows. They told their friends that
their territory was usurped by an intruder too strong to be ejected
by them, and implored their assistance. But while it told them this,
it did still more, for it conveyed the report to their numerous foes,
who winged their way to the support of their opponents. In fact,
whenever animals of any kind form alliances and act simultaneously for
one common purpose, it is evident that language of some sort must be
employed.
That beasts possess a language, which enables them to communicate
their ideas to each other, has been clearly shown. It is just as
apparent that they can act upon the ideas so conveyed. We have now to
see whether they can convey their ideas to man, and so bridge over
the gulf between the higher and the lower beings. Were there no means
of communicating ideas between man and animals, domestication, it is
true, would be impossible. Every one who has possessed and cared for
some favorite animal must have observed that they can do so. Their
own language becomes in many instances intelligible to man. Just as
a child, that is unable to pronounce words, can express its meaning
by intimation, so a dog can do the same by its different modes of
barking. There is the bark of joy or welcome, when the animal sees
its master, or anticipates a walk with him; the furious bark of anger,
if the dog suspects that anyone is likely to injure himself or his
master, and the bark of terror when the dog is suddenly frightened at
something which it cannot understand. Supposing, now, that its master
could not see the dog, but could only hear its bark, would he not
know perfectly well the ideas which were passing through the animal’s
mind? Most certainly he would. There is a difference between the mew
of distress and the ordinary conversation, the purr of pleasure, of a
cat. A pet canary always knows how to call its mistress, and when it
sees her will give a glad chirrup of recognition quite distinct from
its ordinary call. Bees and wasps have quite a different sound in their
wings when angry than when in the discharge of their ordinary work. Any
one conversant with their ways understands the expression of anger and
makes the best of his way off.
All the foregoing are but examples of sound-language. The
gesture-language of animals, however, is wonderfully extensive and
expressive. A cat, could it say in plain words, “Please open the door
for me,” could not convey its ideas more intelligently than it does
by going to the door, uttering a plaintive mew to show that it wants
help, and then patting the door. Dogs, or, in fact, all animals that
are accustomed to live in the house, will act after a similar fashion.
There, then, we perceive that the lower animals can form connected
ideas, and can convey them to man, so that the same ideas are passing
at the same moment through the minds of man and beast, evidencing that
they possess the same faculties, though of different extent.
[Illustration: PAPIER-MACHÉ PALACE OF THE HORNET.
Sentinel Guarding the Entrance to the Palace.]
Some few examples must suffice to show the power of gesture-language in
the lower animals. I once owned a dog, a variety of hound, which was
as companionable as any animal could possibly be. He was never happy
unless he was on the go. So fond was he of travel and sight-seeing,
that I gave him the name of Rover. My occupation calling me from home
every day of the week, except Saturday and Sunday, but giving me a few
hours of each day before the shadows began to settle round, Rover was
forced to spend his time during my absence as best he could. He was no
ordinary dog. Little he cared for the dogs of the neighborhood. His
was a superior nature, and rather than associate with his neighbors
when my companionship could not be had, he would perform his journeys
alone, sometimes being gone nearly the entire day. But he managed
to keep a pretty fair record of the time, for he was always on hand
to greet me on my return home. His joy at my coming knew no bounds.
He would rub up against my side, caper around me, assuming a hundred
different attitudes, leap up into my face, which he would caress with
his tongue. I shall never forget the barks of delight, nor the smile,
as I would call it, for it verily seemed a smile to me, which lit up
his intelligent face. Then he would slowly meander his way to the gate.
Reaching it, he would place his right front paw upon the latch, spring
it, and, taking hold of the top with his mouth, fling it wide open. He
was then a very happy fellow. That he appreciated the favor I was about
to show him, there could be no question, as he plainly showed it in his
look, gesture and speech. Sometimes it was not convenient for me to
take a walk with him, or I was not in the physical or mental condition
to do so. It was not necessary for me to tell him in so many words that
the pleasure would have to be foregone for the present, for his keen,
discerning mind could read it in my looks. I never liked to disappoint
him, for the grief which he manifested was piteous in the extreme.
He would prostrate himself to the ground, place his head between his
front paws, and look the very picture of inconsolable distress. The
low, sorrowful moan which he would emit, when the disappointment was
the keenest, was so heart-rending, that many a time I would reverse my
purpose and say, “Come, Rover, master will not deny so good a creature
the pleasure of his company for an hour or so in the woods.” Instantly
his whole expression would change, and there would be exhibited a joy
as intense as the grief which had depressed him to the earth. Rover
was no hypocrite. His sorrow was not assumed, but as real and poignant
a sorrow as ever possessed a human breast. I have known him to grieve
for hours, and even to refuse the daintiest food when he has been
disappointed. Were he dissembling, seeing that it availed him not,
he would not be likely to have kept it up so long, and to his sore
discomfort and detriment. Examples of animals making their language
intelligible to man could be multiplied _ad infinitum_, but we must
pass on to say something about their capability of understanding the
language of man.
That many of the lower animals understand something of human language
is a familiar fact. All the domesticated animals, notably the dog and
the horse, can comprehend an order that is given to them, though,
perhaps, they may not be able in all instances to understand the
precise words which are used. There are many occasions, however, when
it is evident that the knowledge of human language does extend to the
signification of particular words. Parrots, as is well known, are well
acquainted with the meanings of the words which they speak. Examples
have been known to the writer of parrots that were able to speak in two
languages, and, when addressed, always replied in the language used by
their interlocutors, speaking English or Spanish, as the case might be.
“Go, bring up the cows,” was an order that was daily given to Lion,
a large black dog, with a shaggy head, that belonged to my maternal
grandfather, an old-time farmer who lived way back in the fifties. So
well did he understand the significance of these words, and the labor,
worry and responsibility which they implied, that he did not have to
be told a second time, nor have to have their import conveyed to him
by sign or by action of the farm lad whose business it was to see that
the animals were brought to the barn-yard at milking time. Obedient
to orders, he would trot to the pasture-ground, nearly a quarter-mile
distant, open the bars between the lane and the field with his mouth,
and then start on his business with a full sense of its requirements.
His coming was well known to the cattle. While the most of them would
take their way in a quiet, orderly manner to the lane, yet there were
some unruly ones among them who gave Lion a great deal of trouble, but
he always succeeded in overruling their contrary tendencies. When there
was a tumult in the hennery, accompanied by loud noises, the command,
“Go, see what the trouble is!” was performed to the very letter, and
the trouble, if any, was speedily announced by a series of loud, sharp,
quick barks, which soon brought some one or more members of the family
to the scene of disorder. If nothing unusual was happening, Lion would
return to the house in a slow, leisurely way, and by his looks convey,
as clearly as man could do it, the utter needlessness of the command.