Chapter XIV: Part 14

That Friendship, which is another branch of love, exists among animals, is a well-known fact. But it is among the domesticated animals that it most frequently exhibits itself. Horses, as every one knows, which have been accustomed to draw the same carriage are usually sure to be great friends, and if one be exchanged the other becomes quite miserable for want of his companion and seems unable to throw any spirit into his work. Dogs, too, are very apt to strike up friendships with each other. Among animals it is not confined to one species, but is occasionally found to exhibit itself in those which might be supposed to be peculiarly incongruous in their nature. That cows and sheep live, as a rule, on good terms with each other in the same pasture is a familiar experience, though sometimes the former are a little prone to domineer over the latter. But a very strong affection sometimes exists between animals so different, and when once they have accustomed themselves to each other’s society neither can be happy without the other. The goat and the horse frequently become friends, and a peculiarly vicious horse has been known to allow a goat to take undue liberties with him without the least manifestation of resentment. In many places the stable-cat is quite an institution. Its usual place of repose is upon the back of the horse, and the latter has been known to grow very uneasy if left for any length of time without the companionship of his little friend. A very singular instance of friendship occurred at the rural home of a near relative. He had a fine mastiff which had taken a fancy to a brood of young chickens, and which acted as their protector. They were not at all unwilling to accept him in this capacity, as they followed him about just as though he had been their mother. Quite an interesting sight it was to watch the dog and the chickens as they would take their _siesta_. The dog used to lie on his side, and the chickens would nestle all about him, though one chicken in particular would invariably scramble upon the dog’s head, and another just over his eye, but both parties appeared equally satisfied with this remarkable arrangement.

Already have we referred to the intense yearning which is felt by many of the lower animals for human society. This yearning is indeed but the aspiration of the lower spirit developed by contact with the higher in domesticated animals or those which are in perpetual contact with man. This feeling is a matter of no great surprise. But that it should be exhibited in feral animals and birds, and even in insects, is a fact well worth considering, as it furnishes a clew to some of the many problems of life which are as yet unsolved. That power of attraction exercised by the spirit of man upon that of the lower creation is well exemplified in many wild animals, who are known to forsake the society of their own kind for the companionship of the being whom they feel to be higher than themselves.

Perhaps one of the wariest of wild animals is the squirrel. He is horribly afraid of human beings, and if a man, woman or child come to the windward of him, the little animal is sure to scamper off at his fleetest pace, scuttle up the nearest tree, and conceal himself behind some branch. Yet, wild as he may be, he is peculiarly susceptible to the influence of the human spirit, and for the sake of human society will utterly abandon that of his own kind. I once knew a pet gray squirrel by the name of Charley. He had been taken from the nest when very young. His home for awhile was one of those whirl-about cages. Charley did not like his cage, but preferred to be outside in the unrestrained enjoyment of the dictates of his own free will. So it was difficult to keep him behind the bars. When awake he loved to follow his own devices; but when tired he usually slept on a soft cushion on the sofa, or found his way into some bed-room where he would nestle under a pillow. Nothing was more to his satisfaction and pleasure than a share of the bed of his mistress, but he was always a troublesome nest-fellow. Charley had, as must be obvious, perfect freedom. He was allowed to go as he pleased. There was no coercion in his case. Had he wished to escape, there was nothing to prevent, and nothing bound him to his mistress but an “ever-lengthening chain” of love and aspirations which none but a human being could satisfy. The sparrow, one of the most independent and self-reliant of birds, has been known to abandon its kind for the sake of human beings. Wood cites a case of a bird of this species that had been rescued from some boys who had been robbing the nest. The bird was brought home, but was never confined in a cage, but was permitted to fly freely about the house. As there was a cat about the house, she had to be closely watched lest she might do the bird some injury. On Sundays, when the family went to church and no one remained to keep an eye on the cat, the sparrow was turned into the garden, where it flew about until the family’s return. The opening of the dining-room window by its mistress, and the display of her ungloved hands, was the signal for its entry. But if the mistress stood by the window with her gloves on, then the bird showed not the slightest disposition to enter.

Such is the intensity of the love which the lower animals sometimes entertain toward man that they have been known to grieve themselves to death on account of his loss. A dog by the name of Prince, who lived in the family where the writer spent a few weeks of a summer, is a case in point. He had a good master, and one to whom he was strongly attached. The year before the master sickened and died, and Prince felt the loss so keenly that he refused to take any food, and even to notice the surviving members of the family. He was pitiable to behold. Life had lost all attractions to him, and he showed that he was slowly but surely grieving his life away. Some few weeks after the writer’s departure, the poor animal breathed his last, and his spirit, it is to be hoped, went to join that of his master, while his ashes became mingled with the dust of the earth as his master’s had been.

What a wonderful power do some animals have of returning to their beloved master, even though they have been conveyed to a considerable distance. This is especially true of the dog. So many examples of such feats are on record that I refrain from mentioning them, but will give but a single example. Rover, a pet greyhound that belonged to the writer, had become such an annoyance to the neighborhood where he lived, that the master determined to provide him a home in the country some fifty miles away. He was conveyed to his destination in a covered wagon, and after his new master had reached home, the poor animal was placed in a stable for several days, where he was daily visited and fed, and every effort possible made to attach him to the place and family. On the fourth day of his arrival he was given his freedom. With a long, loud wail he saluted the neighborhood, and the next moment was off at full speed across the country, all efforts to stop him being unavailing. In less than a week from his leaving he was at home again, hungry and jaded out with fatigue and travel, but not too tired nor too hungry to express the great joy he felt for the old master. How he ever accomplished the journey, and what vicissitudes and difficulties he encountered on the way, no one will ever know. After this I had not the heart to send him away again, but put up with his capers and tricks as best I could, and when complaints were preferred against him endeavored to excuse them as a parent is prone to do in the case of a spoiled and wayward child. But a day arrived when Rover to me was no more. What had become of him I was never able to discover, but I always blamed a near-by neighbor, a man who had neither love nor charity in his soul, for his sudden disappearance.

That cats are selfish animals, attaching themselves to localities and not to individuals, I do not believe. This idea has, perhaps, some ground of truth, for the nature of a cat is not so easy to understand as that of a dog. But when a cat is not understood, it is very probable that she cares less for the inhabitants of the house than for the house itself. Frequent instances are known by the writer where cats have been in the habit of moving about with their owners, and have been as much unconcerned as dogs would have been. True they have, like women, a curious and prying disposition. I have seen them in new and strange quarters go sniffing about every room of a house, and at last settle down in some cozy, comfortable place, well satisfied with their tour of investigation. Where the house fell short of their expectations, if they have been cats that have received due consideration from their mistresses or masters, they have tried to live down their objections and to learn to be happy and contented with their lot. Only cats that have not been much thought of are inclined to show their disapproval to changes of residence which they deemed unsuitable by refusing to stay with their masters. Blackie, a favorite cat of ours, never seemed to care where her home was, so long as her friends were there to pet, caress and pamper her with choice dainties.

All animals, so far as can be learned, have not only a capacity for the society of man, but an absolute yearning for it. This feeling may be in abeyance, from not having received any development at the hands of man, but it nevertheless exists, and only awaits to be educed by some one capable of appreciating the character of the animal. Tigers, as is well known, are not generally considered the friends of mankind, and yet the Indian fakirs will travel over the country with tame tigers, which they simply lead about with a slight string, and which will permit small children to caress them with their hands without evincing the least disposition to hurt them.

When we survey the examples of love displayed by animals towards human beings, which we have just detailed, and recall the hundreds that we know and have read about, is it possible to believe that such love can perish? We apprehend not. Unselfish love as this, which survives ingratitude and ill-treatment, belongs to the spirit and not to the body, and all beings capable of feeling such love must possess immortal spirits. All may not have an opportunity of manifesting it, but all possess the capacity and would, were the conditions favorable, manifest it openly.

Few animals, as may easily be imagined, manifest Conjugal Love. Most species have no particular mates, but merely meet by chance, and seemingly never trouble themselves about each other again. No real conjugal love, therefore, can exist, and it is rather curious that in such animals a durable friendship is frequently formed between two individuals of the same sex. But when we come to polygamous animals, such as the stag among mammals and the domestic poultry among birds, we meet with a decided advance towards conjugal love, although as in the case of polygamous man, that love must necessarily be of an inferior character. There is seen, at all events, a sense of appropriation on either side. Take the example of the barn-yard fowl, as has already been mentioned in that part of the chapter which deals with jealousy, where it is shown that the proprietor of the harem resents any attempt on the part of another male to infringe on his privileges.

This brings us to the consideration of birds, where the many are mated for the nesting-season, but subsequently do not seem to care more for each other than they do for their broods of children. If one of the pair be killed at the nesting-time the survivor, after a brief lamentation, consoles itself in a few hours or days with another partner, for there really appears to be a supply of spare partners of both sexes always at hand. And now we come to those creatures which are mated for life, and often we find among them a conjugal love as strong and as sincere as among monogamous mankind. Prominent among them are the eagle, the raven and the dove. And while we praise the turtle-dove for its conjugal fidelity, and credit it with the possession of all that is sweet, and good, and gentle, how remarkable is it that we forget to accredit with the same virtue the eagle and the raven, that are the types of all that is violent, and dark, and cunning. There are many examples in existence of the conjugal love among such birds, but they are so well known that reference to them is unnecessary. The case of the mandarin duck, already narrated, affords a strong instance of conjugal love wherein the lady was faithful and the husband avenged himself on the destruction of his domestic peace.

Conjugal Fidelity Shown by a Pair of Doves.]

So numerous as are the instances of love shown by parents among the lower animals towards their offspring, yet it is a very singular fact that few, if any, trustworthy accounts of Filial Love, or the love of children toward their parents, are to be found. But we must look to man if we would understand the lower animals. Even human nature must attain a high state of development before filial love can find any place in the affections. In savages it barely exists at all, and certainly does not survive into mature years. It is the glory of the North American Indian boy, at as early an age as possible, to despise his mother and defy his father. And the women are just as bad as the men. Rejoicing in the pride of youth and strength, they utterly despise the elder and feeble women, even though they be their own mothers, and will tear from their hands the food they are about to eat, on the plea that old women are of no use, and that the food would be much better employed in giving nourishment to the young and strong. The Fijians have not the least scruple in burying a father alive when he becomes infirm, and assist in strangling a mother that she may keep him company in the land of spirits. Both the Bosjesmen of South Africa and the Australian seem to have not the least idea that any duty is owing to a parent from a child, nor have they much notion of duty from a parent toward the child. If the father be angry with any one for any reason, he has a way of relieving his feelings by driving his spear through the body of his wife or child, whichever one of the two happens to be the nearer. Even the mother treats her child with less consideration than a cow does her calf, and leaves the little creature to shift for itself at an age when the children of civilized parents are hardly thought fit to be left alone for a few minutes. This being the case with parental love, it may be readily imagined that filial affection can have not the slightest chance for development, and it is very much to be questioned whether in the savage it can really be said to exist at all in the sense understood by enlightened peoples. Therefore, as in the lower human races, we find that filial love either is very trifling, or is absolutely non-existent, need we wonder that in the lower animals such few, if any, indications of its presence should be found?

Now, as to the subject of Parental Love, and the various ways in which it manifests itself. There are many writers who claim that parental love in the lower animals is not identical with that of man. They affirm that it is only a blind instinct, and, in order to mark more strongly the distinction between man and beast, call the parental love of the latter by the name of storgë. Speaking for myself, I must declare that I am unable to perceive any distinction between the two, save that in civilized man the parental love is better regulated than among the lower animals. But, as has been seen, it is not regulated at all among the uncivilized races, and, in truth, many of the beasts are far better parents than most savages. Nor can I understand why the word storgë should be applied to parental love among the lower animals and not to the same feeling in man. Among Greek writers the word, together with the verb from which it is derived, is applied to the love between human parents and children. It is so applied by Plato, and in the same sense by Sophocles and others. One argument adduced by those who deny the identity of the feeling in both cases is that parental love endures throughout life in man, while it expires with the adolescence of the young in the lower animals. This is doubtless true, as a rule, with civilized man, but in the case of the savage, as has previously been shown, it does not last longer than that of a bird, a cat or a dog, taking into consideration the relative duration of life. And the reason is identical in both cases. Were this love to exist through life in the savage, the beast or the bird, the race would become extinct, for neither race is able to support its children longer than their time of helplessness. The beast and the bird cannot, and the savage will not, provide for the future. It is therefore evident that if the young had to depend upon their parents for subsistence, they would soon perish from lack of food. Exceptions there are to this general rule, and always, as far as can be determined, in the case of domesticated animals whose means of subsistence are already insured.

Several of such cases have come to my notice. I shall instance but one. A friend of mine has two terriers, a mother and a daughter. The strongest bond of love and fellowship unites them. They always sit close together, and the mother playfully pinches her daughter all over. Should they by chance become separated, even for a very short time, the daughter comes up wagging her tail, and then licks her mother’s nose and mouth. When hunting together, they always act in concert, each one taking a hole, and one keeping watch while the other scrapes away the earth. The meaning of each other’s whine or bark is perfectly understood, and no two persons could understand their own language better than do these dogs theirs, nor be more comprehensible to each other.

Self-abnegation is perhaps one of the most beautiful characteristics which parental love can give. This is particularly shown when the young are in danger. A human mother in charge of her child will defy a danger before which she would shrink if alone, and in its defence would dare deeds of which most strong men would be incapable, for during the time her selfhood is extinguished, and her being is sunk into that of her child. Such abnegation becomes a true mother, for if she would not consent to do and dare for the sake of her offspring, she would degrade herself below the beasts and the birds, who hesitate not in performing that duty to their children, though _savants_ do declare that they possess only storgë, whatever they may mean by it, and not parental love.

Male Humming-Bird Feeding His Partner, and Ready to Act in Her Defence.]

Everyone who has paid even a passing attention to the habits of birds must have noticed the vigilance a pair of catbirds exercise over their nest when containing young birds. Neither parent, when the other is absent, relaxes this vigilance, for they consider no labor, no care, no watchfulness, too great or too exacting where their offspring are to be benefited. Let an enemy approach, even if it be man himself, and they are beside themselves with anger and resentment, flying into the very face of the audacious intruder, as though they would pluck his eyes out as a just punishment for his presumption and temerity. I have seen the nest of a catbird attacked by a black snake, and crushed within the folds of the hideous serpent the father-bird, but the disaster did not cause the mother-bird to desist from the attack, for, utterly oblivious of all else but her offspring and the snake, she fought on until the latter was forced to glide away into the bushes to escape her infuriated assaults. But no species of bird is more courageous in defence of its nest than the little ruby-throated humming-bird. It is really dangerous to visit the nest when with eggs or young. I would as soon attempt to assail the dome-shaped nest of our common hornet as that of this humming-bird. It is as much as one can do to protect his eyes from the lightning-like attacks of these birds, so swiftly and so unerringly do they direct their blows at these points.

So great is the affection and solicitude of the red-eyed vireo for her young, that she will scarcely leave the nest when the hand is stretched out a few inches over the mouth of the structure. And then when she does leave, it is not in a hurried, precipitate manner, but with a quiet, deliberate movement that excites one’s admiration and makes one vow never to abuse such simple, childlike confidence. I have even placed my hand upon the sitting-bird without disturbing the current of her brooding thoughts, or the peaceful serenity of her soul. A rough dash at the nest tends to frighten her away _instanter_, but when the hand is reached out to it slowly and silently the bird seems to act as though it had nothing to fear, and remains calm and self-possessed.

Who is not familiar with the proverbial skill of the Carolina dove in feigning lameness when her nest is being approached? Without a cry, and with scarcely a rustle of her feathers, she slips out of her nest upon the ground, and by a series of manœuvres, as if desperately wounded, grovels along on her belly in the dust till she has led her enemy a long journey from the site of the nest, when she will take to wing and fly away into a coppice or a clump of brushwood.

That birds should manifest a love for the young which they hatch has always seemed a strange problem to me. I can see how that, in the case of a mammal, the mother should feel a love for the creature who is absolutely a part of herself--whose very life-blood is drawn from her veins. But this is not necessarily the case with birds. If, as often happens with poultry, the eggs of several hens are placed under one bird for hatching, the hen that hatches them knows no difference between the chickens that come from her own eggs and those which proceed from eggs laid by others. Even where the eggs belong to birds of different species, as to the common Muscovy-duck for example, the hen displays as much affection for the young ducklings, despite the disparity of instinct and habit, as she does had they proceeded from her own eggs. May it not be that parental love has different channels of transmission, and that in such a case as this the emanation from the sitting-hen may be the vehicle of parental love toward the young which are to be hatched? Certain it is that a sitting-hen, as many of us have observed, is altogether a changed being, both in attitude and expression. She is entirely absorbed in the eggs when she is incubating, and, though she may not have the intellect to distinguish a mere lump of chalk from one of her own eggs, yet love is altogether independent of intellect, and may exist in all its vigor, and yet may be wasted on an unworthy object.

Fishes, as is generally known, are not particularly emotional beings, and are not likely to entertain a lasting love for anything. Indeed, in some instances, parental love would be absolutely useless, as in the case of the cod-fish, which could be hardly expected to entertain a special love for each of the countless thousands of young it produces every year. The life of the mother would be an unenviable one, if her lot were to look after her young as soon as they are hatched, especially when the varied foes that beset her eggs as soon as they are produced, are considered. Just as there are fishes that possess conjugal love, so there are fishes that possess parental love, and prominent among these are the sticklebacks. But in the case of these fishes the most curious part is that parental love is shown by the father, and not by the mother, the latter having nothing to do but to lay the eggs, and leaving to the former the exclusive labor of providing for the young.

WOOD-THRUSH SETTING.]

Enough of instances of true parental love among the lower animals could be given to fill this entire book, but a sufficient number have been adduced to show that the feeling is the same in man as in them, although, of course, the mode of manifesting it is different. We have shown the fallacy of the theory that parental love is life-enduring in man and very brief among the animals, and have seen that, in proportion to the duration of life, it is quite as brief among the savages as among the animals. And, again, we have seen where it has been lost and then restored, and also where it was never lost; where in animals, as in man, it has caused complete abnegation of self, the parents living for their children, and not for themselves, and where it has given strength to the weak and courage to the timid. Even the very fishes have been shown to be amenable to the same influences as man, and could we have carried our illustrations still lower down the scale we would have found the same influences existing among much humbler forms of animal existences. In conclusion, there is no resisting the fact that parental love, one of the highest and holiest feelings of which a loving and immortal soul can be capable, is shared equally by man and beast, according to their respective capacities.

LIFE PROGRESSIVE.

No one can doubt that the earth’s crust, so far as it has been deciphered by man, presents us with a record, imperfect though it be, of the past. Whether, however, the known and admitted imperfections of its records, geological and palæontological, are sufficiently trustworthy to account satisfactorily for the lack of direct evidence recognizable in some modern hypotheses, may be a matter of individual opinion, but there can be little doubt that they are sufficiently extensive to throw the balance of evidence decisively in favor of some theory of continuity, as opposed to any theory of intermittent and occasional action, which some writers have strenuously and intelligently advocated. No marks of mighty and general convulsions of nature exist, as the seeming breaks which divide the grand series of stratified rocks into numerous isolated formations would indicate. They are simply indications of the imperfection of our knowledge. Science will never, in all probability, point to a complete series of deposits, or to a complete succession of life, which shall link one geological period to another. But that such deposits and such an unbroken succession must have existed at one time we may well feel sure, and stand ready to believe that nowhere in the long series of fossiliferous rocks has there been a total break, but that there has inevitably been a complete continuity of life, as well as a more or less complete continuity of sedimentation from the Laurentian period to the present day. One generation, speaking figuratively, hands on the lamp of life to the next, and each system of rocks is the direct offspring of its predecessor in time. Though it is apparent that there has not been continuity in any given area, still the geological chain could not have been snapped at one point and taken up again at a totally different one. Hence we arrive at the conviction that in geology, as in other sciences, continuity is the fundamental law, and that the lines of demarcation between the great formations are but gaps in our own knowledge.

Through the study of fossils, as is well known, geologists have been led to the all-important generalization that the vast series of fossiliferous or sedimentary rocks may be separated into a number of definite groups or formations, each of which being characterized by its own organic remains, but not properly and strictly, it must be understood, by the occurrence therein of any one particular fossil. However, a formation may contain some particular fossil or fossils not occurring outside of that formation, thus enabling an observer to identify a given group with tolerable certainty; or, as very often happens, some particular stratum or subgroup of a series, may contain peculiar fossils, whereby its existence may be determined with considerable readiness in divers localities. Each great formation, let it be said, is properly characterized by the association of certain fossils, the predominance of certain families or orders, or by an assemblage of fossil remains that represent the life of the period during which the formation was deposited.

Fossils, then, not only enable us to determine the age of the deposits in which they are found, but they also further enable us to arrive at some very important conclusions respecting the manner in which the fossiliferous bed was deposited, and, consequently, to the condition of the particular region occupied by the bed at the period of its formation. Beds that contain the remains of animals, such as now inhabit rivers, we know to be fluviatile in their origin, and that at one time they must have either constituted actual river-beds, or been deposited by the overflowing of ancient streams. But if the beds contain the remains of mollusks, minute crustaceans or fish, such as are found to-day in lakes, then we conclude that they are lacustrine, and were deposited beneath the waters of former lakes. And, lastly, if the remains of animals such as now people the oceans are to be met with in the beds, then we know that they are marine in origin, and that they are fragments of an old sea-bottom. On the whole, the conditions under which a bed was deposited, whether in a shallow sea, in the immediate vicinity of a coast-line, or in deep water, can often be determined with considerable accuracy from the nature of the relics of the organisms which they contain. But we have thus far been dealing with the remains of aquatic animals. When, however, we consider the remains of aerial and terrestrial animals, or of plants, the determination of the conditions of deposition is not made out with such an absolute certainty. Remains of land-animals would, of course, occur in sub-aerial deposits, that is, in beds, like blown sand, accumulated upon the land, but the most of such remains of such animals are found in deposits which have been laid down in water, and hence their present position is due to the fact that their former owners were either drowned in rivers or lakes, or borne out to sea by water-channels. Animals possessed of the power of flight might also similarly find their way into aqueous deposits, but, when it is remembered that many birds and mammals habitually spent a great part of their time in the water, it is not to be wondered at that they should present themselves as fossils in sedimentary rocks. Even plants, such as have undoubtedly grown upon land, do not prove that the bed in which they are found was formed on land, for many of their remains are extraneous to the bed in which they now occur, having reached their present site by falling into lakes or rivers, or by being carried out to sea by floods or gales of winds. Still, there are many cases which obviously show that plants have grown on the very spot where we now find them. The great coal-fields of the Carboniferous Age, it is now generally conceded, are the result of the growth _in situ_ of the plants which compose coal, as well as that they grew on vast marshy or partially submerged tracts of level alluvial land.

While fossils enable us in many cases to arrive at important conclusions as to the climate of the period in which they lived, yet it is only in the case of marine fossils, which constitute the majority of such remains, that we acquire such knowledge, but it is mostly the temperature of the sea which can thus be determined. However, let it be remembered that, owing to the existence of heated currents, the marine climate of a designated area does not necessarily imply a correspondingly warm climate in the adjoining land, for land-climates can only be determined by the relics of land-animals or land-plants, and these are comparatively rare as fossils. But all conclusions on this head are really based upon the existing distribution of vegetable and animal life upon the globe, and are therefore liable to be vitiated by the considerations that no certainty exists that the habits and requirements of an extinct animal were exactly similar to those of its nearest living relative; that far back in time groups of organisms, so unlike anything we know at the present day, are met with, which render all conjectures of climate based upon their supposed habits more or less uncertain and unsafe; that in the case of marine animals we are as yet very far from knowing the precise limits of distribution of many species within our present seas as to render conclusions drawn from living forms in relation to extinct species unsatisfactory and, probably, incorrect; and, finally, that the distribution of animals to-day, is certainly dependent on other conditions than climate alone, the causes limiting the range of given animals being assuredly such as belong to the existing order of things, and are different from what they were in former times, not necessarily because the climate has changed, but because of the alteration of other conditions that are essential to the life of the species or conducive to its extension. But notwithstanding the difficulties in the way, we are able in many cases to deduce completely trustworthy conclusions concerning the climate of a given geological period by an examination of its fossil remains. In Eocene times, or at the beginning of the Tertiary Period, the climate of what is now Western Europe was of a tropical or sub-tropical character, the Eocene beds being found to contain the remains of cowries and volutes, such shells as now inhabit tropical seas, together with the fruits of palms and remains of other tropical plants. And further, it has been shown that in Miocene times, or about the middle of the same epoch, the central parts of Europe were peopled with a luxuriant flora resembling that of the warmer parts of the United States, and that Greenland, now buried for the most part beneath a vast ice-shroud, was warm enough to support a large number of trees, shrubs and other plants that are at present denizens of the temperate regions of the globe.

And lastly, from the study of fossils, geologists first learned to comprehend a fact, that is, that the crust of the earth is liable to local elevations and subsidences, which may be regarded as of cardinal importance in all modern geological theories and speculations. Long after the remains of shells and those of other marine animals were first observed in the solid rocks constituting the dry land, and at great elevations above the sea-level, attempts were made to explain this unintelligible phenomenon upon the hypothesis that these remains or fossils were mere _lusus naturæ_, due to some “plastic virtue latent in the earth.” But the common-sense of science soon rejected this idea, and it was universally agreed that these bodies were really the relics of animals that once lived in the sea. When once this was admitted, further steps in the right way of thinking became comparatively easy, and at the present day no geological doctrine stands on a surer foundation than that which teaches that our existing continents and islands, fixed and immovable as they appear, have been repeatedly sunk beneath the ocean and just as repeatedly been lifted above its waters.

Not only have fossils an important bearing upon geology and physiography as has been seen, but they have relations, most complicated and weighty in character, with the science of biology, or the study of living beings. No adequate understanding of zoölogy and botany is possible without some acquaintance with the types of plants and animals that have passed away, for there are numerous speculative problems in the domain of vital science, which, if soluble at all, can only hope to find their key in researches carried out on extinct organisms.

No attempt will be made by the writer to discuss fully the biological relations of fossils. Such an undertaking would afford matter for a separate volume. All that I purpose in this chapter is to indicate very cursorily the principal points of palæontological teaching, so that my readers can acquire some idea of the progression from lower to higher types that life has made throughout the geological ages. Preliminary to the purpose held in view, let it be understood that the vast majority of fossil animals and plants are extinct, or, differently and perhaps more intelligently expressed, belong to species that no longer exist. So far from there being any truth in the old idea that there have been periodic destructions of all the living beings in existence upon the earth, followed by a corresponding number of new creations of plants and animals, the actual facts indicate that the extinction of old and introduction of new forms have been processes that have been continually going on throughout the whole of geologic time. Every species seems to come into existence at a definite point of time, and to disappear finally at another definite period, though there are few, if any, instances, in which the times of entrance and exit could be fixed with any degree of certainty or precision. Marked differences in the actual time during which different species have remained in existence are noticeable, and therefore corresponding differences in their vertical range, or in the actual amount and thickness of strata through which they present themselves as fossils, some species being found to extend through two or three formations, and even a few have had a more prolonged existence. More commonly, however, the species which begin in the commencement of a great formation die out at or before its close, while those which are introduced for the first time near its middle or end may either become extinct or pass into the next succeeding formation, animals of the lowest and simplest organization as a rule having the longest range in time. Microscopic or minute dimensions seem to favor longevity, for some of the Foraminifera appear to have survived, with little or no perceptible alteration, from the Silurian Period to the present day, whereas largely and highly-organized animals, though long-lived as individuals, rarely seem to live long specifically, and consequently have a restricted vertical range. Exceptions to this rule are, however, occasionally found in some persistent types, the Lampshells of the genus Lingula being little changed from the Lingulæ that swarmed in the Lower Silurian seas, while the existing Pearly Nautilus is the last descendant of a clan nearly as old. Some forms, on the other hand, the Ammonites, which are closely related to the Nautilus, and mostly restricted to certain zones of strata, seem to have enjoyed a comparatively brief lease of life.

Representing Mollusks, Sponges, Crustaceans, Worms and Sea-Weeds.]

But of the causes that have led to the extinction of plants and animals, little or nothing is known. All that can be affirmed, in our present knowledge, is that the attributes constituting a species do not seem to be intrinsically endowed with permanence, any more than those constituting an individual, though the former may endure whilst many successive generations of the latter have disappeared from the earth. Each species, it would seem, has its own life-period--its beginning, culmination and decay--the life-periods of different species being of very different duration. From all that has been said, it may be gathered that our existing plants and animals are for the most part of modern origin, using the term modern in its geological acceptation. Measured by human standards, many of our existing animals, those which are capable of being preserved as fossils, are known to have a high antiquity. Not a few of our shell-fish commenced their existence at some time in the Tertiary, while one species of Lampshell--_Terebratulina caput-serpentis_--is believed to have survived since the Chalk, and a number of the Foraminifera date from the Carboniferous Period. Thus, we learn the additional fact that our existing flora and fauna do not constitute an aggregation of organic forms which were introduced into the world collectively and simultaneously, but that they commenced their existence at very different times, some being extremely ancient, whilst others are of comparatively recent origin. And this introduction of existing plants and animals, as admirably shown by the study of the fossil shells of the Tertiary Period, was a slow and gradual process. Ninety-five per cent. of the known fossil shells in the earliest Tertiary are found to be species no longer in existence, the remaining 5 per cent. being forms that are known to live in our present seas. In the Middle Tertiary, the extinct types are much fewer in number, while at the close of the Period the proportion with which we started may be reversed, not more than 5 per cent. being extinct types.

Animals and Plants That Prevailed.]

All existing animals belong to some five or six primary divisions, which are technically known as sub-kingdoms, each sub-kingdom to be regarded as representing a certain plan of structure, each and every animal embraced therein being merely a modified form of this common type. Not only are all known living animals reducible to these five or six fundamental plans, but also the vast series of fossil forms which have come to light in investigations of the earth’s strata. While many fossil groups have no closely-related group now in existence, but in no case do we meet with a fossil animal whose peculiarities do not entitle it to be placed in one or other of the grand structural types already indicated. The old types differ in many respects from those now upon the earth, and the further we go back in time the more pronounced does the divergence become. A comparison of the animals that lived in the old Silurian seas with those now occupying our oceans, would indicate differences so great in many instances as almost to place us in another world, this divergence being most marked in the Palæozoic forms of life, less so in those of the Mesozoic, and still less so in the Tertiary. Each successive formation has therefore presented us with animals becoming gradually more and more like those now in existence. Though there is, however, an immense and striking difference between the Silurian animals and those of the present day, yet this difference is considerably lessened when a comparison is instituted between the Silurian and the Devonian, and this with the Carboniferous, and so on down to the present period.

Thus it follows that the animals of any given formation, and the plants as well, where the records are preserved, are more like those of the next formation below and of the next formation above, than they are like any others. This fact of itself is an inexplicable one. But if we believe that the animals and plants of any given formation are, in part at any rate, the lineal descendants of those of the preceding, and the progenitors, also in part at least, of those of the succeeding formation, then the fact is readily comprehensible. So frequently confronted is the palæontologist with the phenomenon of closely-related forms, especially of animals, succeeding one another in point of time, that he is compelled to believe that such forms have been developed from some common ancestral type by some process of evolution. Upon no other theory can we comprehend why the Post-Tertiary mammals of South America should consist of edentates, llamas, tapirs, peccaries, platyrhine monkeys and other forms now characterizing this continent, while those of Australia should be exclusively referable to the order of marsupials; and on no other view can we explain the common occurrence of transitional forms of life, filling in the gaps between groups now widely distinct. But, on the other hand, there are facts which point clearly to the presence of some other law than that of evolution, and probably of a deeper and more far-reaching character. No theory of evolution can offer a satisfactory explanation for the constant introduction throughout geological time of new forms of life, which do not appear to be preceded by pre-existent allied types. The graptolites and trilobites have no known predecessors, and leave no known successors. Insects appear suddenly in the Devonian, and spiders and myriopods in the Carboniferous, but all under well-differentiated and highly-specialized forms. With equal apparent suddenness the Dibranchiate Cephalopods show themselves in the older Mesozoic deposits, and no known type of the Palæozoic period can be pointed to as a possible ancestor. And so does the wonderful dicotyledonous flora of the Upper Cretaceous similarly surprise us without any prophetic annunciation from the older Jurassic. Many other instances might be cited, but enough has been said to show that the problem is one environed with profound difficulties.

Cycads, Pandanus, Deinosaurs, Birds and Pterodactyl.]

As we pass from the older rocks into the newer, we not only find that the animals of each successive formation become gradually more and more like existing species upon the globe, but we also find that there has been a gradual progression and development in the types of animal life which characterize the geological ages. Taking the earliest-known and oldest examples of any given group, it can sometimes be shown that these primitive forms, even though they are highly organized themselves, possessed certain characters such as are now only to be met with in the young of their existing representatives. Such characters, which are technically called embryonic characters, do not prevent the frequent attainment by their possessors of sizes much more gigantic than those of their nearest living relatives. Moreover, these ancient forms of life represent what are called comprehensive types, or types that possess characters in combination such as are nowadays found separately developed in different groups of animals. Such permanent retention of embryonic characters and comprehensiveness of structural type are signs of what zoölogists consider to be comparatively low grades of organization, and their prevalence in the earlier forms of animals is a very astonishing phenomenon, though they are none the less perfectly organized so far as their peculiar type is concerned. As we ascend the geological scale, these features will be found to gradually disappear, higher and even higher forms will be introduced, and specialization of type take the place of the former comprehensiveness. That there has been in the past a general progression of organic types, and that the appearance of the lower forms of life has in the main preceded that of the higher forms in point of time, is a widely-accepted generalization of palæontology.