The Dawn of Reason Part 7

sanguinea_.[54] Lubbock noticed in one of his nests of _F. fusca_, Jan.

23, 1881, an ant lying on her back and unable to move. She was unable even to feed herself. Several times he uncovered the part of the nest where she was. The other ants at once carried her to the covered part.

"On March 4," says he, "the ants were all out of the nest, probably for fresh air, and had collected together in a corner of the box; they had not, however, forgotten her, but had carried her with them. I took off the gla.s.s lid of the box, and after a while they returned as usual to the nest, taking her in again. On March 5th she was still alive, but on the 15th, notwithstanding all their care, she was dead."[55]

[54] White, _Leisure Hour_, p. 390, 1880.

[55] Lubbock, _loc. cit. ante_, p. 107 _et seq._

Dr. Stimson Lambert of Owensboro, Kentucky, a careful and accurate observer, informs me that he has frequently observed the large red ants (_F. rufa_) helping their mutilated or crippled companions.

Ants exhibit another emotion that shows the high development of their psychical or emotional nature. In the tender watchfulness and care of their young they are surpa.s.sed by no living creature. As soon as the young ant bursts its pupa case, it is carefully a.s.sisted into the world by its foster-mothers. These foster-mothers clean it with their tongues, gently going over the entire surface of its body, and then feed it. The young ant is conducted by them throughout the whole nest, and shown all the devious pa.s.sageways and corridors. When it makes its first visit into the outside world, it is always accompanied by several chaperons.

This parental love, if I may use the expression, is even extended to the unhatched eggs. If an ants' nest is disturbed by a stroke of a spade or hoe, the little inhabitants will at once begin to remove eggs, pupae, and young to a place of safety.

This parental love is even evinced by insects who never see their offspring. The b.u.t.terfly uses the utmost care in selecting a suitable leaf on which to deposit her eggs. She selects one that will be nouris.h.i.+ng food for the larvae when hatched out, and, after carefully observing whether it is preoccupied by the eggs of some other b.u.t.terfly (in which case she abandons it), she proceeds to deposit her eggs.

"Having fulfilled this duty, from which no obstacle short of absolute impossibility, no danger however threatening, can divert her, the affectionate mother dies."[56]

[56] Kirby and Spence, _Entomology_, p. 228.

The gadfly uses a like forethought in selecting a place for her eggs.

The larvae of the gadfly (_OEstrus equi_) are developed in the stomach of the horse, so the provident mother attaches the eggs to the hairs of the foreleg between the knee and the shoulder, a place the horse is almost certain to lick with his tongue and, in this manner, convey the eggs to his stomach, where they are hatched out. The breeding place of certain of the ichneumons is the body of a caterpillar. The ichneumon may be seen busily searching the bushes for her victim. When she finds it, she inserts her ovipositor into its body and lays her egg. If some other ichneumon has preceded her, she recognizes the fact at once, and will not deposit her egg, but will go in search of another grub. When the egg is hatched, the larva feeds on the body of its host, carefully avoiding the vital organs. The caterpillar retains just enough vitality to a.s.sume the pupa state, and then dies. The chrysalis discloses, not a b.u.t.terfly, but an ichneumon.

The mason wasp (_Epipone spinipes_) builds its cells and lays its eggs, one in each cell. It then hunts and procures spiders, which it deposits in the cells and then seals the openings. These spiders are not killed outright, but are partially paralyzed by the sting of the wasp. The insect thus secures for her young a supply of fresh food. This wasp not only knows the difference between the eggs that will produce female young, but she also makes this knowledge useful. She always supplies the females with more spiders than she does the males. The females are larger and require more food, hence the discrimination. All of this care and forethought is expended on young which the mother will never see.

Human love cannot give greater evidences of complete unselfishness.

I once removed a ball of eggs from the web of a spider. The mother clung tenaciously to her treasure, and, when I tried to remove her with a pair of forceps, she bit fiercely at the steel blades of the instrument. In her great love for her offspring she lost all sense of fear. Time and again I removed her several inches from the eggs; she would run about in a distracted way, for all the world like a mother who had lost her baby, until she found the ball of eggs. She would then seize it and attempt to remove it to a place of safety. The naturalist, Bonnet, put a spider and her bag of eggs in the pit of an ant-lion. The myrmeleon seized the egg-bag and tore it away from the spider. Bonnet forced the spider out of the pit, but she returned and chose to be dragged in and buried alive rather than leave her eggs.[57]

[57] Bonnet, _OEuvres_; quoted also by Romanes, _Animal Intelligence_, p. 205.

Earwigs lay their eggs, and then incubate them after the manner of the hen. When the young are hatched out, the proud mother leads forth the brood and shows unmistakable pride and affection in her children. On one occasion, when a storm was coming up, I saw an earwig marshal her troop of young ones, and lead them to a place of safety beneath the bark of a tree.

M. Geer scattered the eggs of an earwig over the bottom of a box: "The earwig carried them, however, one by one, into a certain part of the box, and then remained constantly sitting upon the heap without ever quitting it for a moment until the eggs were hatched."[58] This, I take it, is at least an instance of love of offspring, even if it is not a higher emotion. From the earwig's habit of watching over her young I am inclined to believe that this insect possesses true mother-love.

[58] Romanes, _loc. cit. ante_, p. 229; quoted also by Bingley, _loc.

cit._, Vol. III. pp. 150, 151.

Many of the lower animals give unmistakable evidences of the possession by them of the emotions of anger and fear. Ants, centipedes, tarantulas, weevils, etc., as well as many of the crustacea will give battle on the slightest provocation, clearly showing by their actions that anger and hate are their incentives. When alarmed, their actions indicate very plainly that the emotion of fear has seized them.

In the next chapter I hope to show that many of the lower animals possess one or more of the finer emotions, which I have thought best to group under the head of aestheticism.

CHAPTER V

aeSTHETICISM

"The man that hath not music in himself, nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils." The above quotation is the thought of one of the most acute, profound, and accurate psychologists that ever lived. That which he observed to be true among men, strangely enough, a long and systematic course of observation leads me to believe to be equally true among the lower animals; for wherever it can be observed that animals evince an appreciation for musical sounds, or show discrimination in their perception of harmonious tonal vibrations, such animals, with a single exception--the spider--will be found to be of kind disposition, and not given to "treasons, stratagems, and spoils" other than those required by their struggle for existence. So true is this rule, that the single exception--the spider--proves the verity of the deduction or conclusion.

For, like many men, the spider's love for the beautiful, not only in music but in decorative effects as well, is intimately a.s.sociated with murder-l.u.s.t; it kills for the love of killing. Many examples of the a.s.sociation of great cruelty and profound love for the beautiful in nature and the arts might be given; it is necessary for my purpose, however, to give but two--Nero and Catherine de' Medici.

That spiders appreciate musical sounds, and that they can differentiate between those sounds that are pleasing and those that are disagreeable to them, I have not a scintilla of doubt. The following facts bearing on this point came under my own observation or were told me by people in whose veracity I believe implicitly, or are vouched for by scientists of world-wide fame.

During one entire summer until late in autumn, a large, black hunting spider (_Lycosa_) dwelt in my piano. When I played _andante_ movements softly, she would come out on the music rack and seem to listen intently. Her palpi would vibrate with almost inconceivable rapidity, while every now and then she would lift her anterior pair of legs and wave them to and fro, and up and down. Just as soon, however, as I commenced a march or galop, she would take to her heels and flee away to her den somewhere in the interior of the piano, where she would sulk until I enticed her forth with _Traumerei_ or Handel's _Largo_.

On one occasion, while standing beside an organist who was improvising on the swell organ with _viol d'amour_ stop drawn, a spider let herself down from the ceiling of the church and hung suspended immediately above his hands. He coupled on to great organ and commenced one of Guilmant's resonant _bravura_ marches; immediately the spider turned and rapidly climbed her silken thread to her web high up among the timbers of the ceiling. The organist informed me that he had noticed, time and again, that spiders were affected by music. Several days afterwards I went to the church for the special purpose of experiment; I seated myself at the organ and commenced to improvise on the swell organ with _flute_, _viol d'amour_, and _tremulant_ stops out. In a few moments the spider let herself down from the ceiling and hung suspended before my eyes. So close was she that I could see her palpi vibrating rapidly and continuously. I suddenly dropped to great organ and burst into a loud, quick galop; the spider at once turned and ascended towards the ceiling with the utmost rapidity. Again and again I enticed her from her home in the ceiling, or sent her scurrying back, by playing slow _piano_ or quick _forte_ compositions. She clearly and conclusively indicated that loud, quick music was disagreeable to her. Professor C. Reclain of Leipsic, once, during a concert, saw a spider descend from one of the chandeliers and hang suspended above the orchestra during a violin solo; as soon, however, as the full orchestra joined in, it quickly ascended to its web.[59] This fact of musical discrimination in a creature so low in the scale of animal life is truly wonderful; it indicates that these lowly creatures have arrived at a degree of aestheticism that is very high indeed.

[59] Reclain, _Body and Mind_, p. 275; quoted by Romanes, _Animal Intelligence_, pp. 205, 206; compare Rabigot, Simonius, and Von Hartmann.

Spiders are decorative artists of no little ability. I saw one which spun a web, beautifully adorned it with a broad, silken pathway, and then used it as a pleasure resort; I also saw a spider which intentionally beautified its web by affixing to it hundreds of minute flakes of logwood dye;[60] thus we see that the aestheticism of spiders is not confined to the love of music, but extends to other fields. In pa.s.sing, I may state that once, while confined to my room for a long time by sickness, I became intimately acquainted with a wolf-spider which seemed to take an aesthetic delight in her toilet. This lycosid became so very tame that she would crawl upon my finger and allow herself to be brought close to my eyes, so that I could observe her deft and skilful movements while beautifying her person. She learned to know me personally, rapidly running away and hiding herself when visitors entered my chamber, but never showing fear when I alone was in the room.

This spider also showed an appreciation for certain musical sounds (the instrument used was the paper and comb mouth-organ of childhood); low, soft music would always entice her from her den beneath the table-lid, while loud, quick sounds seemed to frighten and disgust her.

[60] Mr. Willard Bates, a druggist of Owensboro, Kentucky, in whose store this instance of decorative aestheticism occurred, called my attention to the insect, which was busily engaged in beautifying her web.

Among animal music-lovers this chapter does not embrace those natural musicians, the crickets, gra.s.shoppers, locusts, frogs, and birds, whose love-songs form such a large part of the aesthetic in nature; yet the instance I am about to relate cannot be omitted, for it clearly indicates a love for musical sounds other than those produced by the creature itself or its mates.

A gentleman,[61] formerly living in the country, but now an attorney-at-law and residing in the town in which I live, told me that, on one occasion, he succeeded in raising two quails from eggs placed beneath a brooding barnyard fowl. These birds grew to maturity, and, what is rare indeed, became so exceedingly tame that they ran about the house and yard with the utmost freedom, showing not the slightest fear, and, seemingly, taking the greatest pleasure in the caresses bestowed upon them by the children of the household. This gentleman comes of a musical family, and, on pleasant summer nights, he and his sisters and brothers were in the habit of going to the stiles some distance away from the house and there singing and playing on the guitar and violin for several hours. The quails roosted on a dresser in the kitchen, but, as soon as the music began, they left their roost and flew to the stiles no matter how late in the night it might be, and there they would stay, perched on the shoulders of the musicians, until the concert was over; they would then go back to roost. They seemed to be pa.s.sionately fond of the singing voice, and would seek out a singer wherever he or she might be, whenever they heard the sound of singing. In _timbre_ the human female voice is more nearly akin to that of the quail than to that of any other animal. When a lad, "before my voice changed," I could call up these birds at will by giving their various calls; I did not whistle the songs; I _sang_ them. The peculiar quality of the female voice referred to above may be considered by some to have been the cause that influenced these birds; yet my informant distinctly states that _the voice of an adult male equally attracted them_.

[61] Martin Yewell, Esq., Owensboro, Kentucky.

The opening movement of Chopin's _Marche Funebre_ affects me very disagreeably. The music is, to me, absolutely repugnant. The beautiful melody in the second movement is, however, to me exceedingly agreeable and affords me intense pleasure and gratification. The lower animals are likewise agreeably or disagreeably affected by certain musical sounds.

Close observation has taught me the fact that certain musical keys are more agreeable to dogs than others. If a composition in a certain key, the fundamental note of which is agreeable to a dog, be played, he will either listen quietly and intently to the sounds, or will, sometimes, utter low and not unmusical howls in accord or "in tune" with the fundamental note. If the music be in a key not pleasing to him, he will either show absolute indifference, or will express his dissatisfaction with discordant yelps not in accord with the fundamental note of the key.

The bell of a certain church in my town sounds G. A collie, which lives next door to the church, when the bell is rung, never fails to express his delight in the sound. He listens intently while the bell is ringing, occasionally giving utterance to low howls, the notes being either B-flat, E-flat, or some other note in accord with G. This dog visits a house next door to another church, the bell of which sounds F. He never shows the slightest interest when this bell is rung. When I play compositions in F-sharp, an English fox-terrier of mine will lie on the floor and listen for an hour at a time. If I change to the key of E-flat, B-flat, or G, he will soon leave the room.

A question naturally obtrudes itself here in the matter of the dog which barks in accord with the church-bell. Does he do this knowingly (consciously), or is it simply an accident? I believe the former, and consider it the result of an acquired psychical habitude.

That the dog is conscious (self-conscious) that his voice is in accord with the bell, I will not venture to a.s.sert, for, knowledge on this point, I take it, is beyond the power of man to acquire. I mean by the word, "knowingly," when I say that the dog knowingly pitches his voice in accord with the bell, not that he has any knowledge whatever of harmony, such as an educated musician possesses, or such even as the inherited experiences of a thousand years of music-loving ancestors would naturally impress upon the mind of a civilized European of to-day, but that he has an acquired imitative faculty (a faculty possessed by some of the negroes of Central Africa as well as by many other savage races), of attuning his voice to sounds which are pleasing to his ears.

In support of this proposition I instance the fact of the dog's acquired habit of barking, which has been developed since his domestication. In his wild state the dog _never_ barks.

Man himself has done much toward arousing and cultivating the imitative faculty in the dog (which, in the beginning, impelled this highly developed animal to _answer_ his master, thus originating the first vocables--barking--in the canine language), by conversing with him. In all probability, it is only an "anatomical barrier and a psychical accident" at best, which prevent the dog from addressing his master through the agency of speech itself!

The dog's voice is exceedingly pleasing to himself, and, most frequently, when "baying the moon," he is listening to his own singing, _not_ (as is generally supposed) as it pours forth from his throat, but in a more pleasing manner, as it is breathed back to his listening ears from the airy lips of Echo!

That dogs have discovered that pleasing phenomenon, the echo, I do not question for a single instant. If a dog which is in the habit of "baying the moon" be watched, it will be observed that he invariably selects the same spot or spots for his nocturnal concerts. If you happen to be standing in the neighborhood, you will also notice that there is always an echo, more or less distinct, of his barking; and, if you will observe closely, you will see that the dog listens for this echo, and that he will not resume his song until it (the echo) has entirely ceased. That this is the true explanation of "baying the moon" (where there is not another dog in the distance whose clamorous barkings have aroused a like performance on the part of the animal under observation), the following instance, coming under my own observation, would seem to indicate.

I had frequently noticed that a spaniel crept under a honeysuckle bush in my front yard whenever he gave one of his serenades. Time and again I tried to hear the echo, but in vain, and an almost verified fact seemed in danger of total annihilation. Finally, it occurred to me to dispossess the dog and take his place beneath the bush. I called him out and succeeded with much difficulty in getting beneath the bush, from whence I, imitating his voice, sent several howling barks. My theory was no longer merely theory, but was, instead, a verified fact, for, sharp, clear, and distinct, the echoes of my voice came back from some buildings an eighth of a mile away! Some peculiar acoustic environment made it impossible to get the echo at any place, as far as I could discover, other than beneath the bush.[62]

[62] These observations are original, and, while I am fully convinced of their truth, I would yet like to have them substantiated by other observers. This habit indicates a high degree of aesthetic feeling in the dog.

It is highly probable that the susceptibility of rats and mice to the influence of musical sounds has been known for ages. The legend of the Pied Piper of Hamelin is by no means recent, nor is it confined to European peoples alone; in one form or another it exists among Asiatic, Indian, and Indo-Malayan races. In all the legends, the rats or mice are drawn together by sounds emanating from some kind of musical instrument.

A celebrated violinist told me that, at one period of his life, he lived in a house that fairly swarmed with rats. He noticed that these creatures were peculiarly susceptible to minor chords, or to compositions played in minors, and that quick, lively music would bring them forth from their lurking-places in great numbers. A few abrupt, dissonant discords would, invariably, send them scurrying to their holes.

Another violinist informs me that several mice living in his room are influenced by the music of his violin; when he plays an _andante_ movement very softly, they appear to listen intently and to enjoy the music; but when he plays an _allegro_ in quick time and loud, they quickly run away. The organist of the First Presbyterian Church of Owensboro, Kentucky,[63] tells me that when he lived in Cuba, New York, a mouse dwelt beneath a bookcase in his room, and that he often performed the following experiment: Seating himself at the piano, he would begin improvising softly. In a few moments the mouse would come from beneath the bookcase, approach the centre of the room, and, standing on its hind feet, would listen intently to the music. A loud chord on the piano would send it scampering away to its home. He would then resume his _pianissimo_ improvisation, and the mouse would soon return to its former station near the centre of the room, only to vanish again as soon as the loud chords were struck.

[63] Professor L. J. Quigley.

A violinist of Louisville, Kentucky, Mr. Karl Benedik, told me, on one occasion, that he had repeatedly noticed that several mice, which lived in his room, were influenced by the music of his violin. When he played an _andante_ movement _pianissimo_, they would appear to listen with pleasure; but when he played an _allegro_ in quick _tempo_ and _forte_, they immediately ran away.

Mice not only enjoy the music of others, but sometimes make music themselves. My father enjoyed nightly concerts or serenades, for a long time, from some "singing mice" in his library. I was fortunate enough to hear this novel concert on one occasion. The mice, two in number, came out from beneath the casing of the fireplace. They took places on the hearth, several feet distant from one another, and first one, and then the other, sang. Their songs were low and musical, not unlike the song of the canary, though there were no cadenzas or _fioritura_ pa.s.sages.