Chapter XII: Part 12

Were our eyes sharp enough we might discern a certain strangeness in the nocturnal expression of every plant and tree. But in no tree is this expression so remarkably emphasized as in the locust, a member of the same leguminous order of plants with the clover. These trees are especially noted for the pronounced irritability of their leaves, and odd nocturnal capers, whose seeming vital consciousness has induced some authorities to place them at the extremity of their system, in contact with the limits of the animal kingdom. How strange the pigweeds look at night! Their upper leaves, which during the day had extended wide on their long stems, now incline upward against the stalk, enclosing the tops of the younger branches, but still older plants are seen with leaves extended much as at mid-day, but nearly all turned edgewise by a twist in the stem. Circling in a close curve, the creeping-mallow blossom now ignores her proud array of cheeses, and the oxalis flower has forgotten her shooting pods to keep the vigil, closed and nodding upon her stem, while her leaves masquerade in one of the oddest disguises, their three heart-shaped leaflets being seen reflexed and adjusting themselves back to back around the stem with many contortions. Whatever the function of this strange nocturnal movement may be, and it is still a matter of dispute with botanists, one thing we are certain about, that is, its essential condition to the life of the plant, careful experiment having demonstrated, according to one authority, that “if the leaves are prevented from so regulating their surface, they lose their color and die in a few days”--a fact which Darwin has just as conclusively shown to be the case with other plants.

Flowers that bloom by night could hardly be suspected of that vanity which Rhodora has been made to confess by Emerson in his beautiful lines to this flower. Our evening primrose does not bloom in the dark hours for mere sentiment or moonshine, but from a nature which lies, figuratively speaking, much nearer her heart. “Often when the nights are very dark,” says an old writer, “her petals emit a mild phosphorescent light, and look as if illuminated for a holiday. And he who does not fear to be out in her mild and lovely haunt may see a variety of nocturnal ephemeræ hovering around the lighted petals, or sipping at the flowery fountains, while others rest among the branches or hurry up the stems as if fearing to be too late.” From the first moment of her wooing welcome it would seem that our evening primrose listens for murmuring wings, and awaits that supreme fulfilment with joyous expectancy, for it will invariably be found that these blossoms, which open in the twilight, have adapted themselves to crepuscular moths and other nocturnal insects, a fact which finds a striking illustration in the instances of very long tubular-shaped night-blooming flowers, like the honeysuckle and divers orchids, whose nectar is beyond the ability of any insect but a night-flying hawk-moth to attain. True, it is, that in other less deep nocturnal flowers the sweets could be reached by butterflies or bees if the blossoms were left open. But the night-murmurers receive the first invitation, which, if accepted, leaves but a wilted, half-hearted blossom to welcome the sipper of the sunshine. This beautiful expectancy, somehow or other, determines the limit of its bloom. However, in the event of rain or other causes preventive of insect visits, the evening primrose will remain open for the attention of the butterflies during the ensuing day, when otherwise it would have perceptibly drooped, and extended to them but a listless welcome. Most strikingly may this fact be seen illustrated in a spray of mountain-laurel. For nearly a week have I observed in my house these blossoms lingering in patient expectancy, when the flowers on the parent shrub in the woods had fallen several days before, their mission in life having been fulfilled. In the house specimens the radiating stamens, which are naturally dependent upon insects for their release, and the consequent discharge of the pollen, remained in their pockets on the side of the blossom-cup, a support, as it seemed, for the bracing up of the corolla upon its receptacle. But when the operation of releasing the stamens was artificially consummated, the flower-cup soon dropped off or withered upon the peduncle.

Not mainly has the writer, in attributing a phosphorescent quality to the evening primrose, followed the license of fancy, for, if scientists are to be believed, the regular luminous glow of this and other nocturnal flowers has long attracted the attention of the curious, and positive qualities of inherent light have been accorded in many instances. It is true, as one authority asserts, that “the evening primrose is perfectly visible in the darkest night,” from which fact phosphorescent properties have been ascribed to it. Many well-authenticated cases are on record of luminous, electrical, lightning-like phosphorescence playing about flowers, the daughter of Linnæus having been the first one to note such an interesting phenomenon. Similar flashes or corona have been observed in nasturtiums, double marigold, geraniums, red poppy, tuberose, sunflower and evening primrose. According to various authorities, and it would be a rash and presumptuous commentator who would dare to challenge such an array of competence, many beautiful surprises await the traveller among the dewy shadows. Whoever has made such a journey will not only return with the consciousness that he has doubled his possessions, but that he has also explored a new world--a realm which he can look in the face on the morrow with an exchange of recognition that was truly impossible yesterday.

Whether or not all the facts that have been adduced show that plants are conscious organisms in the particulars for which it is claimed, it matters not, for enough have been set forth to demonstrate beyond the shadow of a doubt the position that they are endowed with a consciousness, no matter how infinitesimally small a part it plays in nature. Everyday observation of the botanist teaches the fact. Sensation, which is consciousness, has preceded in time and in history the evolution of the greater part of plants and animals, unicellular and multicellular, and, therefore, if kinetogenesis, or the doctrine of the effects of molar motion, be true, “consciousness,” as Cope alleges, “has been essential to a rising scale of organic evolution.” Animals which do not perform simple acts of self-preservation must necessarily, sooner or later, perish. Impossible it is to understand how the lowest forms of life, wholly dependent as they are on physical conditions of many kinds, should to-day exist if they were not possessed of some degree of consciousness under stimuli at least. We have but to picture to ourselves the condition of a vertebrate, without general or special sensation, would we obtain a clear perception of the essentiality of consciousness to its existence. If now use, as has been maintained, has modified structure, and so, in coöperation with the environment, has directed evolution, we can understand the origin and development of useful organs, and also how, by parasitism, or some other mode of gaining a livelihood without exertion, the adoption of new and skilful movements would be unnecessary, and consciousness itself seldom aroused, for continual repose would be followed by sub-consciousness, and later by unconsciousness. Such appears to be largely the history of degeneracy everywhere, and such is, perhaps, in a great measure the history of the entire vegetable kingdom, for plants, from their ability to manufacture protoplasm from inorganic substances, do not bodily move about in quest of food as animals generally do, and therefore require no conscious conditions, it would seem, to guide their movements. They become fixed, and their entire organization, except in specialized instances, becomes monopolized by the functions of nutrition and reproduction. Their movements are mostly rhythmic or rotary, but that they exhibit the quality of impromptu design more frequently than scientists are willing to allow must be admitted, or facts and the conclusions which naturally flow therefrom constitute no criteria of judging. Too much stress, I fear, is placed in these days upon the action of certain supposed forces that are resident in the plant’s or animal’s environment in accounting for its behavior, to the utter exclusion of any energy that may be acting from within the organism itself. “That consciousness as well as life preceded organism, and has been the _primum mobile_ in the creation of organic structure,” as Cope assumes, there is no doubt; but that it early abandoned the vegetable world, and also that all the energies of vegetable protoplasm soon became automatic, causing plants in general to become sessile, and therefore parasitic and in one sense degenerate, I cannot wholly accept. That insects have, in the matter of evolution of plant-types, exerted considerable influence on the conditions of almost all of their organs, the forms of the organs of fructification and especially of the flowers, through certain stimuli and strains to which they have become subjected by reason of these insects and their occupancy of parts as dwelling-places, there can be no doubt; and it is probable also, as has been maintained, that we owe to insects, directly or indirectly, not only the forms, but also the colors of the flowers, and their odors and peculiar markings as well. And thus while degeneracy, as observed in the abortion of ovules, carpels and perianth, may be seen everywhere, which the influences that have acted upon them have induced, yet it is the height of presumption to assert that consciousness has entirely abandoned the members of the vegetable kingdom, and that they are reduced to the condition of mere automata. It is true, as has been claimed, that the permanent and the successful forms of organization have ever been those in which motion and sensibility have been preserved, as well as the most highly developed; and just as true it is that plants, even though fixed to the soil and unable to effect a change of environment in consequence, are not so incapable of conscious actions as not to be able to meet any changes, and these changes do very often occur, that climate, new conditions of soil, helps or hindrances to growth and wear, may bring about. That they must adapt themselves to such changes, or perish in their struggle to exist, none can question. It is not enough to say that natural selection affords an explanation of every phenomenon that they may exhibit. There is an energy within the plant, think and write as we will, and it is this that comes to its aid and directs the movement that will be productive of the most good.

Concluding, then, let me aver that no plant can exist or fulfil its allotted part in the drama of life without the possession of some form or degree of consciousness. If it be true that life and consciousness preceded organization, and the statement can hardly be disputed, and have been the _primum mobile_ in the creation of organic structure, what reason, seeing that life necessarily persists in vegetable organism, can be given for their dissociation in existing forms of plants, as seems to be the tendency of modern scientific thought? That plants once possessed consciousness, there can be no difference of opinion. Well, then, what has become of this consciousness? It could not have been destroyed, for energy or force, and consciousness certainly must be placed under this category, can never be destroyed. I repeat the question. What has become of it? Either it exists in the plant in a dormant condition, awaiting opportunities to call it into existence, or it has returned to the great Source of all consciousness, whence each individual organism, whether of plant or animal, obtained its _quantum_. It still exists, but how or under what conditions, I cannot affirm, and is to plants what mind is to man and animals, controlling their actions when such are for their well-being and good. If mind persists in a future state, then consciousness, which may be considered as mind in plants, must also persist, for it is not at all likely that the Source of all consciousness, which we worship as God, the Creator of all things, could be unmindful of the least of His children.

MIND IN ANIMALS.

That the lower animals are in possession of all the characters of the mind or soul that are either the inherited or acquired properties of man, some evidence will now be adduced. Foremost among these qualities is Reason. Much vagueness of idea exists as to what constitutes reason, the general tendency being to confound it with instinct, and to wonder where the one ends and the other begins. Hundreds of anecdotes, too familiar for mention, might be instanced, which have been described as wonderful examples of instinct, but which, upon careful examination, have been shown to be undoubted proofs of reason. That disposition of mind by which, independent of all instruction or experience, animals are unerringly directed to do spontaneously whatever is necessary for the preservation of the individual or the continuation of the species, is instinct. It is instinct that teaches the newly-born child to breathe, or to seek its mother’s breast and obtain its nourishment by suction. Instinct teaches the bird how to make its nest after the manner of its kind, but it is reason that leads it to construct a fabric radically different from the typical form. Taking the case of insects, there can be no doubt that it is instinct that teaches the caterpillar to make its cocoon, to remain there until it has developed into an imago, and then to force its entrance into the world. Ducks, though hatched under a hen, instinctively make their way to the water, while chickens, though hatched under a duck, instinctively keep away from it. Man, as well as the lower animals, has his instincts, but very few of them are apparent, for he is able to bring the most of them under subjection by the power of his reason. Some, however, remain and assert themselves throughout the entire period of his life.

There is the widest possible difference between reason and instinct, the former being an exercise of the will, while the latter is independent thereof. Instinct comes in at birth, but reason is an after-growth of the mind. No exercise of thought does instinct require, but when the mind reasons some conclusion is deduced from the premises which it has assumed. All animals, in common with ourselves, possess the power of reasoning, although in a less degree. It is by the superiority of our reason over theirs that we maintain our supremacy. False premises often lead to wrong deductions, but their process is still one of pure reason. With them, as well as with ourselves, reason, especially in the case of domestic animals, often conquers instinct, and so by contact with a higher order of reason, that of man’s, their own is more fully developed. They, in a sense, become civilized. Let a hungry dog and a cat be left in a room where food is unguarded, and their instincts will urge them to jump upon the table and help themselves. But if they have been trained, their reason restrains their instinct, and, no matter how hungry they may be, they will not touch the food until it is given to them. Some few years ago a matronly lady and her dog, a beautiful pug, were accustomed to take their dinner at a saloon which the writer daily visited. The dog was given a chair on the side opposite his mistress. He was a well-mannered animal, and never during his many visits to the place did he ever violate the laws of good manners. Patiently he would wait until the food was put upon his plate, and not even then would he take it, for he had been taught that it was something that should not be hastily seized and eaten. The idea that food cost money was distinctly impressed upon his mind, and this the owner did by thrice repeating, “This cost money.” It was evident that the dog understood what was said from the thoughtful look he gave her. In a little while he was given the command to eat, but, like the cultured he was, everything was done orderly and decently. Almost any animal can be thus trained to subject its natural instincts to its reason.

Fishes are not known to possess much reason. There is not an angler, nevertheless, that will not tell you that he has had the powers of his mind taxed to the utmost in his efforts to induce an old and wary trout to take the bait, and even when he has succeeded in hooking him, it has greatly tried his genius for planning to prevent the fish from breaking his line. Natural instinct teaches a fish to fly from man, and even one’s shadow on the water will frighten away the fish and destroy an angler’s hopes of success. Yet we have seen a pond full of gold-fish which were quite tame, and which, when they saw a human being at the side of the pond, would come forward instead of showing alarm. They were so perfectly confiding that they would take a piece of bread or biscuit out of his hand. Here, then, is an example of the instinct, which urges them to flee from man, being overcome by the reason, which tells them to approach him.

Animals of burden may often be seen attending to prescribed work without any supervision. Dray-horses, as is well known, sometimes take pleasure in their work. I knew of a horse of the kind that was as much interested, apparently, his work as his owner. He never had to be told when to move, for all the while the dray was loading he was observant of everything, and, knowing the capacity thereof, was ready when the look from the master told him to proceed. Horses have sometimes shown a knowledge of the amount of work they are supposed to perform in a day. A case has been cited of a horse by Mr. Wood that was capable of doing his work without a driver. He belonged to the owner of an American mine. As soon as his cart was filled with ore, at a given signal he went off to the spot where the ore was to be dumped, waited until the cart was unloaded, and then returned for another load. So many loads had to be carried daily, and, strange to relate, the animal knew when his task was finished as well as any of the men. When the last load for the day was deposited, he could be seen trotting off in the direction of home, where he knew he would receive a kind reception from his mistress.

A Horse That Knew When His Day’s Work Was Done.]

Enough has been said to show that animals have and do exercise powers of reason. That they have the means of transmitting ideas to their fellows is not to be questioned. Language is the means of transmission. Not only are they able to interchange thoughts with each other, but with man also when they are brought into contact with him. They must possess a language of some kind, whereby they can understand each other, can comprehend human language, and make themselves intelligible to man. All these conditions are fulfilled in the lower animals, but there is one distinction between the capability of understanding their own language and that of man, and that is, that they are born with the one and have to learn the other. Newly-hatched chickens, although they have only entered the world an hour or so ago, understand perfectly well their mother. They know what to do when she calls them to find what food she has unearthed, and they know what to do when she warns them of danger. Who has not heard them talk to her? But how different are their tones under various circumstances. The little piping notes of content when all is going on well can never be confounded with the cry of alarm when they have lost their way or are otherwise frightened.

Wasps, as everybody knows who has studied these insects, carry out one of the first principles of military art. They always have the gate of their fortress guarded by a sentinel. Should danger be imminent, the alarm is given by the sentinel, and out rush the inhabitants to wreak vengeance upon the offender. Out of a full-sized nest, consisting of many hundred wasps, it is evident that the individual who is to act as sentinel must be selected, and its task appointed. How the selection is made, no one knows. But that such is done, there can be no question, for the rest of the community acknowledge their sentinel, trust to it for guarding the approaches of the nest, while they busy themselves with the usual task of collecting food for the young and new material for the nest.

Nearly related to wasps are the ants. Some of their performances are truly astonishing. They have armies commanded by officers, who issue orders, insist on obedience, and will not permit, while on the march, any of the privates to stray from the ranks. There are other ants which till the ground, weed it, plant the particular grain on which they feed, cut it when ripe, and store it in their subterranean granaries. Arrant slaveholders are others, who make systematic raids upon neighboring species, carry off their yet unhatched cocoons, and rear them in their own nests to be their servants. Somewhat recent discoveries show that there are ants which bury their dead. Two pairs of bearers are chosen to carry the corpse, one pair relieving the other when tired, while the main body, often several hundred in number, follow behind. So much could be said about ants, so closely do their performances resemble the customs of human civilization, that the subject could never grow uninteresting, but we must, for the present, forbear. All these various performances could not be possible were there not some way by which communication, or interchange of ideas, could be carried on among the individual members of the same community. Sometimes one species of ant is capable of carrying on a conversation, so to speak, with another. Bees, wasps and ants are the best linguists of the insect race, their language being chiefly conducted by means of their antennæ.

Who has not often observed two dogs, members of the same household, holding sweet converse with each other? Pug and Gyp were two animals that belonged to the family where I spent a summer vacation. They thought much of each other when romping together in the yard, or in foraging the neighboring woods and fields for rabbits and ground-hogs. Never would they start out on an expedition for game without having previously laid their plans. It was interesting and amusing to watch them. They would bring their heads into close contiguity, remaining in this position for two or three minutes, when, by mutual consent, they would separate, look each other in the eyes, and then start off in different directions for the scene of their projected enterprise. Times out of number I have observed such behavior and have always discovered that they meant something of the kind. There were no audible utterances, no visible gestures, yet there was an interchange of ideas. Through the medium of the eye were the thoughts conveyed. It was spirit speaking directly to spirit, conveying by a single glance of the eye thoughts which whole volumes would fail to express.

Each species of animal has its own dialect. Yet there is another language, a sort of animal _lingua franca_, which is common to all. A cry of warning, no matter from what bird or animal it emanates, is understood by them all, as is well known to many a sportsman who has lost his only chance of a shot by reason of an impertinent crow, jay or magpie which has espied him, and has given its cry of alarm. There is not a bird of garden or orchard, or a fowl of the barnyard or doorside, that does not understand the peculiar cry of the rooster when a hawk is seen careering overhead, or perched upon the summit of a near-by tree. With one accord they flee to their coverts, and there remain until the danger is past.

No more quarrelsome and pugnacious species of bird exists than the English sparrow. He appropriates every available locality for nesting purposes, and our native species are driven to the necessity of fighting for their rights, or of seeking quarters in the rural districts which these birds do not infect. Thus it is that many a useful robin, bluebird or martin is driven from our midst. Many have witnessed encounters between these birds and the robins. The author once saw a contest between a pair of sparrows and a pair of robins for the possession of a certain tree that grew in his yard. Now the robin, single-handed, is more than a match for a sparrow. In the engagement referred to, the robins were getting the better of the sparrows, which the latter were not slow in perceiving. Instantly the sparrows set up the wild, ear-piercing harangue for which they are peculiarly noted, when more than a score of friends from the immediate vicinity gathered to their assistance. But the war-cry which they sounded not only summoned help to their standard, but it was equally understood by all the other birds of the neighborhood, who flocked to the defence of their brethren against the alien. The battle waged warm and fiercely for some minutes, when the sparrows were forced to seek safety in retreat.

Not only can crows and rooks assemble, hold council and agree to act on the result of their deliberations, but other birds are known to do the same things. Birds are able to communicate their thoughts to each other by means of a language, but it is not likely that in their language, or the language of animals in general, there are any principles of construction such as are possessed by all human languages. But the same effect may be produced by different means, and the reader will see that in the above instance no human language, however perfect its construction, could have served its purpose better than did the inarticulate language of the sparrows. They told their friends that their territory was usurped by an intruder too strong to be ejected by them, and implored their assistance. But while it told them this, it did still more, for it conveyed the report to their numerous foes, who winged their way to the support of their opponents. In fact, whenever animals of any kind form alliances and act simultaneously for one common purpose, it is evident that language of some sort must be employed.

That beasts possess a language, which enables them to communicate their ideas to each other, has been clearly shown. It is just as apparent that they can act upon the ideas so conveyed. We have now to see whether they can convey their ideas to man, and so bridge over the gulf between the higher and the lower beings. Were there no means of communicating ideas between man and animals, domestication, it is true, would be impossible. Every one who has possessed and cared for some favorite animal must have observed that they can do so. Their own language becomes in many instances intelligible to man. Just as a child, that is unable to pronounce words, can express its meaning by intimation, so a dog can do the same by its different modes of barking. There is the bark of joy or welcome, when the animal sees its master, or anticipates a walk with him; the furious bark of anger, if the dog suspects that anyone is likely to injure himself or his master, and the bark of terror when the dog is suddenly frightened at something which it cannot understand. Supposing, now, that its master could not see the dog, but could only hear its bark, would he not know perfectly well the ideas which were passing through the animal’s mind? Most certainly he would. There is a difference between the mew of distress and the ordinary conversation, the purr of pleasure, of a cat. A pet canary always knows how to call its mistress, and when it sees her will give a glad chirrup of recognition quite distinct from its ordinary call. Bees and wasps have quite a different sound in their wings when angry than when in the discharge of their ordinary work. Any one conversant with their ways understands the expression of anger and makes the best of his way off.

All the foregoing are but examples of sound-language. The gesture-language of animals, however, is wonderfully extensive and expressive. A cat, could it say in plain words, “Please open the door for me,” could not convey its ideas more intelligently than it does by going to the door, uttering a plaintive mew to show that it wants help, and then patting the door. Dogs, or, in fact, all animals that are accustomed to live in the house, will act after a similar fashion. There, then, we perceive that the lower animals can form connected ideas, and can convey them to man, so that the same ideas are passing at the same moment through the minds of man and beast, evidencing that they possess the same faculties, though of different extent.

Sentinel Guarding the Entrance to the Palace.]

Some few examples must suffice to show the power of gesture-language in the lower animals. I once owned a dog, a variety of hound, which was as companionable as any animal could possibly be. He was never happy unless he was on the go. So fond was he of travel and sight-seeing, that I gave him the name of Rover. My occupation calling me from home every day of the week, except Saturday and Sunday, but giving me a few hours of each day before the shadows began to settle round, Rover was forced to spend his time during my absence as best he could. He was no ordinary dog. Little he cared for the dogs of the neighborhood. His was a superior nature, and rather than associate with his neighbors when my companionship could not be had, he would perform his journeys alone, sometimes being gone nearly the entire day. But he managed to keep a pretty fair record of the time, for he was always on hand to greet me on my return home. His joy at my coming knew no bounds. He would rub up against my side, caper around me, assuming a hundred different attitudes, leap up into my face, which he would caress with his tongue. I shall never forget the barks of delight, nor the smile, as I would call it, for it verily seemed a smile to me, which lit up his intelligent face. Then he would slowly meander his way to the gate. Reaching it, he would place his right front paw upon the latch, spring it, and, taking hold of the top with his mouth, fling it wide open. He was then a very happy fellow. That he appreciated the favor I was about to show him, there could be no question, as he plainly showed it in his look, gesture and speech. Sometimes it was not convenient for me to take a walk with him, or I was not in the physical or mental condition to do so. It was not necessary for me to tell him in so many words that the pleasure would have to be foregone for the present, for his keen, discerning mind could read it in my looks. I never liked to disappoint him, for the grief which he manifested was piteous in the extreme. He would prostrate himself to the ground, place his head between his front paws, and look the very picture of inconsolable distress. The low, sorrowful moan which he would emit, when the disappointment was the keenest, was so heart-rending, that many a time I would reverse my purpose and say, “Come, Rover, master will not deny so good a creature the pleasure of his company for an hour or so in the woods.” Instantly his whole expression would change, and there would be exhibited a joy as intense as the grief which had depressed him to the earth. Rover was no hypocrite. His sorrow was not assumed, but as real and poignant a sorrow as ever possessed a human breast. I have known him to grieve for hours, and even to refuse the daintiest food when he has been disappointed. Were he dissembling, seeing that it availed him not, he would not be likely to have kept it up so long, and to his sore discomfort and detriment. Examples of animals making their language intelligible to man could be multiplied _ad infinitum_, but we must pass on to say something about their capability of understanding the language of man.

That many of the lower animals understand something of human language is a familiar fact. All the domesticated animals, notably the dog and the horse, can comprehend an order that is given to them, though, perhaps, they may not be able in all instances to understand the precise words which are used. There are many occasions, however, when it is evident that the knowledge of human language does extend to the signification of particular words. Parrots, as is well known, are well acquainted with the meanings of the words which they speak. Examples have been known to the writer of parrots that were able to speak in two languages, and, when addressed, always replied in the language used by their interlocutors, speaking English or Spanish, as the case might be. “Go, bring up the cows,” was an order that was daily given to Lion, a large black dog, with a shaggy head, that belonged to my maternal grandfather, an old-time farmer who lived way back in the fifties. So well did he understand the significance of these words, and the labor, worry and responsibility which they implied, that he did not have to be told a second time, nor have to have their import conveyed to him by sign or by action of the farm lad whose business it was to see that the animals were brought to the barn-yard at milking time. Obedient to orders, he would trot to the pasture-ground, nearly a quarter-mile distant, open the bars between the lane and the field with his mouth, and then start on his business with a full sense of its requirements. His coming was well known to the cattle. While the most of them would take their way in a quiet, orderly manner to the lane, yet there were some unruly ones among them who gave Lion a great deal of trouble, but he always succeeded in overruling their contrary tendencies. When there was a tumult in the hennery, accompanied by loud noises, the command, “Go, see what the trouble is!” was performed to the very letter, and the trouble, if any, was speedily announced by a series of loud, sharp, quick barks, which soon brought some one or more members of the family to the scene of disorder. If nothing unusual was happening, Lion would return to the house in a slow, leisurely way, and by his looks convey, as clearly as man could do it, the utter needlessness of the command.

Not only is the dog capable of understanding many things that are said 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.

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.