Part 26

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.

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.