among the birds appears to have attained a far higher level than it has
won in any other creatures. There can be little doubt that the
exquisitely beautiful plumage, the unparalleled shapeliness of form and
grace of carriage, as well as the melodies which are uttered by so many
species, all owe their development to a process of sexual selection
which has led the discerning females to prefer the more ornamental of
the males who sought them as partners. If any one will examine the
exquisite shapes and gradations of color which are exhibited in the tail
of the peacock, or of the lyre-bird, or even the coloration of the
game-cock, he may perhaps imagine how prodigious must be the
development of the aesthetic sense in these species, in order that it may
take account of every little betterment which leads towards more perfect
beauty. As it will take the generations of aesthetes many generations
before they are able to "live up to" the level of their culture which is
attained by the peacock's tail, it is not unreasonable for us to hold
that in the appreciation of simple beauty in form and in color, the
birds are far ahead of ourselves. It must not be supposed that our
aesthetic culture is to be reckoned below that of birds, though in our
case the work embodies the delineation of ideas, while in the birds it
is a matter of pure ornament. Nevertheless, taking the evidence which
shows the way in which these creatures appreciate beauty in the three
realms of form, color, and sound, it seems to me clear that while their
intellectual life is low, their purely emotional experiences are
probably more vivid than those of ordinary men.
As the joy of life is, in the main, even in ourselves the result of
emotional experiences, we may fairly reckon, even on _a priori_ ground,
that the birds win a measure of happiness, though it be that of an
unconscious kind, which is granted to no other living beings.
Psychologically described, they might well be termed the group built
for joy. Their bodies are, on the whole, the best constructed of all
animals, except the insects. They suffer little from disease. We all
see that their intercourse with each other is freer and merrier than
that of other creatures. The wide range of their notes shows that in
most forms they appreciate every little difference in the
pleasure-giving changes of the day or the weather. They rejoice in the
coming of each morning; they are sorrowful with the advent of each
evening. They echo the distress of their kind in a readier way than
any other forms. He is indeed a poor naturalist who overlooks this
trait; for however deeply he may have delved, he has not won the jewel
unless he appreciates this element of an unending joy which the
bird-life continually offers him. From that life we may well believe
that man is hereafter to derive some great and fruitful lessons.
USEFUL INSECTS
Relations of Man to Insect World.--But Few Species Useful to
Man.--Little Trace of Domestication.--Honey-bees: their Origin;
Reasons for no Selective Work; Habits of the Species.--Silkworms:
Singular Importance to Man; Intelligence of Species.--Cochineal
Insect.--Spanish Flies.--Future of Man relative to Useful Insects.
Although the relations of man to the insect world are prevailingly those
of hostility, there are a few of these multitudinous creatures which
have been more or less completely adopted into his great society.
Although not more than half a dozen out of the million or more species
in this subkingdom have thus been brought to the uses of civilization,
the forms are interesting not only for what they give, but for the
promise of further contributions when this great problem of winning help
from the insect world receives adequate consideration.
As a whole, the insects are not well fitted to serve the needs of man.
Owing to certain peculiarities in their organic laws they, fortunately
for ourselves, are very limited in size. Although some of them afford
savory food and are occasionally eaten by savages, and even by civilized
folk when pressed by hunger owing to the famines which the invasions of
these animals occasionally produce, they can never be of any value as
sources of provisions, except through the stores which they accumulate
in the manner of the bees. All that we have won, or are likely to win,
from this realm is from the filaments which the creatures spin, the wax
or honey which they accumulate, the coloring or other matters which
their bodies afford, or the help which they may give us in our struggle
with invading species of their class.
Probably the first insect to be brought into friendly relations with man
was the honey-bee. This creature, like the most of our domesticated
animals, is a native of the great continent of the Old World, though it
has now been conveyed to all the flowery lands of the world where the
season is long enough for it to win its harvest. In its wild as well as
in its tame state the honey-bee dwells in one of the most perfect and
highly elaborated of insect societies. It is a member of the group of
membranous-winged insects known to naturalists as _Hymenoptera_, an
order which includes all the elaborate societies of the class except the
colonies of white ants. It is characteristic of all these colonial
insects that, from the experience of ages, they have learned the great
principles of the division of labor and of profit sharing towards which
mankind are now clumsily stumbling; the great work which their societies
are able to do is accomplished by a complete specialization of function
and a perfect share in the commonwealth. So far has this elaboration
gone, that in the bees the work of reproducing the kind is allotted to
forms which do no labor; all the work of the hive being effected by
individuals which are sterile, and whose sole function it is to toil
unendingly for the profit of the great household.
While the greater part of the kindred of the bees either construct the
nests for their young in the manner of our wasps or hornets, building
them entirely in the open air, or excavate underground chambers in the
fashion of our bumble-bees, our domesticated form at some time in the
remote past adopted the plan of choosing for its dwelling-place some
chamber in the rocks, or cavity in a hollow tree which could be shaped
to the needs of a habitation. Owing to the size of these cavities, they
were enabled to form societies composed of many thousands of
individuals; while the species which adopted nests, in other conditions,
were much more limited as regards their numbers. Thus the bumble-bee,
which abides underground, dwells in very small communities, probably for
the reason that the conditions of the soil it inhabits make it difficult
to excavate and maintain large rooms. It is this habit of resorting to
hollow spaces, as well as the instinct to store up honey in wax cases,
which has made the common bee valuable to man.
[Illustration: Feeding Silkworms with Mulberry Leaves in Japan]
At best the opportunities which the wilderness affords, in the way of
fit dwelling-places for the swarm which goes forth from a hive, are
much less than can readily be provided by art. In almost all cases the
wild bees have to expend a great deal of labor in searching for a fit
residence; and after such is found it requires a great deal of toil and
expenditure of the costly wax in order to shape the cavity so that it
may comfortably accommodate the multitude, and be reasonably safe from
the attacks of other insects. Thus it has come about that the bee has,
in a way, welcomed the interference of man with his ancestral
conditions; and, though the species exists in the wildernesses of its
native land, the domesticated varieties have so far taken up with man
that in other countries they do not wander far from the limits of
civilization. Now and then an uncared-for swarm which cannot find
accommodations about the parent hive will betake itself to the
wilderness; though it generally continues to seek sustenance from
the abundant flowers of the tilled fields where it finds species, such
as clover and buckwheat, from which it has been long accustomed to win
the harvest of pollen and honey.
In North America the honey-bees, which were brought by the early
settlers, and which had been kept on the frontier by the pioneers of our
civilization, have always extended, in wild swarms, a little distance
into the wilderness. But, at most, they appear to have wandered only for
a few miles beyond the homestead, going no further away than would
permit their use of the cultivated plants. The aborigines early learned
to regard the insect as the _avant courier_ of European men. When they
came upon an individual of the species they always knew that some white
man's dwelling stood nearby. Those who are familiar with the solitudes
of our Appalachian forests must often have remarked, in the stillness of
a summer day, the hum of a swarm from some forest or domestic hive in
its search for a dwelling-place. Those who have followed up the
movements of these migrating colonies have had a chance to perceive how
long is the search before they find a fit abiding place. Doubtless by
far the greater part of these searchers for a home fail of their quest,
and the wandering swarms perish without finding a suitable shelter.
In certain kinds of woods, as, for instance, those occupied by pine
trees or other species which do not develop spacious hollows in their
trunks, and where there are no crannied rocks--all the swarms which seek
habitations there are foredoomed to destruction. If by chance the
colonies wander too far, they generally find the wilderness so ill
provided with plants which may furnish them with the sources of wax,
honey, or other necessaries, that they cannot maintain their life. Thus
it is that the bee, though domiciled with us rather than domesticated,
has become united in its fortunes with civilization. In this position
they have shown a remarkable adaptation to extremely varied conditions.
They can withstand any climate which permits the development of the
vegetation to which they need have access, provided the growing season
continues long enough to accumulate their store. In the tropical lands
they harvest so little honey that they are not profitable to man, and in
the high north they need all their summer's accumulation to maintain
them through the long winter. Thus, though they may range almost as far
as man through the gamut of climates, they are profitable to their
masters only in the middle latitudes. They commonly do not do well close
to the sea, and cannot be kept on inconsiderable islands for the reason
that they are, in their wanderings, likely to be lost in the waters.
The bee, like the other social insects, evinces a wide range of
instincts which are intimately related to the economy of the hive; but
these motives appear to be of an unchangeable character. They show no
tendency to undergo the modifications which we observe to take place in
our birds and mammals when they are brought under the influence of man.
The only case in which they show any distinct effect from their contact
with man is found in their evident recognition of those who care for
them. They soon learn that their master is not to be feared, and,
therefore, need not be resisted; but, beyond this dumb acceptance of a
situation, they exhibit no trace of sympathetic recognition of our
kind. It is clear that their mental endowments, though considerable,
are very much more remote from our own than are those of the
vertebrated animals with which we have formed a friendly association.
Moreover, the type of life of the creatures in a way excludes them from
any kind of share in human society. Each of them is, from its birth to
its death, entirely devoted to the interests of its little
commonwealth. Every impulse of their being relates to the economy of
their hive. While we know little about instinct, we know enough of its
manifestations to state that the real unit of this species is not the
individual insect, but the colony to which it belongs. The separate
form is hardly more than a bit of machinery so arranged that it may
operate at a distance from the engine of which it forms a part. On this
account it appears to be impossible for us ever to attain to any kind
of sympathetic relations with these creatures.
Even more important than the bees are those insects which, in their
immature state, yield us silk. The so-called silkworms, like the bees,
originated in Asia, and have long been in the care of man. Beginning
their experiments in spinning with the wool of animals and the various
accessible vegetable fibres, men have ever been seeking materials which
could serve them in the weaver's art. At one time or another they have
tried an exceeding variety of materials; in modern days more than a
score of insects have been experimented with in the endeavor to obtain
fibres which could be turned to use. So far, however, the _Bombyx
mori_--the form which, as its specific name indicates, feeds upon the
leaves of the mulberry tree--is the only one which proves really
serviceable. The advantages of this species are found in a peculiar
assemblage of qualities, each of which is necessary to make it fit for
the ends it attains at the hand of man.
The mulberry silkworm can readily be bred in confinement. The eggs are
easily gathered and preserved, and are so readily kept that they may be
sent the world about. At a given temperature they with infrequent
failures hatch; and if sufficiently fed with the fresh leaves of the
mulberry, will in a short time attain to as perfect a development as
though they grew, not in close rooms, but in the open conditions of the
trees. When of adult size, the grubs proceed to spin themselves in,
forming a thick cocoon composed of threads of a material which, though
as soft as paste when emitted from the body, hardens so as to form a
strong and even thread. If the insect be allowed to remain for a
sufficient time in the cradle which it has spun for its second birth,
the body within the chrysalis case will proceed in a manner to
dissolve; and in the milky fluid thus produced, where only faint traces
of its former state remain, the beautiful image or perfect form will
arise. In the economic use of the creature, however, except as far as a
supply of eggs may be desired, it is necessary to prevent the
completion of its development; for in escaping from the chrysalis case,
the butterfly cuts many of the delicate threads, so that the silk is
made unserviceable. It is necessary to wind it off before the insect
escapes. In this part of the work we notice the most perfect adaptation
of the creature to the needs of man. While the silk threads from the
cocoons of other species which might prove of value cannot be easily
reeled off, those of the silkworm, when placed in hot water, readily
separate, and can be gathered in a condition for spinning. Thus, while
some success has been attained by carding the cocoons of other species,
thereby making a fibre which has a certain utility, the silkworm alone
yields material fitted for delicate fabrics.
[Illustration: The Farmer's Apiary]
At the present time in Europe, Asia, and America there are probably not
far from ten million people who depend in large measure upon the
product of the silkworm for their livelihood. Although the product of
their industry and that of the insects combined is not nearly as
indispensable to man as those which are won from the hair of animals or
the fibres of plants--for silk is a luxury rather than a necessity--the
value of the work done by these humble creatures is greater than that
effected by the largest of our domesticated animals, the elephant. If
the philanthropic economist were forced to choose which of these
creatures should pass from the earth, he would have to accept the loss
of the greater and far nobler animal.
So far as regards their intelligence, the silkworms are much below the
level of the bees. Though they dwell in an aggregate way they have
scarcely a semblance of social order, and are without the wide range of
peculiar instincts which we invariably find among the commonwealth
animals. The order of _Lepidoptera_, in which these creatures belong,
though the most beautiful, appears to be from an intellectual point of
view the least advanced of our insects. Their instincts are all on a low
plane; they have no kind of mutual labor, and however much advance we
may make by selection in developing their bodies, there is no reason to
expect that we shall affect their intelligences.
The cochineal insect, a species which has the habit of feeding upon
the cactus, is used for a dye stuff, for which service the brightly
colored body is appropriated. Although the creature is deliberately
planted where it is to feed, and thus is in a way submitted to
culture, it cannot fairly be said to have been entered in the
domesticated circle of man. In a similar way the so-called Spanish
fly--which really belongs among the beetles--whose ground-up bodies
are used for producing blisters, is merely appropriated to our use
without any process of subjugation. The fact remains that, so far as
our dealings with the insect world have gone, we have really won but
two of the million or more of forms to captivity; and our relations
with these have nothing of the humanized nature which marks our
intercourse with truly domesticated creatures.
Small as are the lessons which we may read from our experience with the
honey-bee and the silkworm, they appear clearly to indicate that, while
we may expect to do little with the intelligences of insects, we may
fairly reckon on a great field for accomplishment in the way of changes
in their bodily constitution. In the case of the bees the facts show us
that in particular conditions of climate or other surroundings a certain
amount of variation takes place, and by proper selection either of
queens or swarms it may be possible considerably to extend the value of
these animals. The task is beset with difficulties for the reason that,
while in ordinary selective breeding we deal with individuals, we have,
as before remarked, in this species to regard the hive or colony as the
unit and to make our selection with reference to the qualities of that
colony as a whole. Nevertheless, with the constant advances in the skill
of our economic selectionists, there is reason to expect that our bees
may be progressively improved. On the other hand, there is the chance
that the progress of chemical discovery may enable us at any time to
manufacture honey in the artificial way and of a quality
indistinguishable from that produced by domesticated bees; in which case
these captives, at best troublesome, though most interesting, will
probably disappear from the human association.
With the silkworms, variations can be more readily brought about; for,
as is the case with other animals, the individuals can be paired. The
efforts at selection already made show that valuable characters can be
thus accumulated, though not with the success which attends the
efforts of a like nature made in the case of our domesticated mammals
and birds. In common with other animals--indeed, we may say, with all
organic life--the silkworms vary perceptibly in different parts of the
world to which they may be taken. Thus, when reared in California it
is said that this insect develops more strength than it exhibits in
Europe; and the eggs which it lays there produce stronger insects,
which in turn yield larger cocoons than the individuals born in Italy
or France. With such a basis for the selective art as the variations
of this insect afford, there seems no reason why it should not afford
a good field for the work of the breeder's art.
THE RIGHTS OF ANIMALS
Recent Understanding as to the Rights of Animals; Nature of these
Rights; their Origin in Sympathy.--Early State of Sympathetic
Emotions.--Place of Statutes concerning Animal Rights.--Present
and Future of Animal Rights.--Question of Vivisection.--Rights of
Domesticated Animals to Proper Care; to Enjoyment.--Ends of the
Breeder's Art.--Moral Position of the Hunter.--Probable Development
of the Protecting Motive as applied to Animals.
It is well to note the fact that, in considering the rights of the
creatures below the level of man, we are dealing with a question which
does not seem to have entered into the minds of the ancients. Such old
phrases as "the merciful man is merciful to his beast" indicate that
cruelty to the domesticated creatures was, in a way, reprobated by the
ancients; but not until well on in the present century do we find any
indication that reason had come to the help of pity in an effort to
frame rules having the weight of law and the support of sanctions,
either those of public opinion or the more direct penalties of the
courts, to limit the conduct of men towards the lower animals. The great
tide of mercy and justice which marks our modern civilization had first
to break down the grievous and strongly founded evils of human slavery.
Having effected that great work, the sympathetic motives are moving on
to a similar conflict with the moral ills which arise from an improper
treatment of those slaves of a lower estate, the domesticated animals.
It is impossible to see our position in relation to the matter of the
rights of animals without looking somewhat carefully into the
intellectual and moral steps which have at length brought us to the
consideration of the question. First let us note that while the rights
of their fellows have been impressed on men by the precepts of
religions, particularly by those of Christianity, the rules of conduct
which guide us in our contacts with beings below the level of our
species have never been determined by the canons of our faith, for the
reason that they are the product of very modern conditions; they are the
thought of our own time. New as are these tenets, however, they may
fairly be received as but the last though not the final expression of
that most interesting of all natural series--the succession in the
development of sympathy which, step by step in the progress of organic
life, has led from the original dull insensitiveness of the lower
animals upwards to the outgoing spirit of man.
In the lower stages of animal life we find no traces of appreciation of
the neighbor except those which necessarily relate to the selection and
capture of food and perhaps to the selection of mates. Further on in the
process of development we note the love of offspring, and, as a
consequence of that love, the growth of the family sense, which rarely
is maintained beyond the time when the young can shift for themselves.
Among the species of the higher groups--certain insects, the greater
part of the birds, and the nobler of the mammals--the instinct of the
family is extended until it includes the tribe, or perhaps goes yet
further and leads to a certain kindliness to all the individuals of the
race. Thus it comes about that the individuals of many species below the
level of man will respond to the cries of their kindred though they may
never have had a chance to know them. There is in these cases a
sympathetic bond that binds the kind together. It is with this
condition of the sympathies that the task of their further evolution is
transferred to man. Inheriting as he does the essential motives of the
lower beings through which he came to his present estate, man proceeds
to deal with them in a manner which is determined by the peculiar
rational power which belongs to him. In place of the blind following of
the emotions which characterizes the sympathetic movements of the lower
animals, we find that even among the most primitive and lowly savages
rules of conduct are instituted which serve to direct the ways in which
the individual shall act with regard to his fellows. In almost all cases
these rules are much intermingled with the religion of the people;
usually they rest upon a body of advancing public opinion which
amplifies the motives and, in turn, is enlarged by their growth. As time
goes on and the folk attain the stage of records, these rules of conduct
become definite laws which at first are based on religious ordinances;
but in time they are, in the latest stage of social growth, brought into
the state of ordinary statutes which, while they may have some religious
sanction, are supported by the machinery of the secular government.