to him, but is even capable of forestalling one’s wishes. Part of one
of the writer’s vacations was spent in a small country town not very
remote from Philadelphia. There was in the family with whom he boarded
a dog called Prince. He was a very great favorite, and was once noted
for his lively, vivacious disposition and jolly manners. But at the
time of my introduction to him, he seemed to be suffering from some
bodily affliction, which had not only taken away his appetite for food,
but the very _animus_ of his being. Upon inquiry I learned that the
master of the house, to whom Prince was so deeply attached, had died
the year before, and that the dog had taken his death so completely to
heart that he had lost all of his former vivacity. He refused all food,
often going for days without taking a single mouthful. Life seemed to
have lost for him all its charms. Sad and dejected he would lie upon
the porch-floor or ground, seemingly unconscious of everything and
everybody. That he was slowly dying seemed evident to all. But a change
from our first interview appeared to come over the animal. From some
cause or other, he had taken quite a fancy to me. He would greet me
with considerable friendliness when I would come down in the morning,
and always seemed glad to be in my presence. My first business, on
coming downstairs, was to go for the newspaper, which was always to be
found inside the yard, some thirty steps from the house. I would then
sit down upon the porch and read it, but Prince was always close-by, a
willing spectator. One morning, however, instead of going to the gate
for the paper as was my custom, I stood debating in my mind whether to
go or not, when, to my utmost surprise, the dog, after watching me for
a while, walked very soberly down to the gate, picked up the paper in
his mouth, and brought it to me, not laying it down at my feet, but
placing it in my hands. I thanked him for his kindness, gave him a few
gentle pats upon the head, and he walked away as pleased as a child
would have been who had received a few pennies for a similar service.
The dog had evidently read in my looks the debate that was going on in
my mind, and knowing that I always read the paper when I came down
from my room, anticipated my wishes by bringing it to me.
[Illustration: UNSOLICITED AND UNLOOKED-FOR KINDNESS.
How Prince Forestalled My Wishes by Bringing Me the Morning Newspaper.]
There is in the two interesting stories just related a singular
aggregation of faculties which are held in man to belong to the
immortal, and not to the mortal part of his being. Reason, or the
deduction of a conclusion from premises, is strikingly exhibited.
Then there is the power of forming ideas and communicating them to
man, and the capability of understanding man’s language, and even of
anticipating the wishes of human friends. And lastly, there is the
intense love for the master, combined with the power of self-sacrifice,
which enabled Lion and Prince to act as they did, while instinct was
urging them to take their exercise in the open air, or in the enjoyment
of luxurious ease.
No faculty of the mind gives greater trouble to materialists than
Memory. It is that which survives when every particle of the material
brain has been repeatedly changed. It is that which more or less deeply
receives impressions and retains them through a long series of years.
And even when they are apparently forgotten, hidden as it were behind
a temporary veil, a passing odor, a dimly-heard sound or a nodding
flower may rend the veil asunder in the twinkling of an eye, and scenes
long forgotten are reproduced before the memory as vividly as though
time had been annihilated. Nothing is omitted. There comes up to view
a minute and instantaneous insight into every detail, and for a moment
we break loose from our fleshy tabernacle, and see and hear with our
spiritual and not with our material eyes and ears. Man expects that
he shall retain his memory and carry it into the next world. He also
expects to recognize in the spiritual world those whom he has loved in
this temporal sphere. Memory, therefore, must be spiritual and eternal;
and wherever it can be found, there exists an immortal spirit. No
stronger evidence, apart from Revelation, exists of a future life of
man than memory. And if we apply this proof to ourselves, then, in pure
justice, we should apply it wherever memory is found.
But some have claimed that memory is a mere emanation from the brain.
That an inferior brain is coupled with an inferior intellect, and that
if the brain be slightly or seriously injured, the powers of thought
will be weakened or utterly held in abeyance, are arguments that have
been made to prove that thought is the creation of the brain. The facts
in themselves are true, but the conclusion is false. The brain is but
the organ or instrument of the thought-power, and stands in the same
relation to it that a tool does to a carpenter. However good an artisan
a carpenter may be, it is but common-sense to say that he cannot turn
out good work with a blunt instrument, or any work at all with a broken
one. So it is with the brain. It is but the tool of the spirit, and,
if it be damaged in any way, the keenest intellect will not be able to
work with it. Memory, moreover, exists in creatures which are devoid of
brain. No real brain, but only a succession of nervous ganglia running
the entire length of the body, is found in insects, and indeed in many
of them the faculty of memory is very strongly developed.
Then there is the moner, a mere speck of formless protoplasm, that has
not the slightest trace of a specialized nervous system, yet it has
the power of throwing out arms and of retracting them into the general
body-mass, of opening out mouths where a particle of food strikes
it, of digesting its food, and of circulating its fluid without the
necessity of canals. But how are these movements effected? Certainly a
nervous influence is the prime mover of all its actions. Nerve-matter,
mayhap, constitutes its entire body-mass, or it may be all brain as
well as all muscle. Though the lowest and simplest of all animal life,
yet it possesses an innate consciousness and intelligence. Memory is
not wanting as a faculty of the mind of this all-brain animal, which
I have thought fit to characterize it, as some actions of it already
described under the head of “Slime Animals” seem very clearly to
indicate.
Some fifteen years ago I mentioned in an article, entitled “Insect
Pets,” a pair of flies, the common _Musca domestica_ of our houses,
which had been closely observed by Mr. Forestel, the gentleman who at
that time had charge of the distributing department of the Philadelphia
_Record_. This position necessitates nocturnal employment. While taking
his midnight lunch, Mr. Forestel’s attention was directed to a pair of
these insects that had located themselves upon his plate. Had it been
in the summer when flies were plentiful, the event would hardly have
been noticed; but being in the winter, a season notable for their great
scarcity, they could not but impress his mind with something out of
the ordinary. Night after night these self-invited and curious guests
presented themselves at the same place, and it was a long time before
he observed the regularity of their visits. At first he was disposed to
view the alighting of two flies upon his plate as a mere coincidence,
but he at length became so deeply interested in the affair, that he
resolved to watch their actions very closely. It was not long before he
became convinced that they always waited for the commencement of the
meal, when they would deliberately fly down for their regular lunch.
So closely did he watch them, that he was soon able to discriminate
between the two, and to discover beyond a doubt that it was not a
series of two flies, but always the same pair. As time progressed, Mr.
Forestel and the flies grew to be famous friends. They in time became
so friendly, that they would permit themselves to be handled. Although
at first they would only appear when Mr. Forestel was alone, yet they
soon became accustomed to strangers. On the nights when their friend
was not on duty, others have spread their lunches on the table used by
him, but the flies were not slow in making the discovery, and, instead
of alighting, would quickly hasten away without their accustomed meal.
Who can deny the possession of memory to these two flies? Had the
discovery of the food been an accidental occurrence the first time,
could it have been so the second and all the succeeding times? Then,
again, the flies always came at the right time, showing that they had
some idea of the passing moments. Even admitting that this latter
thought is out of the range of probability, there can be no doubt that
they were not observant creatures, else how would they know when to
come, or whether or not the man that sat at the table was the same that
had shown them so much kindness on their previous visits. That they did
know these things, there cannot be the slightest doubt. But how did
they know them? There is only one answer to the query. They knew them
through the exercise of memory, these creatures impressing on their
minds the appearance of the objects near the table, the form and color
of the table itself, the look, manner and dress of the man who sat by
it, and acting on the result of these impressions. Human beings act in
just the same way in traversing for the first time a locality through
which they will have to return. And yet, as has already been stated,
these insects have no true brains.
Considerably removed from insects are the vermes, or worms. Man, in his
overweening opinion of self, would hardly credit the earth-worm with
the possession of any mental qualities; yet it has been shown that it
can reason, and can communicate after its fashion with its fellows.
It is now my intention to prove that it has the power of memory. Has
the reader ever seen an earth-worm trying to carry into its burrow a
pair of pine-needles joined at their bases? It knows just where to
seize the pair. This it determines by feeling, or moving its head along
the needles, the sense of touch being very acute in this portion of
its body. Hardly ever is a mistake made by seizing the free or apical
extremities. Once it has discovered where to act, this position is
fixed in memory, and the animal exercises the latter power in dealing
with objects of the kind in all subsequent operations.
Almost any living being can by means of the faculty of memory be taught
by man. But were it absent, no teaching would be of the slightest
avail. In most cases where an animal is ferocious, I firmly believe
that fear, and not ill-temper, is the real cause of its conduct. Let
a little kindness be shown, and the animal will never forget it.
Such acts, repeatedly performed, assure it that your intentions are
well-meant, and it soon learns to recognize in you a friend. The
memory of your goodness will often be recollected after long years of
separation, and the most joyous feelings be manifested at the sight
of your presence upon returning home. Everyone who has had personal
experience of domesticated animals must have remarked the great
strength and endurance of their powers of memory. The dog, the cat, the
horse and the ass afford so many familiar anecdotes in point, that I
shall be obliged to pass them over and restrict my illustrations to a
few animals about which little has been said.
For obstinacy of opinion no animal can excel the pig. He is a creature
whom few, on account of his uncleanly person and disgusting habits,
would care to caress. Yet there is no animal under man’s care that
enjoys such treatment better than he does. He will stand for hours
while you rub his head and back, the very impersonation of contentment,
never failing to express his thanks and appreciation by occasional
monosyllabic grunts. A friend of ours, living in Northern Indiana,
had a fine fellow, whom he had raised from infancy. When he was quite
young, he began to show him considerable attention, picking him up
in his arms, and fondling him in the most affectionate manner. The
choicest food was always reserved for him, and the cosiest bed of straw
provided for his nightly rest. In process of time the animal grew to
great size, but he never forgot these early attentions. He expected
them all the same. When denied what he deemed were his lawful rights,
he would set up an unearthly squealing, enough to split the ears of
the groundlings, and refuse to be comforted until his demands were
satisfied. Never was the master, when out of the house, safe from his
intrusions. He would besiege him in the presence of company, command
his attention, and cry in his own peculiar fashion if he thought
himself ignored. Many a rough-and-tumble game, which reminded me of
boys in my childhood days, would they have together, and it was really
amusing to see them. They enjoyed these tussles, which were always of
the most friendly character.
Stupid as the life of a cow may seem to be, yet there has been known
to the writer some cows which were far from being dull and prosaic.
Our same Hoosier friend had such an animal, whom he called Daisy. She
was very docile and affectionate, and would come, even when grazing in
the most delightful pasture of clover, whenever her name happened to
be mentioned. Daisy was a pretty creature, and very exemplary in her
conduct. When her companions would break into a field of corn, where
they had no right to be, she would not follow their wicked example,
but remained where her master had placed her and the rest of the herd,
showing them, as it were, that she did not approve of such wilful
waywardness. No member of the bovine family of animals ever showed a
greater fondness for love than Daisy. The master could put his arms
around her neck, and lay his face against the side of her own. That she
approved of such familiarity was evident, for she would show that she
did by placing her lips against his in true lover-like fashion. But
there came a time when this attachment to the master became dissolved.
On account of the bad behavior of the herd in general, and to make it
a law-abiding community, it was resolved that each member should have
its horns sawn off close up to the skull. This, it was thought, would
improve the temper of the herd, and make it less troublesome to manage.
No fear was entertained, however, for Daisy, who was already as good as
she could be, but Daisy must undergo the same cruel punishment for the
sake of uniformity in this particular in the herd. It had, however, the
opposite effect upon Daisy from what it had upon the rest of the herd,
for it made her sullen and morose, and from that time she resented all
familiarity upon the part of the master. She seemed to view him as her
worst enemy. All attempts to settle her grievances were viewed in a
suspicious manner, and the matter of reconciliation had at length to be
abandoned.
Beasts, there is no doubt, were intended to be the servants of man, and
there is nothing in his hands half so powerful in the accomplishment
of this end as thoughtful kindness. Inflexible decision, combined with
gentleness and sympathy, are irresistible weapons in his power, and no
animal exists, I firmly believe, which cannot be subdued if the right
man undertakes the task. By this mixture of firmness and kindness
many a wild beast of a horse has been in a half-hour rendered gentle
and subservient by Rarey, obeying the least sign of his conqueror,
and permitting himself to be freely handled without displaying the
slightest resentment.
That there is something more in memory than a mere production of a
material brain must seem probable from the examples given. In several
cases the animals were without any brains at all, but in others, where
a brain did exist, its material particles must have been repeatedly
changed, while the ideas impressed upon the memory still remained in
full force.
Perhaps no attribute of the mind is better fitted to follow that which
has just been treated than Generosity. But whether we accept it in
the sense of liberality or magnanimity, it is certainly a very lofty
quality, and one which infinitely ennobles the character of those who
possess it. Taken in the former sense, it is an attribute of Deity,
who gives us freely all that we have, and so sets us an example of
generosity to our fellow-creatures. Now, if it be admitted that the
possession of generosity ennobles man’s character, while the lack of
that quality debases it, then the inference is undeniable that when we
find a beast possessing generosity, and a man devoid of it, the beast
is in that particular the superior of the man. And that generosity,
being a divine attribute, belongs to the spirit and not to the body,
no believer in Christianity is likely to deny. Therefore, wherever we
find this characteristic developed, we must admit the presence of an
immortal spirit.
That the lower animals do possess generosity in the sense of Liberality
will now be proved from circumstances that have occurred within my
own observation. My first proof is a very interesting one, and is
drawn from the life of a dog that was the companion of my school-boy
days. Sport was the name of the animal. He was not a greedy, selfish
creature, but a generous, noble fellow. Many an act of self-sacrifice
had he been known to perform, and he was never happier than when he
was doing some good to his fellows. It was not unlike him, when he
would meet a poor, strange and hungry animal of his own kind by the
roadway, to bring him to his master’s house, and at the meal-hour
divide with the unfortunate his noon-day allowance. Between him and
a certain cat, called Blackey, which was also a member of the same
household, there existed a very strong friendship. Any injury done the
cat was most summarily resented by Sport. He would share his meals
with her, and never seemed satisfied unless she would consent to take
the choicest bits. But the generosity was not all on his side, for the
cat certainly rivalled him in the exercise of this noble trait, which
all acknowledge to be one of the noblest characteristics of the human
mind. When Blackey was sick, and unable to be around, much of the time
of the dog would be spent in her presence. He would caress her with
his paw, smooth her silken, jet-black fur with his tongue, and seek by
every means in his power to raise her drooping spirits and alleviate
her miseries. No animal, not even man himself, could show more real
sympathy for a fellow in distress than Sport did for Blackey.
No bird, it would seem, could be expected to manifest so little of
generosity as the sparrow. As a rule, sparrows are remarkable for
their ability to take care of themselves. Theirs is a nature which
is based upon self. They are an avaricious species, and little they
reck for their neighbors. As the eagle is known to treat the osprey,
and the skua-gull its weaker brethren, so the sparrow has been known
to act towards its neighbors. But exceptions exist to every rule, and
we are pleased to record an honorable one in the case of this most
detested species. Close by a maple-tree, which a pair of sparrows had
appropriated and made the support for their home, dwelt a sturdy robin
with his mate. Their home, a mud-lined domicile, was placed in the
crotch of a small tree. Three children appeared in process of time to
bless the happy couple. Everything went along smoothly and pleasantly
with the robins, the sparrows being too much engrossed with their
own affairs to think of giving them any trouble. But a tragedy soon
happened which, sad to relate, foreboded evil and consequent death to
the nest-full of young robins. Father and mother had, while searching
for food for the little ones, been cruelly killed by a conscienceless
sportsman. But the fledglings, which seemed doomed to die the death of
starvation, were spared by some good genius who put it into the heart
of the sparrows to pass that way, and thus was their sad and pitiable
condition brought to the light of day. Their heart-rending appeals for
food, combined with their orphaned situation, struck a sympathetic
chord in the breast of the sparrows, and day after day these birds,
whose chief concern naturally seems for self, might be seen acting the
part of the good Samaritan towards these unfortunate of God’s children.
But let us now pass to that form of generosity which has been called
Magnanimity. Few qualities in human nature are more noble than the
capability of foregoing revenge when the offender is powerless to
resist. This unwillingness to resent an injury, even though the
power to do so is present in the individual, is what is implied by
magnanimity. When we find those beings whom we designate brutes rising
to a moral grandeur which few men can attain, disdaining to avail
themselves of the opportunity of vengeance, and even rewarding evil
with good, it does seem an utter absurdity to affirm that they are
not acting under the inspiration of Him who gave us the celestial
maxim, “Love your enemies.” By their actions they show themselves
worthy of everlasting life, and what they deserve they will assuredly
receive at the hands of Him who is Justice and Truth. Consciously,
or unconsciously, the feeling of magnanimity is acknowledged among
mankind. Even in the lowest stratum of society it is recognized. As
with man, so with the lower animals; and there are many instances on
record where the strong have disdained, no matter what the offence had
been, to make reprisals upon the weak.
Bus and Jack are two dogs whose acquaintance I made three years ago.
The one is a beagle, and the other a pug. No one that has seen these
animals in their frolics and plays, would ever suspect that any
differences could arise between them. But when such disagreements do
occur, and there is hardly a day that does not witness a dozen or more,
it is always Bus that is the instigator. The most trifling act upon
the part of Jack will be made the cause of offence, and an excuse for
the precipitation of a quarrel. In a rage, Bus will fly into the face
of Jack, but the latter will coolly shake him off and walk leisurely
away. No provocation will induce him to resent an insult or an injury,
especially where Pug or a dog smaller than himself is concerned. It is
not that he is afraid of Pug, for, when once aroused in the presence
of equal or even superior strength, he becomes a terror. He is too
magnanimous to avenge a wrong done him by one less powerful than
himself. The look which he would give Pug, after one of these attacks
had been made, was one of pure contempt, and said, as plainly as words
could have said, “Your assaults are mere child’s play, and are unworthy
of recognition by one who is so much your superior in feats of valor.”
That Pug felt the meaning and force of the look was apparent, for he
would always slink away abashed to some corner, where he would remain
for an hour or two without showing himself. Over and over again has
Jack allowed little dogs to bite him without troubling himself to
retaliate; but if a big dog ventured upon an insult, that dog had to
run or pay the penalty for his temerity. No dog could give a more
disdainful look than Jack, and that look always gave him an easy and
uninterrupted passage wherever he chose to go.
Other anecdotes of a similar nature might be given to show that
animals can act magnanimously towards each other. That they are as
capable of displaying the magnanimity of their nature towards men
whom they hated has frequently been observed. The manager of a mill
in Fifeshire, Scotland, was, according to Rev. J. G. Wood, very much
disliked by the watch-dog, probably from some harsh treatment which the
animal had received from his hands. One very dark night the manager
had strayed from his path and fell over the dog. Seeing the mistake
he had made, and finding that he could not recover himself, he gave
himself up as lost, for the dog was a very powerful animal. But the
dog was magnanimous enough to spare a helpless enemy, and to lay aside
old grievances. Instead of seizing the prostrate man by the throat,
as a brute would be expected to do, the dog only licked his face and
exhibited his sympathy. Ever afterward the man and the dog were fast
friends.