Art. XXVII.—Animal Intelligence.

Transactions and Proceedings of the Royal Society of New Zealand, Volume 24, 1891, Page 349

Art. XXVII.—Animal Intelligence. By William W. Carlile. [Read before the Wellington Philosophical Society, 29th July, 1891.] It has come to be recognised only of late years that for the adequate comprehension of the phenomena of mind in man some knowledge with regard to the manifestations of mind in the lower animals is in the highest degree necessary; and the attention of late paid to comparative psychology has already revolutionised much of human psychology, with its cognate and derivative sciences. Take the one fact of its having drawn attention to the great principle of heredity, more especially to the heredity of acquired faculty. The importation of this conception alone into philosophy goes far to render all the older philosophies obsolete, or, at any rate, to reduce their interest for mankind to an historical interest only. It is not by any means in the region of metaphysics and psychology alone that it thus operates. Dr. Kuno Fischer, in his work on “Francis Bacon of Verulam,” traces the course of the Anglo-Gallic empiricism from Bacon through Hobbes, Locke, Berkeley, Hume, Voltaire, Rousseau, Condillac, and the Encyclopædists down to such English writers as Macaulay and J. S. Mill; and points out truly that in all of them, with the single exception of Hume, the mode of thought was anti-historical. As an instance of this anti-historical mode of thought it is sufficient to point to Hobbes's theory of government as resting on a fancied contract between king and people. This, as Dr. Fischer says, became “a revolutionary theory in the mind of Rousseau. The anti-historical mode of thought became an anti-historical mode of action. The French Revolution came to an incurable rupture with history. The theoretical Rousseau was followed by the practical Robespierre, in whom the anti-historical mode of action became not only barbarous but grotesque.” Dr. Fischer, with justifiable complacency, compares this mode of thought with that which, in Germany, took its rise in Leibnitz, and flowed down to our times through Lessing, Kant, Goethe, Hegel, and the other idealists. Whatever its failings were, it was, at any rate in the main, free from the failing of being anti-historical. If Dr. Fischer had traced the course of English empiricism down a little further, however, than he did, he would have found that it had learnt to think historically; that, indeed, in the philosophy based on the theory of evolution, it had come to converge with the stream of German thought that flowed in upon us through the channel of Thomas Carlyle's writings. When Hegel tells

us that “the grades that Spirit seems to have left behind it, it still possesses in the depths of its present,” or when Carlyle affirms of the old Norse religion, the “sternly impressive consecration of valour,” that, “unconsciously and combined with higher things, it is in us yet,” the modern evolutionist —say, Mr. Bagehot, for instance, in his “Physics and Politics” —steps in to point out that such a view is not metaphor or poetry, but is scientific truth. “In 1789,” he remarks, “when the great men of the Constituent Assembly looked on the long past, they hardly saw anything in it that could be praised, or admired, or imitated; all seemed a blunder—a complex error, to be got rid of as soon as might be. But that error had made themselves. On their very physical organization the hereditary mark of old time was fixed; their brains were hardened and their nerves were steadied by the transmitted results of tedious usages. The ages of monotony had had their use, for they had trained men for ages when they need not be monotonous.” The old governments of the strong hand, as he says elsewhere, “made the human nature that aftertimes employ.” That human nature is made and makeable. How vast a revolution in psychological, ethical, and political speculation does the importation into science of this one thought imply! It is not, of course, to be asserted that the modern doctrine of heredity would not have dawned on the world even apart from the study of animal intelligence. The only wonder is that the world for so long lost sight of it. But animal intelligence was for it, in Bacon's language, the “Prerogative Instance” in regard to which it could not be overlooked. M. Ribot, in his work on heredity, draws attention to the case of a little dog that, at the scent of a piece of wolf‘s skin, went into convulsions of terror. The similar case of apes born in captivity being convulsed at the sight or the sound of a snake is familiar. From what depths are these terrifying associations drawn? Not from the depths of the animals’ individual consciousness, but from that of ancestors far back in the buried past. We are becoming familiar with the notion of hereditary memory. Science will perhaps some day have to try and grasp the notion of hereditary identity, and will have to recognise that perhaps there is a sense in which, after all, Plato was right in affirming the pre-existence of the soul. I have not attempted in this paper to give even a résumé of any theory of either the nature or genesis of animal intelligence, but have merely introduced the above in illustration of the importance of the study. As to its fascination, little need be said. It is the one description of study, if one can call it so, that has fascinated us all as children, and that, in spite of ourselves, seldom fails to fascinate us yet. We have to say

“in spite of ourselves” because, with Dryasdust perversity, we have absolutely, on account of its fascinating character, come to regard it as trivial and contemptible. It is only of quite late years that we have seen an attempt made by a man of science to collect as much authoritative information as he can, in regard to any instances of the display of instinct or of incipient reason in animals, which seem to be worthy of remark. Such an attempt is embodied in Professor Romanes's book entitled “Animal Intelligence,” in the International Science Series, and it is a book which can be read with delight from beginning to end even by those who care nothing for the subject from the scientific point of view. Any of us who live in the country and keep our eyes open will occasionally have instances analogous to those cited by Professor Romanes brought under our notice. A few have come under my own, and I hereby” lay them on the table,” as they call it in an adjacent building. Probably they may be capped by many equally interesting, or more so, drawn from the recollection of other gentlemen present. What Professor Romanes has to say in regard to marsupials is very brief. He considers the kangaroo very low in the scale of intellect, and knows of no fact connected with the psychology of the group worth quoting, except an instance cited from Jesse of a female kangaroo which, when hard-pressed by the dogs, took her young from her pouch and threw them as far as she could on each side of her. To any one who has done any kangaroo-hunting, another and more common incident of the chase will occur. The kangaroo, especially if he is an “old man,” invariably makes straight for water. That I have noticed myself; and why? Because there he is master of the situation. When the dogs attack him in a waterhole he can hold them under till they are drowned. I cannot say that I saw a dog drowned, but I had only a few weeks of kangaroo-hunting. The friends with whom I stayed spoke of it as a thing that happened frequently, and were alive to the necessity of being on their guard to prevent it. The increased danger in case of the hunted kangaroo being an “old man” is worthy of note. It would be due, perhaps, in part to his strength, but also, perhaps, in part to his experience; and, if we credit him with the capacity for learning by experience, we must promote him a step or two in the scale of intellect. When staying a few years ago at the house of a Hawke's Bay sheepfarmer—Mr. Fleming, of Wanstead—I heard of a circumstance that seems worth recording in connection with the reasoning-powers of the horse. Mr. Fleming breeds horses extensively. In some of the valleys on his property the cabbage-tree is to be found in considerable numbers. It was a

common occurrence, he told me, during the protracted drought, which had then just broken up, to see a couple of horses gnawing at each side of the stem of the tree at about a foot from the ground. The tree, it is necessary to remark, is of the palm family, and has all its leaves at the top. The rest of the horses might be seen at the same time grouped in all directions along the side of the hill, watching, but not interfering with, the operations. At last, when the stem was gnawed through, down would come the tree, and there would be a general rush and scramble for the leaves. This over, the tree-fellers would move on to the next Cordyline, and set to work, with, after a little, a similar result. Mr. Fleming told me that he had frequently brought visitors to witness the operation. The above would, perhaps, form an instance of a chance discovery, utilised as soon as found, of which there are innumerable others in the history of the development of instinct. The horses, no doubt, in the first instance chewed the bark of the tree simply to appease their hunger. By chance one was brought down, and this result was followed by a rich find of succulent food. After a few such chances—perhaps after one —they no doubt went about the gnawing with the set purpose of bringing the tree down, and soon improved on that by arranging with one another that one should gnaw, say, the western side of the tree, while the other gnawed the eastern, at about the same height from the ground. The concert and co-operation implied in this exhibit no inconsiderable approach to human intelligence. We can see, too, in such a case some of the factors necessary for the origination of a new instinct. Supposing the drought protracted for generations, and the supply of cabbage-trees unexhausted, we should soon have a breed of horses that were born tree-fellers, and whose jaws and teeth would, no doubt, in time become endowed with the increased strength and sharpness necessary for the rapid and efficient performance of the operation. I was informed by another of my Hawke's Bay neighbours of a circumstance in connection with the habits of the wild—that is, the feral—dog, which I believe is familiarly enough known to those to whom the habits of this animal are a matter of concern. When a slut has a litter of pups to feed, she will gorge herself with the flesh of her quarry, then go home and vomit it out for their benefit. I have heard since that the habit is not peculiar to the wild dog. Mr. Sims, who was manager for Mr. Cotter, of Ashurst, and was afterwards with me for a short time in a similar capacity, informed me that an imported slut belonging to Mr. Cotter was in the habit of doing precisely the same thing. What is, perhaps, most remarkable in connection with this case is the control acquired by the animals over the muscles of the abdomen and

diaphragm, enabling them to expel the contents of the stomach at will. In the imported slut it was exceptional, but in the wild variety the constant demand for the exercise of the capacity had apparently converted it into a characteristic of the breed. The skill of dogs in slipping their collars is noticed by Pro-fessor Romanes. In one of my own dogs I had occasion to notice his modus operandi. He stretched his chain out to its full length, then turned on his back and rolled as a horse rolls, dragging at the collar all the time. Presently his ears slipped through, and he was free. Probably this he learnt by accident when rolling to scratch the parts made itchy by flea-bites, but he was not slow to make use of the lesson once learnt, and by the time I noticed him he took the steps necessary to liberate himself in the most purposelike manner. Professor Bain has an interesting speculation, in his work “On the Emotions and the Will,” on what he calls the link of feeling and action, or the instinctive germ of volition. His theory is that in the very young animal or child the feeling of pain, as from too great proximity to a fire, has no automatic tendency to make the animal or child withdraw from the fire. “It knows nothing of the causes, and as little of the remedy.” What happens is this: The tendencies to spontaneous movement with which the nervous system is charged, prompting now to one part now to another, make it at last spring to its legs and commence a forward locomotion. Should the locomotion chance to be away from the fire, the uneasiness sensibly subsides. After several trials only will there come to be formed an association between such a motion and such relief. Or, “to take another example. An infant lying in bed has the painful sensation of chilliness…. Spontaneous movement will arise, whether from healthy natural powers or from irritated nerves. In the course of these spontaneous movements there occurs an action bringing the child into contact with the nurse lying beside it; instantly warmth is felt, there is a throb of pleasure, and a concurrent stimulus to the physical system. The successful movement is sustained, made more energetic, and the contact is kept up. Such would be the natural operation of the law that connects pleasurable relief with increased energy. The child twelve months old can perform this act by a true selective volition. The child of three days can do it only at random, and by the help of the principle we have been explaining.” The primary essential for learning the right movement in any direction is thus the abundance of spontaneous activity, prompting to innumerable movements in all directions. Have we not here, in the dawn of reason in the individual, an analogy to the operation of reason in the living universe? To the theory of natural

selection it has been objected that it means firing innumerable shots to kill one bird. Nature, indeed, it truly seems, tries innumerable variations before the one useful variation is hit on and survives. We ourselves have all done the same. We may thus catch, behind the apparently fortuitous processes of nature, a glimpse of the operations of a mind analogous to our own.