Chapter X (1)

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.