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Title: Animal Intelligence
The International Scientific Series, Vol. XLIV.
Author: George J. Romanes
Release Date: August 9, 2012 [EBook #40459]
Language: English
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THE INTERNATIONAL SCIENTIFIC SERIES.
VOLUME XLIV.
I HAVE recently learnt from the publishers of the 'International
Scientific Series' that they have made arrangements with Sir John
Lubbock to bring out in the same series a work of his on Ants and Bees.
Necessarily, therefore, the material to be dealt with in his work will
to a large extent overlap that which is presented by my chapters on the
same insects; but after consulting with the publishers, and also with
Sir John Lubbock, it has seemed to me undesirable to omit these chapters
on account of the circumstances here stated. For, on the one hand, the
facts will not lose their value from being twice told; and on the other,
it is desirable that the present member of the Series should form in
itself, so far as its Author can make it, a complete _résumé_ of all the
more important facts of _Animal Intelligence_.
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THE INTERNATIONAL SCIENTIFIC SERIES.
ANIMAL INTELLIGENCE.
BY
GEORGE J. ROMANES, M. A., LL. D., F. R. S.,
ZOOLOGICAL SECRETARY OF THE LINNEAN SOCIETY.
NEW YORK:
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,
1, 3, AND 5 BOND STREET.
1884.
PREFACE.
WHEN I first began to collect materials for this work it was my
intention to divide the book into two parts. Of these I intended the
first to be concerned only with the facts of animal intelligence, while
the second was to have treated of these facts in their relation to the
theory of Descent. Finding, however, as I proceeded, that the material
was too considerable in amount to admit of being comprised within the
limits of a single volume, I have made arrangements with the publishers
of the 'International Scientific Series' to bring out the second
division of the work as a separate treatise, under the title 'Mental
Evolution.' This treatise I hope to get ready for press within a year or
two.
My object in the work as a whole is twofold. First, I have thought it
desirable that there should be something resembling a text-book of the
facts of Comparative Psychology, to which men of science, and also
metaphysicians, may turn whenever they may have occasion to acquaint
themselves with the particular level of intelligence to which this or
that species of animal attains. Hitherto the endeavour of assigning
these levels has been almost exclusively in the hands of popular
writers; and as these have, for the most part, merely strung together,
with discrimination more or less inadequate, innumerable anecdotes of
the display of animal intelligence, their books are valueless as works
of reference. So much, indeed, is this the case, that Comparative
Psychology has been virtually excluded from the hierarchy of the
sciences. If we except the methodical researches of a few distinguished
naturalists, it would appear that the phenomena of mind in animals,
having constituted so much and so long the theme of unscientific
authors, are now considered well-nigh unworthy of serious treatment by
scientific methods. But it is surely needless to point out that the
phenomena which constitute the subject-matter of Comparative Psychology,
even if we regard them merely as facts in Nature, have at least as great
a claim to accurate classification as those phenomena of structure which
constitute the subject-matter of Comparative Anatomy. Leaving aside,
therefore, the reflection that within the last twenty years the facts of
animal intelligence have suddenly acquired a new and profound
importance, from the proved probability of their genetic continuity with
those of human intelligence, it would remain true that their systematic
arrangement is a worthy object of scientific endeavour. This, then, has
been my first object, which, otherwise stated, amounts merely to passing
the animal kingdom in review in order to give a trustworthy account of
the grade of psychological development which is presented by each group.
Such is the scope of the present treatise.
My second, and much more important object, is that of considering the
facts of animal intelligence in their relation to the theory of Descent.
With the exception of Mr. Darwin's admirable chapters on the mental
powers and moral sense, and Mr. Spencer's great work on the Principles
of Psychology, there has hitherto been no earnest attempt at tracing the
principles which have been probably concerned in the genesis of Mind.
Yet there is not a doubt that, for the present generation at all
events, no subject of scientific inquiry can present a higher degree of
interest; and therefore it is mainly with the view of furthering this
inquiry that I have undertaken this work. It will thus be apparent that
the present volume, while complete in itself as a statement of the facts
of Comparative Psychology, has for its more ultimate purpose the laying
of a firm foundation for my future treatise on Mental Evolution. But
although, from what I have just said, it will be apparent that the
present treatise is preliminary to a more important one, I desire to
emphasise this statement, lest the critics, in being now presented only
with a groundwork on which the picture is eventually to be painted,
should deem that the art displayed is of somewhat too commonplace a
kind. If the present work is read without reference to its ultimate
object of supplying facts for the subsequent deduction of principles, it
may well seem but a small improvement upon the works of the
anecdote-mongers. But if it is remembered that my object in these pages
is the mapping out of animal psychology for the purposes of a subsequent
synthesis, I may fairly claim to receive credit for a sound scientific
intention, even where the only methods at my disposal may incidentally
seem to minister to a mere love of anecdote.
It remains to add a few words on the principles which I have laid down
for my own guidance in the selection and arrangement of facts.
Considering it desirable to cast as wide a net as possible, I have
fished the seas of popular literature as well as the rivers of
scientific writing. The endless multitude of alleged facts which I have
thus been obliged to read, I have found, as may well be imagined,
excessively tedious; and as they are for the most part recorded by
wholly unknown observers, the labour of reading them would have been
useless without some trustworthy principles of selection. The first and
most obvious principle that occurred to me was to regard only those
facts which stood upon the authority of observers well known as
competent; but I soon found that this principle constituted much too
close a mesh. Where one of my objects was to determine the upper limit
of intelligence reached by this and that class, order, or species of
animals, I usually found that the most remarkable instances of the
display of intelligence were recorded by persons bearing names more or
less unknown to fame. This, of course, is what we might antecedently
expect, as it is obvious that the chances must always be greatly against
the more intelligent individuals among animals happening to fall under
the observation of the more intelligent individuals among men. Therefore
I soon found that I had to choose between neglecting all the more
important part of the evidence--and consequently in most cases feeling
sure that I had fixed the upper limit of intelligence too low--or
supplementing the principle of looking to authority alone with some
other principles of selection, which, while embracing the enormous class
of alleged facts recorded by unknown observers, might be felt to meet
the requirements of a reasonably critical method. I therefore adopted
the following principles as a filter to this class of facts. First,
never to accept an alleged fact without the authority of some name.
Second, in the case of the name being unknown, and the alleged fact of
sufficient importance to be entertained, carefully to consider whether,
from all the circumstances of the case as recorded, there was any
considerable opportunity for mal-observation; this principle generally
demanded that the alleged fact, or action on the part of the animal,
should be of a particularly marked and unmistakable kind, looking to the
end which the action is said to have accomplished. Third, to tabulate
all important observations recorded by unknown observers, with the view
of ascertaining whether they have ever been corroborated by similar or
analogous observations made by other and independent observers. This
principle I have found to be of great use in guiding my selection of
instances, for where statements of fact which present nothing
intrinsically improbable are found to be unconsciously confirmed by
different observers, they have as good a right to be deemed trustworthy
as statements which stand on the single authority of a known observer,
and I have found the former to be at least as abundant as the latter.
Moreover, by getting into the habit of always seeking for corroborative
cases, I have frequently been able to substantiate the assertions of
known observers by those of other observers as well or better known.
So much, then, for the principles by which I have been guided in the
selection of facts. As to the arrangement of the facts, I have taken the
animal kingdom in ascending order, and endeavoured to give as full a
sketch as the selected evidence at my disposal permitted of the
psychology which is distinctive of each class, or order, and, in some
cases, family, genus, or even species. The reason of my entering into
greater detail with some natural groups than with others scarcely
requires explanation. For it is almost needless to say that if the
animal kingdom were classified with reference to Psychology instead of
with reference to Anatomy, we should have a very different kind of
zoological tree from that which is now given in our diagrams. There is,
indeed, a general and, philosophically considered, most important
parallelism running through the whole animal kingdom between structural
affinity and mental development; but this parallelism is exceedingly
rough, and to be traced only in broad outlines, so that although it is
convenient for the purpose of definite arrangement to take the animal
kingdom in the order presented by zoological classification, it would be
absurd to restrict an inquiry into Animal Psychology by any
considerations of the apparently disproportionate length and minute
subdivision with which it is necessary to treat some of the groups.
Anatomically, an ant or a bee does not require more consideration than a
beetle or a fly; but psychologically there is need for as great a
difference of treatment as there is in the not very dissimilar case of a
monkey and a man.
Throughout the work my aim has been to arrive at definite principles
rather than to chronicle mere incidents--an aim which will become more
apparent when the work as a whole shall have been completed. Therefore
it is that in the present volume I have endeavoured, as far as the
nature and circumstances of the inquiry would permit, to suppress
anecdote. Nevertheless, although I have nowhere introduced anecdotes for
their own sake, I have found it unavoidable not to devote much the
largest part of the present essay to their narration. Hence, with the
double purpose of limiting the introduction of anecdotes as much as
possible, and of not repeating more than I could help anecdotes already
published, I have in all cases, where I could do so without detriment to
my main object, given the preference to facts which have been
communicated to me by friends and correspondents. And here I may fitly
take the opportunity of expressing my thanks and obligations to the
latter, who in astonishing numbers have poured in their communications
during several years from all quarters of the globe. I make this
statement because I desire to explain to all my correspondents who may
read this book, that I am not the less sensible of their kindness
because its bounty has rendered it impossible for me to send
acknowledgments in individual cases. However, I should like to add in
this connection that it does not follow, because I have only quoted a
small percentage of the letters which I have received, that all of the
remainder have been useless. On the contrary, many of these have served
to convey information and suggestions which, even if not reserved for
express quotation in my forthcoming work, have been of use in guiding my
judgment on particular points. Therefore I hope that the publication of
these remarks may serve to swell the stream of communications into a yet
larger flow.[1]
In all cases where I have occasion to quote statements of fact, which in
the present treatise are necessarily numerous, I have made a point of
trying to quote _verbatim_. Only where I have found that the account
given by an author or a correspondent might profitably admit of a
considerable degree of condensation have I presented it in my own words.
And here I have to express my very special obligations to Mr. Darwin,
who not only assisted me in the most generous manner with his immense
stores of information, as well as with his valuable judgment on sundry
points of difficulty, but has also been kind enough to place at my
disposal all the notes and clippings on animal intelligence which he has
been collecting for the last forty years, together with the original MS.
of his wonderful chapter on 'Instinct.' This chapter, on being re-cast
for the 'Origin of Species,' underwent so merciless an amount of
compression that the original draft constitutes a rich store of hitherto
unpublished material. In my second work I shall have occasion to draw
upon this store more largely than in the present one, and it is needless
to add that in all cases where I do draw upon it I shall be careful to
state the source to which I am indebted.
[The above was written when I sent this work to the publishers several
months ago, and I have thought it best to leave the concluding paragraph
as it originally stood. But in making this explanation, I cannot allude
to the calamity which has since occurred without paying my tribute, not
alone to the memory of the greatest genius of our age, but still more,
and much more, to the memory of a friend so inexpressibly noble, kind,
and generous, that even my immense admiration of the naturalist was
surpassed by my loving veneration for the man.]
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Letters may be addressed to me directly at 18 Cornwall Terrace,
Regent's Park, London, N W.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
INTRODUCTION 1
CHAPTER I.
APPLICATION OF THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES TO THE LOWEST ANIMALS 18
CHAPTER II.
MOLLUSCA 25
CHAPTER III.
ANTS 31
CHAPTER IV.
BEES AND WASPS 143
CHAPTER V.
TERMITES 198
CHAPTER VI.
SPIDERS AND SCORPIONS 204
CHAPTER VII.
REMAINING ARTICULATA 226
CHAPTER VIII.
FISH 241
CHAPTER IX.
BATRACHIANS AND REPTILES 254
CHAPTER X.
BIRDS 266
CHAPTER XI.
MAMMALS 326
CHAPTER XII.
RODENTS 353
CHAPTER XIII.
ELEPHANT 386
CHAPTER XIV.
THE CAT 411
CHAPTER XV.
FOXES, WOLVES, JACKALS, &C. 426
CHAPTER XVI.
THE DOG 437
CHAPTER XVII.
MONKEYS, APES, AND BABOONS 471
INDEX 499
INTRODUCTION.
BEFORE we begin to consider the phenomena of mind throughout the animal
kingdom it is desirable that we should understand, as far as possible,
what it is that we exactly mean by mind. Now, by mind we may mean two
very different things, according as we contemplate it in our own
individual selves, or in other organisms. For if we contemplate our own
mind, we have an immediate cognizance of a certain flow of thoughts or
feelings, which are the most ultimate things, and indeed the only
things, of which we are cognisant. But if we contemplate mind in other
persons or organisms, we have no such immediate cognizance of thoughts
or feelings. In such cases we can only _infer_ the existence and the
nature of thoughts and feelings from the activities of the organisms
which appear to exhibit them. Thus it is that we may have a subjective
analysis of mind and an objective analysis of mind--the difference
between the two consisting in this, that in our subjective analysis we
are restricted to the limits of a single isolated mind which we call our
own, and within the territory of which we have immediate cognizance of
all the processes that are going on, or at any rate of all the processes
that fall within the scope of our introspection. But in our objective
analysis of other or foreign minds we have no such immediate cognizance;
all our knowledge of their operations is derived, as it were, through
the medium of ambassadors--these ambassadors being the activities of the
organism. Hence it is evident that in our study of animal intelligence
we are wholly restricted to the objective method. Starting from what I
know subjectively of the operations of my own individual mind, and the
activities which in my own organism they prompt, I proceed by analogy to
infer from the observable activities of other organisms what are the
mental operations that underlie them.
Now, in this mode of procedure what is the kind of activities which may
be regarded as indicative of mind? I certainly do not so regard the
flowing of a river or the blowing of the wind. Why? First, because the
objects are too remote in kind from my own organism to admit of my
drawing any reasonable analogy between them and it; and, secondly,
because the activities which they present are of invariably the same
kind under the same circumstances; they afford no evidence of feeling or
purpose. In other words, two conditions require to be satisfied before
we even begin to imagine that observable activities are indicative of
mind: first, the activities must be displayed by a living organism; and
secondly, they must be of a kind to suggest the presence of two elements
which we recognise as the distinctive characteristics of mind as
such--consciousness and choice.
So far, then, the case seems simple enough. Wherever we see a living
organism apparently exerting intentional choice, we might infer that it
is conscious choice, and therefore that the organism has a mind. But
further reflection shows us that this is just what we cannot do; for
although it is true that there is no mind without the power of conscious
choice, it is not true that all apparent choice is due to mind. In our
own organisms, for instance, we find a great many adaptive movements
performed without choice or even consciousness coming into play at
all--such, for instance, as in the beating of our hearts. And not only
so, but physiological experiments and pathological lesions prove that in
our own and in other organisms the mechanism of the nervous system is
sufficient, without the intervention of consciousness, to produce
muscular movements of a highly co-ordinate and apparently intentional
character. Thus, for instance, if a man has his back broken in such a
way as to sever the nervous connection between his brain and lower
extremities, on pinching or tickling his feet they are drawn suddenly
away from the irritation, although the man is quite unconscious of the
adaptive movement of his muscles; the lower nerve-centres of the spinal
cord are competent to bring about this movement of adaptive response
without requiring to be directed by the brain. This non-mental operation
of the lower nerve-centres in the production of apparently intentional
movements is called Reflex Action, and the cases of its occurrence, even
within the limits of our own organism, are literally numberless.
Therefore, in view of such non-mental nervous adjustment, leading to
movements which are only in appearance intentional, it clearly becomes a
matter of great difficulty to say in the case of the lower animals
whether any action which appears to indicate intelligent choice is not
really action of the reflex kind.
On this whole subject of mind-like and yet not truly mental action I
shall have much to say in my subsequent treatise, where I shall be
concerned among other things with tracing the probable genesis of mind
from non-mental antecedents. But here it is sufficient merely to make
this general statement of the fact, that even within the experience
supplied by our own organisms adaptive movements of a highly complex and
therefore apparently purposive character may be performed without any
real purpose, or even consciousness of their performance. It thus
becomes evident that before we can predicate the bare existence of mind
in the lower animals, we need some yet more definite criterion of mind
than that which is supplied by the adaptive actions of a living
organism, howsoever apparently intentional such actions may be. Such a
criterion I have now to lay down, and I think it is one that is as
practically adequate as it is theoretically legitimate.
Objectively considered, the only distinction between adaptive movements
due to reflex action and adaptive movements due to mental perception,
consists in the former depending on inherited mechanisms within the
nervous system being so constructed as to effect _particular_ adaptive
movements in response to _particular_ stimulations, while the latter
are independent of any such inherited adjustment of special mechanisms
to the exigencies of special circumstances. Reflex actions under the
influence of their appropriate stimuli may be compared to the actions of
a machine under the manipulations of an operator; when certain springs
of action are touched by certain stimuli, the whole machine is thrown
into appropriate movement; there is no room for choice, there is no room
for uncertainty; but as surely as any of these inherited mechanisms are
affected by the stimulus with reference to which it has been constructed
to act, so surely will it act in precisely the same way as it always has
acted. But the case with conscious mental adjustment is quite different.
For, without at present going into the question concerning the relation
of body and mind, or waiting to ask whether cases of mental adjustment
are not really quite as _mechanical_ in the sense of being the necessary
result or correlative of a chain of physical sequences due to a physical
stimulation, it is enough to point to the variable and incalculable
character of mental adjustments as distinguished from the constant and
foreseeable character of reflex adjustments. All, in fact, that in an
objective sense we can mean by a mental adjustment is an adjustment of a
kind that has not been definitely fixed by heredity as the only
adjustment possible in the given circumstances of stimulation. For were
there no alternative of adjustment, the case, in an animal at least,
would be indistinguishable from one of reflex action.
It is, then, adaptive action by a living organism in cases where the
inherited machinery of the nervous system does not furnish data for our
prevision of what the adaptive action must necessarily be--it is only
here that we recognise the objective evidence of mind. The criterion of
mind, therefore, which I propose, and to which I shall adhere throughout
the present volume, is as follows:--Does the organism learn to make new
adjustments, or to modify old ones, in accordance with the results of
its own individual experience? If it does so, the fact cannot be due
merely to reflex action in the sense above described, for it is
impossible that heredity can have provided in advance for innovations
upon, or alterations of, its machinery during the lifetime of a
particular individual.
In my next work I shall have occasion to consider this criterion of mind
more carefully, and then it will be shown that as here stated the
criterion is not rigidly exclusive, either, on the one hand, of a
possibly mental element in apparently non-mental adjustments, or,
conversely, of a possibly non-mental element in apparently mental
adjustments. But, nevertheless, the criterion is the best that is
available, and, as it will be found sufficient for all the purposes of
the present work, its more minute analysis had better be deferred till I
shall have to treat of the probable evolution of mind from non-mental
antecedents. I may, however, here explain that in my use of this
criterion I shall always regard it as fixing only the upper limit of
non-mental action; I shall never regard it as fixing the lower limit of
mental action. For it is clear that long before mind has advanced
sufficiently far in the scale of development to become amenable to the
test in question, it has probably begun to dawn as nascent subjectivity.
In other words, because a lowly organised animal does _not_ learn by its
own individual experience, we may not therefore conclude that in
performing its natural or ancestral adaptations to appropriate stimuli
consciousness, or the mind-element, is wholly absent; we can only say
that this element, if present, reveals no evidence of the fact. But, on
the other hand, if a lowly organised animal _does_ learn by its own
individual experience, we are in possession of the best available
evidence of conscious memory leading to intentional adaptation.
Therefore our criterion applies to the upper limit of non-mental action,
not to the lower limit of mental.
Of course to the sceptic this criterion may appear unsatisfactory, since
it depends, not on direct knowledge, but on inference. Here, however, it
seems enough to point out, as already observed, that it is the best
criterion available; and further, that scepticism of this kind is
logically bound to deny evidence of mind, not only in the case of the
lower animals, but also in that of the higher, and even in that of men
other than the sceptic himself. For all objections which could apply to
the use of this criterion of mind in the animal kingdom would apply with
equal force to the evidence of any mind other than that of the
individual objector. This is obvious, because, as I have already
observed, the only evidence we can have of objective mind is that which
is furnished by objective activities; and as the subjective mind can
never become assimilated with the objective so as to learn by direct
feeling the mental processes which there accompany the objective
activities, it is clearly impossible to satisfy any one who may choose
to doubt the validity of inference, that in any case other than his own
mental processes ever do accompany objective activities. Thus it is that
philosophy can supply no demonstrative refutation of idealism, even of
the most extravagant form. Common sense, however, universally feels that
analogy is here a safer guide to truth than the sceptical demand for
impossible evidence; so that if the objective existence of other
organisms and their activities is granted--without which postulate
comparative psychology, like all the other sciences, would be an
unsubstantial dream--common sense will always and without question
conclude that the activities of organisms other than our own, when
analogous to those activities of our own which we know to be accompanied
by certain mental states, are in them accompanied by analogous mental
states.
The theory of animal automatism, therefore, which is usually attributed
to Descartes (although it is not quite clear how far this great
philosopher really entertained the theory), can never be accepted by
common sense; and even as a philosophical speculation it will be seen,
from what has just been said, that by no feat of logic is it possible to
make the theory apply to animals to the exclusion of man. The expression
of fear or affection by a dog involves quite as distinctive and complex
a series of neuro-muscular actions as does the expression of similar
emotions by a human being; and therefore, if the evidence of
corresponding mental states is held to be inadequate in the one case, it
must in consistency be held similarly inadequate in the other. And
likewise, of course, with all other exhibitions of mental life.
It is quite true, however, that since the days of Descartes--or rather,
we might say, since the days of Joule--the question of animal automatism
has assumed a new or more defined aspect, seeing that it now runs
straight into the most profound and insoluble problem that has ever been
presented to human thought--viz. the relation of body to mind in view of
the doctrine of the conservation of energy. I shall subsequently have
occasion to consider this problem with the close attention that it
demands; but in the present volume, which has to deal only with the
phenomena of mind as such, I expressly pass the problem aside as one
reserved for separate treatment. Here I desire only to make it plain
that the mind of animals must be placed in the same category, with
reference to this problem, as the mind of man; and that we cannot
without gross inconsistency ignore or question the evidence of mind in
the former, while we accept precisely the same kind of evidence as
sufficient proof of mind in the latter.
And this proof, as I have endeavoured to show, is in all cases and in
its last analysis the fact of a living organism showing itself able to
learn by its own individual experience. Wherever we find an animal able
to do this, we have the same right to predicate mind as existing in such
an animal that we have to predicate it as existing in any human being
other than ourselves. For instance, a dog has always been accustomed to
eat a piece of meat when his organism requires nourishment, and when his
olfactory nerves respond to the particular stimulus occasioned by the
proximity of the food. So far, it may be said, there is no evidence of
mind; the whole series of events comprised in the stimulations and
muscular movements may be due to reflex action alone. But now suppose
that by a number of lessons the dog has been taught not to eat the meat
when he is hungry until he receives a certain verbal signal: then we
have exactly the same kind of evidence that the dog's actions are
prompted by mind as we have that the actions of a man are so
prompted.[2] Now we find that the lower down we go in the animal
kingdom, the more we observe reflex action, or non-mental adjustment, to
predominate over volitional action, or mental adjustment. That is to
say, the lower down we go in the animal kingdom, the less capacity do we
find for changing adjustive movements in correspondence with changed
conditions; it becomes more and more hopeless to _teach_ animals--that
is, to establish associations of ideas; and the reason of this, of
course, is that ideas or mental units become fewer and less definite the
lower we descend through the structure of mind.
* * * * *
It is not my object in the present work to enter upon any analysis of
the operations of mind, as this will require to be done as fully as
possible in my next work. Nevertheless, a few words must here be said
with regard to the main divisions of mental operation, in order to
define closely the meanings which I shall attach to certain terms
relating to these divisions, and the use of which I cannot avoid.
The terms sensation, perception, emotion, and volition need not here be
considered. I shall use them in their ordinary psychological
significations; and although I shall subsequently have to analyse each
of the organic or mental states which they respectively denote, there
will be no occasion in the present volume to enter upon this subject. I
may, however, point out one general consideration to which I shall
throughout adhere. Taking it for granted that the external indications
of mental processes which we observe in animals are trustworthy, so that
we are justified in inferring particular mental states from particular
bodily actions, it follows that in consistency we must everywhere apply
the same criteria.
For instance, if we find a dog or a monkey exhibiting marked expressions
of affection, sympathy, jealousy, rage, &c., few persons are sceptical
enough to doubt that the complete analogy which these expressions afford
with those which are manifested by man, sufficiently prove the
existence of mental states analogous to those in man of which these
expressions are the outward and visible signs. But when we find an ant
or a bee apparently exhibiting by its actions these same emotions, few
persons are sufficiently non-sceptical not to doubt whether the outward
and visible signs are here trustworthy as evidence of analogous or
corresponding inward and mental states. The whole organisation of such a
creature is so different from that of a man that it becomes questionable
how far analogy drawn from the activities of the insect is a safe guide
to the inferring of mental states--particularly in view of the fact that
in many respects, such as in the great preponderance of 'instinct' over
'reason,' the psychology of an insect is demonstrably a widely different
thing from that of a man. Now it is, of course, perfectly true that the
less the resemblance the less is the value of any analogy built upon the
resemblance, and therefore that the inference of an ant or a bee feeling
sympathy or rage is not so valid as is the similar inference in the case
of a dog or a monkey. Still it _is_ an inference, and, so far as it
goes, a valid one--being, in fact, the only inference available. That is
to say, if we observe an ant or a bee apparently exhibiting sympathy or
rage, we must either conclude that some psychological state resembling
that of sympathy or rage is present, or else refuse to think about the
subject at all; from the observable facts there is no other inference
open. Therefore, having full regard to the progressive weakening of the
analogy from human to brute psychology as we recede through the animal
kingdom downwards from man, still, as it is the only analogy available,
I shall follow it throughout the animal series.
It may not, however, be superfluous to point out that if we have full
regard to this progressive weakening of the analogy, we must feel less
and less certain of the real similarity of the mental states compared;
so that when we get down as low as the insects, I think the most we can
confidently assert is that the known facts of human psychology furnish
the best available pattern of the probable facts of insect psychology.
Just as the theologians tell us--and logically enough--that if there is
a Divine Mind, the best, and indeed only, conception we can form of it
is that which is formed on the analogy, however imperfect, supplied by
the human mind; so with 'inverted anthropomorphism' we must apply a
similar consideration with a similar conclusion to the animal mind. The
mental states of an insect may be widely different from those of a man,
and yet most probably the nearest conception that we can form of their
true nature is that which we form by assimilating them to the pattern of
the only mental states with which we are actually acquainted. And this
consideration, it is needless to point out, has a special validity to
the evolutionist, inasmuch as upon his theory there must be a
psychological, no less than a physiological, continuity extending
throughout the length and breadth of the animal kingdom.
* * * * *
In these preliminary remarks only one other point requires brief
consideration, and this has reference to the distinction between what in
popular phraseology is called 'Instinct' and 'Reason.' I shall not here
enter upon any elaborate analysis of a distinction which is undoubtedly
valid, but shall confine my remarks to explaining the sense in which I
shall everywhere use these terms.
Few words in our language have been subject to a greater variety of
meanings than the word instinct. In popular phraseology, descended from
the Middle Ages, all the mental faculties of the animal are termed
instinctive, in contradistinction to those of man, which are termed
rational. But unless we commit ourselves to an obvious reasoning in a
circle, we must avoid assuming that all actions of animals are
instinctive, and then arguing that because they are instinctive,
therefore they differ from the rational actions of man. The question
really lies in what is here assumed, and we can only answer it by
examining in what essential respect instinct differs from reason.
Again, Addison says:--
I look upon instinct as upon the principle of
gravitation in bodies, which is not to be explained by
any known qualities inherent in the bodies themselves,
nor from any laws of mechanism, but as an immediate
impression from the first Mover, and the Divine energy
acting in the creatures.
This mode of 'looking upon instinct' is merely to exclude the subject
from the sphere of inquiry, and so to abstain from any attempt at
definition.
Innumerable other opinions might be quoted from well-known writers,
'looking upon instinct' in widely different ways; but as this is not an
historical work, I shall pass on at once to the manner in which science
looks upon it, or, at least, the manner in which it will always be
looked upon throughout the present work.
Without concerning ourselves with the origin of instincts, and so
without reference to the theory of evolution, we have to consider the
most conspicuous and distinctive features of instinct as it now exists.
The most important point to observe in the first instance is that
instinct involves _mental_ operations; for this is the only point that
serves to distinguish instinctive action from reflex. Reflex action, as
already explained, is non-mental neuro-muscular adaptation to
appropriate stimuli; but instinctive action is this and something more;
there is in it the element of mind. Such, at least, is instinctive
action in the sense that I shall always allude to it. I am, of course,
aware that the limitation which I thus impose is one which is ignored,
or not recognised, by many writers even among psychologists; but I am
persuaded that if we are to have any approach to definiteness in the
terms which we employ--not to say of clearness in our ideas concerning
the things of which we speak--it is most desirable to restrict the word
instinct to mental as distinguished from non-mental activity. No doubt
it is often difficult, or even impossible, to decide whether or not a
given action implies the presence of the mind-element--_i.e._, conscious
as distinguished from unconscious adaptation; but this is altogether a
separate matter, and has nothing to do with the question of defining
instinct in a manner which shall be formally exclusive, on the one hand
of reflex action, and on the other of reason. As Virchow truly observes,
'it is difficult or impossible to draw the line between instinctive and
reflex action;' but at least the difficulty may be narrowed down to
deciding in particular cases whether or not an action falls into this or
that category of definition; there is no reason why the difficulty
should arise on account of any ambiguity of the definitions themselves.
Therefore I endeavour to draw as sharply as possible the line which _in
theory_ should be taken to separate instinctive from reflex action; and
this line, as I have already said, is constituted by the boundary of
non-mental or unconscious adjustment, with adjustment in which there is
concerned consciousness or mind.
Having thus, I hope, made it clear that the difficulty of drawing a
distinction between reflex and instinctive actions as a class is one
thing, and that the difficulty of assigning particular actions to one or
the other of our categories is another thing, we may next perceive that
the former difficulty is obviated by the distinction which I have
imposed, and that the latter only arises from the fact that on the
objective side there is no distinction imposable. The former difficulty
is obviated by the distinction which I have drawn, simply because the
distinction is itself a definite one. In particular cases of adjustive
action we may not always be able to affirm whether consciousness of
their performance is present or absent; but, as I have already said,
this does not affect the validity of our definition; all we can say of
such cases is that if the performance in question is attended with
consciousness it is instinctive, and if not it is reflex.
And the difficulty of assigning particular actions to one or other of
these two categories arises, as I have said, merely because on the
objective side, or the side of the nervous system, there is no
distinction to be drawn. Whether or not a neural process is accompanied
by a mental process, it is in itself the same. The advent and
development of consciousness, although progressively converting reflex
action into instinctive, and instinctive into rational, does this
exclusively in the sphere of subjectivity; the nervous processes engaged
are throughout the same in kind, and differ only in the relative degrees
of their complexity. Therefore, as the dawn of consciousness or the rise
of the mind-element is gradual and undefined, both in the animal kingdom
and in the growing child, it is but necessary that in the early morning,
as it were, of consciousness any distinction between the mental and the
non-mental should be obscure, and generally impossible to determine.
Thus, for instance, a child at birth does not close its eyes upon the
near approach of a threatening body, and it only learns to do so by
degrees as the result of experience; at first, therefore, the action of
closing the eyelids in order to protect the eyes may be said to be
instinctive, in that it involves the mind-element:[3] yet it afterwards
becomes a reflex which asserts itself even in opposition to the will.
And, conversely, sucking in a new-born child, or a child _in utero_, is,
in accordance with my definition, a reflex action; yet in later life,
when consciousness becomes more developed and the child _seeks_ the
breast, sucking may properly be called an instinctive action. Therefore
it is that, as in the ascending scale of objective complexity the
mind-element arises and advances gradually, many particular cases which
occupy the undefined boundary between reflex action and instinct cannot
be assigned with confidence either to the one region or to the other.
We see then the point, and the only point, wherein instinct can be
consistently separated from reflex action; viz., in presenting a mental
constituent. Next we must consider wherein instinct may be separated
from reason. And for this purpose we may best begin by considering what
we mean by reason.
The term 'reason' is used in significations almost as various as those
which are applied to 'instinct.' Sometimes it stands for all the
distinctively human faculties taken collectively, and in antithesis to
the mental faculties of the brute; while at other times it is taken to
mean the distinctively human faculties of intellect.
Dr. Johnson defines it as 'the power by which man deduces one
proposition from another, and proceeds from premises to consequences.'
This definition presupposes language, and therefore ignores all cases of
inference not thrown into the formal shape of predication. Yet even in
man the majority of inferences drawn by the mind never emerge as
articulate propositions; so that although, as we shall have occasion
fully to observe in my subsequent work, there is much profound
philosophy in identifying reason with speech as they were identified in
the term Logos, yet for purposes of careful definition so to identify
intellect with language is clearly a mistake.
More correctly, the word reason is used to signify the power of
perceiving analogies or ratios, and is in this sense equivalent to the
term 'ratiocination,' or the faculty of deducing inferences from a
perceived equivalency of relations. Such is the only use of the word
that is strictly legitimate, and it is thus that I shall use it
throughout the present treatise. This faculty, however, of balancing
relations, drawing inferences, and so of forecasting probabilities,
admits of numberless degrees; and as in the designation of its lower
manifestations it sounds somewhat unusual to employ the word reason, I
shall in these cases frequently substitute the word intelligence. Where
we find, for instance, that an oyster profits by individual experience,
or is able to perceive new relations and suitably to act upon the result
of its perceptions, I think it sounds less unusual to speak of the
oyster as displaying intelligence than as displaying reason. On this
account I shall use the former term to signify the lower degrees of the
ratiocinative faculty; and thus in my usage it will be opposed to such
terms as instinct, reflex action, &c., in the same manner as the term
reason is so opposed. This is a point which, for the sake of clearness,
I desire the reader to retain in his memory. I shall always speak of
intelligence and intellect in antithesis to instinct, emotion, and the
rest, as implying mental faculties the same in kind as those which in
ourselves we call rational.
Now it is notorious that no distinct line can be drawn between instinct
and reason. Whether we look to the growing child or to the ascending
scale of animal life, we find that instinct shades into reason by
imperceptible degrees, or, as Pope expresses it, that these principles
are 'for ever separate, yet for ever near.' Nor is this other than the
principles of evolution would lead us to expect, as I shall afterwards
have abundant occasion to show. Here, however, we are only concerned
with drawing what distinction we can between instinct and reason as
these faculties are actually presented to our observation. And this in a
general way it is not difficult to do.
We have seen that instinct involves 'mental operations,' and that by
this feature it is distinguished from reflex action; we have now to
consider the features by which it is distinguished from reason. These
are accurately, though not completely, conveyed by Sir Benjamin Brodie,
who defines instinct as 'a principle by which animals are induced,
independently of experience and reasoning, to the performances of
certain voluntary acts, which are necessary to their preservation as
individuals, or to the continuance of the species, or in some other way
convenient to them.'[4] This definition, as I have said, is accurate as
far as it goes, but it does not state with sufficient generality and
terseness that all instinctive action is adaptive; nor does it clearly
bring out the distinction between instinct and reason which is thus well
conveyed by the definition of Hartmann, who says in his 'Philosophy of
the Unconscious,' that 'instinct is action taken in pursuance of an end,
but without conscious perception of what the end is.' This definition,
however, is likewise defective in that it omits another of the important
differentiæ of instinct--namely, the uniformity of instinctive action as
performed by different individuals of the same species. Including this
feature, therefore, we may more accurately and completely define
instinct as mental action (whether in animals or human beings),
directed towards the accomplishing of adaptive movement, antecedent to
individual experience, without necessary knowledge of the relation
between the means employed and the ends attained, but similarly
performed under the same appropriate circumstances by all the
individuals of the same species. Now in every one of these respects,
with the exception of containing a mental constituent and in being
concerned in adaptive action, instinct differs from reason. For reason,
besides involving a mental constituent, and besides being concerned in
adaptive action, is always subsequent to individual experience, never
acts but upon a definite and often laboriously acquired knowledge of the
relation between means and ends, and is very far from being always
similarly performed under the same appropriate circumstances by all the
individuals of the same species.
Thus the distinction between instinct and reason is both more definite
and more manifold than is that between instinct and reflex action.
Nevertheless, in particular cases there is as much difficulty in
classifying certain actions as instinctive or rational, as there is in
cases where the question lies between instinct and reflex action. And
the explanation of this is, as already observed, that instinct passes
into reason by imperceptible degrees; so that actions in the main
instinctive are very commonly tempered with what Pierre Huber calls 'a
little dose of judgment or reason,' and _vice versâ_. But here, again,
the difficulty which attaches to the classification of particular
actions has no reference to the validity of the distinctions between the
two classes of actions; these are definite and precise, whatever
difficulty there may be in applying them to particular cases.
Another point of difference between instinct and reason may be noticed
which, although not of invariable, is of very general applicability. It
will have been observed, from what has already been said, that the
essential respect in which instinct differs from reason consists in the
amount of conscious deliberation which the two processes respectively
involve. Instinctive actions are actions which, owing to their frequent
repetition, become so habitual in the course of generations that all
the individuals of the same species automatically perform the same
actions under the stimulus supplied by the same appropriate
circumstances. Rational actions, on the other hand, are actions which
are required to meet circumstances of comparatively rare occurrence in
the life-history of the species, and which therefore can only be
performed by an intentional effort of adaptation. Consequently there
arises the subordinate distinction to which I allude, viz., that
instinctive actions are only performed under particular circumstances
which have been frequently experienced during the life-history of the
species; whereas rational actions are performed under varied
circumstances, and serve to meet novel exigencies which may never before
have occurred even in the life-history of the individual.
Thus, then, upon the whole, we may lay down our several definitions in
their most complete form.
Reflex action is non-mental neuro-muscular adjustment, due to the
inherited mechanism of the nervous system, which is formed to respond to
particular and often recurring stimuli, by giving rise to particular
movements of an adaptive though not of an intentional kind.
Instinct is reflex action into which there is imported the element of
consciousness. The term is therefore a generic one, comprising all those
faculties of mind which are concerned in conscious and adaptive action,
antecedent to individual experience, without necessary knowledge of the
relation between means employed and ends attained, but similarly
performed under similar and frequently recurring circumstances by all
the individuals of the same species.
Reason or intelligence is the faculty which is concerned in the
intentional adaptation of means to ends. It therefore implies the
conscious knowledge of the relation between means employed and ends
attained, and may be exercised in adaptation to circumstances novel
alike to the experience of the individual and to that of the species.
FOOTNOTES:
[2] Of course it may be said that we have no evidence of _prompting_ in
either case; but this is the side issue which concerns the general
relation of body and mind, and has nothing to do with the guarantee of
inferring the presence of mind in particular cases.
[3] _I.e._, ancestral as well as individual. If the race had not always
had occasion to close the eyelids to protect the eyes, it is certain
that the young child would not so quickly learn to do so in virtue of
its own individual experience alone; and as the action cannot be
attributed to any process of conscious inference, it is not rational;
but we have seen that it is not originally reflex; therefore it is
instinctive.
[4] _Psychological Researches_, p. 187.
CHAPTER I.
APPLICATION OF THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES TO THE LOWEST ANIMALS.
_Protozoa._
NO one can have watched the movements of certain Infusoria without
feeling it difficult to believe that these little animals are not
actuated by some amount of intelligence. Even if the manner in which
they avoid collisions be attributed entirely to repulsions set up in the
currents which by their movements they create, any such mechanical
explanation certainly cannot apply to the small creatures seeking one
another for the purposes of prey, reproduction, or, as it sometimes
seems, of mere sport. There is a common and well-known rotifer whose
body is of a cup shape, provided with a very active tail, which is armed
at its extremity with strong forceps. I have seen a small specimen of
this rotifer seize a much larger one with its forceps, and attach itself
by this means to the side of the cup. The large rotifer at once became
very active, and swinging about with its burden until it came to a piece
of weed, it took firm hold of the weed with its own forceps, and began
the most extraordinary series of movements, which were obviously
directed towards ridding itself of the encumbrance. It dashed from side
to side in all directions with a vigour and suddenness which were highly
astonishing, so that it seemed as if the animalcule would either break
its forceps or wrench its tail from its body. No movements could
possibly be better suited to jerk off the offending object, for the
energy with which the jerks were given, now in one direction and now in
another, were, as I have said, most surprising. But not less surprising
was the tenacity with which the smaller rotifer retained its hold; for
although one might think that it was being almost jerked to pieces,
after each bout of jerking it was seen to be still attached. This trial
of strength, which must have involved an immense expenditure of energy
in proportion to the size of the animals, lasted for several minutes,
till eventually the small rotifer was thrown violently away. It then
returned to the conflict, but did not succeed a second time in
establishing its hold. The entire scene was as like intelligent action
on the part of both animals as could well be imagined, so that if we
were to depend upon appearances alone, this one observation would be
sufficient to induce me to attribute conscious determination to these
microscopical organisms.
But, without denying that conscious determination may here be present,
or involving ourselves in the impossible task of proving such a
negative, we may properly affirm that until an animalcule shows itself
to be teachable by individual experience, we have no sufficient evidence
derived or derivable from any number of such apparently intelligent
movements, that conscious determination is present. Therefore, I need
not wait to quote the observations of the sundry microscopists who
detail facts more or less similar to the above, with expressions of
their belief that microscopical organisms display a certain degree of
instinct or intelligence as distinguished from mechanical, or wholly
non-mental adjustment. But there are some observations relating to the
lowest of all animals, and made by a competent person, which are so
remarkable that I shall have to quote them in full. These observations
are recorded by Mr. H. J. Carter, F.R.S., in the 'Annals of Natural
History,' and in his opinion prove that the beginnings of instinct are
to be found so low down in the scale as the Rhizopoda. He says:--'Even
_Athealium_ will confine itself to the water of the watch-glass in which
it may be placed when away from sawdust and chips of wood among which it
has been living; but if the watch-glass be placed upon the sawdust, it
will very soon make its way over the side of the watch-glass and get to
it.'
This is certainly a remarkable observation: for it seems to show that
the rhizopod distinguishes the presence of the sawdust outside the
watch-glass, and crawls over the brim of the latter in order to get into
more congenial quarters, while it is contented with the water in the
watch-glass so long as there is no sawdust outside. But to proceed:
On one occasion, while investigating the nature of
some large, transparent, spore-like elliptical cells
(fungal?) whose protoplasm was rotating, while it was
at the same time charged with triangular grains of
starch, I observed some actinophorous rhizopods
creeping about them, which had similarly shaped grains
of starch in their interior; and having determined the
nature of these grains in both by the addition of
iodine, I cleansed the glasses, and placed under the
microscope a new portion of the sediment from the
basin containing these cells and actinophryans for
further examination, when I observed one of the
spore-like cells had become ruptured, and that a
portion of its protoplasm, charged with the triangular
starch-grains, was slightly protruding through the
crevice. It then struck me that the actinophryans had
obtained their starch-grains from this source; and
while looking at the ruptured cell, an _actinophrys_
made its appearance, and creeping round the cell, at
last arrived at the crevice, from which it extricated
one of the grains of starch mentioned, and then crept
off to a good distance. Presently, however, it
returned to the same cell; and although there were now
no more starch-grains protruding, the _actinophrys_
managed again to extract one from the interior through
the crevice. All this was repeated several times,
showing that the _actinophrys_ instinctively knew that
those were nutritious grains, that they were contained
in this cell, and that, although each time after
incepting a grain it went away to some distance, it
knew how to find its way back to the cell again which
furnished this nutriment.
On another occasion I saw an _actinophrys_ station
itself close to a ripe spore-cell of _pythium_, which
was situated upon a filament of _Spirogyra crassa_;
and as the young ciliated monadic germs issued forth,
one after another, from the dehiscent spore-cell, the
_actinophrys_ remained by it and caught every one of
them, even to the last, when it retired to another
part of the field, as if instinctively conscious that
there was nothing more to be got at the old place.
But by far the greatest feat of this kind that ever
presented itself to me was the catching of a young
_acineta_ by an old sluggish _amoeba_, as the
former left its parent; and this took place as
follows:--
In the evening of the 2nd of June, 1858, in Bombay,
while looking through a microscope at some _Euglenæ_,
&c., which had been placed aside for examination in a
watch-glass, my eye fell upon a stalked and triangular
_acineta_ (_A. mystacina_?), around which an
_amoeba_ was creeping and lingering, as they do when
they are in quest of food. But knowing the antipathy
that the _amoeba_, like almost every other
infusorian, has to the tentacles of the _acineta_, I
concluded that the _amoeba_ was not encouraging an
appetite for its whiskered companion, when I was
surprised to find that it crept up the stem of the
_acineta_, and wound itself round its body. This mark
of affection, too much like that frequently evinced at
the other end of the scale, even where there is a mind
for its control, did not long remain without
interpretation. There was a young _acineta_, tender,
and without poisonous tentacles (for they are not
developed at birth), just ready to make its exit from
the parent, an exit which takes place so quickly, and
is followed by such rapid bounding movements of the
non-ciliated _acineta_, that who would venture to say,
_à priori_, that a dull, heavy, sluggish _amoeba_
could catch such an agile little thing? But the
_amoeba_ are as unerring and unrelaxing in their
grasp as they are unrelenting in their cruel
inceptions of the living and the dead, when they serve
them for nutrition; and thus the _amoeba_, placing
itself round the ovarian aperture of the _acineta_,
received the young one, nurse-like, in its fatal lap,
incepted it, descended from the parent, and crept off.
Being unable to conceive at the time that this was
such an act of atrocity on the part of the _amoeba_
as the sequel disclosed, and thinking that the young
_acineta_ might yet escape, or pass into some other
form in the body of its host, I watched the _amoeba_
for some time afterwards, until the tale ended by the
young _acineta_ becoming divided into two parts, and
thus in their respective digestive spaces ultimately
becoming broken down and digested.[5]
With regard to these remarkable observations it can only, I think, be
said that although certainly very suggestive of something more than
mechanical response to stimulation, they are not sufficiently so to
justify us in ascribing to these lowest members of the zoological scale
any rudiment of truly mental action. The subject, however, is here full
of difficulty, and not the least so on account of the _amoeba_ not
only having no nervous system, but no observable organs of any kind; so
that, although we may suppose that the adaptive movements described by
Mr. Carter were non-mental, it still remains wonderful that these
movements should be exhibited by such apparently unorganised creatures,
seeing that as to the remoteness of the end attained, no less than the
complex refinement of the stimulus to which their adaptive response was
due, the movements in question rival the most elaborate of non-mental
adjustments elsewhere performed by the most highly organised of nervous
systems.
_Coelenterata._
Dr. Eimer attributes 'voluntary action' to the Medusæ, and indeed draws
a sharp distinction between what he considers their 'involuntary' and
'voluntary' movements. In this distinction, however, I do not at all
concur; for although I am well acquainted with the difference between
the active and slow rhythm upon which the distinction is founded, I see
no evidence whatever for supposing that the difference involves any
psychological element. The active swimming is produced by stimulation,
and is no doubt calculated to lead to the escape of the organism; but
this fact certainly does not carry us beyond the ordinary possibilities
of reflex action. And even when, as in some species is constantly the
case, bouts of active swimming appear to arise spontaneously or without
observable stimulation, the fact is to be attributed to a liberation of
overplus ganglionic energy, or to some unobservable stimulation; it does
not justify the supposition of any psychical element being concerned.[6]
M'Crady gives an interesting account of a medusa which carries its larvæ
on the inner sides of its bell-shaped body. The manubrium, or mobile
digestive cavity of the animal, depends, as in the other Medusæ, from
the summit of the concave surface of the bell, like a clapper or tongue.
Now M'Crady observed this depending organ to be moved first to one side
and then to the other side of the bell, in order to give suck to the
larvæ on the sides of the bell--the larvæ dipping their long noses into
the nutrient fluids which that organ of the parent's body contained. I
cite this case, because if it occurred in one of the higher animals it
would probably be called a case of instinct; but as it occurs in so low
an animal as a jelly-fish, it is unreasonable to suppose that
intelligence can ever have played any part in originating the action.
Therefore we may set it down as the uncompounded result of natural
selection.
Some species of medusæ--notably _Sarsia_--seek the light, crowding into
the path of a beam, and following it actively if moved. They derive
advantage from so doing, because certain small crustacea on which they
feed likewise crowd into the light. The seeking of light by these medusæ
is therefore doubtless of the nature of a reflex action which has been
developed by natural selection in order to bring the animals into
contact with their prey. Paul Bert has found that _Daphnia pulex_ seeks
the light (especially the yellow ray), and Engelmann has observed the
same fact with regard to certain protoplasmic organisms. But in none of
these or other such cases is there any evidence of a psychical element
being concerned in the process.
_Echinodermata._
Some of the natural movements of these animals, as also some of their
movements under stimulation, are very suggestive of purpose; but I have
satisfied myself that there is no adequate evidence of the animals being
able to profit by individual experience, and therefore, in accordance
with our canon, that there is no adequate evidence of their exhibiting
truly mental phenomena. On the other hand, the study of reflex action in
these organisms is full of interest--so much so that in my next work I
shall take them as typical organisms in this connection.[7]
_Annelida._
Mr. Darwin has now in the press a highly interesting work on the habits
of earth-worms. It appears from his observations that the manner in
which these animals draw down leaves, &c., into their burrows is
strongly indicative of instinctive action, if not of intelligent
purpose--seeing that they always lay hold of the part of the leaf (even
though an exotic one) by the traction of which the leaf will offer least
resistance to being drawn down. But as this work will so shortly be
published, I shall not forestall any of the facts which it has to state,
nor should I yet like to venture an opinion as to how far these facts,
when considered altogether, would justify any inference to a truly
mental element as existing in these animals.
Of the land leeches in Ceylon, Sir E. Tennent gives an account which
likewise seems to bespeak intelligence as occurring in annelids. He
says:--
In moving, the land leeches have the power of planting
one extremity on the earth and raising the other
perpendicularly to watch for their victim. Such is
their vigilance and instinct, that on the approach of
a passer-by to a spot which they infest, they may be
seen amongst the grass and fallen leaves on the edge
of a native path, poised erect, and preparing for
their attack on man and horse. On descrying their prey
they advance rapidly by semicircular strides, fixing
one end firmly and arching the other forwards, till by
successive advances they can lay hold of the
traveller's foot, when they disengage themselves from
the ground and ascend his dress in search of an
aperture to enter. In these encounters the individuals
in the rear of a party of travellers in the jungle
invariably fare worst, as the leeches, once warned of
their approach, congregate with singular celerity.[8]
FOOTNOTES:
[5] H. J. Carter, F.R.S., _Annals of Natural History_, 3rd Series, 1863,
pp. 45-6.
[6] For an account of the natural movements of the Medusæ and the
effects of stimulation upon them, see Croonian Lecture in _Phil. Trans._
1875, and also _Phil. Trans._ 1877 and 1879.
[7] See Croonian Lecture, 1881, in forthcoming issue of _Phil. Trans._
[8] _Natural History of Ceylon_, p. 481.
CHAPTER II.
MOLLUSCA.
I SHALL treat of the Mollusca before the Articulata, because as a group
their intelligence is not so high. Indeed, it is not to be expected that
the class of animals wherein the 'vegetative' functions of nutrition and
reproduction predominate so largely over the animal functions of
sensation, locomotion, &c., should present any considerable degree of
intelligence. Nevertheless, in the only division of the group which has
sense organs and powers of locomotion highly developed--viz., the
Cephalopoda--we meet with large cephalic ganglia, and, it would appear,
with no small development of intelligence. Taking, however, the
sub-kingdom in ascending order, I shall first present all the
trustworthy evidence that I have been able to collect, pointing to the
highest level of intelligence that is attained by the lower members.
The following is quoted from Mr. Darwin's MS.:--
Even the headless oyster seems to profit from
experience, for Dicquemase ('Journal de Physique,'
vol. xxviii. p. 244) asserts that oysters taken from a
depth never uncovered by the sea, open their shells,
lose the water within, and perish; but oysters taken
from the same place and depth, if kept in reservoirs,
where they are occasionally left uncovered for a short
time, and are otherwise incommoded, learn to keep
their shells shut, and then live for a much longer
time when taken out of the water.[9]
Some evidence of intelligence seems to be displayed by the razor-fish.
For the animals dislike salt, so that when this is sprinkled above their
burrows in the sand, they come to the surface and quit their
habitations. But if the animal is once seized when it comes to the
surface and afterwards allowed to retire into its burrow, no amount of
salt will force it again to come to the surface.[10]
With regard to snails, L. Agassiz writes: 'Quiconque a eu l'occasion
d'observer les amours des limaçons, ne saurait mettre en doute la
séduction déployée dans les mouvements et les allures qui préparent et
accomplissent le double embrassement de ces hermaphrodites.'[11]
Again, Mr. Darwin's MS. quotes from Mr. W. White[12] a curious exhibition
of intelligence in a snail, which does not seem to have admitted of
mal-observation. This gentleman 'fixed a land-shell mouth uppermost in a
chink of rock; in a short time the snail protruded itself to its utmost
length, and, attaching its foot vertically above, tried to pull the
shell out in a straight line. Not succeeding, it rested for a few
minutes and then stretched out its body on the right side and pulled its
utmost, but failed. Resting again, it protruded its foot on the left
side, pulled with its full force, and freed the shell. This exertion of
force in three directions, which seems so geometrically suitable, must
have been intentional.'
If it is objected that snail shells must frequently be liable to be
impeded by obstacles, and therefore that this display of manoeuvring
on the part of their occupants is to be regarded as a reflex, I may
remark that here again we have one of those incessantly recurring cases
where it is difficult to draw the line between intelligence and
non-intelligence. For, granting that the action is to a certain extent
mechanical, we must still recognise that the animal while executing it
must have remembered each of the two directions in which it had pulled
ineffectually before it began to pull in the third direction; and it is
improbable that snail shells are so frequently caught in positions from
which a pull in only one direction will release them, that natural
selection would have developed a special instinct to try pulling
successively in three directions at right angles to one another.
The only other instance that I have met with of the apparent display of
intelligence in snails is the remarkable one which Mr. Darwin gives in
his 'Descent of Man,' on the authority of Mr. Lonsdale. Although the
interpretation which is assigned to the fact seems to me to go beyond
anything that we should have reason to expect of snail intelligence, I
cannot ignore a fact which stands upon the observation of so good an
authority, and shall therefore quote it in Mr. Darwin's words:--
These animals appear also susceptible of some degree
of permanent attachment: an accurate observer, Mr.
Lonsdale, informs me that he placed a pair of
land-snails (_Helix pomatia_), one of which was
weakly, into a small and ill-provided garden. After a
short time the strong and healthy individual
disappeared, and was traced by its track of slime over
a wall into an adjoining well-stocked garden. Mr.
Lonsdale concluded that it had deserted its sickly
mate; but after an absence of twenty-four hours it
returned, and apparently communicated the result of
its successful exploration, for both then started
along the same track, and disappeared over the
wall.[13]
In this case the fact must be accepted, seeing that it stands on the
authority of an accurate observer, and is of so definite a kind as not
to admit of mistake. Consequently we are shut up to the alternative of
supposing the return of the healthy snail to its mate a mere accident,
and their both going over the wall into the well-stocked garden another
mere accident, or acquiescing in the interpretation which Mr. Darwin
assigns. Now, if we look closely into the matter, the chances against
the double accident in question are certainly so considerable as to
render the former supposition almost impossible. On the other hand,
there is evidence to prove, as I shall immediately show, that a not
distantly allied animal is unquestionably able to remember a particular
locality as its home, and habitually to return to this locality after
feeding. Therefore, in view of this analogous and corroborative case,
the improbability of the snail remembering for twenty-four hours the
position of its mate is very much reduced; while the subsequent
communication, if it took place, would only require to have been of the
nature of 'follow me,' which, as we shall repeatedly find, is a degree
of communicative ability which many invertebrated animals possess.
Therefore, in view of these considerations, I incline to Mr. Darwin's
opinion that the facts can only be explained by supposing them due to
intelligence on the part of the snails. Thus considered, these facts are
no doubt very remarkable; for they would appear to indicate not merely
accurate memory of direction and locality for twenty-four hours, but
also no small degree of something akin to 'permanent attachment,' and
sympathetic desire that another should share in the good things which
one has found.[14]
The case to which I have just alluded as proving beyond all doubt that
some Gasteropoda are able to retain a very precise and accurate memory
of locality, is that of the common limpet.
Mr. J. Clarke Hawkshaw publishes in the Journal of the Linnæan Society
the following account of the habits in question:--
The holes in the chalk in which the limpets are often
to be found are, I believe, excavated in a great
measure by rasping from the lingual teeth, though I
doubt whether the object is to form a cavity to
shelter in, though the cavities, when formed, may be
of use for that purpose. It must be of the greatest
importance to a limpet that, in order that it may
insure a firm adherence to the rock, its shell should
fit the rock accurately; when the shell does fit the
rock accurately, a small amount of muscular
contraction of the animal would cause the shell to
adhere so firmly to a smooth surface as to be
practically immoveable without fracture. As the shells
cannot be adapted daily to different forms of surface,
the limpets generally return to the same place of
attachment. I am sure this is the case with many; for
I found shells perfectly adjusted to the uneven
surfaces of flints, the growth of the shells being in
some parts distorted and indented to suit
inequalities in the surface of the flints. . . .
I noticed signs that limpets prefer a hard, smooth
surface to a pit in the chalk. On one surface of a
large block, over all sides of which limpets were
regularly and plentifully distributed, there were two
flat fragments of a fossil shell about 3 inches by 4
inches, each embedded in the chalk. The chalk all
round these fragments was free from limpets; but on
the smooth surface of the pieces of shell they were
packed as closely as they could be. I noticed another
case, which almost amounts, to my mind, to a proof
that they prefer a smooth surface to a hole. A limpet
had formed a clearing on one of the sea-weed-covered
blocks before referred to. In the midst of this
clearing was a pedestal of flint rather more than one
inch in diameter, standing up above the surface of the
chalk; it projected so much that a tap from my hammer
broke it off. On the top of the smooth fractured
surface of this flint the occupant of the clearing had
taken up its abode. The shell was closely adapted to
the uneven surface, which it would only fit in one
position. The cleared surface was in a hollow with
several small natural cavities, where the limpet could
have found a pit ready made to shelter in; yet it
preferred, after each excursion, to climb up to the
top of the flint, the most exposed point in all its
domain.[15]
It appears certain from these observations, which to some extent were
anticipated by those of Mr. F. C. Lukis,[16] that limpets, after every
browsing excursion, return to one particular spot or home; and the
precise memory of direction and locality implied by this fact seems to
justify us in regarding these actions of the animal as of a nature
unquestionably intelligent.
Coming now to the cephalopoda, there is no doubt that if a larger sphere
of opportunity permitted, adequate observation of these animals would
prove them to be much the most intelligent members of the sub-kingdom.
Unfortunately, however, this sphere of opportunity has hitherto been
very limited. The following meagre account is all that I have been able
to gather concerning the psychology of these interesting animals.
According to Schneider,[17] the Cephalopoda show unmistakable evidence
of consciousness and intelligence. This observer had an opportunity of
watching them for a long time in the zoological station at Naples; and
he says that they appeared to recognise their keeper after they had for
some time received their food from him. Hollmann narrates that an
octopus, which had had a struggle with a lobster, followed the latter
into an adjacent tank, to which it had been removed for safety, and
there destroyed it. In order to do this the octopus had to climb up a
vertical partition above the surface of the water and descend the other
side.[18] According to Schneider, the Cephalopoda have an abstract idea
of water, seeking to return to it when removed, even though they do not
see it. But this probably arises from the sense of discomfort due to
exposure of their skin to the air; and if we can call it an 'idea,' it
is doubtless shared by all other aquatic Mollusca when exposed to air.
FOOTNOTES:
[9] This fact is also stated by Bingley, _Animal Biography_, vol. iii.
p. 454, and is now turned to practical account in the so-called
'Oyster-schools' of France. The distance from the coast to Paris being
too great for the newly dredged oysters to travel without opening their
shells, they are first taught in the schools to bear a longer and longer
exposure to the air without gaping, and when their education in this
respect is completed they are sent on their journey to the metropolis,
where they arrive with closed shells, and in a healthy condition.
[10] Bingley, _loc. cit._, vol. iii. p. 449.
[11] _De l'Espèce et de la Classe_, &c., 1869, p. 106.
[12] _A Londoner's Walk to Edinburgh_, p. 155 (1856).
[13] _Descent of Man_, pp. 262-3.
[14] The facts, however, in order to sustain such conclusions, of course
require corroboration, and it is therefore to be regretted that Mr.
Lonsdale did not experimentally repeat the conditions.
[15] _Journal Linn. Soc._ vol. xiv. p. 406 _et seq._
[16] _Mag. Nat. Hist._ 1831, vol. iv. p. 346.
[17] _Thieresche Wille_, § 78.
[18] _Leben der Cephalopoden_, s. 21.
CHAPTER III.
ANTS.
WITHIN the last ten or twelve years our information on the habits and
intelligence of these insects has been so considerably extended, that in
here rendering a condensed epitome of our knowledge in this most
interesting branch of comparative psychology, it will be found that the
chapter is constituted principally of a statement of observations and
experiments which have been conducted during the short period named. The
observers to whom we are mainly indebted for this large increase of our
knowledge are Messrs. Bates, Belt, Müller, Moggridge, Lincecum, MacCook,
and Sir John Lubbock. From the fact that these naturalists conducted
their observations in different parts of the world and on widely
different species of ants, it is not surprising that their results
should present many points of difference; for this only shows, as we
might have expected, that different species of ants differ considerably
in habits and intelligence. Therefore, in now drawing all these numerous
observations to a focus, I shall endeavour to show clearly their points
of difference as well as their points of agreement; and in order that
the facts to be considered may be arranged in some kind of order, I
shall deal with them under the following heads:--Powers of special
sense; Sense of direction; Powers of memory; Emotions; Powers of
communication; Habits general in sundry species; Habits peculiar to
certain species; General intelligence of various species.
_Powers of Special Sense._
Taking first the sense of sight, Sir John Lubbock made a number of
experiments on the influence of light coloured by passing through
various tints of stained glass, with the following results. The ants
which he observed greatly dislike the presence of light within their
nests, hurrying about in search of the darkest corners when light is
admitted. The experiments showed that the dislike is much greater in the
case of some colours than in that of others. Thus under a slip of red
glass there were congregated on one occasion 890 ants, under green 544,
under yellow 495, and under violet only 5. To our eyes the violet is as
opaque as the red, more so than the green, and much more so than the
yellow. Yet, as the numbers show, the ants had scarcely any tendency to
congregate under it: there were nearly as many under the same area of
the uncovered portion of the nest as under that shaded by the violet
glass. It is curious that the coloured glasses appear to act on the ants
in a graduated series, which corresponds with the order of their
influence on a photographic plate. Experiments were therefore made to
test whether it might not be the actinic rays that were so particularly
distasteful to the ants; but with negative results. Placing violet glass
above red produces the same effect as red glass alone. Obviously,
therefore, the ants avoid the violet glass because they dislike the rays
which it transmits, and do not prefer the other colours because they
like the rays which they transmit. Sodium, barium, strontium, and
lithium flames were also tried, but not with so much effect as the
coloured glass.
It has just been observed that the relative dislike which Sir John
Lubbock's ants showed to lights of different colours seems to be
determined by the position of the colour in the spectrum--there being a
regular gradation of intolerance shown from the red to the violet end.
As these ants dislike light, the question suggests itself that the
reason of their graduated intolerance to light of different colours may
be due to their eyes not being so much affected by the rays of low as by
those of high refrangibility. In this connection it would be interesting
to ascertain whether ants of the genus _Atta_ show a similarly graduated
intolerance to the light in different parts of the spectrum; for both
Moggridge and MacCook record of this genus that it not only does not
shun the light, but seeks it--coming to the glass sides of their
artificial nests to enjoy the light of a lamp. Possibly, therefore, the
scale of preference to lights of different colours would be found in
this genus to be the reverse of that which Sir John Lubbock has found in
the case of the British species.
As regards hearing, Sir John Lubbock found that sounds of various kinds
do not produce any effect upon the insects. Tuning-forks and violin
notes, shouting, whistling, &c., were all equally inefficient in
producing the slightest influence upon the animals; and experiments with
sensitive flames, microphone, telephone, &c., failed to yield any
evidence of ants emitting sounds inaudible to human ears.
Lastly, as regards the sense of smell, Sir John Lubbock found that on
bringing a camel's-hair brush steeped in various strong scents near
where ants were passing, "some went on without taking any notice, but
others stopped, and evidently perceiving the smell, turned back. Soon,
however, they returned, and passed the scented pencil. After doing this
two or three times, they generally took no further notice of the scent.
This experiment left no doubt on my mind." In other cases the ants were
observed to wave about and throw back their antennæ when the scented
pencil was brought near.
That ants track one another by scent was long ago mentioned by Huber,
and also that they depend on this sense for their power of finding
supplies which have been previously found by other ants. Huber proved
their power of tracking a path previously pursued by their friends, by
drawing his finger across the trail, so obliterating the scent at that
point, and observing that when the ants arrived at that point they
became confused and ran about in various directions till they again came
upon the trail on the other side of the interrupted space, when they
proceeded on their way as before. The more numerous and systematic
experiments of Sir John Lubbock have fully corroborated Huber's
observations, so far as these points are concerned. Thus, to give only
one or two of these experiments; in the accompanying woodcut (Fig. 1) A
is the nest, B a board, _n_ _f_ _g_ slips of paper, _h_ and _m_ similar
slides of glass, on one of which, _h_, there was placed pupæ, while the
other, _m_, was left empty. Sir John Lubbock watched two particular
(marked) ants proceeding from A to _h_ and back again, carrying the pupæ
on _h_ to the nest A. Whenever an ant came out of A upon B he transposed
the slips _f_ and _g_. Therefore at the angle below _n_ there was a
choice presented to the ant of taking the unscented pathway leading to
the full glass _h_, or the scented pathway leading to the empty glass
_m_. The two marked ants, knowing their way, always took the right turn
at the angle; but the stranger ants, being guided only by scent, for the
most part took the wrong turn at the angle, so going to the empty glass
_m_. For out of 150 stranger ants only 21 went to _h_, while the
remaining 129 went to _m_. Still the fact that all the stranger ants did
not follow the erroneous scent-trail to _m_, may be taken to indicate
that they are also assisted in finding treasure by the sense of sight,
though in a lesser degree. Therefore Sir John Lubbock concludes that in
finding treasure 'they are guided in some cases by sight, while in
others they track one another by scent.'
[Illustration: Fig. 1.]
As further evidence showing how much more ants depend upon scent than
upon sight in finding their way, the following experiment may be quoted.
In the accompanying woodcut (Fig. 2) the line marked 1, 2, 3 represents
the edge of a paper bridge leading to the nest; A the top of a pencil
which is standing perpendicularly upon a board, represented by the
general black surface; B the top of the same pencil when moved a
distance of a few inches from its first position A. On the top of this
pencil were placed some pupæ. Sir John Lubbock, after contriving this
arrangement, marked an ant and put it upon the pupæ on the top of the
pencil. After she had made two journeys carrying pupæ from the pencil to
the nest (the tracks she pursued being represented by the two thick
white lines), while she was in the nest he moved the pencil to its
position at B. The thin white line represents the course then pursued
by the ant in its endeavours to find the pencil, which was shifted only
a few inches from A to B. That is, 'the ants on their journey to the
shifted object travelled very often backwards and forwards and round the
spot where the coveted object first stood. Then they would retrace their
steps towards the nest, wander hither and thither from side to side
between the nest and the point A, and only after very repeated efforts
around the original site of the larvæ reach, as it were, accidentally
the object desired at B.' Therefore the ants were clearly not guided by
the _sight_ of the pencil.
[Illustration: Fig. 2.]
[Illustration: Fig. 3.]
[Illustration: Fig. 4.]
[Illustration: Fig. 5.]
The same thing is well shown by another form of experiment. 'Some food
was placed at the point _a_ (Figs. 3 and 4) on a board measuring 20
inches by 12 inches, and so arranged that the ants in going straight
from it to the nest would reach the board at the point _b_, and after
passing under the paper tunnel _c_, would proceed between five pairs of
wooden bricks, each 3 inches in length and 1-3/4 inches in height. When
they got to know their way they went quite straight along the line _d e_
to _a_. The board was then twisted as shown in Fig. 4. 'The bricks and
tunnel being arranged exactly in the same direction as before, but the
board having been moved, the line _d e_ was now outside them. The
change, however, did not at all discompose the ants; but instead of
going, as before, through the tunnel and between the rows of bricks to
_a_, they walked exactly along the old path to _e_.' Keeping the board
steady, but moving the brick pathway to the left-hand corner of the
board where the food was next placed (Fig. 5), had the effect of making
the ant first go to the old position of the food at _a_, whence it
veered to a new position, which we may call _x_. The bricks and food
were then moved towards the right-hand corner of the board--_i.e._ over
a distance of 8 inches (Fig. 6). The ant now first went to _a_, then to
_x_, and not finding the food at either place, set to work to look for
it at random, and was only successful after twenty-five minutes'
wandering.
[Illustration: Fig. 6.]
And, as evidence how much more dependence they place upon scent in
finding their way than upon any other of their faculties, it is
desirable to quote yet one further experiment, which is of great
interest as showing that when their sense of smell is made to contradict
their sense of direction, they follow the former, notwithstanding, as we
shall presently see, the wonderful accuracy of the information which is
supplied to them by the latter. 'If, when _F. niger_ were carrying off
larvæ placed in a cup on a piece of board, I turned the board round so
that the side which had been turned towards the nest was away from it,
and _vice versâ_, the ants always returned over the same track on the
board, and, in consequence, directly away from home. If I moved my board
to the other side of my artificial nest, the result was the same.
Evidently they followed the road, not the direction.'
There can be little doubt that ants have a sense of taste, as they are
so well able to distinguish sugary substances; and it is unquestionable
that in their antennæ they possess highly elaborated organs of touch.
_Sense of Direction._
As evidence of the accuracy and importance of the sense of direction in
the Hymenoptera, we must here adduce Sir John Lubbock's highly
interesting experiments on ants--leaving his experiments in this
connection on bees and wasps to be considered in the next chapter. He
first accustomed some ants (_Lasius niger_) to go to and fro to food
over a wooden bridge. When they had got quite accustomed to the way, he
watched when an ant was upon a bridge which could be rotated, and while
she was passing along it, he turned it round, so that end _b_ was at
_c_, and _c_ at _b_. 'In most cases the ant immediately turned round
also; but even if she went on to _b_ or _c_, as the case might be, as
soon as she came to the end of the bridge she turned round.' Next,
between the nest and the food he placed a hat-box twelve inches in
diameter and seven inches high, cutting two small holes, so that the
ants in passing from the nest to the food had to pass in at one hole and
out at the other. The box was fixed upon a central pivot, so as to admit
of being rotated easily without much friction or disturbance. When the
ants had well learnt their way, the box was turned half round as soon as
an ant had entered it, 'but in every case the ant turned too, thus
retaining her direction.' Lastly, Sir John took a disk of white paper,
which he placed in the stead of the hat-box between the nest and the
food. When an ant was on the disk making towards the food, he gently
drew the disk to the other side of the food, so that the ant was
conveyed by the moving surface in the same direction as that in which
she was going, but _beyond_ the point to which she intended to go. Under
these circumstances 'the ant did not turn round, but went on' to the
further edge of the disk, when she seemed 'a good deal surprised at
finding where she was.'
These experiments seem to show that the mysterious 'sense of direction,'
and consequent faculty of 'homing,' are in ants, at all events, due to a
process of registering, and, where desirable, immediately counteracting
any change of direction, even when such change is gently made by a
wholly closed chamber in which the animal is moving, and not by any
muscular movements of the animal itself. And the fact that drawing the
moving surface along in the same direction of advance as that which the
insect is pursuing does not affect the movements of the latter, seems
conclusively to show that the power of registration has reference only
to _lateral_ movements of the travelling surface; it has no reference to
variations in the _velocity_ of advance along the line in which the
animal is progressing.[19]
_Powers of Memory._
Little need here be said to prove that ants display some powers of
memory; for many of the observations and experiments already detailed
constitute a sufficient demonstration of the statement that they do.
Thus, for instance, the general fact that whenever an ant finds her way
to a store of food or larvæ, she will return to it again and again in a
more or less direct line from her nest, constitutes ample proof that the
ant remembers the way to the store. It is of considerable interest,
however, to note that the nature of this insect-memory appears to be, as
far as it goes, precisely identical with that of memory in general.
Thus, a new fact becomes _impressed_ upon their memory by _repetition_,
and the impression is liable to become effaced by lapse of time. More
evidence on both these features of insect-memory will be adduced when we
come to treat of the intelligence of bees; but meanwhile it is enough to
refer to the fact that in his experiments on ants, Sir John Lubbock
found it necessary to _teach_ the insects by a repetition of several
lessons their way to treasure, if that way was long or unusual.
With regard to the _duration_ of memory, it does not appear that any
experiments have been made; but the following observation by Mr. Belt on
this point in the case of the leaf-cutting ant may here be stated. In
June 1859 he found his garden invaded by these ants, and following up
their paths he found their nest about a hundred yards distant. He
poured down their burrows a pint of common brown carbolic acid, mixed
with four buckets of water. The marauding parties were at once drawn off
from the garden to meet the danger at home, and the whole formicarium
was disorganised, the ants running up and down again in the utmost
perplexity. Next day he found them busily employed bringing up the
ant-food from the old burrows, and carrying it to newly formed ones a
few yards distant. These, however, turned out to be only intended as
temporary repositories; for in a few days both the old and the new
burrows were entirely deserted, so that he supposed all the ants to have
died. Subsequently, however, he found that they had migrated to a new
site, about two hundred yards from the old one, and there established
themselves in a new nest. Twelve months later the ants again invaded his
garden, and again he treated them to a strong dose of carbolic acid. The
ants, as on the previous occasion, were at once withdrawn from the
garden, and two days afterwards he found 'all the survivors at work on
one track that led directly to the old nest of the year before, where
they were busily employed in making fresh excavations. Many were
bringing along pieces of ant-food' from the nest most recently deluged
with carbolic acid to that which had been similarly deluged a year
before, and from which all the carbolic acid had long ago disappeared.
'Others carried the undeveloped white pupæ and larvæ. It was a wholesale
and entire migration;' and the next day the nest down which he had last
poured the carbolic acid was entirely deserted. Mr. Belt adds: 'I
afterwards found that when much disturbed, and many of the ants
destroyed, the survivors migrate to a new locality. I do not doubt that
some of the leading minds in this formicarium recollected the nest of
the year before, and directed the migration to it.'
Now, I do not insist that the facts necessarily point to this
conclusion; for it may have been that the leaders of the migration
simply stumbled upon the old and vacant nest by accident, and finding it
already prepared as a nest, forthwith proceeded to transfer the food and
pupæ to it. Still, as the two nests were separated from one another by
so considerable a distance, this hypothesis does not seem probable, and
the only other one open to us is that the ants remembered the site of
their former home for a period of twelve months. And this conclusion is
rendered less improbable from a statement of Karl Vogt in his
'Thierstaaten,' to the effect that for several successive years ants
from a certain nest used to go through certain inhabited streets to a
chemist's shop 600 mètres distant, in order to obtain access to a vessel
filled with syrup. As it cannot be supposed that this vessel was found
in successive working seasons by as many successive accidents, it can
only be concluded that the ants remembered the syrup store from season
to season.
I shall now pass on to consider a class of highly remarkable facts,
perhaps the most remarkable of the many remarkable facts connected with
ant psychology.
It has been known since the observations of Huber that all the ants of
the same nest or community recognise one another as friends, while an
ant introduced from another nest, even though it be an ant of the same
species, is known at once to be a foreigner, and is usually maltreated
or put to death. Huber found that when he removed an ant from a nest and
kept it away from its companions for a period of four months it was
still recognised as a friend, and caressed by its previous
fellow-citizens after the manner in which ants show friendship, viz., by
stroking antennæ. Sir John Lubbock, after repeating and fully confirming
these observations, extended them as follows. He first tried keeping the
separated ant away from the nest for a still longer period than four
months, and found that even after a separation of more than a year the
animal was recognised as before. He repeated this experiment a number of
times, and always with the same invariable difference between the
reception accorded to a foreigner and a native--no matter, apparently,
how long the native had been absent.
Considering the enormous number of ants that go to make a nest, it seems
astonishing enough that they should be all personally known to one
another, and still more astonishing that they should be able to
recognise members of their community after so prolonged an absence.
Thinking that the facts could only be explained, either by all the ants
in the same nest having a peculiar smell, or by all the members of the
same community having a particular pass-word or gesture-sign, Sir John
Lubbock, with the view of testing this theory, separated some ants from
a nest while still in the condition of pupæ, and, when they emerged from
that state as perfect insects, transferred them back to the nest from
which they had been taken as pupæ. Of course in this case the ants in
the nest could never have _seen_ those which had been removed, for a
larval ant is as unlike the mature insect as a grub is unlike a beetle;
neither can it be supposed that a larva, hatched out away from the nest,
should retain, when a perfect insect, any smell belonging to its parent
nest--more especially as it had been hatched out by ants in another
nest;[20] nor, lastly, is it reasonable to imagine that the animal, while
still a larval grub, can have been taught any gesture-signal used as a
pass-word by the matured animals. Yet, although all these possible
hypotheses seem to be thus fully excluded by the conditions of the
experiment, the result showed unequivocally that the ants recognised
their transformed larvæ as native-born members of their community.
Lastly, Sir John Lubbock tried the experiment of going still further
back in the life-history of the ants before separating them from the
nest. For in September he divided a nest into two halves, each having a
queen. At this season there were neither larvæ nor eggs. The following
April both the queens began to lay eggs, and in August--_i.e._ nearly a
year after the original partitioning of the nest--he took some of the
ants newly hatched from the pupæ in one division, and placed them in the
other division, and _vice versâ_. In all cases these ants were received
by the members of the other half of the divided nest as friends,
although if a stranger were introduced into either half it was
invariably killed. Yet the ants which were thus so certainly recognised
by their kindred ants as friends had never, even in the state of an egg,
been present in that division of the nest before. On this highly
remarkable fact Sir John Lubbock says:--
These observations seem to me conclusive as far as
they go, and they are very surprising. In my
experiments of last year, though the results were
similar, still the ants experimented with had been
brought up in the nest, and were only removed after
they had become pupæ. It might therefore be argued
that the ants, having nursed them as larvæ, recognised
them when they came to maturity; and though this would
certainly be in the highest degree improbable, it
could not be said to be impossible. In the present
case, however, the old ants had absolutely never seen
the young ones until the moment when, some days after
arriving at maturity, they were introduced into the
nest; and yet in all ten cases they were undoubtedly
recognised as belonging to the community.
It seems to me, therefore, to be established by these
experiments that the recognition of ants is not
personal and individual; that their harmony is not due
to the fact that each ant is individually acquainted
with every other member of the community.
At the same time, the fact that they recognise their
friends even when intoxicated, and that they know the
young born in their own nest even when they have been
brought out of the chrysalis by strangers, seems to
indicate that the recognition is not effected by means
of any sign or pass-word.
We must, therefore, conclude with reference to this subject that the
mode whereby recognition is undoubtedly effected is as yet wholly
unintelligible; and I have introduced these facts under the heading of
memory only because this heading is not more inappropriate than any
other that could be devised for their reception.
It ought here to be added also that the power of thus recognising
members of their community is not confined by the limits of
blood-relationship, for in an experiment made by Forel it was shown that
Amazon ants recognised their own slaves almost instantaneously after an
absence of four months.
Under this heading I may also adduce the evidence as to enormous masses,
or, as we might say, a whole nation of ants recognising each other as
belonging to the same nationality. New nests often spring up as
offshoots from the older ones, and thus a nation of towns gradually
spreads to an immense circumference around the original centre. Forel
describes a colony of _F. exsecta_ which comprised more than two hundred
nests, and covered a space of nearly two hundred square mètres. 'All the
members of such a colony, even those from the furthermost nest,
recognise each other and admit no stranger.'
Similarly, MacCook describes an 'ant town' in the Alleghany Mountains of
North America ('Trans. Amer. Entom. Soc.,' Nov. 1877) which was
inhabited by _F. exsectoïdes_. It consists of 1,600 to 1,700 nests,
which rise in cones to a height of from two to five feet. The ground
below is riddled in every direction with subterranean passages of
communication. The inhabitants are all on the most friendly terms, so
that if any one nest is injured it is repaired by their united forces.
It remains to be added in connection with this subject that the
recognition is not automatically invariable, but when 'ants are removed
from a nest in the pupa state, tended by strangers, and then restored,
some at least of their relatives are certainly puzzled, and in many
cases doubt their claims to consanguinity. I say some, because while
strangers under the circumstances would have been immediately attacked,
these ants were in every case amicably received by the majority of the
colony, and it was sometimes several hours before they came across one
who did not recognise them.'
It may also be added that _Lasius flavus_ behaves towards strangers
quite differently and much more hospitably than is the case with _L.
niger_. The stranger shows no alarm, but, on the contrary, will
voluntarily enter the strange nest, and she is there received with
kindness; although from the attention she excites, and the numerous
communications which take place between her and her new friends, Sir
John was 'satisfied that they knew she was not one of themselves. . . .
Very different is the behaviour of _L. niger_ under similar
circumstances. I tried the same experiment with them. There was no
communications with the antennæ, there was no cleaning, but every ant
which the stranger approached flew at her like a little tigress. I tried
this experiment four times; each stranger was killed and borne off to
the nest.'
_Emotions._
The pugnacity, valour, and rapacity of ants are too well and generally
known to require the narration of special instances of their display.
With regard to the tenderer emotions, however, there is a difference of
opinion among observers. Before the researches of Sir John Lubbock it
was the prevalent view that these insects display marked signs of
affection towards one another, both by caressing movements of their
antennæ, and by showing solicitude for friends in distress. Sir John,
however, has found that the species of ants on which he has experimented
are apparently deficient both in feelings of affection and of
sympathy--or, at least, that such feelings are in these species much
less strongly developed than the sterner passions.
He tried burying some specimens of _Lasius niger_ beneath an ant-road;
but none of the ants traversing the road made any attempt to release
their imprisoned companions. He tried the same experiment with the same
result on various other species. Even when the friends in difficulty are
actually in sight, it by no means follows that their companions will
assist them. Of this, he says, he could give almost any number of
instances. Thus, when ants are entangled in honey, their companions
devote themselves to the honey, and entirely neglect their friends in
distress; and when partly drowned, their friends take no notice. When
chloroformed or intoxicated their own companions either do not heed
them, or else 'seem somewhat puzzled at finding their intoxicated
fellow-creatures in such a condition, take them up, and carry them about
for a time in a somewhat aimless manner.' Further experiments, however,
on a larger scale, went to show that chloroformed ants were treated as
dead, _i.e._ removed to the edge of the parade-board and dropped over
into the surrounding moat of water; while intoxicated ants were
generally carried into the nest, if they were ants belonging to that
community; if not, they were thrown overboard. This care shown towards
intoxicated friends appears to indicate a dim sense of sympathy towards
afflicted individuals; but that this emotion or instinct does not in the
case of these species extend to healthy individuals in distress seems to
be proved, not only by the experiments of burying already described, but
also by the following:--
On Sept. 2, therefore, I put two ants from one of my
nests of _F. fusca_ into a bottle, the end of which
was tied up with muslin as described, and laid it down
close to the nest. In a second bottle I put two ants
from another nest of the same species. The ants which
were at liberty took no notice of the bottle
containing their imprisoned friends. The strangers in
the other bottle, on the contrary, excited them
considerably. The whole day one, two, or more ants
stood sentry, as it were, over the bottle. In the
evening no less than twelve were collected round it, a
larger number than usually came out of the nest at any
one time. The whole of the next two days, in the same
way, there were more or less ants round the bottle
containing the strangers; while, as far as we could
see, no notice whatever was taken of the friends. On
the 9th the ants had eaten through the muslin, and
effected an entrance. We did not chance to be on the
spot at the moment; but as I found two ants lying
dead, one in the bottle and one just outside, I think
there can be no doubt that the strangers were put to
death. The friends throughout were quite neglected.
Sept. 21.--I then repeated the experiment, putting
three ants from another nest in a bottle as before.
The same scene was repeated. The friends were
neglected. On the other hand, some of the ants were
always watching over the bottle containing the
strangers, and biting at the muslin which protected
them. The next morning at 6 A.M. I found five ants
thus occupied. One had caught hold of the leg of one
of the strangers, which had unwarily been allowed to
protrude through the meshes of the muslin. They worked
and watched, though not, as far as I could see, with
any system, till 7.30 in the evening, when they
effected an entrance, and immediately attacked the
strangers.
Sept. 24.--I repeated the same experiment with the
same nest. Again the ants came and sat over the bottle
containing the strangers, while no notice was taken of
the friends.
The next morning again, when I got up, I found five
ants round the bottle containing the strangers, none
near the friends. As in the former case, one of the
ants had seized a stranger by the leg, and was trying
to drag her through the muslin. All day the ants
clustered round the bottle, and bit perseveringly,
though not systematically, at the muslin. The same
thing happened all the following day.
On repeating these experiments with another species
(viz., _Formica rufescens_) the ants took no notice of
either bottle, and showed no sign either of affection
or hatred. One is almost tempted to surmise that the
spirit of these ants is broken by slavery [_i.e._ by
the habit of keeping slaves]. But the experiments on
_F. fusca_ seem to show that in these curious insects
hatred is a stronger passion than affection.
We must not, however, too readily assent to this general conclusion,
that ants as a whole are deficient in the tenderer emotions; for
although the case is doubtless so with the species which Sir John
examined, it appears to be certainly otherwise with other species, as we
shall presently see. But first it may be well to point out that even the
hard-hearted species with which Sir John had to do seem not altogether
devoid of sympathy with sick or mutilated friends, although they appear
to be so towards healthy friends in distress. Thus the care shown to
intoxicated friends seems to indicate, if not, as already observed, a
dim sense of sympathy, at least an instinct to preserve the life of an
ailing citizen for the future benefit of the community. Sir John also
quotes some observations of Latreille showing that ants display sympathy
with mutilated companions; and, lastly, mentions an instance which he
has himself observed of the same thing. A specimen of _F. fusca_
congenitally destitute of antennæ was attacked and injured by an ant of
another species. When separated by Sir John, another ant of her own
species came by. 'She examined the poor sufferer carefully, then picked
her up tenderly, and carried her away into the nest. It would have been
difficult for any one who witnessed this scene to have denied to this
ant the possession of humane feelings.' Moggridge is also of opinion
that the habit of throwing sick and apparently dead ants into the
water, is 'in part to be rid of them, and partly, perhaps, with a view
to effecting a possible cure; for I have seen one ant carry another down
the twig which formed their path to the surface of the water, and, after
dipping it in for a minute, carry it laboriously up again, and lay it in
the sun to dry and recover.'
But that some species of ants display marked signs of what we may call
sympathy even towards healthy companions in distress, is proved by the
following observation of Mr. Belt. He writes:[21]--
One day, watching a small column of these ants (_i.e._
_Eciton humata_), I placed a little stone on one of
them to secure it. The next that approached, as soon
as it discovered its situation, ran backwards in an
agitated manner, and soon communicated the
intelligence to the others. They rushed to the rescue;
some bit at the stone and tried to move it, others
seized the prisoner by the legs and tugged with such
force that I thought the legs would be pulled off, but
they persevered until they got the captive free. I
next covered one up with a piece of clay, leaving only
the ends of its antennæ projecting. It was soon
discovered by its fellows, which set to work
immediately, and by biting off pieces of the clay soon
liberated it. Another time I found a very few of them
passing along at intervals. I confined one of these
under a piece of clay at a little distance from the
line, with his head projecting. Several ants passed
it, but at last one discovered it and tried to pull it
out, but could not. It immediately set off at a great
rate, and I thought it had deserted its comrade, but
it had only gone for assistance, for in a short time
about a dozen ants came hurrying up, evidently fully
informed of the circumstances of the case, for they
made directly for their imprisoned comrade and soon
set him free. I do not see how this action could be
instinctive. It was sympathetic help, such as man only
among the higher mammalia shows. The excitement and
ardour with which they carried on their unflagging
exertions for the rescue of their comrade could not
have been greater if they had been human beings.
This observation seems unequivocal as proving fellow-feeling and
sympathy, so far as we can trace any analogy between the emotions of the
higher animals and those of insects. That insects with such highly
organised social habits, and depending so greatly on the principles of
co-operation, should manifest emotions or instincts of an incipiently
altruistic character, is no more than we should antecedently expect on
the general principle of survival of the fittest. Our only surprise
should be that these emotions, or instincts, should appear to be so
feebly developed in some species of ants, and, as we shall subsequently
see, also of bees. But it may be worth while in this connection to point
out that the valuable observation of Mr. Belt above quoted refers to the
species of ant which, as we shall subsequently find, presents the most
highly organised instincts of co-operation that are to be met with among
ants, and therefore the greatest dependence of the welfare of the
individual on that of the community. And the same remark is applicable
to our native species, _F. sanguinea_, which the Rev. W. W. F. White has
repeatedly seen rescuing buried companions very much in the manner
described by Mr. Belt; and he does not appear to be acquainted with Mr.
Belt's observations. He figures one case in which he saw three ants
co-operating to dig out a buried comrade.[22]
_Powers of Communication._
Huber, Kirby and Spence, Dugardin, Burmeister, Franklin, and other
observers have all expressed themselves as more or less strongly of the
opinion that members of the same community of ants, and other social
Hymenoptera, are able to communicate information to one another by some
system of language or signs. The facts, however, on which their opinion
rests have not been stated with that degree of caution and detail which
the acceptance of the conclusion requires. Thus, Kirby and Spence give
only one instance of supposed communication between ants,[23] and even
this one is inconclusive, as the facts described admit of being
explained by supposing that the ants simply tracked one another by
scent; while Huber merely deals in general statements as to 'contact of
antennæ,' without narrating any particulars of his observations.
Therefore, until within the last few years there was really no
sufficient evidence to sustain the general opinion that ants are able to
communicate with one another; but the observations which I shall now
detail must be regarded as fully substantiating that general opinion by
facts as abundant and conclusive as the most critical among us can
desire. I shall first narrate in his own words the more important of Sir
John Lubbock's experiments in this connection:--
I took three tapes, each about 2 feet 6 inches long,
and arranged them parallel to one another and about 6
inches apart. An end of each I attached to one of the
nests (_F. niger_), and at the other end I placed a
glass. In the glass at the end of one tape I placed a
considerable number (300 to 600) of larvæ. In the
second I put two or three larvæ only, in the third
none at all. The object of the last was to see whether
many ants would come to the glasses under such
circumstances by mere accident, and I may at once say
that scarcely any did so. I then took two ants, and
placed one of them to the glass with many larvæ, the
other to that with two or three. Each of them took a
larva and carried it to the nest, returning for
another, and so on. After each journey I put another
larva in the glass with only two or three larvæ, to
replace that which had been removed. Now, if several
ants came under the above circumstances as a mere
matter of accident, or accompanying one another by
chance, or if they simply saw the larvæ which were
being brought, and consequently concluded that they
might themselves find a larva in the same place, then
the numbers going to the two glasses ought to be
approximately equal. In each case the number of
journeys made by the ants would be nearly the same;
consequently, if it was a matter of scent, the two
glasses would be in the same position. It would be
impossible for an ant, seeing another in the act of
bringing a larva, to judge for itself whether there
were few or many left behind. On the other hand, if
the strangers were brought, then it would be curious
to see whether more were brought to the glass with
many larvæ than to that which only contained two or
three. I should also mention that every stranger was
imprisoned until the end of the experiment.
The results of these experiments were that during 47-1/2 hours the ants
which had access to a glass containing numerous larvæ brought 257
friends to their assistance; while during an interval 5-1/2 hours longer
those which visited the glass with only two or three larvæ brought only
82 friends; and, as already mentioned, no single ant came to the glass
which contained no larvæ. Now, as all the glasses were exposed to
similar conditions, and as the roads to the first two must, in the first
instance at all events, have been equally scented by the passage of ants
over them, these results look very conclusive as proving some power of
definite communication, not only that larvæ are to be found, but even
where the largest store is to be met with.
To this interesting account Sir John Lubbock adds,--
One case of apparent communication struck me very
much. I had had an ant (_F. niger_) under observation
one day, during which she was occupied in carrying off
larvæ to her nest. At night I imprisoned her in a
small bottle; in the morning I let her out at 6.15,
when she immediately resumed her occupation. Having to
go to London, I imprisoned her again at 9 o'clock.
When I returned at 4.40 I put her again to the larvæ.
She examined them carefully, and went home without
taking one. At this time no other ants were out of the
nest. In less than a minute she came out again with
eight friends, and the little heap made straight for
the heap of larvæ. When they had gone two-thirds of
the way I again imprisoned the marked ant; the others
hesitated a few minutes, and then with curious
quickness returned home. At 5.15 I put her again to
the larvæ. She again went home _without a larva_, but
after only a few seconds' stay in the nest, came out
with no less than thirteen friends. They all went
towards the larvæ, but when they had got about
two-thirds of the way, although the marked ant had on
the previous day passed over the ground about 150
times, and though she had just gone straight from the
larvæ to the nest, she seemed to have forgotten her
way, and considered; and after she had wandered about
for half an hour, I put her to the larvæ. Now, in this
case, the twenty-one ants must have been brought out
by my marked one, for they came exactly with her, and
there were no other ants out. Moreover, it would seem
that they must have been told, because (which is very
curious in itself) she did not in either case bring a
larva, and consequently it cannot have been the mere
sight of a larva which had induced them to follow her.
Further experiments proved, as we might have expected, that although an
ant is able to communicate to her friends in the nest that she has found
treasure somewhere outside, she is not able to describe to them its
precise locality. Thus, having exposed larvæ and placed an ant upon them
as before, Sir John watched every time she came out of the nest with
friends to assist her, but instead of allowing her to pilot the way, he
took her up and carried her to the larvæ, allowing her to return with a
larva upon her own feet. Under these circumstances the friends, although
evidently coming out with the intention of finding some treasure, were
never able to find it; but wandered about in various directions for a
while, and then returned to the nest. Thus, during two hours she brought
out in her successive journeys altogether no less than 120 ants, of
which number only 5 in their unguided wanderings happened to find the
sought-for treasure. This result seems to prove, as we might have
expected, that the communication is of the nature of some sign amounting
to no more than a 'follow me.' Other experiments confirmed this result,
and also brought out the fact that 'some species act much more in
association than others--_Formica fusca_, for instance, much less than
_Lasius niger_.' Thus Sir John Lubbock placed some honey before a marked
specimen of the former species; but although she visited and revisited
the honey during an entire day, she brought out no friends to share it;
and although in her journeys to and from the nest she happened to pass
and repass many other individuals, they took no notice of each other.
The obvious objection to these experiments, that an ant observing a
friend bringing home food or a pupa might infer, without being told,
that by accompanying the friend on the return journey she 'might
participate in the good things,' has been partly met by the fact already
stated, viz., that there is so very marked a difference in the result
if, on experimenting on two ants, one had access to a large treasure and
the other only to a small one. But to put this matter beyond question,
Sir John Lubbock tried the experiment of pinning down a dead fly, so
that the ant which found it was unable, with all her tugging, to move it
towards the nest. At length she went back to the nest for assistance,
and returned accompanied by seven friends. So great was her excitement,
however, that she outran these friends, 'who seemed to have come out
reluctantly, as if they had been asleep, and were only half awake;' and
they failed to find the fly, slowly meandering about for twenty minutes.
After again tugging for a time at the fly, the first ant returned a
second time to the nest for assistance, and in less than a minute came
out with eight friends. They were even less energetic than the first
party, and having lost sight of their guide in the same manner as
happened before, they all returned to the nest. Meanwhile several of the
first party, which had all the while been meandering about, found the
fly, and proceeded to dismember it, carrying the trophy to the nest, and
calling out more friends in the ordinary way. This experiment was
repeated several times and on different species, always with the same
result. Now, as Sir John remarks, 'the two cases (_i.e._ those in which
the ant brought out friends to her assistance even when she had no booty
to show) surely indicate a distinct power of communication. . . . It is
impossible to doubt that the friends were brought out by the first ant;
and as she returned empty-handed to the nest, the others cannot have
been induced to follow her by merely observing her proceedings. I
conclude, therefore, that they possess the power of requesting their
friends to come and help them.'
In order to ascertain whether the signs which communicating ants make to
one another are made by means of sound, Sir John Lubbock placed near a
nest of _Lasius flavus_ six small upright pillars of wood about 1-1/2
inch high, and on one of these he put a drop of honey. 'I then put three
ants to the honey, and when each had sufficiently fed, I imprisoned her,
and put another; thus always keeping three ants at the honey, but not
allowing them to go home. If, then, they could summon their friends by
sound, there ought soon to be many ants at the honey.' The result
showed that the ants were not able thus to call to one another from a
distance.
As additional proof of the general fact that at all events some ants
have the power of communicating information to one another, it will be
enough here to quote an exceedingly interesting observation of the
distinguished geologist Hague. The quotations are taken from his letters
written to Mr. Darwin, and published in _Nature_:[24]--
On the mantelshelf of our sitting-room my wife has the
habit of keeping fresh flowers. A vase stands at each
end, and near the middle a small tumbler, usually
filled with violets. Some time ago I noticed a pile of
very small red ants on the wall above the left-hand
vase, passing upward and downward between the
mantelshelf and a small hole near the ceiling, at a
point where a picture nail had been driven. The ants,
when first observed, were not very numerous, but
gradually increased in number, until on some days the
little creatures formed an almost unbroken procession,
issuing from the hole at the nail, descending the
wall, climbing the vase directly below the nail,
satisfying their desire for water or perfume, and then
returning. The other vase and tumbler were not visited
at that time.
As I was just then recovering from a long illness it
happened that I was confined to the house, and spent
my days in the room where the operations of these
insects attracted my attention. Their presence caused
me some annoyance, but I knew of no effective means of
getting rid of them. For several days in succession I
frequently brushed the ants in great numbers from the
wall down to the floor; but as they were not killed
the result was that they soon formed a colony in the
wall at the base of the mantel, ascending thence to
the shelf, so that before long the vase was attacked
from above and below.
One day I observed a number of ants, perhaps thirty or
forty, on the shelf at the foot of the vase. Thinking
to kill them, I struck them lightly with the end of my
finger, killing some and disabling the rest. The
effect of this was immediate and unexpected. As soon
as those ants which were approaching arrived near to
where their fellows lay dead and suffering, they
turned and fled with all possible haste. In half an
hour the wall above the mantelshelf was cleared of
ants.
During the space of an hour or two the colony from
below continued to ascend until reaching the lower
bevelled edge of the shelf, at which point the more
timid individuals, although unable to see the vase,
somehow became aware of trouble, and turned about
without further investigation, while the more daring
advanced hesitatingly just to the upper edge of the
shelf, when, extending their antennæ and stretching
their necks, they seemed to peep cautiously over the
edge until beholding their suffering companions, when
they too turned and followed the others, expressing by
their behaviour great excitement and terror. An hour
or two later, the path or trail leading from the lower
colony to the vase was almost entirely free from ants.
I killed one or two ants on their path, striking them
with my finger, but leaving no visible trace. The
effect of this was that as soon as an ant ascending
towards the shelf reached the spot where one had been
killed, it gave signs immediately of great
disturbance, and returned directly at the highest
possible speed.
A curious and invariable feature of their behaviour
was that when such an ant, returning in fright, met
another approaching, the two would always communicate,
but each would pursue its own way, the second ant
continuing its journey to the spot where the first had
turned about, and then following that example.
For some days after this there were no ants visible on
the wall, either above or below the shelf.
Then a few ants from the lower colony began to
reappear, but instead of visiting the vase which had
been the scene of the disaster, they avoided it
altogether, and following the lower front edge of the
shelf to the tumbler standing near the middle, made
their attack upon that. I repeated the same experiment
here with precisely the same result. Killing or
maiming a few of the ants and leaving their bodies
about the base of the tumbler, the others on
approaching, and even before arriving at the upper
surface of the shelf where their mutilated companions
were visible, gave signs of intense emotion, some
running away immediately, and others advancing to
where they could survey the field and then hastening
away precipitately.
Occasionally an ant would advance towards the tumbler
until it found itself among the dead and dying; then
it seemed to lose all self-possession, running hither
and thither, making wide circuits about the scene of
the trouble, stopping at times and elevating the
antennæ with a movement suggestive of wringing them in
despair, and finally taking flight. After this another
interval of several days passed, during which no ants
appeared. Now, three months later, the lower colony
has been entirely abandoned. Occasionally, however,
especially when fresh and fragrant violets have been
placed on the shelf, a few 'prospectors' descend from
the upper nail-hole, rarely, almost never, approaching
the vase from which they were first driven away, but
seeking to satisfy their desire at the tumbler. To
turn back these stragglers and keep them out of sight
for a number of days, sometimes for a fortnight, it is
sufficient to kill one or two ants on the trail which
they follow descending the wall. This I have recently
done as high up as I can reach, three or four feet
above the mantel. The moment this spot is reached, an
ant turns abruptly and makes for home, and in a little
while there is not an ant visible on the wall.
In a subsequent volume of 'Nature' (viii. p. 244), Mr. Darwin publishes
another letter which he received from Mr. Hague upon the same subject.
It seems that Mr. Moggridge suggested to Mr. Darwin that, as he and
others had observed ants to be repelled by the mere scent of a finger
drawn across their path, the observation of Mr. Hague might really
resolve itself into a dislike on the part of the ants to cross a line
over which a finger had been drawn, and have nothing to do with
intelligent terror inspired by the sight of their slaughtered
companions. The following is Mr. Hague's reply to Mr. Darwin's request
for further experiments to test this point:--
Acting on Mr. M----'s suggestion, I first tried making
simple finger-marks on their path (the mantel is of
marble), and found just the results which he describes
in his note as observed by himself at Mentone, that
is, no marked symptoms of fear, but a dislike to the
spot, and an effort to avoid it by going around it, or
by turning back and only crossing it again after an
interval of time. I then killed several ants on the
path, using a smooth stone or piece of ivory, instead
of my finger, to crush them. In this case the ants
approaching all turned back as before, and with much
greater exhibition of fear than when the simple
finger-mark was made. This I did repeatedly. The final
result was the same as obtained last winter. They
persisted in coming for a week or two, during which I
continued to kill them, and then they disappeared, and
we have seen none since. It would appear from this
that while the taint of the hand is sufficient to turn
them back, the killing of their fellows with a stone
or other material produces the effect described in my
first note. This was made clear to me at that time,
from the behaviour of the ants the first day I killed
any, for on that occasion some of them approaching the
vase from below, on reaching the upper edge of the
mantel, peeped over, and drew back on seeing what had
happened about the vase, then turned away a little,
and after a moment tried again at another and another
point along the edge, with the same result in the end.
Moreover, those that found themselves among the dead
and dying went from one writhing ant to another in
great haste and excitement, exhibiting the signs of
fright which I described.
I hardly hope that any will return again, but if they
do, and give me an opportunity, I shall endeavour to
act further on Mr. M----'s suggestion.
With this quotation I shall conclude the present division of the
chapter; for, looking to all the other observations previously
mentioned, there can be no question concerning the general fact that
ants have the power of communicating with one another. And under
subsequent headings abundant additional evidence on this point will be
found implicated with the other facts detailed.
_Habits General in Sundry Species._
_Swarming._--The precise facts with regard to the swarming of ants are
not yet certainly established. As regards some of the facts, however,
there is no doubt. The winged males and females first quit the nest in
enormous numbers, and choose some fine afternoon in July or August for
their wedding flight. The entrances to the nest are widened by the
workers and increased in number, and there is a great commotion on the
surface of the nest. The swarm takes place as a thick cloud of all the
male and female insects, rising together to a considerable height. The
flight continues for several hours, usually circling round some tree or
tower, and it is during the flight that fertilisation is effected. After
it is effected, the swarm returns to the ground, when the males perish,
either from falling a prey, in their shelterless condition, to birds or
spiders, or, on account of not being able to feed themselves, from
starvation. 'The workers, or neuter ants, of their own colony have lost
all interest in them from the moment of their return, and trouble
themselves no more about them, for they well know that the males have
now fulfilled their vocation.' The great majority of the fertilised
females share the same fate as the males. But a small proportion find
concealment in holes, which they either dig for themselves, or happen to
find ready made, and there found a new colony. The first thing they do
is to pull off their now useless wings, by scratching and twisting them,
one after the other, with the clawed ends of their feet. They then lay
their eggs, and become the queens of new colonies.
Forel says that no fertilised female ever returns to her original home;
but that the workers keep back a certain number of females which are
fertilised before the swarming takes place; in this case the workers
pull off the wings of the fertilised females. The majority of observers,
however, maintain that some of the females composing the swarm return to
their native home to become mothers where they had been children.
Probably both statements are correct. A writer in the 'Groniger
Deekblad' for June 16, 1877, observes that, looking to the injurious
effects of in-breeding, the facts as related by Forel are less probable
than those related by other observers, and that, if they actually occur,
the females fertilised before flight are probably kept by the ants as a
sort of 'reserve corps to which the workers resort only in case of need,
and if they fail to secure any returning queens.'
_Nursing._--The eggs will not develop into larvæ unless nursed. The
nursing is effected by licking the surface of the eggs, which under the
influence of this process increase in size, or grow. In about a
fortnight, during which time the workers carry the eggs from higher to
lower levels of the nest, and _vice versâ_, according to the
circumstances of heat, moisture, &c., the larvæ are hatched out, and
require no less careful nursing than the eggs. The workers feed them by
placing mouths together and regurgitating food stored up in the crop or
proventriculus into the intestinal tract of the young. The latter show
their hunger by 'stretching out their little brown heads.' Great care
is also taken by the workers in cleaning the larvæ, as well as in
carrying them up and down the chambers of the nest for warmth or
shelter.
When fully grown the larvæ spin cocoons, and are then pupæ, or the
'ants' eggs' of bird-fanciers. These require no food, but still need
incessant attention with reference to warmth, moisture, and cleanliness.
When the time arrives for their emergence as perfect insects, the
workers assist them to get out of their larval cases by biting through
the walls of the latter. It is noticeable that in doing this the workers
do not keep to any exact time, but free them sometimes earlier and
sometimes later, in accordance with their rate of development. 'The
little animal when freed from its chrysalis is still covered with a thin
skin, like a little shirt, which has to be pulled off. When we see how
neatly and gently this is done, and how the young creature is then
washed, brushed, and fed, we are involuntarily reminded of the nursing
of human babies. The empty cases, or cocoons, are carried outside the
nest, and may be seen heaped together there for a long time. Some
species carry them far away from the nest, or turn them into building
materials for the dwelling.'[25]
_Education._--The young ant does not appear to come into the world with
a full instinctive knowledge of all its duties as a member of a social
community. It is led about the nest, and 'trained to a knowledge of
domestic duties, especially in the case of the larvæ.' Later on the
young ants are taught to distinguish between friends and foes. When an
ants' nest is attacked by foreign ants, the young ones never join in the
fight, but confine themselves to removing the pupæ; and that the
knowledge of hereditary enemies is not wholly instinctive in ants is
proved by the following experiment, which we owe to Forel. He put young
ants belonging to three different species into a glass case with pupæ of
six other species--all the species being naturally hostile to one
another. The young ants did not quarrel, but worked together to tend the
pupæ. When the latter hatched out, an artificial colony was formed of a
number of naturally hostile species all living together after the manner
of the 'happy families' of the showmen.
_Habit of keeping Aphides._--It is well known that various species of
ants keep aphides, as men keep milch cows, to supply a nutritious
secretion. Huber first observed this fact, and noticed that the ants
collected the eggs of the aphides and treated them exactly as they
treated their own, guarding and tending them with the utmost care. When
these eggs hatch out the aphides are usually kept and fed by the ants,
to whom they yield a sweet honey-like fluid, which they eject from the
abdomen upon being stroked on this region by the antennæ of the ants.
Mr. Darwin, who has watched the latter process, observes with regard to
it,--
I removed all the ants from a group of about a dozen
aphides on a dock plant, and prevented their
attendance during several hours. After this interval,
I felt sure that the aphides would want to excrete. I
watched them for some time through a lens, but not one
excreted; I then tickled them with a hair in the same
manner, as well as I could, as the ants do with their
antennæ; but not one excreted. Afterwards I allowed an
ant to visit them, and it immediately seemed, by its
eager way of running about, to be well aware what a
rich flock it had discovered; it then began to play
with its antennæ on the abdomen, first of one aphis
and then of another; and each, as soon as it felt the
antennæ, immediately lifted up its abdomen and
excreted a limpid drop of sweet juice, which was
eagerly devoured by the ant. Even quite young aphides
behaved in this manner, showing that the action was
instinctive, and not the result of experience.
The facts also show that the yielding of the secretion to the ants is,
as it were, a voluntary act on the part of the aphides, or, perhaps more
correctly, that the instinct to yield it has been developed in such a
relation to the requirements of the ants, that the peculiar stimulation
supplied by the antennæ of the latter is necessary to start the act of
secretion; for in the absence of this particular stimulation the aphides
will never excrete until compelled to do so by the superabundance of the
accumulating secretion. The question, therefore, directly arises how, on
evolutionary principles, such a class of facts is to be met; for it is
certainly difficult to understand the manner in which this instinct, so
beneficial to the ants, can have arisen in the aphides, to which it does
not appear, at first sight, to offer any advantages. Mr. Darwin meets
the difficulty thus: 'Although there is no evidence that any animal
performs an action for the exclusive good of another species, yet each
tries to take advantage of the instincts of others;' and 'as the
secretion is extremely viscid, it is no doubt a convenience to the
aphides to have it removed; therefore probably they do not excrete
solely for the good of the ants.'[26]
Some ants which keep aphides build covered ways, or tunnels, to the
trees or shrubs where the aphides live. Forel saw a tunnel of this kind
which was taken up a wall and down again on the other side, in order to
secure a safe covered way from the nest to the aphides. Occasionally
such covered ways, or tubes, are continued so as to enclose the stems of
the plants on which the aphides live. The latter are thus imprisoned by
the walls of the tube, which, however, expand where they take on this
additional function of stabling the aphides, so that these insects are
really confined in tolerably large chambers. The doors of these chambers
are too small to allow the aphides to escape, while large enough for the
ants to pass in and out. Forel saw such a prison or stable shaped like a
cocoon, and about a centimètre long, which was hanging on the branch of
a tree, and contained aphides carefully tended by the ants. Huber
records similar observations.
Sir John Lubbock has made an interesting addition to our knowledge
respecting this habit as practised by a certain species of ant (_Lasius
flavus_), which departs in a very remarkable manner from the habit as
practised by other species. He says: 'The ants took the greatest care of
these eggs, carrying them off to the lower chambers with the utmost
haste when the nest was disturbed.' But the most interesting of Sir John
Lubbock's observations in this connection is new, and reveals an
astonishing amount of method shown by the ants in farming their
aphides. He says:--
When my eggs hatched I naturally thought that the
aphides belonged to one of the species usually found
on the roots of plants in the nests of _Lasius
flavus_. To my surprise, however, the young creatures
made the best of their way out of the nest, and,
indeed, were sometimes brought out by the ants
themselves. In vain I tried them with roots of grass,
&c.; they wandered uneasily about, and eventually
died. Moreover, they did not in any way resemble the
subterranean species. In 1878 I again attempted to
rear these young aphides; but though I hatched a great
many eggs, I did not succeed. This year, however, I
have been more fortunate. The eggs commenced to hatch
the first week in March. Near one of my nests of
_Lasius flavus_, in which I had placed some of the
eggs in question, was a glass containing living
specimens of several species of plants commonly found
on or around ants' nests. To this some of the young
aphides were brought by the ants. Shortly afterwards I
observed on a plant of daisy, in the axils of the
leaves, some small aphides, very much resembling those
from my nest, though we had not actually traced them
continuously. They seemed thriving, and remained
stationary on the daisy. Moreover, whether they had
sprung from the black eggs or not, the ants evidently
valued them, for they built up a wall of earth round
and over them. So things remained throughout the
summer, but on October 9 I found that the aphides had
laid some eggs exactly resembling those found in the
ants' nests; and on examining daisy plants from
outside, I found on many of them similar aphides, and
more or less of the same eggs.
I confess these observations surprised me very much.
The statements of Huber have not, indeed, attracted so
much notice as many of the other interesting facts
which he has recorded, because if aphides are kept by
ants in their nests, it seems only natural that their
eggs should also occur. The above case, however, is
much more remarkable. Here are aphides, not living in
the ants' nests, but outside, on the leaf-stalks of
plants. The eggs are laid early in October on the
food-plant of the insect. They are of no direct use to
the ants, yet they are not left where they are laid,
where they would be exposed to the severity of the
weather and to innumerable dangers, but brought into
their nests by the ants, and tended by them with the
utmost care through the long winter months until the
following March, when the young ones are brought out
and again placed on the young shoots of the daisy.
This seems to me a most remarkable case of prudence.
Our ants may not perhaps lay up food for the winter,
but they do more, for they keep during six months the
eggs which will enable them to procure food during the
following summer.
The following, which is taken from Büchner's 'Geistesleben der Thiere'
is perhaps a still more striking performance of the same kind as that
which Sir John Lubbock observed:--
The author is debtor to Herr Nottebohm, Inspector of
Buildings at Karlsruhe, who related the following on
May 24, 1876, under the title, 'Ants as Founders of
Aphides' Colonies:'--'Of two equally strong young
weeping ashes, which I planted in my garden at
Kattowitz, in Upper Silesia, one succeeded well, and
in about five or six years showed full foliage, while
the other regularly every year was covered, when it
began to bud, with millions of aphides, which
destroyed the young leaves and sprouts, and thus
completely delayed the development of the tree. As I
perceived that the only reason for this was the action
of the aphides, I determined to destroy them utterly.
So in the March of the following year I took the
trouble to clean and wash every bough, sprig, and bud
before the bursting of the latter, with the greatest
care, by means of a syringe. The result was that the
tree developed perfectly healthy and vigorous leaves
and young shoots, and remained quite free from the
aphides until the end of May or the beginning of June.
My joy was of short duration. One fine sunny morning I
saw a surprising number of ants running quickly up and
down the trunk of the tree; this aroused my attention,
and led me to look more closely. To my great
astonishment I then saw that many troops of ants were
busied in carrying single aphides up the stem to the
top, and that in this way many of the lower leaves had
been planted with colonies of aphides. After some
weeks the evil was as great as ever. The tree stood
alone on the grass plot, and offered the only
situation for an aphides' colony for the countless
ants there present. I had destroyed this colony; but
the ants replanted it by bringing new colonists from
distant branches, and setting them on the young
leaves.[27]
Again--
MacCook noticed, of the mound-making ants, that of
the workers returning to the nest from the tree on
which the milking was going on, a far smaller number
had distended abdomens than among those descending the
tree itself. A closer investigation showed that at the
roots of the trees, at the outlets of the subterranean
galleries, a number of ants were assembled, which were
fed by the returning ants after the fashion already
described in feeding the larvæ, and which were
distinguished by the observer as 'pensioners.' MacCook
often observed the same fact later, among, with
others, the already described Pennsylvanian wood-ant.
Distinguished individuals in the body-guard of the
queen were fed in like fashion. MacCook is inclined to
think that the reason of this proceeding is to be
found in the 'division of labour' so general in the
ant republic, and that the members of the community
which are employed in building and working within the
nest, leave to the others the care of providing food
for themselves as well as for the younger and helpless
members; they thus have a claim to receive from time
to time a reciprocal toll of gratitude, and take it,
as is shown very clearly, in a way demanded by the
welfare of the community.[28]
Aphides are not the only insects which ants employ as cows, several
other insects which yield sweet secretions being similarly utilised in
various parts of the world. Thus, gall insects and cocci are kept in
just the same way as aphides; but MacCook observed that where aphides
and cocci are kept by the same ants, they are kept in separate chambers,
or stalls. The same observer saw caterpillars of the genus _Lycoena_
kept by ants for the sake of a sweet secretion which they supply.
_Habit of making Slaves._--This habit, or instinct, obtains among at
least three species of ant, viz., _Formica rufescens_, _F. sanguinea_,
and _strongylognathus_. It was originally observed by P. Huber in the
first-named species. Here the species enslaved is _F. fusca_, which is
appropriately coloured black. The slave-making ants attack a nest of _F.
fusca_ in a body; there is a great fight with much slaughter, and, if
victorious, the slave-makers carry off the pupæ of the vanquished nest
in order to hatch them out as slaves. Mr. Darwin gives an account of a
battle which he himself observed.[29]
When the pupæ hatch out in the nest of their captors, the young slaves
begin their life of work, and seem to regard their master's home as
their own; for they never attempt to escape, and they fight no less
keenly than their masters in defence of the nest. _F. sanguinea_ content
themselves with fewer slaves than do _F. rufescens_; and the work that
devolves upon the slaves differs according to the species which has
enslaved them. In the nests of _F. sanguinea_ the comparatively few
captives are kept as household slaves; they never either enter or leave
the nest, and so are never seen unless the nest is opened. They are then
very conspicuous from the contrast which their black colour and small
size present to the red colour and much larger size of _F. rufescens_.
As the slaves are by this species kept strictly indoors, all the outdoor
work of foraging, slave-capturing, &c., is performed by the masters; and
when for any reason a nest has to migrate, the masters carry their
slaves in their jaws. _F. rufescens_, on the other hand, assigns a much
larger share of labour to the slaves, which, as we have already seen,
are present in much larger numbers to take it. In this species the males
and fertile females do no work of any kind; and the workers, or sterile
females, though most energetic in capturing slaves, do no other kind of
work. Therefore the whole community is absolutely dependent upon its
slaves. The masters are not able to make their own nests or to feed
their own larvæ. When they migrate, it is the slaves that determine the
migration, and, reversing the order of things that obtains in _F.
sanguinea_, carry their masters in their jaws. Huber shut up thirty
masters without a slave and with abundance of their favourite food, and
also with their own larvæ and pupæ as a stimulus to work; but they could
not feed even themselves, and many died of hunger. He then introduced a
single slave, and she at once set to work, fed the surviving masters,
attended to the larvæ, and made some cells.
In order to confirm this observation, Lespès placed a piece of sugar
near a nest of slave-makers. It was soon found by one of the slaves,
which gorged itself and returned to the nest. Other slaves then came out
and did likewise. Then some of the masters came out, and, by pulling
the legs of the feeding slaves, reminded them that they were neglecting
their duty. The slaves then immediately began to serve their masters
with the sugar. Forel also has confirmed all these observations of
Huber. Indeed, in the case of _F. rufescens_, the structure of the
animal is such as to render self-feeding physically impossible. Its long
and narrow jaws, adapted to pierce the head of an enemy, do not admit of
being used for feeding, unless liquid food is poured into them by the
mouth of a slave. This fact shows of how ancient an origin the instinct
of slave-making must be; it has altered in an important manner a
structure which could not have been so altered prior to the
establishment of the instinct in question.
Mr. Darwin thus sums up the differences in the offices of the slaves in
the nests of _F. sanguinea_ and _F. rufescens_ respectively:--
The latter does not build its own nest, does not
determine its own migrations, does not collect food
for itself or for its fellows, and cannot even feed
itself; it is absolutely dependent on its numerous
slaves. _Formica sanguinea_, on the other hand,
possesses much fewer slaves, and in the early part of
the summer extremely few; the masters determine when
and where a new nest shall be formed, and when they
migrate, the masters carry the slaves. Both in
Switzerland and England the slaves seem to have the
exclusive care of the larvæ, and the masters alone go
on slave-making expeditions. In Switzerland the slaves
and masters work together, making and bringing
materials for the nest; both, but chiefly the slaves,
tend and milk, as it may be called, their aphides; and
thus both collect food for the community. In England
the masters alone usually leave the nest to collect
building materials and food for themselves, their
slaves and larvæ. So that the masters in this country
receive much less service from their slaves than they
do in Switzerland.
Mr. Darwin further observes that 'this difference in the usual habits of
the masters and slaves in the two countries probably depends merely on
the slaves being captured in greater numbers in Switzerland than in
England;' and records that he has observed in a community of the English
species having an unusually large stock of slaves that 'a few slaves
mingled with their masters leaving the nest, and marched along the same
road to a tall Scotch fir tree, twenty-five yards distant, which they
ascended together, probably in search of aphides or cocci.' And,
according to Huber, the principal office of the slaves in Switzerland is
to search for aphides.
Mr. Darwin also made the following observation:--'Desiring to ascertain
whether _F. sanguinea_ could distinguish the pupæ of _F. fusca_, which
they habitually make into slaves, and which are an unwarlike species,
from _F. flava_, which they rarely capture, and never without a severe
fight,' he found 'it was evident that they did at once distinguish
them;' for while 'they eagerly and instantly seized the pupæ of _F.
fusca_, they were much terrified when they came across the pupæ, or even
the earth from the nest, of _F. flava_, and quickly ran away; but in
about a quarter of an hour, shortly after the little yellow ants had
crawled away (from their nest having been disturbed by Mr. Darwin), they
took heart and carried off the pupæ.'
Concerning the origin of this remarkable instinct, Mr. Darwin writes:--
As ants which are not slave-makers will, as I have
seen, carry off pupæ of other species if scattered
near their nests, it is possible that such pupæ
originally stored as food might become developed, and
the foreign ants thus unintentionally reared would
then follow their proper instincts, and do what work
they could. If their presence proved useful to the
species which had seized them--if it were more
advantageous to the species to capture workers than to
procreate them--the habit of collecting pupæ,
originally for food, might by natural selection be
strengthened and rendered permanent for the very
different purpose of raising slaves. When the instinct
was once acquired, if carried out to a much less
extent even than in our British _F. sanguinea_, which,
as we have seen, is less aided by its slaves than the
same species in Switzerland, natural selection might
increase and modify the instinct, always supposing
such modification to be of use to the species, until
an ant was found as abjectly dependent on its slave as
is the _Formica rufescens_.
Ants do not appear to be the only animals of which ants make slaves; for
there seems to be at least one case in which these wonderful insects
enslave insects of another species, which therefore may be said to stand
to the ants in the relation of beasts of burden. The case to which I
allude is one that is recorded in Perty's 'Intellectual Life of Animals'
(2nd ed. p. 329), and is as follows:--
According to Audubon certain leaf-bugs are used as
slaves by the ants in the Brazilian forests. When
these ants want to bring home the leaves which they
have bitten off the trees, they do it by means of a
column of these bugs, which go in pairs, kept in order
on either side by accompanying ants. They compel
stragglers to re-enter the ranks, and laggards to keep
up by biting them. After the work is done the bugs are
shut up within the colony and scantily fed.
_Wars._--On the wars of ants a great deal might be said, as the facts of
interest in this connection are very numerous; but for the sake of
brevity I shall confine myself to giving only a somewhat meagre account.
One great cause of war is the plundering of ants' nests by the
slave-making species. Observers all agree that this plundering is
effected by a united march of the whole army composing a nest of the
slave-making species, directed against some particular nest of the
species which they enslave. According to Lespès and Forel, single scouts
or small companies are first sent out from the nest to explore in
various directions for a suitable nest to attack. These scouts
afterwards serve as guides to the marauding excursion. Forel saw several
of these scouts of the species _F. rufescens_ or Amazon carefully
inspecting a nest of _F. fusca_ which they had found, investigating
especially the entrances. These are purposely made difficult to find by
their architects, and it not unfrequently happens that after all
precautions and inspections on the part of the invaders, an expedition
fails on account of not finding the city gates.
When the scouts have been successful in discovering a suitable nest to
plunder, and have completed their strategical investigations of the
locality to their satisfaction, they return straight to their own nest
or fortress. Forel has then seen them walking about on the surface of
their nest for a long time, as if in consultation, or making up their
minds. Then some of them entered the nest, soon after which hosts of
warriors streamed out of the entrances, and ran about tapping each other
with their heads and antennæ. They then formed into column and set out
to pillage the nest of the slave ants. The following is the account
which Lespès gives of such expeditions:--
They only take place towards the end of the summer and
in autumn. At this time the winged members of the
slave species (_F. fusca_ and _F. cunicularia_) have
left the nest, and the Amazons will not take the
trouble to bring back useless consumers. When the sky
is clear our robbers leave their town in the afternoon
at about three or four o'clock. At first no order is
perceptible in their movements, but when they are all
gathered together they form a regular column, which
then moves forward quickly, and each day in a
different direction. They march closely pressed
together, and the foremost always appear to be seeking
for something on the ground. They are each moment
overtaken by others, so that the head of the column is
continually growing. They are in fact seeking the
traces of the ants which they propose to plunder, and
it is scent that guides them. They snuff over the
ground like hounds following the track of a wild
animal, and when they have found it they plunge
headlong forward, and the whole column rushes on
behind. The smallest armies I saw consisted of several
hundred individuals, but I have also seen some four
times as large. They then form columns which may be
five mètres long, and as much as fifty centimètres
wide. After a march, which often lasts a full hour,
the column arrives at the nest of the slave species.
The _F. cuniculariæ_, which are the strongest, offer
keen opposition, but without much result. The Amazons
soon penetrate within the nest, to come out again a
moment later, while the assailed ants at the same time
rush out in masses. During the whole time attention is
directed solely to the larvæ and pupæ, which the
Amazons steal while the others try to save as many as
possible. They know very well that the Amazons cannot
climb, so they fly with their precious burdens to the
surrounding bushes or plants, whereto their enemies
cannot follow them. They then pursue the retreating
robbers and try to take away from them as much of
their booty as possible. But the latter do not trouble
themselves much about them, and hasten on home. On
their return they do not follow the shortest road, but
exactly the one by which they came, finding their way
back by smell. Arrived at their nest, they
immediately hand over their booty to the slaves, and
trouble themselves no more about it. A few days
afterwards the stolen pupæ or nymphæ emerge, without
memory of their childhood, and immediately and without
compulsion take part in all tasks.
According to Büchner's account,[30]--
From time to time the army makes a short halt, partly
to let the rearguard close up, partly because
different opinions arise as to the direction of the
host, or because the place at which they are is
unknown to them. Forel several times saw the army
completely lose its way--an incident only once
observed by Huber. Forel puts the number of warriors
in such an army at from one hundred to more than two
thousand. Its speed is on an average a mètre per
minute, but varies much according to circumstances,
and is naturally least when returning laden with
booty. If the distance be very great, such bodily
fatigue may at last be felt that the whole attack on
the hostile nest is given up, and a retreat is begun;
Forel once saw this happen after they had passed over
a distance of two hundred and forty yards. Sometimes
it seems as though, on coming within sight of the
hostile nest, a kind of discouragement took possession
of them, and prevented their making the attack. If the
nest cannot at once be found, the whole army halts,
and some divisions are sent forward to search for it,
and these are gradually seen returning towards the
centre. Forel also saw such an army only searching the
first day, advancing zigzag, and with frequent halts,
whereas on the following day it went forward to its
aim swiftly and without delay, having found out the
road. It seems that a single ant, even if it knows the
way and the place, is not able alone to lead a large
army, but that a considerable number must be employed
in this duty. Mistakes as to the road occur with
special ease during the return journey, because the
several ants are laden with booty and cannot readily
understand each other. Individual ants are then seen
to wander about in every direction often for a long
time, until they at last reach a spot known to them,
and then advance swiftly to their goal. Many never
come back at all. These mistakes easily occur when the
robbers which have passed into a hostile nest do not
come out again at the same holes whereby they entered,
but by others at some distance--for instance, by a
subterranean canal. Coming out thus in a strange
neighbourhood, they do not know which way to take, and
only some chance to find the right road during their
aimless wanderings about, and recognise and follow it
by smell. On the other hand, such mistakes scarcely
ever happen to individuals in an unladen train, kept
in good array. Other species of ants (_F. fusca_,
_rufa_, _sanguinea_) know better how to manage under
such circumstances than do the Amazons. The laden ones
lay down their loads, first find where they are, and
only take them up again after they have found their
way. If the booty seized in the nest first attacked is
too large to be all taken at once, the robbers return
once, or oftener, so as to complete their work. . . .
The ants, as already said, have no regular leaders nor
chiefs, yet it is certain that in each expedition,
alteration of road, or other change, the decision
during that event comes from a small knot of
individuals, which have previously come to an
understanding, and carry the rest and the undecided
along with them. These do not always follow
immediately, but only after they have received several
taps on the head from the members of the 'ring.' The
procession does not advance until the leaders have
convinced themselves by their own eyesight that the
main part of the army is following.
One day Forel saw some Amazons on the surface of a
nest of the _F. fusca_ seeking and sounding in all
directions, without being able to find the entrance.
At last one of them found a very little hole, hardly
as large as a pin's head, through which the robbers
penetrated. But since, owing to the smallness of the
hole, the invasion went on slowly, the search was
continued, and an entrance was found further off,
through which the Amazon army gradually disappeared.
All was quiet. About five minutes later Forel saw a
booty-laden column emerge from each hole. Not a single
ant was without a load. The two columns united outside
and retreated together.
A marauding excursion of the Amazons against the _F.
rufibarbis_, a sub-species of the _F. fusca_, or small
black ants, took place as follows:--The vanguard of
the robber army found that it had reached the
neighbourhood of the hostile nest more quickly than it
had expected; for it halted suddenly and decidedly,
and sent a number of messengers which brought up the
main body and the rearguard with incredible speed. In
less than thirty seconds the whole army had closed up,
and hurled itself in a mass on the dome of the hostile
nest. This was the more necessary as the _rufibarbes_
during the short halt had discovered the approach of
the enemy, and had utilised the time to cover the dome
with defenders. An indescribable struggle followed,
but the superior numbers of the Amazons overcame, and
they penetrated into the nest, while the defenders
poured by thousands out of the same holes, with their
larvæ and pupæ in their jaws, and escaped to the
nearest plants and bushes, running over the heaps of
their assailants. These looked on the matter as
hopeless, and began to retreat. But the _rufibarbes_,
furious at their proceedings, pursued them, and
endeavoured to get away from them the few pupæ they
had obtained, by trying to seize the Amazons' legs and
to snatch away the pupæ. The Amazon lets its jaws slip
slowly along the captive pupa, as far as the head of
its opponent, and pierces it, if it does not, as
generally happens, draw back. But it often manages to
seize the pupa at the instant at which the Amazon lets
it go and flies with it. This is managed yet more
easily when a comrade holds the robber by the legs,
and compels it to loose its prey in order to guard
itself against its assailant. Sometimes the robbers
seize empty cocoons and carry them away, but they
leave them on the road when they have discovered their
mistake. In the above case the strength of the
_rufibarbes_ proved at last so great that the
rearguard of the retreating army was seriously
pressed, and was obliged to give up its booty. A
number of the Amazons also were overpowered and
killed, but not without the _rufibarbes_ also losing
many people. None the less did some individuals, as
though desperate, rush into the thickest hosts of the
enemy, penetrated again into the nest, and carried off
several pupæ by sheer audacity and skill. Most of them
left their prey to go to the help of their comrades
when assailed by the _rufibarbes_. Ten minutes after
the commencement of the retreat all the Amazons had
left the nest, and, being swifter than their
opponents, they were only pursued for about halfway
back. Their attack had failed on account of a short
delay!
On another occasion observed by Forel, in which
several fertile Amazons also took part and killed many
enemies, the nest was thoroughly ravished, but the
retreat was also in this case very much disturbed and
harassed by the superior numbers of the enemy. There
were many slain on both sides. That in spite of the
above-mentioned unanimity different opinions among the
members of an expedition sometimes hinder its conduct,
the following observation seems to show:--An advancing
column divided after it had gone about ten yards from
the nest. Half turned back, while the other half went
on, but after some time hesitated and also turned
back. Arrived at home, it found those which had
formerly turned back putting themselves in motion in a
new direction. The newly returned followed them, and
the reunited army, after various wheelings, halts,
&c., at last turned home again by a long way round.
The whole business looked like a promenade. But
apparently different parties had different nests in
view, while others were entirely against the
expedition. Yet perhaps it was only a march for
exercise.
Outer obstacles do not, as a rule, hinder the Amazons
when they are once on the march. Forel saw them wade
through some shallow water, although many were drowned
in it, and then march over a dusty high road, although
the wind blew half of them away. As they returned,
booty-laden, neither wind, nor dust, nor water could
make them lay down their prey. They only got back with
great trouble, and turned back again to bring fresh
booty, although many lost their lives.
The following is also quoted from Büchner's excellent epitome of Forel's
observations in this connection:--
The most terrible enemy of the Amazons is the sanguine
ant (_F. sanguinea_), which also keeps slaves, and
thereby often comes into collision with the Amazons on
their marauding excursions. It is not equal to it in
bodily strength or fighting capacity, but surpasses it
in intelligence; according to Forel it is the most
intelligent of all the species of ants. If Forel, for
instance, poured out the contents of a sack filled
with a nest of the slave species near an Amazon nest,
the Amazons apparently generally regarded the tumbled
together heap of ants, larvæ, pupæ, earth, building
materials, &c., as the dome of a hostile nest, and
took all imaginable but useless pains to find out the
entrances thereinto, leaving on one side for this
investigation their only object, the carrying off the
pupæ; but the sanguine ants under similar
circumstances did not allow themselves to be deceived,
but at once ransacked the whole heap.
On another occasion, while a procession of Amazon ants was on its way to
plunder a nest of _F. fusca_, before it arrived Forel poured out a
sack-full of sanguine ants, and made a break in the nest:--
The sanguine ants pressed in, while the _fusca_ came
out to defend themselves. At this moment the first
Amazons arrived. When they saw the sanguine ants they
drew back and awaited the main army, which appeared
much disturbed at the news. But once united, the bold
robbers rushed at their foes. The latter gathered
together and beat back the first attack, but the
Amazons closed up their ranks and made a second
assault, which carried them on to the dome and into
the midst of the enemy. These were overthrown, as well
as a number of _F. pratensis_, which Forel at this
moment poured out on the nest. The conquerors delayed
for a moment on the dome after their victory, and then
entered the nest to bring out a little of the valuable
booty. A few Amazons which were mad with anger did not
return with the main army, but went on slaughtering
blindly among the conquered and the fugitives of the
three species, _fusca_, _pratensis_, and _sanguinea_.
The ravished _rufibarbes_ once became so desperate at
their overthrow that they followed the robbers to
their own nest, and the latter had some trouble in
defending it. The _rufibarbes_ let themselves be
killed in hundreds, and really seemed as though they
courted death. A small number of the Amazons also sank
under the bites of their enemies. The nest contained
slaves of the _rufibarbis_ species, which on this
emergency fought actively against their own race.
There were also slaves of the species _fusca_, so that
the nest included three different species of ants.
The same nest is often revisited many times on the
same day or at different periods, until either there
is no more to steal, or the plundered folk have hit
upon better mode of defence. A column which was in the
act of going back to such a plundered nest turned when
halfway there, and halted, apparently on no other
ground than because it had met the rearguard of the
army, and had learned that the nest was exhausted, and
that there was nothing more to be had there. The
robbers then went off to a _rufibarbis_ nest which was
in the neighbourhood, and killed half the inhabitants
while plundering the nest. The surviving _rufibarbes_
returned after the robbery and brought up new progeny;
but thirteen days later the Amazons again reaped a
rich harvest from the same nest. The Amazon army often
severs itself into two separate divisions when there
is not enough for both to do at the same spot.
Sometimes one division finds something and the other
nothing, and they then reunite. If any obstacle be
placed in their way they try to overcome it, in doing
which some leave the main army, lose themselves, and
only find their way home again with difficulty. Forel
has tried to establish the normal frequency of
expeditions, and found that a colony watched by
himself for a space of thirty days sent out no less
than forty-four marauding excursions. Of these about
eight-and-twenty were completely, nine partially, and
the remainder not at all successful. He four times saw
the army divide into two. Half the expeditions were
levelled against the _rufibarbes_, half against the
_fuscæ_. On an average a successful expedition would
bring back to the colony a thousand pupæ or larvæ. On
the whole, the number of future slaves stolen by a
strong colony during a favourable summer may be
reckoned at forty thousand!
The internecine battles which occasionally break out
among the Amazons themselves are naturally the most
cruel. They tear each other to pieces with incredible
fury, and knots of five or six individuals which have
pierced each other may be seen rolling over each other
on the ground, it being impossible to distinguish
between friend and foe. Civil wars among men are also
known to be the most embittered and the most bloody.
The mode of attack practised by the other best known species of
slave-making ant, _sanguinea_, is somewhat different:--
They march in small troops which, in case of need,
summon reinforcements, and therefore as a rule only
reach their goal slowly. Between the individual troops
messengers or scouts run continually backwards and
forwards. The first troop which arrives at the hostile
nest does not rush at it, as do the Amazons, but
contents itself with making provisional
reconnaissances, wherein some of the assailants are
generally made prisoners by the enemy, which have time
to bethink and to collect themselves. Reinforcements
are now brought up, and a regular siege of the nest
begins. A sudden invasion, like that of the Amazons,
is never seen. The besieging army forms a complete
ring round the hostile nest, and the besiegers hold
this with mandibles open and antennæ drawn back,
without going nearer. In this position they beat off
all assaults of the besieged, until they feel
themselves strong enough to advance to the attack.
This attack scarcely ever fails, and has for its chief
object the mastering of the entrances and outlets of
the nest. A special troop guards each opening, and
only allows such of the besieged to pass out as carry
no pupæ. This manoeuvre gives rise to a number of
comical and characteristic scenes. By this means the
sanguine ants in a few minutes manage to have all the
defenders out of the nests and the pupæ left behind.
This is the case at least with the _rufibarbes_, while
the rather less timid _fuscæ_ try, even at the last
moment when it is useless, to stop up or barricade the
entrances. The sanguine ants do not indeed possess the
terrible weapons and the warlike impetuosity of the
Amazons, but they are stronger and larger. If a
_fusca_ or a _rufibarbis_ fights with a sanguine ant
for the possession of a pupa, it is generally very
soon overcome. While the main part of the army is
penetrating into the nest to steal the pupæ, some
divisions pursue the fugitives, to take away from them
the few pupæ which may chance to have been saved. They
drive them even out of the cricket-holes in which they
have meanwhile taken refuge. In short, it is a
_razzia_, or sweeping burglary, as complete as can be
imagined. In the retreat the robbers in no wise hurry
themselves, for they know that they are threatened by
no danger and no loss, and the complete emptying of a
large and distant nest often takes several days in
accomplishing. The ants which have been so thoroughly
robbed scarcely ever return to their former abode.
It must be admitted that a human army, robbing a
foreign town or fortress, could not behave better or
more prudently.
Huber gives the following account of a battle waged by sanguine ants:--
At ten, in a July morning, he noticed a small band of
them emerge from their nest, and march rapidly towards
a nest of negroes, around which it dispersed. A number
of the blacks rushed out, gave battle, and succeeded
in defeating their invaders, and in making several of
them prisoners. Upon this, the remainder of the
attacking force waited for a reinforcement. When this
came up, they still declined further proceedings, and
sent more aides-de-camp to their own nest. The result
of these messages was a much larger reinforcement; but
even yet the pirates appeared to shun the combat. At
last, the negroes marched out from their nest in a
phalanx of about two feet square, and a number of
skirmishes began, which soon ended in a general
_mêlée_. Long before the event seemed certain, the
negroes carried off their pupæ to the most distant
part of the nest; and when, after a longer encounter,
they appeared to think further resistance vain, they
retreated, attempting to take with them their young.
In this, however, they were prevented, and the
invaders obtained possession of their nest and the
booty. When they had done this, they put in a
garrison, and occupied the night and the succeeding
day in carrying off their spoil.
Büchner says--
Battles between ants of the same species often end
with a lasting alliance, especially when the number of
the workers on both sides is comparatively small. The
wise little animals under such circumstances discover,
much more quickly and better than men, that they can
only destroy each other by fighting, while union would
benefit both parties. Sometimes they drive each other
out of their nests in a quite friendly way. Forel laid
on a table a piece of bark with a nest of the gentle
_Leptothorax acervorum_, and then put on it the
contents of another nest of the same species. The last
comers were by far the more numerous, and soon
possessed themselves of the nest, driving out the
inmates. But the latter did not know whither to go,
and turned back again. They were then seized by their
opponents one after the other, carried away as far as
possible from the nest, and there put down. The
oftener they came back the further were they carried
away. One of the carriers arrived in this fashion at
the edge of the table, and after it had by means of
its feelers convinced itself that it had reached the
end of the world, mercilessly let its burden drop into
the fathomless abyss. It waited a moment to see if it
had attained its object, and then turned back to the
nest. Forel picked up the ant which had fallen on the
floor, and put it down right in front of the returning
ant. The latter repeated the same manoeuvre as at
first, only stretching its neck further over the edge
of the table. He several times reiterated his
experiment, and always with the same result. Later the
two colonies were shut up together in a glass case,
and gradually learned to agree.
At other times, however, warlike ants show great and needless cruelty to
one another:--
They slowly pull from their victim, that is rendered
defenceless by wounds, exhaustion, or terror, first
one feeler and then the other, then the legs one after
another, until they at last kill it, or pull it in a
completely mutilated and helpless condition to some
out-of-the-way spot where it perishes miserably. Yet
some compassionate hearts are to be found among the
victors, which only pull the conquered to a distant
place in order to get rid of them, and there let them
go without injuring them.
The following account is also taken from Büchner's 'Mind in Animals,' p.
87:--
The doors are often guarded by special sentries, which
fulfil their important duty in various ways. Forel saw
a nest of the _Colobopsis truncata_, the two or three
very small round openings of which were watched by
soldiers, arranged so that their thick cylindrical
heads stopped them up, just as a cork stops up the
mouth of a bottle. The same observer saw the
_Myrmecina Latreillei_ defend themselves against the
invasions of the slave-making _Strongylognathus_, by
placing a worker at each of the little openings of the
nest, which quite stops up the opening either with
its head or abdomen. The _Camponotus_ species also
defend their nests by stretching their heads in front
of the openings, drawing back the antennæ. Each
approaching enemy thus receives a sharp blow or bite
delivered with the whole weight of the body. MacCook
noticed in the nests of the soon to be described
Pennsylvanian mound-building ants, the employment of
special sentries, which lay watching within the nest
entrances, and sprang out at the first sight of danger
to attack the enemy; and it was wonderful to see with
what swiftness the news of such an alarm spread
through the nest, and how the inhabitants came out _en
masse_ to meet the enemy. The _Lasius_ species defend
their large, strong, and very extensive nests against
hostile attack or sieges with equal courage and skill,
while other timid species seek to fly as speedily as
possible with their larvæ, pupæ, and fruitful queens.
There is, as Forel tells us, a regular barricade
fight. Passage after passage is stopped and defended
to the uttermost, so that the assailants can only
advance step and step. Unless the latter are in an
enormous majority, the struggle may last a very long
time with these tactics. During this time, other
workers are busy preparing subterranean passages
backwards for eventual flight. Generally such passages
are already made, and during a fight a new dome of the
_Lasius_ may be seen rising at a distance, it not
being difficult for them to make this with the help of
their extended subterranean passages and
communications.
The _F. exsecta_ or _pressilabris_ fights in a
peculiar way, which is due to care of their small and
very tender bodies. It avoids all single combats, and
always fights in closed ranks. Only when it thinks
victory secure does it spring on its enemy's back. But
its chief strength lies in the fact that many together
always attack a foe. They nail down their opponent by
seizing its legs and holding them firmly to the
ground, while a comrade springs on the back of the
defenceless creature and tries to bite through its
neck. But if threatened the holders sometimes take
flight, and so it happens that in battles between the
_exsectæ_ and the much stronger _pratenses_ not a few
of the latter are seen running about with a small
enemy clutching their shoulders, and making violent
efforts to tear the neck of its foe. If the bearer is
then seized with cramp, the nervous cord has been
injured. On the other hand, if an _exsecta_ is seized
by the back by a _pratensis_ it is at once lost.
The tactics of the turf ants resemble those of the
_exsectæ_, three or four of them seizing an opponent
and pulling off his legs. In similar fashion the
attack of the _Lasius_ species is chiefly directed
against the legs of its enemies, three, four, or five
uniting in the effort. They understand barricade
fighting particularly well in their large well-built
dwellings, and if it comes to the worst fly by
subterranean passages. They are feared by most ants on
account of their numerical superiority. Forel one day
poured the contents of ten nests of _pratenses_ in
front of a tree trunk inhabited by _Lasius
fuliginosus_ (jet ant). The siege at once began; but
the jet ants called in help from the nests connected
with their colony, and thick black columns were at
once seen coming out from the surrounding trees. The
_pratenses_ were obliged to fly, and left behind them
a mass of dead as well as their pupæ, which last were
carried off by the victors to their nests to be eaten.
Battles, however, are not confined to species of ants having warlike and
slave-making habits. The agricultural ants likewise at times wage fierce
wars with one another. The importance of seeds to these ants, and the
consequent value which they set upon them, induce the animals, when
supplies are scarce, to plunder each other's nests. Thus Moggridge
says,--
By far the most savage and prolonged contests which I
have witnessed were those in which the combatants
belong to two different colonies of the same
species. . . . The most singular contests are those
which are waged for seeds by _A. barbara_, when one
colony plunders the stores of an adjacent nest
belonging to the same species, the weaker nest making
prolonged though, for the most part, inefficient
attempts to recover their property.
In the case of the other species of ant which I have
watched fighting, the strife would last but a short
time--a few hours or a day--but _A. barbara_ will
carry on the battle day after day and week after week.
I was able to devote a good deal of time to watching
the progress of a predatory war of this kind, waged by
one nest of _barbara_ against another, and which
lasted for forty-six days, from January 18 to March 4!
I cannot of course declare positively that no
cessation of hostilities may have taken place during
the time, but I can affirm that whenever I visited the
spot--and I did so on twelve days, or as nearly as
possible twice a week--the scene was one of war and
spoliation such as that which I shall now describe.
An active train of ants, nearly resembling an ordinary
harvesting train, led from the entrance of one nest to
that of another lower down the slope, and fifteen feet
distant; but on closer examination it appeared that
though the great mass of seed-bearers were travelling
towards the upper nest, some few were going in the
opposite direction and making for the lower. Besides
this, at intervals, combats might be seen taking
place, one ant seizing the free end of a seed carried
by another, and endeavouring to wrench it away, and
then frequently, as neither would let go, the stronger
ant would drag seed and opponent towards its nest. At
times other ants would interfere and seize one of the
combatants and endeavour to drag it away, this often
resulting in terrible mutilations, and especially in
the loss of the abdomen, which would be torn off while
the jaws of the victim retained their indomitable
bull-dog grip upon the seed. Then the victor might be
seen dragging away his prize, while its adversary,
though now little more than a head and legs, offered a
vigorous though of course ineffectual resistance. I
frequently observed that the ants during these
conflicts would endeavour to seize one another's
antennæ, and that if this were effected, the ant thus
assaulted would instantly release his hold, whether of
seed or adversary, and appear utterly discomfited. No
doubt the antennæ are their most sensitive parts, and
injuries inflicted on these organs cause the greatest
pain.
It was not until I had watched this scene for some
days that I apprehended its true meaning, and
discovered that the ants of the upper nest were
robbing the granaries of the lower, while the latter
tried to recover the stolen seeds both by fighting for
them and by stealing seeds in their turn from the nest
of their oppressors. The thieves, however, were
evidently the stronger, and streams of ants laden with
seeds arrived safely at the upper nest, while close
observation showed that very few seeds were
successfully carried on the reverse journey into the
lower and plundered nest.
Thus when I fixed my attention on one of these robbed
ants surreptitiously making its exit with the seed
from the thieves' nest, and having overcome the
opposition and dangers met with on its way, reaching,
after a journey which took six minutes to accomplish,
the entrance to its own home, I saw that it was
violently deprived of its burden by a guard of ants
stationed there apparently for the purpose, one of
whom instantly started off and carried the seed all
the way back again to the upper nest.
This I saw repeated several times.
After March 4 I never saw any acts of hostility
between these nests, though the robbed nest was not
abandoned. In another case of the same kind, however,
where the struggle lasted thirty-one days, the robbed
nest was at length completely abandoned, and on
opening it I found all the granaries empty with one
single exception, and this one was pierced by the
matted roots of grasses and other plants, and must
therefore have been long neglected by the ants.
Strangely enough, not one of the seeds in this
deserted granary showed traces of germination.
No doubt some very pressing need is the cause of these
systematic raids in search of accumulations of seeds,
and there can be little doubt that the requirements of
distinct colonies of ants of the same species are
often different even at the same season and date. Thus
these warring colonies of ants were active on many
days when the majority of the nests were completely
closed; and I have even seen these robbers staggering
along, enfeebled by the cold, and in wind and rain,
when all other ants were safe below ground.
The agricultural ants of Texas do not appear to be less pugnacious than
their European congeners. Thus MacCook says:--
A young community has sometimes to struggle into
permanent prosperity through many perils. The
following example is found in the unpublished Lincecum
manuscripts. One day a new ant-city was observed to be
located within ten or twelve yards of a
long-established nest, a distance that the doctor
thought would prove too near for peaceable
possession--for the agriculturals seem to pre-empt a
certain range of territory around their formicary as
their own, within which no intrusion is allowed. He
therefore concluded to keep these nests under close
observation, and visited them frequently. Only a day
or two had elapsed before he found that the
inhabitants of the old city had made war upon the new.
They had surrounded it in great numbers, and were
entering, dragging out and killing the citizens. The
young colonists, who seemed to be of less size than
their adversaries, fought bravely, and,
notwithstanding they were overwhelmed by superior
numbers, killed and maimed many of their assailants.
The parties were scattered in struggling pairs over a
space ten or fifteen feet around the city gate, and
the ground was strewed with many dead bodies. The new
colonists aimed altogether at cutting off the legs of
their larger foes, which they accomplished with much
success. The old-city warriors, on the contrary,
gnawed and clipped off the heads and abdomens of their
enemies. Two days afterward the battlefield was
revisited, and many ants were found lying dead tightly
locked together by legs and mandibles, while hundreds
of decapitated bodies and severed heads were strewed
over the ground.
Another example, which is given in the published
paper, is quite similar, and had like result. In
forty-eight hours the old settlers had exterminated
the new. The distance between the nests was about 20
feet. While the young colonists remained in
concealment they were not disturbed, but as soon as
they began to clear away their open disk war was
declared.
MacCook, however, says that 'these ants are not always so jealous of
territorial encroachment, or at least must have different standards of
rights.' For he observed many cases of nests situated within twenty, and
even ten feet of one another, without a battle ever occurring between
members of the two communities. Therefore, without questioning the
accuracy of Lincecum's observations--which, indeed, present no scope for
inaccuracy--he adds, 'That neighbouring ants, like neighbouring nations
of civilised men, will fall out and wage war Lincecum's examples show.
Perhaps we should be quite as unsuccessful in case of these ants as of
our human congeners, should we seek a sufficient reason for these wars,
or satisfactory cause for these differences in dealing with neighbours
which appear from the comparison of Lincecum's observations with mine.'
In connection with the wars of these ants, the following quotations may
also be made from the same author:--
The erratic ants do not appear to be held as common
enemies by the agriculturals, and they are even
permitted to establish their formicaries within the
limits of the open disk. Sometimes, however, the
diminutive hillocks which mark the entrance to an
erratic ant-nest multiply beyond the limit of the
agriculturals' forbearance. But they do not declare
war, nor resort to any personal violence.
Nevertheless, they get rid of them, oddly enough, by a
regular system of vexatious obstructions. They
suddenly conclude that there is urgent demand for
improving their public domain. Forthwith they sally
forth in large numbers, fall eagerly to work gathering
the little black balls which are thrown up by the
earth-worms in great quantities everywhere in the
prairie soil, which they bring and heap upon the paved
disk until all the erratic ant-nests are covered! The
entire pavement is thus raised an inch or so, and
pains are taken to deposit more balls upon and around
the domiciles of their tiny neighbours than elsewhere.
The erratics struggle vigorously against this Pompeian
treatment; they bore through the avalanche of balls,
only to find barriers laid in their way. The
obstructions at length become so serious that it is
impossible to keep the galleries open. The dwarfs
cease to contend against destiny, and, gathering
together their household stores, quietly evacuate the
premises of the inhospitable giants. It is the triumph
of the policy of obstruction, a bloodless but
effectual opposition.
Lastly, MacCook records the history of an interesting engagement which
he witnessed between two nests of _Tetramorium cæspitum_. It took place
between Broad Street and Penn Square in Philadelphia, and lasted for
nearly three weeks. Although all the combatants belonged to the same
species, however great the confusion of the fight, friends were always
distinguished from foes--apparently by contact of antennæ.
_Habit of keeping Domestic Pets._--Many species of ants display the
curious habit of keeping in their nests sundry kinds of other insects,
which, so far as observation extends, are of no benefit to the ants, and
which therefore have been regarded by observers as mere domestic pets.
These 'pets' are for the most part species which occur nowhere else
except in ants' nests, and each species of 'pet' is peculiar to certain
species of ants. Thus Moggridge found 'a large number of a minute
shining brown beetle moving about among the seeds' in the nests of the
harvesting ant of the south of Europe, 'belonging to the scarce and very
restricted genus _Colnocera_, called by Kraatz _C. attæ_, on account of
its inhabiting the nests of ants belonging to the genus _Atta_.' He also
observed inhabiting the same nests a minute cricket 'scarcely larger
than a grain of wheat' (_Gryllus myrmecophilus_), which had been
previously observed by Paolo Savi in the nests of several species of
ants in Tuscany, where it lived on the best terms with its hosts,
playing round the nests in warm weather, and retiring into them in
stormy weather, while allowing the ants to carry it from place to place
during migrations. Again, Mr. Bates observes that 'some of the most
anomalous forms of coleopterous insects are those which live solely in
the nests of ants.' Sir John Lubbock also, and other observers whom we
need not wait to cite, mention similar facts. The Rev. Mr. White says
that altogether 40 distinct species of Coleoptera, most of which he has
in his own collection, are known to inhabit the nests of various species
of ants, and to occur nowhere else.
As in all these cases the ants live on amicable terms with their guests,
and in some cases even bestow labour upon them (as in carrying them from
one nest to another during migration), it is evident that these insects
are not only tolerated, but fostered by the ants. Moreover, as it seems
absurd to credit ants with any mere fancy or caprice such as that of
keeping pets, we can only conclude that these insects, like the aphides,
are of some use to their hosts, although we are not yet in a position to
surmise what this use can be.
_Habits of Sleep and Cleanliness._--It is probable that all species of
ants enjoy periods of true sleep alternating with those of activity; but
actual observations on this subject have only been made on two or three
species. The following is MacCook's account of these habits in the
harvesting ant of Texas:--
The observation upon the ants now before me began at 8
o'clock; at 11 P.M. the cluster had nearly dissolved,
only a few being asleep. To illustrate the soundness
of this sleep I take the quill pen with which I write,
and apply the feather end of it to an ant who is
sleeping upon the soil. She has chosen a little oval
depression in the surface, and lies with abdomen upon
the raised edge, and face toward the lamp. Her legs
are drawn up close to the body. She is perfectly
still. I gently draw the feather tip along the body,
stroking 'with the fur,' if I may so say. There is no
motion. Again and again this action is repeated, the
stroke gradually being made heavier, although always
quite gentle. Still there is no change. The strokes
are now directed upon the head, with the same result.
Now the tip is applied to the neck, the point at which
the head is united to the pro-thorax, with a waving
motion intended to produce a sensation of tickling.
The ant remains motionless. After continuing these
experiments for several minutes, I arouse the sleeper
by a sharp touch of the quill. She stretches out her
head, then her legs, which she also shakes, steps
nearer to the light, and begins to cleanse herself in
the manner already described. This act invariably
follows the waking of ants from sleep. The above
description applies to the general habit of somnolence
as observed upon the two named species of harvesting
ants for nearly four months. I have often applied the
quill, and even the point of a lead pencil, to the
sleeping Floridians without breaking their slumber.
There are some other details which have not appeared
in the behaviour of the individual just put under
observation.
Thus, I have several times seen the ants (_Crudelis_)
_yawning_ after awaking. I use this word for lack of
one which more accurately expresses the behaviour. The
action is very like that of the human animal; the
mandibles are thrown open with the peculiar muscular
strain which is familiar to all readers; the tongue
also is sometimes thrust out, and the limbs stretched
with the appearance, at least, of that tension which
accompanies the yawn in the genus _homo_. During sleep
the antennæ have a gentle, quivering, apparently
involuntary motion, which seemed to me, at times, to
have the regularity of breathing. I also often noted
an occasional regular lifting up and setting down of
the fore-feet, one leg after another, with almost a
rhythmic motion.
The length of time during which sleep is prolonged
appears to vary according to circumstances and,
perhaps, organism. The large head-soldiers of the
Floridian harvesters appear to have a more sluggish
nature than the smaller workers. Their sleep is longer
and heavier. The former fact the watch readily
determined. The latter appeared from the greater
stolidity of the creatures under disturbance. While
the ants of one group are taking sleep others may be
busy at work, and these stalk among and over the
sleepers, jostling them quite vigorously at times.
Again, new members occasionally join the group, and,
in their desire to get close up to the heat and light,
crowd their drowsy comrades aside. I have seen ants
who had been at work in the galleries drop their
pellets, push thus into the cluster, and presently be
apparently sound asleep. This rough treatment is
invariably received with perfect good humour, as are
like jostlings when the ants are awake. I have never
seen the slightest display of anger or attempt to
resent disturbance even under these circumstances, so
peculiarly calculated to excite the utmost irritation
in men. But of course some of the sleepers are
aroused. They change position a little, or give
themselves a brief combing, and then resume their nap,
unless, indeed, they are satisfied. In watching these
movements it was quite evident that the Florida
soldiers were far less easily disturbed than their
smaller fellows. They slept on stolidly while all the
others were in agitation around them. Moreover, their
very appearance, particularly when awaking out of
sleep, indicated the greater sluggishness of their
temperament in this respect.
The ordinary duration of sleep MacCook takes to be about three hours.
Ants, like many other insects, are in the habit of cleaning themselves,
being, like them, provided by nature with combs and brushes, &c., for
the purpose. But, unlike other insects, several species of ants are also
in the habit of assisting each other in the performance of their toilet.
The author last quoted gives the following account of this process in
the genus _Atta_:--
We take a couple; the cleanser has begun at the face,
which is licked thoroughly, even the mandibles being
cared for, they being held apart for convenient
manipulation. From the face the cleanser passes to the
thorax, thence to the haunch, and so along the first
leg, along the second and third in the same manner,
around to the abdomen, and thence up the other side of
the ant to the head. A third ant approaches and joins
in the friendly task, but soon abandons the field to
the original cleanser. The attitude of the cleansed
all this while is one of intense satisfaction, quite
resembling that of a family dog when one is scratching
the back of his neck. The insect stretches out her
limbs, and, as her friend takes them successively into
hand, yields them limp and supple to her manipulation;
she rolls gently over upon her side, even quite over
upon her back, and with all her limbs relaxed presents
a perfect picture of muscular surrender and ease. The
pleasure which the creatures take in being thus
'combed' and 'sponged' is really enjoyable to the
observer. I have seen an ant kneel down before another
and thrust forward the head, drooping, quite under the
face, and lie there motionless, thus expressing, as
plainly as sign-language could, her desire to be
cleansed. I at once understood the gesture, and so did
the supplicated ant, for she at once went to work. If
analogies in nature-studies were not so apt to be
misleading, one might venture to suggest that our
insect friends are thus in possession of a modified
sort of Emmetonian Turkish bath.
The acrobatic skill of these ants, which has often
furnished me amusement, and which I shall yet further
illustrate, was fully shown one morning in these
offices of ablution. The formicary was taken from the
study, where the air had become chilled, and placed in
an adjoining chamber upon the hearth, before an
open-grate fire. The genial warmth was soon diffused
throughout the nest, and aroused its occupants to
unusual activity. A tuft of grass in the centre of the
box was presently covered with them. They climbed to
the very top of the spires, turned round and round,
hanging by their paws, not unlike gymnasts performing
upon a turning-bar. They hung or clung in various
positions, grasping the grass blade with the third and
fourth pairs of legs, which were spread out at length,
cleansing their heads with the fore-legs or bending
underneath to comb and lick the abdomen. Among these
ants were several pairs, in one case a triplet,
engaged in the cleansing operation just described. The
cleanser clung to the grass, having a fore-leg on one
side and a hind leg on the other side of the stem,
stretched out at full length, while the cleansed hung
in a like position below, and reached over and up,
submitting herself to the pleasant process. As the
progress of the act required a change of posture on
the part of both insects, it was made with the utmost
agility.
Similarly, Bates thus describes the cleansing process in another genus
of ants (_Ecitons_):--
Here and there an ant was seen stretching forth first
one leg and then another, to be brushed and washed by
one or more of its comrades, who performed the task by
passing the limb between the jaws and tongue,
finishing by giving the antennæ a friendly wipe.
_Habits of Play and Leisure._--The life of ants is not all work, or, at
least, is not so in all species; for in some species, at any rate,
periods of recreation are habitually indulged in.
Büchner('Geistesleben der Thiere,' p. 163) gives the following abstract
of Huber's celebrated observations in this connection:--
It was of the _pratensis_ that Huber wrote the
observations touching its gymnastic sports which
became so famous. He saw these ants on a fine day
assembled on the surface of their nest, and behaving
in a way that he could only explain as simulating
festival sports or other games. They raised themselves
on their hind legs, embraced each other with their
fore-legs, seized each other by the antennæ, feet, or
mandibles, and wrestled--but all in friendliest
fashion. They then let go, ran after each other, and
played hide-and-seek. When one was victorious, it
seized all the others in the ring, and tumbled them
over like ninepins.
This account of Huber's found its way into many
popular books, but in spite of its clearness won
little credence from the reading public. 'I found it
hard to believe Huber's observation,' writes Forel,
'in spite of its exactness, until I myself had seen
the same.' A colony of the _pratensis_ several times
gave him the opportunity when he approached it
carefully. The players caught each other by the feet
or jaws, rolled over each other on the ground like
boys playing, pulled each other inside the entrances
of their nest, only to come out again, and so on. All
this was done without bad temper, or any spurting of
poison, and it was clear that all the rivalry was
friendly. The least breath from the side of the
observer was enough to put an end to the games. 'I
understand,' continues Forel, 'that the affair must
seem marvellous to those who have not seen it,
especially when we remember that sexual attraction can
here play no part.'
MacCook also gives an account of habits of play as indulged in among
ants of the other Hemisphere:--
At one formicary half a dozen or more young queens
were out at the same time. They would climb up a large
pebble near the gate, face the wind, and assume a
rampant posture. Several having ascended the stone at
one time, there ensued a little playful
passage-at-arms as to position. They nipped each other
gently with the mandibles, and chased one another from
favourite spots. They, however, never nipped the
workers. These latter evidently kept a watch upon the
sportive princesses, occasionally saluted them with
their antennæ in the usual way, or touched them at the
abdomen, but apparently allowed them full liberty of
action.
As to leisure, Bates writes:--
The life of these Ecitons is not all work, for I
frequently saw them very leisurely employed in a way
that looked like recreation. When this happened the
place was always a sunny nook in the forest. The main
column of the army and the branch columns, at these
times, were in their ordinary relative positions; but
instead of pressing forward eagerly and plundering
right and left, they seemed to have been all smitten
with a sudden fit of laziness. Some were walking
sternly about, others were brushing their antennæ with
their fore-feet; but the drollest sight was their
cleaning each other. [Here follows the above-quoted
passage.] The actions of these ants looked like simple
indulgence in idle amusement. . . . It is probable
that these hours of relaxation and cleaning may be
indispensable to the effective performance of their
harder burdens; but whilst looking at them, the
conclusion that the ants were engaged merely in play
was irresistible.[31]
_Funereal Habits._--In another connection it has already been stated
that Sir John Lubbock found his ants to be very careful in disposing of
the dead bodies of their comrades. This habit seems to be pretty general
among many species of ants, and is no doubt due to sanitary
requirements, thus becoming developed as a beneficial instinct by
natural selection. The funereal habits of the agricultural ant are thus
related by MacCook:[32]--
There is nothing which is apt to awaken deeper
interest in the life-history of ants than what may
properly be called their funereal habits. All species
whose manners I have closely observed are quite alike
in their mode of caring for their own dead, and for
the dry carcasses of aliens. The former they appear to
treat with some degree of reverence, at least to the
extent of giving them a sort of sepulture without
feeding upon them. The latter, after having exhausted
the juices of the body, they usually deposit together
in some spot removed from the nest. I did not see any
of the 'cemeteries' of the agricultural ant upon the
field, nor, indeed, observe any of their behaviour
towards the dead, but my artificial nests gave me some
insight of this. In the first colony had been placed
eight agriculturals of another nest, which were
literally cut to pieces. Very soon after the ants were
comfortably established in their new home, a number of
them laid hold upon these _disjecta membra_, and began
carrying them back and forth around the formicarium.
The next day this continued, and several of their own
number who had died were being treated in like
manner. Back and forth, up and down, into every corner
of the box the bearers wandered, the very embodiment
of restlessness. For four days this conduct continued
without any intermission. No sooner would a body or
fragment thereof be dropped by one bearer than another
would take it up and begin the restless circuit. The
difficulty, I easily understood, was that there was no
point to be found far enough removed from the
living-rooms of the insects in which to inter these
dead. Their desire to have their dead buried out of
their sight was strong enough to keep them on this
ceaseless round, apparently under the continuous
influence of the hope that something might turn up to
give them a more satisfactory burial-ground. It does
not appear greatly to the credit of their wisdom that
they were so long discovering that they were limited
to a space beyond their power to enlarge. When,
however, this fact was finally recognised they gave
their habit its utmost bent, and began to deposit the
carcasses in the extreme corner of the flat, as
distant as possible from the galleries on the terrace
above. Here a little hollow was made in the earth,
quite up against the glass, wherein a number of bodies
were laid. Portions of bodies were thrust into the
chinks formed in the dry sod. This flat became the
permanent charnel-house of the colony, and here, in
corners, crevices, and holes, for the most part out of
sight, but not always so, the dead were deposited. But
the living never seemed quite reconciled to their
presence. Occasionally, restless resurrectionists
would disentomb the dead, shift them to another spot,
or start them once more upon their unquiet wanderings.
Even after the establishment of this cemetery, the
creatures did not seem able to lay away their newly
deceased comrades--for there were occasional deaths in
the formicary--without first indulging in this
funereal promenade.
In the formicaries established in glass jars, both of
_barbatus_ and _crudelis_, the same behaviour
appeared. So great was the desire to get the dead
outside the nest, that the bearers would climb up the
smooth surface of the glass to the very top of the
jar, laboriously carrying with them a dead ant. This
was severe work, which was rarely undertaken except
under the influence of this funereal enthusiasm. The
jar was very smooth and quite high. Falls were
frequent, but patiently the little 'undertaker' would
follow the impulse of her instinct, and try and try
again. Finally, as in the large box, the fact of a
necessity seemed to dawn upon the ants, and a portion
of the surface opposite from the entrance to the
galleries, and close up against the glass, was used
as burial-ground and sort of kitchen-midden, where all
the refuse of the nest was deposited. Mrs. Treat has
informed me that her artificial nests of _crudelis_
behaved in precisely the same way.
An interesting fact in the funereal habits of _Formica
sanguinea_ was related to me by this lady. A visit was
paid to a large colony of these slave-makers, which is
established on the grounds adjoining her residence at
Vineland, New Jersey. I noticed that a number of
carcasses of one of the slave species, _Formica
fusca_, were deposited together quite near the gates
of the nest. These were probably chiefly the dry
bodies of ants brought in from recent raids. It was
noticed that the dead ants were all of one species,
and thereupon Mrs. Treat informed me that the red
slave-makers never deposited their dead with those of
their black servitors, but always laid them by
themselves, not in groups, but separately, and were
careful to take them a considerable distance from the
nest. One can hardly resist pointing here another
likeness between the customs of these social
hymenopters and those of human beings, certain of whom
carry their distinctions of race, condition, or
religious caste, even to the gates of the cemetery in
which the poor body moulders into its mother dust!
It will be observed that none of these accounts furnish evidence of ants
burying their dead, as Pliny asserts to have been the case with ants in
the south of Europe. In the Proceedings of the Linnæan Society, however
(1861), there is a very definite account of such a practice as obtaining
among the ants of Sydney; and although it is from the pen of an observer
not well known, the observation seems to have been one about which there
could scarcely have been a mistake. The observer was Mrs. Hutton, and
this is her account. Having killed a number of 'soldier ants,' and
returning half an hour afterwards to the place where the dead bodies
were lying, she says:
I saw a large number of ants surrounding the dead
ones. I determined to watch their proceedings closely.
I followed four or five that started off from the rest
towards a hillock a short distance off, in which was
an ants' nest. This they entered, and in about five
minutes they reappeared, followed by others. All fell
into rank, walking regularly and slowly two by two,
until they arrived at the spot where lay the dead
bodies of the soldier ante. In a few minutes two of
the ants advanced and took up the dead body of one of
their comrades; then two others, and so on, until all
were ready to march. First walked two ants bearing a
body, then two without a burden; then two others with
another dead ant, and so on, until the line was
extended to about forty pairs, and the procession now
moved slowly onwards, followed by an irregular body of
about two hundred ants. Occasionally the two laden
ants stopped, and laying down the dead ant, it was
taken up by the two walking unburdened behind them,
and thus, by occasionally relieving each other, they
arrived at a sandy spot near the sea. The body of ants
now commenced digging with their jaws a number of
holes in the ground, into each of which a dead ant was
laid, where they now laboured on until they had filled
up the ants' graves. This did not quite finish the
remarkable circumstances attending this funeral of the
ants. Some six or seven of the ants had attempted to
run off without performing their share of the task of
digging; these were caught and brought back, when they
were at once attacked by the body of ants and killed
upon the spot. A single grave was quickly dug, and
they were all dropped into it.
The Rev. W. Farren White also, in his papers on ants published in the
'Leisure Hour' (1880), after alluding to the above case, corroborates it
by some interesting observations of his own. He says:--
Several of the little sextons I observed with dead in
their mandibles, and one in the act of burying a
corpse. . . . I should mention that the dead are not
interred without considerable difficulty, in
consequence of the sides of the trays being almost
perpendicular. The work of the sextons continued until
no dead bodies remained upon the surface of the nest,
but all were interred in the extramural cemeteries.
Afterwards I removed the trays, and turned the
contents of the formicarium upside down, and then I
placed six trays on the surface of the earth, two of
which I filled with sugar for food. All six were used
freely as cemeteries, being crowded with the corpses
of the little people and their young, the larvæ which
had perished in the disruption of their home.
I have noticed in one of my formicaria a subterranean
cemetery, where I have seen some ants burying their
dead by placing earth above them. One ant was
evidently much affected, and tried to exhume the
bodies, but the united exertions of the yellow sextons
were more than sufficient to neutralise the effort of
the disconsolate mourner. The cemetery was now
converted into a large vault, the chamber where the
dead were placed, together with the passage which led
to it, being completely covered in.
_Habits Peculiar to Certain Species._
_Leaf-cutting Ants of the Amazon_ ([OE]codoma cephalotes).--The mode of
working practised by these ants is thus described by Mr. Bates:--
They mount a tree in multitudes. . . . Each one places
itself on the surface of a leaf, and cuts with its
sharp scissor-like jaws a nearly semicircular incision
on the upper side; it then takes the edge between its
jaws, and by a sharp jerk detaches the piece.
Sometimes they let the leaf drop to the ground, where
a little heap accumulates, until carried off by
another relay of workers; but generally each marches
off with the piece it has operated on, and as all take
the same road to the colony, the path they follow
becomes in a short time smooth and bare, looking like
the impression of a cart-wheel through the herbage.
Each ant carries its semicircular piece of leaf upright over its head,
so that the home-returning train is rendered very conspicuous. Nearer
observation shows that this home-returning or ladened train of workers
keeps to one side of the road, while the outgoing or empty-handed train
keeps to the other side; so that on every road there is a double train
of ants going in opposite directions. When the leaves arrive at the nest
they are received by a smaller kind of workers, whose duty it is to cut
up the pieces of leaf into still smaller fragments, whereby the leaves
seem to be better fitted for the purpose to which, as we shall presently
see, they are put. These smaller workers never take any part in the
outdoor labours; but they occasionally leave the nest, apparently for
the sole purpose of obtaining air and exercise, for when they leave the
nest they merely run about doing nothing, and frequently, as if in mere
sport, mount some of the semicircular pieces of leaf which the carrier
ants are taking to the nest, and so get a ride home.
From his continued observation of these ants, Bates concludes--and his
opinion has been corroborated by that both of Belt and Müller--that the
object of all this labour is highly interesting and remarkable. The
leaves when gathered do not themselves appear to be of any service to
the ants as food; but when cut into small fragments and stored away in
the nests, they become suited as a nidus for the growth of a minute kind
of fungus on which the ants feed. We may therefore call these insects
the 'gardening ants,' inasmuch as all their labour is given to the
rearing of nutritious vegetables on artificially prepared soil. They are
not particular as to the material which they collect and store up for
soil, provided that it is a material on which the fungus will grow. Thus
they are very partial to the inside white rind of oranges, and will
carry off the flowers of certain shrubs while leaving the leaves
untouched. But, to quote again from Bates,--
They are very particular about the ventilation of
their underground chambers, and have numerous holes
leading up to the surface from them. These they open
out or close up, apparently to keep up a regular
degree of temperature below. The great care they take
that the pieces of leaves they carry into the nest
should be neither too dry nor too damp, is also
consistent with the idea that the object is the growth
of a fungus that requires particular conditions of
temperature and moisture to ensure its vigorous
growth. If a sudden shower should come on, the ants do
not carry the wet pieces into the burrows, but throw
them down near the entrances. Should the weather clear
up again, these pieces are picked up when nearly
dried, and taken inside: should the rain, however,
continue, they get sodden down into the ground, and
are left there. On the contrary, in dry and hot
weather, when the leaves would get dried up before
they could be conveyed to the nest, the ants, when in
exposed situations, do not go out at all during the
hot hours, but bring in their leafy burdens in the
cool of the day and during the night. As soon as the
pieces of leaves are carried in they must be cut up by
the small class of workers into little pieces. Some of
the ants make mistakes, and carry in unsuitable
leaves. Thus grass is always rejected by them, but I
have seen some ants, perhaps young ones, carrying
leaves of grass; but after a while these pieces are
always brought out again and thrown away. I can
imagine a young ant getting a severe ear-wigging from
one of the major-domos for its stupidity.
When a nest is disturbed and the masses of ant-food
spread about, the ants are in great concern to carry
every morsel of it under shelter again; and sometimes,
when I had dug into a nest, I found the next day all
the earth thrown out filled with little pits, that the
ants had dug into it to get out the covered-up food.
When they migrate from one part to another, they also
carry with them all the ant-food from their old
habitations.
In Büchner's 'Geistesleben der Thiere' there is published an interesting
description of the habits of these ants, which was communicated to the
author by Dr. Fr. Ellendorf of Wiedenbrück, who has lived many years in
Central America. Dr. Ellendorf says that--
It would be quite impossible for them to creep even
through short grass with loads on their heads for
miles. They therefore bite off the grass close to the
ground for a breadth of about five inches, and throw
it on one side. Thus a road is constructed, which is
finally made quite smooth and even by the continual
passing to and fro of millions upon millions night and
day. . . . If the road is looked down upon from a height
with these millions thickly pressed together, and all
moving along with their green bannerets over their
heads, it looks as though a giant green snake were
gliding slowly along the ground; and this picture is
all the more striking in that all these bannerets are
swaying backwards and forwards.[33]
This observer made the experiment of interrupting the advance of a
column of these ants, with the interesting result which he describes:--
I wished to see how they would manage if I put an
obstacle in their way. Thick high grass stood on
either side of their narrow road, so that they could
not pass through it with the load on their heads. I
placed a dry branch, nearly a foot in diameter,
obliquely across their path, and pressed it down so
tightly on the ground that they could not creep
underneath. The first comers crawled beneath the
branch as far as they could, and then tried to climb
over, but failed owing to the weight on their heads.
Meanwhile the unloaded ants from the other side came
on, and when these succeeded in climbing over the
bough there was such a crush that the unladen ants had
to clamber over the laden, and the result was a
terrible muddle. I now walked along the train, and
found that all the ants with their bannerets on their
heads were standing still, thickly pressed together,
awaiting the word of command from the front. When I
turned back to the obstacle, I saw with astonishment
that the loads had been laid aside by more than a
foot's length of the column, one imitating the other.
And now work began on both sides of the branch, and in
about half an hour a tunnel was made beneath it. Each
ant then took up its burden again, and the march was
resumed in the most perfect order.
A migration of these ants is thus described by the same observer:--
The road led towards a cocoa plantation, and here I
soon discovered the building which I afterwards
visited daily. As I again went thither one day I was
met, at a considerable distance from the nest, by a
closely pressed column coming thence, and all the ants
laden with leaves, beetles, pupæ, butterflies, &c.;
the nearer I came to the nest, the greater was the
activity. It was soon plain to me that the ants were
in the act of leaving their dwelling, and I walked
along the train to discover the new abode. They had
gone for some distance along the old road, and had
then made a new one through the grass to a cooler
place, lying rather higher. The grass on the new road
was all bitten off close to the ground, and thousands
were busy carrying the path on to the new building. At
the new home itself was an unusual stir of life. There
were all sorts of labourers--architects, builders,
carpenters, sappers, helpers. A number were busy
digging a hole in the ground, and they carried out
little pellets of earth and laid them together on end
to make a wall. Others drew along little twigs,
straws, and grass-stalks, and put them near the place
of building. I was anxious to know why they had
quitted their old home, and when the departure was
complete, I dug it up with a spade. At a depth of
about a foot and a half I found several tunnels of a
large marmot species, the terror of cocoa planters,
because in making their passages they gnaw off the
thickest roots of the cocoa plants. The interior of
the ant-hill had apparently fallen in through these
mines. Unfortunately I was unable to follow further
the progress of the new building, for I was obliged to
leave the next day for San Juan del Sur. When I
returned at the end of a week the building was
finished, and the whole colony was again busy with the
leaves of the coffee plants.
_Harvesting Ants_ (Atta).--The ants which, so far as at present known,
practise the peculiar and distinctive habits to be described under this
division belong for the most part to one genus, _Atta_, which, however,
comprises a number of species distributed in localised areas over all
the four quarters of the globe. Hitherto nineteen species have been
detected as having the habits in question. These consist of gathering
nutritious seeds of grasses during summer, and storing them in granaries
for winter consumption. We owe our present knowledge concerning these
insects to Mr. Moggridge,[34] who studied them in the south of Europe,
Dr. Lincecum,[35] and Mr. MacCook,[36] who studied them in Texas, and
Colonel Sykes[37] and Dr. Jerdon,[38] who made some observations upon them
in India. They also occur scattered over a great part of Europe and in
Palestine, where they were clearly known to Solomon and other classical
writers of antiquity,[39] whose claim to accurate observation, although
long disputed (owing to the authority of Huber), has now been amply
vindicated.
Mr. Moggridge, who was a careful and industrious observer, found the
following points of interest in the habits of the European harvesters.
From the nest in various directions there proceed outgoing trains, which
may be from twenty to thirty or more yards in length, and each consists
of a double row of ants, moving, like the leaf-cutting ants, in opposite
directions. Those in the outgoing row are empty-handed, while those in
the incoming row are laden. But here the burdens are grass seeds. The
roads terminate in the foraging ground, or ant-fields, and the insects
composing the columns there become dispersed by hundreds among the
seed-yielding grasses. The following is their method of collecting
seeds; I quote from Moggridge:--
It is not a little surprising to see that the ants
bring in not only seeds of large size and fallen
grain, but also green capsules, the torn stalks of
which show that they have been freshly gathered from
the plant. The manner in which they accomplish this
feat is as follows. An ant ascends the stem of a
fruiting plant of shepherd's-purse (_Capsella
bursa-pastoris_), let us say, and selects a
well-filled but green pod about midway up the stem,
those below being ready to shed their seeds at a
touch. Then, seizing it in its jaws, and fixing its
hind legs firmly as a pivot, it contrives to turn
round and round, and so strain the fibres of the
fruit-stalk that at length they snap. It then descends
to the stem, patiently backing and turning upwards
again as often as the clumsy and disproportionate
burden becomes wedged between the thickly set stalks,
and joins the line of its companions on their way to
the nest. In this manner capsules of chickweed
(_Stellaria media_) and entire calyces, containing the
nutlets of calamint, are gathered; two ants also
sometimes combine their efforts, when one stations
itself near the base of the peduncle and gnaws it at
the point of greatest tension, while the other hauls
upon and twists it. I have never seen a capsule
severed from its stalk by cutting alone, and the
mandibles of this ant are perhaps incompetent to
perform such a task. I have occasionally seen ants
engaged in cutting the capsules of certain plants,
drop them, and allow their companions below to carry
them away; and this corresponds with the curious
account given by Ælian of the manner in which the
spikelets of corn are severed and thrown down 'to the
people below,' [Greek: tô dêmô tô katô].
The recognition of the principle of the division of labour which the
latter observation supplies, is further proved by the following
quotation from the same author. A dead grasshopper which was being
carried into their nest was--
Too large to pass through the door, so they tried to
dismember it. Failing in this, several ants drew the
wings and legs as far back as possible, while others
gnawed through the muscles where the strain was
greatest. They succeeded at last in thus pulling it
in.
The same thing is strikingly shown by the following quotation from
Lespès:--
If the road from the place where they are gathering
their harvest to the nest is very long, they make
regular depôts for their provisions under large
leaves, stones, or other suitable places, and let
certain workers have the duty of carrying them from
depôt to depôt.
Büchner (_loc. cit._ p. 101) also makes the following references to the
statements of previous observers:--
The subterranean workers of this remarkable genus are
very clever. The Rev. H. Clark reports from Rio de
Janeiro, that the _Sa-ubas_ have made a regular tunnel
under the bed of the river Parahyba, which is there as
broad as the Thames at London, in order to reach a
storehouse which is on the opposite bank. Bates tells
us that close to the Magoary rice-mills, near Para,
the ants bored through the dam of a large reservoir,
and the water escaped before the mischief could be
remedied. In the Para Botanical Gardens an
enterprising French gardener did everything he could
to drive the _Sa-ubas_ away. He lit fires at the chief
entrances of their nests, and blew sulphur vapour into
their galleries by means of bellows. But how
astonished was Bates when he saw the vapour come out
at no less a distance than seventy yards! Such an
extension have the subterranean passages of the
_Sa-ubas_.
The recognition of the principle of the division of labour, which is
shown by the above observations, is further corroborated by the
following quotation from Belt:--
Between the old burrows and the new one was a steep
slope. Instead of descending this with their burdens,
they cast them down on the top of the slope, whence
they rolled down to the bottom, where another relay of
labourers picked them up and carried them to the new
burrow. It was amusing to watch the ants hurrying out
with bundles of food, dropping them over the slope,
and rushing back immediately for more.
The same thing has been observed, as already stated, of the leaf-cutting
ants--those engaged in cutting frequently throwing down the fragments of
leaf which they cut to the carriers below. The prevalence of this habit
among various species of ants therefore renders credible the following
statements of Vincent Gredler of Botzen which are thus recorded in 'der
Zool. Gart.,' xv. p. 434:--
In Herr Gredler's monastery one of the monks had been
accustomed for some months to put food regularly on
his window-sill for ants coming up from the garden.
In consequence of Herr Gredler's communications he
took it into his head to put the bait for the ants,
pounded sugar, into an old inkstand, and hung this up
by a string to the cross-piece of his window, and left
it hanging freely. A few ants were in with the bait.
These soon found their road out over the string with
their grains of sugar, and so their way back to their
friends. Before long a procession was arranged on the
new road from the window-sill along the string to the
spot where the sugar was, and so things went on for
two days, nothing fresh occurring. But one day the
procession stopped at the old feeding-place on the
window-sill, and took the food thence, without going
up to the pendent sugar-jar. Closer observation
revealed that about a dozen of the rogues were in the
jar above, and were busily and unwearyingly carrying
the grains of sugar to the edge of the pot, and
throwing them over to their comrades down below.
Many other instances of the division of labour might be given besides
these, and those to be mentioned hereafter in other connections
throughout the course of the present chapter; but enough has been said
to show that the principle is unquestionably acted upon by sundry
species of ants.
That ants are liable to make mistakes, and, when they do, that they
profit by experience, is shown by the following experiment made by
Moggridge; and many other instances might be given were it desirable:--
It sometimes happens that an ant has manifestly made a
bad selection, and is told on its return that what it
has brought home with much pains is no better than
rubbish, and is hustled out of the nest, and forced to
throw its burden away. In order to try whether these
creatures were not fallible like other mortals, I one
day took out with me a little packet of grey and white
porcelain beads, and scattered these in the path of a
harvesting train. They had scarcely lain a minute on
the earth before one of the largest workers seized
upon a bead, and with some difficulty clipped it with
its mandibles and trotted back at a great pace to the
nest. I waited for a little while, my attention being
divided between the other ants who were vainly
endeavouring to remove the beads, and the entrance
down which the worker had disappeared, and then left
the spot. On my return in an hour's time, I found the
ants passing unconcernedly by and over the beads which
lay where I had strewed them in apparently
undiminished quantities; and I conclude from this that
they had found out their mistake, and had wisely
returned to their accustomed occupations.
When the grain is thus taken into the nest, it is stored in regular
granaries, but not until it has been denuded of its 'husks' or 'chaff.'
The denuding process is carried on below ground, and the chaff is
brought up to the surface, where it is laid in heaps to be blown away by
the wind.
It is a remarkable thing, and one not yet understood, why the seed, when
thus stored in subterranean chambers just far enough below the surface
to favour germination, does not germinate. Moggridge says that out of
twenty-one nests and among many thousands of seeds that he examined, he
only found twenty-seven cases of incipient germination. Moreover, all
these cases occurred in months from November to February, while in the
nests opened in October, March, April, and May, no sprouted seeds were
discovered, though these are the months highly favourable to
germination. He is at a loss to suggest the treatment to which the ants
expose the seeds in order to prevent their sprouting. 'Apparently it is
not that moisture or warmth or the influence of atmospheric air is
denied to the seeds, for we find them in damp soil in genial weather,
and often at but a trifling distance below the surface of the ground;'
and he has proved that the vitality of the seeds is not impaired, for he
succeeded in raising crops of young plants from seeds removed from the
granaries.
He also says,--
By a fortunate chance I have been able to prove that
the seeds will germinate in an undisturbed granary
when the ants are prevented from obtaining access to
it: and this goes to show not only that the structure
and nature of the granary chamber is not sufficient of
itself to prevent germination, but also that the
presence of the ants is essential to secure the
dormant condition of the seeds.
I discovered in two places portions of distinct nests
of _Atta structor_ which had been isolated owing to
the destruction of the hollow wall behind which they
lay, and then the granaries well filled up and
literally choked with growing seeds, though the earth
in which they lay completely enclosed and concealed
them until by chance I laid them bare. In one case I
knew that the destruction of the wall had only taken
place ten days before, so that the seeds had sprouted
in the interval.
My experiments also tend to confirm this, and to
favour the belief that the non-germination of the
seeds is due to some direct influence voluntarily
exercised by the ants, and not merely to the
conditions found in the nest, or to acid vapours which
in certain cases are given off by the ants themselves.
These experiments consisted in confining a large number of harvesting
ants with their queen and larvæ in a glass test-tube partly filled with
damp soil and various seeds, the whole being closed with a cork in the
mouth of the test-tube. Under these circumstances the seeds all
sprouted, showing that mere confinement in an atmosphere of exhalations
from the ants did not prevent germination. Another series of
experiments, undertaken at the suggestion of Mr. Darwin, on the effects
of an atmosphere of formic acid, showed that although this vapour was
very injurious to the seeds, it did not prevent their incipient
germination. Therefore it yet remains to be ascertained why the seeds do
not germinate in the granaries of the ants.
But in whatever way the ants manage to prevent germination, it is
certain that they are aware of the importance in this connection of
keeping the seeds as dry as possible; for Moggridge repeatedly observed
that when the seeds which had been stored proved over-moist, the ants
again took them out and spread them in the sun to dry, to be again
brought into the nest after a sufficient exposure.
Lastly, he also repeatedly observed the most surprising and interesting
fact that when, as we have seen was occasionally the case, the seeds did
begin to germinate in the nests, the ants knew the most effective method
of preventing the germination from proceeding; for he found that in
these cases the ants gnawed off the tips of the radicles. This fact
deserves to be considered as one of the most remarkable among the many
remarkable facts of ant-psychology.
Passing on now to the harvesting or agricultural ants of Texas,
attention was first called to the habits of this insect by Mr. Buckley
in 1860,[40] and by Dr. Lincecum, who sent an account of his observations
to Mr. Darwin, by whom they were communicated to the Linnæan Society in
1861. Five years later a paper was published in the Proceedings of the
Academy of Natural Sciences of Philadelphia from the MS. of Dr.
Lincecum. Lastly, in 1877 Mr. MacCook went to Texas expressly to study
the habits of these insects, and he has recently embodied the results of
his observations in a book of three hundred pages.[41] These observations
are for the most part confirmatory of those of Lincecum, and for this as
well as for reasons to be deduced from the work itself, they deserve to
be accepted as trustworthy, notwithstanding that in some cases they are
provokingly incomplete. The following is an epitome of these
observations.
The ants clear away all the herbage above their nest in the form of a
perfect circle, or 'disk,' 15 or 20 feet in diameter, by carefully
felling every stalk of grass or weed that may be growing thereon. As the
nests are placed in thickly grown localities, the effect of these bald
or shaven disks is highly conspicuous and peculiar, exactly resembling
in miniature the clearings which the settlers make in the American
backwoods. The disk, however, is not merely cleared of herbage, but also
carefully levelled, all inequalities of the surface being reduced by
building pellets of soil into the hollows to an extent sufficient to
make a uniformly flat surface. The action of rain and the constant
motion of multitudes of ants cause this flat surface to become hard and
smooth. In the centre of the disk is the gateway of the nest. This may
be either a simple hole or a hollow cone.
From the disk in various directions there radiate ant-roads or avenues,
which are cleared and smoothed like the disk itself, and which course
through the thick surrounding grass, branching and narrowing as they go
till they eventually taper away. These roads are usually three or four
in number before they begin to branch, but may be as many as seven.
They are usually two to three inches wide at their origin, but in large
nests may be as much as five. MacCook found no road longer than sixty
feet, but Lincecum describes one of three hundred feet. Along these hard
and level roads there is always passing, during the daytime of the
harvesting season, a constant stream of ants--those going from the nest
being empty-handed, and those returning to it being laden with seeds. Of
course the incoming ants, converging from all quarters upon the road,
and therefore increasing in numbers as they approach the nest, require
greater space for free locomotion; while the outgoing ants, diverging as
they get further from home, also require greater proportional space the
less their distance from the nest: hence the gradual swelling in the
width of the roads as they approach the nests.
The manner of collecting the seeds in the jungle surrounding the roads
is thus described by MacCook:--
At last a satisfactory seed is found. It is simply
lifted from the ground, or, as often happens, has to
be pulled out of the soil into which it has been
tightly pressed by the rain or by passing feet. Now
follows a movement which at first I thought to be a
testing of the seed, and which, indeed, may be
partially that; but finally I concluded that it was
the adjusting of the burden for safe and convenient
carriage. The ant pulls at the seed-husk with its
mandibles, turning and pinching or 'feeling' it on all
sides. If this does not satisfy, and commonly it does
not, the body is raised by stiffening out the legs,
the abdomen is curved underneath, and the apex applied
to the seed. I suppose this to be simply a mechanical
action for the better adjusting of the load. Now the
worker starts homeward. It has not lost itself in the
mazes of the grass forest. It turns directly towards
the road with an unerring judgment. There are many
obstacles to overcome. Pebbles, pellets of earth, bits
of wood, obtruding rootlets, or bent-down spears of
grass block up or hinder the way. These were scarcely
noticed when the ant was empty-handed. But they are
troublesome barriers now that she is burdened with a
seed quite as thick, twice as wide, and half as long
as herself. It is most interesting to see the skill,
strength, and rapidity with which the little harvester
swings her treasure over or around, or pushes it
beneath these obstacles. Now the seed has caught
against the herbage as the porter dodges under a too
narrow opening. She backs out and tries another
passage. Now the sharp points of the husk are
entangled in the grass. She jerks or pulls the burden
loose, and hurries on. The road is reached, and
progress is comparatively easy. Holding the grain in
her mandibles well above the surface, she breaks into
what I may describe with sufficient accuracy as 'a
trot,' and with little further interruption reaches
the disk and disappears within the gate. There are
variations from this behaviour, more or less marked,
according to the nature of the grounds, the seeds, and
(I suppose) the individuality of the harvesters; but
the mode of ingathering the crop is substantially as
above. Each ant operated independently. Once only did
I see anything like an effort to extend sympathy and
aid. A worker minor seeming to have difficulty in
testing or adjusting a large seed of buffalo-grass,
was assisted (apparently) by one worker major, and
then by another, after which she went on her way.
But these ants do not confine their harvesting operations to gathering
fallen seeds; they will, like the ants of Europe, also cut seeds from
the stalk.
In order to test the disposition of _crudelis_ to
garner the seeds from the stem, bunches of millet were
obtained from the North, and stalks eighteen inches
high, crowned by the boll of close-set seeds, were
stuck in the mound of an active formicary. The ants
mounted the stems and set to work vigorously to secure
the seeds, clusters of twenty or more being engaged at
once upon one head. The seeds were carried off and
stored within the nest. This experiment proved pretty
conclusively that in the seeding season _crudelis_
does not wait for the seeds to drop, but harvests them
from the plant.
The 'granaries' into which the seeds are brought are kept distinct from
the 'nurseries' for the pupæ. Their walls, floor, and roof are so hard
and smooth, that MacCook thinks the insects must practise upon them
'some rude mason's craft.'
He traced these granaries to a depth of four feet below the surface of
the ground, and believes, from the statements of a native peasant, that
they, or at least the formicaries, extend to a depth of fifteen feet.
As regards the care that the ants take of the gathered grain, Lincecum
describes the same habit as Moggridge and Sykes describe--viz., the
sunning of wet seeds to dry. MacCook, however, neglected to make any
experiments on this subject. Neither has he been able to throw any light
upon the question as to why the stored seeds do not germinate, and is
doubtful whether the habit of gnawing the radicle of sprouting seeds,
which prevails in the European species, is likewise practised by the
American. On two other points of importance MacCook's observations are
also incomplete. One of these has reference to an alleged statement,
which he is disposed to believe, that when some ants in a community have
been killed by poison, the survivors avoid the poison: he, however, made
no experiments to test this statement.
The other main point on which his observations are defective has
reference to a remarkable statement made by Lincecum in the most
emphatic terms. This statement is that upon the surface of their disk
the ants sow the seeds of a certain plant, called ant-rice, for the
purpose of subsequently reaping a harvest of the grain. There is no
doubt that the ant-disks do very often support this peculiar kind of
grass, and that the ants are particularly fond of its seed; but whether
the plant is actually sown in these situations by the insects, or grows
there on account of these situations being more open than the general
surface of the ground--this question MacCook has failed to answer, or
even to further. We are, therefore, still left with Dr. Lincecum's
emphatic assurance that he has witnessed the fact. His account is that
the seed of the ant-rice, which is a biennial plant, is sown in time for
the autumnal rains to bring up. At the beginning of November a green row
or ring of ant-rice, about four inches wide, is seen springing up round
the circumference of the disk. In the vicinity of this circular ring the
ants do not permit a single spire of any other grass or weed to remain a
day, but leave the aristida, or ant-rice, untouched until it ripens,
which occurs in June of the next year. After the maturing and harvesting
of the seed, the dry stubble is cut away and removed from the pavement
or disk, which is thus left unencumbered until the ensuing autumn, when
the same species of grass again appears as before, and so on. Lincecum
says he has seen the process go on year after year on the same
ant-farms, and adds,--
There can be no doubt of the fact that the particular
species of grain-bearing grass mentioned above is
intentionally planted. In farmer-like manner the
ground upon which it stands is carefully divested of
all other grasses and weeds during the time it is
growing. When it is ripe the grain is taken care of,
the dry stubble cut away and carried off, the paved
area being left unencumbered until the ensuing autumn,
when the same 'ant-rice' reappears within the same
circle, and receives the same agricultural attention
as was bestowed upon the previous crop--and so on year
after year, as I _know_ to be the case, in all
situations when the ant's settlements are protected
from graminivorous animals.
In a second letter Dr. Lincecum, in reply to an inquiry from Mr. Darwin
whether he supposed that the ants plant seeds for the ensuing crop,
says:--
I have not the slightest doubt of it. And my
conclusions have not been arrived at from hasty or
careless observation, nor from seeing the ants do
something that looked a little like it, and then
guessing at the results. I have at all seasons watched
the same ant-cities during the last twelve years, and
I know that what I stated in my former letter is true.
I visited the same cities yesterday, and found the
crop of ant-rice growing finely, and exhibiting also
the signs of high cultivation, and not a blade of any
other kind of grass or weed was to be seen within
twelve inches of the circular row of
ant-rice.--(_Journ. Linn. Soc._, vol. vi. p. 30-1.)
Now, MacCook found the ant-rice growing as described, but only on some
nests. Why it does not grow upon all the nests he does not understand.
So far, then, as his observations go, they confirm those of Dr.
Lincecum; but he does 'not believe that the ants deliberately sow a crop
as Lincecum asserts;' he thinks 'that they have for some reason found it
to their advantage to permit the aristida to grow upon their disks,
while they clear off all other herbage;' but finally concludes 'that
there is nothing unreasonable, nor beyond the probable capacity of the
emmet intellect, in the supposition that the crop is actually sown.
Simply, it is the Scotch verdict--"Not proven."'
The following facts with regard to 'modes of mining' are worth quoting
from MacCook:--
In sinking the galleries the difficulty of carrying is
not great in a moist or tough soil, which permits the
ant to obtain goodly-sized pellets for portage. But
when the soil is light and dry, so that it crumbles
into dust as it is bitten off, the difficulty is
greatly increased. It would be a very tedious task
indeed to take out the diggings grain by grain. This
difficulty the worker overcomes by balling the small
particles against the surface of the gallery, the
under side of the head, or within and against the
mandibles. The fore-feet are used for this purpose,
being pressed against the side face, turned under, and
pushed upward with a motion similar to that of a man
putting his hand upon his mouth. The abdomen is then
swung underneath the body and the apex pressed against
the little heap of grains of dirt massed against the
under side of the mandibles, or between that and the
smooth under surface of the head. Thus the dust is
compressed into a ball which is of sufficient size to
justify deportation.
The same operation is observed in the side-galleries,
where the ants work very frequently upon their sides
or backs, precisely as I have seen colliers do in
Pennsylvania coal-mines.
The following is likewise worth quoting from the same author:--
Seeds are evidently not the only food of our
agriculturals. When the ants at disk No. 2 had broken
through the slight mud-sediment that sealed up their
gate, as described above, they exhibited a peculiar
behaviour. Instead of heading for the roads and
pressing along them, they distributed themselves at
once over the entire disk, radiating from the gate to
all points in the circumference, from which they
penetrated the jungle of grass beyond. In a moment a
large number were returning across the roads, out of
the grass, over the pavement toward the entrance. They
bore in their mandibles objects which I presently
found to be the males and females of white ants
(_Termes flavipes_), which were filling the air,
during and after the rain, in marriage flight. They
had probably swarmed just before the shower. The
agriculturals were under great excitement, and hurried
forth and back at the top of their speed. The number
of ants bearing termites was soon so great that the
vestibule became choked, and a mass of struggling
anthood was piled up around the gate. A stream of
eager insects continually poured out of the door,
pushing their way through the crowd that vainly but
persistently endeavoured to get in with their burdens.
The outcoming ants had the advantage, and succeeded in
jostling through the quivering rosette of antennæ,
legs, heads, and abdomens. Occasionally a worker
gained an entrance by dint of sheer physical force and
perseverance. Again and again would the crowd rush
from all sides upon the gate, only to be pushed back
by the issuing throng. In the meanwhile quite a heap
of termites, a good handful at least, had been
accumulated at one side of the gate, the ants having
evidently dropped them, in despair of entrance, and
hurried off to garner more.
In due time the pressure upon the vestibule
diminished, the laden workers entered more freely, and
in the end this heap was transferred to the interior.
The rapidity with which the ants were distributed to
all parts of their roads, after the first opening of
the gates, was truly surprising. I was greatly
puzzled, at the first, to know what the cause of such
a rush might be. The whole behaviour was such as to
carry the conviction that they knew accurately what
effect the rain would have, had calculated upon it,
and were acting in accordance with previous
experience. I had no doubt at the time, and have none
now, that the capturing of insects beaten down by the
rain is one of the well-established customs of these
ants. I saw a few other insects taken in, and one
milliped, but chiefly the white ants.
That very afternoon I found in a formicary which I
then opened several large colonies, or parts of one
colony of termites, nested within the limits of the
disk and quite at home. The next day numbers of the
winged white ants were found stored within the
granaries of a large formicary. There is no reason to
doubt that these insects were intended for food, in
accordance with the quite universal habit of the
_Formicariæ_.
A curious habit has been noticed by most observers to occur in many
species of ant, and it is one on which Mr. MacCook has a good deal to
say. The habit in question consists in the ants transporting one another
from place to place. The carrying ant seizes her comrade by the middle,
and hurries along with it held aloft--the ant which is carried remaining
quite motionless with all her legs drawn together. Huber supposed the
process to be one enjoyable to both the insects concerned, and to be
performed by mutual understanding and consent; but MacCook, in common
with most other observers, supposes that it is merely a rough and
primitive way of communicating to fellow-workers the locality where
their services are required. He says:--
Keeping these facts in mind, we have a key to the
solution of the press-gang operations which Lincecum
observed among the agriculturals, and which have been
fully described in other species. In the absence of
any common head or directory, and of all executive
officers, a change of location or any other concerted
movement must be carried forward by the willing
co-operation of individuals. At first sight, the act
of seizing and carrying off workers does not appear
like an appeal to free-will. It is indeed coercive, so
far as the first act goes. But, in point of fact, the
coercion ceases the moment the captive is set down
within the precincts of the new movement. The
carrier-ant has depended upon securing her consent and
co-operation by thus bringing her within the circle of
activity for which her service is sought. As a rule,
no doubt, the deported ant at once yields to the
influence around her, and drops into the current of
fresh enterprise, in which she moves with as entire
freedom and as independently as any other worker. But
she is apparently under no restraint, and if she so
please, may return to her former haunts.
_Certain Ants of Africa._--Livingstone says of certain ants of Africa:--
They have established themselves on the plain where
water stands so long annually as to allow the lotus
and other aqueous plants to come to maturity. When all
the ant-horizon is submerged a foot deep, they manage
to exist by ascending to little houses built of black
tenaceous loam on stalks of grass, and placed higher
than the line of inundation. This must have been the
result of experience, for, if they had waited till the
water actually invaded their terrestrial habitations,
they would not have been able to procure materials for
their aërial quarters, unless they dived down to the
bottom for every mouthful of clay.[42]
_The Tree Ant of India and New South Wales._--These ants are remarkable
from their habit of forming nests only in trees. According to Col.
Sykes' account, the shape of the nest is more or less globular, and
about ten inches in diameter. It is formed entirely of cow-dung, which
the insects collect from the ground beneath, and work into the form of
thin scales. These are then built together in an imbricated manner, like
tiles or slates upon the roof of a house, the upper or outer scale,
however, being one unbroken sheet, which covers the whole nest like a
skull-cap. Below this the scales are placed one upon another in a wavy
or scalloped manner, so that numerous little arched entrances are left,
and yet, owing to the imbricated manner in which the scales are
arranged, the interior of the nest is perfectly protected from rain.
This interior consists of a number of irregular cells, the walls of
which are formed by the same process as the exterior.
In New South Wales there is another species of ant which also frequents
trees, but builds within the stem and branches. In the report of Captain
Cook's expedition its habits are thus described:--'Their habitations are
the insides of the branches of a tree, which they contrive to excavate,
by working out the pith almost to the extremity of the slenderest twig;
the tree at the same time flourishing as if it had no such inmate.' On
breaking one of the branches the ants swarm out in legions. Some of our
native species also have the habit of excavating the interior of trees,
though not on so extensive a scale.
_Honey-making Ant_ (Myrmecocystus mexicanus).--This ant is found in
Texas and New Mexico. Capt. W. B. Fleeson has observed its habits, and
his observations have been communicated to the Californian Academy of
Sciences, and also, by Mr. Henry Edwards, to Mr. Darwin. The following
are the chief points of interest in Capt. Fleeson's results:--
The community appears to consist of three distinct
kinds of ants, probably of two separate genera, whose
offices in the general order of the nest would seem to
be entirely apart from each other, and who perform the
labour allotted to them without the least encroachment
upon the duties of their fellows. These three kinds
are--
I. Yellow workers; nurses and feeders of II.
II. Yellow honey-makers; sole function to secrete a
kind of honey in their large globose abdomens, on
which the other ants are supposed to feed. They never
quit the nest, and are fed and tended by I.
III. Black workers, guards, and purveyors; surround
the nest as guards or sentinels, in a manner presently
to be described, and also forage for the food required
for I. They are much larger and stronger insects than
either I. or II., and are provided with very
formidable mandibles.
The nest is placed in sandy soil in the neighbourhood of shrubs and
flowers, is a perfect square, and occupies about four or five square
feet of ground, the surface of which is kept almost unbroken. But the
boundaries of the nest are rendered conspicuous by the guard of black
workers (III.), which continuously parade round three of its sides in a
close double line of defence, moving in opposite directions. In the
accompanying diagram this sentry path is represented by the thick black
lines. These always face the same points of the compass, and the
direction in which the sentries march is one column from south-west to
south-east, and the other column from south-east to south-west--each
column, however, moving in regular order round three sides of a square.
The southern side of the encampment is left unguarded; but if any enemy
approaches on this or any other side, a number of the guards leave their
stations, and sally forth to face the foe--raising themselves on their
hind tarsi on meeting the enemy, and moving their large mandibles in
defiance. Spiders, wasps, beetles, and other insects, if they venture
too near the nest, are torn to pieces by the guard in a most merciless
manner, and the dead body of the vanquished is speedily removed from the
neighbourhood of the nest--the guard then marching back to resume their
places in the line of defence, their object in destroying other insects
being the defence of their encampment, and not the obtaining of food.
The object of leaving the southern side of the square encampment open is
as follows. While some of the black workers are engaged on duty as
guard, another and larger division are engaged on duty as purveyors.
These enter and leave the quadrangle by its open or southern side along
the dotted line marked _a_ to the central point _c_. The incoming line
is composed of individuals each bearing a burden of fragments of
flowers or aromatic leaves. These are all deposited in the centre of the
quadrangle _c_. Along the other diagonal _e_ there is a no less
incessantly moving double line of yellow workers (I.), whose office it
is to convey the supplies deposited by the black workers at _c_ to _b_,
which is the gateway of the fortress. It is remarkable that no black ant
is ever seen upon the line _e_, and no yellow one upon the line _a_;
each keeps his own separate station, and follows his own particular duty
with a steadfastness and apparent adherence to discipline that are most
astonishing. The hole at _d_ seems to be a ventilating shaft; it is
never used as a gateway.
[Illustration: Fig. 7.]
Section of the nest reveals, besides galleries, a small chamber about
three feet below the surface, across which is spread, like a spider's
web, a network of squares spun by the insects, the squares being about
1/4 inch across, and the ends of the whole net being fastened to the
earthen walls of the chamber. In each one of the squares, supported by
the web, sits one of the honey-making ants (II.). Here these honey
makers live in perpetual confinement, and receive a constant supply of
flowers, pollen, &c., which is continually being brought them by (I.),
and which, by a process analogous to that performed by the bee, they
convert into honey.
Such is an epitome of the only account that the world has yet received
of the habits and economy of this wonderful insect, whose instincts of
military organization seem to be not less wonderful than those of the
Ecitons, though in this case they are developed with reference to
defence, and not to aggression. It is especially noteworthy that the
black and yellow workers are believed to belong to 'two separate
genera;' for if this is the case, it is the only one I can recall of two
distinct species co-operating for a common end; for even the nearest
parallel which we find supplied in other species of ants maintaining
aphides, is not quite the same thing, seeing that the aphides are merely
passive agents, like Class II., of the honey-making ant, and not
actively co-operating members of the community, like Class I.
_Ecitons._--We have next to consider the habits of the wonderful
'foraging,' or, as it might be more appropriately called, the military
ant of the Amazon. These insects, which belong to several species of the
same genus, have been carefully watched by Belt, Bates, and other
naturalists. The following facts must therefore be accepted as fully
established.
_Eciton legionis_ moves in enormous armies, and everything that these
insects do is done with the most perfect instinct of military
organization. The army marches in the form of a rather broad and regular
column, hundreds of yards in length. The object of the march is the
capture and plunder of other insects, &c., for food, and as the
well-organised host advances, its devastating legions set all other
terrestrial life at defiance. From the main column there are sent out
smaller lateral columns, the composing individuals of which play the
part of scouts, branching off in various directions, and searching
about with the utmost activity for insects, grubs, &c., over every log,
under every fallen leaf, and in every nook and cranny where there is any
chance of finding prey. When their errand is completed, they return into
the main column. If the prey found is sufficiently small for the scouts
themselves to manage, it is immediately seized, and carried back to the
main column; but if the amount is too large for the scouts to deal with
alone, messengers are sent back to the main column, whence there is
immediately dispatched a detachment large enough to cope with the
requirements. Insects which when killed are too large for single ants to
carry, are torn in pieces, and the pieces conveyed back to the main army
by different individuals. Many insects in trying to escape run up bushes
and shrubs, where they are pursued from branch to branch and twig to
twig by their remorseless enemies, until on arriving at some terminal
ramification they must either submit to immediate capture by their
pursuers, or drop down amid the murderous hosts beneath. As already
stated, all the spoils that are taken by the scouts or by the
detachments sent out in answer to their demands for assistance, are
immediately taken back to the main column. When they arrive there, they
are taken to the rear of that column by two smaller columns of carriers,
which are constantly running, one on either side of the main column,
with the supplies that are constantly pouring in from both sides. Each
of these outside columns is a double line, the ants composing one of the
two lines all running in the same direction as the main army, and the
ants composing the other line all running in the opposite direction. The
former are empty-handed carriers, which having deposited their burdens
in the rear, are again advancing to the van for fresh burdens. Those
composing the other line are all laden with the mangled remains of
insects, pupæ of other ants, &c. On either side of the main column there
are also constantly running up and down a few individuals of smaller
size and lighter colour than the other ants, which seem to play the part
of officers; for they never leave their stations, and while running up
and down the outsides of the column, they every now and again stop to
touch antennæ with some member of the rank and file, as if to give
instructions. When the scouts discover a wasp's nest in a tree, a strong
force is sent out from the main army, the nest is pulled to pieces, and
all the larvæ carried to the rear of the army, while the wasps fly
around defenceless against the invading multitude. Or, if the nest of
any other species of ant is found, a similarly strong force, or perhaps
the whole army is deflected towards it, and with the utmost energy the
innumerable insects set to work to sink shafts and dig mines till the
whole nest is rifled of its contents. In these mining operations the
ants work with an extraordinary display of organized co-operation; for
those low down in the shafts do not lose time by carrying up the earth
which they excavate, but pass on the pellets to those above; and the
ants on the surface, when they receive the pellets, carry them, 'with an
appearance of forethought that quite staggered' Mr. Bates, only just far
enough to ensure that they shall not roll back again into the shaft,
and, after depositing them, immediately hurry back for more. But there
is not a rigid division of labour, although the work 'seems to be
performed by intelligent co-operation amongst a host of eager little
creatures;' for some of them act 'sometimes as carriers of pellets, and
at another as miners, and all shortly afterwards assume the office of
conveyors of the spoil.' Again, as showing the instincts of
co-operation, the following may also be quoted from Bates's account:--
On the following morning no trace of ants could be
found near the place where I had seen them the
preceding day, nor were there signs of insects of any
description in the thicket; but at the distance of
eighty or one hundred yards, I came upon the same
army, engaged evidently on a razzia of a similar kind
to that of the previous evening; but requiring other
resources of their instinct, owing to the nature of
the ground. They were eagerly occupied on the face of
an inclined bank of light earth in excavating mines,
whence, from a depth of eight or ten inches, they were
extracting the bodies of a bulky species of ant of the
genus Formica. It was curious to see them crowding
round the orifices of the mines, some assisting their
comrades to lift out the bodies of the Formicæ, and
others tearing them in pieces, on account of their
weight being too great for a single Eciton; a number
of carriers seizing each a fragment, and carrying it
off down the slope.
These Ecitons have no fixed nest themselves, but live, as it were, on a
perpetual campaign. At night, however, they call a halt and pitch a
camp. For this purpose they usually select a piece of broken ground, in
the interstices of which they temporarily store their plunder. In the
morning the army is again on the march, and before an hour or two has
passed not a single ant is to be seen where the countless multitudes had
previously covered the ground.
Another and larger species of Eciton (_E. humata_) hunts sometimes in
dense armies, and sometimes in columns, according to the kind of prey of
which they are in search. When in columns they are seeking for the nests
of a certain species of ant which have their young in holes of rotten
logs. These Ecitons when seeking for these nests hunt about, like those
just described, in columns, which branch off in various directions. When
a fallen log is reached, the column spreads over it, searching through
all the holes and cracks. Mr. Belt says of them:--
The workers are of various sizes, and the smallest are
here of use, for they squeeze themselves into the
narrowest holes, and search out their prey in the
furthest ramifications of the nests. When a nest of
the _Hypoclinea_ is attacked, the ants rush out,
carrying the larvæ and pupæ in their jaws, but are
immediately despoiled of them by the Ecitons, which
are running about in every direction with great
swiftness. Whenever they come across a _Hypoclinea_
carrying a larva or pupa, they take it from it so
quickly, that I could never ascertain exactly how it
was done.
As soon as an Eciton gets hold of its prey, it rushes
off back along the advancing column, which is composed
of two sets, one hurrying forward, the other returning
laden with their booty, but all and always in the
greatest haste and apparent hurry. About the nest
which they are harrying, all appears in confusion,
Ecitons running here and there and everywhere in the
greatest haste and disorder; but the result of all
this apparent confusion is that scarcely a single
_Hypoclinea_ gets away with a pupa or larva. I never
saw the Ecitons injure the Hypoclineas themselves,
they were always contented with despoiling them of
their young.
The columns of this species 'are composed almost entirely of workers of
different sizes;' but, as in the species previously mentioned, 'at
intervals of two or three yards there are larger and lighter coloured
individuals that often stop, and sometimes run a little backward,
stopping and touching some of the ants with their antennæ,' and looking
'like officers giving orders and directing the march of the column.'
Concerning the other habits of this species, the same author writes:--
The eyes in the Ecitons are very small, in some of the
species imperfect, and in others entirely absent; in
this they differ greatly from the _Pseudomyrma_ ants,
which hunt singly and which have the eyes greatly
developed. The imperfection of eyesight in the Ecitons
is an advantage to the community, and to their
particular mode of hunting. It keeps them together,
and prevents individual ants from starting off alone
after objects that, if their eyesight was better, they
might discover at a distance; the Ecitons and most
other ants follow each other by scent, and, I believe,
they can communicate the presence of danger, of booty,
or other intelligence, to a distance by the different
intensity or qualities of the odours given off. I one
day saw a column of _Eciton hamata_ running along the
foot of a nearly perpendicular tramway cutting, the
side of which was about six feet high. At one point I
noticed a sort of assembly of about a dozen
individuals that appeared in consultation. Suddenly
one ant left the conclave, and ran with great speed up
the perpendicular face of the cutting without
stopping. It was followed by others, which, however,
did not keep straight on like the first, but ran a
short way, then returned, then again followed a little
further than the first time. They were evidently
scenting the trail of the pioneer, and making it
permanently recognisable. These ants followed the
exact line taken by the first one, although it was far
out of sight. Wherever it had made a slight _détour_
they did so likewise. I scraped with my knife a small
portion of the clay on the trail, and the ants were
completely at fault for a time which way to go. Those
ascending and those descending stopped at the scraped
portion, and made short circuits until they hit the
scented trail again, when all their hesitation
vanished, and they ran up and down it with the
greatest confidence. On gaining the top of the
cutting, the ants entered some brushwood suitable for
hunting. In a very short space of time the information
was communicated to the ants below, and a dense column
rushed up to search for their prey. The Ecitons are
singular amongst the ants in this respect, that they
have no fixed habitations, but move on from one place
to another, as they exhaust the hunting grounds around
them. I think _Eciton hamata_ does not stay more than
four or five days in one place. I have sometimes come
across the migratory columns; they may easily be
known. Here and there one of the light-coloured
officers moves backwards and forwards directing the
columns. Such a column is of enormous length, and
contains many thousands if not millions of
individuals. I have sometimes followed them up for two
or three hundred yards without getting to the end.
They make their temporary habitations in hollow trees,
and sometimes underneath large fallen trunks that
offer suitable hollows. A nest that I came across in
the latter situation was open at one side. The ants
were clustered together in a dense mass, like a great
swarm of bees, hanging from the roof but reaching to
the ground below. Their innumerable long legs looked
like brown threads binding together the mass, which
must have been at least a cubic yard in bulk, and
contained hundreds of thousands of individuals,
although many columns were outside, some bringing in
the pupæ of ants, others the legs and dissected bodies
of various insects. I was surprised to see in this
living nest tubular passages leading down to the
centre of the mass, kept open just as if it had been
formed of inorganic materials. Down these holes the
ants who were bringing in booty passed with their
prey. I thrust a long stick down to the centre of the
cluster, and brought out clinging to it many ants
holding larvæ and pupæ, which probably were kept warm
by the crowding together of the ants. Besides the
common dark-coloured workers and light-coloured
officers, I saw here many still larger individuals
with enormous jaws. These they go about holding wide
open in a threatening manner.
It was this ant which, as previously stated, showed sympathy and
fellow-feeling with companions in difficulties.
The habits of _E. drepanophora_ are closely similar to those of the
species already described; and, indeed, except in matters of detail,
all the species of Ecitons have much the same habits. Mr. Bates records
an interesting observation which he made on one of the moving columns of
this species. He says: 'When I interfered with the column or abstracted
an individual from it, news of the disturbance was quickly communicated
to a distance of several yards to the rear, and the column at that point
commenced retreating.' The main column is in this species narrower,
viz., 'from four to six deep,' but extends to a great length, viz., half
a mile or more. It was this species of Eciton that the same naturalist
describes as enjoying periods of leisure and recreation in the 'sunny
nooks of the forest.'
Next we have to consider _E. prædator_, of which the same observer
writes:--
This is a small dark reddish species, very similar to
the common red stinging ant of England. It differs
from all other Ecitons in its habit of hunting, not in
columns, but in dense phalanxes consisting of myriads
of individuals, and was first met with at Ega, where
it is very common. Nothing in insect movements is more
striking than the rapid march of these large and
compact bodies. Wherever they pass, all the rest of
the animal world is thrown into a state of alarm. They
stream along the ground and climb to the summits of
all the lower trees, searching every leaf to its apex,
and whenever they encounter a mass of decaying
vegetable matter, where booty is plentiful, they
concentrate, like other Ecitons, all their forces upon
it, the dense phalanx of shining and quickly-moving
bodies, as it spreads over the surface, looking like a
flood of dark red liquid. They soon penetrate every
part of the confused heap, and then, gathering
together again in marching order, onward they move.
All soft-bodied and inactive insects fall an easy prey
to them, and, like other Ecitons, they tear their
victims in pieces for facility of carriage. A phalanx
of this species, when passing over a tract of smooth
ground, occupies a space of from four to six square
yards; on examining the ants closely they are seen to
move, not all together in one straightforward
direction, but in variously spreading contiguous
columns, now separating a little from the general
mass, now reuniting with it. The margins of the
phalanx spread out at times like a cloud of
skirmishers from the flanks of an army. I was never
able to find the hive of this species.
Lastly, there are two species of Eciton totally blind, and their habits
differ from those of the species which we have hitherto considered.
Bates writes of them:--
The armies of _E. vastator_ and _E. erratica_ move, as
far as I could learn, wholly under covered roads, the
ants constructing them gradually but rapidly as they
advance. The column of foragers pushes forward step by
step, under the protection of these covered passages,
through the thickets, and on reaching a rotting log,
or other promising hunting-ground, pour into the
crevices in search of booty. I have traced their
arcades, occasionally, for a distance of one or two
hundred yards; the grains of earth are taken from the
soil over which the column is passing, and are fitted
together without cement. It is this last-mentioned
feature that distinguishes them from the similar
covered roads made by termites, who use their
glutinous saliva to cement the grains together. The
blind Ecitons, working in numbers, build up
simultaneously the sides of their convex arcades, and
contrive, in a surprising manner, to approximate them
and fit in the key-stones without letting the loose
uncemented structure fall to pieces. There was a very
clear division of labour between the two classes of
neuters in these blind species. The large-headed
class, although not possessing monstrously lengthened
jaws like the worker-majors in _E. hamata_ and _E.
drepanophora_, are rigidly defined in structure from
the small-headed class, and act as soldiers, defending
the working community (like soldier termites) against
all comers. Whenever I made a breach in one of their
covered ways, all the ants underneath were set in
commotion, but the worker-minors remained behind to
repair the damage, whilst the large-heads issued forth
in a most menacing manner, rearing their heads and
snapping their jaws with an expression of the fiercest
rage and defiance.
_Annornia arcens._--This is the so-called 'driver' or 'marching' ant of
West Africa, which in habits and intelligence closely resembles the
military ants of the other hemisphere. I shall therefore not wait again
to describe these habits in detail. Like the Ecitons, the marching ants
of Africa have no fixed nest, but make temporary halts in the shade of
hollow trees, overhanging rocks, &c. They march in large armies, and,
like the Ecitons, always in the form of a long close column; but in this
case the relative position of the carriers of spoil and larvæ is
reversed, for while these occupy the middle place the soldiers and
officers march on either side. These have large heads armed with
powerful jaws, and never take part in carrying; their function is to
maintain order, act as scouts, and attack prey. The habits of these ants
resemble most closely those of the blind Ecitons in that they very
frequently, and indeed generally, build covered ways; they do so
apparently in order to protect themselves from the heat of the African
sun. Their line of march is therefore marked by a continuous arch or
tunnel, which is always being constructed by the van of the column. The
structure is made of earth moulded together by saliva, and is very
quickly built. But it is only built in places where the line of march is
exposed to the sunlight; at night, or in the shadow of trees or long
grass, it is not made. If their camp is flooded by a tropical rainstorm,
the ants congregate in a close mass, with the younger ants in the
centre; they thus form a floating island.
It is remarkable that ants of different hemispheres should manifest so
close a similarity with respect to all these wonderful habits. The
Chasseur ants of Trinidad, and, according to Madame Merian, the ants of
visitation of Cayenne, also display habits of the same kind.
_General Intelligence of Various Species._
Many of the foregoing facts display an astonishing degree of
intelligence as obtaining among ants; for I think that however much
latitude we may be inclined to allow to 'blind instinct' in the way of
imitating actions elsewhere due to conscious purpose, some at least of
these foregoing facts can only be fairly reconciled with the view that
the insects know what they are doing and why they are doing it. But as I
am myself well aware of the difficulty that arises in all such cases of
drawing the line between purposeless instinct and purposive
intelligence, I have thought it desirable to reserve for this concluding
division of the present chapter several isolated facts which have been
observed among sundry species of ants, and which do not seem to admit
of being reasonably comprised under the category of instinctive action,
if by the latter we mean action pursued without knowledge of the
relation between the means adopted and the ends attained.
It will be remembered that our test of instinctive as distinguished from
truly intelligent action is simply whether all individuals of a species
perform similar adaptive movements under the stimulus supplied by
similar and habitual circumstances, or whether they manifest individual
and peculiar adaptive movements to meet the exigencies of novel and
peculiar circumstances. The importance of this distinction may be
rendered manifest by the following illustrations.
[Illustration: Fig. 8.]
We have already seen that the ants which Sir John Lubbock observed
display many and complex instincts, which together might seem to justify
us in anticipating that animals which present such wonderful instincts
must also present sufficient general intelligence to meet simple though
novel exigencies by such simple adaptations as the unfamiliar
circumstances require. Yet experiments which he made in this connection
seem to show that such is not the case, but that these ants, with all
their wealth of instinctive endowments, are utterly destitute of
intelligent resources; they have abundance of common and detailed
knowledge (supposing the adaptations to be made consciously) how to act
under certain complex though familiar circumstances, but appear quite
unable to originate any adaptive action to obviate even the simplest
conceivable difficulty, if this is of a kind which they have not been
previously accustomed to meet. Thus, on a horizontal rod B supported in
a saucer of water S, and therefore inaccessible to the ants from
beneath, he placed some larvæ A. On the nest N he then placed a block of
wood C D, constructed so that the portion D should touch the larvæ at
A. When the ants had made a number of journeys over C D A and back
again, he raised the block C D so that there was an interval 3/10 of an
inch between the end of the block D and the larvæ at A.
The ants kept on coming, and tried hard to reach down
from D to A, which was only just out of their
reach. . . . After a while they all gave up their
efforts and went away, losing their prize in spite of
most earnest efforts, because it did not occur to them
to drop 3/10 of an inch. At the moment when the
separation was made there were fifteen ants on the
larvæ. These could, of course, have returned if one had
stood still and allowed the others to get on its back.
This, however, did not occur to them; nor did they
think of letting themselves drop from the bottom of the
paper (P) on to the nest. Two or three, indeed, fell
down, I have no doubt by accident; but the remainder
wandered about, until at length most of them got into
the water.
In another experiment he interposed a light straw bridge on the way
between the nest and the larvæ, and when the ants had well learnt the
way, he drew the bridge a short distance towards the nest, so that a
small chasm was made in the road. The ants tried hard and ineffectually
to reach across it, but it did not occur to them to _push_ the straw
into its original position.
The following experiment is still more illustrative of the absence of
intelligence, because the adjustive action required would not demand the
exercise of such high powers of imagination and abstraction as would
have been required for the moving forwards of the paper drawbridge.
To test their intelligence I made the following
experiments: I suspended some honey over a nest of
_Lasius flavus_ at a height of about 1/2 an inch, and
accessible only by a paper bridge more than 10 feet
long. Under the glass I then placed a small heap of
earth. The ants soon swarmed over the earth on to the
glass, and began feeding on the honey. I then removed
a little of the earth, so that there was an interval
of about 1/3 of an inch between the glass and the
earth; but though the distance was so small, they
would not jump down, but preferred to go round by the
long bridge. They tried in vain to stretch up from the
earth to the glass, which, however, was just out of
their reach, though they could touch it with their
antennæ; but it did not occur to them to heap the
earth up a little, though if they had moved only half
a dozen particles of earth they would have secured for
themselves direct access to the food. This, however,
never occurred to them. At length they gave up all
attempts to reach up to the glass, and went round by
the paper bridge. I left the arrangement for several
weeks, but they continued to go round by the long
paper bridge.
Another and somewhat similar experiment consisted in placing an upright
stick A, supporting at an angle another stick B, which nearly but not
quite touched the ground at C. At the end of the stick B there were
placed some larvæ in a horizontal glass cell at D. Into this cell were
also placed a number of ants along with the larvæ. The drop from D to C
was only 1/2 an inch; 'still, though the ants reached over and showed a
great anxiety to take this short cut home, they none of them faced the
leap, but all went round by the sticks, a distance of nearly 7 feet.'
Sir John then reduced the interruption to 2/5 of an inch, so that the
ants could even touch the glass cell with their antennæ; yet all day
long the ants continued to go the long way round rather than face the
drop. Next, therefore, he took still longer sticks and tapes, and
arranged them as before, only horizontally instead of vertically. He
also placed some fine earth under the glass cell containing the larvæ.
The ants as before continued to go the long way round (16 feet), though
the drop could not have hurt either themselves or the larvæ, and though
even this drop might have been obviated by heaping up the fine earth
into a little mound 1/8 of an inch high, so as to touch the glass cell.
It is desirable, however, here to state that all species of ants do not
show this aversion to allowing themselves to drop through short
distances; for Moggridge describes the harvesting ants of Europe as
seeming rather to enjoy acrobatic performances of this kind; and the
same fact is recorded by Belt of the leaf-cutting ants of the Amazons.
Dr. Bastian, in his work on 'Brain as an Organ of Mind,' suggests that
the 'seeming lack of intelligence betrayed by our English ants, from
their disinclination to take a small leap, may be due simply to their
defective sight' (pp. 241-2). But even this consideration does not
extenuate the stupidity of the ants which failed to heap up the fine
earth to reach the glass cell which they were able to touch with their
antennæ.
That the species of ants on which Sir John Lubbock experimented were
not, however, quite destitute of intelligence is proved by the result of
the following experiment:--
I put some provisions in a shallow box with a glass
top and a single hole in one side; I then put some
specimens of _Lasius niger_ to the food, and soon a
stream of ants was at work busily carrying supplies
off to the nest. When they had got to know their way
thoroughly, and from thirty to forty were so occupied,
I poured some fine mould in front of the hole, so as
to cover it to a depth of about 1/2 an inch. I then
took out the ants which were actually in the box. As
soon as the ants had recovered from the shock of this
unexpected proceeding on my part, they began to run
all round and about the box, looking for some other
place of entrance. Finding none, however, they began
digging down into the earth just over the hole,
carrying off the grains of earth one by one and
depositing them without any order all round at a
distance of from 1/2 to 6 inches, until they had
excavated down to the doorway, when they again began
carrying off the food as before.
This experiment was several times repeated on _L. niger_ and on _L.
flavus_, always with the same result.
Thus, then, we may conclude that the reasoning power of these ants,
although shown by the first experiments to be almost _nil_, is shown by
this experiment to be not quite _nil_; for the attempt to meet the
exigencies of the case by first going round the box to seek another
entrance, before taking the labour to remove the earth from the known
entrance, implies a certain rudimentary degree of adaptive capacity
which belongs to the category of the rational.
Another point of considerable interest, as bearing on the general
intelligence of ants, is one that was brought out as the result of a
laborious series of hourly observations, extending without intermission
from 6.30 A.M. to 10 P.M. for a period of three months. The object of
these observations was to ascertain whether the principle of the
division of labour is practised by the ants. The result of these
observations was to show that during the winter-time, when the ants are
not active, certain individuals are told off to forage for supplies, and
that when any casualty overtakes these individuals, others are told off
to supply their places. Thus, in the words of Sir John Lubbock's
analysis of his lengthy tables,--
The feeders at the beginning of the experiment were
those known to us as Nos. 5, 6, and 7. On the 22nd of
November a friend, registered as No. 8, came to the
honey, and again on the 11th December; but with these
two exceptions the whole of the supplies were carried
in by Nos. 5 and 6, with a little help from No. 7.
Thinking now it might be alleged that possibly these
were merely unusually active or greedy individuals, I
imprisoned No. 6 when she came out to feed on the 5th.
As will be seen from the table, no other ant had been
out to the honey for some days; and it could therefore
hardly be accidental that on that very evening another
ant (then registered as No. 9) came out for food. This
ant, as will be seen from the table, then took the
place of No. 6 (No. 5 being imprisoned). On the 11th
January No. 9 took in all the supplies, again with a
little help from No. 7. So matters continued until the
17th, when I imprisoned No. 9, and then again, _i.e._
on the 19th, another ant (No. 10) came out for the
food, aided, on and after the 22nd, by another (No.
11). This seems to me very curious. From the 1st
November to the 5th January, with two or three casual
exceptions, the whole of the supplies were carried in
by three ants, one of whom, however, did comparatively
little. The other two are imprisoned, and then, but
not till then, a fresh ant appears on the scene. She
carries in the food for a week, and then she being
imprisoned, two others undertake the task. On the
other hand, in nest 1, when the first foragers were
not imprisoned, they continued during the whole time
to carry in the necessary supplies.
The facts, therefore, certainly seem to indicate that certain ants are
told off as foragers, and that during winter, when but little food is
required, two or three such foragers are sufficient to provide it.
Although Sir John Lubbock's ants showed such meagre resources of
intelligent adjustment, other species of ants, which we have already had
occasion to consider, appear to be as remarkable in this respect as they
are in respect of their instinctive adjustments. Unfortunately
observations on this subject are very sparse, but such as they are they
hold out a strong inducement for any one who has the opportunity to
experiment with the view of testing the intelligence of those species in
connection with which the following observations have been made.
Réaumur states that ants will make no attempt to enter
an inhabited beehive to get at the contained honey,
knowing that the bees will slaughter them if they do
so. But if the hive is uninhabited, or the bees all
dead, the ants will swarm into the hive as long as any
honey is to be found there.
P. Huber records that a wall which had been partly erected by ants was
observed by him--
As though it were intended to support the still
unfinished arched roof of a large room, which was
being built from the opposite side. But the workers
which had begun the arch had given it too low an
elevation for the wall on which it was to rest, and if
it had been continued on the same lines it would have
met the partition wall halfway up, and this was to be
avoided. I had just made this criticism to myself,
when a new arrival, after looking at the work, came to
the same conclusion. For it began at once to destroy
what had been done, and to heighten the wall on which
it was supported, and to make a new arch with the
materials of the old one under my very eyes. When the
ants begin an undertaking it seems exactly as if an
idea slowly ripened into execution in their minds.
Thus if one of them finds two stalks lying crosswise
on the nest, which make possible the formation of a
room, or some little rafters which suggest the walls
and the corners, it first observes the various parts
accurately, and then quickly and neatly heaps little
pellets of earth in the interspaces and alongside the
stalks. It brings from every side materials that seem
appropriate, and sometimes takes such from the
uncompleted works of its companions, so much is it
urged on by the idea which it has once conceived, and
by the desire to execute it. It goes and comes and
turns back again, until its plan is recognisable by
the others.
Ebrard, in his 'Etudes de Moeurs' (p. 3), gives the following
remarkable instance of the display of intelligence of _F. fusca_:--
The earth was damp and the workers were in full
swing. It was a constant coming and going of ants,
coming forth from their underground dwelling, and
carrying back little pellets of earth for building. In
order to concentrate my attention I fixed my gaze on
the largest of the rooms which were being built,
wherein several ants were busy. The work had made
considerable progress; but although a projection could
be plainly seen along the upper edge of the wall,
there remained an interspace of about twelve or
fifteen millimetres to fill in. Here would have been
the place, in order to support the earth still to be
brought in, to have had recourse to those pillars,
buttresses, or fragments of dried leaves, which many
ants are wont to use in building. But the use of this
expedient is not customary with the ants I was
observing (_F. fusca_). Our ants, however, were
sufficient for the occasion. For a moment they seemed
inclined to leave their work, but soon turned instead
to a grass-plant growing near, the long narrow leaves
of which ran close together. They chose the nearest,
and weighted its distal end with damp earth, until its
apex just bent down to the space to be covered.
Unfortunately the bend was too close to the extremity,
and it threatened to break. To prevent this
misfortune, the ants gnawed at the base of the leaf
until it bent along its whole length and covered the
space required. But as this did not seem to be quite
enough, they heaped damp earth between the base of the
plant and that of the leaf, until the latter was
sufficiently bent. After they had thus attained their
object, they heaped on the buttressing leaf the
materials required for building the arched roof.
The characteristic _trait_ of the building of ants,
says Forel, is the almost complete absence of an
unchangeable model, peculiar to each species, such as
is found in wasps, bees, and others. The ants know how
to suit their indeed little perfect work to
circumstances, and to take advantage of each
situation. Besides, each works for itself and on a
given plan, and is only occasionally aided by others
when these understand its plan. Naturally many
collisions occur, and some destroy that which others
have made. This also gives the key to understanding
the labyrinth of the dwelling. For the rest, it is
always those workers which have discovered the most
advantageous method, or which have shown the most
patience, which win over to their plan the majority of
their comrades and at last the whole colony, although
not without many fights for supremacy. But if one
succeeds in obtaining a second to follow it, and this
second draws the others after it, the first is soon
lost again in the crowd.
Espinas also observed ('Thierischen Gesellschaften,' German translation,
1879, p. 371) that each single ant made its own plan and followed it
until a comrade, which had caught the idea, joined it, and then they
worked together in the execution of the same plan.
Moggridge says of the harvesters of Europe,--
I have observed on more than one occasion that when in
digging into an ants' nest I have thrown out an
_elater_ larva, the ants would cluster round it and
direct it towards some small opening in the soil,
which it would quickly enlarge and disappear down. At
other times, however, the ants would take no notice of
the _elater_, and it is my belief that the attentions
paid to it on former occasions were purely selfish,
and that they intended to avail themselves of the
tunnel thus made down into the soil, with the view of
reopening communications with the galleries and
granaries concealed below, the approaches to which had
been covered up. I have frequently watched the ants
make use of these passages mined by the _elater_ on
these occasions.
And again, as showing apparently intelligent adaptation of their usual
habits to altered circumstances, he gives an account of the behaviour of
these ants when a great crowd of them were confined by him in a glass
jar containing earth. He says:--
On the following morning the openings were ten in
number, and the greatly increased heaps of excavated
earth showed that they must probably have been at work
all night. The amount of work done in this short time
was truly surprising, for it must be remembered that,
eighteen hours before, the earth presented a perfectly
level surface, and the larvæ and ants, now housed
below, found themselves prisoners in a strange place,
bounded by glass walls, and with no exit possible.
It seems to me that the ants displayed extraordinary
intelligence in having thus at a moment's notice
devised a plan by which the superabundant number of
workers could be employed at one time without coming
in one another's way. The soil contained in the jar
was of course less than a tenth part of that comprised
within the limits of an ordinary nest, while the
number of workers was probably more than a third of
the total number belonging to the colony. If therefore
but one or two entrances had been pierced in the soil,
the workers would have been for ever running against
one another, and a great number could never have got
below to help in the all-important task of preparing
passages and chambers for the accommodation of the
larvæ. These numerous and funnel-shaped entrances
admitted of the simultaneous descent and ascent of
large numbers of ants, and the work progressed with
proportionate rapidity. After a few days only three
entrances, and eventually only one, remained open.
Concerning the harvesting ant of Texas, the following quotation may be
made, under the present head, from MacCook. After remarking that these
ants always select sunny places wherein to build their nests, or disks,
he goes on to say that within a few paces of his tent--
A nest was made which was partly shaded by a small
mesquite tree that stood just beyond the margin of the
clearing. The sapling had probably grown up after the
location of the community, and for some reason had
been permitted to remain until too old to kill off.
The shadow thrown upon the pavement was very slight;
nevertheless, fifteen feet distant a new formicary was
being established. The path from the ranch to the
spring ran between this new hill and the old one, and
ants were in communication between the two. An opening
had been made in the ground, and the beginnings of a
new formicary were quite apparent. This is the only
instance observed of what seemed an attempt at
colonising or removing, and I associated it with the
presence of the small but growing shadow of the young
tree.
He also gives us a still more remarkable observation, which indeed, I
must candidly say, does not appear to me credible. I am, therefore, glad
to add that it does not appear very distinctly from the account whether
the author himself made the observation, or had it narrated to him by
his guide. But here is the observation in his own words:--
While studying the habits of the cutting ant I was
tempted to make a night visit to a farm some distance
from camp, by the farmer's story of depredations made
by these insects upon certain plants and vegetables. A
long, dark tramp, a blind and vain search among the
fields, compelled us at last to call out the
countryman from his bed. He led us directly to one of
the cutting ants' nests, which was overshadowed by a
young peach tree. 'There they be, sir,' cried he
triumphantly. They were agriculturals! So also were
the other nests shown. The reason for this confounding
of the two ants on the part of the people hereabouts,
and the reason for the 'cutting' operations of our
harvesters, will be explained farther on. It is only
in point here to say that the farmer affirmed that the
ants under the peach tree had stripped off the first
tender leaves last spring, so that scarcely one had
been left upon the limbs. I am convinced that the
reason for this onslaught was the desire to be rid of
the obnoxious shade, and open the formicary to the
full light of the sun.
From this account it is not very clear whether the writer himself saw
evidence of the former denudation of the tree, and if so whether there
was any indication, other than the word of the farmer, that the
denudation had been effected by the ants. To make this conclusion
credible the best conceivable evidence would be required, and this,
unfortunately, is just what we find wanting. Somewhat the same remarks
may be made on the following quotation from the same writer, though in
this case his view is to some extent supported by an observation of
Moggridge, as well as by that of Ebrard already quoted:--
Here I observed what appeared to be a new mode of
operation. The workers, in several cases, left the
point at which they had begun a cutting, ascended the
blade, and passed as far out toward the point as
possible. The blade was thus borne downward, and as
the ant swayed up and down it really seemed that she
was taking advantage of the leverage thus gained, and
was bringing the augmented force to bear upon the
fracture. In two or three cases there appeared to be a
division of labour; that is to say, while the cutter
at the roots kept on with her work, another ant
climbed the grass blade and applied the power at the
opposite end of the lever. This position may have been
quite accidental, but it certainly had the appearance
of a voluntary co-operation. I was sorry not to be
able to establish this last inference by a series of
observations, as the facts were only observed in this
one nest.
The observation of Moggridge, to which I have alluded as in some measure
rendering support to the foregoing, is as follows. Speaking of European
harvesters which he kept in an artificial nest for the purposes of close
observation, he says:--
I was also in this way able to see for myself much
that I otherwise could not have seen. Thus I was able
to watch the operation of removing roots which had
pierced through their galleries, belonging to seedling
plants growing on the surface, and which was performed
by two ants, one pulling at the free end of the root,
and the other gnawing at its fibres where the strain
was greatest, until at length it gave way.
And again,--
Two ants sometimes combine their efforts, when one
stations itself near the base of the peduncle, and
gnaws it at the point of greatest tension, while the
other hauls upon and twists it. . . . I have occasionally
seen ants engaged in cutting the capsules of certain
plants, drop them, and allow their companions below to
carry them away.
Lastly, the statements of these three observers taken together serve to
render credible the following quotation from Bingley,[43] who says that
in Captain Cook's expedition in New South Wales ants were seen by Sir
Joseph Banks and others--
As green as a leaf, which live upon trees and build
their nests of various sizes, between that of a man's
head and his fist. These nests are of a very curious
structure: they are formed by bending down several of
the leaves, each of which is as broad as a man's hand,
and gluing the points of them together so as to form a
purse. The viscous matter used for this purpose is an
animal juice. . . . Their method of bending down leaves
we had no opportunity to observe; but we saw thousands
uniting all their strength to hold them in this
position, while other busy multitudes were employed
within, in applying this gluten, that was to prevent
their returning back. To satisfy ourselves that the
leaves were bent and held down by the efforts of these
diminutive artificers, we disturbed them in their
work; and as soon as they were driven from their
station, the leaves on which they were employed sprang
up with a force much greater than we could have
thought them able to conquer by any combination of
their strength.
This remarkable fact also seems to be corroborated by the following
independent observation of Sir E. Tennent:--
The most formidable of all is the great red ant, or
Dimiya. It is particularly abundant in gardens and on
fruit-trees; it constructs its dwellings by gluing the
leaves of such species as are suitable from their
shape and pliancy into hollow balls, and these it
lines with a kind of transparent paper, like that
manufactured by the wasp. I have watched them at the
interesting operation of forming these dwellings;--a
line of ants standing on the edge of one leaf bring
another into contact with it, and hold both together
with their mandibles till their companions within
attach them firmly by means of their adhesive paper,
the assistants outside moving along as the work
proceeds. If it be necessary to draw closer a leaf too
distant to be laid hold of by the immediate workers,
they form a chain by depending one from the other till
the object is reached, when it is at length brought
into contact, and made fast by cement.
I shall now pass on to the remarkable observation communicated to Kirby
by Colonel Sykes, F.R.S., and which is thus narrated by Kirby in his
'History, Habits, and Instincts of Animals:'--
When resident at Poona, the dessert, consisting of
fruits, cakes, and various preserves, always remained
upon a small side table, in a verandah of the
dining-room. To guard against inroads, the legs of the
table were immersed in four basins filled with water;
it was removed an inch from the wall, and, to keep off
dust from open windows, was covered with a tablecloth.
At first the ants did not attempt to cross the water,
but as the strait was very narrow, from an inch to an
inch and a half, and the sweets very tempting, they
appear, at length, to have braved all risks, to have
committed themselves to the deep, to have scrambled
across the channel, and to have reached the objects of
their desires, for hundreds were found every morning
revelling in enjoyment: daily vengeance was executed
upon them without lessening their numbers; at last the
legs of the table were painted, just above the water,
with a circle of turpentine. This at first seemed to
prove an effectual barrier, and for some days the
sweets were unmolested, after which they were again
attacked by these resolute plunderers; but how they
got at them seemed totally unaccountable, till Colonel
Sykes, who often passed the table, was surprised to
see an ant drop from the wall, about a foot above the
table, upon the cloth that covered it; another and
another succeeded. So that though the turpentine and
the distance from the wall appeared effectual
barriers, still the resources of the animal, when
determined to carry its point, were not exhausted, and
by ascending the wall to a certain height, with a
slight effort against it, in falling it managed to
land in safety upon the table.
Colonel Sykes was a good observer, so that this statement, standing upon
his authority, ought not, perhaps, to be questioned. But in all cases of
remarkable intelligence displayed by animals, we naturally and properly
desire corroboration, however good the authority may be on which the
statement of such cases may rest. I will, therefore, add the following
instances of the ingenious and determined manner in which ants overcome
obstacles, and which so far lend confirmation to the above account.
Professor Leuckart placed round the trunk of a tree, which was visited
by ants as a pasture for aphides, a broad cloth soaked in tobacco-water.
When the ants returning home down the trunk of the tree arrived at the
soaked cloth, they turned round, went up the tree again to some of the
overhanging branches, and allowed themselves to drop clear of the
obnoxious barrier. On the other hand, the ants which desired to mount
the tree first examined the nature of the barrier, then turned back and
procured from a distance little pellets of earth, which they carried in
their jaws and deposited one after another upon the tobacco-cloth till a
road of earth was made across it, over which the ants passed to and fro
with impunity.
This interesting, and indeed surprising observation of Leuckart's is, in
turn, a corroboration of an almost identical one made more than a
century ago by Cardinal Fleury, and communicated by him to Réaumur, who
published it in his 'l'Histoire des Insectes' (1734). The Cardinal
smeared the trunk of a tree with birdlime in order to prevent the ants
from ascending it; but the insects overcame the obstacle by making a
road of earth, small stones, &c., as in the case just mentioned. In
another instance the Cardinal saw a number of ants make a bridge across
a vessel of water surrounding the bottom of an orange-tree tub. They did
so by conveying a number of little pieces of _wood_, the choice of which
material instead of earth or stones, as in the previous case, seems to
betoken no small knowledge of practical engineering.
Büchner, after quoting these cases, proceeds to say (_loc. cit._, p.
120),--
The ants behaved in yet more ingenious fashion under
the following very similar circumstances. Herr G.
Theuerkauf, the painter (Wasserthorstr. 49, Berlin),
writes to the author, November 18, 1875: 'A maple tree
standing on the ground of the manufacturer, Vollbaum,
of Elbing (now of Dantzic), swarmed with aphides and
ants. In order to check the mischief, the proprietor
smeared about a foot width of the ground round the
tree with tar. The first ants who wanted to cross
naturally stuck fast. But what did the next? They
turned back to the tree and carried down aphides,
which they stuck down on the tar one after another
until they had made a bridge over which they could
cross the tarring without danger. The above-named
merchant, Vollbaum, is the guarantor of this story,
which I received from his own mouth on the very spot
whereat it occurred.'
Büchner also gives the following case on the authority of Karl Vogt
(_loc. cit._, p. 128). An apiary of a friend was invaded by ants:--
To make this impossible for the future, the four legs
of the beehive-stand were put into small, shallow
bowls filled with water, as is often done with food in
ant-infested places. The ants soon found a way out of
this, or rather a way into their beloved honey, and
that over an iron staple with which the stand was
attached to a neighbouring wall. The staple was
removed, but the ants did not allow themselves to be
defeated. They climbed into some linden trees standing
near, the branches of which hung over the stand, and
then dropped upon it from the branches, doing just the
same as their comrades do with respect to food
surrounded by water, when they drop upon it from the
ceiling of the room. In order to make this impossible,
the boughs were cut away. But once more the ants were
found in the stand, and closer investigation showed
that one of the bowls was dried up, and that a crowd
of ants had gathered in it. But they found themselves
puzzled how to go on with their robbery, for the leg
did not, by chance, rest on the bottom of the bowl,
but was about half an inch from it. The ants were seen
rapidly touching each other with their antennæ, or
carrying on a consultation, until at last a rather
larger ant came forward and put an end to the
difficulty. It rose to its full height on its hind
legs, and struggled until at last it seized a rather
projecting splinter of the wooden leg, and managed to
take hold of it. As soon as this was done other ants
ran on to it, strengthened the hold by clinging, and
so made a little living bridge, over which the others
could easily pass.
The same author publishes the following very remarkable observation,
quoted from a letter to him by Dr. Ellendorf:--
It is a hard matter to protect any eatables from these
creatures, let the custody be ever so close. The legs
of cupboards and tables in or on which eatables are
kept are placed in vessels of water. I myself did
this, but I none the less found thousands of ants in
the cupboard next morning. It was a puzzle to me how
they crossed the water, but the puzzle was soon
solved; for I found a straw in one of the saucers,
which lay obliquely across the edge of the pan and
touched the leg of the press: this they had used for a
bridge. Hundreds were drowned in the water, apparently
because disorder had reigned at first, those coming
down with booty meeting those going up. But now there
was perfect order; the descending stream used one side
of the straw, the ascending the other. I now pushed
the straw about an inch away from the cupboard leg; a
terrible confusion arose. In a moment the leg
immediately over the water was covered with hundreds
of ants, feeling for the bridge in every direction
with their antennæ, running back again and coming in
ever larger swarms, as though they had communicated to
their comrades within the cupboard the fearful
misfortune that had taken place. Meanwhile the
new-comers continued to run along the straw, and not
finding the leg of the cupboard the greatest
perplexity arose. They hurried round the edge of the
pan, and soon found out where the fault lay. With
united forces they quickly pulled and pushed at the
straw, until it again came into contact with the wood,
and the communication was again restored.
This observation is strikingly, though unconsciously, confirmed by a
recent writer in the _Leisure Hour_ (1880, pp. 718-19), who having been
much troubled by small red ants in the tropics swarming over his
provisions, placed the latter in a meat-safe detached from the wall and
standing on four legs, each of which was placed in a little tin vessel
containing water. Eight or ten days afterwards he found his provisions
in the safe swarming with ants as before, and on investigating their
mode of access to them found--
Proceeding along the whitewashed wall a string of ants
going and coming from the outer door to a height of
four feet on my wall, and corresponding with that of
the safe; and looking between it and the wall, I
discovered the secret--the bridge which these
persevering little insects had made. It consisted of a
broken bit of straw, which rested with one end on a
mud buttress fixed to the wall, and the other on the
overhanging or projecting top of the safe, which came
within an inch and a half of the wall. So they must
have carried the straw up from the floor, and resting
their end of it on the support they had prepared, let
it fall until its other end reached the safe, and then
crossed and completed the structure, for it was
fastened at both ends with the mortar composed of
their saliva and fine earth. Ruthlessly I destroyed
the bridge, and moving the safe farther from the wall,
managed to prevent their inroads for that season at
least. Since then I have frequently seen short
bridges, composed entirely of the concrete or mortar
which the white ants use to cover up their workings,
extending from a damp earthen wall to anything not
more than three-quarters of an inch from it.
Of the Ecitons Mr. Belt says:--
I shall relate two more instances of the use of a
reasoning faculty in these ants. I once saw a wide
column trying to pass along a crumbling, nearly
perpendicular slope. They would have got very slowly
over it, and many of them would have fallen, but a
number having secured their hold, and reaching to each
other, remained stationary, and over them the main
column passed. Another time they were crossing a
watercourse along a small branch, not thicker than a
goose-quill. They widened this natural bridge to three
times its width by a number of ants clinging to it and
to each other on each side, over which the column
passed three or four deep; whereas excepting for this
expedient they would have had to pass over in single
file, and treble the time would have been consumed.
Can it be contended that such insects are not able to
determine by reasoning powers which is the best way of
doing a thing?
Another observer, writing from the same part of the world to Büchner,
gives a still more wonderful account of the ingenuity of Ecitons in
crossing water. This observer is Herr H. Kreplin, of Heidemühl (Station
Ducherom), 'who lived for nearly twenty years in South America as an
engineer, and had often the opportunity of seeing the driver ants in the
forests there.' He writes to Büchner, under date May 10, 1876, as
follows:--
On both sides of the train, at about 10 mm. distance
from each other, stronger ants are to be seen,
distinguishable from the others by their foxy colour
and very thick heads with gigantic mandibles. These
'thickheads' play the same _rôle_ in the ant-state for
which they are cast in cultured communities. They look
after the order of the march, and allow none to turn
either to the right or left. The least confusion in
the regularity of the march makes them turn round and
put things straight again. While the procession of the
brown workers streams on unceasingly with a swarming
motion, the 'officers,' as the natives call these
thickheads, run constantly backwards and forwards,
ready to take the command on meeting any difficulty.
The crossing of streams by these creatures is the most
interesting point. If the watercourse be narrow, the
thickheads soon find trees, the branches of which meet
on the bank on either side, and after a short halt the
column set themselves in motion over these bridges,
rearranging themselves in the narrow train with
marvellous quickness on reaching the further side. But
if no natural bridge be available for the passage,
they travel along the bank of the river until they
arrive at a flat sandy shore. Each ant now seizes a
bit of dry wood, pulls it into the water, and mounts
thereupon. The hinder rows push the front ones even
further out, holding on to the wood with their feet
and to their comrades with their jaws. In a short time
the water is covered with ants, and when the raft has
grown too large to be held together by the small
creatures' strength, a part breaks itself off and
begins the journey across, while the ants left on the
bank busily pull their bits of wood into the water,
and work at enlarging the ferry-boat until it again
breaks. This is repeated as long as an ant remains on
shore. I had often heard described this method of
crossing rivers, but in the year 1859 I had the
opportunity of seeing it for myself.
It is remarkable that the military or driving ants of Africa exhibit
precisely similar devices for the bridging of streams, namely, by
forming a chain of individuals over which the others pass. By means of
similar chains they also let themselves down from trees. It must be
observed, however, that these and all the above observations, being
independently made and separately recorded, serve to corroborate one
another so strongly that we can entertain no reasonable doubt concerning
the wonderful facts which they convey.
I shall now bring these numerous instances to a close with a quotation
from Mr. Belt, which reveals in the most unequivocal manner surprising
powers of observation and rational action on the part of the
leaf-cutting ants of South America, whose general habits we have already
considered:--
A nest was made near one of our tramways, and to get
to the trees the ants had to cross the rails, over
which the waggons were continually passing and
repassing. Every time they came along a number of ants
were crushed to death. They persevered in crossing for
some time, but at last set to work and tunnelled
underneath each rail. One day, when the waggons were
not running, I stopped up the tunnels with stones; but
although great numbers carrying leaves were thus cut
off from the nest, they would not cross the rails, but
set to work making fresh tunnels underneath them.
_Anatomy and Physiology of Nerve-centres and Sense-organs._
The foregoing facts concerning the intelligence of ants fully justifies
Mr. Darwin's observation that 'the brain of an ant is one of the most
marvellous atoms of matter in the world, perhaps more so than the brain
of a man.' It may therefore be interesting in this particular case to
depart from the lines otherwise laid down throughout the present work,
and to devote a short section to the anatomy and physiology of this
nerve-centre with its appended organs of sense.
The brain of an ant, then, is proportionally larger than that of any
other insect. (See Titus Graber, 'Insects,' vol. i. p. 255.) In
structure, also, the brain of an ant is in advance of that of other
insects, its nearest analogue being the brain of a bee. The superiority
of development is particularly remarkable with reference to the 'stalked
bodies' of Dujardin; and these are largest in neuter workers, which are
the most intelligent members of the community.
Injury of the brain causes, as in higher animals, tetanic spasms and
involuntary reflex movements, followed by stupefaction.
An ant, whose brain has been perforated by the pointed
mandibles of an amazon, remains as though nailed to
its place; a shudder runs from time to time through
its body, and one of its legs is lifted at regular
intervals. It occasionally makes a short and quick
step, as though driven by an unseen spring, but, like
that of an automaton, aimless and objectless. If it is
pulled, it makes a movement of avoidance, but falls
back into its stupefied condition as soon as it is
released. It is no longer capable of action
consciously directed to a given object; it neither
tries to escape, nor to attack, nor to go back to its
home, nor to rejoin its companions, nor to walk away;
it feels neither heat nor cold, it knows neither fear
nor desire for food. It is merely an automatic and
reflex machine, and is exactly similar to one of those
pigeons from which Flourens removed the hemispheres of
the cerebrum. Just in the same way behaves the body of
an ant from which the head has been taken away. In the
numerous fights between amazons and other ants,
countless cases have been observed of slight injury to
the brain, which have caused the most remarkable
phenomena. Many of the wounded were seized with a mad
rage, and flung themselves at every one that came in
their way, whether friend or foe. Others assumed an
appearance of indifference, and walked serenely about
in the midst of the fighting. Others exhibited a
sudden failure of strength; but they still recognised
their enemies, approached them, and tried to bite them
in cold blood, in a way quite foreign to the behaviour
of healthy ants. They were also often observed to run
round and round in a circle, the motion resembling the
_manège_, or riding-school action of mammals, when one
of the crura cerebri has been removed.
If an ant is cut in half through the thorax, so that
the great nerve ganglia of the pro-thorax remain
untouched, the behaviour of the head shows that
intelligence also remains untouched. Ants mutilated in
this way try to go forwards with their two remaining
legs, and beg with their antennæ for their companions'
aid. If one of these latter lets itself be stopped,
then we observe a lively interchange of thanks and
sympathy expressed by the actively moving antennæ.
Forel placed near to each other two such mutilated
bodies of the _F. rufibarbis_. They conversed with
each other in the above-described way, and appeared
each to beg for help. But when he put in some
similarly mutilated ants of a hostile species, _F.
sanguinea_, the picture was changed; war broke out
between these cripples just in the same way and with
the same fury as between perfect ants.[44]
The antennæ appear to be the most important of the sense-organs, as
their removal produces an extraordinary disturbance in the intelligence
of the animal. An ant so mutilated can no longer find its way or
recognise companions, and therefore is unable to distinguish between
friends and foes. It is also unable to find food, ceases to engage in
any labour, and loses all its regard for larvæ, remaining permanently
quiet and almost motionless. A somewhat similar disturbance, or rather
destruction, of the mental faculties is observable as a result of the
same mutilation in the case of bees.[45]
FOOTNOTES:
[19] While this MS. is passing through the press Sir John Lubbock has
read another paper before the Linnæan Society, which contains some
important additional matter concerning the sense of direction in ants.
It seems that in the experiment above described, the hat-box was not
provided with a cover or lid, i.e. was not a 'closed chamber,' and that
Sir John now finds the ants to take their bearings from the direction in
which they observe the light to fall upon them. For in the experiment
with the uncovered hat-box, if the source of light (candle) is moved
round together with the rotating table which supports the box, the ants
continue their way without making compensating changes in their
direction of advance. The same thing happens if the hat-box is covered,
so as to make of it a dark chamber. Direction of light being the source
of their information that their ground is being moved, we can understand
why they do not know that it is being moved when it is moved in the
direction of their advance, as in the experiment with the paper slip.
[20] It is to be noted that although ants will attack stranger ants
introduced from other nests, they will carefully tend stranger larvæ
similarly introduced.
[21] _The Naturalist in Nicaragua_, 1874, p. 26.
[22] See _Leisure Hour_, 1880, p. 390.
[23] _Introduction to Entomology_, vol. ii. p. 524.
[24] Vol. vii. pp. 443-4.
[25] Büchner, _Geistesleben der Thiere_, pp. 66-7.
[26] _Origin of Species_, 6th ed. pp. 207-8.
[27] _Loc. cit._ p. 121.
[28] _Loc. cit._ p. 123.
[29] _Origin of Species_, 6th ed. p. 218.
[30] _Geistesleben der Thiere_, pp. 145-9.
[31] _Loc. cit._
[32] _Loc. cit._ p. 337.
[33] _Loc. cit._ p. 97.
[34] _Harvesting Ants and Trap-door Spiders_, London, 1873 and
Supplement, 1874.
[35] _Journal Linn. Soc._, vol. vi. p. 29, 1862.
[36] _Agricultural Ant of Texas_, Philadelphia, 1880.
[37] _Trans. Ent. Soc. Lond._, i. 103, 1836.
[38] _Madras Journ. Lit. Sc._, 1851.
[39] For this see Moggridge, _loc. cit._ pp. 6-10, where, besides Prov.
iv. 6-8, and xxx. 25, quotations are given from Horace, Virgil, Plautus,
and others.
[40] Proc. Phil. Acad. Nat. Sci., xii. p. 445.
[41] Agricultural Ant of Texas (Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia, 1880).
[42] _Missionary Travels_, p. 328.
[43] _Animal Biography_, 'Ants.'
[44] Büchner, _Geistesleben der Thiere_, English translation, p. 49.
[45] While this work is passing through the press, an interesting Essay
has been published by Mr. MacCook on the Honey-making Ant. I am not here
able to refer to this Essay at greater length, but have done so in a
review in _Nature_ (March 2, 1882.)--G. J. R.
CHAPTER IV.
BEES AND WASPS.
ARRANGING this chapter under the same general headings as the one on
ants, we shall consider first--
_Powers of Special Sense._
Bees and wasps have much greater powers of sight than ants. They not
only perceive objects at a greater distance, but are also able to
distinguish their colours. This was proved by Sir John Lubbock, who
placed honey on slips of paper similarly formed, but of different
colours; when a bee had repeatedly visited a slip of one colour (A), he
transposed the slips during the absence of the bee; on its return the
insect did not fly to slip B, although this now occupied the _position_
which had been previously occupied by slip A, but again visited slip A,
although this now occupied the position which had been previously
occupied by slip B. Therefore, as these experiments were again and again
repeated both on bees and wasps with uniform results, there can be no
question that the insects by their first visits to slip A established an
association between the colour of A and the honey upon it, such that,
when they again returned and found B in the place of A, they were guided
by their memory of the colour rather than by their memory of the
position. It was thus shown that the insects could distinguish green,
red, yellow, and blue. These experiments also brought out the further
fact that both bees and wasps exhibit a marked preference for some
colours over others. Thus, in a series of black, white, yellow, orange,
green, blue, and red slips, two or three bees paid twenty-one visits to
the orange and yellow, and only four to all the other slips. The slips
were then moved, after which, out of thirty-two visits, twenty-two were
to the orange and yellow. Another colour to which a similar preference
is shown is blue.
As regards scent, Sir John found that on putting a few drops of eau de
Cologne at the entrance of a beehive, 'immediately a number (about 15)
came out to see what was the matter.' Other scents had a similar effect;
but on repetition several times the bees became accustomed to the scent,
and no longer came out.
As in ants, so in bees, Sir John's experiments failed to yield any
evidence of a sense of hearing. But in this connection we must not
forget the well-known fact, first observed by Huber, that the queen bee
will answer by a certain sound the peculiar piping of a pupa queen; and
again, by making a certain cry or humming noise, will strike
consternation suddenly on all the bees in the hive--these remaining for
a long time motionless as if stupefied.
_Sense of Direction._
The following are Sir John Lubbock's observations upon this subject in
the case of bees and wasps:--
Every one has heard of a 'bee-line.' It would be no
less correct to speak of a wasp-line. On August 6 I
marked a wasp, the nest of which was round the corner
of the house, so that her direct way home was not out
at the window by which she had entered, but in the
opposite direction, across the room to a window which
was closed. I watched her for some hours, during which
time she constantly went to the wrong window, and lost
much time in buzzing about at it. For ten consecutive
days this wasp paid numerous visits, coming in at the
open window, and always trying, though always
unsuccessfully, to return to her nest in the
'wasp-line' of the closed window--buzzing about that
window for hours at a time, though eventually on
finding it closed she returned and went round through
the open window by which she always entered.
This observation shows how strong must be the instinct in a wasp to take
the shortest way home, and how much the insect depends upon its sense of
direction in so doing. It also shows how long a time it requires to
learn by individual experience the properties of a previously unknown
substance such as glass. But to this latter point we shall presently
have occasion to return.
Next we must adduce evidence to show that in way-finding the 'sense of
direction' in bees appears to be largely supplemented by observation of
particular objects.
Sir John Lubbock observes: 'I never found bees to return if brought any
considerable distance at once. By taking them, however, some twenty
yards each time they came to the honey, I at length _trained_ them to
come to my room;' that is to say, bees require to _learn_ their way
little by little before they can return to a store of honey which they
may have been fortunate enough to find; their general sense of direction
is not in itself a sufficient guide. This, at least, is the case where,
as in the experiments in question, the bees are _carried_ from the hive
to the store of honey (here a distance of less than 200 yards): possibly
if they had found the honey by themselves flying towards it, and so
probably taking note of objects by the way, one journey might have
proved sufficient to teach them the way. But, whether or not this would
have been the case, the fact that when carried they required also to be
taught the way piece by piece, is conclusive proof that their sense of
direction _alone_ is not sufficient to enable them to traverse a route
of 200 yards a second time.
The same result is brought out by other experiments conducted on a
different plan, though not apparently with this object. 'My room is
square, with two windows on the south-west side, where the hive was
placed, and one on the south-east.' Besides the ordinary entrance from
outside, the hive had a small postern door opening into the room.
At 6.50 a bee came out through the little postern
door. After she had fed, she evidently did not know
her way home; so I put her back.
At 7.10 she came out again. I again fed her and put
her back.
At 10.15 she came out a third time; and again I had to
put her back.
At 10.55 she came out again, and still did not
remember the door. Though I was satisfied that she
really wished to return, and was not voluntarily
remaining outside; still, to make the matter clear, I
turned her out of a side window into the garden, when
she at once returned to the hive.
At 11.15 she came out again; and again I had to show
her the way back.
At 11.20 she came out again; and again I had to show
her the way back (this makes five times); when,
however,--
At 11.30 she came out again after feeding, she
returned straight to the hive.
At 11.40 she came out, fed, and returned straight to
the hive.
At 11.50 she came out, fed, and returned straight to
the hive; she then stayed in for some time.
At 12.30 she came out again, but seemed to have
forgotten the way back; after some time, however, she
found the door and went in.
Again:--August 24 at 7.20 a bee came through the
postern: I fed her; and though she was not frightened
or disturbed, when she had finished her meal she flew
to the window and had evidently lost her way; so at 8
o'clock I in pity put her back myself.
August 29.--A bee came out to the honey at 10.10; at
10.12 she flew to the window, and remained buzzing
about till 11.12, when, being satisfied that she could
not find her way, I put her in.
Nay, even those who seemed to know the postern, if
taken near the other window, flew to it, and seemed to
have lost themselves.
This cost me a great many bees. Those which got into
my room by accident continually died on the floor near
the window.
These observations show that even when a bee is not _carried_ from the
hive to the honey, but herself _flies_ to it, her sense of direction is
not alone sufficient to enable her to find the way back to the hive--or,
rather, to the unaccustomed entrance to the hive from which she had come
out. Probably if the side window had been open, the bee would have
returned to the hive round the corner of the house, and through the
entrance to which she was most accustomed. But as it was she had to
_learn_, by five or six journeys, the way between the postern entrance
and the food.
But the following observation on a wasp is in this connection the most
conclusive.
A marked wasp visited honey exposed in the room before mentioned. 'The
next morning she came--
At 7.25, and fed till 7.28, when she began flying
about the room and even into the next; so I thought it
well to put her out of the window, when she flew
straight away to her nest. My room, as already
mentioned, had windows on two sides; and the nest was
in the direction of a closed window, so that the wasp
had to go out of her way in going out through the open
one.
At 7.45 she came back. I had moved the glass
containing the honey about two yards; and though it
stood conspicuously, the wasp seemed to have much
difficulty in finding it. Again she flew to the window
in the direction of her nest, and I had to put her
out, which I did at 8.2.
At 8.15 she returned to the honey almost straight.
8.21, she flew again to the closed window, and
apparently could not find her way; so at 8.35 I put
her out again. It seems obvious from this that wasps
have a sense of direction, and do not find their way
merely by sight.
At 8.50 back to honey, and 8.54 again to wrong window;
but finding it closed, she took two or three turns
round the room, and then flew out through the open
window.
At 9.24 back to the honey; and 9.27 away, first,
however, paying a visit to the wrong window, but
without alighting.
At 9.36 back to the honey, and 9.39 away, but, as before, going
first to wrong window.
She was away therefore 9 minutes.
9.50 " 9.53 away, this time straight. " 11 "
10 " 10. 7 " " 11 "
10.19 " 10.22 " " 12 "
10.35 " 10.39 " " 13 "
10.47 " 10.50 " " 9 "
11. 4 " 11. 7 " " 14 "
11.21 " 11.24 " " 14 "
11.34 " 11.37 " " 10 "
11.49 " 11.52 " " 1 "
12. 3 " 12. 5 " Away therefore 11 minutes.
12.13 " 12.15½ " " 8 "
12.25 " 12.28 " " 10 "
12.39 " 12.43 " " 11 "
12.54 " 12.57 " " 11 "
1.15 " 1.19 " " 18 "
1.27 " 1.30 " " 8 minutes,'
&c., &c., the way being now clearly well learnt.
But that the sense of direction is of much service to bees in finding
the locality of their hives seems to be indicated by the following
observation thus narrated, on the authority of the authors themselves,
by Messrs. Kirby and Spence:--
In vain, during my stay at St. Nicholas, I sallied out
at every outlet to try to gain some idea of the extent
and form of the town. Trees, trees, trees, still met
me, and intercepted the view in every direction; and I
defy any inhabitant bee of this rural metropolis,
after once quitting its hive, ever to gain a glimpse
of it again until nearly perpendicularly over it. The
bees, therefore, . . . must be led to their abodes by
instinct, &c.
The observation, however, is not so conclusive as its authors suppose;
for there is nothing to show that the bees did not take note of
particular objects on their accustomed routes, and so learn these routes
by stages. It would be worth while in this connection to try the effect
of hooding the eyes of a bee, or, if this were deemed too disturbing an
experiment, removing the hive bodily to a distance from its accustomed
site, and observing whether the bees start away boldly as before for
long flights, or learn their new routes by stages.
In this connection I may quote the following.
Mr. John Topham, of Marlborough House, Torquay, writing to 'Nature,'[46]
says:--
On October 29, 1873, I removed a hive of bees in my
garden, after it was quite dark, for a distance of 12
yards from the place in which it had stood for several
months; and between its original situation and the new
one there was a bushy evergreen tree, so that all
sight of its former place was obstructed to a person
looking from the new situation of the hive.
Notwithstanding this change, the bees every day flew
to the locality where they formerly lived, and
continued flying around the site of what had been
their home until, as night came on, they many of them
sank upon the grass exhausted and chilled by the cold.
Numbers, however, returned alive to their new
position, after having looked in vain for their hive
in its old place. At night I picked the exhausted bees
up, and having restored warmth to them (by leaving
them for a time on my coat-sleeve), I returned them to
their companions.
Here was an illustration that the faculty of memory
was superior to that of observation; but that was not
all. Nearly every bee which I picked up during the 23
days through which this effort of memory lasted was an
_old one_, as was easily deduced from observing the
worn edges of the wings; showing that whilst the young
insects were quick in receiving new impressions and in
correcting errors, the nervous system of the old bees
continued _acting in the direction which early habit
had effected_. So true it is that 'one touch of nature
makes the whole world kin.'
A closely similar observation has been told me by a friend, Mr. George
Turner. He found that when he removed a beehive only a yard or two from
its accustomed site, the bees, on returning home, flew in swarms around
the latter, and for a long time were unable to find the hive. And
several other similar cases might be adduced. Lastly, Thompson says:--
It is highly remarkable that they [bees] know their
hive more from its locality than from its appearance,
for if it be removed during their absence and a
similar one be substituted, they enter the strange
one. If the position of a hive be changed, the bees
for the first day take no distant flight till they
have thoroughly scrutinised every object in its
neighbourhood.[47]
On the other hand, the writer of the article on 'Bees' in the
'Encyclopædia Britannica' says that in certain parts of France it is the
habit of bee-keepers to place a number of hives upon a boat, which, in
charge of a man, floats slowly down a river. The bees are thus
continuously changing their pasture-ground, and yet do not lose their
locomotive hives.
It may be here worth while to add, parenthetically, as the only
authentic observation with which I am acquainted concerning the distance
that bees are accustomed to forage, the following statement of Prof.
Hugh Blackburn. Writing from Glasgow University to 'Nature,'[48] he says
that bees are found in a certain peach-house every spring at the time of
blossom, although, so far as he can ascertain, the beehives nearest to
the peach-house in question are his own, and these are at a distance of
ten miles.
On the whole, then, and in the absence of further experiments, we must
conclude it to be probable that the sense of direction with which
hymenopterous insects are, as shown by some of Sir John Lubbock's
experiments, unquestionably endowed, is of no small use to them in
finding their way from home to food and _vice versâ_; although it
appears certain, from other of his experiments, that this sense of
direction is not in all cases a sufficient guide, and therefore requires
to be supplemented by the definite observation of landmarks.
But the most conclusive evidence on this latter point is afforded by a
highly interesting observation of Mr. Bates on the sand-wasps at
Santurem, which may here be suitably introduced, as the insects are not
distantly allied. He describes these animals as always taking a few
turns in the air round the hole they had made in the sand before leaving
to seek for flies in the forest, apparently in order to mark well the
position of the burrow, so that on their return they might find it
without difficulty. This observation has been since confirmed in a
striking manner by Mr. Belt, who found that the sand-wasp takes the most
precise bearings of an object the position of which she desires to
remember. This observation is so interesting that it deserves to be
rendered _in extenso_:--
A specimen of _Polistes carnifex_ (_i.e._ the
sand-wasp noticed by Mr. Bates) was hunting about for
caterpillars in my garden. I found one about an inch
long, and held it out towards it on the point of a
stick. It seized it immediately, and commenced biting
it from head to tail, soon reducing the soft body to a
mass of pulp. It rolled up about one-half of it into a
ball, and prepared to carry it off. Being at the time
amidst a thick mass of a fine-leaved climbing plant,
it proceeded, before flying away, to take note of the
place where it was leaving the other half. To do this,
it hovered in front of it for a few seconds, then took
small circles in front of it, then larger ones round
the whole plant. I thought it had gone, but it
returned again, and had another look at the opening in
the dense foliage down which the other half of the
caterpillar lay. It then flew away, but must have left
its burden for distribution with its comrades at the
nest, for it returned in less than two minutes, and
making one circle around the bush, descended to the
opening, alighted on a leaf, and ran inside. The green
remnant of the caterpillar was lying on another leaf
inside, but not connected with the one on which the
wasp alighted, so that in running in it missed it, and
soon got hopelessly lost in the thick foliage. Coming
out again, it took another circle, and pounced down on
the same spot again, as soon as it came opposite to
it. Three small seed-pods, which here grew close
together, formed the marks that I had myself taken to
note the place, and these the wasp seemed also to have
taken as its guide, for it flew directly down to them,
and ran inside; but the small leaf on which the
fragment of caterpillar lay not being directly
connected with any on the outside, it again missed it,
and again got far away from the object of its search.
It then flew out again, and the same process was
repeated again and again. Always when in circling
round it came in sight of the seed-pods down it
pounced, alighted near them, and recommenced its quest
on foot. I was surprised at its perseverance, and
thought it would have given up the search; but not so,
it returned at least half-a-dozen times, and seemed to
get angry, hurrying about with buzzing wings. At last
it stumbled across its prey, seized it eagerly, and as
there was nothing more to come back for, flew straight
off to its nest, without taking any further note of
the locality. Such an action is not the result of
blind instinct, but of a thinking mind; and it is
wonderful to see an insect so differently constructed
using a mental process similar to that of man.
_Memory._
We may here first allude to an observation of Sir John Lubbock already
quoted in another connexion (see p. 147). It is here evident that the
wasp, after finding the store of honey in the room, and after finding
the window closed in the 'wasp-line' direction to its nest, required
three repeated _lessons_ from Sir John before she _learnt_ that the
window on the other side of the room, and away from the direction of her
nest, afforded no obstacle to her exit. Having learnt this, the fourth
time she came she again flew to the closed window as before, and then,
as if but dimly remembering that there was another opening somewhere
that offered no such mysterious resistance to her passage, 'she took two
or three turns round the room, and then flew out through the open
window.' Having now taken the bearings of all the room upon her own
wings, and having again found the difference between the two windows in
respect of resistance, although in all other respects so much alike, the
next time she came she made in the first instance as it were an
experimental flight towards the closed window, but clearly had the
alternative of going to the open one in her memory; for on finding the
window closed as before, she did not alight, but flew straight from the
closed to the open window. The same thing happened once again, but now,
with the distinction between the two windows thus fully learnt, and with
it the perception that in this case 'the shortest cut was the longest
way round,' she never again flew to the closed window; in the forty
successive visits which she paid through the remainder of that day, and
the hundred visits or so which she made during the two following days,
she seems to have uniformly flown to the open window.
As evidence of _forgetfulness_, it will be enough to refer to the case
of another wasp which, under precisely similar circumstances to those
just detailed, learnt her way out of the open window one day, having
made fifty passages through it in five hours. Yet Sir John remarks,--
It struck me as curious that on the following day this
wasp seemed by no means so sure of her way, but over
and over again went to the closed window.
It is further of interest to note, as showing the similarity of the
memory displayed by these insects with that of the higher animals, that
there are considerable individual differences to be found in the degree
of its manifestation.
In this respect they certainly differ considerably.
Some of the bees which came out of the little postern
door (already described) were able to find their way
back after it had been shown to them a few times.
Others were much more stupid; thus one bee came out on
the 9th, 10th, 11th, 12th, 14th, 15th, 16th, 17th,
18th, and 19th, and came to the honey; but though I
repeatedly put her back through the postern, she was
never able to find her way for herself.
I often found that if bees which were brought to honey
did not return at once, still they would do so a day
or two afterwards. For instance, on July 11, 1874, a
hot thundery day, and when the bees were much out of
humour, I brought twelve bees to some honey; only one
came back, and that one only twice; but on the
following day several of them returned.
This latter observation is important, as proving that bees can remember
for at least a whole day the locality where they have found honey only
once before, and that they so far think about their past experiences as
to return to that locality when foraging.
As the association of ideas by contiguity is the principle which forms
the basis of all psychology, it is desirable to consider still more
attentively this the earliest manifestation that we have of it in the
memory of the Hymenoptera. That it is not exercised with exclusive
reference to _locality_ is proved by the following observation of Sir
John Lubbock:--
I kept a specimen of _Polistes Gallica_ for no less
than nine months.[49] . . . I had no difficulty in
inducing her to feed on my hand; but at first she was
shy and nervous. She kept her sting in constant
readiness. . . . Gradually she became quite used to me,
and when I took her on my hand apparently expected to
be fed. She even allowed me to stroke her without any
appearance of fear, and for some months I never saw
her sting.
One other observation which goes to prove that other things besides
locality are noted and remembered by bees may here be quoted. Sir John
placed a bee in a bell jar, the closed end of which he held towards a
window. The bee buzzed about at that end trying to make for the open
air. He then showed her the way out of the open end of the jar, and
after having thus learnt it, she was able to find the way out herself.
This seems to show that the bee, like the wasp on the closed
window-pane, was able to appreciate and to remember the difference
between the quality of glass as resisting and air as permeable, although
to her sense of vision the difference must have been very slight. In
other words, the bee must have remembered that by first flying _away_
from the window, round the edge of the jar, and then _towards_ the
window, she could surmount the transparent obstacle; and this implies a
somewhat different act of memory from that of associating a particular
object--such as honey--with a particular locality. It is noteworthy that
a fly under similar circumstances did not require to be taught to find
its way out of the jar, but spontaneously found its own way out. This,
however, may be explained by the fact that flies do not always direct
their flight towards windows, and therefore the escape of this one was
probably not due to any act of intelligence.
While upon the subject of memory in the Hymenoptera, it is indispensable
that we should again refer to the observation of Messrs. Belt and Bates
already alluded to on pages 150-51. For it is from that observation
rendered evident that these sand-wasps took definite pains, as it were,
to _teach themselves_ the localities to which they desired to return.
Mr. Bates further observed that after thus taking a careful mental note
of the place, they would return to it without a moment's hesitation
after an absence of an hour. The observation of Mr. Belt, already quoted
_in extenso_, proves that these mental notes may be taken with the
utmost minuteness, so that even in the most intricate places the insect,
on its return, is perfectly confident that it has not made a mistake.
With regard to the duration of memory, Stickney relates a case in which
some bees took possession of a hollow place beneath a roof, and having
been then removed into a hive, continued for several years to return and
occupy the same hole with their successive swarms.[50]
Similarly Huber relates an observation of his own showing the duration
of memory in bees. One autumn he put some honey in a window, which the
bees visited in large numbers. During the winter the honey was taken
away and the shutters shut. When they were again opened in the spring
the bees returned, although there was no honey in the window.
These two cases amply prove that the memory of bees is comparable with
that of ants, which, as we have seen from analogous facts, also extends
at least over a period of many months.
_Emotions._
Sir John Lubbock's experiments on this head go to show that the social
sympathies of bees are even less developed than he found them to be in
certain species of ants. Thus he says:--
I have already mentioned with reference to the
attachment which bees have been said to show for one
another, that though I have repeatedly seen them lick
a bee which had smeared herself in honey, I never
observed them show the slightest attention to any of
their comrades who had been drowned in water. Far,
indeed, from having been able to discover any evidence
of affection among them, they appear to be thoroughly
callous and utterly indifferent to one another. As
already mentioned, it was necessary for me
occasionally to kill a bee; but I never found that the
others took the slightest notice. Thus on the 11th of
October I crushed a bee close to one which was
feeding--in fact, so close that their wings touched;
yet the survivor took no notice whatever of the death
of her sister, but went on feeding with every
appearance of composure and enjoyment, just as if
nothing had happened. When the pressure was removed,
she remained by the side of the corpse without the
slightest appearance of apprehension, sorrow, or
recognition. It was, of course, impossible for her to
understand my reason for killing her companion; yet
neither did she feel the slightest emotion at her
sister's death, nor did she show any alarm lest the
same fate should befall her also. In a second case
exactly the same occurred. Again, I have several
times, while a bee has been feeding, held a second bee
by the leg close to her; the prisoner, of course,
struggled to escape, and buzzed as loudly as she
could; yet the selfish eater took no notice whatever.
So far, therefore, from being at all affectionate, I
doubt whether bees are in the least fond of one
another.
Réaumur, however ('Insects,' vol. v., p. 265), narrates a case in which
a hive-bee was partly drowned and so rendered insensible; the others in
the hive carefully licked and otherwise tended her till she recovered.
This seems to show that bees, like ants, are more apt to have their
sympathies aroused by the sight of ailing or injured companions than by
that of healthy companions in distress; but Sir John Lubbock's
observations above quoted go to prove that even in this case display of
sympathy is certainly not the rule.
_Powers of Communication._
Huber says that when one wasp finds a store of honey 'it returns to its
nest, and brings off in a short time a hundred other wasps;' and this
statement is confirmed by Dujardin, who witnessed a somewhat similar
performance in the case of bees--the individual which first found a
concealed store informing other individuals of the fact, and so on till
numberless individuals had found it.
Although the systematic experiments of Sir John Lubbock have not tended
to confirm these observations with regard to bees and wasps, we must not
too readily allow his negative results to discredit these positive
observations--more especially as we have seen that his _later_
experiments have fully confirmed the opinion of these previous authors
with respect to ants. His experiments on bees and wasps consisted in
exposing honey in a hidden situation, marking a bee or wasp that came to
it, and observing whether it afterwards brought any companions to share
the booty. He found that although the same insect would return over and
over again, strangers came so rarely that their visits could only be
attributed to accidental and independent discovery. Only if the honey
were in an exposed situation, where the insects could _see_ one another
feeding, would one follow the other to the food.
But we have the more reason not to accept unreservedly the conclusion
to which these experiments in themselves might lead, because the very
able observer F. Müller states an observation of his own which must be
considered as alone sufficient to prove that bees are able to
communicate information to one another:--
Once (he says[51]) I assisted at a curious contest,
which took place between the queen and the other bees
in one of my hives, which throws some light on the
intellectual faculties of these animals. A set of
forty-seven cells have been filled, eight on a newly
completed comb, thirty-five on the following, and four
around the first cell of a new comb. When the queen
had laid eggs in all the cells of the two older combs
she went several times round their circumference (as
she always does, in order to ascertain whether she has
not forgotten any cell), and then prepared to retreat
into the lower part of the breeding-room. But as she
had overlooked the four cells of the new comb, the
workers ran impatiently from this part to the queen,
pushing her, in an odd manner, with their heads, as
they did also other workers they met with. In
consequence the queen began again to go around on the
two older combs; but as she did not find any cell
wanting an egg she tried to descend, but everywhere
she was pushed back by the workers. This contest
lasted for a rather long while, till the queen escaped
without having completed her work. Thus the workers
knew how to advise the queen that something was as yet
to be done, but they knew not how to show her _where_
it had to be done.
Again, Mr. Josiah Emery, writing to 'Nature,'[52] with reference to Sir
John Lubbock's experiments, says that the faculty of communication which
bees possess is so well and generally known to the 'bee-hunters' of
America, that the recognised method of finding a bees' nest is to act
upon the faculty in question:--
Going to a field or wood at a distance from tame bees,
with their box of honey they gather up from the
flowers and imprison one or more bees, and after they
have become sufficiently gorged, let them out to
return to their home with their easily gotten load.
Waiting patiently a longer or shorter time, according
to the distance of the bee-tree, the hunter scarcely
ever fails to see the bee or bees return accompanied
with other bees, which are in like manner imprisoned
till they in turn are filled, when one or more are
let out at places distant from each other, and the
direction in each case in which the bee flies noted,
and thus, by a kind of triangulation, the position of
the bee-tree proximately ascertained.
Those who have stored honey in their houses understand
very well how important it is to prevent a single bee
from discovering its location. Such discovery is sure
to be followed by a general onslaught from the hive
unless all means of access is prevented. It is
possible that our American are more intelligent than
European bees, but hardly probable; and I certainly
shall not ask an Englishman to admit it. Those in
America who are in the habit of playing first, second,
and third fiddle to instinct will probably attribute
this seeming intelligence to that principle.
According to De Fravière, bees have a number of different notes or tones
which they emit from the stigmata of the thorax and abdomen, and by
which they communicate information. He says:--
As soon as a bee arrives with important news, it is at
once surrounded, emits two or three shrill notes, and
taps a comrade with its long, flexible, and very
slender feelers, or antennæ. The friend passes on the
news in similar fashion, and the intelligence soon
traverses the whole hive. If it is of an agreeable
kind--if, for instance, it concerns the discovery of a
store of sugar or of honey, or of a flowering
meadow--all remains orderly. But, on the other hand,
great excitement arises if the news presages some
threatened danger, or if strange animals are
threatening invasion of the hive. It seems that such
intelligence is conveyed first to the queen, as the
most important person in the state.
This account, which is quoted from Büchner, no doubt bears indications
of imaginative colouring; but if the observation as to the emission of
sounds is correct--and, as we shall see, this point is well confirmed by
other observers--it is most likely concerned in communicating by tone a
general idea of good or harm: probably in the former case it acts as a
sign, 'follow me;' and in the latter as a signal of danger. Büchner
further says that, according to Landois, if a saucer of honey is placed
before a hive, a few bees come out, which emit a cry of tut, tut, tut.
This note is rather shrill, and resembles the cry of an attacked bee.
Hereupon a large number of bees come out of the hive to collect the
offered honey.
Again,--
The best way to observe the power of communication
possessed by bees by means of their interchange of
touches, is to take away the queen from a hive. In a
little time, about an hour afterwards, the sad event
will be noticed by a small part of the community, and
these will stop working and run hastily about over the
comb. But this only concerns part of the hive, and the
side of a single comb. The excited bees, however, soon
leave the little circle in which they at first
revolved, and when they meet their comrades they cross
their antennæ and lightly touch the others with them.
The bees which have received some impression from this
touch now become uneasy in their turn, and convey
their uneasiness and distress in the same way to the
other parts of the dwelling. The disorder increases
rapidly, spreads to the other side of the comb, and at
last to all the people. Then arises the general
confusion before described.
Huber tested this communication by the antennæ by a
striking experiment. He divided a hive into two quite
separate parts by a partition wall, whereupon great
excitement arose in the division in which there was no
queen, and this was only quieted when some workers
began to build royal cells.
He then divided a hive in similar fashion by a
trellis, through which the bees could pass their
feelers. In this case all remained quiet, and no
attempt was made to build royal cells: the queen could
also be clearly seen crossing her antennæ with the
workers on the other side of the trellis.
Apparently the feelers are also connected with the
exceedingly fine scent of the bees, which enables
them, wonderful as it may seem, to distinguish friend
and foe, and to recognise the members of their own
hive among the thousands and thousands of bees
swarming around, and to drive back from the entrance
stranger or robber bees. The bee-masters, therefore,
when they want two separate colonies or the members of
them to unite in one hive, sprinkle water over the
bees, or stupefy them with some fumigating substance,
so as to make them to a certain extent insensible to
smell, in order to attain their object. It is always
possible to unite colonies by making the bees smell of
some strong-smelling stuff, such as musk.[53]
Lastly, under the present heading I shall quote one other observation,
for which I am also indebted to Büchner's very admirable collection of
facts relating to the psychology of Hymenoptera:--
Herr L. Brofft relates, in 'der Zoologische Garten'
(XVIII. Year, No. 1, p. 67), that a poor and a rich
hive stood next each other on his father's bee stand,
and the latter suddenly lost its queen. Before the
owner had come to a decision thereupon the bees of the
two hives came to a mutual understanding as to the
condition of their two states. The dwellers in the
queenless hive, with their stores of provisions, went
over into the less populous or poorer hive, after they
had assured themselves, by many influential
deputations, as to the state of the interior of the
poor hive, and, as appeared, especially as to the
presence of an egg-laying queen!
_General Habits._
The active life of bees is divided between collecting food and rearing
young. We shall therefore consider these two functions separately.
The food collected consists of two kinds, honey (which, although stored
in the 'crop' for the purpose of carriage from the flowers to the cells,
appears to be but the condensed nectar of flowers) and so-called
'bee-bread.' This consists of the pollen of flowers, which is worked
into a kind of paste by the bees and stored in their cells till it is
required to serve as food for their larvæ. It is then partly digested by
the nurses with honey, so that a sort of chyle is formed. It is
observable that in each flight the 'carrier bees' collect only one kind
of pollen, so that it is possible for the 'house bees' (which, by the
way, are the younger bees left at home to discharge domestic duties with
only a small proportion of older ones, left probably to direct the more
inexperienced young) to sort it for storage in different cells. In the
result there are several different kinds of bee-bread, some being more
stimulating or nutritious than others. The most nutritious has the
effect, when given to any female larva, of developing that larva into a
queen or fertile female. This fact is well known to the bees, who only
feed a small number of larvæ in this manner, and the larvæ which they
select so to feed they place in larger or 'royal' cells, with an obvious
foreknowledge of the increased dimensions to which the animal will grow
under the influence of this food. Only one queen is required for a
single hive; but the bees always raise several, so that if any mishap
should occur to one, other larvæ may be ready to fall back upon.
Besides honey and bee-bread two other substances are found in beehives.
These are propolis and beeswax. The former is a kind of sticky resin
collected for the most part from coniferous trees. This is used as
mortar in building, &c. It adheres so strongly to the legs of the bee
which has gathered it, that it can only be detached by the help of
comrades. For this purpose the loaded bee presents her legs to her
fellow-workers, who clean it off with their jaws, and while it is still
ductile, apply it round the inside of the hive. According to Huber, who
made this observation, the propolis is applied also to the insides of
the cells. The workers first planed the surfaces with their mandibles,
and one of them then pulled out a thread of propolis from the heap
deposited by the carrier bees, severed it by a sudden throwing back of
the head, and returned with it to the cell which it had previously been
planing. It then laid the thread between the two walls which it had
planed; but, proving too long, a portion of the thread was bitten off.
The properly measured portion was then forced into the angle of the cell
by the fore-feet and mandibles. The thread, now converted into a narrow
ribbon, was next found to be too broad. It was therefore gnawed down to
the proper width. Other bees then completed the work which this one had
begun, till all the walls of the cells were framed with bands of
propolis. The object of the propolis here seems to be that of giving
strength to the cells.
The wax is a secretion which proceeds from between the segments of the
abdomen. Having ingested a large meal of honey, the bees hang in a thick
cluster from the top of their hive in order to secrete the wax. When it
begins to exude, the bees, assisted by their companions, rub it off into
heaps, and when a sufficient quantity of the material has been thus
collected, the work begins of building the cells. As the cells are used
both for storing food and rearing young, I shall consider them later
on. Now we have to pass to the labours incidental to propagation.
All the eggs are laid by one queen, who requires during this season a
large amount of nourishment, so much, indeed, that ten or twelve working
bees (_i.e._ sterile females) are set apart as her feeders. Leaving the
'royal cell,' she walks over the nursery-combs attended by a retinue of
workers, and drops a single egg into each open cell. It is a highly
remarkable fact that the queen is able to control the sex of the eggs
which she lays, and only deposits drone or male eggs in the drone cells,
and worker or female eggs in the worker cells--the cells prepared for
the reception of drone larvæ being larger than those required for the
worker larvæ. Young queens lay more worker eggs than old queens, and
when a queen, from increasing age or any other cause, lays too large a
proportion of drone eggs, she is expelled from the community or put to
death. It is remarkable, also, under these circumstances, that the queen
herself seems to know that she has become useless, for she loses her
propensity to attack other queens, and so does not run the risk of
making the hive virtually queenless. There is now no doubt at all that
the determining cause of an egg turning out male or female is that
which Dzierzon has shown, namely, the absence or presence of
fertilisation--unfertilised eggs always developing into males, and
fertilised ones into females. The manner, therefore, in which a queen
controls the sex of her eggs must depend on some power that she has of
controlling their fertilisation.
The eggs hatch out into larvæ, which require constant attention from the
workers, who feed them with the chyle or bee-bread already mentioned. In
three weeks from the time that the egg is deposited, the white worm-like
larva has passed through its last metamorphosis. When it has emancipated
itself its nurses assemble round it to wash and caress it, as well as to
supply it with food. They then clean out the cell which it has left.
When so large a number of the larvæ hatch out as to overcrowd the hive,
it is the function of the queen to lead forth a swarm. Meanwhile several
larval queens have been in course of development, and matters are so
arranged by the foresight of the bees, that one or more young queens are
ready to emerge at a time when otherwise the hive would be left
queenless. But the young queen or queens, although perfectly formed,
must not escape from their royal prison-houses until the swarm has
fairly taken place; the worker bees will even strengthen the coverings
of these prison-houses if, owing to bad weather or other causes,
swarming is delayed. The prisoner queens, which are fed through a small
hole in the roof of their cells, now continually give vent to a
plaintive cry, called by the bee-keepers 'piping,' and this is answered
by the mother queen. The tones of the piping vary. The reason why the
young queens are kept such close prisoners till after the departure of
the mother queen with her swarm, is simply that the mother queen would
destroy all the younger ones, could she get the chance, by stinging
them. The workers, therefore, never allow the old queen to approach the
prisons of the younger ones. They establish a guard all round these
prisons or royal cells, and beat off the old queen whenever she
endeavours to approach. But if the swarming season is over, or anything
should prevent a further swarm from being sent out, the worker bees
offer no further resistance to the jealousy of the mother queen, but
allow her in cold blood to sting to death all the young queens in their
nursery prisons. As soon as the old queen leaves with a swarm, the young
queens are liberated in succession, but at intervals of a few days; for
if they were all liberated at once they would fall upon and destroy one
another. Each young queen as it is liberated goes off with another
swarm, and those which remain unliberated are as carefully guarded from
the liberated sister queen as they were previously guarded from the
mother queen. When the season is too late for swarming the remaining
young queens are liberated simultaneously, and are then allowed to fight
to the death, the survivor being received as sovereign.
The bees, far from seeking to prevent these battles,
appear to excite the combatants against each other,
surrounding and bringing them back to the charge when
they are disposed to recede from each other; and when
either of the queens shows a disposition to approach
her antagonist, all the bees forming the cluster
instantly give way to allow her full liberty of
attack. The first use which the conquering queen makes
of her victory is to secure herself against fresh
dangers by destroying all her future rivals in the
royal cells; while the other bees, which are
spectators of the carnage, share in the spoil,
greedily devouring any food which may be found at the
bottom of the cells, and even sucking the fluid from
the abdomen of the pupæ before they toss out the
carcasses.[54]
Similarly, when a strange queen is put into a hive already provided with
a queen--
A circle of bees instinctively crowd around the
invader, not, however, to attack her--for a worker
never assaults a queen--but to respectfully prevent
her escape, in order that a combat may take place
between her and their reigning monarch. The lawful
possessor then advances towards the part of the comb
where the invader has established herself, the
attendant workers clear a space for the encounter,
and, without interfering, wait the result. A fearful
encounter then ensues, in which one is stung to death,
the survivor mounting the throne. Although the workers
of a _de facto_ monarch will not fight for her
defence, yet, if they perceive a strange queen
_attempting_ to enter the hive, they will surround
her, and hold her until she is starved to death; but
such is their respect for royalty that they never
attempt to sting her.[55]
All these facts display a wonderful amount of apparently sagacious
purpose on the part of the workers, although they may not seem to
reflect much credit on the intelligence of the queens. But in this
connection we must remember the observation of F. Huber, who saw two
queens, which were the only ones left in the hive, engaged in mortal
combat; and when an opportunity arose for each to sting the other
simultaneously, they simultaneously released each other's grasp, as if
in horror of a situation that might have ended in leaving the hive
queenless. This, then, is the calamity to avert which all the instincts
both of workers and queens are directed. And that these instincts are
controlled by intelligence is suggested, if not proved, by the
adaptations which they show to special circumstances. Thus, for
instance, F. Huber smoked a hive so that the queen and older bees
effected their escape, and took up their quarters a short distance away.
The bees which remained behind set about constructing three royal cells
for the purpose of rearing a new queen. Huber now carried back the old
queen and ensconced her in the hive. Immediately the bees set about
carrying away all the food from the royal cells, in order to prevent the
larvæ contained therein from developing into queens. Again, if a strange
queen is presented to a hive already provided with one, the workers do
not wait for their own queen to destroy the pretender, but themselves
sting or smother her to death. When, on the other hand, a queen is
presented to a hive which is without one, the bees adopt her, although
it is often necessary for the bee-master to protect her for a day or two
in a trellis cage, until her subjects have become acquainted with her.
When a hive is queenless, the bees stop all work, become restless, and
make a dull complaining noise. This, however, is only the case if there
is likewise a total absence of royal pupæ, and of ordinary pupæ under
three days of age--_i.e._ the age during which it is possible to rear an
ordinary larva into a queen.
As soon as the queen has been fertilised, and the services of the drones
therefore no longer required, the worker bees fall upon their
unfortunate and defenceless brothers to kill them, either by direct
stinging or by throwing them out of the hive to perish in the cold. The
drones' cells are then torn down, and any remaining drone eggs or pupæ
destroyed. Generally all the drones--which may number more than a
thousand--are slaughtered in the course of a single day. Evidently the
object of this massacre is that of getting rid of useless mouths; but
there is a more difficult question as to why these useless mouths ever
came into existence. It has been suggested that the enormous
disproportion between the present number of males and the single fertile
female refers to a time before the social instincts became so complex
or consolidated, and when, therefore, bees lived in lesser communities.
Probably this is the explanation, although I think we might still have
expected that before this period in their evolution had arrived bees
might have developed a compensating instinct, either not to allow the
queen to lay so many drone eggs, or else to massacre the drones while
still in the larval state. But here we must remember that among the
wasps the males do work (chiefly domestic work, for which they are fed
by their foraging sisters); so it is possible that in the hive-bee the
drones were originally useful members of the community, and that they
have lost their primitively useful instincts. But whatever the
explanation, it is very curious that here, among the animals which are
justly regarded as exhibiting the highest perfection of instinct, we
meet with perhaps the most flagrant instance in the animal kingdom of
instinct unperfected. It is the more remarkable that the drone-killing
instinct should not have been better developed in the direction of
killing the drones at the most profitable time--namely, in their larval
or oval state--from the fact that in many respects it seems to have been
advanced to a high degree of discriminative refinement. Thus, to quote
Büchner,--
That the massacre of the drones is not performed
entirely from an instinctive impulse, but in full
consciousness of the object to be gained, is proved by
the circumstance that it is carried out the more
completely and mercilessly the more fertile the queen
shows herself to be. But in cases where this fertility
is subject to serious doubt, or when the queen has
been fertilised too late or not at all, and therefore
only lays drones' eggs, or when the queen is barren,
and new queens, to be fertilised later, have to be
brought up from working-bee larvæ, then all or some of
the drones are left alive, in the clear prevision that
their services will be required later. . . . This wise
calculation of consequences is further exemplified in
that sometimes the massacre of the drones takes place
before the time for swarming, as, for instance, when
long-continued unfavourable weather succeeds a
favourable beginning of spring, and makes the bees
anxious for their own welfare. If, however, the
weather breaks, and work again becomes possible, so
that the bees take courage anew, they then bring up
new drones, and prepare them in time for the swarming.
This killing of drones is distinguished from the
regular drone massacre by the fact that the bees then
only kill the developed drones, and leave the drone
larvæ, save when absolute hunger compels their
destruction. Not less can it be regarded as a prudent
calculation of circumstances when the bees of a hive,
brought from our temperate climate to a more southern
country, where the time of collecting lasts longer, do
not kill the drones in August, as usual, but at a
later period, suitable to the new conditions.
But the philosophy of drone-killing is, I think, even more difficult in
the case of the wasps than in that of the bees. For, unlike the bees,
whose communities live from year to year, the wasps all perish at the
end of autumn, with the exception of a very few fertilised females. As
this season of universal calamity approaches, the workers destroy all
the larval grubs--a proceeding which, in the opinion of some writers,
strikingly exemplifies the beneficence of the Deity! Now, it does not
appear to me easy to understand how the presence of such an instinct in
this case is to be explained. For, on the one hand, the individual
females which are destined to live through the winter cannot be
conspicuously benefited by this slaughter of grubs; and, on the other
hand, the rest of the community is so soon about to perish, that one
fails to see of what advantage it can be to it to get rid of the grubs.
If the whole human race, with the exception of a few women, were to
perish periodically once in a thousand years, the race would profit
nothing by destroying, a few months before the end of each millennium,
all sick persons, lunatics, and other 'useless mouths.' I have not seen
this difficulty with regard to the massacring instinct in wasps
mentioned before, and I only mention it now in order to draw attention
to the fact that there seems to be a more puzzling problem presented
here than in the case of the analogous instinct as exhibited by bees.
The only solution which has suggested itself to my mind is the
possibility that in earlier times, or in other climates, wasps may have
resembled bees in living through the winter, and that the grub-slaying
instinct is in them a survival of one which was then, as in the case of
the bees now, a clearly beneficial instinct.
For some days before swarming begins, there is a great excitement and
buzzing in the hive, the temperature of which rises from 92° to 104°.
Scouts having been previously sent out to explore for suitable quarters
wherein to plant the new colony, these now act as guides. The swarm
leaves the hive with their queen. The bees which remain behind busy
themselves in rearing out the pupæ, which soon arriving at maturity,
also quit the hive in successive swarms. According to Büchner,
'secondary swarms with young queens send out no scouts, but fly at
random through the air. They clearly lack the experience and prudence of
the older bees.' And, regarding the behaviour of the scouts sent out by
primary swarms, this author says:--
M. de Fravière had the opportunity of observing the
manner in which such an examination is carried on, and
with what prudence and accuracy. He placed an empty
beehive, made in a new style, in front of his house,
so that he could exactly watch from his own window
what went on inside and out without disturbance to
himself or to the bees. A single bee came and examined
the building, flying all round it and touching it. It
then let itself down on the board, and walked
carefully and thoroughly over the interior, touching
it continually with its antennæ so as to subject it on
all sides to a thorough investigation. The result of
its examination must have been satisfactory, for after
it had gone away it returned accompanied by a crowd of
some fifty friends, which now together went through
the same process as their guide. This new trial must
also have had a good result, for soon a whole swarm
came, evidently from a distant spot, and took
possession. Still more remarkable is the behaviour of
the scouts when they take possession of a satisfactory
hive or box for an imminent or approaching swarm.
Although it is not yet inhabited they regard it as
their property, watch it and guard it against stranger
bees or other assailants, and busy themselves
earnestly in the most careful cleansing of it, so far
as this cleansing is impossible to the setter up of
the hive. Such a taking possession sometimes occurs
eight days before the entrance of the swarm.
_Wars._--As with ants, so with bees, the great cause of war is plunder;
and facts now well substantiated by numberless observers concerning
'robber-bees' indicate a large measure of intelligence. These aim at
lessening their labour in collecting honey by plundering the store of
other hives. The robberies may be conducted singly or in concert. When
the thieving propensity is developed only in individual cases, the
thieves cannot rely on force in plundering a foreign state, and so
resort to cautious stealth. 'They show by their whole behaviour--creeping
into the hive with careful vigilance--that they are perfectly conscious
of their bad conduct; whereas the workers belonging to the hive fly in
quickly and openly, and in full consciousness of their right.' If such
solitary burglars are successful in obtaining plunder, their bad example
leads other members of their own community to imitate them; thus it is
that the whole bee-nation may develop marauding habits, and when they do
this they act in concert to rob by force. In this case an army of bees
precipitates itself upon the foreign hive, a battle ensues, and if
successful in overcoming resistance, the invaders first of all search
out the queen-bee and put her to death, whereby they disorganise their
enemies and plunder the hive with ease. It is observed that when this
policy is once successful, the spirit of aggrandisement is encouraged,
so that the robber-bees 'find more pleasure in robbery than in their own
work, and become at last formidable robber-states.' When an invaded hive
is fairly overcome by the invaders killing the queen, the owners of the
hive, finding that all is lost, not only abandon further resistance, but
very often reverse their policy and join the ranks of their conquerors.
They assist in the tearing down of their cells, and in the conveyance of
the honey to the hive of their invaders. 'When the assailed hive is
emptied, the next ones are attacked, and if no effective resistance is
offered, are robbed in similar fashion, so that in this way a whole
bee-stand may be gradually destroyed.' Siebold observed the same facts
in the case of wasps (_Polistes gallica_). If, however, the battle turns
in favour of the defenders, they pursue the flying legions of their
enemies to a distance from their home. It sometimes happens that the
plundered hive offers no resistance at all, owing to the robbers having
visited the same flowers as the robbed, and so probably (having much the
same smell) not being recognised as belonging to a different community.
The thieves, when they find such to be the case, may become so bold as
to stop the bees that are returning to the hive with their loads, of
which they deprive them at the entrance of the hive. This is done by a
process which one observer, Weygandt,[56] calls 'milking,' and it seems
that the milking bee attains the double advantage of securing the honey
from the milked one and disarming suspicion of the other bees by
contracting its smell and entering the hive loaded, into which it is
admitted without opposition to continue its plunder.
Sometimes robber-bees attack their victims in the fields at a distance
from the hives. This sort of highway robbery is generally conducted by a
gang of four or five robber-bees which set upon a single honest bee,
'hold him by the legs, and pinch him until he unfolds his tongue, which
is sucked in succession by his assailants, who then suffer him to depart
in peace.'
It is strange that hive-bees of dishonest temperaments seem able to coax
or wheedle humble-bees into the voluntary yielding of honey.
'Humble-bees have been known to permit hive-bees to take the whole honey
that they have collected, and to go on gathering more, and handing it
over, for three weeks, although they refuse to part with it, or seek
refuge in flight, when wasps make similar overtures.'[57]
Besides theft and plunder, there are other causes of warfare among bees,
which, however, are only apparent in their effects. Thus, for some
undiscernible reason, duels are not infrequent, which generally end in
the death of one or both combatants. At other times, equally without
apparent reason, civil war breaks out in a hive, which is sometimes
attended with much slaughter.
_Architecture._--Coming now to the construction of the cells and combs,
there is no doubt that here we meet with the most astonishing products
of instinct that are presented in the animal kingdom. A great deal has
been written on the practical exhibition of high mathematical principles
which bees display in constructing their combs in the form that secures
the utmost capacity for storage of honey with the smallest expenditure
of building material. The shortest and clearest statement of the subject
that I have met with is the following, which has been given by Dr.
Reid:--
There are only three possible figures of the cells
which can make them all equal and similar, without any
useless interstices. These are the equilateral
triangle, the square, and the regular hexagon.
Mathematicians know that there is not a fourth way
possible in which a plane may be cut into little
spaces that shall be equal, similar, and regular,
without useless spaces. Of the three figures, the
hexagon is the most proper for convenience and
strength. Bees, as if they knew this, make their cells
regular hexagons.
Again, it has been demonstrated that, by making the
bottoms of the cells to consist of three planes
meeting in a point, there is a saving of material and
labour in no way inconsiderable. The bees, as if
acquainted with these principles of solid geometry,
follow them most accurately. It is a curious
mathematical problem, at what precise angle the three
planes which compose the bottom of a cell ought to
meet, in order to make the greatest possible saving,
or the least expense of material and labour. This is
one of the problems which belong to the higher parts
of mathematics. It has accordingly been resolved by
some mathematicians, particularly by the ingenious
Maclaurin, by a fluctionary calculation, which is to
be found in the Transactions of the Royal Society of
London. He has determined precisely the angle
required, and he found, by the most exact mensuration
the subject would admit, that it is the very angle in
which the three planes in the bottom of the cell of a
honeycomb do actually meet.[58]
Marvellous as these facts undoubtedly are, they may now be regarded as
having been satisfactorily explained. Long ago Buffon sought to account
for the hexagonal form of the cells by an hypothesis of mutual pressure.
Supposing the bees to have a tendency to build tubular cells, if a
greater number of bees were to build in a given space than could admit
of all the parallel tubes being completed, tubes with flat sides and
sharp angles might result, and if the mutual pressure were exactly equal
in all directions, these sides and angles would assume the form of
hexagons. This hypothesis of Buffon was sustained by such physical
analogies as the blowing of a crowd of soap-bubbles in a cup, the
swelling of moistened peas in a confined space, &c. The hypothesis,
however, as thus presented was clearly inadequate; for no reason is
assigned why the mutual pressure, even if conceded to exist, should
always be so exactly equal in all directions as to convert all the
cylinders into perfect hexagons--even the analogy of the soap-bubbles
and the moistened peas failing, as pointed out by Brougham and others,
to sustain it, seeing that as a matter of fact bubbles and peas under
circumstances of mutual pressure do not assume the form of hexagons,
but, on the contrary, forms which are conspicuously irregular. Moreover,
the hypothesis fails to account for the particular prismatic shape
presented by the cell base. Therefore it is not surprising that this
hypothesis should have gained but small acceptance. Kirby and Spence
dispose of it thus:--'He (Buffon) gravely tells us that the boasted
hexagonal cells of the bee are produced by the reciprocal pressure of
the cylindrical bodies of these insects against each other!!'[59] The
double note of admiration here may be taken to express the feelings with
which this hypothesis of Buffon was regarded by all the more
sober-minded naturalists. Yet it turns out to have been not very wide of
the mark. As is often the case with the gropings of a great mind, the
idea contains the true principle of the explanation, although it fails
as an explanation from not being in a position to take sufficient
cognizance of all the facts. Safer it is for lesser minds to restrain
their notes of exclamation while considering the theories of a greater;
however crude or absurd the latter may appear, the place of their birth
renders it not impossible that some day they may prove to have been
prophetic of truth revealed by fuller knowledge. Usually in such cases
the final explanation is eventually reached by the working of a yet
greater mind, and in this case the undivided credit of solving the
problem is to be assigned to the genius of Darwin.
Mr. Waterhouse pointed out 'that the form of the cell stands in close
relation to the presence of adjoining cells.' Starting from this fact,
Mr. Darwin says,--
Let us look to the great principle of gradation, and
see whether Nature does not reveal to us her method of
work. At one end of a short series we have
humble-bees, which use their old cocoons to hold
honey, sometimes adding to them short tubes of wax,
and likewise making separate and very irregular
rounded cells of wax. At the other end of the series
we have the cells of the hive-bee, placed in a double
layer. . . . In the series between the extreme perfection
of the cells of the hive-bee and the simplicity of
those of the humble-bee we have the cells of the
Mexican _Melipona domestica_, carefully described and
figured by Pierre Huber. . . . It forms a nearly regular
waxen comb of cylindrical cells, in which the young
are hatched, and, in addition, some large cells of wax
for holding honey. These latter cells are nearly
spherical and of nearly equal sizes, and are
aggregated into an irregular mass. But the important
thing to notice is, that these cells are always made
at that degree of nearness to each other that they
would have intersected or broken into each other if
the spheres had been completed; but this is never
permitted, the bees building perfectly flat cells of
wax between the spheres which thus tend to intersect.
Hence each cell consists of an outer spherical
portion; and of two, three, or more flat surfaces,
according as the cell adjoins two, three, or more
other cells. When one cell rests on three other cells,
which, from the spheres being nearly of the same size,
is very frequently and necessarily the case, the three
flat surfaces are united into a pyramid; and this
pyramid, as Huber has remarked, is manifestly a gross
imitation of the three-sided pyramidal base of the
cell of the hive-bee. . . .
Reflecting on this case, it occurred to me that if the
Melipona had made its spheres at some given distance
from each other, and had made them of equal sizes, and
had arranged them symmetrically in a double layer, the
resulting structure would have been as perfect as the
comb of the hive-bee. Accordingly I wrote to Prof.
Miller of Cambridge, and this geometer has kindly read
over the following statement, drawn up from his
information, and tells me that it is strictly correct.
This statement having fully borne out his theory, Mr. Darwin
continues:--
Hence we may safely conclude that, if we could
slightly modify the instincts already possessed by the
Melipona, and in themselves not very wonderful, this
bee would make a structure as wonderfully perfect as
that of the hive-bee. We must suppose the Melipona to
have the power of forming her cells truly spherical,
and of equal sizes; and this would not be very
surprising, seeing that she already does so to a
certain extent, and seeing what perfectly cylindrical
burrows many insects make in wood, apparently by
turning round on a fixed point. We must suppose the
Melipona to arrange her cells in level layers, as she
already does her cylindrical cells; and we must
further suppose--and this is the greatest
difficulty--that she can somehow judge accurately at
what distance to stand from her fellow-labourers when
several are making their spheres; but she is already
so far able to judge of distance that she always
describes her spheres so as to intersect to a certain
extent; and then she unites the points of intersection
by perfectly flat surfaces. By such modifications of
instinct, which in themselves are not very
wonderful--hardly more wonderful than those which
guide a bird to make its nest,--I believe that the
hive-bee has acquired through natural selection her
inimitable architectural powers.[60]
Mr. Darwin next tested this theory by the experiment of introducing into
beehives plates of wax, and observing that the bees worked upon these
plates just as the theory required. That is to say, they made their
cells by excavating a number of little circular pits at equal distances
from one another, so that by the time the pits had acquired the width of
an ordinary cell, the sides of the pits intersected. As soon as this
occurred the bees ceased to excavate, and instead began to build up flat
walls of wax on the lines of intersection. Other experiments with very
thin plates of vermilion-coloured wax showed that the bees all worked at
about the same rate, and on opposite sides of the plates, so that the
common bottoms of any two opposite pits were flat. These flat bottoms
'were situated, as far as the eye could judge, exactly along the planes
of imaginary intersection between the basins on the opposite sides of
the ridge of wax;' so that if the plate of wax had been thick enough to
admit of the opposite basins being deepened (and widened) into cells,
the mutual intersection of _adjacent_ as well as _opposite_ bottoms
would have given rise, as in the first experiment with the thick plate
of wax, to the pyramidal bottoms. Experiments with the vermilion wax
also showed, as Huber had previously stated, that a number of individual
bees work by turns at the same cell; for by covering parts of growing
cells with vermilion wax, Mr. Darwin--
Invariably found that the colour was most delicately
diffused by the bees--as delicately as a painter could
have done it with his brush--by atoms of the coloured
wax having been taken from the spot on which it had
been placed, and worked into the growing edges of the
cells all round.
Such, omitting details, is the substance of Mr. Darwin's theory. In
summary he concludes,--
The work of construction seems to be a sort of balance
struck between many bees, all instinctively standing
at the same relative distance from each other, all
trying to sweep equal spheres, and then building up,
or leaving ungnawed, the planes of intersection
between these spheres.
This theory, while serving as a full and simple explanation of all the
facts, has, as we have seen, been so fully substantiated by observation
and experiment, that it deserves to be regarded as raised to the rank of
a completed demonstration. It differs from the theory of Buffon in two
important particulars: it embraces all the facts, and supplies a cause
adequate to explain them. This cause is natural selection, which
converts the random 'pressure' in Buffon's theory into a precisely
regulated principle. Random pressure alone could never produce the
beautifully symmetrical form of the hexagonal cell with the pyramidal
bottom; but it could and must have produced the intersection of
cylindrical cells among possibly many extinct species of bees, such as
the Melipona. Whenever this intersection occurred in crowded nests, it
must clearly have been of great benefit in securing economy of precious
wax; for in every case where a flat wall of partition between two
adjacent cells did duty instead of a double cylindrical wall of
separate cells, there wax should have been saved. Thus we can see how
natural selection would have worked towards the developing of an
instinct to excavate cells near enough together to produce intersection;
and once begun, there is no reason why this instinct should not have
been perfected by the same agency, till we meet with its ideal
perfection in the hive-bee. For as Mr. Darwin observes,--
With respect to the formation of wax, it is known that
bees are often hard pressed to get sufficient nectar;
and I am informed by Mr. Tegetmeier that it has been
experimentally proved that from twelve to fifteen
pounds of dry sugar are consumed by a hive of bees for
the secretion of a pound of wax; so that a prodigious
quantity of fluid nectar must be collected and
consumed by the bees in a hive for the secretion of
the wax necessary for the construction of their combs.
Moreover, many bees have to remain idle for many days
during the process of secretion. . . . Hence it would
continually be more and more advantageous to our
humble-bees if they were to make their cells more and
more regular, nearer together, and aggregated into a
mass, like the cells of Melipona; for in this case a
large part of the bounding surface of each cell would
serve to bound the adjoining cell, and much labour and
wax would be saved. Again, from the same cause, it
would be advantageous to the Melipona if she were to
make her cells closer together, and more regular in
every way than at present; for then, as we have seen,
the spherical surfaces would wholly disappear and be
replaced by plane surfaces; and the Melipona would
make a comb as perfect as that of the hive-bee. Beyond
this stage of perfection in architecture, natural
selection could not lead; for the comb of the
hive-bee, as far as we can see, is absolutely perfect
in economising labour and wax.
The problem, then, as to the origin and perfection of the cell-making
instinct appears thus to have been fully and finally solved. I shall now
adduce a few facts to show that while the general instinct of building
hexagonal cells has doubtless been acquired by natural selection in the
way just explained, it is nevertheless an instinct not wholly of a blind
or mechanical kind, but is constantly under the control of intelligent
purpose. Thus Mr. Darwin observes,--
It was really curious to note in cases of difficulty,
as when two pieces of comb met at an angle, how often
the bees would pull down and rebuild in different ways
the same cell, sometimes recurring to a shape which
they had at first rejected.[61]
Again, Huber saw a bee building upon the wax which had already been put
together by her comrades. But she did not arrange it properly, or in a
way to continue the design of her predecessors, so that her building
made an undesirable corner with theirs. 'Another bee perceived it,
pulled down the bad work before our eyes, and gave it to the first in
the requisite order, so that it might exactly follow the original
direction.' Similarly, to quote Büchner,--
All the cells have not the same shape, as would be the
case if the bees in building worked according to a
perfectly instinctive and unchangeable plan. There are
very manifold changes and irregularities. Almost in
every comb irregular and unfinished cells are to be
found, especially where the several divisions of a
comb come together. The small architects do not begin
their comb from a single centre, but begin building
from many different points, so as to progress as
rapidly as possible, and so that the greatest number
may work simultaneously; they therefore build from
above downwards, in the shape of flat truncated cones
or hanging pyramids, and these several portions are
afterwards united together during the winter budding.
At these lines of junction it is impossible to avoid
irregular cells between the pressed together or
unnaturally lengthened ones. The same is true more or
less of the passage cells, which are made to unite the
large cells of the so-called drone wax with the
smaller ones of the working bees, and which are
generally placed in two or three rows. The cells also
which they usually build from the combs to the glass
walls of their hives, in order to hold them up, show
somewhat irregular forms. Finally, in places where
special conditions of the situation do not otherwise
permit, it may be observed that the bees, far from
clinging obstinately to their plan, very well
understand how to accommodate themselves to
circumstances not only in cell-building, but also in
making their combs. F. Huber tried to mislead their
instinct, or rather to put to the proof their reason
and cleverness in every possible way, but they always
emerged triumphant from the ordeal. For instance, he
put bees in a hive the floor and roof of which were
made of glass, that is of a body which the bees use
very unwillingly for the attachment of their combs, on
account of its smoothness. Thus the possibility of
building as usual from above downwards, and also from
below upwards, was taken away from them; they had no
point of support save the perpendicular walls of their
dwelling. They thereupon built on one of these walls a
regular stratum of cells, from which, building
sideways, they tried to carry the comb to the opposite
side of the hive. To prevent this Huber covered that
side also with glass. But what way out of the
difficulty was found by the clever insects? Instead of
building further in the projected direction, they bent
the comb round at the extreme point, and carried it at
a right angle towards one of the inner sides of the
hive which was not covered with glass, and there
fastened it. The form and dimensions of the cells must
necessarily have been altered thereby, and the
arrangement of their work at the angle must have been
quite different from the usual. They made the cells of
the convex side so much broader than those of the
concave that they had a diameter two or three times as
great, and yet they managed to join them properly with
the others. They also did not wait to bend the comb
until they came to the glass itself, but recognised
the difficulty beforehand,[62] which had been
interposed by Huber while they were building with a
view to overcome the first difficulty.
_Special Habits._
_The Mason-Bee._--This insect closes the roof of its larval cell with a
kind of mortar, which sets as hard as stone. A little hole, closed only
with soft mud, is, however, left in one part of the roof as a door of
exit for the matured insect. It is said that when a mason-bee finds an
old and deserted nest, it saves itself the trouble of making a new
one--utilising the ready-made nest after having well cleaned it. In
Algiers the mason-bees have been observed in this way to utilise empty
snail-shells. According to Blanchard, some individuals avoid the labour
of making their own nests or houses for their young, by possessing
themselves of their neighbours' houses either by craft or by force.
'Does the mason-bee act like a machine,' says E. Menault, 'when it
directs its work according to circumstances, possesses itself of old
nests, cleanses and improves them, and thereby shows that it can fully
appreciate the immediate position? Can one believe that no kind of
reflection is here necessary?'
_The Tapestry-Bee._--The so-called tapestry-bee digs holes for her larvæ
three or four inches deep in the earth, and lines the walls and floor of
the chamber with petals of the poppy laid perfectly smooth. Several
layers of petals are used, and when the eggs are introduced the chamber
is closed by drawing all the leaves together at the top. Loose earth is
then piled over the whole structure in order to conceal it. The
so-called rose-bee (_Megachile centuncularis_) displays very similar
habits.[63]
_The Carpenter-Bee._--This was first observed and described by
Réaumur.[64] It makes a long cylindrical tube in the wood of beams,
palings, &c. This it divides into a number of successive chambers by
partitions made of agglutinated saw-dust built across the tube at right
angles to its axis. In each chamber there is deposited a single egg,
together with a store of pollen for the nourishment of the future larva.
The larvæ hatch out in succession and in the order of their age--_i.e._
the dates at which they were deposited. To provide for this, the bee
bores a hole from the lower cell to the exterior, so that each larva,
when ready to escape from its chamber, finds an open way from the tube.
The larvæ have to cut their own way out through the walls of their
respective chambers, and it is remarkable that they always cut through
the wall that faces the tubular passage left by the parent; they never
bore their way out in the opposite direction, which, were they to do so,
would entail the destruction of all the other and immature larvæ.
_The Carding-Bee._--This insect surrounds its nest with a layer of wax,
and then with a thick covering of moss. For this purpose a number of
bees co-operate, and in order to save time each bee does not find and
carry its own moss, but, with a division of labour similar to that
which we have already noticed in the case of certain ants, a row of bees
is formed, and the bits of moss passed from one to another along the
line. There is a long passage to the nest, through which the moss has to
be passed, and it is said that at the mouth of the tunnel a guard is
stationed to drive away ants or other intruders.
_Wasps._--These usually construct their nests of wood-dust, which they
scrape off the weather-worn surfaces of boards, palings, &c., and work
into a kind of paper with their saliva. If they happen to find any real
paper, they perceive that it so much resembles the product of their own
manufacture that they utilise it forthwith. The wasps do not require any
special cells or chambers for the storage of honey, as they do not lay
up any supply for the winter. The cells which they construct are
therefore used exclusively for the rearing of larvæ. In form these cells
are sometimes cylindrical or globular, but more usually hexagonal, like
those of the hive-bee. Although the mode of building is different from
that employed by the bees, there can be little doubt that if it were as
carefully investigated Mr. Darwin's theory of transition from the
cylindrical to the hexagonal form would be found to apply here also,
seeing that both forms so frequently occur in the same nest.
_The Mason-Wasp._--The habits of this insect are described by Mr. Bates.
It constructs its nest of clay. Each pellet that the insect brings it
lays on the top of its nest-wall, and then spreads it out with its jaws,
and treads it smooth with its feet. The nest, which is suspended on the
branch of a tree, is then stocked with spiders and insects paralysed by
stinging. The victims, not being wholly deprived of life, keep fresh
until required as food of the developing larvæ.
_The Butcher-Wasps._--These also paralyse their prey in a similar
manner, and for a similar purpose. Fabre removed from a so-called
sphex-wasp a killed grasshopper, which it was conveying to its nest and
had momentarily laid down at the mouth of the burrow--as these insects
always do on returning with prey, in order to see that nothing has
intruded into the burrow during their absence. Fabre carried the dead
or paralysed grasshopper to a considerable distance from the hole. On
coming out the insect searched about until it found its prey. It then
again carried it to the mouth of its burrow, and again laid it down
while it once more went in to see that all was right at home. Again
Fabre removed the grasshopper, and so on for forty times in
succession--the sphex never omitting to go through its fixed routine of
examining the interior of its burrow every time that it brought the prey
to its mouth.
Mr. Mivart, in his 'Lessons from Nature,' points to the instinct of this
animal in the stinging of the ganglion of its prey as one that cannot be
explained on Mr. Darwin's theory concerning the origin of instincts. In
my next work, which will have to deal with this theory, I shall consider
Mr. Mivart's difficulty, and also the difficulty first pointed out by
Mr. Darwin himself as to why neuter insects, separated as they appear to
be from the possibility of communicating by heredity any instinctive
acquirements of the individual to the species, should present any
instincts at all.
_General Intelligence._
Beginning with Sir John Lubbock's observations on this head, I shall
first quote his statements with regard to way-finding:--
I have found, he says, that some bees are much more
intelligent in this respect than others. A bee which I
had fed several times, and which had flown about in
the room, found its way out of the glass in a quarter
of an hour, and when put in a second time came out at
once. Another bee, when I closed the postern door,
used to come round to the honey through an open
window.
Bees seem to me much less clever in finding things
than I had expected. One day (April 14, 1872), when a
number of them were very busy on some barberries, I
put a saucer with some honey between two bunches of
flowers; these were repeatedly visited, and were so
close that there was hardly room for the saucer
between them, yet from 9.30 to 3.30 not a single bee
took any notice of the honey. At 3.30 I put some
honey on one of the bunches of flowers, and it was
eagerly sucked by the bees; two kept continually
returning till past five in the evening.
One day when I came home in the afternoon I found that
at least a hundred bees had got into my room through
the postern and were on the window, yet not one was
attracted by an open jar of honey which stood in a
shady corner about 3 feet 6 inches from the window.
One day (29th April, 1872) I placed a saucer of honey
close to some forget-me-nots, on which bees were
numerous and busy; yet from 10 A.M. till 6 only one
bee went to the honey.
I put some honey in a hollow in the garden wall
opposite the hives at 10.30 (this wall is about five
feet high and four feet from the hives); yet the bees
did not find it during the whole day.
On the 30th March, 1873, a fine sunshiny day, when the
bees were very active, I placed a glass containing
honey at 9 in the morning on the wall in front of the
hives; but not a single bee went to the honey the
whole day. On April 20 I tried the same experiment,
with the same result.
September 19.--At 9.30 I placed some honey in a glass
about four feet from and just in front of the hive;
but during the whole day not a bee observed it.
As it then occurred to me that it might be suggested
that there was something about this honey which
rendered it unattractive to the bees, on a following
day I placed it again on the top of the wall for three
hours, during which not a single bee came, and then
moved it close to the alighting-board of the hive. It
remained unnoticed for a quarter of an hour, when two
bees observed it; and others soon followed in
considerable numbers. . . . On the whole, wasps seem to
me more clever in finding their way than bees. I tried
wasps with the glass mentioned on p. 124 [_i.e._ the
bell-jar], but they had no difficulty in finding their
way out.
We shall now conclude this _résumé_ of Sir John Lubbock's observations
by quoting two other passages bearing on the general intelligence of
bees and wasps:--
The following fact struck me as rather remarkable. The
wasp already mentioned at the foot of p. 135 one day
smeared her wings with syrup, so that she could not
fly. When this happened to a bee, it was only
necessary to carry her to the alighting-board, when
she was soon cleaned by her comrades. But I did not
know where this wasp's nest was, and therefore could
not pursue a similar course with her. At first, then,
I was afraid that she was doomed. I thought, however,
that I would wash her, fully expecting, indeed, to
terrify her so much that she would not return again. I
therefore caught her, put her in a bottle half full of
water, and shook her up well till the honey was washed
off. I then transferred her to a dry bottle and put
her in the sun. When she was dry I let her out, and
she at once flew to her nest. To my surprise, in
thirteen minutes she returned, as if nothing had
happened, and continued her visits to the honey all
the afternoon.
This experiment interested me so much that I repeated
it with another marked wasp, this time, however,
keeping the wasp in the water till she was quite
motionless and insensible. When taken out of the water
she soon recovered; I fed her; she went quietly away
to her nest as usual, and returned after the usual
absence. The next morning this wasp was the first to
visit the honey.
I was not able to watch any of the above-mentioned
wasps for more than a few days; but I kept a specimen
of _Polistes Gallica_ for no less than nine months.
This is the wasp which has already been alluded to under the heading
'Memory;' but it is evident that the capacity which the insect displayed
of becoming tamed implies no small degree of general intelligence; its
hereditary instincts were conspicuously modified by the individual
experiences incidental to its domestication.
The remaining passages that deserve quotation are the following:--
It is sometimes said of bees that those of one hive
all know one another, and immediately recognise and
attack any intruder from another hive. At first sight
this certainly implies a great deal of intelligence.
It is, however, possible that the bees of particular
hives have a particular smell. Thus Langshaft, in his
interesting 'Treatise on the Honey-Bee,' says:
'Members of different colonies appear to recognise
their hive companions by the sense of smell; and I
believe that if colonies are sprinkled with scented
syrup, they may generally be safely mixed. Moreover, a
bee returning to its own hive with a load of treasure
is a very different creature from a hungry marauder;
and it is said that a bee, if laden with honey, is
allowed to enter any hive with impunity.' Mr.
Langshaft continues, 'There is an air of roguery about
a thieving bee which, to the expert, is as
characteristic as are the motions of a pickpocket to a
skilful policeman. Its sneaking look, and nervous,
guilty agitation, once seen, can never be mistaken.'
It is, at any rate, natural that a bee which enters a
wrong hive by accident should be much surprised and
alarmed, and would thus probably betray herself.
On the whole, then, I do not attach much importance to
their recognition of one another as an indication of
intelligence.
Since their extreme eagerness for honey may be
attributed rather to their anxiety for the common weal
than to their desire for personal gratification, it
cannot fairly be imputed as greediness; still the
following scene, one which most of us have witnessed,
is incompatible surely with much intelligence. The sad
fate of their unfortunate companions does not in the
least deter others who approach the tempting lure from
madly alighting on the bodies of the dying and dead,
to share the same miserable end. No one can understand
the extent of their infatuation until he has seen a
confectioner's shop assailed by myriads of hungry
bees. I have seen thousands strained out from the
syrup in which they had perished; thousands more
alighting even upon the boiling sweets, the floor
covered and windows darkened with bees, some crawling,
others flying, and others still, so completely
besmeared as to be able neither to crawl nor fly, not
one in ten able to carry home its ill-gotten spoils,
and yet the air filled with new hosts of thoughtless
comers.
Passing on now to the statements of other observers, Huber first noticed
the remarkable fact that when beehives are attacked by the death's-head
moth the bees close the entrance of their hive with wax and propolis to
keep out the marauder. The barricade, which is built immediately behind
the gateway, completely stops it up--only a small hole being left large
enough to admit a bee, and therefore of course too small to admit the
moth. Huber specially states that it was not until the beehives had been
_repeatedly_ attacked and robbed by the death's-head moth, that the bees
closed the entrance of their hive with wax and propolis. _Pure_ instinct
would have induced the bees to provide against the first attack. Huber
also observed that a wall built in 1804 against the death's-head
hawk-moth was destroyed in 1805. In the latter year there were no
death's-head moths, nor were any seen during the following. But in the
autumn of 1807 a large number again appeared, and the bees at once
protected themselves against their enemies. The bulwark was destroyed
again in 1808.
Again, Huber (_loc. cit._, tom. ii., p. 280) gives a case of apparent
exercise of reason, or power of inference from a particular case to
other and general cases. A piece of comb fell down and was fixed in its
new position by wax. The bees then strengthened the attachments of all
the other combs, clearly because they inferred that they too might be in
danger of falling. This is a very remarkable case, and leads Huber to
exclaim, 'I admit that I was unable to avoid a feeling of astonishment
in the presence of a fact from which the purest reason seemed to shine
out.'
A closely similar, and therefore corroborative case of an even more
remarkable kind is thus narrated in Watson's 'Reasoning Power of
Animals' (p. 448):--
Dr. Brown, in his book on the bee, gives another
illustration of the reasoning power of bees, observed
by a friend of his. A centre comb in a hive, being
overburdened with honey, had parted from its
fastenings, and was pressing against another comb, so
as to prevent the passage of the bees between them.
This accident excited great bustle in the colony, and
as soon as their proceedings could be observed, it was
found that they had constructed two horizontal beams
between the two combs, and had removed enough of the
honey and wax above them to admit the passage of a
bee, while the detached comb had been secured by
another beam, and fastened to the window with spare
wax. But what was most remarkable was, that, when the
comb was thus fixed, they removed the horizontal beams
first constructed, as being of no further use. The
whole occupation took about ten days.
Again, Mr. Darwin's MS. quotes from Sir B. Brodie's 'Psychological
Inquiries' (1854, p. 88) the following case, which is analogous to the
above, except that the supports required had to be made in a vertical
instead of in a horizontal direction:--
On one occasion, when a large portion of the honeycomb
had been broken off, they pursued another course. The
fragment had somehow become fixed in the middle of the
hive, and the bees immediately began to erect a new
structure of comb on the floor, so placed as to form a
pillar supporting the fragment, and preventing its
further descent. They then filled up the space above,
joining the comb which had become detached to that
from which it had been separated, and they concluded
their labours by removing the newly constructed comb
below, thus proving that they had intended it to
answer a merely temporary purpose.
Similarly, Dr. Dzierzon, an experienced keeper of bees, and the observer
who first discovered the fact of their parthenogenesis, makes the
general remark,--
The cleverness of the bees in repairing perfectly
injuries to their cells and combs, in supporting on
pillars pieces of their building accidentally knocked
down by a hasty push, in fastening them with rivets,
and bringing everything again into proper unity,
making hanging bridges, chains, and ladders, compels
our astonishment.
Lastly, as still further corroboration of such facts, I shall quote the
following from Jesse's 'Gleanings:'[65]--
Bees show great ingenuity in obviating the
inconvenience they experience from the slipperiness of
glass, and certainly beyond what we can conceive that
mere instinct would enable them to do. I am in the
habit of putting small glass globes on the top of my
straw hives, for the purpose of having them filled
with honey; and I have invariably found that before
the bees commence the construction of combs, they
place a great number of spots of wax at regular
distances from each other, which serve as so many
footstools on the slippery glass, each bee resting on
one of these with its middle pair of legs, while the
fore claws were hooked with the hind ones of the bee
next above him; thus forming a ladder, by means of
which the workers were enabled to reach the top, and
begin to make their combs there.
Herr Kleine, in his pamphlet on Italian Bees and Bee-keeping (Berlin,
1855), says that on substituting during the absence of the bees a hive
filled with empty comb for their own hive, the returning bees exhibit
the utmost perplexity. As the substituted hive stands in the exact spot
previously occupied by their own hive, the returning bees fly into it
without observing the change. But finding only empty combs inside, 'they
stop, do not know where they are, come out of the hole again without
depositing their loads, fly off, look most carefully round the stand to
assure themselves that they have made no mistake, and go in once more
when convinced that they are at the right place. The same thing is
repeated over and over again, until the bees at last bow to the
incomprehensible and unavoidable, lay down their loads, and set to work
at those tasks made necessary by the new circumstances of the hive. But
as all the newly arriving bees behave in similar fashion, the
disturbance lasts till late in the evening, and the uncertainty and
anxiety of the bees is so great that the bee-master cannot contemplate
it without deep sympathy.' Under such circumstances the bees take
quickly to a substituted queen; 'for the feeling of the first comers
that they have no right to the new dwelling, having, as they suppose,
made some inexplicable mistake which they cannot remedy, prevents them
from feeling any hostility to the new queen which they find; they
probably consider themselves as merely on sufferance, and feel that they
should be grateful that no action is taken against them for their
illegal entry, as generally happens in bee-experience.' Hence the writer
adopts this device when he desires to exchange or substitute queens.
Büchner, after alluding to this case, supplements it with the
following:--
The wind threw down from the stand of a bee-master--a
friend of the author's, whose name will soon become
known--a straw beehive, the inmates of which were
surprised in full work, and no small disorder in the
interior was the result. The owner repaired the hive,
put the loose comb back in its place, and replaced it
in such a manner that the wind could not again catch
it, hoping that the accident would have no further
results. But when he examined the hive a few days
later, he found that the bees had left their old home
in the lurch, and had tried to enter other hives,
clearly because they could no longer trust the
weather, and feared that the terrible accident might
again befall them.
Dr. Erasmus Darwin, in his 'Zoonomia,' asserts that bees, when
transported to Barbadoes, where there is no winter, cease to lay up
honey. In contradiction to this statement, however, Kirby and Spence
say, 'It is known to every naturalist acquainted with the fact, that
many different species of bees store up honey in the hottest climates,
and that there is no authentic instance on record of the hive-bees
altering in any age or climate their peculiar operations.'
On the other hand, more recent observation has shown that Dr. Darwin's
statement is probably correct. For, according to a note in _Nature_,[66]
European bees, when transported to Australia, retain their industrious
habits only for the first two or three years. After that time they
gradually cease to collect honey till they become wholly idle. In a
subsequent number of the same periodical (p. 411) a correspondent writes
that the same fact is observable with bees transported to California,
but is obviated by abstracting honey as the bees collect it.
There seems to be no doubt that bees and wasps are able to distinguish
between persons, and even to recognise those whom they are accustomed to
see, and to regard as friends. Bee-masters who attend much to their
bees, so as to give the insects a good chance of knowing them, are
generally of the opinion that the insects do know them, as shown by the
comparatively sparing use of their stings. Again, many instances might
be quoted, such as that given by Guerinzius,[67] who allowed a species of
wasp native to Natal to build in the doorposts of his house, and who
observed that although he often interfered with the nest, he was only
once stung, and this by a young wasp; while no Caffre could venture to
approach the door, much less to pass through it.[68] This power of
distinguishing between persons indicates a higher order of intelligence
than we might have expected to meet with among insects; and, according
to Bingley, bees will not only learn to distinguish persons, but even
lend themselves to tuition by those whom they know. For he says, 'Mr.
Wildman, whose remarks on the management of bees are well known,
possessed a secret by which he could at any time cause a hive of bees to
swarm upon his head, shoulders, or body, in a most surprising manner. He
has been seen to drink a glass of wine with the bees all over his head
and face more than an inch deep; several fell into the glass, but did
not sting him. He could even act the part of a general with them, by
marshalling them in battle array on a large table. Then he divided them
into regiments, battalions, and companies, according to military
discipline, waiting only for his word of command. The moment he uttered
the word _march!_ they began to march in a very regular manner in rank
and file, like soldiers. To these, his Lilliputians, he also taught so
much politeness that they never attempted to sting any of the numerous
company which, at different times, resorted to admire this singular
spectacle.'
Huber's observation, since amply confirmed, of bees biting holes through
the base of corollas in order to get at the honey which the length of
the corollas prevent them from reaching in the ordinary way, also seems
to indicate a rational adjustment to unusual circumstances. For the bees
do not resort to this expedient until they find from trial that they
cannot reach the nectar from above; but having once ascertained this,
they forthwith proceed to pierce the bottoms of all the flowers of the
same species. From an interesting account by Mr. Francis Darwin[69]
(unfortunately too long to quote) it appears that, even when the nectar
may be reached from above, bees may still resort to the expedient of
biting through corollas in order to save time.
In connection with biting holes in corollas I may quote an observation
communicated to me by a correspondent, Sir J. Clarke Jervoise. Speaking
of a humble-bee, he says: 'I watched him into the flower of a foxglove,
and, when out of sight, I closed the lips of the flower with my finger
and thumb. He did not hesitate a moment, but cut his way out at the
further end as if he had been served the same trick before. I never did
it.'
Bees are highly particular in the matter of keeping their hives pure,
and their sanitary arrangements often exhibit intelligence of a high
order.
The following is quoted from Büchner (_loc. cit._, p. 248):--
Impure air within the hive is that which the bees must
above all things fear and avoid, for with the pressure
together of so many individuals in a comparatively
small space, it would not only be directly harmful to
individual bees, but would produce among them
dangerous diseases. They therefore also never void
their excrements within, but always outside the hive.
While this is very easy to do in summer, it is, on the
contrary, very difficult in the winter, when the bees
sit close together and generally motionless in the
upper part of the hive, and when, from impure air and
foul evaporations, as well as from bad and
insufficient food, dysentery-like diseases break out
among them, and often carry off the whole community in
a brief space of time. In such cases they utilise the
first fine day to relieve themselves, and in the
spring they take a long general cleansing flight. But
they also know how to take advantage of special
circumstances so as to perform the process of
purification in the way least harmful to the hive.
Herr Heinrich Lehr, of Darmstadt, a bee-keeping friend
of the author, has sent the following
communication:--During an epidemic of dysentery in
winter, from which most of his hives suffered (as the
bees were no longer able to retain their excrements),
one hive suffered less than the others. Exact
investigation showed that this hive was soiled all
over at the back with the excrement of the bees, and
that the inmates had here made a kind of drain. On
this spot a little opening had been made by the
falling off of the covering clay, which led directly
to the upper part of the hive, where the bees were
accustomed to sit together during the winter. This
excellent opportunity, whereby they could reach in the
shortest way an otherwise difficult object, and one
rendered complicated by circumstances, did not escape
them.
It sometimes happens that mice, slugs, &c., enter a beehive. They are
then killed and covered with a coating of propolis. Réaumur says[70] that
he once saw a snail enter a hive in this way. The hard shell was an
effective protection against the stings of the bees, so the insects
smeared round the edges of the shell with wax and resin, fastening down
the animal to the wall of the hive, so that it died of starvation or
want of air. If the encasing of an animal (such as a mouse) with
propolis is not sufficient to prevent its putrefaction, the bees gnaw
away all the putrescible parts of the carcass and carry them out of the
hive, leaving only the skeleton behind. The dead bodies of their
companions are also carried out of the hive and deposited at a distance.
There is no question about this fact (which it will be remembered is
analogous to that already mentioned in the case of ants); according to
Büchner, however, bees not only remove their dead, but also,
occasionally at least, bury them. But as he gives very inadequate
evidence in support of this assertion, we may safely set it aside as
insufficiently proven.
Büchner, however, gives an admirable summary, and makes some judicious
remarks on the well-known and highly remarkable habit which bees
practise for the obvious purpose of ventilating their hives. As this
account gives all the facts in a brief compass, I cannot do better than
quote it:--
Very interesting, and closely connected with this
characteristic of cleanliness, is the conduct of the
so-called ventilating-bees, which have to take care
that in summer or hot weather the air necessary for
respiration of the bees in the interior of the hive is
renewed, and the too high temperature cooled down. The
latter precaution is necessary, not only on account of
the bees working within the hive, to whom, as already
said, a temperature risen beyond a certain point would
be intolerable, but also to guard against the melting
or softening of the wax. The bees charged with the
care of the ventilation divide themselves into rows
and stages in regular order through all parts of the
hive, and by swift fanning of their wings send little
currents of air in such fashion that a powerful stream
or change of air passes through all parts of the hive.
Other bees stand at the mouth of the hive, which fan
in the same way and considerably accelerate the wind
from within. The current of air thus caused is so
strong that little bits of paper hung in front of the
mouth are rapidly moved, and that, according to F.
Huber, a lighted match is extinguished. The wind can
be distinctly felt if the hand be held in front.
The motion of the wings of the ventilating bees is so
rapid that it is scarcely perceptible, and Huber saw
some bees working their wings in this way for
five-and-twenty minutes. When they are tired they are
relieved by others. According to Jesse, the bees in
very hot weather, in spite of all their efforts, are
unable to sufficiently lower the temperature, and
prevent the melting of some of the wax; they then get
into a condition of great excitement, and it is
dangerous to approach them. In such a case they also
try to mend matters by a number leaving the hive and
settling in large masses on its surface, so as to
protect it as much as possible from the scorching rays
of the sun.
Although the described plan of ventilation is
remarkable enough in itself, it is yet more remarkable
in that it is clearly only the result of bee-keeping,
and is evoked by this misfortune. For there could be
no need of such ventilation for bees in a state of
nature, whose dwellings in hollow trees and clefts of
rocks leave nothing to be desired as to roominess and
airiness, while in the narrow artificial hive this
need at once comes out strongly. In fact, the fanning
of the bees almost entirely ceased when Huber brought
them into large hives five feet high, in which there
was plenty of air. It follows, therefore, that the
fanning and ventilating can have absolutely nothing to
do with an inborn tendency or instinct, but have been
gradually evoked by necessity, thought, and
experience.
As the following observation on the cautious sagacity of wasps is, so
far as I am aware, new, and as it certainly does not admit of
mal-observation, I introduce it on the authority of a correspondent, the
Rev. Mr. J. W. Mossman, who writes from Tarrington Rectory, Wragby. He
found an apple in his orchard which had fallen from a tree in apparently
good condition; but on taking it up observed that it was little more
than a shell filled with wasps. Giving the apple a shake, he saw a wasp
slowly emerging from a single small aperture in the rind:--
This aperture was sufficient, and only just
sufficient, to admit of the ingress or egress of a
single wasp. The circumstance which struck me as very
remarkable was this--that the wasp did not make its
way through the aperture with its head first, as I
should have expected, but with its tail, darting out
its sting to its utmost extent, and brandishing it
furiously. In this manner it came out of the apple
backwards. Then, finding itself in the open air upon
the outer surface of the apple, it turned round, and
without any attempt to molest me, flew off in the
usual way. The moment this first wasp had emerged, the
sting and tail of another was seen protruding. This,
too, I watched with much interest, and exactly the
same process was repeated as in the case of the first.
I held the apple in my hand until some ten or a dozen
wasps had made their exit in the same identical manner
in each individual case. I then threw down the apple,
inside of which, however, there were still apparently
a good many wasps.
It seemed to me at the time, and I have always felt
since, that the wasps coming out of the apple
backwards, brandishing their stings as a defensive
weapon against possible enemies, whom of course they
were not able to see, was an evidence of what would be
called thought and reflection in the case of human
beings. It seems to me that these wasps must have
reflected that if they came out of the narrow aperture
in the apple, which was their only possible means of
ready egress, in the usual manner, head first, they
might be taken at a disadvantage by a possible enemy,
and destroyed in detail. They, therefore, with great
prudence and foresight, came out of the apple
backwards, protecting themselves by means of their
chief offensive and defensive weapons, their stings,
which, according to their normal method of locomotion,
would have been useless to them as long as they were
making their exit.
With regard to the tactics displayed by hunting wasps I may quote the
following cases:--
Mr. Seth Green, writing to the _New York World_ of May
14, says that one morning when he was watching a
spider's nest, a wasp alighted within an inch or two
of the nest, on the side opposite the opening.
Creeping noiselessly around towards the entrance of
the nest the wasp stopped a little short of it, and
for a moment remained perfectly quiet; then reaching
out one of his antennæ he wriggled it before the
opening and withdrew it. This overture had the desired
effect, for the boss of the nest, as large a spider as
one ordinarily sees, came out to see what was wrong
and to set it to rights. No sooner had the spider
emerged to that point at which he was at the worst
disadvantage than the wasp, with a quick movement,
thrust his sting into the body of his foe, killing him
easily and almost instantly. The experiment was
repeated on the part of the wasp, and when there was
no response from the inside he became satisfied,
probably, that he held the fort. At all events, he
proceeded to enter the nest and slaughter the young
spiders, which were afterwards lugged off one at a
time.
Mr. Henry Cecil writes as follows (_Nature_, vol. xviii., p. 311):--
I was sitting one summer's afternoon at an open window
(my bedroom) looking into a garden, when I was
surprised to observe a large and rare species of
spider run across the window-sill in a crouching
attitude. It struck me the spider was evidently
alarmed, or it would not have so fearlessly approached
me. It hastened to conceal itself under the projecting
ledge of the window-sill inside the room, and had
hardly done so when a very fine large hunting wasp
buzzed in at the open window and flew about the room,
evidently in search of something. Finding nothing, the
wasp returned to the open window and settled on the
window-sill, running backwards and forwards as a dog
does when looking or searching for a lost scent. It
soon alighted on the track of the poor spider, and in
a moment it discovered its hiding-place, darted down
on it, and no doubt inflicted a wound with its sting.
The spider rushed off again, and this time took refuge
under the bed, trying to conceal itself under the
framework or planks which supported the mattress. The
same scene occurred here; the wasp now appeared to
follow the spider by sight, but ran backwards and
forwards in large circles like a hound. The moment the
trail of the spider was found the wasp followed all
the turns it had made till it came on it again. The
poor spider was chased from hiding-place to
hiding-place, out of the bedroom, across a passage,
and into the middle of another large room, where it
finally succumbed to the repeated stings inflicted by
the wasp. Rolling itself up into a ball the wasp then
took possession of its prey, and after ascertaining it
could make no resistance, tucked it up under its _very
long hind legs_, just as a hawk or eagle carries off
its quarry, when I interposed and secured both for my
collection.
Mr. Belt, in his work already frequently quoted, gives the following
account of a struggle which not unfrequently occurs between wasps and
ants for the sweet secretion of 'frog-hoppers:'--
Similarly as, on the savannahs, I had observed a wasp
attending the honey-glands of the bull's-horn acacia
along with the ants; so at Santo Domingo another wasp,
belonging to quite a different genus (_Nectarina_),
attended some of the clusters of frog-hoppers, and for
the possession of others a constant skirmishing was
going on. The wasp stroked the young hoppers, and
sipped up the honey when it was exuded, just like the
ants. When an ant came up to a cluster of
leaf-hoppers attended by a wasp, the latter would not
attempt to grapple with its rival on the leaf, but
would fly off and hover over the ant; then when its
little foe was well exposed, it would dart at it and
strike it to the ground. The action was so quick that
I could not determine whether it struck with its
fore-feet or its jaws; but I think it was with the
feet. I often saw a wasp trying to clear a leaf from
ants that were already in full possession of a cluster
of leaf-hoppers. It would sometimes have to strike
three or four times at an ant before it made it quit
its hold and fall. At other times one ant after the
other would be struck off with great celerity and
ease, and I fancied that some wasps were much cleverer
than others. In those cases where it succeeded in
clearing the leaf, it was never left long in peace;
for fresh relays of ants were continually arriving,
and generally tired the wasp out. It would never wait
for an ant to get near it, doubtless knowing well that
if its little rival once fastened on its leg, it would
be a difficult matter to get rid of it again. If a
wasp first obtained possession, it was able to keep
it; for the first ants that came up were only
pioneers, and by knocking these off, it prevented them
from returning and scenting the trail to communicate
the intelligence to others.
Dr. Erasmus Darwin records an observation ('Zoonomia,' i., p. 183)
which, from having since been so widely quoted, deserves to be called
classical. He saw a wasp upon the ground endeavouring to remove a large
fly which was too heavy for it to carry off. The wasp cut off the head
and abdomen, and flew away with the thorax alone. The wind, however,
catching the wings of this portion made it still too unwieldy for the
wasp to guide. It therefore again alighted, and nipped off first one
wing and then the other, when it was able to fly off with its booty
without further difficulty.
This observation has since been amply confirmed. I shall quote some of
the confirmatory cases.
Mr. R. S. Newall, F.R.S., in _Nature_, vol. xxi., p. 494, says:--
Many years ago I was examining an apple tree, when a
wasp alighted on a leaf which formed a caterpillar's
nest neatly rolled up. The wasp examined both ends,
and finding them closed, it soon clipped a hole in the
leaf at one end of the nest about one-eighth of an
inch in diameter. It then went to the other end and
made a noise which frightened the caterpillar, which
came rushing out of the hole. It was immediately
seized by the wasp, who finding it too large to carry
off at once, cut it in two and went off with his game.
I waited a little and saw the wasp come back for the
other half, with which it also flew away.
Again, Büchner (_loc. cit._, p. 297) gives the following account in the
words of his informant, Herr H. Löwenfels, who himself witnessed the
incident:--
I here found a robber-wasp busied in lifting from the
ground a large fly which it had apparently killed. It
succeeded indeed in its attempt, but had scarcely
raised its prey a few inches above the ground when the
wind caught the wings of the dead fly, and they began
to act like a sail. The wasp was clearly unable to
resist this action, and was blown a little distance in
the direction of the wind, whereupon it let itself
fall to the ground with its prize. It now made no more
attempts to fly, but with eager industry pulled off
with its teeth the fly's wings which hindered it in
its object. When this was quite done it seized the
fly, which was heavier than itself, and flew off with
it untroubled on its journey through the air at a
height of about five feet.
Büchner also records the two following remarkable observations, which
from being so similar corroborate one another. The first is received
from Herr Albert Schlüter, who writing from Texas says that he there saw
a cicada pursued by a large hornet, which threw itself upon its prey and
seemed to sting it to death:--
The murderer walked over its prey, which was
considerably larger than itself, grasped its body with
its feet, spread out its wings, and tried to fly away
with it. Its strength was not sufficient, and after
many efforts it gave up the attempt. Half a minute
went by; sitting astride on the corpse and
motionless--only the wings occasionally jerking--it
seems to reflect, and indeed not in vain. A mulberry
tree stood close by, really only a trunk--for the top
had been broken off, clearly by the last flood--of
about ten or twelve feet high. The hornet saw this
trunk, dragged its prey toilsomely to the foot of it,
and then up to the top. Arrived thereat, it rested for
a moment, grasped its victim firmly, and flew off with
it to the prairies. That which it was unable to raise
off the ground it could now carry easily once high in
the air.
The other instance is as follows:--
Th. Meenan ('Proc. of the Acad. of Nat.,'
Philadelphia, Jan. 22, 1878) observed a very similar
case with _Vespa maculata_. He saw one of these wasps
try in vain to raise from the ground a grasshopper it
had killed. When all its efforts proved to be in vain,
it pulled its prey to a maple tree, about thirty feet
off, mounted it with its prize, and flew away from it.
'This,' adds the writer, 'was more than instinct. It
was reflection and judgment, and the judgment was
proved to be correct.'
Depriving bees of their antennæ has the effect of producing an even more
marked bewilderment than results from this operation in the case of
ants. A queen thus mutilated by Huber ran about in confusion, dropping
her eggs at random, and appeared unable to take with precision the food
that was offered her. She showed no resentment to a similarly mutilated
stranger queen that was introduced: the workers also heeded not the
mutilated stranger; but when an unmutilated stranger was introduced they
fell upon her. When the mutilated queen was allowed to escape, none of
the workers followed.
FOOTNOTES:
[46] Vol. ix. p. 484.
[47] _Passions of Animals_, p. 53.
[48] Vol. xii. p. 68.
[49] 'Three months' in the Journal of the Linnæan Society, but Sir John
Lubbock informs me that this is a misprint.
[50] See Kirby and Spence, vol. ii. p. 591.
[51] Letter to Mr. Darwin, published in _Nature_, vol. x., p. 102.
[52] Vol. xii., pp. 25-6.
[53] _Loc. cit._
[54] Art. 'Bees,' _Encycl. Brit._
[55] Dr. Kemp, _Indications of Instinct_.
[56] _The Bee_, 1877, No. 1.
[57] Dr. Lindley Kemp, _Indications of Instinct_.
[58] Handcock on Instinct, p. 18.
[59] _Introd. Ent._, ii, p. 465.
[60] _Origin of Species_, 'Cell-making Instinct.'
[61] _Origin of Species_, p. 225.
[62] _Mind in Animals_, pp. 252-3.
[63] For a complete account of these habits see Bingley, _Animal
Biography_, vol. iii., pp. 272-5.
[64] _Mém. sur les Insectes_, tom. vi., p. 39.
[65] Vol. i., pp. 22-3 (3rd ed.).
[66] Vol. xvii., p. 373.
[67] See Brehm, _Thierleben_, ix., p. 252.
[68] An exactly similar case is recorded by Stodmann in his _Travels in
Surinam_, ii., p. 286.
[69] _Nature_, ix., p. 189.
[70] See _Kirby and Spence_, vol. ii., p. 229.
CHAPTER V.
TERMITES.
THE habits of the Termites, or so-called White Ants, have not been so
closely studied as they deserve. Our chief knowledge concerning them is
derived from the observations of Jobson, in his 'History of Gambia;'
Bastian, in 'The Nations of Eastern Asia;' Forsteal, Lespès, König,
Sparman, Hugen, Quatrefages, Fritz Müller, and most of all, Smeathman,
in 'Philosophical Transactions,' vol. lxxi. In Africa these insects
raise their hills to a height of between ten and twenty feet, and
construct them of earth, stones, pieces of wood, &c., glued together by
a sticky saliva. The hills are in the form of a cone, and so strong that
it is said the buffaloes are in the habit of using them as watch-towers
on which to post sentries, and that they will even support the weight of
an elephant. The growth of these gigantic mounds is gradual, increasing
with the increase of the population. From the mound in all directions
there radiate subterranean tunnels, which may be as much as a foot in
width, and which serve as roadways. Besides these tunnels there are a
number of other subterranean tubes, which serve the purpose of drainage
to carry off the floods of water to which the nest is exposed during
tropical showers. Büchner calculates that a pyramid built by man on a
scale proportional to his size would only equal one of these nests if it
attained to the height of 3,000 feet. The following is this author's
description of the internal structure:--
These internal arrangements are so various and so
complicated that pages of description might be written
thereupon. There are myriads of rooms, cells,
nurseries, provision chambers, guard-rooms, passages,
corridors, vaults, bridges, subterranean streets and
canals, tunnels, arched ways, steps, smooth inclines,
domes, &c., &c., all arranged on a definite, coherent,
and well-considered plan. In the middle of the
building, sheltered as far as possible from outside
dangers, lies the stately royal dwelling, resembling
an arched oven, in which the royal pair reside, or
rather are imprisoned; for the entrances and outlets
are so small, that although the workers on service can
pass easily in and out, the queen cannot; for during
the egg-laying her body swells out to an enormous
size, two or three thousand times the size and weight
of an ordinary worker. The queen, therefore, never
leaves her dwelling, and dies therein. Round the
palace, which is at first small, but is later enlarged
in proportion as the queen increases in size until it
is at least a yard long and half a yard high, lie the
nurseries, or cells for the eggs and larvæ; next these
the servants' rooms, or cells for the workers which
wait on the queen; then special chambers for the
soldiers on guard, and, between these, numerous
store-rooms, filled with gums, resins, dried
plant-juices, meal, seeds, fruits, worked-up wood, &c.
According to Bettziech-Beta, there is always in the
midst of the nest a large common room, which is used
either for popular assemblies or as the meeting and
starting point of the countless passages and chambers
of the nest. Others are of the opinion that this space
serves for purposes of ventilation.
Above and below the royal cell are the rooms of the
workers and soldiers which are specially charged with
the care and defence of the royal pair. They
communicate with each other, as well as with the
nursery-cells and store-rooms, by means of galleries
and passages which, as already said, open into the
common room in the middle under the dome. This room is
surrounded by high, boldly projected arched ways,
which lose themselves further out in the walls of the
countless rooms and galleries. Many roofs outside and
in protect this room and the surrounding chambers from
rain, which, as already said, is drained away by
countless subterranean canals, made of clay and of a
diameter of ten or twelve centimetres. There are also,
under the layer of clay covering the whole building,
broad spirally winding passages running from below to
the highest points, which communicate with the
passages of the interior, and apparently, as they
mainly consist of smooth inclines, serve for carrying
provisions to the higher parts of the nest.[71]
The termites, like many species of true ants, are divided into two
distinct castes, the workers and the soldiers. If a breach is made in
the walls of the dome the soldiers rush out to meet the enemy, and fight
desperately with any enemy that they may find. Here, again, I cannot do
better than quote Büchner's epitome of facts:--
If the assailant withdraws beyond their reach and
inflicts no further injury, they retire within their
dwelling in the course of half an hour, as though they
had come to the conclusion that the enemy who had done
the mischief had fled. Scarcely have the soldiers
disappeared when crowds of workers appear in the
breach, each with a quantity of ready-made mortar in
its mouth. As soon as they arrive they stick this
mortar round the open place, and direct the whole
operation with such swiftness and facility that in
spite of their great number they never hinder each
other, nor are obliged to stop. During this spectacle
of apparent restlessness and confusion the observer is
agreeably surprised to see arising a regular wall,
filling up the gap. During the time that the workers
are thus busied the soldiers remain within the nest,
with the exception of a few, which walk about
apparently idly, never touching the mortar, among the
hundreds and thousands of workers. Nevertheless one of
them stands on guard close to the wall which is being
built. It turns gently each way in turn, lifting its
head at intervals of one or two minutes to strike the
building with its heavy mandibles, making the
before-mentioned crackling noise. This signal is
immediately answered by a loud rustling from the
interior of the nest and from all the subterranean
passages and holes. There is no doubt that this noise
arises from the workers, for as often as the sign is
given they work with increased energy and speed. A
renewal of the attack instantaneously changes the
scene. 'At the first stroke,' says Smeathman, 'the
workers run into the many tunnels and passages which
run through the building, and this happens so quickly
that they seem regularly to vanish. In a few seconds
they are all gone, and in their stead appear the
soldiers once more, as numerous and as pugnacious as
before. If they find no enemy, they turn back slowly
into the interior of the hill, and immediately the
mortar-laden workers again appear, and among them a
few soldiers, which behave just as on the first
occasion. So one can have the pleasure of seeing them
work and fight in turn, as often as one chooses; and
it will be found each time that one set never fight,
and the other never work, however great the need may
be.'[72]
Similar facts have been observed by Fritz Müller of the South American
species.
The Termites, being like the Ecitons blind, like them make all their
expeditions under the protection of covered ways. These are underground
tunnels in all cases where circumstances permit, but on arriving at a
rock or other impenetrable obstruction, they build a tubular passage
upon the surface. According to Büchner,--
They can even carry their viaducts through the air,
and that in such bold arches that it is difficult to
understand how they were projected. In order to reach
a sack of meal which was well protected below, they
broke through the roof of the room in which it was,
and built a straight tube from the breach they had
made down to the sack. As soon as they tried to carry
off their booty to a safe place, they became convinced
that it was impossible to pull it up the straight
road. In order to meet this difficulty, they adopted
the principle of the smooth incline, the use of which
we have already seen in the interior of their nests,
and built close to the first tube a second, which
wound spirally within, like the famous clock tower of
Venice. It was now an easy task to carry their booty
up this road and so away. . . . Either from the desire
to remain undiscovered, or from their liking for
darkness, they have the remarkable habit of destroying
and gnawing everything from within outwards, and of
leaving the outside shell standing, so that from the
outside appearance the dangerous state of the inside is
not perceptible. If, for instance, they have destroyed
a table or other piece of household furniture, in which
they always manage from the ground upwards to hit
exactly the places on which the feet of the article
rest, the table looks perfectly uninjured outside, and
people are quite astonished when it breaks down under
the slightest pressure. The whole inside is eaten away,
and only the thinnest shell is left standing. If fruits
are lying on the table, they also are eaten out from
the exact spot on which they rest on the surface of the
table.
In similar fashion things consisting wholly of wood,
such as wooden ships, trees, &c., are destroyed by
them so that they finally break in without any one
having noticed the mischief. Yet it is said that they
go so prudently to work in their destruction that the
main beams, the sudden breakage of which would
threaten the whole building and themselves therewith,
are either spared, or else so fastened together again
with a cement made out of clay and earth that their
strength is greater than ever!(?) Hagen also states
that they never cut right through the corks which stop
up stored bottles of wine, but leave a very thin
layer, which is sufficient to prevent the outflow of
the wine and the consequent destruction of the
workers. The same author relates that in order to
reach a box of wax lights they made a covered road
from the ground up to the second story of a house.[73]
It is needless to give a special description of any of the other habits
of these insects, such as their swarming, breeding, &c., for they all
more or less closely resemble the analogous habits of ants and bees. It
is very remarkable that insects of two distinct orders should both
manifest such closely similar social habits of such high complexity, and
it rather surprises me that more has not been made of this point by
writers opposed to the principles of evolution. Of course if the point
were raised, the argument in answer would require to be, either that the
similar instincts were derived from common and very remote progenitors
(in which case the fact would form by far the most remarkable instance
of the permanency of instincts among changing species), or more
probably, that similar causes operating in the two orders have produced
similar effects--complex and otherwise unique though these effects
undoubtedly are.
In connection with the theory of evolution I may conclude this chapter
with the following quotation from Smeathman, as it shows how natural
relation may develop for the benefit of the species instincts which are
detrimental to the individual. Speaking of the soldiers he says:--
I was always amused at the pugnacity displayed when,
in making a hole in the earthy cemented archway of
their covered roads, a host of these little fellows
mounted the breach to cover the retreat of the
workers. The edges of the rupture bristled with their
armed heads as the courageous warriors ranged
themselves in compact line around them. They attacked
fiercely any intruding object, and as fast as their
front ranks were destroyed, others filled up their
places. When the jaws closed in the flesh, they
suffered themselves to be torn in pieces rather than
loosen their hold. It might be said that this instinct
is rather a cause of their ruin than a protection when
a colony is attacked by the well-known enemy of
termites, the ant-bear; but it is the soldiers only
which attach themselves to the long worm-like tongue
of this animal, and the workers, on whom the
prosperity of the young brood immediately depends, are
left for the most part unharmed. I always found, on
thrusting my finger into a mixed crowd of termites,
that the soldiers only fastened upon it. Thus the
fighting caste do in the end serve to protect the
species by sacrificing themselves to its good.[74]
FOOTNOTES:
[71] _Loc. cit._, p. 189.
[72] _Ibid._, p. 119.
[73] _Geistesleben der Thiere_, pp. 194 and 199-200.
[74] Phil. Trans., _loc. cit._
CHAPTER VI.
SPIDERS AND SCORPIONS.
_Emotions._
THE emotional life of spiders, so far as we can observe it as expressed
in their actions, seems to be divided between sexual passion (including
maternal affection) and the sterner feelings incidental to their
fiercely predatory habits. But the emotions, although apparently few and
simple in character, are exceedingly strong in force. In many species
the male spider in conducting his courtship has to incur an amount of
personal danger at the hands (and jaws) of his terrific spouse, which
might well daunt the courage of a Leander. Ridiculously small and weak
in build, the males of these species can only conduct the rites of
marriage with their enormous and voracious brides by a process of active
manoeuvring, which if unsuccessful is certain to cost them their
lives. Yet their sexual emotions are so strong that, as proved by the
continuance of the species, no amount of personal risk is sufficient to
deter them from giving these emotions full play. There is no other case
in the animal kingdom where courtship is attended with any approach to
the gravity of danger that is here observable. Among many animals the
males have to meet a certain amount of inconvenience from the coquetry
or disinclination of the females; but here the coquetry and
disinclination has passed into the hungry determination of a ferocious
giantess. The case, therefore, because unique, is of interest from an
evolutionary point of view. We can see a direct advantage to species
from the danger incurred by males on account of mutual jealousy; for
this, giving rise to what Mr. Darwin has called 'the law of battle,'
must obviously be a constant source of the creation and the maintenance
of specific proficiency; the law of battle determines that only the
strongest and most courageous males shall breed. But the benefit to
species is not so obvious where the danger of courtship arises from the
side of the female. Still, that there must be some benefit is obvious,
seeing that the whole structure of the male, if we take that of the
female as the original type, has been greatly modified with reference to
this danger: had the latter been wholly useless, either it would not
have been allowed to arise, or the species must have become extinct. The
only suggestion I can make to meet this aberrant case is that the
courage and determination required of the male, besides being no doubt
of use to him in other relations in life, may be of benefit to the
species by instilling these qualities into the psychology both of his
male and female descendants.
The courage and rapacity of spiders as a class are too well and
generally known to require special illustration. One instance, however,
may be quoted to show the strength of their maternal emotions. Bonnet
threw a spider with her bag of eggs into the pit of an ant-lion. The
latter seized the eggs and tore them away from the spider; but although
Bonnet forced her out of the pit, she returned, and chose to be dragged
in and buried alive rather than leave her charge.
The only other point that occurs to me with reference to the emotions of
spiders is the somewhat remarkable one concerning their apparent
fondness of music. The testimony is so varied and abundant on this
matter that we can scarcely doubt the truth of the facts. These simply
are that spiders--or at any rate some species or individuals--approach a
sounding musical instrument, 'especially when the music is tender and
not too loud.' They usually approach as near as possible, often letting
themselves down from the ceiling of the room by a line of web, and
remain suspended above the instrument. Should the music become loud,
they often again retreat. Professor C. Reclain, during a concert at
Leipsic, saw a spider descend in this way from one of the chandeliers
while a violin solo was being played; but as soon as the orchestra
began to sound it quickly ran back again.[75] Similar observations have
been published by Rabigot, Simonius, von Hartmann, and others.
A highly probable explanation of these facts has recently been given by
Mr. C. V. Boys, which relieves us of the necessity of imputing to
animals so low in the scale any rudiment of æsthetic emotion as aroused
by musical tones. As the observation is an interesting one, I shall
quote it _in extenso_:--
Having made some observations on the garden spider
which are I believe new, I send a short account of
them, in the hope that they may be of interest to the
readers of _Nature_.
Last autumn, while watching some spiders spinning
their beautiful geometrical webs, it occurred to me to
try what effect a tuning-fork would have upon them. On
sounding an A fork, and lightly touching with it any
leaf or other support of the web, or any portion of
the web itself, I found that the spider, if at the
centre of the web, rapidly slues round so as to face
the direction of the fork, feeling with its fore-feet
along which radial thread the vibration travels.
Having become satisfied on this point, it next darts
along that thread till it reaches either the fork
itself or a junction of two or more threads, the right
one of which it instantly determines as before. If the
fork is not removed when the spider has arrived it
seems to have the same charm as any fly; for the
spider seizes it, embraces it, and runs about on the
legs of the fork as often as it is made to sound,
never seeming to learn by experience that other things
may buzz besides its natural food.
If the spider is not at the centre of the web at the
time that the fork is applied, it cannot tell which
way to go until it has been to the centre to ascertain
which radial thread is vibrating, unless of course it
should happen to be on that particular thread, or on a
stretched supporting thread in contact with the fork.
If, when a spider has been enticed to the edge of the
web the fork is withdrawn, and then gradually brought
near, the spider is aware of its presence and of its
direction, and reaches out as far as possible in the
direction of the fork; but if a sounding fork is
gradually brought near a spider that has not been
disturbed, but which is waiting as usual in the middle
of the web, then, instead of reaching out towards the
fork, the spider instantly drops--at the end of a
thread, of course. If under these conditions the fork
is made to touch any part of the web, the spider is
aware of the fact, and climbs the thread and reaches
the fork with marvellous rapidity. The spider never
leaves the centre of the web without a thread along
which to travel back. If after enticing a spider out
we cut this thread with a pair of scissors, the spider
seems to be unable to get back without doing
considerable damage to the web, generally gumming
together the sticky parallel threads in groups of
three and four.
By means of a tuning-fork a spider may be made to eat
what it would otherwise avoid. I took a fly that had
been drowned in paraffin and put it into a spider's
web, and then attracted the spider by touching the fly
with a fork. When the spider had come to the
conclusion that it was not suitable food, and was
leaving it, I touched the fly again. This had the same
effect as before, and as often as the spider began to
leave the fly I again touched it, and by this means
compelled the spider to eat a large portion of the
fly.
The few house-spiders that I have found do not seem to
appreciate the tuning-fork, but retreat into their
hiding-places as when frightened; yet the supposed
fondness of spiders for music must surely have some
connection with these observations; and when they come
out to listen, is it not that they cannot tell which
way to proceed?
The few observations that I have made are necessarily
imperfect, but I send them, as they afford a method
which might lead a naturalist to notice habits
otherwise difficult to observe, and so to arrive at
conclusions which I in my ignorance of natural history
must leave to others.[76]
_General Habits._
Coming now to general habits, our attention is claimed by the only
general habit that is of interest--namely, that of web-building. The
instinct of constructing nets for the capture of prey occurs in no other
class of animals, while in spiders it not only attains to an
extraordinary degree of perfection (so that, in the opinion of some
geometers, the instinct is not less wonderful in this respect than is
that displayed by the hive-bee in the construction of its cells), but
also ramifies into a number of diverse directions. Thus we have, in
different species, wide open networks spread between the branches of
bushes, &c., closely woven textures in the corners of buildings, earth
tubes lined with silk, the strong muslin-like snare of the Mygale,
which, as first noticed by Madame Merian,[77] and since confirmed by
Bates,[78] is able to retain a struggling humming-bird while this most
beautiful animal in creation is being devoured by the most repulsive;
and many other varieties might be mentioned. It may at first sight
appear somewhat remarkable that this instinct of spreading snares should
on the one hand occur only in one class of the animal kingdom, while on
the other hand, in the class where it does occur, it should attain such
extreme perfection, and run into so much variety. But we must here
remember that the development of the instinct obviously depends upon the
presence of a web-secreting apparatus, which is a comparatively rare
anatomical feature. In caterpillars, which are not predaceous, the web
is used only for the purposes of protection and locomotion; and it is
easy to see that the spreading of snares would here be of no use to the
animals. But in spiders, of course, the case is otherwise. Once granting
the power of forming a web, and it is evident that there is much
potential service to which this power may be put with reference to the
voracious habits of the animal; and therefore it is not to be wondered
that both the anatomical structures and their correlated instincts
should attain to extreme perfection in sundry lines of development. The
origin of the web-building structure was probably due to the use of the
web for purposes of locomotion or of cocoon-spinning, as we see it still
so used in the same way that it is used by caterpillars for descending
from heights, and in the case of the gossamer spider for travelling
immense distances through the air. As the anatomical structures in
question differ very greatly in the case of spiders and in that of
caterpillars, we may wonder why analogous if not homologous structures
should never have been developed in the case of any other animal having
predaceous habits--especially, perhaps, in that of the imago form of
predaceous insects. It is easy to see how, if there were any original
tendency to secrete a viscid substance in the neighbourhood of the anus,
this might be utilised in descending from low elevations (as certain
kinds of slugs use their viscid slime as threads whereby to let
themselves down from low branches to the ground); and so we can
understand how natural selection might thus have the material supplied
out of which to develop such highly specialised organs as the spinnerets
of a spider. But if we are inclined to wonder why this should not have
happened among other animals, we must remember that any expectation that
it should rests on negative grounds; we have no reason to suppose that
in any other case the initial tendency to secrete a viscid substance was
present. One inference, however, in the case of spiders seems perfectly
valid. As this comparatively rare faculty of web-spinning occurs so
generally throughout the class, it must have had its earliest origin
very far back in the history of that class, though probably not so far
back as to include the common progenitors of the spiders and the
scorpions, seeing that the latter do not spin webs.
I shall now give a few details on the manner in which spiders' webs are
made. Without going into the anatomy of the subject further than to
observe that a spider's 'thread' is a composite structure made up of a
number of finer threads, which leave their respective spinneret-holes in
an almost fluid condition, and immediately harden by exposure to the
air, I shall begin at once to describe the method of construction.
The so-called 'geometric spider' constructs her web by first laying down
the radiating and unadhesive rays, and then, beginning from the centre,
spins a spiral line of unadhesive web, like that of the rays which it
intersects. This line, in being woven through the radii in a spiral from
centre to circumference, serves as a scaffolding for the spider to walk
over, and also keeps the rays properly stretched. She next spins another
spiral line, but this time from the circumference to near the centre,
and formed of web, covered with a viscid secretion to retain prey.
Lastly, she constructs her lair to bide and watch for prey, at some
distance from the web but connected with it by means of a line of
communication or telegraph, the vibrations of which inform her of the
struggling of an insect in the net.[79]
According to Thompson,--
The web of the garden spider--the most ingenious and
perfect contrivance that can be imagined--is usually
fixed in a perpendicular or somewhat oblique direction
in an opening between the leaves of some plant or
shrub; and as it is obvious that round its whole
extent lines will be required to which those ends of
radii that are farthest from the centre can be
attached, the construction of those exterior lines is
the spider's first operation. It seems careless about
the shape of the area they are to enclose, well aware
that it can as readily inscribe a circle in a triangle
as a square; and in this respect it is guided by the
distance or proximity of the points to which it can
attach them. It spares no pains, however, to
strengthen and keep them in a proper degree of
tension. With the former view it composes each line of
five or six or even of more threads glued together;
and with the latter it fixes to them from different
points a numerous and intricate apparatus of smaller
threads; and having thus completed the foundation of
its snare, it proceeds to fill up the outline.
Attaching a thread to one of the main lines, it walks
along it, guiding it with one of its hind legs, that
it may not touch in any part and be prematurely glued,
and crosses over to the opposite side, where, by
applying its spinners, it firmly fixes it. To the
middle of this diagonal thread, which is to form the
centre of its net, it fixes a second, which in like
manner it conveys and fastens to another part of the
lines including the area. The work now proceeds
rapidly. During the preliminary operations it
sometimes rests, as though its plan required
meditation; but no sooner are the marginal lines of
the net firmly stretched, and two or three radii spun
from its centre, than it continues its labour so
quickly and unremittingly that the eye can scarcely
follow its progress. The radii, to the number of about
twenty, giving the net the appearance of a wheel, are
speedily finished. It then proceeds to the centre,
quickly turns itself round, pulls each thread with its
feet to ascertain its strength, breaking any one that
seems defective, and replacing it by another. Next it
glues, immediately round the centre, five or six small
concentric circles, distant about half a line from
each other, and then four or five larger ones, each
separated by the space of half an inch or more. These
last serve as a sort of temporary scaffolding to walk
over, and to keep the radii properly stretched while
it glues to them the concentric circles that are to
remain, which it now proceeds to construct. Placing
itself at the circumference, and fastening its thread
to the end of one of the radii, it walks up that one,
towards the centre, to such a distance as to draw the
thread from its body of a sufficient length to meet
the next. Then stepping across and conducting the
thread with one of its hind legs, it glues it with its
spinners to the point in the adjoining radius to which
it is to be fixed. This process it repeats until it
has filled up nearly the whole space from the
circumference to the centre with concentric circles,
distant from each other about two lines. It always,
however, leaves a vacant interval around the smallest
first spun circles that are nearest to the centre, and
bites away the small cotton-like tuft that united all
the radii, which being held now together by the
circular threads have thus probably their elasticity
increased; and in the circular opening, resulting from
this procedure, it takes its station and watches for
its prey, or occasionally retires to a little
apartment formed under some leaf, which it also uses
as a slaughter-house.[80]
According to Büchner,--
The long main threads, with the help of which the
spider begins and attaches its web, are always the
thickest and strongest; while the others, forming the
web itself, are considerably weaker. Injuries to the
web at any spot the spider very quickly repairs, but
without keeping to the original plan, and without
taking more trouble than is absolutely necessary. Most
spiders' webs, therefore, if closely looked into, are
found to be somewhat irregular. When a storm
threatens, the spider, which is very economical with
its valuable spinning material, spins no web, for it
knows that the storm will tear it in pieces and waste
its pains, and it also does not mend a web which has
been torn. If it is seen spinning or mending, on the
other hand, fine weather may be generally reckoned
on. . . . The emerged young at first spin a very
irregular web, and only gradually learn to make a
larger and finer one, so that here, as everywhere
else, practice and experience play a great part. . . .
The position must also offer favourable opposite
points for the attachment of the web itself. People
have often puzzled their brains, wondering how
spiders, without being able to fly, had managed first
to stretch their web through the air between two
opposite points. But the little creature succeeds in
accomplishing this difficult task in the most various
and ingenious ways. It either, when the distance is
not too great, throws a moist viscid pellet, joined to
a thread, which will stick where it touches; or hangs
itself by a thread in the air and lets itself be
driven by the wind to the spot; or crawls there,
letting out a thread as it goes, and then pulls it
taut when arrived at the desired place; or floats a
number of threads in the air and waits till the wind
has thrown them here or there. The main or radial
threads which fasten the web possess such a high
degree of elasticity, that they tighten themselves
between two distant points to which the spider has
crawled, without it being necessary for the latter to
pull them towards itself. When the little artist has
once got a single thread at its disposition, it
strengthens this until it is sufficiently strong for
it to run backwards and forwards thereupon, and to
spin therefrom the web.[81]
_Special Habits._
_Water-spider._--The water-spider (_Argyroneta aquatica_), as is well
known, displays the curious instinct of building her nest below the
surface of water, and constructing it on the principle of a diving-bell.
The animal usually selects still waters for this purpose, and makes her
nest in the form of an oval hollow, lined with web, and held secure by a
number of threads passing in various directions and fastened to the
surrounding plants. In this oval bell, which is open below, she watches
for prey, and, according to Kirby,[82] passes the winter after having
closed the opening. The air needful for respiration the spider carries
from the surface of the water. To do this she swims upon her back in
order to entangle an air-bubble upon the hairy surface of her abdomen.
With this bubble she descends, 'like a globe of quicksilver,' to the
opening of her nest, where she liberates it and returns for more.
_The Vagrant or Wolf Spider._--This insect catches its prey by
stealthily stalking it until within distance near enough to admit of a
sudden dart being successful in effecting capture. Some species, before
making the final dart (_e.g. Salticus scenicus_), fix a line of web upon
the surface over which they are creeping, so that whether their station
is vertical or horizontal with reference to the prey, they can leap
fearlessly, the thread in any case preventing their fall. Dr. H. F.
Hutchinson says that he has seen this spider crawling over a
looking-glass stalking its own reflection.[83]
The following is quoted from Büchner:--
Less idyllic than the water-spider is our native
hunting-spider (_Dolomedes fimbriata_), which belongs
to those species which spin no web, but hunt their
victims like animals of prey. As the _Argyroneta_ is
the discoverer of the diving-bell, so may this be
regarded as the discoverer or first builder of a
floating raft. It is not content with hunting insects
on land, but follows them on the water, on the surface
of which it runs about with ease. It, however, needs a
place to rest on, and makes it by rolling together dry
leaves and such like bodies, binding them into a firm
whole with its silken threads. On this raft-like
vessel it floats at the mercy of wind and waves; and
if an unlucky water-insect comes for an instant to the
surface of the water to breathe, the spider darts at
it with lightning speed, and carries it back to its
raft to devour at its ease. Thus everywhere in nature
are battle, craft, and ingenuity, all following the
merciless law of egoism, in order to maintain their
own lives and to destroy those of others!
_Trap-door Spiders._--These display the curious instinct of providing
their nests with trap-doors. The nest consists of a tube excavated in
the earth to the depth of half a foot or more. In all save one species
the tube is unbranched; it is always lined with silk, which is
continuous with the lining of the trap-door or doors, of which it forms
the hinge. In the species which constructs a branching tube, the branch
is always single, more or less straight, takes origin at a point
situated a few inches from the orifice of the main tube, is directed
upwards at an acute angle with that tube, and terminates blindly just
below the surface of the soil. At its point of junction with or
departure from the main tube it is provided with a trap-door resembling
that which closes the orifice of the main tube, and of such a size and
arrangement that when closed against the opening of the branch tube it
just fills that opening; while when turned outwards, so as to uncork
this opening, it just fills the diameter of the main tube: the latter,
therefore, is in this species provided with two trap-doors, one at the
surface of the soil, and the other at the fork of the branched tube.
Each species of trap-door spider is very constant in building a
particular kind of trap-door; but among the different species there are
four several kinds of trap-doors to be distinguished. 1st. The
single-door cork nest, wherein the trap-door is a thick structure, and
fits into the tube like a cork into a bottle. 2nd. The single-door wafer
nest, wherein the trap-door is as thin as a piece of paper. 3rd. The
double-door unbranched nest, wherein there is a second trap-door
situated a few inches below the first one. And 4th, the double-door
branched nest already described. In all cases the trap-doors open
outwards, and when the nest is placed, as it usually is, on a sloping
bank, the trap-door opens upwards; hence there is no fear of its gaping,
for gravity is on the side of holding it shut.
The object of the trap-door is to conceal the nest, and for this purpose
it is always made so closely to resemble the general surface of the
ground on which it occurs, that even a practised eye finds it difficult
to detect the structure when closed. In order to make the resemblance to
the surrounding objects as perfect as possible, the spider either
constructs the surface of its door of a portion of leaf, or weaves moss,
grass, &c., into the texture. Moggridge says,[84]--
Thus, for example, in one case where I had cut out a
little clod of mossy earth, about two inches thick and
three square on the surface, containing the top of the
tube and the moss-covered cork door of _N.
cæmentaria_, I found, on revisiting the place six
days later, that a new door had been made, and that
the spider had mounted up to fetch moss from the
undisturbed bank above, planting it in the earth which
formed the crown of the door. Here the moss actually
called the eye to the trap, which lay in the little
plain of brown earth made by my digging.
If an enemy should detect the trap-door and endeavour to open it, the
spider frequently seizes hold of its internal surface, and, applying her
legs to the walls of the tube, forcibly holds the trap-door shut. In the
double trap-door species it is surmised that the second trap-door serves
as an inner barrier of defence, behind which the spider retires when
obliged to abandon the first one. In the branched tube species (which,
so far as at present known, only occurs in the south of Europe) it is
surmised that the spider, when it finds that an enemy is about to gain
entrance at the first trap-door, runs into the branch tube and draws up
behind it the second trap-door. The surface of this trap-door, being
overlaid with silk like the walls of the tube, is then invisible; so
that the enemy no doubt passes down the main tube to find it empty,
without observing the lateral branch in which the spider is concealed
behind the closed door.
As showing that these animals are to no small extent able to adapt their
dwellings to unusual circumstances, I shall here quote the following
from Moggridge (_loc. cit._, p. 122):--
Certain nests which were furnished with two doors of
the cork type were observed by Mr. S. S. Saunders in
the Ionian Islands. The door at the surface of these
nests was normal in position and structure, but the
lower one was placed at the very bottom of the nest,
and inverted, so that, though apparently intended to
open downwards, it was permanently closed by the
surrounding earth. The presence of a carefully
constructed door in a situation which forbade the
possibility of its ever being opened seemed, indeed,
something difficult to account for. However, it
occurred to Mr. Saunders that, as these nests were
found in the cultivated ground round the roots of
olive trees, they may occasionally have got turned
topsy-turvy when the soil was broken up. The spider
then, finding her door buried below in the ground and
the bottom of the tube at the surface, would have
either to seek new quarters or to adapt the nest to
its altered position, and make an opening and door at
the exposed end. In order to try whether one of these
spiders would do this, Mr. Saunders placed a nest,
with its occupant inside, upside down in a flower-pot.
After the lapse of ten days a new door was made,
exactly as he had conjectured it would be, and the
nest presented two doors like those which he had found
at first.
The most remarkable fact connected with these animals, if we regard
their peculiar instinct from the standpoint of the descent theory, is
the wide range of their geographical distribution. In all quarters of
the globe species of trap-door spiders are found occurring in more or
less localised areas; and as it is improbable that so peculiar an
instinct should have arisen independently in more than one line of
descent, we can only conclude that the wide dispersion of the species
presenting it has been subsequent to the origin and perfecting of the
instinct. This conclusion of course necessitates the supposition that
the instinct must be one of enormous antiquity; and in this connection
it is worthy of remark that we seem to have independent evidence to show
that such is the case. It is a principle of evolution that the earlier
any structure or instinct appears in the development of the race, the
sooner will it appear in the development of the individual; and read by
the light of this principle we should conclude, quite apart from all
considerations as to the wide geographical distribution of trap-door
spiders, that their instincts--as, indeed, is the case with the
characteristic instincts of many other species of spiders--must be of
immense age. Thus, again to quote Moggridge,--
It seems to be the rule with spiders generally that
the offspring should leave the nest and construct
dwellings for themselves when very young.
Mr. Blackwall, speaking of British spiders,
says:--'Complicated as the processes are by which
these symmetrical nets are produced, nevertheless
young spiders, acting under the influence of
instinctive impulse, display, even in their first
attempts to fabricate them, as consummate skill as the
most experienced individuals.'
Again, Mr. F. Pollock[85] relates of the young of
_Epeira aurelia_, which he observed in Madeira, that
when seven weeks old they made a web the size of a
penny, and that these nets have the same beautiful
symmetry as those of the full-grown spider.
And, speaking of trap-door spiders, Moggridge says,--
I cannot help thinking that these very small nests,
built as they are by minute spiders probably not very
long hatched from the egg, must rank among the most
marvellous structures of this kind with which we are
acquainted. That so young and weak a creature should
be able to excavate a tube in the earth many times its
own length, and know how to make a perfect miniature
of the nest of its parents, seems to be a fact which
has scarcely a parallel in nature.[86]
Regarding the steps whereby the instinct of building trap-doors probably
arose, Büchner quotes Moggridge thus:--
To show, lastly, how various are the transitional
forms and gradations so important in deciding upon the
gradual origin of the forms of nests, Moggridge also
alludes to the similar buildings made by other genera
of spiders. _Lycosa Narbonensis_, a spider of Southern
France much resembling the Apuleian tarantula, and
belonging to the family of the wolf spiders, makes
cylindrical holes in the earth, about one inch wide
and three or four inches deep, in a perpendicular
direction; when they have attained this depth they run
further horizontally, and end in a three cornered
room, from one to two inches broad, the floor of which
is covered with the remnants of dead insects. The
whole nest is lined within with a thick silken
material, and has at its opening--closed by no
door--an above-ground chimney-shaped extension, made
of leaves, needles, moss, wood, &c., woven together
with spider threads. These chimneys show various
differences in their manner of building, and are
intended chiefly, according to Moggridge, to prevent
the sand blown about by the violent sea-winds from
penetrating into the nests. During winter the opening
is wholly and continuously woven over, and it is very
well possible, or probable, that the process of
reopening such a warm covering in the spring, after
this opening was three-quarters completed, and was
large enough to let the spider pass out, may have long
ago awaked in the brain of some species of spider the
idea of making a permanent and moveable door. But from
this to the practical construction of so perfect a
door as we have learned to know, and even to the
building of the exceedingly complicated nest of the
_N. Manderstjernæ_, through all the gradations which
we already know, and which doubtless exist in far
greater number, is no great or impossible step.
_General Intelligence._
Coming now to the general intelligence of spiders, I think there can be
no reasonable doubt, from the force of concurrent testimony, that they
are able to distinguish between persons, and approach those whom they
have found to be friendly, while shunning strangers. This power of
discrimination, it will be remembered, also occurs among bees and wasps,
and therefore its presence in spiders is not antecedently improbable. I
myself know a lady who has 'tamed' spiders to recognise her, so that
they come out to be fed when she enters the room where they are kept;
and stories of the taming of spiders by prisoners are abundant. The
following anecdote recorded by Büchner is in this connection worth
quoting:--
Dr. Moschkau, of Gohlis, near Leipsic, writes as
follows to the author, on August 28, 1876:--'In
Oderwitz(?), where I lived in 1873 and 1874, I noticed
one day in a half-dark corner of the anteroom a
tolerably respectable spider's web, in which a
well-fed cross-spider had made its home, and sat at
the nest-opening early and late, watching for some
flying or creeping food. I was accidentally several
times a witness of the craft with which it caught its
victim and rendered it harmless, and it soon became a
regular duty to carry it flies several times during a
day, which I laid down before its door with a pair of
pincers. At first this feeding seemed to arouse small
confidence, the pincers perhaps being in fault, for it
let many of the flies escape again, or only seized
them when it knew that they were within reach of its
abode. After a while, however, the spider came each
time and took the flies out of the pincers and spun
them over. The latter business was sometimes done so
superficially, when I gave flies very quickly one
after the other, that some of the already ensnared
flies found time and opportunity to escape. This game
was carried on by me for some weeks, as it seemed to
me curious. But one day when the spider seemed very
ravenous, and regularly flew at each fly offered to
it, I began teasing it. As soon as it had got hold of
the fly I pulled it back again with the pincers. It
took this exceedingly ill. The first time, as I
finally left the fly with it, it managed to forgive
me, but when I later took a fly right away, our
friendship was destroyed for ever. On the following
day it treated my offered flies with contempt, and
would not move, and on the third day it had
disappeared.[87]
Jesse relates the following anecdote, which seems to display on the part
of a spider somewhat remote adaptation of means to novel circumstances.
He confined a spider with her eggs under a glass upon a marble
mantelpiece. Having surrounded the eggs with web,--
She next proceeded to fix one of her threads to the
upper part of the glass which confined her, and
carried it to the further end of the piece of grass,
and in a short time had succeeded in raising it up and
fixing it perpendicularly, working her threads from
the sides of the glass to the top and sides of the
piece of grass. Her motive in doing this was obvious.
She not only rendered the object of her care more
secure than it would have been had it remained flat on
the marble, but she was probably aware that the cold
from the marble would chill her eggs, and prevent
their arriving at maturity: she therefore raised them
from it in the manner I have described.[88]
Mr. Belt gives the following account of the intelligence which certain
species of South American spiders display in escaping from the terrible
hosts of the Eciton ants:--
Many of the spiders would escape by hanging suspended
by a thread of silk from the branches, safe from the
foes that swarmed both above and below.
I noticed that spiders generally were most intelligent
in escaping, and did not, like the cockroaches and
other insects, take shelter in the first hiding-place
they found, only to be driven out again, or perhaps
caught by the advancing army of ants. I have often
seen large spiders making off many yards in advance,
and apparently determined to put a good distance
between themselves and the foe. I once saw one of the
false spiders, or harvest-men (_Phalangidæ_), standing
in the midst of an army of ants, and with the greatest
circumspection and coolness lifting, one after the
other, its long legs, which supported its body above
their reach. Sometimes as many as five out of its
eight legs would be lifted at once, and whenever an
ant approached one of those on which it stood, there
was always a clear space within reach to put down
another, so as to be able to hold up the threatened
one out of danger.[89]
Mr. L. A. Morgan, writing to 'Nature' (Jan. 22, 1880), gives an account
of a spider conveying a large insect from the part of the web where it
was caught to the 'larder,' by the following means. The spider first
went two or three times backwards and forwards between the head of the
insect and the main strand of the web. After this he went about cutting
all the threads around the insect till the latter hung by the head
strands alone. The spider then fixed a thread to the tail end, and by
this dragged the carcass as far on its way to the larder as the head
strands would permit. As soon as these were taut, he made the tail rope
fast, went back to the head rope and cut it; then he attached himself to
the head and pulled the body towards the larder, until the tail rope was
taut. In this way, by alternately cutting the head and tail ropes and
dragging the insect bit by bit, he conveyed it safely to the larder.
But the practical acquaintance with mechanical principles which this
observation displays is perhaps not so remarkable as that which is
sometimes shown by spiders when they find that a widely spread web is
not tightly enough stretched, and as a consequence is to an inconvenient
extent swayed about by the wind. Under such circumstances these animals
have been observed to suspend to their webs small stones or other heavy
objects, the weight of which serves to steady the whole system.
Gleditsch saw a spider so circumstanced let itself down to the ground by
means of a thread, seize a small stone, remount, and fasten the stone to
the lower part of its web, at a height sufficient to enable animals and
men to walk beneath it. After alluding to this case, Büchner observes
(_loc. cit._, p. 318),--
But a similar observation was made by Professor E. H.
Weber, the famous anatomist and physiologist, and was
published many years ago in Müller's Journal. A spider
had stretched its web between two posts standing
opposite each other, and had fastened it to a plant
below for the third point. But as the attachment below
was often broken by the garden work, by passers-by,
and in other ways, the little animal extricated itself
from the difficulty by spinning its web round a little
stone, and fastened this to the lower part of its web,
swinging freely, and so to draw the web down by its
weight instead of fastening it in this direction by a
connecting thread. Carus ('Vergl. Psycho.,' 1866, p.
76) also made a similar observation. But the most
interesting observation on this head is related by J.
G. Wood ('Glimpses into Petland'), and repeated by
Watson (_loc. cit._, p. 455). One of my friends, says
Wood, was accustomed to grant shelter to a number of
garden spiders under a large verandah, and to watch
their habits. One day a sharp storm broke out, and the
wind raged so furiously through the garden that the
spiders suffered damage from it, although sheltered by
the verandah. The mainyards of one of these webs, as
the sailors would call them, were broken, so that the
web was blown hither and thither, like a slack sail in
a storm. The spider made no fresh threads, but tried
to help itself in another way. It let itself down to
the ground by a thread, and crawled to a place where
lay some splintered pieces of a wooden fence thrown
down by the storm. It fastened a thread to one of the
bits of wood, turned back with it, and hung it with a
strong thread to the lower part of its nest, about
five feet from the ground. The performance was a
wonderful one, for the weight of the wood sufficed to
keep the nest tolerably firm, while it was yet light
enough to yield to the wind, and so prevent further
injury. The piece of wood was about two and a half
inches long, and as thick as a goose-quill. On the
following day a careless servant knocked her head
against the wood, and it fell down. But in the course
of a few hours the spider had found it and brought it
back to its place. When the storm ceased, the spider
mended her web, broke the supporting thread in two,
and let the wood fall to the ground!
If so well-observed a fact requires any further confirmation, I may
adduce the following account, which is of the more value as
corroborative evidence from the writer not appearing to be aware that
the fact had been observed before. This writer is Dr. John Topham, whom
the late Dr. Sharpey, F.R.S., assured me is a competent observer, and
who publishes the account in 'Nature' (xi. 18):--
A spider constructed its web in an angle of my garden,
the sides of which were attached by long threads to
shrubs at the height of nearly three feet from the
gravel path beneath. Being much exposed to the wind,
the equinoctial gales of this autumn destroyed the web
several times.
The ingenious spider now adopted the contrivance here
represented. It secured a conical fragment of gravel
with its larger end upwards by two cords, one attached
to each of its opposite sides, to the apex of its
wedge-shaped web, and left it suspended as a moveable
weight to be opposed to the effect of such gusts of
air as had destroyed the webs previously occupying the
same situation.
The spider must have descended to the gravel path for
this special object, and having attached threads to a
stone suited to its purpose, must have afterwards
raised this by fixing itself upon the web, and pulling
the weight up to a height of more than two feet from
the ground, where it hung suspended by elastic cords.
The excellence of the contrivance is too evident to
require further comment.
An almost precisely analogous case, with a sketch, is published by
another observer in 'Land and Water,' Dec. 12, 1877.
_Scorpions._
Before quitting the Arachnida I must allude to some recent
correspondence on the alleged tendency of the scorpion to commit suicide
when surrounded by fire. This alleged tendency has long been recognised
in popular fables, and has been used by Byron as a poetical metaphor in
certain well-known lines. But until the publication of the
correspondence to which I allude, no one supposed the tendency in
question to have any existence in fact. This correspondence took place
in 'Nature' (vol. xi.), and as the subject is an interesting one, I
shall reproduce the more important contributions to it _in extenso_. It
was opened by Mr. W. G. Biddie as follows:--
I shall feel obliged if you will record in 'Nature' a
fact with reference to the common black scorpion of
Southern India, which was observed by me some years
ago in Madras.
One morning a servant brought to me a large specimen
of this scorpion, which, having stayed out too long in
its nocturnal rambles, had apparently got bewildered
at daybreak, and been unable to find its way home. To
keep it safe the creature was at once put into a
glazed entomological case. Having a few leisure
minutes in the course of the forenoon I thought I
would see how my prisoner was getting on, and to have
a better view of it the case was placed in a window in
the rays of the hot sun. The light and heat seemed to
irritate it very much, and this recalled to my mind a
story which I had read somewhere that a scorpion, on
being surrounded with fire, had committed suicide. I
hesitated about subjecting my pet to such a terrible
ordeal, but taking a common botanical lens, I focussed
the rays of the sun on its back. The moment this was
done it began to run hurriedly about the case, hissing
and spitting in a very fierce way. This experiment was
repeated some four or five times with like results,
but on trying it once again, the scorpion turned up
its tail and plunged the sting, quick as lightning,
into its own back. The infliction of the wound was
followed by a sudden escape of fluid, and a friend
standing by me called out, 'See, it has stung itself:
it is dead;' and sure enough in less than half a
minute life was quite extinct. I have written this
brief note to show (1) that animals may commit
suicide; (2) that the poison of certain animals may be
destructive to themselves.
The following corroborative evidence on the subject was then supplied by
Dr. Allen Thomson, F.R.S. ('Nature,' vol. xx., p. 577):--
Doubts having been expressed at various times, even by
learned naturalists, as to the reality of the suicide
or self-destruction of the scorpion by means of its
own poison, and these doubts having been again stated
in 'Nature,' vol. xx., p. 553, by Mr. B. F.
Hutchinson, of Peshawur, as the result of his own
observations, I think it may be useful to give an
articulate account of the phenomenon as it has been
related to me by an eye-witness, which removes all
possible doubt as to its occurrence under certain
circumstances.
While residing many years ago, during the summer
months, at the baths of Sulla in Italy, in a somewhat
damp locality, my informant together with the rest of
the family was much annoyed by the frequent intrusion
of small black scorpions into the house, and their
being secreted among the bedclothes, in shoes, and
other articles of dress. It thus became necessary to
be constantly on the watch for these troublesome
creatures, and to take means for their removal and
destruction. Having been informed by the natives of
the place that the scorpion would destroy itself if
exposed to a sudden light, my informant and her
friends soon became adepts in catching the scorpions
and disposing of them in the manner suggested. This
consisted in confining the animal under an inverted
drinking-glass or tumbler, below which a card was
inserted when the capture was made, and then, waiting
till dark, suddenly bringing the light of a candle
near to the glass in which the animal was confined. No
sooner was this done than the scorpion invariably
showed signs of great excitement, running round and
round the interior of the tumbler with reckless
velocity for a number of times. This state having
lasted for a minute or more, the animal suddenly
became quiet, and turning its tail on the hinder part
of its body over its back, brought its recurved sting
down upon the middle of the head, and piercing it
forcibly, in a few seconds became quite motionless,
and in fact quite dead. This observation was repeated
very frequently; in truth, it was adopted as the best
plan of getting rid of the animals. The young people
were in the habit of handling the scorpions with
impunity immediately after they were so killed, and of
preserving many of them as curiosities.
In this narrative the following circumstances are
worthy of attention:--
(1) The effect of light in producing the excitement
amounting to despair, which causes the animal to
commit self-destruction;
(2) The suddenness of the operation of the poison,
which is probably inserted by the puncture of the head
into the upper cerebral ganglion; and
(3) The completeness of the fatal symptoms at once
induced.
I am aware that the phenomena now described have been
observed by others, and they appear to have been
familiarly known to the inhabitants of the district in
which the animals are found. Sufficient confirmation
of the facts is also to be found in the narratives of
'G. Biddie' and 'M. L.' contained in 'Nature,' vol.
ix., pp. 29-47, and it will be observed that the
circumstances leading the animal to self-destruction
in these instances were somewhat similar to those
narrated by my informant. It is abundantly clear,
therefore, that the view taken by Mr. Hutchinson,
viz., that the 'popular idea regarding scorpionic
suicide is a delusion based on an impossibility,' is
wholly untenable; indeed, the recurved direction of
the sting, which he refers to as creating the
impossibility of the animal destroying itself,
actually facilitates the operation of inflicting the
wound. I suppose Mr. Hutchinson, arguing from the
analogy of bees or wasps, imagined that the sting
would be bent forwards upon the body, whereas the
wound of the scorpion is invariably inflicted by a
recurvation of the tail over the back of the animal.
It will be perceived that these observations were not made by Dr. Allen
Thomson himself, and that there are certain inherent discrepancies in
the account which he has published--such, for instance, as the reason
given for trying and repeating the experiment, the method being clearly
a cumbersome one to employ if the only object were that of 'disposing
of' the animals. Nevertheless, as Dr. Thomson is a high authority, and
as I learn from him that he is satisfied regarding the capability and
veracity of his informant, I have not felt justified in suppressing his
evidence. Still I think that so remarkable a fact unquestionably demands
further corroboration before we should be justified in accepting it
unreservedly. For if it is a fact, it stands as a unique case of an
instinct detrimental alike to the individual and to the species.
FOOTNOTES:
[75] _Body and Mind_, p. 275.
[76] _Nature_, xxiii., pp. 149-50.
[77] _Naturalist on the Amazon_, p. 83.
[78] For many other confirmations see Sir E. Tennent, _Nat. Hist.
Ceylon_, pp. 468-69.
[79] Kirby, vol. ii., p. 298.
[80] Thompson, _Passions of Animals_, p. 145.
[81] _Loc. cit._, p. 316 _et seq._
[82] _Hist. Habits and Inst. of Animals_, vol. ii. p. 296.
[83] _Nature_, vol. xx., p. 581.
[A] _Loc. cit._, p. 323.
[84] _Harvesting Ants and Trap-door Spiders_, p. 120.
[85] 'The History and Habits of _Epeira aurelia_,' in _Annals and Mag.
of Nat. Hist._ for June 1865.
[86] _Harvesting Ants and Trap-door Spiders_, p. 126. This admirable
work, with its appendix, contains a very full account of the whole
economy of the interesting animals with which it is concerned.
[87] _Loc. cit._, p. 319.
[88] _Gleanings_, vol. i., p. 103.
[89] _Naturalist in Nicaragua_, p. 19.
CHAPTER VII.
REMAINING ARTICULATA.
THE Hymenoptera being so much the most intelligent order, not merely of
insects, but of Invertebrata, and the Arachnida having been now
considered, very little space need be occupied with the remaining
classes of the Articulata.
_Coleoptera._
Sir John Lubbock, in his first paper on Bees and Wasps, quotes the
following case from Kirby and Spence, with the remarks which I append:--
The first of these anecdotes refers to a beetle
(_Ateuchus pilularius_) which, having made for the
reception of its eggs a pellet of dung too heavy for
it to move, repaired to an adjoining heap, and soon
returned with three of his companions. 'All four now
applied their united strength to the pellet, and at
length succeeded in pushing it out; which being done,
the three assistant beetles left the spot and returned
to their own quarters.' This observation rests on the
authority of an anonymous German artist; and though we
are assured that he was a 'man of strict veracity,' I
am not aware that any similar fact has been recorded
by any other observer.
Catesby, however, says:--
I have attentively admired their industry, and their
mutual assisting of each other in rolling these
globular balls from the place where they made them, to
that of their interment, which is usually a distance
of some yards, more or less. This they perform back
foremost, by raising their hind parts and pushing away
the ball with their hind feet. Two or three of them
are sometimes engaged in trundling one ball, which
from meeting with impediments, on account of the
unevenness of the ground, is sometimes deserted by
them. It is, however, attempted by others with
success, unless it happen to roll into some deep
hollow or ditch, where they are accustomed to leave
it; but they continue their work by rolling off the
next ball that comes in their way. None of them seem
to know their own balls, but an equal care for the
whole appears to affect all the community. They form
these pellets while the dung remains moist, and leave
them to harden in the sun before they attempt to roll
them. In their rolling of them from place to place,
both they and the balls may frequently be seen
tumbling about over the little eminences that are in
their way. They are not, however, easily discouraged,
and by repeating their attempts usually surmount the
difficulties.[90]
Büchner speaks of the fact that dung-beetles co-operate in their work as
one that is well established, but gives no authorities or references.[91]
A friend of my own, however, informs me that she has witnessed the fact;
and in view of analogous observations made on other species of
Coleoptera, I see no reason to doubt this one. Some of these
observations I may here append.
Herr Gollitz writes to Büchner thus:--
Last summer, in the month of July, I was one day in my
field, and found there a mound of fresh earth like a
molehill, on which a striped black and red beetle,
with long legs, and about the size of a hornet, was
busy taking away the earth from a hole that led like a
pit into the mound, and levelling the place. After I
had watched this beetle for some time, I noticed a
second beetle of the same kind, which brought a little
lump of earth from the interior to the opening of the
hole, and then disappeared again in the mound; every
four or five minutes a pellet came out of the hole,
and was carried away by the first-named beetle. After
I had watched these proceedings for about half an
hour, the beetle which had been working underground
came out and ran to its comrade. Both put their heads
together, and clearly held a conversation, for
immediately afterwards they changed work. The one
which had been working outside went into the mound,
the other took the outside labour, and all went on
vigorously. I watched the affair still for a little
longer, and went away with the notion that these
insects could understand each other just like men.
Klingelhöffer, of Darmstadt (in Brehm, _loc. cit._,
ix., p. 86), says:--A golden running beetle came to a
cockchafer lying on its back in the garden, intending
to eat it, but was unable to master it; it ran to the
next bush, and returned with a friend, whereupon the
two overpowered the cockchafer, and pulled it off to
their hiding-place.
Similarly, there is no doubt that the burying beetles (_Nicrophorus_)
co-operate.
Several of them unite together to bury under the
ground, as food and shelter for their young, some dead
animal, such as a mouse, a toad, a mole, a bird, &c.
The burial is performed because the corpse, if left
above ground, would either dry up, or grow rotten, or
be eaten by other animals. In all these cases the
young would perish, whereas the dead body lying in the
earth and withdrawn from the outer air lasts very
well. The burying beetles go to work in a very
well-considered fashion, for they scrape away the
earth lying under the body, so that it sinks of itself
deeper and deeper. When it is deep enough down, it is
covered over from above. If the situation is stony,
the beetles with united forces and great efforts drag
the corpse to some place more suitable for burying.
They work so diligently that a mouse, for instance, is
buried within three hours. But they often work on for
days, so as to bury the body as deeply as possible.
From large carcasses, such as those of horses, sheep,
&c., they only bury pieces as large as they can
manage.[92]
Lastly, Clarville gives a case of a burying beetle which wanted to carry
away a dead mouse, but, finding it too heavy for its unaided strength,
went off, like the beetles previously mentioned, and brought four others
to its assistance.[93]
A friend of Gleditsch fastened a dead toad, which he desired to dry,
upon the top of an upright stick. The burying beetles were attracted by
the smell, and finding that they could not reach the toad, they
undermined the stick, so causing it to fall with the toad, which was
then buried safe out of harm's way.[94]
A converse exemplification of beetle-intelligence is given by G.
Berkeley.[95] He saw a beetle carrying a dead spider up a heath plant,
and hanging it upon a twig of the heath in so secure a position, that
when the insect had left it Mr. Berkeley found that a sharp shake of the
heather would not bring the dead spider down. As the burying beetle
preserves its treasure by hiding it out of sight below ground, so this
beetle no doubt secured the same end but by other means; 'seeing,' as
Mr. Berkeley observes, 'that if it did not hang up its prey, it might
fall into the hands of other hunters, it took all possible pains to find
out the best store-room for it.'
The above instances of beetle-intelligence lead me to credit the
following, which has been communicated to me by Dr. Garraway, of
Faversham. On a bank of moss in the Black Forest he saw a beetle alight
with a caterpillar which it was carrying, and proceed to excavate a
cylindrical hole in the peat, about an inch and a half deep, into which,
when completed, it dropped the caterpillar, and then flew away through
the pines. 'I was struck,' says my correspondent, 'with the creature's
folly in leaving the whole uncovered, as every curious wayfaring insect
would doubtless be tempted to enter therein. However, in about a minute
the beetle returned, this time carrying a small pebble, of which there
were none in the immediate vicinity, and having carefully fitted this
into the aperture, fled away into space.'
_Earwig._
I must devote a short division of this chapter to the earwig. M. Geer
describes a regular process of incubation as practised by the mother
insect. He placed one with her eggs in a box, and scattered the eggs on
the floor of the latter. The earwig, however, carried them 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. When the eggs were
hatched, the young earwigs kept close to their mother, following her
about everywhere, and often running under her abdomen, just as chickens
run under a hen.[96]
A young lady, who objects to her name being published, informs me that
her two younger sisters (children) are in the habit of feeding every
morning with sugar an earwig, which they call 'Tom,' and which crawls up
a certain curtain regularly every day at the same hour, with the
apparent expectation of getting its breakfast. This resembles analogous
instances which, have been mentioned in the case of spiders.
_Dipterous Insects._
The gad-fly, whose eggs are hatched out in the intestines of the horse,
exhibits a singular refinement of instinct in depositing them upon those
parts of the horse which the animal is most likely to lick. For,
according to Bingley and other writers, 'the inside of the knee is the
part on which these flies principally deposit their eggs; and next to
this they fix them upon the sides, and the back part of the shoulder;
but almost always in places liable to be licked by the tongue.' The
female fly deposits her eggs while on the wing, or at least scarcely
appears to settle when she extends her ovidepositor to touch the horse.
She lays only a single egg at a time--flying away a short distance after
having deposited one in order to prepare another, and so on.
The following anecdote, which I quote from Jesse, seems to indicate
no small degree of intelligence on the part of the common
house-fly--intelligence, for instance, the same both in kind and degree
as that which was displayed by Sir John Lubbock's pet wasp already
mentioned:
Slingsby, the celebrated opera dancer, resided in the
large house in Cross-deep, Twickenham, next to Sir
Wathen Waller's, looking down the river. He was fond
of the study of natural history, and particularly of
insects, and he once tried to tame some house-flies,
and preserve them in a state of activity through the
winter. For this purpose, quite at the latter end of
autumn, and when they were becoming almost helpless,
he selected four from off his breakfast-table, put
them upon a large handful of cotton, and placed it in
one corner of the window nearest the fireplace. Not
long afterwards the weather became so cold that all
flies disappeared except these four, which constantly
left their bed of cotton at his breakfast-time, came
and fed at the table, and then returned to their home.
This continued for a short time, when three of them
became lifeless in their shelter, and only one came
down. This one Slingsby had trained to feed upon his
thumb-nail, by placing on it some moist, sugar mixed
with a little butter. Although there had been at
intervals several days of sharp frost, the fly never
missed taking his daily meal in this way till after
Christmas, when, his kind preserver having invited a
friend to dine and sleep at his house, the fly, the
next morning, perched upon the thumb of the visitor,
who, being ignorant that it was a pet of his host's,
clapped his hand upon it, and thus put an end to Mr.
Slingsby's experiment.[97]
_Crustacea._
There is no doubt that these are an intelligent group of animals,
although I have been able to collect but wonderfully little information
upon the subject. Mr. Moseley, F.R.S., in his very interesting work,
'Notes by a Naturalist on the _Challenger_,' says (p. 70):--
In the tropics one becomes accustomed to watch the
habits of various species of crabs, which there live
so commonly an aërial life. The more I have seen of
them, the more have I been astonished at their
sagacity.
And again (pp. 48-9):--
A rock crab (_Grapsus stringosus_) was very abundant,
running about all over the rocks, and making off into
clefts on one's approach. I was astonished at the keen
and long sight of this crab. I noticed some made off
at full speed to their hiding-places at the instant
that my head showed above a rock fifty yards
distant. . . .
At Still Bay, on the sandy beach of which a heavy surf
was breaking, I encountered a sand crab (_[OE]cypoda
ippeus_), which was walking about, and got between it
and its hole in the dry sand above the beach. The crab
was a large one, at least three inches in breadth of
its carapace. . . . With its curious column-like eyes
erect, the crab bolted down towards the surf as the
only escape, and as it saw a great wave rushing up the
shelving shore, dug itself tight into the sand, and
held on to prevent the undertide from carrying it into
the sea. As soon as the wave had retreated, it made
off full speed for the shore. I gave chase, and
whenever a wave approached, the crab repeated the
manoeuvre. I once touched it with my hand whilst it
was buried and blinded by the sandy water, but the
surf compelled me to retreat, and I could not snatch
hold of it for fear of its powerful claws. At last I
chased it, hard pressed, into the surf in a hurry, and
being unable to get proper hold in time, it was washed
into the sea. The crab evidently dreaded going into
the sea. . . . They soon die when kept a short time
beneath the water.
The land crabs of the West Indies and North America descend from their
mountain home in May and June, to deposit their spawn in the sea. They
travel in such swarms that the roads and woods are covered with them.
They migrate in a straight line, and rather than allow themselves to be
deflected from it, 'they scale the houses, and surmount every other
obstacle that lies in their way' (Kirby). They travel chiefly by night,
and when they arrive at the sea-shore they 'bathe three or four
different times,' and then 'commit their eggs to the waves.' They return
to the mountains by the same route, but only the most vigorous survive
the double journey.
Prof. Alex. Agassiz details some interesting observations on the
behaviour of young hermit crabs reared by himself 'from very young
stages,' when first presented with shells of mollusks. 'A number of
shells, some of them empty, others with the animal living, were placed
in a glass dish with the young crabs. Scarcely had the shells reached
the bottom before the crabs made a rush for the shells, turned them
round and round, invariably at the mouth, and soon a couple of the crabs
decided to venture in, which they did with remarkable alacrity.' The
crabs which obtained for their share the shells still inhabited by
living mollusks, 'remained riding round upon the mouth of their future
dwelling, and, on the death of the mollusk, which generally occurred
soon after in captivity, commenced at once to tear out the animal, and
having eaten him, proceeded to take its place within the shell.'[98]
There is a species of small crustacean (_Podocerus capillatus_)
described by Mr. Bates, which builds a nest to contain its eggs. The
nest is in the form of a hollow cone, built upon seaweed, and composed
of fine thread-like material closely interlaced. 'These nests,' says Mr.
Bates, 'are evidently used as a place of refuge and security, in which
the parent protects and keeps her brood of young until they are old
enough to be independent of the mother's care.'
Dr. Erasmus Darwin tells us, on the authority of a friend on whose
competency as an observer he relied, that the common crab during the
moulting season stations as sentinel an unmoulted or hard-shelled
individual, to prevent marine enemies from injuring moulted individuals
in their unprotected state. While thus mounting guard the hard-shelled
crab is much more courageous than at other times, when he has only his
own safety to consider. But these observations require to be
corroborated.
In 'Nature' (xv., p. 415) there is a notice of a lobster (_Homarus
marinus_) in the Rothesay Aquarium which attacked a flounder that was
confined in the same tank with him, and having devoured a portion of his
victim, buried the rest beneath a heap of shingle, on which he 'mounted
guard.' 'Five times within two hours was the fish unearthed, and as
often did the lobster shovel the gravel over it with his huge claws,
each time ascending the pile and turning his bold defensive front to his
companions.'
The following is quoted from Mr. Darwin's 'Descent of Man' (pp.
270-1):--
A trustworthy naturalist, Mr. Gardner, whilst watching
a shore-crab (_Gelasimus_) making its burrow, threw
some shells towards the hole. One rolled in, and three
other shells remained within a few inches of the
mouth. In about five minutes the crab brought out the
shell which had fallen in, and carried it away to the
distance of a foot; it then saw the three other shells
lying near, and evidently thinking that they might
likewise roll in, carried them to the spot where it
had laid the first. It would, I think, be difficult to
distinguish this act from one performed by man by the
aid of reason.
Mr. Darwin also alludes to the curious instinctive habits of the large
shore-crab (_Birgus latro_), which feeds on fallen cocoa-nuts 'by
tearing off the husk fibre by fibre; and it always begins at that end
where the three eye-like depressions are situated. It then breaks
through one of these eyes by hammering with its heavy front pincers, and
turning round, extracts the albuminous core with its narrow posterior
pincers.'
Remarkable cases occur of commensalism between certain crabs and
sea-anemones, and they betoken much intelligence. Thus Professor Möbius
says in his 'Beiträge zur Meeresfauna der Insel Mauritius' (1880) that
there are two crabs belonging to different genera which have the habit
of firmly grasping a sea-anemone in each claw and carrying them about,
presumably to secure some benefit to themselves. The more familiar case
of the species of anemone which lives on the shells tenanted by hermit
crabs is of special interest to us on account of a remarkable
observation published by Mr. Gosse, F.R.S. (_Zoologist_, June, 1859). He
found that on his detaching the anemone (_Adamsia_) from the shell, the
hermit crab always took it up in its claws and held it against the shell
'for the space of ten minutes at a time, until fairly attached by a good
strong base.' It was said by the late Dr. Robert Ball that when the
common _Sagartia parasitica_ is attached to a stone and a hermit crab is
placed in its vicinity, the anemone will leave the stone and attach
itself to the hermit's shell (_Critic_, March 24, 1860).
_Intelligence of Larvæ of Certain Insects._
I shall now allude to some of the more interesting facts touching the
psychology of insects when in their immature or larval state. This is an
interesting topic from the point of view which we occupy as
evolutionists, because a caterpillar is really a locomotive and
self-feeding embryo, whose entire mental constitution is destined to
undergo a metamorphosis no less complete and profound than that which is
also destined to take place in its corporeal structure. Yet although the
caterpillar has an embryo psychology, its instincts and even
intelligence often seem to be higher or more elaborated than is the case
with the imago form. Where such is the case the explanation of course
must be that it is of more importance to the species that the larval
form should be in a certain measure intelligent than that the imago form
should be so. Every larva is a potential imago, or breeding individual;
therefore its life is of no less value to the species during its larval
than during its adult existence; and if certain instincts or grades of
intelligence are of more use to it during the former than during the
latter period, of course natural selection would determine the unusual
event which we seem here in some cases to see--namely, that the embryo
should stand on a higher level of psychological development than the
adult.
I may most fitly begin under this heading with the remarkable instincts
of the so-called 'ant-lion,' which is the larva of a neuropterous
insect, the common _Myrmeleon_ (_M. formicarium_). I quote the following
account of its habits from Thompson's 'Passions of Animals' (p. 258):--
The devices of the ant-lion are still more
extraordinary if possible. He forms, with astonishing
labour and perseverance, a pit in the shape of a
funnel, in a dry sandy soil, under some old wall or
other spot protected from the wind. His pit being
finished, he buries himself among the sand at the
bottom, leaving only his horns visible, and thus waits
patiently for his prey. When an ant or any other small
insect happens to walk on the edge of the hollow, it
forces down some of the particles of sand, which gives
the ant-lion notice of its presence. He immediately
throws up the sand which covers his head to overwhelm
the ant, and with its returning force brings it to the
bottom. This he continues to do till the insect is
overcome and falls between his horns. Every endeavour
to escape, when once the incautious ant has stepped
within the verge of the pit, is vain, for in all its
attempts to climb the side the deceptive sand slips
from under its feet, and every struggle precipitates
it still lower. When within reach its enemy plunges
the points of its jaws into its body, and having
sucked out all its juices, throws out the empty skin
to some distance.
According to Bingley, if the ant-lion, while excavating its pitfall,--
Comes to a stone of some moderate size, it does not
desert the work on this account, but goes on,
intending to remove that impediment the last. When the
pit is finished, it crawls backward up the side of the
place where the stone is; and, getting its tail under
it, takes great pains and time to get it on a true
poise, and then begins to crawl backward with it up
the edge to the top of the pit, to get it out of the
way. It is a common thing to see an ant-lion labouring
in this manner at a stone four times as big as its own
body; and as it can only move backwards, and the poise
is difficult to keep, especially up a slope of such
crumbling matter as sand, which moulders away from
under its feet, and necessarily alters the position of
its body, the stone very frequently rolls down, when
near the verge, quite to the bottom. In this case the
animal attacks it again in the same way, and is often
not discouraged by five or six miscarriages, but
continues its struggle so long that it at length gets
over the verge of the place. When it has done this, it
does not leave it there, lest it should roll in again;
but is always at the pains of pushing it further on,
till it has removed it to a necessary distance from
the edge of the pit.[99]
Passing on now to the intelligence of caterpillars, Mr. G. B. Buckton,
F.R.S., writing from Haslemere, says:--
Many caterpillars of _Pieris rapæ_ have, during this
autumn, fed below my windows. On searching for
suitable positions for passing into chrysalides, some
eight or ten individuals, in their direct march
upwards, encountered the plate-glass panes of my
windows; on these they appeared to be unable to stand.
Accordingly in every case they made silken ladders,
some of them five feet long, each ladder being formed
of a single continuous thread, woven in elegant loops
from side to side. . . . The reasoning, however, seems
to be but narrow, for one ladder was constructed
parallel to the window-frame for nearly three feet,
on which secure footing could be had by simply
diverting the track two inches.[100]
In this case it appears clear that we have to do with instinct, and not
with reason. No doubt it is the congenital habit of these caterpillars
to overcome impediments in this way; but the instinct is one of
sufficient interest to be here stated.
The following is quoted from Kirby and Spence:--
A caterpillar described by Bonnet, which, from being
confined in a box, was unable to obtain a supply of
the bark with which its ordinary instinct directs it
to make its cocoon, substituted pieces of paper that
were given to it, tied them together with silk, and
constructed a very passable cocoon with them. In
another instance the same naturalist having opened
several cocoons of a moth (_Noctura verbasci_), which
are composed of a mixture of grains of earth and silk,
just after being finished, the larvæ did not repair
the injury _in the same manner_. Some employed both
earth and silk; others contented themselves with
spinning a silken veil before the opening.[101]
The same authorities state, as result of their own observation, that
the--
Common cabbage caterpillar, which, when building web
under stone or wooden surfaces, previously covers a
space with a web to form a base for supporting its
dependent pupa, when building a web beneath a muslin
surface dispenses with this base altogether: it
perceives that the woven texture of the muslin forms
facilities for attaching the threads of the cocoon
securely enough to support the weight of the cocoon
without the necessity of making the usual square inch
or so of basal support.[102]
The instincts of the larva of the _Tinea_ moth are thus described by
Réaumur:--
It feeds upon the elm, using the leaves both as food
and clothing. To do this it only eats the parenchyma
of the leaf, preserving the upper and under epidermal
membranes, between which it then insinuates itself as
it progressively devours the parenchyma. It, however,
carefully avoids separating these membranes where they
unite at the extreme edge of the leaf, which is
designed to form 'one of the seams of its coat.' The
cavity when thus excavated between the two epidermal
membranes is then lined with silk, made cylindrical in
shape, cut off at the two ends and all along the side
remote from the 'seam,' and then the two epidermal
membranes sewn together along the side where they have
had to be cut in order to separate them from the tree.
The larva now has a coat exactly fitting its body, and
open at each end. By the one opening it feeds, and by
the other discharges its excrement, 'having on one
side a nicely jointed seam--that which is commonly
applied to its back--composed of the natural marginal
junction of the membranes of the leaf.'
Réaumur cut off the edge of a newly finished coat, so as to expose the
body of the larva at that point. The animal did not set about making a
new coat _ab initio_, as we might expect that it would on the popular
supposition that a train of instinctive actions is always as mechanical
as the running down of a set of cog-wheels, and that wherever a novel
element is introduced the machinery must be thrown out of gear, so that
it cannot meet a new emergency of however simple a character, and must
therefore re-start the whole process over again from the beginning. In
this case the larva sewed up the rent; and not only so, but 'the
scissors having cut off one of the projections intended to enter into
the construction of the triangular end of the case, it entirely changed
the original plan, and made that end the head which had been first
designed for the tail.'
Another remarkable case of the variation of instinct in the Lepidoptera
is stated by Bonnet. There are usually, he says, two generations of the
Angoumois moth: the first appear in early summer, and lay their eggs
upon the ears of wheat in the fields; the second appear later in the
summer, or in the autumn, and these lay their eggs upon wheat in the
granaries; from these eggs there comes the first generation of next
year's moths. This is a highly remarkable case--supposing the facts to
be as Bonnet states; for it seems that the early summer moths, although
born in the granaries, immediately fly to the unreaped fields to lay
their eggs in the standing corn, while the autumn moths never attempt to
leave the granaries, but lay their eggs upon the stored wheat.[103]
Westwood says that--
A species of Tasmanian caterpillar (_Noctua Ewingii_)
swarms over the land in enormous companies, which
regularly begin to march at four o'clock in the
morning, and as regularly halt at midday. _Liparis
chrysorrhaca_, a kind of caterpillar, spins for the
winter a common web, in which several hundred
individuals find a common shelter.[104]
According to Kirby and Spence,--
The larva of the ichneumon, while feeding upon its
caterpillar host, spares the walls of the intestines
until it is time for it to escape, when, the life of
the caterpillar being no longer necessary to its
development, it perforates these walls.[105]
The larvæ _Theda isocrates_ live in a group of seven
or eight in the fruit of pomegranate. In consequence
of their excavations within the fruit, the latter is
apt to fall; and to prevent its doing so the larvæ
throw out a thread of attachment wherewith to secure
the fruit to the branch, so that if the stalk withers,
this thread serves to suspend the fruit.[106]
The caterpillar of the Bombyx moth, which is a native
of France, exhibits very wonderful instincts. The
larva is gregarious in its habits, each society
(family) consisting of perhaps 600 or 800
individuals. When young they have no fixed habitation,
but encamp sometimes in one place, and sometimes in
another, under the shelter of their web; but when they
have attained two-thirds of their growth, they weave
for themselves a common tent. About sunset the
regiment leaves its quarters. . . . At their head is a
chief, by whose movements their procession is
regulated. When he stops all stop, and proceed when he
proceeds; three or four of his immediate followers
succeed in the same line, the head of the second
touching the tail of the first; then comes an equal
series of pairs, next of threes, and so on, as far as
fifteen or twenty. The whole procession moves
regularly on with an even pace, each file treading in
the steps of those that precede it. If the leader,
arriving at a particular point, pursues a different
direction, all march to that point before they
turn.[107]
The following additional facts concerning these remarkable habits may be
quoted. I take them from the account published by Mr. Davis in
'Loudoun's Magazine of Natural History:'--
The caterpillars, he observed, were Bombyces, and were
seen crossing a road in single file, each so close to
its predecessor that the line was quite continuous,
'moving like a living cord.' The number of
caterpillars was 154, and the length of the line 27
feet. When Mr. Davis removed one from the line the
caterpillar immediately in front suddenly stood still,
then the next, and next, and so on to the leader.
Similarly, those behind the point of interruption
successively halted. After a pause of a few moments,
the first caterpillar behind the break in the line
endeavoured to fill up the vacant space, and so
recover contact or communication, which after a time
it succeeded in doing, when the information that the
line was again closed was passed forward in some way
from caterpillar to caterpillar till it reached the
leader, when the whole fine was again put in motion.
The individual which had been abstracted remained
rolled up and motionless; but on being placed near the
moving column it immediately unrolled, and made every
attempt to get readmitted into the procession. After
many endeavours it succeeded, the one below falling
into the rear of the interloper. On repeating the
experiment by removing a caterpillar fifty from the
head of the procession, Mr. Davis found that it took
just thirty seconds by his watch for information of
the fact to reach the leader. All the same results
followed as in the previous case. It was observable
that the animals were guided neither by sight nor
smell while endeavouring to close up the interrupted
line; for the caterpillar next behind the
interruption, on whom the duty of closing up devolved,
'turned right and left, and often in a wrong
direction, when within half an inch of the one
immediately before him; when he at last touched the
object of his search, the fact was communicated again
by signal; and in thirty seconds the whole line was in
rapid march.' This gentleman adds that the object of
the march was the search for new pasture. The
caterpillars feed on the Eucalyptus, and when they
have completely stripped one tree of its leaves, they
all congregate on the trunk, and proceed as described
to another tree.
De Villiers[108] gives an account of his observations on the manner in
which these caterpillars (_Cnethocampii pitzocampa_) are able to pass
information, which does not quite agree with the above observation of
Mr. Davis. For he says that, in a train of 600 caterpillars,
interference by him in any part of the train was communicated through
the whole series instantaneously--all the 600 caterpillars stopping
immediately and with one consent like a single organism.
According to Kirby and Spence there is a kind of caterpillar (_Pieris
cratægi_) which lives in little colonies of ten or twelve in common
chambers lined with silk. In one part they make of the same material a
little bag or pocket, which is used by the community or household as a
water-closet. When full of excrement the caterpillars empty it by
turning out the pellets with their feet.[109]
Only two other instances of noteworthy intelligence as exhibited by
larvæ have fallen within my reading. One of these is mentioned by
Réaumur, who says that the larvæ of _Hemerobius chrysops_ chase aphides,
and having killed them, clothe themselves in their skins; and the other
case is the very remarkable one mentioned in his newly published work by
W. MacLachlan, F.R.S., of caddis-worms adjusting the specific gravity of
their tubes to suit that of the water in which they live, by attaching
heavy or light material to them according as they require sinking or
flotation.
FOOTNOTES:
[90] Quoted by Bingley, _Animal Biography_, vol. iii., p. 118.
[91] _Loc. cit._, p. 344.
[92] Büchner, _loc. cit._, p. 344.
[93] Quoted in Strauss, _Insects_, s. 389.
[94] Kirby and Spence, _loc. cit._, pp. 321-2.
[95] _Life and Recollections_, vol. ii., p. 356.
[96] Quoted by Bingley, _loc. cit._, vol. iii., pp. 150-51.
[97] _Gleanings_, vol. ii., pp. 165-6.
[98] _American Journ. Sc. and Art_, vol. x., Oct. 1875.
[99] _Animal Biography_, vol. iii., pp. 244-5.
[100] _Nature_, vii., p. 49.
[101] _Intr. to Ent._, ii., p. 475.
[102] _Ibid._, p. 475.
[103] _[OE]uvres_, ix., p. 370.
[104] _Trans. Ent. Soc._, vol. ii.
[105] _Introd. Ent._, Letter xi.
[106] Westwood, _Trans. Ent. Soc._, vol. ii., p. 1.
[107] Kirby and Spence, _Entomology_, Letter xvi.
[108] _Trans. Ent. Soc. France_, vol. i., p. 201.
[109] _Introduction to Entomology_, Letter xxvi.
CHAPTER VIII.
FISH.
ALTHOUGH we here pass into the sub-kingdom of animals the intelligence
of which immeasurably surpasses that of the other sub-kingdoms, it is
remarkable that these lowest representatives of the higher group are
psychologically inferior to some of the higher members of the lower
groups. Neither in its instincts nor in general intelligence can any
fish be compared with an ant or a bee--a fact which shows how slightly a
psychological classification of animals depends upon zoological
affinity, or even morphological organisation. For although a highly
competent authority, namely Van Baer, has said that a bee is as highly
organised an animal as a fish, though on a different type,[110] no one
would be found to assert that an ant or a bee is so much more highly
organised than a fish as its higher intelligence would require,
supposing degrees of intelligence to stand in necessary relation to
degree of organic development. And this consideration is not materially
altered if, instead of regarding the whole organism, we look to the
nervous system alone. There is no doubt that the cerebral hemispheres of
a fish, although small as compared with these organs in the higher
Vertebrata, are, bulk for bulk, enormous as compared with the
oesophageal ganglia or 'brain' of an insect; while the disproportion
becomes still greater if the cerebral hemispheres of a fish are compared
with their supposed analogues in the brain of an ant, viz., the
pedunculated and convoluted lobes which surmount the cephalic ganglion.
But here the relative smallness of the ant as a whole must be taken into
consideration, and also the fact that its brain is relatively much more
massive as well as more highly organised than that which occurs in any
other order of invertebrated animals, except, perhaps, the octopus and
his allies. Therefore, although the brain of a fish is formed upon a
type which by increase of size and complexity is destined in function
far to eclipse all other types of nerve-centre, we have to observe that
in its lowest stage of evolution as presented to science in the fishes,
this type is functionally inferior to the invertebrate type, where this
reaches its highest stage of evolution in the Hymenoptera.
_Emotions._
Fish display emotions of fear, pugnacity; social, sexual, and parental
feelings; anger, jealousy, play, and curiosity. So far the class of
emotions is the same as that with which we have met in ants, and
corresponds with that which is distinctive of the psychology of a child
about four months old. I have not, however, any evidence of sympathy,
which would be required to make the list of emotions identical; but
sympathy may nevertheless be present.
Fear and pugnacity are too apparent in fish to require special proof.
The social or gregarious feelings are strongly shown by the numberless
species which swim in shoals, the sexual feelings are proved by
courtships, and the parental by those species which build nests and
guard their young. Schneider saw several species of fish at the Naples
Aquarium protecting their eggs. In one case the male mounted guard over
a rock where the eggs were deposited, and swam with open mouth against
intruders. The following accounts of the nidification of certain species
of fish show that the parental instincts are not unlike those which
obtain in birds, and are comparable in point of strength with the same
instincts as they occur in ants, bees, and spiders.
Agassiz remarks[111] that while examining the marine
products of the Sargasso Sea, Mr. Mansfield picked up
and brought to him a round mass of sargassum, about
the size of the two fists placed together. The whole
consisted, to all appearance, of nothing but
gulf-weed, the branches and leaves of which were,
however, evidently knit together, and not merely
balled into a roundish mass. The elastic threads which
held the gulf-weed together were beaded at intervals,
sometimes two or three beads being close together, or
a branch of them hanging from the cluster of threads.
This nest was full of eggs scattered throughout the
mass, and not placed together in a cavity. It was
evidently the work of the _Chironectes_. This rocking
fish-cradle is carried along as an undying arbour,
affording at the same time protection and afterwards
food for its living freight. It is suggested that the
fish must have used their peculiar pectoral fins when
constructing this elaborate nest.
The well-known tinker or ten-spined stickleback
(_Gasterosteus pungitius_) is one of our indigenous
fish which constructs a nest. On May 1, 1864, a
male[112] was placed in a well-established aquarium of
moderate size, to which, after three days, two ripe
females were added. Their presence at once roused him
into activity, and he soon began to build a nest of
bits of dirt and dead fibre, and of growing confervoid
filaments, upon a jutting point of rock among some
interlacing branches of _Myriophyllum spicatum_--all
the time, however, frequently interrupting his labours
to pay his addresses to the females. This was done in
most vigorous fashion, he swimming, by a series of
little jerks, near and about the female, even pushing
against her with open mouth, but usually not biting.
After a little coquetting she responds and follows
him, swimming just above him as he leads the way to
the nest. When there, the male commences to flirt--he
seems unaware of its situation, will not swim to the
right spot, and the female, after a few ineffectual
attempts to find the proper passage into it, turns
tail to swim away, but is then viciously pursued by
the male. When he first courts the female, if she, not
being ready, does not soon respond, he seems quickly
to lose his temper, and, attacking her with great
apparent fury, drives her to seek shelter in some
crevice or dark corner. The coquetting of the male
near the nest, which seems due to the fact that he
really has not quite finished it, at length terminates
by his pushing his head well into the entrance of the
nest, while the female closely follows him, placing
herself above him, and apparently much excited. As he
withdraws she passes into the nest, and pushes quite
through it, after a very brief delay, during which she
deposits her ova. The male now fertilises the eggs,
and drives the female away to a safe distance; then,
after patting down the nest, he proceeds in search of
another female. The nest is built and the ova
deposited in about twenty-four hours. The male
continued to watch it day and night, and during the
light hours he also continually added to the nest.
The marine fifteen-spined stickleback (_Gasterosteus
spinachia_) affords another instance of
nest-constructing fishes. The places selected for
their nests are usually harbours, or some sheltered
spots to where pure sea water reaches. The fish either
find growing, or even collect some of the softer kinds
of green or red seaweed, and join them with so much of
the coralline tufts (_Janiæ_) growing on the rock as
will serve the purpose of affording firmness to the
structure, and constitute a pear-shaped mass five or
six inches long, and about as stout as a man's fist. A
thread, which is elastic and resembles silk, is
employed for the purpose of binding the materials
together: under a magnifier it appears to consist of
several strands connected by a gluey substance, which
hardens by exposure to the water.[113]
M. Carbonnier, who has studied the habits of the
Chinese butterfly-fish (_Macropodus_) in his private
aquarium in Paris, where he had some in confinement,
observed that the male constructs a nest of froth of
considerable size, 15 to 18 centimetres horizontal
diameter, and 10 to 12 high. He prepares the bubbles
in the air (which he sucks in and then expels),
strengthening them with mucous matter from his mouth,
and brings them into the nest. Sometimes the buccal
secretion will fail him, whereupon he goes to the
bottom in search of confervæ, which he sucks and bites
for a little in order to stimulate the act of
secretion. The nest prepared, the female is induced to
enter. Not less curious is the way in which the male
brings the eggs from the bottom into the nest. He
appears unable to carry them up in his mouth; instead
of this, he first swallows an abundant supply of air,
then descending, he places himself beneath the eggs,
and suddenly, by a violent contraction of the muscles
in the interior of his mouth and pharynx, he exhales
the air which he had accumulated by the gills. This
air, finely divided by the lamellæ and fringes of the
gills, escapes in the form of two jets of veritable
gaseous powder, which envelopes the eggs and raises
them to the surface. In this manoeuvre the
_Macropodus_ entirely disappeared in a kind of
air-mist, and when this had dissipated he reappeared
with a multitude of air-bubbles like little pearls
clinging all over his body.[1]
Again, in detailing Mr. Baker's observations on the three-spined
stickleback, published in the Philosophical Transactions, this author
says:--
It has been remarked that after the deposition of the
eggs the nest was opened more to the action of the
water, and the vibratory motion of the body of the
male fish, hovering over its surface, caused a current
of water to be propelled across the surface of the
ova, which action was repeated almost continuously.
After about ten days the nest was destroyed and the
materials removed; and now were seen the minute fry
fluttering upwards here and there, by a movement half
swimming, half leaping, and then falling rapidly again
upon or between the clear pebbles of the shingle
bottom. This arose from their having the remainder of
the yelk still attached to their body, which, acting
as a weight, caused them to sink the moment the
swimming effort had ceased. Around, across, and in
every direction the male fish, as the guardian,
continually moved. Now his labours became more
arduous, and his vigilance was taxed to the utmost
extreme, for the other fish (two tench and a gold
carp), some twenty times larger than himself, as soon
as they perceived the young fry in motion,
continuously used their utmost endeavours to snap them
up. The courage of the little stickleback was now put
to its severest test; but, nothing daunted, he drove
them all off, seizing their fins and striking with all
his strength at their heads and at their eyes. His
care of the young brood when encumbered with the yelk
was very extraordinary; and as this was gradually
absorbed and they gained strength, their attempts to
swim carried them to a greater distance from the
parent fish; his vigilance, however, seemed
everywhere, and if they rose by the action of their
fins above a certain height from the shingle bottom,
or flitted beyond a given distance from the nest, they
were immediately seized in his mouth, brought back,
and gently puffed or jetted into their place again.
The same care of the young, bringing them back to then
nest up till about the sixth day after hatching, has
been remarked by Dr. Ransom in the ten-spined
stickleback (_G. pungitius_).[114]
The well-known habit of the lophobranchiate fish, of incubating their
eggs in their pouches, also displays highly elaborated parental
feeling.[115] M. Risso says that when the young of the pipe-fish are
hatched out, the parents show them marked attachment, and that the pouch
then serves them as a place of shelter or retreat from danger.[116]
M. Carbonnier has recorded how the male of the
curiously grotesque telescope-fish, a variety of
_Carassius auratus_ (Linn.), acts as accoucheur to the
female. Three males pursued one female which was heavy
with spawn, and rolled her like a ball upon the ground
for a distance of several metres, and continued this
process without rest or relaxation for two days, until
the exhausted female, who had been unable to recover
her equilibrium for a moment, had at last evacuated
all her ova.[117]
That adult fish are capable of feeling affection for
one another would seem to be well established: thus
Jesse relates how he once captured a female pike
(_Esox lucius_) during the breeding season, and that
nothing could drive away the male from the spot at
which he had perceived his partner slowly disappear,
and whom he had followed to the edge of the water.
Mr. Arderon[118] gave an account of how he tamed a dace,
which would lie close to the glass watching its
master; and subsequently how he kept two ruffs
(_Acerina cernua_) in an aquarium, where they became
very much attached to one another. He gave one away,
when the other became so miserable that it would not
eat, and this continued for nearly three weeks.
Fearing his remaining fish might die, he sent for its
former companion, and on the two meeting they became
quite happy again. Jesse gives a similar account of
two gold carp.[119]
Anger is strikingly shown by many fish, and notoriously by sticklebacks
when their territory is invaded by a neighbour. These animals display a
strange instinct of appropriating to themselves a certain part of the
tank in which they may be confined, and furiously attacking any other
stickleback which may presume to cross the imaginary frontier. Under
such circumstances of provocation I have seen the whole animal change
colour, and, darting at the trespasser, show rage and fury in every
movement. Of course, here, as elsewhere, it is impossible to be sure how
far apparent expression of an emotion is due to the presence of that
mental state which we recognise as the emotion in ourselves; but still
the best guide we have to follow is that of apparent expression.
Following this principle, we are also entitled to attribute to fish the
emotions conducive to play; for nothing can well be more expressive of
sportive glee than many of their movements. As for jealousy, the fights
of many male fish for the possession of females constitutes evidence of
emotion which would be called by this name in the higher animals.
Schneider, in his recent work already often quoted, says that he has
observed a male fish (_Labrus_) show jealousy only towards other
individual males of his own species--chasing these away from the
neighbourhood of his female, but not objecting to the approach of fish
of other species.
Curiosity is shown by the readiness, or even eagerness, with which fish
will approach to examine any unfamiliar object. So much is this the case
that fishermen, like hunters, sometimes trade upon this faculty:--
And the fisher, with his lamp
And spear, about the low rocks damp
Crept, and struck the fish which came
To worship the delusive flame.[120]
Stephenson, the engineer, on sinking lighted lanterns in the water, also
found that fish were attracted to them.[121]
_Special Habits._
As curious instances of special instincts in fish we may notice the
well-known habit of the angler (_Lophius piscator_), which conceals
itself in mud and seaweed, while waving in the water certain filaments
with which it is provided above its snout. Other fish, attracted by
these moving objects, approach, and are thereupon seized by the angler.
We must also allude to the _Chelmon rostratus_, which shoots its prey by
means of a drop of water projected from the mouth with considerable
force and unerring aim. The mark thus shot at is always some small
object, such as a fly, at rest above the surface of the water, so that
when suddenly hit it falls into the water.[122] This remarkable instinct
can only, I think, have originated as a primordially intentional
adjustment, and as such shows a high degree of intelligence on the part
of these fishes' ancestors. Moreover, the wonderful co-ordination of
sight and muscular movements required to judge the distance, to make due
allowance for refraction, and to aim correctly, shows that the existing
representatives are not unworthy of their ancestors.
Several species of fish in different parts of the world have the habit
of quitting pools which are about to dry up, and taking excursions
across country in search of more abundant water. Eels have this habit,
and perform their migrations by night. Dr. Hancock, in the 'Zoological
Journal,' gives an account of a species of _Doras_, the individuals of
which are about a foot in length, and travel by night in large shoals,
or 'droves,' when thus searching for water. A strong serrated arm
constitutes the first ray of the pectoral fin; and, using this as a kind
of foot, the animal pushes itself forward by means of its tail, thus
moving nearly as fast as a man can walk. Another migrating fish
(_Hydrargzra_) was found by thousands in the fresh waters of Carolina by
Bosc. It travels by leaps, and, according to Bosc, always directs itself
towards the nearest water, although he purposely placed them so that
they could not see it.
But perhaps the strangest among this class of habits is that of the
climbing perch (_Perca scandens_), first discovered by Daldorff in
Tranquebar; for this animal not only creeps over land, but even climbs
the fan palm in search of certain Crustacea which form its food. In
climbing it uses its open gill-covers as hands wherewith to suspend
itself, while it deflects its tail laterally upwards so as to bring to
bear upon the bark certain little spines with which its anal fin is
provided; it then pushes itself upwards by straightening the tail, while
it closes the gill-covers not to prevent progress, and so on. Sir E.
Tennent, however, without disputing the evidence that these fish do
climb trees, says,--
The probability is, as suggested by Buchanan, that the
ascent which was witnessed by Daldorff was accidental,
and ought not to be regarded as the habit of the
animal.[123]
A great number of species of fish perform migrations. In relation to
intelligence, the most interesting of these is the migration of salmon,
which annually leave the sea to spawn in rivers, though there is some
doubt whether the same individuals spawn every year. There is no doubt,
however, that the same individuals frequently, though not invariably,
revisit the same rivers for their successive spawnings. This fact may be
due either to the remembrance of locality, similar to that which is
unquestionably manifested by birds, or to the salmon not swimming far
along the coast during other seasons of the year, and therefore in the
spawning season when seeking a river happening to hit upon the same one.
The latter hypothesis is one which Mr. Herbert Spencer tells me he is
inclined to adopt, and, being a salmon-fisher, he has paid attention to
the subject. He informs me of an observation by a friend of his own, who
saw a salmon, when about to spawn, swimming along the coast-line, and
all round a boathouse, apparently seeking any stream that it might first
encounter.
The distances up rivers to which salmon will swim in the spawning season
is no less surprising than the energy with which they perform the feat,
and the determination with which they overcome all obstacles. They reach
Bohemia by the Elbe, Switzerland by the Rhine, and, which is much more
wonderful, the Cordilleras of America by the Maragnon.
They employ only three months in ascending to the
sources of the Maragnon (a journey of 3,000 miles),
the current of which is remarkably rapid, which is at
the rate of nearly forty miles a day; in a smooth
stream or lake their progress would increase in a
fourfold ratio. Their tail is a very powerful organ,
and its muscles have wonderful energy; by placing it
in their mouths they make of it a very elastic spring,
for letting it go with violence they raise themselves
in the air to the height of from twelve to fifteen
feet, and so clear the cataract that impedes their
course: if they fail in their first attempt, they
continue their efforts till they have accomplished
it.[124]
_General Intelligence._
With reference to the general intelligence of fish, allusion may first
be made to their marked increase of wariness in waters which are much
fished. This shows no small degree of intelligence, for the caution is
proved to be the result of observation by the fact that young trout
under such circumstances are less wary than old ones. Moreover, many
fish will abandon old haunts when much disturbed. Again, according to
Kirby, the carp thrusts itself into the mud in order that the net may
pass over it, or, if the bottom be stony, makes great leaps to clear it.
At the Andaman Islands fish are captured by the
convicts by means of weirs fixed across the openings
of creeks. After existing a week or so, it is observed
that captures invariably cease; and it is believed
that such is due to barnacles, &c., clustering on to
the wood of which they are composed. It does not seem
improbable that the fish have learned to avoid a
locality out of terror at those which enter but do not
again return.[125]
Lacepède[126] relates that some fish, which had been kept for many years
in a basin of the Tuileries, would come when called by their names.
Probably it was the sound of the voice and not the articulate words to
which they responded; for Lacepède also relates that in many parts of
Germany trout, carp, and tench were summoned to their food by the sound
of a bell; and the same thing has been recorded of various fish in
various localities, notably by Sir Joseph Banks, who used to collect his
fish by sounding a bell.[127]
In 'Nature' (vol. xi., p. 48) Mr. Mitchell gives the following instance
of intelligence on the part of a small perch. Having one day disturbed
its nest full of young fry, Mr. Mitchell next day went to look for the
nest; 'but we searched in vain for the fish and her young. At length, a
few yards further up stream, we discovered the parent guarding her fry
with jealous care in a cavity scooped out of the coarse sand. . . . This is
the first and only instance that has come under my notice of a fish
watching over her young, and conveying them, when threatened with
danger, to some other place.'
In 'Nature' (December 19, 1878) there is also published a communication
which was made by Mr. J. Faraday to the Manchester Anglers' Association,
concerning a skate which he observed in the aquarium of that town:--
A morsel of food thrown into the tank fell directly in
an angle formed by the glass front and the bottom. The
skate, a large example, made several vain attempts to
seize the food, owing to its mouth being on the
underside of its head and the food being close to the
glass. He lay quite still for a while as though
thinking, then suddenly raised himself into a slanting
posture, the head inclined upwards, and the under
surface of the body towards the food, when he waved
his broad expanse of fins, thus creating an upward
current or wave in the water, which lifted the food
from its position and carried it straight to his
mouth.
It will be observed, however, that this observation is practically
worthless, from the observer having neglected to repeat the conditions
in order to show that the movements of the fish were not, in their
adaptation to these circumstances, purely accidental. Therefore I should
not have alluded to this observation, had I not found that it has been
quoted by several writers as a remarkable display of intelligence on the
part of the fish.
I must not take leave of this class without making some allusion to the
alleged habits of the so-called 'pilot-fish,' and also to those of
'thresher' and 'sword-fish.' I class these widely different habits
together because they are alike in being dubious; different observers
give different accounts, and therefore, until more information is
forthcoming, we must suspend our judgment with regard to the habits in
question. The following describes what these habits are believed by many
observers to be.
Captain Richards, R.N., says that he saw a blue shark following a bait
which was thrown out to him from the ship. The shark, which was attended
by four pilot-fish, repeatedly approached the bait; but every time he
did so one of the latter rushed in and prevented him. After a time the
shark swam away; but when he had gone a considerable distance, he turned
back again, swam quickly after the vessel, and before the pilot-fish
could overtake him, seized the bait and was caught. While hoisting him
on board, one of the pilots was seen to cling to his side until above
water, when it dropped off. All the pilots then swam about for a time,
as if searching for their friend, 'with every apparent mark of anxiety
and distress.'[128] Colonel Smith fully corroborates this observation; but
Mr. Geoffrey, on the other hand, saw a pilot-fish take great pains to
bring a shark to the bait.[129] Probably the truth is that the pilot-fish
attend the shark in order to obtain the crumbs that fall from his
feasts, and that the cases in which they appear to prevent his taking
the bait are without any psychological significance.
With regard to the alleged co-operation of the threshing and sword-fish
in the destruction of whales, all that can be said is that the
statements, although antecedently improbable, are sufficient in number
not to be ignored. Mr. Day appears to accept the evidence as adequate,
and gives the following cases:--
Captain Arn, in a voyage to Memel in the Baltic, gives
the following interesting narrative:--One morning
during a calm, when near the Hebrides, all hands were
called up at 2 A.M. to witness a battle between
several of the fish called threshers or fox-sharks
(_Alopecias vulpes_), and some sword-fish on one side,
and an enormous whale on the other. It was in the
middle of the summer; and the weather being clear, and
the fish close to the vessel, we had a fine
opportunity of witnessing the contest. As soon as the
whale's back appeared above the water, the threshers
springing several yards into the air descended with
great violence upon the object of their rancour, and
inflicted upon him the most severe slaps with their
long tails, the sounds of which resembled the reports
of muskets fired at a distance. The sword-fish in
their turn attacked the distressed whale, stabbing
from below: and thus beset on all sides and wounded,
when the poor creature appeared, the water around him
was dyed with blood. In this manner they continued
tormenting and wounding him for many hours, until we
lost sight of him; and I have no doubt they in the end
completed his destruction.
The master of a fishing-boat has recently observed
that the thresher-shark serves out the whales, the sea
sometimes being all blood. One whale, attacked by
these fish, once took refuge under his vessel, where
it lay an hour and a half without moving a fin. He
also remarked having seen the threshers jump out of
the water as high as the mast-head and down upon the
whale, while the sword fish was wounding him from
beneath, the two sorts of fish evidently acting in
concert.
FOOTNOTES:
[110] _Phil. Frags._, translated by Huxley, _Taylor's Mag._, 1853, p.
196.
[111] Silliman's _American Journal_, Feb. 1872.
[112] Ransom, _Ann. and Mag. Nat. Hist._, 1865, xvi., p. 449.
[113] Quoted from Francis Day, F.L.S., 'Instincts and Emotions of Fish,'
_Journ. Linn. Soc._, vol. xv., pp. 36-7, where see for other cases of
nest-building among fish.
[114] _Ibid._
[115] Kaup, _Catal. Lopho. Fish in Brit. Mus._ 1856, p. i.
[116] Yarrell, _Brit. Fishes_, 2nd ed. ii. p. 436.
[117] _Compt. Rend._, Nov. 4, 1872, p. 1127.
[118] _Phil. Trans. Royal Society_, 1747.
[119] F. Day, _loc. cit._
[120] Shelley, _Lines written in the Bay of Lerici_.
[121] See Smiles, _Lives of Engineers_, vol. iii., p. 69.
[122] See 'On the Jaculator-Fish,' by Schlosser, _Phil. Trans._ 1764.
[123] _Natural History of Ceylon_, p. 351.
[124] Kirby, _Hist. Habits and Instincts of Animals_, vol i. p. 119.
[125] F. Day, _loc. cit._
[126] _Hist. des Poiss._, _Introd._, cxxx.
[127] For sundry other similar cases see Mr. Day's excellent paper
already quoted.
[128] Cuv., _Anim. Kingd._ x. p. 636.
[129] F. Day, _loc. cit._
CHAPTER IX.
BATRACHIANS AND REPTILES.
ON the intelligence of frogs and toads very little has to be said. Frogs
seem to have definite ideas of locality; for several of my
correspondents inform me that they have known cases in which these
animals, after having been removed for a distance of 200 or 300 yards
from their habitual haunts, returned to them again and again. This,
however, may I think perhaps be due to these haunts having a moistness
which the animals are able to perceive at a great distance. But be this
as it may, certainly the distance at which frogs are able to perceive
moisture is surprising. Thus, for instance, Warden gives a case in which
a pond containing a number of frogs dried up, and the frogs thereupon
made straight for the nearest water, although this was at a distance of
eight kilometres.[130]
A curious special instinct is met with in the toad _Bufo obstetricans_,
from which it derives its name; for the male here performs the function
of an accoucheur to the female, by severing from her body the gelatinous
cord by which the ova are attached.
Another special instinct or habit manifested by toads is described by M.
Duchemin in a paper before the Academy of Sciences at Paris.[131] The
habit consists in the killing of carp by squatting on the head of the
fish and forcing the fore-feet into its eyes. Probably this habit arises
from sexual excitement on the part of the toads.
I have one case, communicated to me by a correspondent, of a frog which
learnt to know her voice, and to come when called. As fish will
sometimes do the same thing, the account is sufficiently credible for
me to quote:--
I used to open the gate in the railings round the
pond, and call out 'Tommy' (the name I had given it),
and the frog would jump out from the bushes, dive into
the water, and swim across to me--get on my hand
sometimes. When I called 'Tommy,' it would nearly
always come, whatever the time of day, though it was
only fed after breakfast; but it seemed quite tame.
A very similar case is recorded by Mr. Pennent[132] of a toad which was
domesticated for thirty-six years, and knew all his friends.
There is no doubt that frogs are able to appreciate coming changes of
weather, and to adapt their movements in anticipation of them; but these
facts show delicate sensibility rather than remarkable intelligence.
The following observation of Edward, the Scottish naturalist, however,
shows considerable powers of observation on the part of frogs. After
describing the great noise made by a number of frogs on a moonlight
night, he says:--
Presently, when the whole of the vocalists had reached
their highest notes, they became hushed in an instant.
I was amazed at this, and began to wonder at the
sudden termination of the concert. But, looking about,
I observed a brown owl drop down, with the silence of
death, on to the top of a low dyke close by the
orchestra.[133]
_Reptiles._
Like the other cold-blooded Vertebrata, the reptiles are characterised
by a sluggishness and low development of mental power which is to some
extent proverbial. Nevertheless, that some members of the class present
vivid emotions is not to be questioned. Thus, to quote from Thompson:--
The common guana (_Lacerta iguana_) is naturally
extremely gentle and harmless. Its appearance,
however, is much against it, especially when agitated
by fear or anger. Its eyes then seem on fire; it
hisses like a serpent, swells out the pouch under its
throat, lashes about its long tail, erects the scales
on its back, and extending its wide jaws, holds its
head, covered over with tubercles, in a menacing
attitude. The male, during the spring of the year,
exhibits great attachment towards the female. Throwing
aside his usual gentleness of character, he defends
her even with fury, attacking with undaunted courage
every animal that seems inclined to injure her; and at
this time, though his bite is by no means poisonous,
he fastens so firmly, that it is necessary either to
kill him or to beat him with great violence on the
nose, in order to make him quit his hold.[134]
Several species of snake incubate their eggs and show parental affection
for their young when they are hatched out; but neither in these nor in
any other of their emotions do the reptiles appear to rise much above
the level of fish. The case, however, which I shall afterwards quote, of
the tame snakes kept by Mr. and Mrs. Mann, seems to show a somewhat
higher degree of emotional development than could be pointed to as
occurring in any lower Vertebrata. Moreover, according to Pliny, so much
affection subsists between the male and female asp, that when the one is
killed the other seeks to avenge its death; and this statement is so far
confirmed--or rather, its origin explained--by Sir Emerson Tennent that
he says when a cobra is killed, its mate is often found on the same spot
a day or two afterwards.
Passing on to the general intelligence of reptiles, we shall find that
this also, although low as compared with the intelligence of birds and
mammals, is conspicuously higher than that of fish or batrachians.
Taking first the case of special instincts, Mr. W. F. Barrett, in a
letter to Mr. Darwin, bearing the date May 6, 1873, and contained among
the MSS. already alluded to, gives an account of cutting open with a
penknife the egg of an alligator just about to hatch. The young animal,
although blind, 'instantly laid hold of the finger, and attempted to
bite.' Similarly, Dr. Davy, in his 'Account of Ceylon,' gives an
interesting observation of his own on a young crocodile, which he cut
out of the egg, and which, as soon as it escaped, started off in a
direct line for a neighbouring stream. Dr. Davy placed his stick before
it to try to make the little animal deviate from its course; but it
stoutly resisted the opposition, and raised itself into a posture of
offence, just as an older animal would have done.
Humboldt made exactly the same observation with regard to young turtles,
and he remarks that as the young normally quit the egg at night, they
cannot see the water which they seek, and must therefore be guided to it
by discerning the direction in which the air is most humid. He adds that
experiments were made which consisted in putting the newly hatched
animals into bags, carrying them to some distance from the shore, and
liberating them with their tails turned towards the water. It was
invariably found that the young animals immediately faced round, and
took without hesitation the shortest way to the water.
Scarcely less remarkable than the instincts of the young turtles are
those of the old ones. Their watchful timidity at the time of laying
their eggs is thus described by Bates:--
Great precautions are obliged to be taken to avoid
disturbing the sensitive turtles, who, previous to
crawling ashore to lay, assemble in great shoals off
the sand-bank. The men during this time take care not
to show themselves, and warn off any fisherman who
wishes to pass near the place. Their fires are made in
a deep hollow near the borders of the forest, so that
the smoke may not be visible. The passage of a boat
through the shallow waters where the animals are
congregated, or the sight of a man or a fire on the
sand-bank, would prevent the turtles from leaving the
water that night to lay their eggs; and if the causes
of alarm were repeated once or twice they would
forsake the praia for some other quieter place. . . .
I rose from my hammock by daylight, shivering with
cold--a praia, on account of the great radiation of
heat in the night from the sand, being towards the
dawn the coldest place that can be found in this
climate. Cardozo and the men were already up watching
the turtles. The sentinels had erected for this
purpose a stage about fifty feet high, on a tall tree
near their station, the ascent to which was by a
roughly made ladder of woody lianas. They are enabled,
by observing the turtles from this watch-tower, to
ascertain the date of successive deposits of eggs,
and thus guide the commandante in fixing the time for
the general invitation to the Ega people. The turtles
lay their eggs by night, leaving the water, when
nothing disturbs them, in vast crowds, and crawling to
the central and highest part of the praia. These
places are, of course, the last to go under water
when, in unusually wet seasons, the river rises before
the eggs are hatched by the heat of the sand. One
could almost believe, from this, that the animals used
forethought in choosing a place; but it is simply one
of those many instances in animals where unconscious
habit has the same result as conscious prevision. The
hours between midnight and dawn are the busiest. The
turtles excavate with their broad webbed paws deep
holes in the fine sand: the first comer, in each case,
making a pit about three feet deep, laying its eggs
(about 120 in number) and covering them with sand; the
next making its deposit at the top of that of its
predecessor, and so on until every pit is full. The
whole body of turtles frequenting a praia does not
finish laying in less than fourteen or fifteen days,
even when there is no interruption. When all have
done, the area (called by the Brazilians _taboleiro_)
over which they have excavated is distinguishable from
the rest of the praia only by signs of the sand having
been a little disturbed.[135]
The same naturalist says of the alligator,
These little incidents show the timidity and cowardice
(? prudence and caution) of the alligator. He never
attacks man when his intended victim is on his guard;
but he is cunning enough to know when this may be done
with impunity. Of this we had proof a few days
afterwards, &c.[136]
Of the alligator, Jesse writes:[137]--
But a most singular instance of attachment between two
animals, whose natures and habits were most opposite,
was related to me by a person on whose veracity I can
place the greatest reliance. He had resided for nine
years in the American States, where he superintended
the execution of some extensive works for the American
Government. One of these works consisted in the
erection of a beacon in a swamp in one of the rivers,
where he caught a young alligator. This animal he made
so perfectly tame that it followed him about the house
like a dog, scrambling up the stairs after him, and
showing much affection and docility. Its great
favourite, however, was a cat, and the friendship was
mutual. When the cat was reposing herself before the
fire (this was at New York), the alligator would lay
himself down, place his head upon the cat, and in this
attitude go to sleep. If the cat was absent the
alligator was restless; but he always appeared happy
when the cat was near him. The only instance in which
he showed any ferocity was in attacking a fox, which
was tied up in the yard. Probably, however, the fox
resented some playful advances which the other had
made, and thus called forth the anger of the
alligator. In attacking the fox he did not make use of
his mouth, but beat him with so much severity with his
tail, that, had not the chain which confined the fox
broken, he would probably have killed him. The
alligator was fed on raw flesh, and sometimes with
milk, for which he showed a great fondness. In cold
weather he was shut up in a box, with wool in it; but,
having been forgotten one frosty night, he was found
dead in the morning. This is not, I believe, a
solitary instance of amphibia becoming tame, and
showing a fondness for those who have been kind to
them. Blumenbach mentions that crocodiles have been
tamed; and two instances have occurred under my own
observation of toads knowing their benefactors, and
coming to meet them with considerable alacrity.
With regard to the higher intelligence of reptiles, I may quote the
following instances.
Three or four different correspondents tell me of cases which they have
themselves observed, of snakes and tortoises unmistakably distinguishing
persons. In one of these cases the tortoise would come to the call of
the favoured person, and when it came would manifest its affection by
tapping the boot of this person with its mouth; 'but it would not answer
anyone else.' A separation of some weeks did not affect the memory of
this tortoise for his friend.[138]
The following interesting observation on the intelligence of snakes
shows, not only that these animals are well able to distinguish persons,
and that they remember their friends for a period of at least six weeks,
but also that they possess an intensity of amiable emotion scarcely to
be expected in this class. Clearly the snakes in question were not only
perfectly tame, but entertained a remarkable affection for those who
tended and petted them. The facts were communicated to me by Mr. Walter
Severn, the well-known artist, who was a friend of Mr. and Mrs. Mann,
the gentleman and his wife to whom the snakes belonged. Mr. and Mrs.
Mann having got into trouble with their neighbours on account of the
fear and dislike which their pets occasioned, legal proceedings were
instituted, and so the matter came before the public. Mr. Severn then
wrote a letter to the _Times_, in order to show that the animals were
harmless. From this letter the following is an extract:--
I happen to know the gentleman and lady against whom a
complaint has been made because of the snakes they
keep, and I should like to give a short account of my
first visit to them.
Mr. M., after we had talked for a little time, asked
if I had any fear of snakes; and after a timid 'No,
not very,' from me, he produced out of a cupboard a
large boa-constrictor, a python, and several small
snakes, which at once made themselves at home on the
writing-table among pens, ink, and books. I was at
first a good deal startled, especially when the two
large snakes coiled round and round my friend, and
began to notice me with their bright eyes and forked
tongues; but soon finding how tame they were, I ceased
to feel frightened. After a short time Mr. M.
expressed a wish to call Mrs. M., and left me with the
boa deposited on an arm-chair. I felt a little queer
when the animal began gradually to come near, but the
entrance of my host and hostess, followed by two
charming little children, put me at my ease again.
After the first interchange of civilities, she and the
children went at once to the boa, and, calling it by
the most endearing names, allowed it to twine itself
most gracefully round about them. I sat talking for a
long time, lost in wonder at the picture before me.
Two beautiful little girls with their charming mother
sat before me with a boa-constrictor (as thick round
as a small tree) twining playfully round the lady's
waist and neck, and forming a kind of turban round
her head, expecting to be petted and made much of
like a kitten. The children over and over again took
its head in their hands and kissed its mouth, pushing
aside its forked tongue in doing so. The animal seemed
much pleased, but kept turning its head continually
towards me with a curious gaze, until I allowed it to
nestle its head for a moment up my sleeve. Nothing
could be prettier than to see this splendid serpent
coiled all round Mrs. M. while she moved about the
room, and when she stood to pour out our coffee. He
seemed to adjust his weight so nicely, and every coil
with its beautiful marking was relieved by the black
velvet dress of the lady. It was long before I could
make up my mind to end the visit, and I returned soon
after with a friend (a distinguished M.P.[139]), to see
my snake-taming acquaintance again. . . .
These (the snakes) seemed very obedient, and remained
in their cupboard when told to do so.
About a year ago Mr. and Mrs. M. were away for six
weeks, and left the boa in charge of a keeper at the
Zoo. The poor reptile moped, slept, and refused to be
comforted, but when his master and mistress appeared
he sprang upon them with delight, coiling himself
round them, and showing every symptom of intense
delight.[140]
The end of this python was remarkable and pathetic. Mr. Severn tells me
that some years after he had published the above letter Mr. Mann was
seized with an apoplectic fit. His wife, being the only other person in
the house at the time, ran out to fetch a doctor. She was absent about
ten minutes, and on returning found that the serpent during her absence
had crawled upstairs from the room below into that where her husband was
lying, and was stretched beside him dead. Such being the fact, we are
left to speculate whether the double seizure of the man and the snake
was a mere coincidence, or whether the sight of its stricken master,
acting on the emotions of a possibly not healthy animal, precipitated
its death. Looking to the extreme suddenness of the latter, as well as
to the fact of the animal having pined so greatly for his friends while
it was confined at the Zoological Gardens, I think the probability
rather points to the death of the animal having been accelerated by
emotional shock. But of course the question is an open one.
So much for the power of reptiles to establish such definite and
complete associations as are required for the recognition of
persons--associations, however, to which, as we have seen, frogs, and
even insects may attain. As for other associations, a correspondent
writes to me:--
I believe tortoises are able to establish a definite
association between particular colours on a flat
surface and food. Only the day before reading your
article on animal intelligence I noticed the
endeavours of a small tortoise to eat the _yellow_
flowers of an inlaid writing-table, and I have often
remarked the same recognition with regard to red.
Lord Monboddo relates the following anecdote of a serpent:--
I am well informed of a tame serpent in the East
Indies, which belonged to the late Dr. Vigot, and was
kept by him in the suburbs of Madras. This serpent was
taken by the French, when they invested Madras in the
late war, and was carried to Pondicherry in a close
carriage. But from thence he found his way back again
to his old quarters, which it seems he liked better,
though Madras is distant from Pondicherry about one
hundred miles. This information, he adds, I have from
a lady who then was in India, and had seen the serpent
often before his journey and after his return.
Considering the enormous distances over which turtles are able to find
their way in the season of migration, this display of the homing faculty
to so great a degree in a serpent is not to be regarded as incredible.
Mr. E. L. Layard, in his 'Rambles in Ceylon' says of the cobra:[141]--
I once watched one which had thrust its head through a
narrow aperture and swallowed one (_i.e._ a toad).
With this encumbrance he could not withdraw himself.
Finding this, he reluctantly disgorged the precious
morsel, which began to move off. This was too much for
snake philosophy to bear, and the toad was again
seized; and again, after violent efforts to escape,
was the snake compelled to part with it. This time,
however, a lesson had been learnt, and the toad was
seized by one leg, withdrawn, and then swallowed in
triumph.
Mr. E. C. Buck, B.C.S., says in 'Nature' (vol. viii., p. 303):--
I have witnessed exactly a similar plan pursued by a
large number of Ganges crocodiles, which had been
lying or swimming about all day in front of my tent,
at the mouth of a small stream which led from some
large inland lakes to the Ganges. Towards dusk, at the
same moment every one of them left the bank on which
they were lying, or the deep water in which they were
swimming, and formed a line across the stream, which
was about twenty yards wide. They had to form a double
line, as there was not room for all in a single line.
They then swam slowly up the shallow stream, driving
the fish before them, and I saw two or three fish
caught before they disappeared.
An account of reptile psychology would be incomplete without some
reference to the alleged facts of snakes charming other animals by
'fascination,' and being themselves charmed by the arts of music, &c.
The testimony on both subjects is conflicting, and especially with
regard to the fascination of other animals by snakes. Thus:--
Mr. Pennant says that this snake (rattle-snake) will
frequently lie at the bottom of a tree on which a
squirrel is seated. He fixes his eyes on the animal,
and from that moment it cannot escape; it begins a
doleful outcry, which is so well known that a
passer-by, on hearing it, immediately knows that a
snake is present. The squirrel runs up the tree a
little way, comes down again, then goes up, and
afterwards comes still lower. The snake continues at
the bottom of the tree with its eyes fixed on the
squirrel, and his attention is so entirely taken up,
that a person accidentally approaching may make a
considerable noise without so much as the snake
turning about. The squirrel comes lower, and at last
leaps down to the snake, whose mouth is already
distended for its reception. Le Vaillant confirms this
fascinating terror by a scene he witnessed. He saw on
the branch of a tree a species of shrike, trembling as
if in convulsions, and at the distance of nearly four
feet, on another branch, a large snake that was lying
with outstretched neck and fiery eyes, gazing steadily
at the poor animal. The agony of the bird was so great
that it was deprived of the power of moving away; and
when one of the party killed the snake, it (_i.e._ the
bird) was found dead upon the spot--and that entirely
from fear; for, on examination, it appeared not to
have received the slightest wound. The same traveller
adds that a short time afterwards he observed a small
mouse in similar agonising convulsions, about two
yards from a snake, whose eyes were intently fixed
upon it; and on frightening away the reptile, and
taking up the mouse, it expired in his hand.[142]
Many other observations, more or less similar, might be quoted; but, on
the other hand, Sir Joseph Fayrer tells me that 'fascination is only
fright;' and this appears to be the opinion of all persons who have had
the opportunity of looking into the subject in a scientific manner. The
truth probably is that small animals are occasionally much alarmed by
the sight of a snake looking at them, and as a consequence of this more
easily fall a prey. In some cases, it is likely enough, strong terror so
unnerves the animal as to make it behave in the manner which the
witnesses describe; in making half-palsied efforts to escape, it may
actually fall or draw nearer to the object of its dread. Perhaps,
therefore, Dr. Barton, of Philadelphia, is a little too severe on
previous observers when he says that--
The report of this fascinating property has had its
rise in nothing more than the fears and cries of birds
and other animals in the protection of their nests. . . .
The result of not a little attention has taught me
that there is but one wonder in the business--the
wonder that the story should ever have been believed
by any man of understanding and observation.
But, be this as it may, it is certainly remarkable, as Sir J. Fayrer in
his letter to me observes, 'how little fear some animals show until the
moment that they are seized and struck.'
As for snake-charming, the facts seem to be that cobras and other
serpents are attracted by the sound of a pipe to creep out of their
hiding-places, when they are captured and tamed. It is certain that the
fangs are not always drawn, and also that from the first moment of
capture, before there has been time for any process of training, a real
snake-charmer is able to make the reptile 'dance.' Thus, for instance,
Sir E. Tennent publishes the following letter from Mr. Reyne. After
describing all his precautions to ensure that the snake-charmer had no
tamed snakes concealed about his person, Mr. Reyne proceeds to tell how
he made the man accompany him to the jungle, where, attracted by the
music of a pipe which the man played, a large cobra came from an
ant-hill which Mr. Reyne knew it to occupy:--
On seeing the man it tried to escape, but he caught it
by the tail and kept swinging it round until we
reached the bungalow. He then made it dance, but
before long it bit him above the knee. He immediately
bandaged the leg above the bite and applied a
snake-stone to the wound to extract the poison. He was
in great pain for a few minutes, but after that it
gradually went away, the stone falling off just before
he was relieved.[143]
Thus the only remarkable thing about the charming of a freshly caught
snake seems to be that the charmer is able to make the animal
'dance'--for the fact of the snake approaching the unfamiliar sound of
music is not in itself any more remarkable than a fish approaching the
unfamiliar sight of a lantern. It does not, however, appear that this
dancing is anything more than some series of gestures or movements which
may be merely the expressions, more or less natural, of uneasiness or
alarm. Anything else that charmed snakes may do is probably the result
of training; for there is no doubt that cobras admit of being tamed, and
even domesticated. Thus, for instance, Major Skinner, writing to Sir E.
Tennent, says:--
In one family near Negombo, cobras are kept as
protectors, in the place of dogs, by a wealthy man who
has always large sums of money in his house. But this
is not a solitary case of the kind. . . . The snakes
glide about the house, a terror to the thieves, but
never attempting to harm the inmates.[144]
Thus, on the whole, we may accept Dr. Davey's opinion--who had good
opportunities for observation--that the snake-charmers control the
cobras by working upon the well-known timidity and reluctance of these
animals to use their fangs till they become virtually tame.
FOOTNOTES:
[130] _Account of the United States_, vol. ii., p. 9.
[131] April 11, 1870.
[132] See Bingley, _Animal Biography_, vol. ii., p. 406.
[133] Smiles, _Life of Edwards_, p. 124.
[134] _Passions of Animals_, p. 229.
[135] _Naturalist on the Amazon_, pp. 285-6.
[136] _Ibid._ The astonishing facts relating to the migration of turtles
in the laying season will be treated under the general heading
'Migration' in my forthcoming work.
[137] _Gleanings_, vol. i., pp. 163-4.
[138] The tortoise which has gained such immortal celebrity by having
fallen under the observation of the author of the _Natural History of
Selborne_, likewise distinguished persons in this way. For 'whenever the
good old lady came in sight, who had waited on it for more than thirty
years, it always hobbled with awkward alacrity towards its benefactress,
whilst to strangers it was altogether inattentive.'
[139] This gentleman was Lord Arthur Russell.
[140] The _Times_, July 25, 1872.
[141] See _Annas. and Mag. of Nat. Hist._, 2nd series, vol. ix., p. 333.
[142] Thompson, _Passions of Animals_, p. 118; see also Bingley, _Animal
Biography_, vol. ii., pp. 447-8.
[143] _Natural History of Ceylon_, p. 314.
[144] Tennent, _loc. cit._, p. 299.
CHAPTER X.
BIRDS.
ADEQUATELY to treat of the intelligence of birds a separate volume would
be required; here it must be enough to deal with this class as I shall
afterwards deal with the Mammalia--namely, by giving an outline sketch
of the more prominent features of their psychology.
_Memory._
The memory of birds is well developed. Thus, although we are much in the
dark on the whole subject of migration--so much so that I reserve its
discussion with all the problems that this presents for a separate
chapter in my next work--we may at least conclude that the return of the
same pair of swallows every year to the same nest must be due to the
animals remembering the precise locality of their nests. Again, Buckland
gives an account of a pigeon which remembered the voice of its mistress
after an absence of eighteen months;[145] but I have not been able to
meet with satisfactory evidence of the memory of a bird enduring for a
longer time than this.
As it is a matter of interest in comparative psychology to trace as far
as possible into detail the similarities of a mental faculty as it
occurs in different groups of animals, and as the faculty of memory
first admits of detailed study in the class which we are now
considering, I shall here devote a paragraph to the facts concerning the
exhibition of memory by birds where its mechanism best admits of being
analysed; I refer to the learning of articulate phrases and tunes by
talking and musical birds. The best observations in this connection with
which I am acquainted are those of Dr. Samuel Wilks, F.R.S., and
therefore I shall quote _in extenso_ the portion of his paper which
refers to the memory of parrots: other portions of this paper I shall
have occasion to quote in my next work:--
When my parrot first came into my possession, several
years ago, it was quite unlettered, and I therefore
had an opportunity of observing the mode in which it
acquired the accomplishment of speech. I was very much
struck with its manner of learning, and the causes for
its speaking on special occasions. The first seemed to
resemble very much the method of children in learning
their lessons, and the second to be due to some
association or suggestion--the usual provocative for
set speeches at all periods of human life. A parrot is
well known to imitate sounds in a most perfect manner,
even to the tone of the voice, besides having a
compass which no human being can approach, ranging
from the gravest to the most acute note. My bird,
though possessing a good vocabulary of words and
sentences, can only retain them for a few months
unless kept constantly in practice by the suggestive
recurrence of some circumstance which causes their
continual utterance. If forgotten, however, they are
soon revived in the memory by again repeating them a
few times, and much more speedily than any new
sentence can be acquired. In beginning to teach the
parrot a sentence, it has to be repeated many times,
the bird all the while listening most attentively by
turning the opening of the ear as close as possible to
the speaker. After a few hours it is heard attempting
to say the phrase, or, I should say, trying to learn
it. It evidently has the phrase somewhere in store,
for eventually this is uttered perfectly, but at first
the attempts are very poor and ludicrous. If the
sentence be composed of a few words, the first two or
three are said over and over again, and then another
and another word added, until the sentence is
complete, the pronunciation at first being very
imperfect, and then becoming gradually more complete,
until the task is accomplished. Thus hour after hour
will the bird be indefatigably working at the
sentence, and not until some days have elapsed will it
be perfect. The mode of acquiring it seems to me
exactly what I have observed in a child learning a
French phrase; two or three words are constantly
repeated, and then others added, until the whole is
known, the pronunciation becoming more perfect as the
repetition goes on. I found also on whistling a
popular air to my parrot that she picked it up in the
same way, taking note by note until the whole
twenty-five notes were complete. Then the mode of
forgetting, or the way in which phrases and airs pass
from its recollection, may be worth remarking. The
last words or notes are first forgotten, so that soon
the sentence remains unfinished or the air only half
whistled through. The first words are the best fixed
in the memory; these suggest others which stand next
to them, and so on till the last, which have the least
hold on the brain. These, however, as I have before
mentioned, can be easily revived on repetition. This
is also a very usual process in the human subject: for
example, an Englishman speaking French will, in his
own country, if no opportunity occur for conversation,
apparently forget it; he no sooner, however, crosses
the Channel and hears the language than it very soon
comes back to him again. In trying to recall poems
learned in childhood or in school days, although at
that period hundreds of lines may have been known, it
is found that in manhood we remember only the two or
three first lines of the 'Iliad,' the 'Æneid,' or the
'Paradise Lost.'[146]
The following is communicated to me by Mr. Venn, of Cambridge, the
well-known logician:--
I had a grey parrot, three or four years old, which
had been taken from its nest in West Africa by those
through whom I received it. It stood ordinarily by the
window, where it could equally hear the front and back
door bells. In the yard, by the back door, was a
collie dog, who naturally barked violently at nearly
all the comers that way. The parrot took to imitating
the dog. After a time I was interested in observing
the discriminative association between the back-door
bell and the dog's bark in the parrot's mind. Even
when the dog was not there, or for any other cause did
not bark, the parrot would constantly bark when the
back-door bell sounded, but never (that I could hear)
when the front-door bell was heard.
This is but a trifle in the way of intelligence, but
it struck me as an interesting analogous case to a law
of association often noticed by writers on human
psychology.
The celebrated parrot that belonged to the Buffon family and of which
the Comte de Buffon wrote, exhibited in a strange manner the association
of its ideas. For he was frequently in the habit of asking himself for
his own claw, and then never failed to comply with his own request by
holding it out, in the same way as he did when asked for his claw by
anybody else. This, however, probably arose, not, as Buffon or his
sister Madame Nadault supposed, from the bird not knowing its own voice,
but rather from the association between the words and the gesture.
According to Margrave, parrots sometimes chatter their phrases in their
dreams, and this shows a striking similarity of psychical processes in
the operations of memory with those which occur in ourselves.
Similarly, Mr. Walter Pollock, writes me of his own parrot:--
In this parrot the sense of association is very
strongly developed. If one word picked up at a former
home comes into its head, and is uttered by it, it
immediately follows this word up with all the other
words and phrases picked up at the same place and
period.
Lastly, parrots not only remember, but recollect; that is to say, they
know when there is a missing link in a train of association, and
purposely endeavour to pick it up. Thus, for instance, the late Lady
Napier told me an interesting series of observations on this point which
she had made upon an intelligent parrot of her own. They were of this
kind. Taking such a phrase as 'Old Dan Tucker,' the bird would remember
the beginning and the end, and try to recollect the middle. For it would
say very slowly, 'Old--old--old--old' (and then very quickly) 'Lucy
Tucker.' Feeling that this was not right, it would try again as before,
'Old--old--old--old--old Bessy Tucker,' substituting one word after
another in the place of the sought-for word 'Dan.' And that the process
was one of truly seeking for the desired word was proved by the fact
that if, while the bird was saying, 'Old--old--old--old,' any one threw
in the word 'Dan,' he immediately supplied the 'Tucker.'
_Emotions._
As regards emotions, it is among birds that we first meet with a
conspicuous advance in the tenderer feelings of affection and sympathy.
Those relating to the sexes and the care of progeny are in this class
proverbial for their intensity, offering, in fact, a favourite type for
the poet and moralist. The pining of the 'love-bird' for its absent
mate, and the keen distress of a hen on losing her chickens, furnish
abundant evidence of vivid feelings of the kind in question. Even the
stupid-looking ostrich has heart enough to die for love, as was the case
with a male in the Rotund of the Jardin des Plantes in Paris, who,
having lost his wife, pined rapidly away. It is remarkable that in some
species--notably pigeons--conjugal fidelity should be so strongly
marked; for this shows, not only what may be called a refinement of
sexual feeling, but also the presence of an abiding image in the mind's
eye of the lover. For instance,--
Referring to the habits of the mandarin duck (a
Chinese species) Mr. Bennett says that Mr. Beale's
aviary afforded a singular corroboration of the
fidelity of the birds in question. Of a pair in that
gentleman's possession, the drake being one night
purloined by some thieves, the unfortunate duck
displayed the strongest marks of despair at her
bereavement, retiring into a corner, and altogether
neglecting food and drink, as well as the care of her
person. In this condition she was courted by a drake
who had lost his mate, but who met with no
encouragement from the widow. On the stolen drake
being subsequently recovered and restored to the
aviary, the most extravagant demonstrations of joy
were displayed by the fond couple; but this was not
all, for, as if informed by his spouse of the gallant
proposals made to her shortly before his arrival, the
drake attacked the luckless bird who would have
supplanted him, beat out his eyes, and inflicted so
many injuries as to cause his death.[147]
Similarly, to give an instance or two with regard to other birds, Jesse
states the following as his own observation:--
A pair of swans had been inseparable companions for
three years, during which time they had reared three
broods of cygnets; last autumn the male was killed,
and since that time the female has separated herself
from all society with her own species; and, though at
the time I am writing (the end of March) the breeding
season for swans has far advanced, she remains in the
same state of seclusion, resisting the addresses of a
male swan, who has been making advances towards
forming an acquaintance with her, either driving him
away, or flying from him whenever he comes near her.
How long she will continue in this state of widowhood
I know not, but at present it is quite evident that
she has not forgotten her former partner.
This reminds me of a circumstance which lately
happened at Chalk Farm, near Hampton. A man, set to
watch a field of peas which had been much preyed upon
by pigeons, shot an old cock pigeon which had long
been an inhabitant of the farm. His mate, around whom
he had for many a year cooed, whom he had nourished
from his own crop, and had assisted in rearing
numerous young ones, immediately settled on the ground
by his side, and showed her grief in the most
expressive manner. The labourer took up the dead bird,
and tied it to a short stake, thinking that it would
frighten away the other depredators. In this
situation, however, the widow did not forsake her
deceased husband, but continued, day after day,
walking slowly round the stick. The kind-hearted wife
of the bailiff of the farm at last heard of the
circumstance, and immediately went to afford what
relief she could to the poor bird. She told me that,
on arriving at the spot, she found the hen bird much
exhausted, and that she had made a circular beaten
track round the dead pigeon, making now and then a
little spring towards him. On the removal of the dead
bird the hen returned to the dove-cote.[148]
As evidence of the intensity of the maternal instinct even in the case
of barren birds, I may quote the following from the naturalist Couch. I
do so because, although the instance is a trivial one, and also one of
frequent occurrence, it is interesting as showing that a deeply rooted
instinct or emotion may assert itself powerfully even in the absence of
what may be termed its natural stimulus or object:--
I was once witness to a curious instance of the
yearning for progeny in a diminutive bantam hen.
There was at this time a nest of the common hen in a
secluded part of the garden, and the parent had been
sitting on its eggs, till compelled by hunger she left
them for a short time. This absence was fatal; for the
bantam had in the meantime found its situation in a
covered recess in the hedge, and I saw her creep into
it with all the triumph of the discoverer of a
treasure. The real mother now returned, and great was
her agony at finding an intruder in her nest. The
expression of her eye and the attitude of her head
were emphatic of surprise at the impudence of the
proceeding. But after many attempts to recover
possession she was compelled to resign her rights, for
the bantam was too resolute to be contended with; and
though its body was not big enough to cover the whole
of the eggs, and thus some of them were not hatched,
yet in due season the pride of this audacious
step-mother was gratified by strutting at the head of
a company of robust chickens, which she passed off
upon the feathered public as a brood of her own.[149]
As evidence of sympathy I shall quote _in extenso_ an interesting case
which has been communicated to me by a young lady, who desires her name
withheld. There are several more or less corroborative cases in the
anecdote-books,[150] so that I have no doubt as to the substantial
accuracy of the account:--
My grandfather had a Swan River gander, which had been
reared near the house, and had consequently attached
himself to the members of the family; so much so that,
on seeing any of them at a distance, he would run to
meet them with all possible demonstrations of delight.
But 'Swanny' was quite an outcast from his own tribe;
and as often as he made humble overtures to the other
geese, so often was he driven away with great
contempt, and on such occasions he would frequently
run to some of his human friends, and laying his head
on their laps, seem to seek for sympathy. At last,
however, he found a friend among his own species. An
old grey goose, becoming blind, was also discarded by
her more fortunate companions, and Swanny lost no
opportunity of recognising this comrade in distress.
He at once took her under his protection and led her
about. When he considered it well for her to have a
swim, he would gently take her neck in his bill, and
thus lead her, sometimes a considerable distance, to
the water's edge. Having fairly launched her, he kept
close by her side, and guided her from dangerous
places by arching his neck over hers, and so turning
her in the right direction. After cruising about a
sufficient time, he would guide her to a convenient
landing-place, and taking her neck in his bill as
before, lead her to _terra firma_ again. When she had
goslings, he would proudly convoy the whole party to
the water-side; and if any ill-fated gosling got into
difficulties in a hole or deep cart-rut, Swanny with
ready skill would put his bill under its body, and
carefully raise it to the level ground.
My grandfather had also another gander who attached
himself to him, and would follow him for hours through
fields and lanes, pausing when he stood still, and
waddling gravely by his side as he proceeded. This
gander was not, like the other, discarded by his kind,
but would leave them any time to walk with his master,
and was exceedingly jealous of any one else who tried
to share this privilege, excepting only his mistress.
On one occasion, a gentleman venturing to place his
hand on my grandfather's arm, the gander flew at him,
and beat him severely with his wings, and it was with
great difficulty that he was induced to let go.
The solicitude which most gregarious birds display when one of their
number is wounded or captured, constitutes strong evidence of sympathy.
As Jesse observes,--
There is one trait in the character of the rook which
is, I believe, peculiar to that bird, and which does
him no little credit; it is the distress which is
exhibited when one of his fellows has been killed or
wounded by a gun while they have been feeding in a
field or flying over it. Instead of being scared away
by the report of the gun, leaving their wounded or
dead companion to his fate, they show the greatest
anxiety and sympathy for him, uttering cries of
distress, and plainly proving that they wish to
render him assistance by hovering over him, or
sometimes making a dart from the air close up to him,
apparently to try and find out the reason why he did
not follow them. . . . I have seen one of my labourers
pick up a rook which he had shot at for the purpose of
putting him up as a scarecrow in a field of wheat, and
while the poor wounded bird was still fluttering in
his hand, I have observed one of his companions make a
wheel round in the air, and suddenly dart past him so
as almost to touch him, perhaps with the last hope
that he might still afford assistance to his
unfortunate mate or companion. Even when the dead bird
has been hung, _in terrorem_, to a stake in the field,
he has been visited by some of his former friends, but
as soon as they found that the case was hopeless, they
have generally abandoned that field altogether.
When one considers the instinctive care with which
rooks avoid any one carrying a gun, and which is so
evident that I have often heard country people remark
that a rook can smell gunpowder, one can more justly
estimate the force of their love or friendship in thus
continuing to hover round a person who has just
destroyed one of their companions with an instrument
the dangerous nature of which they seem fully capable
of appreciating.[151]
The justice of these remarks may be better appreciated in the light of
the following very remarkable observation, as an introduction to which I
have quoted them.
Edward, the naturalist, having shot a tern, which fell winged into the
sea, its companions hovered around the floating bird, manifesting much
apparent solicitude, as terns and gulls always do under such
circumstances. How far this apparent solicitude is real I have often
speculated, as in the analogous case of the crows--wondering whether the
emotions concerned were really those of sympathy or mere curiosity. The
following observation, however, seems to set this question at rest.
Having begun to make preparations for securing the wounded bird, Edward
says: 'I expected in a few moments to have it in my possession, being
not very far from the water's edge, and drifting shorewards with the
wind.' He continues:--
While matters were in this position I beheld, to my
utter astonishment and surprise, two of the unwounded
terns take hold of their disabled comrade, one at
each wing, lift him out of the water, and bear him out
seawards. They were followed by two other birds. After
being carried about six or seven yards, he was let
gently down again, when he was taken up in a similar
manner by the two who had been hitherto inactive. In
this way they continued to carry him alternately,
until they had conveyed him to a rock at a
considerable distance, upon which they landed him in
safety. Having recovered my self-possession, I made
toward the rock, wishing to obtain the prize which had
been so unceremoniously snatched from my grasp. I was
observed, however, by the terns; and instead of four,
I had in a short time a whole swarm about me. On my
near approach to the rock I once more beheld two of
them take hold of the wounded bird as they had done
already, and bear him out to sea in triumph, far
beyond my reach. This, had I been so inclined, I could
no doubt have prevented. Under the circumstances,
however, my feelings would not permit me; and I
willingly allowed them to perform without molestation
an act of mercy, and to exhibit an instance of
affection which man himself need not be ashamed to
imitate.[152]
According to Clavigero,[153] the inhabitants of Mexico utilise the
sympathy of the wild pelican for the procuring of fish. First a pelican
is caught and its wing broken. The bird is then tied to a tree, and
being both in pain and captivity, it utters cries of distress. Other
pelicans are attracted by the cries, and finding their friend in such a
sorry case, their bowels of compassion become moved in a very literal
sense; for they disgorge from their stomachs and pouches the fish which
they have caught, and deposit them within reach of the captive. As soon
as this is done the men, who have been lying in wait concealed, run to
the spot, drive off the friendly pelicans, and secure their fish,
leaving only a small quantity for the use of the captive.
The parrot which belonged to the Buffon family showed much sympathy with
a female servant to whom it was attached when the girl had a sore
finger, which it displayed by its never leaving her sick room, and
groaning as if itself in pain. As soon as the girl got better the bird
again became cheerful.
I shall conclude this brief demonstration of the keen sympathy which may
exist in birds, by quoting the following very conclusive case in the
words of its distinguished observer, Dr. Franklin:[1]--
I have known two parrots, said he, which had lived
together four years, when the female became weak, and
her legs swelled. These were symptoms of gout, a
disease to which all birds of this family are very
subject in England. It became impossible for her to
descend from the perch, or to take her food as
formerly, but the male was most assiduous in carrying
it to her in his beak. He continued feeding her in
this manner during four months, but the infirmities of
his companion increased from day to day, so that at
last she was unable to support herself on the perch.
She remained cowering down in the bottom of the cage,
making, from time to time, ineffectual efforts to
regain the perch. The male was always near her, and
with all his strength aided the feeble attempts of his
dear better half. Seizing the poor invalid by the
beak, or the upper part of the wing, he tried to raise
her, and renewed his efforts several times.
His constancy, his gestures, and his continued
solicitude, all showed in this affectionate bird the
most ardent desire to relieve the sufferings and
assist the weakness of his companion.
But the scene became still more interesting when the
female was dying. Her unhappy spouse moved around her
incessantly, his attention and tender cares redoubled.
He even tried to open her beak to give some
nourishment. He ran to her, then returned with a
troubled and agitated look. At intervals he uttered
the most plaintive cries; then, with his eyes fixed on
her, kept a mournful silence. At length his companion
breathed her last; from that moment he pined away, and
died in the course of a few weeks.[154]
The jealousy of birds is proverbial; and that they also manifest the
kindred passion of emulation, no one can doubt who has heard them
singing against one another. Mr. Bold relates that a mule canary would
always sing at his own image in a mirror, becoming more and more
excited, till he ended by flying in rage against his supposed rival.
The late Lady Napier wrote me, among other 'anecdotes of a grey parrot
left on a long visit to the family of General Sir William Napier, at the
time residing in Germany,' the following graphic description of the
exultation displayed by the bird when it baffled the imitative powers of
its master. The bird was the same as that already mentioned under the
head of 'Memory':--
Sometimes when only two or three were in the room, at
quiet occupations instead of talking, she would utter
at short intervals a series of strong squalls or cries
in an interjectional style, each more strange and
grotesque than the previous one. My father on these
occasions sometimes amused himself by imitating these
cries as she uttered them, which seemed to excite her
ingenuity in the production of them to the uttermost.
As a last resource she always had recourse to a very
peculiar one, which completely baffled him; upon
which, with a loud ha! ha! ha! she made a somersault
round her perch, swinging with her head downwards,
sprung from one part of the cage to another, and
tossed a bit of wood she used as a toy over her head
in the most exulting triumph, repeating at intervals
the inimitable cry, followed by peals of ha! ha! ha!
to the great amusement of all present.
Allied to emulation is resentment, of which the following, communicated
to me by a correspondent, may be taken as an example. If space permitted
I could give confirmatory cases:--
One day the cat and the parrot had a quarrel. I think
the cat had upset Polly's food, or something of that
kind; however, they seemed all right again. An hour or
so after, Polly was standing on the edge of the table;
she called out in a tone of extreme affection, 'Puss,
puss, come then--come then, pussy.' Pussy went and
looked up innocently enough. Polly with her beak
seized a basin of milk standing by, and tipped the
basin and all its contents over the cat; then chuckled
diabolically, of course broke the basin, and half
drowned the cat.
Several strange but mutually corroborative stories seem to show
cherished vindictiveness on the part of storks. Thus, in Captain Brown's
book there occurs an account of a tame stork which lived in the college
yard at Tübingen,--
And in a neighbouring house was a nest, in which other
storks, that annually resorted to the place, used to
hatch their eggs. At this nest, one day in autumn, a
young collegian fired a shot, by which the stork that
was sitting on it was probably wounded, for it did not
fly out of the nest for some weeks afterwards. It was
able, however, to take its departure at the usual time
with the rest of the storks. But in the ensuing spring
a strange stork was observed on the roof of the
college, which, by clapping his wings and other
gestures, seemed to invite the tame stork to come to
him; but, as the tame one's wings were clipped, he was
unable to accept the invitation. After some days the
strange stork appeared again, and came down into the
yard, when the tame one went out to meet him, clapping
his wings as if to bid him welcome, but was suddenly
attacked by the visitor with great fury. Some of the
neighbours protected the tame bird, and drove off the
assailant, but he returned several times afterwards,
and incommoded the other through the whole summer. The
next spring, instead of one stork only, four storks
came together into the yard, and fell upon the tame
one; when all the poultry present--cocks, hens, geese,
and ducks--flocked at once to his assistance, and
rescued him from his enemies. In consequence of this
serious attack, the people of the house took
precaution for the tame stork's security, and he was
no more molested that year. But in the beginning of
the third spring came upwards of twenty storks, which
rushed at once into the yard and killed the tame stork
before either man or any other animal could afford him
protection.
A similar occurrence took place on the premises of a
farmer near Hamburg, who kept a tame stork, and,
having caught another, thought to make it a companion
for the one in his possession. But the two were no
sooner brought together than the tame one fell upon
the other, and beat him so severely that he made his
escape from the place. About four months afterwards,
however, the defeated stork returned with three
others, who all made a combined attack upon the tame
one and killed him.[155]
The curiosity of birds is highly developed, so much so, indeed, that in
this and other countries it is played upon by sportsmen and trappers.
Unfamiliar objects being placed within sight, say, of ducks, the birds
approach to examine them, and fall into the snares which have been
prepared. Similarly, in oceanic islands unfrequented by man, the birds
fearlessly approach to examine the first human beings that they have
seen.
That birds exhibit pride might be considered doubtful if we had to rely
only on the evidence supplied by the display of the peacock, and the
strutting of the turkey-gobbler; for these actions, although so
expressive of this emotion, may not really be due to it. But I think
that the evident pleasure which is taken in achievement by talking birds
can only be ascribed to the emotion in question. These birds regularly
practise their art, and when a new phrase is perfected they show an
unmistakable delight in displaying the result.
Play is exhibited by many species in various ways, and it seems to be
this class of feelings in their most organised form which have led to
the extraordinary instincts of the bower-birds of New South Wales. The
'playhouses' of the animals have been described by Mr. Gould in his
'History of the Birds of New South Wales.' Of course the play-instincts
are here united with those of courtship, which are of such general
occurrence among birds; but I think no one can read Mr. Gould's
description of the bowers and the uses to which they are put without
feeling that the love of sportive play must have been joined with the
sexual instincts in producing the result. But, be this as it may, there
can be no question that these bowers are highly interesting structures,
as furnishing the most unexceptionable evidence of true æsthetic, if not
artistic feeling, on the part of the bird which constructs them; and,
according to Mr. Herbert Spencer, the artistic feelings are
physiologically allied with those of play. It is a matter of importance
to obtain definite proof of an æsthetic sense in animals, because this
constitutes the basis of Mr. Darwin's theory of sexual selection; but as
he has treated the evidence on this subject in so exhaustive a manner, I
shall not enter upon so wide a field further than to point out that the
case of the bower-bird, even if it stood alone, would be amply
sufficient to carry the general conclusion that some animals exhibit
emotions of the beautiful. The following is Mr. Gould's description, _in
extenso_, of the habits of the bird in question:--
The extraordinary bower-like structure, alluded to in
my remarks on the genus, first came under my notice in
the Sydney Museum, to which an example had been
presented by Charles Cox, Esq. . . . On visiting the
cedar bushes of the Liverpool range, I discovered
several of these bowers or playing-houses on the
ground, under the shelter of the branches of the
overhanging trees, in the most retired part of the
forest; they differed considerably in size, some being
a third larger than others. The base consists of an
extensive and rather convex platform of sticks firmly
interwoven, on the centre of which the bower itself is
built. This, like the platform on which it is placed,
and with which it is interwoven, is formed of sticks
and twigs, but of a more slender and flexible
description, the tips of the twigs being so arranged
as to curve inwards and nearly meet at the top; in the
interior the materials are so placed that the forks of
the twigs are always presented outwards, by which
arrangement not the slightest obstruction is offered
to the passage of the birds. The interest of this
curious bower is much enhanced by the manner in which
it is decorated with the most gaily coloured articles
that can be collected, such as the blue tail-feathers
of the Rose-hill and Pennantian parakeets, bleached
bones and shells of snails, &c.; some of the feathers
are inserted among the twigs, while others with the
bones and shells are strewed near the entrances. The
propensity of these birds to fly off with any
attractive object is so well known to the natives that
they always search the runs for any small missing
article that may have been accidentally dropped in the
bush. I myself found at the entrance of one of them a
small neatly worked stone tomahawk of an inch and a
half in length, together with some slips of blue
cotton rag, which the birds had doubtless picked up at
a deserted encampment of the natives.
It has now been clearly ascertained that these curious bowers are merely
sporting-places in which the sexes meet, when the males display their
finery, and exhibit many remarkable actions; and so inherent is this
habit, that the living examples, which have been from time to time sent
to this country, continue it even in captivity.[156] Those belonging to
the Zoological Society have constructed their bowers, decorated and
kept them in repair, for several years. In a letter from the late Mr. F.
Strange, it is said:--
My aviary is now tenanted by a pair of satin-birds,
which for the last two months have been constantly
engaged in constructing bowers. Both sexes assist in
their erection, but the male is the principal workman.
At times the male will chase the female all over the
aviary, then go to the bower, pick up a gay feather or
a large leaf, utter a curious kind of note, set all
his feathers erect, run round the bower, and become so
excited that his eyes appear ready to start from his
head, and he continues opening first one wing and then
another, uttering a low whistling note, and, like the
domestic cock, seems to be picking up something from
the ground, until at last the female goes gently
towards him, when after two turns round her, he
suddenly makes a dash, and the scene ends.[157]
I have said that if this case stood alone it would constitute ample
evidence that some animals possess emotions of the beautiful. But the
case does not stand alone. Certain humming-birds, according to Mr.
Gould, decorate the outsides of their nests 'with the utmost taste; they
instinctively fasten thereon beautiful pieces of flat lichen, the larger
pieces in the middle, and the smaller on the part attached to the
branch. Now and then a pretty feather is intertwined or fastened to the
outer sides, the stem being always so placed that the feather stands out
beyond the surface.' Several other instances might be rendered of the
display of artistic feeling in the architecture of birds; and, as Mr.
Darwin so elaborately shows, there can scarcely be question that these
animals take emotional pleasure in surveying beautiful plumage in the
opposite sex, looking to the careful manner in which the males of many
species display their fine colours to the females. Doubtless the
evidence of æsthetic feeling is much stronger in the case of birds than
it is in that of any other class; but if this feeling is accepted as a
sufficient cause, through sexual selection, of natural decoration in the
members of this class, we are justified in attributing to sexual
selection, and so to æsthetic feeling, natural decoration in other
classes, at least as low down in the scale as the Articulata. But, as I
have said, Mr. Darwin has dealt with this whole subject in so exhaustive
a manner that it is needless for me to enter upon it further than to say
in general terms, that whatever we may think of his theory of sexual
selection, his researches have unquestionably proved the existence of an
æsthetic sense in animals.
The same fact appears to be shown in another way by the fondness of
song-birds for the music of their mates. There can be no doubt that male
birds charm their females with their strains, and that this, in fact, is
the reason why song in birds has become developed. Of course it may be
said that the vocal utterances of birds are not always, or even
generally, musical; but this does not affect the fact that birds find
some æsthetic pleasure in the sounds which they emit; it only shows that
the standard of æsthetic taste differs in different species of birds as
it does in different races of men. Moreover, the pleasure which birds
manifest in musical sounds is not always restricted to the sounds which
they themselves produce. Parrots seem certainly to take delight in
hearing a piano play or a girl sing; and the following instance,
published by the musician John Lockman, reveals in a remarkable manner
the power of distinguishing a particular air, and of preferring it above
others. He was staying at the house of a Mr. Lee in Cheshire, whose
daughter used to play; and whenever she played the air of 'Speri si'
from Handel's opera of 'Admetus,' a pigeon would descend from an
adjacent dovecot to the window of the room where she sat, 'and listen to
the air apparently with the most pleasing emotions,' always returning to
the dovecot immediately the air was finished. But it was only this one
air that would induce the bird to behave in this way.[158]
_Special Habits._
Under this heading we shall have a number of facts to consider, which
are more or less of a disconnected character.
Taking first those special habits connected with the procuring of food,
we may notice the instinct manifested by blackbirds and thrushes of
conveying snails to considerable distances in order to hammer and break
their shells against what may happen to be the nearest stone,[159] and the
still more clever though somewhat analogous instinct exhibited by
certain gulls and crows of flying with shell-fish to a considerable
height and letting them fall upon stones for the purpose of smashing
their shells.[160] Both these instincts manifest a high degree of
intelligence, either on the part of the birds themselves, or on that of
their ancestors; for neither of these instincts can be regarded as due
to originally accidental adjustments favoured and improved by natural
selection; they must at least originally have been intelligent actions
purposely designed to secure the ends attained.
An interesting instinct is that of piracy, which in the animal kingdom
reaches its highest or most systematic development among the birds. It
is easy to see how it may be of more advantage to a species of strong
bird that its members should become parasitic on the labours of other
species than that they should forage for themselves, and so there is no
difficulty in understanding the development of the plundering instinct
by natural selection. We find all stages of this development among the
sea-birds. Thus the gulls, although usually self-foragers, will, as I
have often observed, congregate in enormous numbers where the guillemots
have found a shoal of fish. Resting on or flying over the surface of
the water, the gulls wait till a guillemot comes to the surface with a
fish, and then wrest the latter from the beak of the former. In the
robber-tern this instinct has proceeded further, so that the animal
gains its subsistence entirely by plunder of other terns. I have often
observed this process, and it is interesting that the common tern well
knows the appearance of the robber; for no sooner does a robber-tern
come up than the greatest consternation is excited among a flock of
common terns, these flying about and screaming in a frantic manner. The
white-headed eagle has also developed the plundering instinct in great
perfection, as is shown by the following graphic account of Audubon:--
During spring and summer, the white-headed eagle, to
procure sustenance, follows a different course, and
one much less suited to a bird apparently so well able
to supply itself without interfering with other
plunderers. No sooner does the first hawk make its
appearance along the Atlantic shore, or around the
numerous and large rivers, than the eagle follows it,
and, like a selfish oppressor, robs it of the
hard-earned fruits of its labour. Perched on some tall
summit, in view of the ocean or of some watercourse,
he watches every motion of the osprey while on the
wing. When the latter rises from the water, with a
fish in its grasp, forth rushes the eagle in pursuit.
He mounts above the fish-hawk, and threatens it by
actions well understood; when the latter, fearing
perhaps that its life is in danger, drops its prey. In
an instant the eagle, accurately estimating the rapid
descent of the fish, closes its wings, follows it with
the swiftness of thought, and the next moment grasps
it. The prize is carried off in silence to the woods,
and assists in feeding the ever-hungry brood of the
eagle.
The frigate pelican is likewise a professional thief, and attacks the
boobies not only to make them drop the fish which they have newly
caught, but also to disgorge those which are actually in their stomachs.
The latter process is effected by strong punishment, which they continue
until the unfortunate booby yields up its dinner. The punishment
consists in stabbing the victim with its powerful beak. Catesby and
Dampier have both observed and described these habits, and it seems from
their account that the plunderer may either commit highway robbery in
the air, or lie in wait for the boobies as they return to rest.
In antithesis to this habit of plundering other birds I may quote the
following from 'Nature' (July 20, 1871), to show that the instinct of
provident labour, so common among insects and rodents, is not altogether
unrepresented in birds:--
The ant-eating woodpecker (_Melanerpes formicivorus_),
a common Californian species, has the curious and
peculiar habit of laying up provision against the
inclement season. Small round holes are dug in the
bark of the pine and oak, into each of which is
inserted an acorn, and so tightly is it fitted or
driven in, that it is with difficulty extricated. The
bark of the pine trees, when thus filled, presents at
a short distance the appearance of being studded with
nails.
The following may also be quoted:--
It is the nature of this bird (guillemot), as well as
of most of those birds which habitually dive to take
their prey, to perform all their evolutions under
water with the aid of their wings; but instead of
dashing at once into the midst of the terrified group
of small prey, by which only a few would be captured,
it passes round and round them, and so drives them
into a heap; and thus has an opportunity of snatching
here one and there another as it finds it convenient
to swallow them; and if any one pushes out to escape,
it falls the first prey of the devourer. The manner in
which this bird removes the egg of a gull or hen to
some secure place to be devoured, when compared with
that in which a like conveyance is made by the parent
for the safety of its future progeny, affords a
striking manifestation of the difference between
appetite and affection. When influenced by affection,
the brittle treasure is removed without flaw or
fracture, and is replaced with tender care; but the
plunderer at once plunges his bill into its substance,
and carries it off on its point.[161]
Speaking of the feeding habits of the lapwing, Jesse says:--
When the lapwing wants to procure food, it seeks for a
worm's cast, and stamps the ground by the side of it
with its feet. After doing this for a short time, the
bird waits for the issue of the worm from its hole,
which, alarmed at the shaking of the ground,
endeavours to make its escape, when it is immediately
seized, and becomes the prey of the ingenious bird.
The lapwing also frequents the haunts of moles, which,
when in pursuit of worms on which they feed, frighten
them, and the worm, in attempting to escape, comes to
the surface of the ground, when it is seized by the
lapwing.[162]
Again,--
A lady of Dr. E. Darwin's acquaintance saw a little
bird repeatedly hop on a poppy stem, and shake the
head with his bill, till many seeds were scattered,
when it settled on the ground and picked up the
seeds.[163]
It is a matter of common remark that in countries where vultures abound,
these birds rapidly 'gather together where the carcass is,' although
before the death of their prey no bird was to be seen in the sky. The
question has always been asked whether the vultures are guided to the
carcass by their sense of smell or by that of sight; but this question
is really no longer an open one. When Mr. Darwin was at Valparaiso he
tried the following experiment. Having tied a number of condors in a
long row, and having folded up a piece of meat in paper, he walked
backwards and forwards in front of the row, carrying the meat at a
distance of three yards from them, 'but no notice whatever was taken.'
He then threw the meat upon the ground, within one yard of an old male
bird; 'he looked at it for a moment with attention, but then regarded it
no more.' With a stick he next pushed the meat right under the beak of
the bird. Then for the first time the bird smelled it, and tore open the
paper 'with fury, and at the same moment every bird in the long row
began struggling and flapping its wings.'[164] Thus there can be no doubt
that vultures do not depend on their sense of smell for finding carrion
at a distance. Nor is it mysterious why they should find it by their
sense of sight. If over an area of many square miles there are a number
of vultures flying as they do at a very high elevation, and if one of
the number perceives a carcass and begins to descend, the next adjacent
vultures would see the descent of the first one, and follow him as a
guide, while the next in the series would follow these in the same way,
and so on.
Coming now to special instincts relating to incubation and the care of
offspring, a correspondent writes:--
Last spring I had a pair of canaries, in an ordinary
breeding cage (with two small boxes for nests in a
compartment at one end). In due course the first egg
was laid, which I inspected through the little door
made for that purpose. The next day I looked again;
still only one egg, and so for four or five days. It
being evident, from the appearance of the hen, that
there were more eggs coming, and as she seemed in good
health, I supposed she might have broken some; and I
took out the box, and examined it carefully for the
shells (but without pulling the nest to pieces), and
found nothing, until towards the beginning of another
week I went to take the one egg away, as the hen
seemed preparing to sit upon it. There were two eggs!
The next morning, to my surprise, she was sitting upon
six eggs! She must therefore have buried four of them
in the four corners of the box, and so deep that I had
been unable to find them. At first I thought that she
had done so merely from dislike at their being looked
at, but on reflection it has occurred to me that she
did it that all might be hatched at the same time (as
they subsequently were); for she was perfectly tame,
and would almost suffer herself to be handled when on
her nest. Wild birds never seem to conceal their eggs
before sitting; but then (having more amusements than
cage birds) they do not revisit their eggs after
laying, until they have laid their number, whereas a
caged bird, having nothing to divert her attention
from her nest, often sits on it the greater part of
the day.
I am not aware that this curious display of forethought on the part of a
caged bird has been hitherto recorded, and seeing, as my correspondent
points out, that it has reference to the changed conditions of life
brought about by domestication, it may be said to constitute the first
step in the development of a new instinct, which, if the conditions were
of sufficiently long continuance, might lead to an important and
permanent change of the ancestral instinct.
I have several interesting facts, also communicated to me by
correspondents, similarly relating to individual variations of the
ancestral instinct of incubation in order to meet the requirements of a
novel environment. Thus Mr. J. F. Fisher tells me that while he was a
commander in the East India trade he always took a quantity of fowls to
sea for food. The laying-boxes being in a confined space, the hens used
to quarrel over their occupancy; and one of the hens adopted the habit
of removing the 'nest-eggs' which Mr. Fisher placed in one of the boxes
to another box of the same kind not very far away. He watched the
process through a chink of a door, and 'saw her curl her neck round the
egg, thus forming a cup by which she lifted the egg,' and conveyed it to
the other box. He adds:--
I can give no information as to the more recondite
question _why_ the egg was removed, or the fastidious
preference of the one box over the other, or the
inventive faculty that suggested the neck as a
makeshift hand; but from the despatch with which she
effected the removal of the egg in the case I saw, I
have no doubt that this hen was the one which had
performed the feat so often before.
The explanation of the preference shown for the one box over the other
may, I think, be gathered from another part of my correspondent's
letter, for he there mentions incidentally that the box in which he
placed the nest-egg, and from which the hen removed it, was standing
near a door which was usually open, and thus situated in a more exposed
position than the other box. But be this as it may, considering that
among domestic fowls the habit of conveying eggs is not usual, such
isolated cases are interesting as showing how instincts may originate.
Jesse gives an exactly similar case ('Gleanings,' vol. i., p. 149) of
the Cape goose, which removed eggs from a nest attacked by rats, and
another case of a wild duck doing the same.
In the same connection, and with the same remarks, I may quote the
following case in which a fowl adopted the habit of conveying, not her
eggs, but her young chickens. I quote it from Houzeau ('Journ.,' i., p.
332), who gives the observation on the authority of his brother as
eye-witness. The fowl had found good feeding-ground on the further side
of a stream four metres wide. She adopted the habit of flying across
with her chickens upon her back, taking one chicken on each journey. She
thus transferred her whole brood every morning, and brought them back in
a similar way to their nest every evening. The habit of carrying young
in this way is not natural to Grallinaceæ, and therefore this particular
instance of its display can only be set down as an intelligent
adjustment by a particular bird.
Similarly, a correspondent (Mr. J. Street) informs me of a case in which
a pair of blackbirds, after having been disturbed by his gardener
looking into their nest at their young, removed the latter to a distance
of twenty yards, and deposited them in a more concealed place.
Partridges are well known to do this, and similarly, according to
Audubon, the goatsucker, when its nest is disturbed, removes its eggs to
another place, the male and female both transporting eggs in their
beaks.[165]
Still more curiously, a case is recorded in 'Comptes Rendu' (1836) of a
pair of nightingales whose nest was threatened by a flood, and who
transported it to a safe place, the male and the female bearing the nest
between them.
Now, it is easy to see that if any particular bird is intelligent
enough, as in the cases quoted, to perform this adjustive action of
conveying young--whether to feeding-grounds, as in the case of the hen,
or from sources of danger, as in the case of partridges, blackbirds, and
goatsuckers--inheritance and natural selection might develop the
originally intelligent adjustment into an instinct common to the
species. And it so happens that this has actually occurred in at least
two species of birds--viz., the woodcock and wild duck, both of which
have been repeatedly observed to fly with their young upon their backs
to and from their feeding-ground.
Couch gives some facts of interest relating to the mode of escape
practised by the water-rail, swan, and some other aquatic birds. This
consists in sinking under water, with only the bill remaining above the
surface for respiration. When the swan has young, she may sink the head
quite under water in order to allow the young to mount on it, and so be
carried through even rapid currents.
The same author remarks that--
Many birds will carefully remove the meetings of the
young from the neighbourhood of their nests, in order
not to attract the attention of enemies; for while we
find that birds which make no secret of their
nesting-places are careless in such matters, the
woodpecker and the marsh tit in particular are at
pains to remove even the chips which are made in
excavating the cavities where the nests are placed,
and which might lead an observer to the sacred spot.
Similarly, Jesse observes:--
The excrement of the young of many birds who build
their nests without any pretensions to concealment,
such as the swallow, crow, &c., may at all times be
observed about or under the nest; while that of some
of those birds whose nests are more industriously
concealed is conveyed away in the mouths of the parent
birds, who generally drop it at a distance of twenty
or thirty yards from the nest. Were it not for this
precaution, the excrement itself, from its
accumulation, and commonly from its very colour, would
point out the place where the young were concealed.
When the young birds are ready to fly, or nearly so,
the old birds do not consider it any longer necessary
to remove the excrement.
Sir H. Davy gives an account of a pair of eagles which he saw on Ben
Nevis teaching their young ones to fly; and every one must have observed
the same thing among commoner species of birds. The experiments of
Spalding, however, have shown that flying is an instinctive faculty; so
that when he reared swallows from the nest and liberated them only after
they were fully fledged, they flew well immediately on being liberated.
Therefore, the 'teaching to fly' by parent birds must be regarded as
mere encouragement to develop instinctive powers, which in virtue of
this encouragement are probably developed sooner than would otherwise be
the case.
A few observations may here be offered on some habits which do not fall
under any particular heading.
The habit which many small birds display of mobbing carnivorous ones is
probably due to a desire to drive off the enemy, and perhaps also to
warn friends by the hubbub. It may therefore perhaps be regarded as a
display of concerted action, of which, however, we shall have better
evidence further on. I have seen a flock of common terns mob a pirate
tern, which shows that this combined action may be directed as much
against robbery as against murder. Couch says he has seen blackbirds
mobbing a cat which was concealed in a bush, and here the motive would
seem to be that of warning friends rather than that of driving away the
enemy.
I have observed among the sea-gulls at the Zoological Gardens a curious
habit, or mode of challenge. This consists in ostentatiously picking up
a small twig or piece of wood, and throwing it down before the bird
challenged, in the way that a glove used to be thrown down by the old
knights. I observed this action performed repeatedly by several
individuals of the glaucous and black-back species in the early
spring-time of the year, and so it probably has some remote connection
with the instinct of nest-building.
_Nidification._
In connection with the habits and instincts peculiar to certain species
of birds, I may give a short account of the more remarkable kinds of
nidification that are met with in this class of animals. As the account
must necessarily be brief, I shall only mention the more interesting of
the usual types.
Petrels and puffins make their nests in burrows which they excavate in
the earth. The great sulphur mountain in Guadaloupe is described by
Wasser as 'all bored like a rabbit warren with the holes that these imps
(_i.e._ petrels) excavate.' In the case of the puffin it is the male
that does the work of burrowing. He throws himself upon his back in the
tunnel which he has made, and digs it longer and longer with his broad
bill, while casting out the mould with his webbed feet. The burrow when
finished has several twists and turns in it, and is about ten feet deep.
If a rabbit burrow is available, the puffin saves himself the trouble of
digging by taking possession of the one already made. The kingfisher and
land-martin also make their nests in burrows.
Certain auks lay their single egg on the bare rock while the stone
curlew and goatsucker deposit theirs on the bare soil, returning,
however, year after year to the same spot. Ostriches scrape holes in the
sand to serve as extemporised nests for their eggs promiscuously
dropped, which are then buried by a light coating of sand, and incubated
during the day by the sunbeams, and at night by the male bird. Sometimes
a number of female ostriches deposit their eggs in a common nest, and
then take the duty of incubation by turns. Similarly, gulls, sandpipers,
plovers, &c., place their eggs in shallow pits hollowed out of the soil.
The kingfisher makes a bed of undigested fish-bones ejected as pellets
from her stomach, and 'some of the swifts secrete from their salivary
glands a fluid which rapidly hardens as it dries on exposure to the air
into a substance resembling isinglass, and thus furnish the "edible
birds' nests" that are the delight of the Chinese epicures.'[166]
The house-martin builds its nest of clay, which it sticks upon the face
of a wall, and renders more tenacious by working into it little bits of
straw, splinters of wood, &c. According to Mr. Gilbert White:--
That this work may not, while it is soft and green,
pull itself down by its own weight, the provident
architect has prudence and forbearance enough not to
advance her work too fast; but by building only in the
morning, and by dedicating the rest of the day to food
and amusement, gives it sufficient time to dry and
harden. About half an inch seems a sufficient layer
for a day. Thus careful workmen, when they build mud
walls (informed at first perhaps by these little
birds), raise but a moderate layer at a time, and then
desist, lest the work should become top-heavy, and
ruined by its own weight. By this method, in about ten
or twelve days is formed a hemispheric nest, with a
small aperture towards the top, strong, compact, and
warm, and perfectly fitted for all the purposes for
which it was intended.
Other birds build in wood. The tomtit and the woodpecker excavate a hole
in a tree, and carefully carry away the chips, so as not to give any
indication of the whereabouts of their nests. Wilson says that the
American woodpecker makes an excavation five feet in depth, of a
tortuous form, to keep out wind and rain.
The orchard starling suspends its nest from the branches of a tree, and
uses for its material tough kinds of grass, the blades of which it
weaves together. Wilson found one of these blades to be thirteen inches
long, and to be woven in and out thirty-four times.
We may next notice the weaver (_Ploceus textor_) and tailor (_Prinia_,
_Orthotomus_, and _Sylvia_). The former intertwines slender leaves of
grass so as to produce a web sufficiently substantial for the protection
of its young. The tailor-birds sew together leaves wherewith to make
their nests, using for the purpose cotton and thread where they can find
it, and natural vegetable fibres where they cannot obtain artificial.
Colonel Sykes says that he has found the threads thus used for sewing
knotted at the ends.[167]
Forbes saw the tailor-bird of the East Indies constructing its nest, and
observed it to choose a plant with large leaves, gather cotton which it
regularly spun into a thread by means of its bill and claws, and then
sew the leaves together, using its beak as a needle, or rather awl.
This instinct is rendered particularly interesting to evolutionists from
the fact that it is exhibited by three distinct genera. For, as the
instinct is so peculiar and unique, it is not likely to have originated
independently in the three genera, but must be regarded as almost
certainly derived from a common ancestral type--thus showing that an
instinct may be perpetuated unaltered after the differentiation of
structure has proceeded beyond a specific distinction. The genus
_Sylvia_ inhabits Italy, the other two inhabit India. _Sylvia_ uses for
thread spiders' web collected from the egg-pouches, which is stitched
through holes made in the edges of leaves, presumably with the beak.
The baya bird of India 'hangs its pendulous dwelling from a projecting
bough, twisting it with grass into a form somewhat resembling a bottle
with a prolonged neck, the entrance being inverted, so as to baffle the
approaches of its enemies, the tree snakes and other reptiles.'
Sir E. Tennent, from whom this account is taken, adds:--
The natives assert that the male bird carries
fire-flies to the nest, and fastens them to its sides
by particles of soft mud. Mr. Layard assures me that
although he has never succeeded in finding the
fire-fly, the nest of the male bird (for the female
occupies another during incubation) invariably
contains a patch of mud on each side of the perch.
Dr. Buchanan confirms the report of the natives here alluded to, and
says:--
At night each of the habitations is lighted up by a
fire-fly stuck on the top with a bit of clay. The nest
consists of two rooms; sometimes there are three or
four fire-flies, and their blaze in the little cells
dazzles the eyes of the bats, which often kill the
young of these birds.
While this work is passing through the press I meet with the following,
which appears to refer to some independent, and therefore corroborative
observation concerning the above-stated fact, and in any case is worth
adding, on account of the observation concerning the rats, which, if
trustworthy, would furnish a sufficient reason for the instinct of the
birds. The extract is taken from a letter to 'Nature' (xxiv., p. 165),
published by Mr. H. A. Severn:
I have been informed on safe authority that the Indian
bottle-bird protects his nest at night by sticking
several of these glow-beetles around the entrance by
means of clay; and only a few days back an intimate
friend of my own was watching three rats on a roof
rafter of his bungalow when a glow-fly lodged very
close to them; the rats immediately scampered off.
The Talegallus of Australia is, in the opinion of Gould,--
Among the most important of the ornithological
novelties which the exploration of Western and
Southern Australia has unfolded to us, and this from
the circumstance of its not hatching its own eggs,
which, instead of being incubated in the usual way,
are deposited in mounds of mixed sand and herbage, and
there left for the heating of the mass to develop the
young, which, when accomplished, force their way
through the sides of the mound, and commence an active
life from the moment they see the light of day.[168]
Sir George Grey measured one of these mounds, and found it to be
'forty-five feet in circumference, and if rounded in proportion on the
top (it being at the time unfinished) would have been full five feet
high.' The heat round the eggs was taken to be 89°.
A curious aberration of the nest-building instinct is sometimes shown by
certain birds--particularly the common wren--which consists in building
a supernumerary nest. That is to say, after one nest is completed,
another is begun and finished before the eggs are laid, and the first
nest is not used, though sometimes it is used in preference to the
second.
As showing at once the eccentricity which birds sometimes display in the
choice of a site, and also the determination of certain birds to return
to the same site in successive years, I may allude to the case published
by Bingley, of a pair of swallows which built their nest upon the wings
and body of a dead owl, which was hanging from the rafters of a barn,
and so loosely as to sway about with every gust of wind. The owl with
the nest upon it was placed as a curiosity in the museum of Sir Ashton
Lever, and he directed that a shell should be hung upon the rafters in
the place which had been previously occupied by the dead owl. Next year
the swallows returned and constructed their new nest in the cavity of
the shell.[169]
The following is quoted from Thompson's 'Passions of Animals,' p. 205:--
The sociable grosbeak of Africa is one of the few
instances of birds living in community and uniting in
constructing one huge nest for the whole society. L.
Valiant's account has been fully confirmed by other
travellers. He says: 'I observed on the way a tree
with an enormous nest of these birds, which I have
called republicans; and as soon as I arrived at my
camp I despatched a few men with a waggon to bring it
to me, that I might open and examine the hive. When it
arrived, I cut it in pieces with a hatchet, and saw
that the chief portion of the structure consisted of a
mass of Boshman's grass, without any mixture, but so
compact and firmly basketed together as to be
impenetrable to the rain. This is the commencement of
the structure, and each bird builds its particular
nest under this canopy. But the nests are formed only
beneath the eaves, the upper surface remaining void,
without, however, being useless; for as it has a
projecting rim, and is a little inclined, it serves to
let the water run off, and preserves each little
dwelling from the rain. Figure to yourself a huge
irregular sloping roof, all the eaves of which are
covered with nests, crowded one against another, and
you will have a tolerably accurate idea of these
singular edifices. Each individual nest is three or
four inches in diameter, which is sufficient for the
bird; but, as they are all in contact with one another
around the eaves, they appear to the eye to form but
one building, and are distinguishable from each other
only by a little external aperture which serves as an
entrance to the nest; and even this is sometimes
common to three different nests, one of which is
situated at the bottom and the other two at the sides.
This large nest, which was one of the most
considerable I had anywhere seen in the course of my
journey, contained 320 inhabited cells, which,
supposing a male and female to each, would form a
society of 640 individuals; but as these birds are
polygamous, such a calculation would not be exact.'
The following is quoted from Couch ('Illustrations of Instinct,' p. 227
_et seq._):--
Mr. Waterton says there is a peculiarity in the
nidification of the domestic swan too singular to be
passed over without notice. At the time it lays its
first egg the nest which it has prepared is of very
moderate size; but as incubation proceeds we see it
increase vastly in height and breadth. Every soft
material, such as pieces of grass and fragments of
sedges, is laid hold of by the sitting swan as they
float within her reach, and are added to the nest.
This work of accumulation is performed by her during
the entire period of incubation, be the weather wet or
dry, settled or unsettled; and it is perfectly
astonishing to see with what assiduity she plies her
work of aggrandisement to a nest already sufficient
in strength and size to answer every end. My swans
generally form their nest on an island quite above the
reach of a flood; and still the sitting bird never
appears satisfied with the quantity of materials which
are provided for her nest. I once gave her two huge
bundles of oaten straw, and she performed her work of
apparent supererogation by applying the whole of it to
her nest, already very large, and not exposed to
destruction had the weather become ever so rainy.
This same author continues:--
It is probable that this disposition to accumulation,
in its general bearing, has reference to heat rather
than the flood; but that the wild swan has a foresight
regarding danger, and a quick perception as to the
means of securing safety, appears from an instance
mentioned by Captain Parry, in his Northern voyage.
When everything was deeply involved in ice, the
voyagers were obliged to pay much attention to discern
whether they were travelling over water or land; but
some birds, which formed their nest at no great
distance from the ships, were under no mistake in so
important a matter; and when the thaw took place it
was seen that the nest was situated on an island in
the lake.
The following cases are likewise taken from Couch (_loc. cit._, p.
225):--
This swan was eighteen or nineteen years old, had
brought up many broods, and was highly valued by the
neighbours. She exhibited, some eight or nine years
past, one of the most remarkable powers of instinct
ever recorded. She was sitting on four or five eggs,
and was observed to be very busy in collecting weeds,
grasses, &c., to raise her nest; a farming man was
ordered to take down half a load of haulm, with which
she most industriously raised her nest and the eggs
two feet and a half; that very night there came down a
tremendous fall of rain, which flooded all the
malt-shops and did great damage. Man made no
preparation, the bird did; instinct prevailed over
reason. Her eggs were above, and only just above, the
water.
During the early part of the summer of 1835, a pair of
water-hens built their nest by the margin of the
ornamental pond at Bell's Hill, a piece of water of
considerable extent, and ordinarily fed by a spring
from the height above, but into which the contents of
another large pond can occasionally be admitted. This
was done while the female was sitting; and as the nest
had been built when the water level stood low, the
sudden influx of this large body of water from the
second pond caused a rise of several inches, so as to
threaten the speedy immersion and consequent
destruction of the eggs. This the birds seem to have
been aware of, and immediately took precautions
against so imminent a danger; for when the gardener,
upon whose veracity I can safely rely, seeing the
sudden rise of the water, went to look after the nest,
expecting to find it covered and the eggs destroyed,
or at least forsaken by the hen, he observed, whilst
at a distance, both birds busily engaged about the
brink where the nest was placed; and when near enough
he clearly perceived that they were adding, with all
possible despatch, fresh materials to raise the fabric
beyond the level of the increased contents of the
pond; and that the eggs had by some means been removed
from the nest by the birds, and were then deposited
upon the grass about a foot or more from the margin of
the water. He watched them for some time, and saw the
nest rapidly increase in height; but I regret to add
that he did not remain long enough, fearing he might
create alarm, to witness the interesting act of
replacing the eggs which must have been effected
shortly after; for, upon his return in less than an
hour, he found the hen quietly sitting upon them in
the newly raised nest. In a few days afterwards the
young were hatched, and, as usual, soon quitted the
nest and took to the water with their parents. The
nest was shown to me _in situ_ shortly after, and I
could then plainly discern the formation of the new
with the older part of the fabric.
We must not conclude these remarks on nidification without alluding to
Mr. Wallace's chapters on the 'Philosophy of Birds' Nests,' in his work
on 'Natural Selection.' This writer is inclined to suppose that birds do
not build their nests distinctive of their various species by the
teachings of hereditary instinct, but by the young birds intelligently
observing the construction of the nests in which they are hatched, and
purposely imitating this construction when in the following season they
have occasion to build nests of their own. With reference to this theory
it is only needful to say that it is antecedently improbable, and not
well substantiated by facts. It is antecedently improbable because, when
any habit has been continued for a number of generations--especially
when the habit is of a peculiar and detailed character--the probability
is that it has become instinctive; we should have almost as much reason
to anticipate that the nest of the little crustacean _Podocerus_, or the
cell of the hive-bee, is constructed by a process of conscious
imitation, as that this is the case with the nests of birds. And this
theory is not well substantiated by facts because, if the theory were
true, we should expect considerable differences to be usually presented
by nests of the same species. Unless the construction of the nest of any
given species were regulated by a common instinct, numberless
idiosyncratic peculiarities would necessarily require to arise, and
there would only be a very general uniformity of type presented by the
nests of the same species.
A more valuable contribution to the 'Philosophy of Birds' Nests' is
furnished by this able naturalist when he directs attention to a certain
general correlation between the form of the nest and the colour of the
female. For, on reviewing the birds of the world, he certainly makes
good the proposition that, as a general rule, liable however to frequent
exceptions, dull-coloured females sit on open nests, while those that
are conspicuously coloured sit in domed nests. But Mr. Darwin, in a
careful review of all the evidence, clearly shows that this interesting
fact is to be attributed, not, as Mr. Wallace supposed, to the colour of
the female having been determined through natural selection by the form
of the nest, but to the reverse process of the form of the nest having
been determined by the colour of the female.[170]
Another general fact of interest connected with nidification must not be
omitted. This is that the instincts of nidification, although not so
variable as the theory of Mr. Wallace would require, are nevertheless
highly plastic. The falcon, which usually builds on a cliff, has been
known to lay its eggs on the ground in a marsh; the golden eagle
sometimes builds in trees or on the ground, while the heron varies its
site between trees, cliffs, and open fen.[171] Again, Audubon, in his
'Ornithological Biography,' gives many cases of conspicuous local
variations in the nests of the same species in the northern and
southern United States; and, as Mr. Wallace truly observes,--
Many facts have already been given which show that
birds do adapt their nests to the situations in which
they place them; and the adoption of eaves, chimneys,
and boxes by swallows, wrens, and many other birds,
shows that they are always ready to take advantage of
changed conditions. It is probable, therefore, that a
permanent change of climate would cause many birds to
modify the form or materials of their abode, so as
better to protect their young.[172]
In America the change of habits in this respect undergone by the
house-swallow has been accomplished within the last three hundred years.
Closely connected, if not identical, with this fact is another, namely,
that in some species which have been watched closely for a sufficient
length of time, a steady improvement in the construction of nests has
been observed. Thus C. G. Leroy, who filled the post of Ranger of
Versailles about a century ago, and therefore had abundant opportunities
of studying the habits of animals, wrote an essay on 'The Intelligence
and Perfectibility of Animals from a Philosophical Point of View.' In
this essay he has anticipated the American observer Wilson in noticing
that the nests of young birds are distinctly inferior to those of older
ones, both as regards their situation and construction. As we have here
independent testimony of two good observers to a fact which in itself is
not improbable, I think we may conclude that the nest-making instinct
admits of being supplemented, at any rate in some birds, by the
experience and intelligence of the individual. M. Pouchet has also
recorded that he has found a decided improvement to have taken place in
the nests of the swallows at Rouen during his own lifetime; and this
accords with the anticipation of Leroy that if our observation extended
over a sufficient length of time, and in a manner sufficiently close, we
should find that the accumulation of intelligent improvements by
individuals of successive generations would begin to tell upon the
inherited instinct, so that all the nests in a given locality would
attain to a higher grade of excellence.
Leroy also says that when swallows are hatched out too late to migrate
with the older birds, the instinct of migration is not sufficiently
imperative to induce them to undertake the journey by themselves. 'They
perish, the victims of their ignorance, and of the tardy birth which
made them unable to follow their parents.'
_Cuckoo._
Perhaps the strangest of the special instincts manifested by birds is
that of the cuckoo laying its eggs in the nests of other birds. As the
subject is an important one from several points of view, I shall
consider it at some length.
It must first be observed that the parasitic habit in question is not
practised by all species of the genus--the American cuckoo, for
instance, being well known to build its nest and rear its young in the
ordinary manner. The Australian species, however, manifests the same
instinct as the European. The first observer of the habit practised by
the European cuckoo was the illustrious Jenner, who published his
account in the 'Philosophical Transactions.'[173] From this account the
following is an extract:--
The cuckoo makes choice of the nests of a great
variety of small birds. I have known its eggs
entrusted to the care of the hedge-sparrow,
water-wagtail, titlark, yellowhammer, green linnet,
and winchat. Among these it generally selects the
three former, but shows a much greater partiality to
the hedge-sparrow than to any of the rest; therefore,
for the purpose of avoiding confusion, this bird only,
in the following account, will be considered as the
foster-parent of the cuckoo, except in instances which
are particularly specified.
When the hedge-sparrow has sat her usual time, and
disengaged the young cuckoo and some of her own
offspring from the shell,[174] her own young ones, and
any of her eggs that remain unhatched, are soon turned
out, the young cuckoo remaining possessor of the
nest, and sole object of her future care. The young
birds are not previously killed, nor are the eggs
demolished, but all are left to perish together,
either entangled about the bush which contains the
nest, or lying on the ground under it.
On June 18, 1787, I examined the nest of a
hedge-sparrow, which then contained a cuckoo's and
three hedge-sparrow's eggs. On inspecting it the day
following, I found the bird had hatched, but that the
nest now contained a young cuckoo and only one young
hedge-sparrow. The nest was placed so near the
extremity of a hedge, that I could distinctly see what
was going forward in it; and, to my astonishment, saw
the young cuckoo, though so newly hatched, in the act
of turning out the young hedge-sparrow.
The mode of accomplishing this was very curious. The
little animal, with the assistance of its rump and
wings, contrived to get the bird upon its back, and
making a lodgment for the burden by elevating its
elbows, clambered backward with it up the side of the
nest till it reached the top, when, resting for a
moment, it threw off its load with a jerk, and quite
disengaged it from the nest. It remained in this
situation a short time, feeling about with the
extremities of its wings, as if to be convinced
whether this business was properly executed, and then
dropped into the nest again. With these (the
extremities of its wings) I have often seen it
examine, as it were, an egg and nestling before it
began its operations; and the sensibility which these
parts appeared to possess seemed sufficiently to
compensate the want of sight, which as yet it was
destitute of. I afterwards put in an egg, and this by
a similar process was conveyed to the edge of the nest
and thrown out. These experiments I have since
repeated several times in different nests, and have
always found the young cuckoo disposed to act in the
same manner. In climbing up the nest it sometimes
drops its burden, and thus is foiled in its
endeavours; but after a little respite the work is
resumed, and goes on almost incessantly till it is
effected. It is wonderful to see the extraordinary
exertions of the young cuckoo, when it is two or three
days old, if a bird be put into the nest with it that
is too weighty for it to lift out. In this state it
seems ever restless and uneasy. But this disposition
for turning out its companions begins to decline from
the time it is two or three till it is about twelve
days old, when, as far as I have hitherto seen, it
ceases. Indeed, the disposition for throwing out the
egg appears to cease a few days sooner; for I have
frequently seen the young cuckoo, after it had been
hatched nine or ten days, remove a nestling that had
been placed in the nest with it, when it suffered an
egg, put there at the same time, to remain unmolested.
The singularity of its shape is well adapted to these
purposes; for, different from other newly hatched
birds, its back from the scapulæ downwards is very
broad, with a considerable depression in the middle.
This depression seems formed by nature for the design
of giving a more secure lodgment to the egg of the
hedge-sparrow, or its young one, when the young cuckoo
is employed in removing either of them from the nest.
When it is about twelve days old this cavity is quite
filled up, and then the back assumes the shape of
nestling birds in general. . . . The circumstance of the
young cuckoo being destined by nature to throw out the
young hedge-sparrows seems to account for the parent
cuckoo dropping her egg in the nests of birds so small
as those I have particularised. If she were to do this
in the nest of a bird which produced a large egg, and
consequently a large nestling, the young cuckoo would
probably find an insurmountable difficulty in solely
possessing the nest, as its exertions would be unequal
to the labour of turning out the young birds. (I have
known a case in which a hedge-sparrow sat upon a
cuckoo's egg and one of her own. Her own egg was
hatched five days before the cuckoo's, when the young
hedge-sparrow had gained such a superiority in size
that the young cuckoo had not powers sufficient to
lift it out of the nest till it was two days old, by
which time it had grown very considerably. This egg
was probably laid by the cuckoo several days after the
hedge-sparrow had begun to sit; and even in this case
it appears that its presence had created the
disturbance before alluded to, as all the
hedge-sparrow's eggs had gone except one.) . . . June
27, 1787.--Two cuckoos and a hedge-sparrow were
hatched in the same nest this morning; one hedge
sparrow's egg remained unhatched. In a few hours
after, a contest began between the cuckoos for the
possession of the nest, which continued undetermined
till the next afternoon; when one of them, which was
somewhat superior in size, turned out the other,
together with the young hedge-sparrow and the
unhatched egg. This contest was very remarkable. The
combatants alternately appeared to have the advantage,
as each carried the other several times nearly to the
top of the nest, and then sunk down again oppressed
with the weight of its burden; till at length, after
various efforts, the strongest prevailed, and was
afterwards brought up by the hedge-sparrows.
To what cause, then, may we attribute the
singularities of the cuckoo? May they not be owing to
the following circumstances,--the short residence this
bird is allowed to make in the country where it is
destined to propagate its species, and the call that
nature has upon it, during that short residence, to
produce a numerous progeny? The cuckoo's first
appearance here is about the middle of April, commonly
on the 17th. Its egg is not ready for incubation till
some weeks after its arrival, seldom before the middle
of May. A fortnight is taken up by the sitting bird in
hatching the egg. The young bird generally continues
three weeks in the nest before it flies, and the
foster-parents feed it more than five weeks after this
period; so that, if a cuckoo should be ready with an
egg much sooner than the time pointed out, not a
single nestling, even one of the earliest, would be
fit to provide for itself before its parent would be
instinctively directed to seek a new residence, and be
thus compelled to abandon its young one; for old
cuckoos take their final leave of this country the
first week in July.
Had nature allowed the cuckoo to have stayed here as
long as some other migrating birds, which produce a
single set of young ones (as the swift or nightingale,
for example), and had allowed her to have reared as
large a number as any bird is capable of bringing up
at one time, there might not have been sufficient to
have answered her purpose; but by sending the cuckoo
from one nest to another, she is reduced to the same
state as the bird whose nest we daily rob of an egg,
in which case the stimulus for incubation is
suspended.
A writer in 'Nature' (vol. v., p. 383; and vol. ix., p. 123), to whom
Mr. Darwin refers in the latest edition of 'The Origin of Species' as an
observer that Mr. Gould has found trustworthy, precisely confirms, from
observations of his own, the above description of Jenner. So far,
therefore, as the observations are common I shall not quote his
statements; but the following additional matter is worth rendering:--
But what struck me most was this: the cuckoo was
perfectly naked, without a vestige of a feather or
even a hint of future feathers; its eyes were not yet
opened, and its neck seemed too weak to support the
weight of its head. The pipits (in whose nest the
young cuckoo was parasitic) had well-developed quills
on the wings and back, and had bright eyes partially
open; yet they seemed quite helpless under the
manipulations of the cuckoo, which looked a much less
developed creature. The cuckoo's legs, however,
seemed very muscular, and it appeared to feel about
with its wings, which were absolutely featherless, as
with hands--the 'spurious wing' (unusually large in
proportion) looking like a spread-out thumb. The most
singular thing of all was the direct purpose with
which the blind little monster made for the open side
of the nest, the only part where it could throw its
burden down the bank. [The latter remark has reference
to the position of the nest below a heather bush, on
the declivity of a low abrupt bank, where the only
chance of dislodging the young birds was to eject them
over the side of the nest remote from its support upon
the bank.] As the young cuckoo was blind, it must have
known the part of the nest to choose by feeling from
the inside that that part was unsupported.
Such being the facts, we have next to ask how they are to be explained
on the principles of evolution. At first sight it seems that although
the habit saves the bird which practises it much time and trouble, and
so is clearly of benefit to the individual, it is not so clear how the
instinct is of benefit to the species; for as cuckoos are not social
birds, and therefore cannot in any way depend on mutual co-operation, it
is difficult to see that this saving of time and trouble to the
individual can be of any use to the species. But Jenner seems to have
hit the right cause in the concluding part of the above quotation. If it
is an advantage that the cuckoo should migrate early, it clearly becomes
an advantage, in order to admit of this, that the habit should be formed
of leaving her eggs for other birds to incubate. At any rate, we have
here a sufficiently probable explanation of the _raison d'être_ of this
curious instinct; and whether it is the true reason or the only reason,
we are justified in setting down the instinct to the creating influence
of natural selection.
Mr. Darwin, in his 'Origin of Species,' has some interesting remarks to
make on this subject. First, he is informed by Dr. Merrell that the
American cuckoo, although as a rule following the ordinary custom of
birds in incubating her own eggs, nevertheless occasionally deposits
them in the nests of other birds.
Now let us suppose that the ancient progenitor of our
European cuckoo had the habits of the American cuckoo,
and that she occasionally laid her egg in another
bird's nest. If the old bird profited by this
occasional habit through being able to migrate
earlier, or through any other cause; or if the young
were made more vigorous by advantage being taken of
the mistaken instinct of another species than when
reared by their own mother, encumbered as she could
hardly fail to be by having eggs and young at the same
time;[175] then the old birds or the fostered young
would gain an advantage.[176]
The instinct would seem to be a very old one, for there are two great
changes of structure in the European cuckoo which are manifestly
correlated with the instinct. Thus, the shape of the young bird's back
has already been noted; and not less remarkable than this is the small
size of the egg from which the young bird is hatched. For the egg of the
cuckoo is not any larger than that of the skylark, although an adult
cuckoo is four times the size of an adult skylark. And 'that the small
size of the egg is a real case of adaptation (in order to deceive the
small birds in whose nests it is laid), we may infer from the fact of
the non-parasitic American cuckoo laying full-sized eggs.' Yet, although
the instinct in question is doubtless of high antiquity, there have been
occasional instances observed in cuckoos of reversion to the ancestral
instinct of nidification; for, according to Adolf Müller, 'the cuckoo
occasionally lays her eggs on the bare ground, sits on them, and feeds
her young.'
In 'Nature' for November 18, 1869, Professor A. Newton, F.R.S., has
published an article on a somewhat obscure point connected with the
instincts of the cuckoo. He says that Dr. Baldamus has satisfied him, by
an exhibition of sixteen specimens of cuckoos' eggs found in the nests
of different species of birds, 'that the egg of the cuckoo is
approximately coloured and marked like those of the bird in whose nest
it is found,' for the purpose, no doubt, of deceiving the
foster-parents. Professor Newton adds, however:--
Having said this much, and believing as I do the
Doctor to be partly justified in the carefully worded
enunciation of what he calls a 'law of nature,' I must
now declare that it is only 'approximately,' and by no
means _universally_ true that the cuckoo's egg is
coloured like those of the victims of her imposition,
&c.
Still, when so great an authority as Professor Newton expresses himself
satisfied that there is a marked _tendency_ to such imitation, which in
some cases leads to extraordinary variations in the colouring of the
cuckoo's egg, the alleged fact becomes one which demands notice. The
question, of course, immediately arises, How is it conceivable that the
fact, if it is a fact, can be explained? We cannot imagine the cuckoo to
be able consciously to colour her egg during its formation in order to
imitate the eggs among which she is about to lay it; nor can we suppose
that having laid an egg and observed its colouring, she then carries it
to the nest of the bird whose eggs it most resembles. Professor Newton
suggests another theory, which he seems to think sufficient, but which I
confess seems to me little more satisfactory than the impossible
theories just stated. He says:--
Only one explanation of the process can, to my mind,
be offered. Every person who has studied the habits of
birds with sufficient attention will be conversant
with the tendency which certain of those habits have
to become hereditary. It is, I am sure, no violent
hypothesis to suppose that there is a very reasonable
probability of each cuckoo most commonly placing her
eggs in the nest of the same bird, and of this habit
being transmitted to her posterity.
Now it will be seen that it requires but only an
application to this case of the principle of 'natural
selection,' or 'survival of the fittest,' to show that
if my argument be sound, nothing can be more likely
than that, in the course of time, that principle
should operate so as to produce the facts asserted,
the eggs which best imitated those of particular
foster-parents having the best chance of duping the
latter, and so of being hatched out.
Now, granting to this hypothesis the assumption that individual cuckoos
have special predilections as to the species in whose nests they are to
lay their eggs, and that some of these species require to be deceived by
imitative colouring of the egg to prevent their tilting it out, there is
still an enormous difficulty to be met. Supposing that one cuckoo out of
a hundred happens to lay eggs sufficiently like those of the North
African magpies (a species alluded to by Professor Newton) to deceive
the latter into supposing the egg to be one of their own. This I cannot
think is too small a proportion to assume, seeing that, _ex hypothesi_,
the resemblance must be tolerably close, and that the egg of the magpie
does not resemble the great majority of eggs of the cuckoo. Now, in
order to sustain the theory, we must suppose that the particular cuckoo
which happens to have the peculiarity of laying eggs so closely
resembling those of the magpie, must also happen to have the peculiarity
of desiring to lay its eggs in the nest of a magpie. The conjunction of
these two peculiarities would, I should think, at a moderate estimate
reduce the chances of an approximately coloured egg being laid in the
appropriate nest to at least one thousand to one. But supposing the
happy accident to have taken place, we have next to suppose that the
peculiarity of laying these exceptionably coloured eggs is not only
constant for the same individual cuckoo, but is inherited by innumerable
generations of her progeny; and, what is much more difficult to grant,
that the fancy for laying eggs in the nest of a magpie is similarly
inherited. I think, therefore, notwithstanding Professor Newton's strong
opinion upon the subject, that the ingenious hypothesis must be
dismissed as too seriously encumbered by the difficulties which I have
mentioned. We may with philosophical safety invoke the influence of
natural selection to explain all cases of protective colouring when the
_modus operandi_ need only be supposed simple and direct; but in a case
such as this the number and complexity of the conditions that would
require to meet in order to give natural selection the possibility of
entrance, seem to me much too considerable to admit of our entertaining
the possibility of its action--at all events in the way that Professor
Newton suggests. Therefore, if the facts are facts, I cannot see how
they are to be explained.
Cuckoos are not the only birds which manifest the parasitic habit of
laying their eggs in other birds' nests.
Some species of _Melothrus_, a widely distinct genus
of American birds, allied to our starlings, have
parasitic habits like those of the cuckoo; and the
species present an interesting gradation in the
perfection of their instincts. The sexes of _Melothrus
cadius_ are stated by an excellent observer, Mr.
Hudson, sometimes to live promiscuously together in
flocks and sometimes to pair. They either build a nest
of their own, or seize on one belonging to some other
bird, occasionally throwing out the nestlings of the
stranger. They either lay their eggs in the nest thus
appropriated, or oddly enough build one for themselves
on the top of it. They usually sit on their own eggs
and rear their own young; but Mr. Hudson says it is
probable that they are occasionally parasitic, for he
has seen the young of this species feeding old birds
of a distinct kind and clamouring to be fed by them.
The parasitic habits of another species of
_Melothrus_, the _M. Canariensis_, are much more
highly developed than those of the last, but are still
far from perfect. This bird, as far as it is known,
invariably lays its eggs in the nests of strangers,
but it is remarkable that several together sometimes
commence to build an irregular untidy nest of their
own, placed in singularly ill-adapted situations, as
on the leaves of a large thistle. They must, however,
as far as Mr. Hudson has ascertained, complete a nest
for themselves. They often lay so many eggs, from
fifteen to twenty, in the same foster-nest, that few
or none can possibly be hatched. They have, moreover,
the extraordinary habit of pecking holes in the eggs,
whether of their own species or of their
foster-parents, which they find in the appropriated
nests. They drop also many eggs on the bare ground,
which are thus wasted. A third species, the _M.
precius_ of North America, has acquired instincts as
perfect as those of the cuckoo, for it never lays more
than an egg in a foster-nest, so that the young bird
is securely reared. Mr. Hudson is a strong disbeliever
in evolution, but he appears to have been so much
struck by the imperfect instincts of the _Melothrus
Canariensis_ that he quotes my words, and asks, 'Must
we consider these habits not as especially endowed or
created instincts, but as small consequences of one
general law, namely transition?'[177]
Such are all the facts and considerations which I have to present with
reference to the curious instinct in question. It will be seen
that--with one doubtful or not sufficiently investigated exception,
viz., that of cuckoos adapting the colour of their eggs to that of the
eggs of the foster-parents--there is nothing connected with these
instincts that presents any difficulty to the theory of evolution. We
may, perhaps, at first sight wonder why some counteracting instinct
should not have been developed by the same agency in the birds which are
liable to be thus duped; but here we must remember that the deposition
of a parasitic egg is, comparatively speaking, an exceedingly rare
event, and therefore not one that is likely to lead to the development
of a special instinct to meet it.
_General Intelligence._
Under this heading I shall here, as in the case of this heading
elsewhere, string together all the instances which I have met with, and
which I deem trustworthy, of the display of unusually high intelligence
in the class, family, order, or species of animals under
consideration--the object of this heading in all cases being that of
supplying, by the facts mentioned beneath it, a general idea of the
upper limit of intelligence which is distinctive of each group of
animals.
That birds recognise their own images in mirrors as birds there can be
no question. Houzeau, who records observations of his own in this
connection with parrots,[178] adds that dogs are more difficult to deceive
by mirrors in this way than birds, on account of their depending so
much upon smell for their information. No doubt individual differences
are to be met with in animals of both classes, and much depends on
previous experience. Young dogs, or dogs which have never seen a mirror
before, are not, as a rule, difficult to deceive, even though they have
good noses. I myself had a setter with an excellent nose, who on many
repeated occasions tried to fight his own image, till he found by
experience that it was of no use. As to birds, I have seen canaries
suppose their own images to be other canary birds, and also the
reflection of a room to be another room--the birds flying against a
large mirror and falling half stunned. I mention the latter circumstance
because it afforded evidence of the superior intelligence of a linnet,
which on the same occasion dashed itself against the mirror once, but
never a second time, while the canaries did so repeatedly.
Mrs. Frankland, in 'Nature' (xxi., p. 82), gives the following account
of a bullfinch paying more attention to a portrait of a bullfinch than
to his own image in a mirror, which is certainly remarkable; and as the
fact seems to have been observed repeatedly, it can scarcely be
discredited:
The following is a curious instance of discrimination
which I have observed in my bullfinch. He is in the
habit of coming out of his cage in my room in the
morning. In this room there is a mirror with a marble
slab before it, and also a very cleverly executed
water-colour drawing of a hen bullfinch, life size.
The first thing that my bullfinch does on leaving his
cage is to fly to the picture (perching on a vase just
below it) and pipe his tune in the most insinuating
manner, accompanied with much bowing to the portrait
of the hen bullfinch. After having duly paid his
addresses to it, he generally spends some time on the
marble slab in front of the looking-glass, but without
showing the slightest emotion at the sight of his own
reflection, or courting it with a song. Whether this
perfect coolness is due to the fact of the reflection
being that of a cock bird, or whether (since he shows
no desire to fight the reflected image) he is
perfectly well aware that he only sees himself, it is
difficult to say.
That birds possess considerable powers of imagination, or forming mental
pictures of absent objects, may be inferred from the fact of their
pining for absent mates, parrots calling for absent friends, &c. The
same fact is further proved by birds dreaming, a faculty which has been
noticed by Cuvier, Jerdon, Thompson, Bennet, Houzeau, Bechstein,
Lindsay, and Darwin.[179]
The facility with which birds lend themselves to the education of the
show-man is certain evidence of considerable docility, or the power of
forming novel associations of ideas. Thus, according to Bingley,--
Some years ago the Sieur Roman exhibited in this
country the wonderful performances of his birds. These
were goldfinches, linnets, and canary birds. One
appeared dead, and was held up by the tail or claw
without exhibiting any signs of life. A second stood
on its head, with its claws in the air, &c., &c.[180]
And many years ago there was exhibited a very puzzling automaton, which,
although of very small size and quite isolated from any possibly
mechanical connection with its designer, performed certain movements in
any order that the fancy of the observers might dictate. The explanation
turned out to be that within the mechanism of the figure there was a
canary bird which had been taught to run in different directions at
different words or tones of command, so by its weight starting the
mechanism to perform the particular movement required.
The rapidity with which birds learn not to fly against newly erected
telegraph wires, displays a large amount of observation and
intelligence. The fact has been repeatedly observed. For instance, Mr.
Holden says:--
About twelve years ago I was residing on the coast of
county Antrim, at the time the telegraph wires were
set up along that charming road which skirts the sea
between Larne and Cushendall. During the winter months
large flocks of starlings always migrated over from
Scotland, arriving in the early morning. The first
winter after the wires were stretched along the coast
I frequently found numbers of starlings lying dead or
wounded on the road-side, they having evidently in
their flight in the dusky morn struck against the
telegraph wires, not blown against them, as these
accidents often occurred when there was but little
wind. I found that the peasantry had come to the
conclusion that these unusual deaths were due to the
flash of the telegraph messages killing any starlings
that happened to be perched on the wires when working.
Strange to say that throughout the following and
succeeding winters hardly a death occurred among the
starlings on their arrival. It would thus appear that
the birds were deeply impressed, and understood the
cause of the fatal accidents among their
fellow-travellers the previous year, and hence
carefully avoided the telegraph wires; not only so,
but the young birds must also have acquired this
knowledge and perpetuated it, a knowledge which they
could not have acquired by experience or even
instinct, unless the instinct was really inherited
memory derived from the parents whose brains were
first impressed by it.[181]
Similar facts are given in Buckland's 'Curiosities of Natural
History,'[182] and I have myself known of a case in Scotland where a
telegraph was erected across a piece of moorland. During the first
season some of the grouse were injured by flying against the wires, but
never in any succeeding season. Why the young birds should avoid them
without having had individual experience may, I think, be explained by
the consideration that in birds which fly in flocks or coveys, it is the
older ones that lead the way. This explanation would not, of course,
apply to birds which fly singly; but I am not aware that any
observations have gone to show that the young of such birds avoid the
wires.
I quote the following exhibition of intelligence in an eagle from
Menault:--
The following account of the patience with which a
golden eagle submitted to surgical treatment, and the
care which it showed in the gradual use of the healing
limb, must suggest the idea that something very near
to prudence and reason existed in the bird. This eagle
was caught in a fox-trap set in the forest of
Fontainebleau, and its claw had been terribly torn. An
operation was performed on the limb by the
conservators of the Zoological Gardens at Paris, which
the noble bird bore with a rational patience. Though
his head was left loose, he made no attempts to
interfere with the agonising extraction of the
splinters, or to disturb the arrangements of the
annoying bandages. He seemed really to understand the
nature of the services rendered, and that they were
for his good.[183]
Speaking of the Urubu vultures, Mr. Bates says:--
They assemble in great numbers in the villages about
the end of the wet season, and are then ravenous with
hunger. My cook could not leave the open kitchen at
the back of the house for a moment whilst the dinner
was cooking, on account of their thievish
propensities. Some of them were always loitering
about, watching their opportunity, and the instant the
kitchen was left unguarded, the bold marauders marched
in and lifted the lids of the saucepans with their
beaks to rob them of their contents. The boys of the
village lie in wait, and shoot them with bow and
arrow; and vultures have consequently acquired such a
dread of these weapons, that they may be often kept
off by hanging a bow from the rafters of the
kitchen.[184]
Mrs. Lee, in her 'Anecdotes', says that one day her
gardener was struck by the strange conduct of a robin,
which the man had often fed. The bird fluttered about
him in so strange a manner--now coming close, then
hurrying away, always in the same direction--that the
gardener followed its retreating movements. The robin
stopped near a flower-pot, and fluttered over it in
great agitation. It was soon found that a nest had
been formed in the pot, and contained several young.
Close by was a snake, intent, doubtless, upon making a
meal of the brood.
The following appeared in the 'Gardener's Chronicle' for Aug. 3, 1878,
under the initials 'T. G.' I wrote to the editor requesting him to
supply me with the name of his correspondent, and also to state whether
he knew him to be a trustworthy man. In reply the editor said that he
knew his correspondent to be trustworthy, and that his name is Thomas
Guring:--
About thirty years ago the small market town in which
I reside was skirted by an open common, upon which a
number of geese were kept by cottagers. The number of
the birds was very great. . . . Our corn market at that
time was held in the street in front of the principal
inn, and on the market day a good deal of corn was
scattered from sample bags by millers. Somehow the
geese found out about the spilling of corn, and they
appear to have held a consultation upon the
subject. . . . From this time they never missed their
opportunity, and the entry of the geese was always
looked for and invariably took place. On the morning
after the market, early, and always on the proper
morning, fortnightly, in they came cackling and
gobbling in merry mood, and they never came on the
wrong day. The corn, of course, was the attraction,
but in what manner did they mark the time? One might
have supposed that their perceptions were awakened on
the market day by the smell of corn, or perhaps by the
noise of the market traffic; but my story is not yet
finished, and its sequel is against this view. It
happened one year that a day of national humiliation
was kept, and the day appointed was that on which our
market should have been held. The market was
postponed, and the geese for once were baffled. There
was no corn to tickle their olfactory organs from
afar, no traffic to appeal to their sense of hearing.
I think our little town was as still as it usually is
on Sundays. . . . The geese should have stopped away;
but they knew their day, and came as usual. . . . I do
not pretend to remember under what precise
circumstances the habit of coming into the street was
acquired. It may have been formed by degrees, and
continued from year to year; but how the old birds, who
must have led the way, marked the time so as to come in
regularly and fortnightly, on a particular day of the
week, I am at a loss to conceive.
Livingstone's 'Expedition to the Zambesi, 1865,' p. 209, gives a
conclusive account of the bird called the honey-guide, which leads
persons to bees' nests. 'They are quite as anxious to lure the stranger
to the bees' hive as other birds are to draw him away from their own
nests.' The object of the bird is to obtain the pupæ of the bees which
are laid bare by the ravaging of the nest. The habits of this bird have
long been known and described in books on popular natural history; but
it is well that the facts have been observed by so trustworthy a man as
Livingstone. He adds, 'How is it that members of this family have
learned that all men, white and black, are fond of honey? 'We can only
answer, by intelligent observation in the first instance, passing into
individual and hereditary habit, and so eventually into a fixed
instinct.
Brehm relates an instance of cautious sagacity in a pewit. He had placed
some horsehair snares over its nest, but the bird seeing them, pushed
them aside with her bill. Next day he set them thickly round the nest;
but now the bird, instead of running as usual to the nest along the
ground, alighted directly upon it. This shows a considerable
appreciation of mechanical appliances, as does also the following.
Mrs. G. M. E. Campbell writes to me:--
At Ardglass, co. Down, Ireland, is a long tract of
turf coming to the edge of the rocks overhanging the
sea, where cattle and geese feed; at a barn on this
tract there was a low enclosure, with a door fastening
by a hook and staple to the side-post: when the hook
was out of the staple, the door fell open by its own
weight. I one day saw a goose with a large troop of
goslings coming off the turf to this door, which was
secured by the hook being in the staple. The goose
waited for a minute or two, as if for the door to be
opened, and then turned round as if to go away, but
what she did was to make a rush at the door, and
making a dart with her beak at the point of the hook
nearly threw it out of the staple; she repeated this
manoeuvre, and succeeded at the third attempt, the
door fell open, and the goose led her troop in with a
sound of triumphant chuckling. How had the goose
learned that the force of the rush was needful to give
the hook a sufficient toss?
Mrs. K. Addison sends me the following instance of the use of signs on
the part of an intelligent jackdaw. The bird was eighteen months old,
and lived in some bushes in Mrs. Addison's garden. She writes:--
I generally made a practice of filling a large basin
which stands under the trees every morning for Jack's
bath. A few days ago I forgot this duty, and was
reminded of the fact in a very singular manner.
Another of my daily occupations is to open my
dressing-room shutters about eleven o'clock of a
morning. Now these said shutters open almost on to the
trees where Jack lives. The day I forgot his bath,
when I opened the shutters I found my little friend
waiting just outside them, as though he knew that he
should see me there; and when he did he placed himself
immediately in front of me, and then shook himself and
spread out his wings just as he always does in his
bath. The action was so suggestive and so
unmistakable, that I spoke just as I would have done
to a child--'Oh yes, Jack, of course you shall have
some water.'
Mr. W. W. Nichols writes to 'Nature:'--
The Central Prison at Agra is the roosting-place of
great numbers of the common blue pigeon; they fly out
to the neighbouring country for food every morning,
and return in the evening, when they drink at a tank
just outside the prison walls. In this tank are a
large number of fresh-water turtles, which lie in wait
for the pigeons just under the surface of the water
and at the edge of it. Any bird alighting to drink
near one of these turtles has a good chance of having
its head bitten off and eaten; and the headless bodies
of pigeons have been picked up near the water, showing
the fate which has sometimes befallen the birds. The
pigeons, however, are aware of the danger, and have
hit on the following plan to escape it. A pigeon comes
in from its long flight, and, as it nears the tank,
instead of flying down at once to the water's edge,
will cross the tank at about twenty feet above its
surface, and then fly back to the side from which it
came, apparently selecting for alighting a safe spot
which it had remarked as it flew over the bank; but
even when such a spot has been selected the bird will
not alight at the edge of the water, but on the bank
about a yard from the water, and will then run down
quickly to the water, take two or three hurried gulps
of it, and then fly off to repeat the same process at
another part of the tank till its thirst is satisfied.
I had often watched the birds doing this, and could
not account for their strange mode of drinking till
told by my friend the superintendent of the prison, of
the turtles which lay in ambush for the pigeons.
As a still more remarkable instance of the display of intelligence by a
bird of this species, I shall quote the following observation of
Commander R. H. Napier, also published in 'Nature' (viii., p. 324):--
A number of them (pouters) were feeding on a few oats
that had been accidentally let fall while fixing the
nose-bag on a horse standing at bait. Having finished
all the grain at hand, a large 'pouter' rose, and
flapping its wings furiously, flew directly at the
horse's eyes, causing the animal to toss his head, and
in doing so, of course shake out more corn. I saw this
several times repeated--in fact, whenever the supply
on hand had been exhausted. . . . Was not this something
more than instinct?
The following display of intelligence on the part of swallows is
communicated to me by Mr. Charles Wilson. It can scarcely be attributed
to accident, and does not admit of mal-observation. My informant says:--
Two swallows were building a nest in the verandah of a
house in Victoria, but as their nest was resting
partly on a bell-wire, it was by this means twice
pulled down. They then began afresh, making a tunnel
through the lower part of the nest, through which the
wire was able to act without doing damage.
Another gentleman writes me of another use to which he has observed
swallows put the artifice of building tunnels. Being molested by
sparrows which desired to take forcible possession of their nest, a pair
of swallows modified the entrance of the latter, so that instead of
opening by a simple hole under the eaves of a house, it was carried on
in the form of a tunnel.
Linnæus says that the martin, when it builds under the eaves of houses,
sometimes is molested by sparrows taking possession of the nest. The
pair of martins to which the nest belongs are not strong enough to
dislodge the invaders; but they convoke their companions, some of whom
guard the captives, whilst others bring clay, close up the entrance of
the nest, and leave the sparrows to die miserably. This account has been
to a large extent independently confirmed by Jesse, who seems not to
have been acquainted with the statement of Linnæus. He writes:--
Swallows seem to entertain the recollection of injury,
and to resent it when an opportunity offers. A pair of
swallows built their nest under the ledge of a house
at Hampton Court. It was no sooner completed than a
couple of sparrows drove them from it, notwithstanding
the swallows kept up a good resistance, and even
brought others to assist them. The intruders were left
in peaceable possession of the nest, till the two old
birds were obliged to quit it to provide food for
their young. They had no sooner departed than several
swallows came and broke down the nest; and I saw the
young sparrows lying dead on the ground. As soon as
the nest was demolished, the swallows began to rebuild
it.[185]
The same author gives the following and somewhat similar case:--
A pair of swallows built their nest against one of the
first-floor windows of an uninhabited house in Merrion
Square, Dublin. A sparrow, however, took possession of
it, and the swallows were repeatedly seen clinging to
the nest, and endeavouring to gain an entrance to the
abode they had erected with so much labour. All their
efforts, however, were defeated by the sparrow, who
never once quitted the nest. The perseverance of the
swallows was at length exhausted: they took flight,
but shortly afterwards returned, accompanied by a
number of their congeners, each of them having a piece
of dirt in its bill. By this means they succeeded in
stopping up the hole, and the intruder was immured in
total darkness. Soon afterwards the nest was taken
down and exhibited to several persons, with the dead
sparrow in it. In this case there appears to have been
not only a reasoning faculty, but the birds must have
been possessed of the power of communicating their
resentment and their wishes to their friends, without
whose aid they could not thus have avenged the injury
they had sustained.[186]
That birds sometimes act in concert may also be gathered from the
following observations recorded by Mr. Buck:--
I have constantly seen a flock of pelicans, when on
the feed, form a line across a lake, and drive the
fish before them up its whole length, just as
fishermen would with a net.[187]
The following is extracted from Sir E. Tennent's 'Natural History of
Ceylon,' and displays remarkable intelligence on the part of the crows
in that island:--
One of these ingenious marauders, after vainly
attitudinising in front of a chained watch-dog, that
was lazily gnawing a bone, and after fruitlessly
endeavouring to divert his attention by dancing before
him, with head awry and eye askance, at length flew
away for a moment, and returned bringing a companion
which perched itself on a branch a few yards in the
rear. The crow's grimaces were now actively renewed,
but with no better success, till its confederate,
poising itself on its wings, descended with the utmost
velocity, striking the dog upon the spine with all the
force of its strong beak. The ruse was successful; the
dog started with surprise and pain, but not quickly
enough to seize his assailant, whilst the bone he had
been gnawing was snatched away by the first crow the
instant his head was turned. Two well-authenticated
instances of the recurrence of this device came within
my knowledge at Colombo, and attest the sagacity and
powers of communication and combination possessed by
these astute and courageous birds.
This account, which would be difficult of credence if narrated by a less
competent author, is strikingly confirmed by an independent observation
on the crows of Japan, which has recently been published by Miss Bird,
in whose words I shall render it. She writes:--
In the inn garden I saw a dog eating a piece of
carrion in the presence of several of these covetous
birds. They evidently said a great deal to each other
on the subject, and now and then, one or two of them
tried to pull the meat away from him, which he
resented. At last a big strong crow succeeded in
tearing off a piece, with which he returned to the
pine where the others were congregated, and after much
earnest speech they all surrounded the dog, and the
leading bird dexterously dropped the small piece of
meat within reach of his mouth, when he immediately
snapped at it, letting go the big piece unwisely for a
second, on which two of the crows flew away with it to
the pine, and with much fluttering and hilarity they
all ate, or rather gorged it, the deceived dog looking
vacant and bewildered for a moment, after which he sat
under the tree and barked at them inanely. A gentleman
told me that he saw a dog holding a piece of meat in
like manner in the presence of three crows, which also
vainly tried to tear it from him, and after a
consultation they separated, two going as near as they
dared to the meat, while the third gave the tail a
bite sharp enough to make the dog turn round with a
squeak, on which the other villains seized the meat,
and the three fed triumphantly upon it on the top of a
wall.[188]
These two independent statements by competent observers of such similar
exhibitions of intelligence by crows, justifies us in accepting the
fact, remarkable though it be. As further corroboration, however, I
shall quote still another independent and closely similar observation,
which I find in a letter to me from Sir J. Clarke Jervoise, who says,
while writing of rooks which he has observed in England:--
A pheasant used to come very boldly and run off with
large pieces of food, which he could only divide by
shaking, and he was closely watched by the rooks for
the pieces that flew out of his reach. He learned to
run off into the shrubs, followed by the rooks, who
pulled his tail to make him drop his food.
I shall next quote a highly interesting observation which seems to have
been well made, and which displays remarkable intelligence on the part
of the birds described. These are Turnstones, which, as their name
implies, turn over stones, &c., in order to obtain as food the sundry
small creatures concealed beneath. In this case the observer was Edward.
Being concealed in a hollow, and unnoticed by the birds, he saw a pair
trying to turn over the body of a stranded cod-fish, three and a half
feet long, and buried in the sand to a depth of several inches. He thus
describes what he saw:--
Having got fairly settled down in my pebbly
observatory, I turned my undivided attention to the
birds before me. They were boldly pushing at the fish
with their bills, and then with their breasts. Their
endeavours, however, were in vain: the object remained
immovable. On this they both went round to the
opposite side, and began to scrape away the sand from
beneath the fish. After removing a considerable
quantity, they again came back to the spot which they
had left, and went once more to work with their bills
and breasts, but with as little apparent success as
formerly. Nothing daunted, however, they ran round a
second time to the other side, and recommenced their
trenching operations with a seeming determination not
to be baffled in their object, which evidently was to
undermine the dead animal before them, in order that
it might be the more easily overturned.
While they were thus employed, and after they had
laboured in this manner at both sides alternately for
nearly half an hour, they were joined by another of
their own species, which came flying with rapidity
from the neighbouring rocks. Its timely arrival was
hailed with evident signs of joy. I was led to this
conclusion from the gestures which they exhibited, and
from a low but pleasant murmuring noise to which they
gave utterance so soon as the new-comer made his
appearance. Of their feelings he seemed to be
perfectly aware, and he made his reply to them in a
similar strain. Their mutual congratulations being
over, they all three set to work; and after labouring
vigorously for a few minutes in removing the sand,
they came round to the other side, and putting their
breasts simultaneously to the fish, they succeeded in
raising it some inches from the sand, but were unable
to turn it over. It went down again into its sandy
bed, to the manifest disappointment of the three.
Resting, however, for a space, and without leaving
their respective positions, which were a little apart
the one from the other, they resolved, it appears, to
give the work another trial. Lowering themselves, with
their breasts pressed close to the sand, they managed
to push their bills underneath the fish, which they
made to rise about the same height as before.
Afterwards, withdrawing their bills, but without
losing the advantage which they had gained, they
applied their breasts to the object. This they did
with such force, and to such purpose, that at length
it went over, and rolled several yards down a slight
declivity. It was followed to some distance by the
birds themselves before they could recover their
bearing.[189]
I shall now bring this chapter to a close by presenting all the evidence
that I have been able to collect with regard to the punishment of
malefactors among rooks.
Goldsmith, who used constantly to observe a rookery from his window,
says that the selection of a site for the building of a nest is a matter
of much anxious deliberation on the part of a young crow couple; the
male and female 'examining all the trees of a grove very attentively,
and when they have fixed upon a branch that seems fit for their purpose,
they continue to sit upon it, and observe it very sedulously for two or
three days longer:'--
It often happens that the young couple have made
choice of a place too near the mansion of an older
pair, who do not choose to be incommoded by such
troublesome neighbours; a quarrel, therefore,
instantly ensues, in which the old ones are always
victorious. The young couple, thus expelled, are
obliged again to go through their
fatigues--deliberating, examining, and choosing; and,
having taken care to keep their due distance, the nest
begins again, and their industry deserves
commendation. But their activity is often too great in
the beginning; they soon grow weary of bringing the
materials of their nests from distant places, and they
very early perceive that sticks may be provided nearer
home, with less honesty indeed, but some degree of
address. Away they go, therefore, to pilfer as fast as
they can, and, whenever they see a nest unguarded,
they take care to rob it of the very choicest sticks
of which it is composed. But these thefts never go
unpunished, and probably, upon complaint being made,
there is a general punishment inflicted. I have seen
eight or ten rooks come upon such occasions, and,
setting upon the new nest of the young couple, all at
once tear it to pieces in a moment.
At length, however, the young pair find the necessity
of going more regularly to work. While one flies to
fetch the materials, the other sits upon the tree to
guard it; and thus in the space of three or four days,
with a skirmish now and then between, the pair have
filled up a commodious nest, composed of sticks
without, and of fibrous roots and long grass within.
From the instant the female begins to lay, all
hostilities are at an end; not one of the whole grove,
that a little before treated her so rudely, will now
venture to molest her, so that she brings forth her
brood with perfect tranquillity. Such is the severity
with which even native rooks are treated by each
other; but if a foreign rook should attempt to make
himself a denizen of their society, he would meet with
no favour, the whole grove would at once be up in arms
against him, and expel him without mercy.
Couch says ('Illustrations of Instinct,' p. 334 _et seq._):--
The wrong-doers being discovered, the punishment is
appropriate to the offence; by the destruction of
their dishonest work they are taught that they who
build must find their own bricks or sticks, and not
their neighbours', and that if they wish to live in
the enjoyment of the advantages of the social
condition, they must endeavour to conform their
actions to the principles of the rookery of which they
have been made members.
It is not known what enormities led to the institution
of another tribunal of the same kind, called the Crow
Court, but according to Dr. Edmonson, in his 'View of
the Shetland Islands,' its proceedings are as
authoritative and regular, and it is remarkable as
occurring in a species (_Corvus Cornice_) so near akin
to the rook. The Crow Court is a sort of general
assembling of birds who, in their usual habits, are
accustomed to live in pairs, scattered at great
distances from each other; when they visit the south
or west of England, as they do in severe winters, they
are commonly solitary. In their summer haunts in the
Shetland Islands, numbers meet together from different
points on a particular hill or field; and on these
occasions the assembly is not complete, and does not
begin its business for a day or two, till, all the
deputies having arrived, a general clamour or
croaking ensues, and the whole of the court, judges,
barristers, ushers, audience, and all, fall upon the
two or three prisoners at the bar, and beat them till
they kill them. When this is accomplished the court
breaks up and quietly disperses.
In the northern parts of Scotland (says Dr. Edmonson),
and in the Faroe Islands, extraordinary meetings of
crows are occasionally known to occur. They collect in
great numbers, as if they had all been summoned for
the occasion; a few of the flock sit with drooping
heads, and others seem as grave as judges, while
others again are exceedingly active and noisy; in the
course of about one hour they disperse, and it is not
uncommon, after they have flown away, to find one or
two left dead on the spot. These meetings will
sometimes continue for a day or two before the object,
whatever it may be, is completed. Crows continue to
arrive from all quarters during the session. As soon
as they have all arrived, a very general noise ensues;
and, shortly after, the whole fall upon one or two
individuals, and put them to death. When the execution
has been performed, they quietly disperse.
Similarly, the Bishop of Carlisle writes in the 'Nineteenth Century' for
July 1881:--
I have seen also a jackdaw in the midst of a
congregation of rooks, apparently being tried for some
misdemeanour. First Jack made a speech, which was
answered by a general cawing of the rooks; this
subsiding, Jack again took up his parable, and the
rooks in their turn replied in chorus. After a time
the business, whatever it was, appeared to be settled
satisfactorily: if Jack was on his trial, as he seemed
to be, he was honourably acquitted by acclamation; for
he went to his home in the towers of Ely Cathedral,
and the rooks also went their way.
Lastly, Major-General Sir George Le Grand Jacob, K.C.S.I., C.B., writes
to me that while sitting in a verandah in India, he saw three or four
crows come and perch on a neighbouring house. They then cawed
continuously with such peculiar sound and vigour as to attract his
attention. His account proceeds:--
Soon a gathering of crows from all quarters took
place, until the roof of the guard-house was blackened
by them. Thereupon a prodigious clatter ensued; it was
plain that a 'palaver' was going forward. Some of its
members, more eager than others, skipping about, I
became much interested, and narrowly watched the
proceedings, all within a dozen yards of me. After
much cawing and clamour, the whole group suddenly rose
into the air, and kept circling round half a dozen of
their fellows, one of whom had been clearly told off
for punishment, for the five repeatedly attacked it in
quick succession, allowing no opportunity for their
victim to escape, which he was trying to do, until
they had cast him fluttering on the ground about
thirty yards from my chair. Unfortunately I rushed
forward to pick up the bird, prostrate but fluttering
on the grass which was like a lawn before the
building. I succeeded only in touching it, for it
wriggled away from my grasp, and flew greatly crippled
and close to the ground into the neighbouring bushes,
where I lost sight of it. All the others, after
circling round me and chattering, angrily as I
thought, flew away, on my resuming my seat, in the
direction taken by their victim.
[Since going to press I have seen, through the
kindness of Mr. Seebohm, some specimens of cuckoo's
eggs coloured in imitation of those belonging to the
birds in the nests of which they are laid. There can
be no question about the imitation, and I add this
note to mitigate the criticism which I have passed
upon Professor Newton's theory of the cause. For Mr.
Seebohm has pointed out to me that the theory becomes
more probable if we consider that a cuckoo reared in
the nest of any particular bird is likely afterwards
to choose a similar nest for the deposition of its own
eggs. Whether or not the memory of a bird would thus
act could only, of course, be certainly proved by
experiment; but in view of the possibility that it
may, Professor Newton's theory becomes more probable
than it is if the selection of the appropriate nest is
supposed to depend only on inheritance.
I most also add that Dr. Sclater has been kind enough
to draw my attention to a remarkable description of a
species of Bower-bird, published by Dr. Beccari in the
_Gardener's Chronicle_ for March 16, 1879. This
species is called the Gardener Bower-bird (_Amblyornis
niornata_), and inhabits New Guinea. The animal is
about the size of a turtle-dove, and its bower--or
rather hut--is built round the stem of a tree in the
shape of a cone, with a space between the stem of the
tree and the walls of the hut. The latter are composed
of stems of an orchid with their leaves on--this
particular plant being chosen by the birds apparently
because its leaves remain long fresh. But the most
extraordinary structure is the garden, which is thus
described by Dr. Beccari:--'Before the cottage there
is a meadow of moss. This is brought to the spot and
left free from grass, stones, or anything which would
offend the eye. On this green turf flowers and fruits
of pretty colour are placed, so as to form an elegant
little garden. The greater part of the decoration is
collected round the entrance to the nest, and it would
appear that the husband offers these his daily gifts
to his wife. The objects are very various, but always
of a vivid colour. There were some fruits of a
Garcinia like a small-sized apple. Others were the
fruits of Gardencias of a deep yellow colour in the
interior. I saw also small rosy fruits, probably of a
Scitamineous plant, and beautiful rosy flowers of a
new Vaccinium. There were also fungi and mottled
insects placed on the turf. As soon as the objects are
faded they are moved to the back of the hut.' There is
a fine-coloured plate of this bird in its garden,
published in the _Birds of New Guinea_, by Mr. Gould
Part ix., 1879.]
FOOTNOTES:
[145] _Curiosities_, &c., p. 126. Wilson also, in his _American
Ornithology_, gives the following sufficiently credible account of the
memory of a crow:--'A gentleman who resided on the Delaware, a few miles
below Easton, had raised [reared] a crow, with whose tricks and society
he used frequently to amuse himself. This crow lived long in the family,
but at length disappeared, having, as was then supposed, been shot by
some vagrant gunner, or destroyed by accident. About eleven months after
this, as the gentleman one morning, in company with several others, was
standing on the river shore, a number of crows happened to pass by; one
of them left the flock, and flying directly towards the company,
alighted on the gentleman's shoulder, and began to gabble away with
great volubility, as one long-absent friend naturally enough does on
meeting another. On recovering from his surprise the gentleman instantly
recognised his old acquaintance, and endeavoured, by several civil but
sly manoeuvres, to lay hold of him; but the crow, not altogether
relishing quite so much familiarity, having now had a taste of the
sweets of liberty, cautiously eluded all his attempts; and suddenly
glancing his eye on his distant companions, mounted in the air after
them, soon overtook and mingled with them, and was never afterwards seen
to return.'
[146] _Journal of Mental Science_, July 1879.
[147] Couch, _Illustrations of Instinct_, p. 165.
[148] _Gleanings_, vol. i., pp. 112-13.
[149] Couch, _Illustrations of Instinct_, p. 232.
[150] See especially Bingley, _Animal Biography_, vol. ii., pp. 327-29.
[151] _Gleanings_, pp. 58-9.
[152] Smiles, _Life of Edward_, p. 240.
[153] _History of Mexico_, p. 220.
[154] _Zoologist_, vol. ii.
[155] Watson, _Reasoning Power of Animals_, pp. 375-76, where see also
some curious cases of male storks slaying their females upon the latter
hatching out eggs of other birds. He gives an exactly similar case as
having occurred with the domestic cock; and in Bingley (_loc. cit._,
vol. ii., p. 241) there is quoted from Dr. Percival another case of the
same kind, in which a cock killed his hen as soon as she had hatched out
a brood of young partridges from eggs which had been set to her.
[156] See Darwin. _Descent of Man_, pp. 92, 381, 406, 413.
[157] Gould, _Birds of Australia_, vol. i., pp. 442-45.
[158] Bingley, _Animal Biography_, vol. ii., p. 220.
[159] For full information, see Buckland, _Curiosities of Natural
History_, p. 183.
[160] Of the crow (carrion and hooded), Edward says: 'He goes aloft with
a crab, and lets it fall upon a stone or a rock chosen for the purpose.
If it does not break, he seizes it again, goes up higher, lets it fall,
and repeats his operation again and again until his object is
accomplished. When a convenient stone is once met with, the birds resort
to it for a long time. I myself know a pretty high rock, that has been
used by successive generations of crows for about twenty years!' Also,
as Handcock says, 'a friend of Dr. Darwin saw on the north coast of
Ireland above a hundred crows preying upon mussels, which is not their
natural food; each crow took a mussel up into the air, twenty or forty
yards high, and let it fall on the stones, and thus breaking the shell,
got possession of the animal. Ravens, we are told, often resort to the
same contrivance.'
[161] Couch, _Illustrations of Instinct_, pp. 192-93.
[162] _Gleanings_, &c., vol. i., p. 71.
[163] _Ibid._
[164] _Voyage of a Naturalist_, &c., p. 184.
[165] _Orn. Biog._, i., p. 276.
[166] Newton, _Encycl. Brit._, art. 'Birds.'
[167] _Catalogue of Birds_, &c., p. 16.
[168] Gould, _Birds of Australia_, vol. ii., p. 155, where see for
further description.
[169] _Animal Biography_, vol. ii., p. 204.
[170] See _Descent of Man_, p. 452 _et seq._
[171] See Newton, _Ency. Brit._, art. 'Birds.'
[172] _Natural Selection_, pp. 232-3.
[173] _Phil. Trans._, vol. lxxviii., p. 221 _et seq._
[174] The young cuckoo is generally hatched first.
[175] Allusion is here made to the fact that the cuckoo lays her eggs at
intervals of two or three days, and therefore that if all were incubated
by the mother, they would hatch out at different times--a state of
things which actually obtains in the case of the American cuckoo, whose
nest contains eggs and young at the same time.
[176] It is worth while to observe, as bearing on this theory of the
origin of this parasitic habit, that even non-parasitic birds
occasionally deposit their eggs in nests of other birds. Thus, Professor
A. Newton writes in his admirable essay on 'Birds' in the Encyclopædia
Britannica, 'Certain it is that some birds, whether by mistake or
stupidity, do not unfrequently lay their eggs in the nests of others. It
is within the knowledge of many that pheasants' eggs and partridges'
eggs are often laid in the same nest; and it is within the knowledge of
the writer that gulls' eggs have been found in the nests of eider-ducks,
and _vice versâ_; that a redstart and a pied flycatcher will lay their
eggs in the same convenient hole--the forest being rather deficient in
such accommodation; that an owl and a duck will resort to the same
nest-hole, set up by the scheming woodman for his own advantage; and
that the starling, which constantly dispossesses the green woodpecker,
sometimes discovers that the rightful heir of the domicile has to be
brought up by the intruding tenant.'
[177] _Origin of Species_, p. 215.
[178] Tom. i., p. 130.
[179] See _Birds of India_, i., p. 21; _Passions of Animals_, p. 60;
_Fac. Men. des Ani._, tom. ii., p. 183; _Mind in Lower Animals_, vol.
ii., p. 96; and _Descent of Man_, p. 74.
[180] _Animal Biography_, vol. ii., p. 173.
[181] _Nature_, xx., p. 266.
[182] Vol. i., p. 216. See also _Descent of Man_, p. 80.
[183] Menault, _Wonders of Instinct_, p. 132.
[184] _Nat. on Amazons_, p. 177; _Anecdotes_, p. 135.
[185] _Gleanings_, vol. ii., p. 96.
[186] _Ibid._, p. 99.
[187] _Nature_, vol. xiii., p. 303.
[188] _Unbeaten Tracks in Japan_, vol. ii, pp. 149-50.
[189] Smiles, _Life of Edward_, pp. 244-6.
CHAPTER XI.
MAMMALS.
I SHALL devote this chapter to the psychology of all the Mammalia which
present any features of psychological interest, with the exception of
the rodents, the elephant, the dog and cat tribe among Carnivora, and
the Primates--all of which I shall reserve for separate treatment.
_Marsupials._
In the 'Transactions of the Linnean Society,' Major Mitchell gives an
interesting account of the structure reared by a small Australian
marsupial (_Conilurus constructor_) for the purposes of defence against
the dingo dog. It consists of a large pile of dry sticks and brushwood,
'big enough to make two or three good cart-loads.' Each stick and
fragment is closely intertwined or woven with the rest, so that the
whole forms a solid, compact mass. In the middle of this large structure
is the nest of the animal.
The marsupials are as low in the scale of mammalian intelligence as they
are in that of mammalian structure: so that, except the above, I have
met with no fact connected with the psychology of this group that is
worth quoting, except, perhaps, the following, which appears to show
deliberation and decision on the part of the kangaroo. Jesse writes:--
A gentleman who had resided for several years in New
South Wales related the following circumstance, which
he assured me he had frequently witnessed while
hunting the kangaroo: it furnishes a strong proof of
the affection of that animal for her young, even when
her own life has been placed in the most imminent
danger. He informed me that, when a female kangaroo
has been hard pressed by dogs, he has seen her, while
she has been making her bounds, put her fore-paws into
her pouch, take a young one from it, and then throw it
as far on one side as she possibly could out of the
way of the dogs. But for this manoeuvre her own life
and that of her young one would have been sacrificed.
By getting rid of the latter she has frequently
effected her escape, and probably returned afterwards
to seek for her offspring.
_Cetaceans._
The following is quoted from Thompson:--
In 1811, says Mr. Scoresby, one of my harpooners
struck a sucker, with the hope of leading to the
capture of the mother. Presently she arose close to
the 'fast boat,' and seizing the young one, dragged
about 600 feet of line out of the boat with remarkable
force and velocity. Again she rose to the surface,
darted furiously to and fro, frequently stopped short
or suddenly changed her direction, and gave every
possible intimation of extreme agony. For a length of
time she continued thus to act, though pursued closely
by the boats; and, inspired with courage and
resolution by her concern for her young, seemed
regardless of the danger's which surrounded her. At
length one of the boats approached so near that a
harpoon was hove at her; it hit, but did not attach
itself. A second harpoon was struck, but this also
failed to penetrate; but a third was more successful,
and held. Still she did not attempt to escape, but
allowed other boats to approach; so that in a few
minutes three more harpoons were fastened, and in the
course of an hour afterwards she was killed.[190]
Mr. Saville Kent communicates an article to 'Nature' (vol. viii., p.
229) on 'Intellect of Porpoises.' He says:--
The keeper in charge of these interesting animals is
now in the habit of summoning them to their meals by
the call of a whistle; his approaching footsteps,
even, cause great excitement in their movements. . . .
The curiosity attributed to these creatures, as
illustrated by the experiences of Mr. Matthew
Williams, receives ample confirmation from their
habits and confinement. A new arrival is at once
subjected to the most importunate attention, and,
advancing from familiarity to contempt if disapproved
of, soon becomes the object of attack and persecution.
A few dog-fish (_Acanthias_ and _Mastelus_), three or
four feet long, now fell victims to their tyranny, the
porpoises seizing them by their tails, and swimming
off with and shaking them in a manner scarcely
conducive to their comfort or dignified appearance,
reminding the spectator of a large dog worrying a
rat. . . . On one occasion I witnessed the two _Cetacea_
acting evidently in concert against one of these
unwieldy fish (skates), the latter swimming close to
the top of the water, and seeking momentary respite
from its relentless enemies by lifting its unfortunate
caudal appendage high above its surface--the peculiar
tail of the skate being the object of sport to the
porpoises, which seized it in their mouths as a
convenient handle whereby to pull the animal about,
and worry it incessantly.
In a subsequent number of 'Nature' (vol. ix., p. 42) Mr. C. Fox
writes:--
Several years ago a herd of porpoises was scattered by
a net which I had got made to enclose some of them. . . .
The whole 'sculle' was much alarmed, and two were
secured. I conclude that their companions retained a
vivid remembrance of the sea-fight, as these
_Cetacea_, although frequent visitants in this harbour
(Falmouth) previously, and often watched for, were not
seen in it again for two years or more.
_Horse and Ass._
The horse is not so intelligent an animal as any of the larger
Carnivora, while among herbivorous quadrupeds his sagacity is greatly
exceeded by that of the elephant, and in a lesser degree by that of his
congener the ass. On the other hand, his intelligence is a grade or two
above that of perhaps any ruminant or other herbivorous quadruped.
The emotional life of this animal is remarkable, in that it appears to
admit of undergoing a sudden transformation in the hands of the
'horse-tamer.' The celebrated results obtained by Rarey in this
connection have since been repeated with more or less success by many
persons in various parts of the world, and the 'method' appears to be in
all cases essentially the same. The untamed and apparently untamable
animal has its fore-leg or legs strapped up, is cast on its side and
allowed to struggle for a while. It is then subjected to various
manipulations, which, without necessarily causing pain, make the animal
feel its helplessness and the mastery of the operator. The extraordinary
fact is that, after having once felt this, the spirit or emotional life
of the animal undergoes a complete and sudden change, so that from
having been 'wild' it becomes 'tame.' In some cases there are subsequent
relapses, but these are easily checked. Even the truly 'wild' horse from
the prairie admits of being completely subdued in a marvellously short
time by the Gauchos, who employ an essentially similar method, although
the struggle is here much more fierce and prolonged.[191] The same may be
said of the taming of wild elephants, although in this case the facts
are not nearly so remarkable from a psychological point of view, seeing
that the process of taming is so much more slow.
Another curious emotional feature in the horse is the liability of all
the other mental faculties of the animal to become abandoned to that of
terror. For I think I am right in saying that the horse is the only
animal which, under the influence of fear, loses the possession of every
other sense in one mad and mastering desire to run. With its entire
mental life thus overwhelmed by the flood of a single emotion, the horse
not only loses, as other animals lose, 'presence of mind,' or a due
balance among the distinctively intellectual faculties, but even the
avenues of special sense become stopped, so that the wholly demented
animal may run headlong and at terrific speed against a stone wall. I
have known a hare come to grief in a somewhat similar fashion when hotly
pursued by a dog; this, however, was clearly owing to the hare looking
behind instead of before, in a manner not, under the circumstances,
unwise; but, as I have said, there is no animal except the horse whose
whole psychology is thus liable to be completely dominated by a single
emotion.
As for its other emotions, the horse is certainly an affectionate
animal, pleased at being petted, jealous of companions receiving
favour, greatly enjoying play with others of its kind, and also the
sport of the hunting-field. Lastly, horses exhibit pride in a marked
degree, as do also mules. Such animals, when well kept, are unmistakably
pleased with gay trappings, so that 'in Spain, as a punishment for
disobedience, it is usual to strip the animal of its gaudy coronal and
bells, and to transfer them to another' (Thompson).
The memory of the horse is remarkably good, as almost every one must
have had occasion to observe who has driven one over roads which the
animal may have only once traversed a long time before. As showing the
duration of memory I may quote the following letter to Mr. Darwin from
the Rev. Rowland H. Wedgwood, which I find among the MSS. of the
former:--
I want to tell you of an instance of long memory in a
horse. I have just driven my pony down from London
here, and though she has not been here for eight
years, she remembered her way quite well, and made a
bolt for the stables where I used to keep her.
A few instances of the display of intelligence by members of the horse
tribe may bring this section to a close.
* * * * *
Mr. W. J. Fleming writes me concerning a vicious horse he had which,
while being groomed, frequently used to throw a ball of wood attached to
his halter at the groom. He did so by flexing his fetlock and jamming
the ball between the pastern and the leg, then throwing the ball
backwards 'with great force.'
I myself had a horse which was very clever at slipping his halter after
he knew that the coachman was in bed. He would then draw out the two
sticks in the pipe of the oat-bin, so as to let all the oats run down
from the bin above upon the stable floor. Of course he must have
observed that this was the manner in which the coachman obtained the
oats, and desiring to obtain them, did what he had observed to be
required. Similarly, on other occasions he used to turn the water-tap to
obtain a drink, and pull the window cord to open the window on hot
nights.
The anecdote books contain several stories very much alike concerning
horses spontaneously visiting blacksmiths' shops when they require
shoeing, or feel their shoes uncomfortable. The appended account,
vouched for as it is by a good authority, may be taken as corroborative
of these stories. I quote the account from 'Nature' (May 19, 1881):--
The following instance of animal intelligence is sent
to us by Dr. John Rae, F.R.S., who states that the Mr.
William Sinclair mentioned is respectable and
trustworthy. The anecdote is taken from the 'Orkney
Herald' of May 11:--"A well-authenticated and
extraordinary case of the sagacity of the Shetland
pony has just come under our notice. A year or two ago
Mr. William Sinclair, pupil-teacher, Holm, imported
one of these little animals from Shetland on which to
ride to and from school, his residence being at a
considerable distance from the school buildings. Up to
that time the animal had been unshod, but some time
afterwards Mr. Sinclair had it shod by Mr. Pratt, the
parish blacksmith. The other day Mr. Pratt, whose
smithy is a long distance from Mr. Sinclair's house,
saw the pony, without halter or anything upon it,
walking up to where he was working. Thinking the
animal had strayed from home, he drove it off,
throwing stones after the beast to make it run
homewards. This had the desired effect for a short
time; but Mr. Pratt had only got fairly at work once
more in the smithy when the pony's head again made its
appearance at the door. On proceeding a second time
outside to drive the pony away, Mr. Pratt, with a
blacksmith's instinct, took a look at the pony's feet,
when he observed that one of its shoes had been lost.
Having made a shoe he put it on, and then waited to
see what the animal would do. For a moment it looked
at the blacksmith as if asking whether he was done,
then pawed once or twice to see if the newly-shod foot
was comfortable, and finally gave a pleased neigh,
erected its head, and started homewards at a brisk
trot. The owner was also exceedingly surprised to find
the animal at home completely shod the same evening,
and it was only on calling at the smithy some days
afterwards that he learned the full extent of his
pony's sagacity."
In 'Nature,' also (vol. xx., p. 21), Mr. Claypole, of Antioch Cottage,
Ohio, writes as follows:--
A friend of mine is employed on a farm near Toronto,
Ontario, where a horse, belonging to the wife of the
farmer, is never required to work, but is allowed to
live the life of a gentleman, for the following
reason. Some years ago the lady above mentioned fell
off a plank bridge into a stream when the water was
deep. The horse, which was feeding in a field close
by, ran to the spot, and held her up with his teeth
till assistance arrived, thus probably saving her
life. Was this reason or instinct?
Mr. Strickland, also writing to 'Nature' (vol. xix., p. 410), says:--
A mare here had her first foal when she was ten or
twelve years old. She was blind of one eye. The result
was, she frequently trod upon the foal or knocked it
over when it happened to be on the blind side of her,
in consequence of which the foal died when it was
three or four months old. The next year she had
another foal, and we fully expected the result would
be the same. But no; from the day it was born she
never moved in the stall without looking round to see
where the foal was, and she never trod upon it or
injured it in any way. You see that reason did not
teach her that she was killing her first foal; her
care for the second was the result of memory,
imagination, and thought after the foal was dead, and
before the next one was born. The only difference that
I can see between the reasoning power of men and
animals is that the latter is applied only to the very
limited space of providing for their bodily wants,
whereas that of men embraces a vast amount of other
objects besides this.
Houzeau (vol. ii., p. 207) says that the mules used in the tramways at
New Orleans prove that they are able to count five; for they have to
make five journeys from one end of the tramway to the other before they
are released, and they make four of these journeys without showing that
they expect to be released, but bray at the end of the fifth. This
observation, however, requires to be confirmed, for unless carefully
made we must suppose that the fact may be due to the mules seeing the
ostler waiting to take them out.
Mr. Samuel Goodbehere, solicitor, writes me from Birmingham the
following instance as having fallen under his own observation:--
We had a Welsh cob pony or Galloway about 14 hands
high, who was occasionally kept in a shed (in a
farmyard), partly closed at the front by a gate which
was secured by a bolt inside and a drop latch outside.
The pony (who was able to put his head and neck over
the gate, but could not reach the outside latch) was
constantly found loose in the yard, which was
considered quite a mystery until it was solved one day
by my observing the pony first pushing back the inside
bolt, and then neighing until a donkey, who had the
run of the yard and an adjoining paddock, came and
pushed up the outside latch with his nose, thus
letting the pony at liberty, when the two marched off
together.
The following is the only instance that I have met with in any of the
horse tribe of that degree of sagacity which leads to the intentional
concealment of wrong-doing. In the case of elephants, dogs, and monkeys
we find abundant evidence on this head, which therefore renders the
following instance more antecedently credible, and, as it is also
narrated on good authority, I do not hesitate to quote it.
Professor Niphon, of Washington University, St. Louis, U.S., says:--
A friend of mine living at Iowa City had a mule, whose
ingenuity in getting into mischief was more than
ordinarily remarkable. This animal had a great liking
for the company of an oat-bin, and lost no
opportunity, when the yard gate and barn door were
open, to secure a mouthful of oats. Finally the mule
was found in the barn in the morning, and for a long
time it was found impossible to discover how he had
come there. This went on for some time, until the
animal was 'caught in the act.' It was found that he
had learned how to open the gate, reaching over the
fence to lift the latch, and that he then effectually
mystified his masters by turning round and backing
against it until it was latched. He then proceeded to
the barn door, and pulling out the pin which held the
door, it swung open of its own accord. From the
intelligence which this animal displayed on many
occasions, I am of the opinion that had not discovery
of his trick prevented, it would soon have occurred to
him to retrace his steps before daylight, in order to
avoid the clubbing which the stable boys gave him in
the morning. It may be added that this animal had
enjoyed no unusual educational advantages, and his
owners found it to their interest to discourage his
intellectual efforts as much as possible.[192]
_Ruminants._
Concerning sympathy, Major-General Sir George Le Grand Jacob, C.B., &c.,
writes me of instances which he observed of doe ibexes raising with
their heads the bucks which he shot, and supporting them during flight.
A vivid and intelligent class of emotions, in which sympathy and
rational fear are blended, seem to be exhibited by cattle in
slaughterhouses. Many years ago a pamphlet was written upon the subject,
and more recently Mr. Robert Hamilton, F.C.S., without apparently
knowing of this previous publication, wrote another pamphlet, conveying
precisely similar statements. These are too long to quote _in extenso_;
but from a letter which the latter gentleman writes to me I may make the
following extract:--
The animal witnessing the process of killing, flaying,
&c., repeated on one after another of its fellows,
gets to comprehend to the full extent the dreadful
ordeal, and as it mentally grasps the meaning of it
all, the increasing horror depicted in its condition
can be clearly seen. Of course some portray it much
more vividly than others; the varying intelligence
manifested in this respect is only another link which
knits them in oneness with the human family.
Pride is well marked in sheep and cattle, as shown by the depressing
effects produced on a 'bell-wether' or leading cow by transferring the
bell to another member of the herd; and it is said that in Switzerland
the beasts which on show days are provided with garlands, are evidently
aware of the distinction thus placed upon them. With some amount of
poetic exaggeration this fact is noted by Schiller, who says in 'Wilhelm
Tell,'--
See with what pride your steer his garland wears;
He knows himself the leader of the herd;
But strip him of it, and he'd die of grief.
With regard to the general intelligence of ruminants I may first quote
the following:--
The sagacity with which the bisons defend themselves
against the attack of wolves is admirable. When they
scent the approach of a drove of these ravenous
creatures, the herd throws itself into the form of a
circle, having the weakest and the calves in the
middle, and the strongest ranged on the outside; thus
presenting an impenetrable front of horns.[193]
The buffalo of the Old World manifests sagacity very similar. As Sir J.
E. Tennent informs us,--
The temper of the wild buffalo is morose and
uncertain; and such is its strength and courage, that
in the Hindu epic of the 'Ramayana' its onslaught is
compared with that of the tiger. It is never quite
safe to approach them if disturbed in their pasture,
or alarmed from their repose in the shallow lakes. On
such occasions they hurry into line, draw up in
defensive array, with a few of the oldest bulls in
advance; and, wheeling in circles, their horns
clashing with a loud sound as they clank them together
in their rapid evolutions, they prepare for attack:
but generally, after a menacing display, the herd
betake themselves to flight; then forming again at a
safer distance, they halt as before, elevating their
nostrils, and throwing back their heads to take a
defiant survey of the intruders.[194]
When tamed this animal is used for sporting purposes in a manner which
displays the spirit of curiosity of deer, hogs, and other animals. Thus,
Sir J. E. Tennent continues:--
A bell is attached to its neck, and a box or basket
with one side open is securely strapped on its back.
This at night is lighted with flambeaux of wax, and
the buffalo bearing it is slowly driven into the
jungle. The huntsmen with their fowling-pieces keep
close under the darkened side, and as it moves slowly
onwards, the wild animals, startled by the sound and
bewildered by the light, steal cautiously towards it
in stupefied fascination. Even the snake, I am
assured, will be attracted by this extraordinary
object; and the leopard, too, falls a victim to
curiosity.[195]
Livingstone says of the African buffalo, that he has known the animal,
when pursued by hunters, to 'turn back to a point a few yards from its
own trail, and then lie down in a hollow for the hunter to come up,'--a
fact which displays a level of intelligence in this animal surpassing
that which is met with in most Carnivora.[196]
Livingstone also says:--
It is curious to observe the intelligence of game; in
districts where they are much annoyed by fire-arms
they keep out on the most open spots of country they
can find, in order to have a widely extended range of
vision, and a man armed is carefully shunned. . . .
But here, where they are killed by the arrows of the
Balonda, they select for safety the densest forest,
where the arrow cannot be easily shot.[197]
Jesse, who had many opportunities of observing the fact, says:--
I have been much delighted with watching the manner in
which some of the old bucks in Bushey Park continue to
get the berries from the fine thorn trees there. They
will raise themselves on their hind legs, give a
spring, entangle their horns in the lower branches of
the tree, give them one or two shakes, and they will
then quietly pick them up.[198]
The same author elsewhere says:--
Few things, indeed, can show more forcibly the
powerful instinct which is implanted in animals for
their self-preservation than the means which they take
to avoid danger. I saw an instance of this lately in a
stag. It had been turned out before a pack of hounds,
and, when somewhat pressed by them, I observed it
twice to go amongst a flock of sheep, and in both
cases to double back, evidently, I should imagine,
with the intention of baffling the pursuit of the
dogs. It would thus seem that the animal was aware of
its being followed by the scent, and not by sight. If
this be the case, it affords another proof that
animals are possessed of something more than common
instinct.[199]
This author also says that he has 'frequently observed the buffalo at
the Zoological Farm on Kingston Hill' display the following proof of
intelligence. Being of a ferocious disposition, a strong iron ring was
fixed through the septum of his nose, to which a chain about two feet
long was attached. At the free end of the chain there was another ring
about four inches in diameter. 'In grazing the buffalo must have put his
feet on this ring, and in raising his head the jerk would have produced
considerable pain. In order to avoid this the animal has the sense to
put his horn through the lower ring, and thus avoid the inconvenience he
is put to. I have seen him do this in a very deliberate manner, putting
his head on one side while he got his horn through the ring, and then
shaking his head till the ring rested at the bottom of the horn.'[200]
The following is quoted from Mrs. Lee's 'Anecdotes' (p. 366), and is
rendered credible not only because her own observations are generally
good, but also because we shall subsequently find unquestionable
evidence of the display of similar intelligence by cats:--
A goat and her kids frequented a square in which I
once lived, and were often fed by myself and
servants--a circumstance which would have made no
impression, had I not heard a thumping at the hall
door, which arose from the buttings of the goat when
the food was not forthcoming, and whose example was
followed by the two little things. After a time this
remained unheeded, and, to our great astonishment, one
day the area bell used by the tradespeople, the wire
of which passed by the side of one of the railings,
was sounded. The cook answered it, but no one was
there save the goat and kids, with their heads bent
down towards the kitchen window. It was thought that
some boy had rung for them; but they were watched, and
the old goat was seen to hook one of her horns into
the wire and pull it. This is too much like reason to
be ascribed to mere instinct.
P. Wakefield, in his 'Instinct Displayed,'[201] gives two separate cases
of an intelligent manoeuvre performed by goats. On both occasions two
goats met on a ridge of rock with a precipice on each side, and too
narrow to admit of their passing one another. One of these cases
occurred on the ramparts of Plymouth Citadel, and was witnessed by 'many
persons;' the other took place at Ardenglass, in Ireland. 'In both these
instances the animals looked at each other for some time, as if they
were considering their situation, and deliberating what was best to be
done in the emergency.' In each case one of the goats then 'knelt down
with great caution, and crouched as close as it could lie, when the
other walked over its back.' This manoeuvre on the part of goats has
also been recorded by other writers, and is not so incredible as it may
at first sight appear, if we remember that in their wild state these
animals must not unfrequently find themselves in this predicament.
Mr. W. Forster, writing from Australia, gives me the following account
of the intelligence of a bull:--
A rather tame bull, bred of a milch cow, used to
puzzle me by being found inside a paddock used for
cultivation, and enclosed by a two-railed fence, of
which the lower rail was unusually high. At last I saw
the animal lie down close to the fence, and roll over
on his back, with four legs in the air, by which
proceeding he was inside the paddock. I never knew
another beast perform this feat; and although it must
have been often done in the presence of a number of
cows, not one of them ever imitated it, though they
would all have unquestionably followed the bull
through an opening in the fence, or by the slip-rails.
Mr. G. S. Erb, writing from Salt Lake City, gives me an interesting
account of the sagacity displayed by the wild deer of the United States
in avoiding gun-traps, which, except for the cutting of the string, to
which the teeth of the animal are not so well adapted, is strikingly
similar to the sagacity which we shall see to be displayed in this
respect by sundry species of Carnivora. He says:--
My method was this: I would fell or cut down a maple
tree, the top of which they are very partial to; and
as the ground was invariably covered with snow to the
depth of 12 inches, food was scarce, and the deer
would come and browse, probably from hearing the tree
fall. I would place a loaded gun 20 feet from the top
of the tree at which it was pointing; I would attach a
line the size of an ordinary fish-line to a lever that
pressed against the trigger; the other end of the line
I would fasten to the tree-top. By this means the deer
could not pass between the tree and the gun without
getting shot, or at least shot at; but I never
succeeded in killing one when my line was as large as
a fish-line, _i.e._ about one-sixteenth of an inch in
thickness. Commencing at the body of the tree on one
side, the deer would eat all the tops to within 12
inches of the line, and then go around the gun and eat
all on the other side, never touching the line. I
tried this at least sixty times, always with the same
result. Then I took a black linen thread, and had no
difficulty in killing them, as it was so small and
black that they could not distinguish it.
_Pigs._
There can be no doubt that pigs exhibit a degree of intelligence which
falls short only of that of the most intelligent Carnivora. The tricks
taught the so-called 'learned pigs' would alone suffice to show this;
while the marvellous skill with which swine sometimes open latches and
fastenings of gates, &c., is only equalled by that of the cat. The
following account of pigs in their wild state shows that they manifest
the same kind of sagacious co-operation in facing an enemy as that which
we have just seen to be manifested by the bison and the buffalo,
although here it seems to be displayed in a manner still more
organised:--
Wild swine associate in herds and defend themselves in
common. Green relates that in the wilds of Vermont a
person fell in with a large herd in a state of
extraordinary restlessness; they had formed a circle
with their heads outwards, and the young ones placed
in the middle. A wolf was using every artifice to snap
one, and on his return he found the herd scattered,
but the wolf was dead and completely ripped up.
Schmarda recounts an almost similar encounter between
a herd of tame swine and a wolf, which he witnessed on
the military positions of Croatia. He says that the
swine, seeing two wolves, formed themselves into a
wedge, and approached the wolves slowly, grunting and
erecting their bristles. One wolf fled, but the other
leaped on to the trunk of a tree. As soon as the swine
reached it they surrounded it with one accord, when,
suddenly and instantaneously, as the wolf attempted to
leap over them, they got him down and destroyed him in
a moment.[202]
In Bingley's 'Memoirs of British Quadrupeds' (page 452) there is an
account drawn up at his request by Sir Henry Mildmay, concerning the
docility of the pig. The Toomer brothers were King's keepers in the New
Forest, and they conceived the idea of training a sow to point game.
This they succeeded in doing within a fortnight, and in a few more
weeks it also learnt to retrieve. Her scent was exceedingly good, and
she stood well at partridges, black game, pheasants, snipes, and
rabbits, but never pointed hares. She was more useful than a dog, and
afterwards became the property of Sir Henry Mildmay. According to
Youatt,[203] Colonel Thornton also had a sow similarly trained. The same
author says that a sow belonging to Mr. Craven had a litter of pigs, one
of which, when old enough, was taken and roasted, then a second and a
third. These were necessarily taken when the mother returned in the
evening from the woods for supper. But the next time she came she was
alone, and, 'as her owners were anxious to know what was become of her
brood, she was watched on the following evening, and observed driving
back her pigs at the extremity of the wood, with much earnest grunting,
while she went off to the house, leaving them to wait for her return. It
was evident that she had noticed the diminution of her family, and had
adopted this method to save those that remained.'[204]
Mr. Stephen Harding sends me the following as an observation of his
own:--
On the 15th ult. (Nov. 1879) I saw an intelligent sow
pig about twelve months old, running in an orchard,
going to a young apple tree and shaking it, pricking
up her ears at the same time, as if to listen to hear
the apples fall. She then picked the apples up and ate
them. After they were all down she shook the tree
again and listened, but as there were no more to fall
she went away.
The proverbial indifference to dirt attributed to the pig seems scarcely
to be justified; the worst that can be said is that the animal prefers
cool mud to dry heat, and the filth which swine often exhibit in their
sty is the fault of the farmers rather than of the animals. Or, to quote
from Thompson's 'Passions,'--
A washed sow in the hot season of our temperate
climate, and in almost every season of such a climate
as that of Palestine, 'returns to her wallowing in the
mire' simply because she feels scorched, and
blistered, and sickened under the ardent sunshine;
and hence, when she receives from man the aid which is
due to her as a domesticated animal, she demands not
dirt all the year through, nor any day at all, but
shade in summer, shelter in winter, and a clean, dry
bed in every season.
_Cheiroptera._
Mr. Bates says of bats: 'The fact of their sucking the blood of persons
sleeping is now well established; but it is only a few persons who are
subject to this bloodletting. . . . I am inclined to think many different
kinds of bats have this propensity' ('Nat. on Amaz.,' p. 91). The
particular species of bat, however, which has been most universally
accredited with this habit, viz., the vampire, is perfectly harmless.
Mr. G. Clark ('A Brief Notice of the Fauna of Mauritius') gives an
account of the intelligence displayed by a tame bat (_Pteropus
vulgaris_). As soon as its master came into the room, it welcomed him
with cries; and if not at once taken up to be petted, it climbed up his
dress, rubbed its head against him, and licked his hands. If Mr. Clark
took anything in his hand, the bat would carefully examine it by sight
and smell, and when he sat down the bat would hang upon the back of his
chair, following all his movements with its eyes.
_Carnivora._
I shall here run together a few facts relating to the intelligence of
carnivorous animals other than those to be considered in subsequent
chapters.
_Seals._--In their wild state these animals have not much opportunity
for the display of intelligence; but when tamed it is seen that the
latter is considerable. They are then affectionate animals, liking to be
petted, and showing attachment to their homes. The most remarkable
species of the order from a psychological point of view are the
so-called Pinnipeds, whose habits during the breeding season are so
peculiar that I think it is worth while to quote the best account that
has hitherto been published on the subject. This is the elaborate work
of Mr. Joel Asaph Allen:[205]--
From the time of the first arrivals in May up to the
1st of June, as late as the middle of this month if
the weather be clear, is an interval in which
everything seems quiet; very few seals are added to
the pioneers. By the 1st of June, however, or
thereabouts, the foggy, humid weather of summer sets
in, and with it the bull-seals come up by hundreds and
thousands, and locate themselves in advantageous
positions for the reception of the females, which are
from three weeks to a month later, as a rule. The
labour of locating and maintaining a position in the
rookery is really a serious business for those bulls
which come in last, and for those that occupy the
water-line, frequently resulting in death from severe
wounds in combat sustained. It appears to be a well
understood principle among the able-bodied bulls that
each one shall remain undisturbed on his ground, which
is usually about ten feet square, provided he is
strong enough to hold it against all comers; for the
crowding in of fresh bulls often causes the removal of
those who, though equally able-bodied at first, have
exhausted themselves by fighting earlier, and are
driven by the fresher animals back further and higher
up on the rookery. Some of these bulls show wonderful
strength and courage. I have marked one veteran, who
was among the first to take up his position, and that
one on the water-line, when at least fifty or sixty
desperate battles were fought victoriously by him with
nearly as many different seals who coveted his
position; and when the fighting season was over (after
the cows have mostly all hauled up) I saw him covered
with scars and gashes, raw and bloody, an eye gouged
out, but holding it bravely over his harem of fifteen
or twenty cows, all huddled together on the same spot
he had first chosen. The fighting is mostly or
entirely done with the mouth, the opponents seizing
each other with the teeth and clenching the jaws;
nothing but sheer strength can shake them loose, and
that effort almost always leaves an ugly wound, the
sharp canines tearing out deep gutters in the skin and
blubber, or shredding the flippers into ribbon-strips.
They usually approach each other with averted heads
and a great many false passes before either one or the
other takes the initiative by gripping; the heads are
darted out and back as quick as flash, their hoarse
roaring and shrill piping whistle never ceases, while
their fat bodies writhe and swell with exertion and
rage, fur flying in air and blood streaming down--all
combined make a picture fierce and savage enough, and,
from its great novelty, exceedingly strange at first
sight. In these battles the parties are always
distinct, the offensive and the defensive; if the
latter proves the weaker he withdraws from the
position occupied, and is never followed by his
conqueror, who complacently throws up one of his hind
flippers, fans himself, as it were, to cool himself
from the heat of the conflict, uttering a peculiar
chuckle of satisfaction and contempt, with a sharp eye
open for the next covetous bull or 'sea-catch' (native
name for the bulls on the rookeries, especially those
which are able to maintain their position).
* * * * *
All the bulls, from the very first, that have been
able to hold their positions have not left them for an
instant, night or day; nor do they do so until the end
of the rutting season, which subsides entirely between
the 1st and 10th of August, beginning shortly after
the coming of the cows in June. Of necessity,
therefore, this causes them to fast, to abstain
entirely from food of any kind, or water for at least
three months; and a few of them stay four months
before going into the water for the first time after
hauling up in May. This alone is remarkable enough,
but it is simply wonderful when we come to associate
the condition with unceasing activity, restlessness,
and duty devolved upon the bulls as heads and fathers
of large families. They do not stagnate like bears in
caves; it is evidently accomplished or due to the
absorption of their own fat, with which they are so
literally supplied when they take their positions on
the breeding-ground, and which gradually diminishes
while they remain on it.
* * * * *
They are noticed and received by the bulls on the
water-line station with much attention; they are
alternately coaxed and urged up on the rocks, and are
immediately under the most jealous supervision; but
owing to the covetous and ambitious nature of the
bulls which occupy the stations reaching some way back
from the water-line, the little cows have a
rough-and-tumble time of it when they begin to arrive
in small numbers at first; for no sooner is the pretty
animal fairly established on the station of bull No. 1
who has installed her there, than he perhaps sees
another one of her style down in the water from which
she has just come, and in obedience to his polygamous
feeling, he devotes himself anew to coaxing the later
arrival in the same winning manner so successful in
her case, when bull No. 2, seeing bull No. 1 off his
guard, reaches out his long strong neck, and picks the
unhappy but passive creature up by the scruff of hers,
just as a cat does a kitten, and deposits her on his
seraglio-ground; then bulls Nos. 3, 4, 5, and so on in
the vicinity, seeing this high-handed operation, all
assail one another, and especially bull No. 2, and
have a tremendous fight perhaps for half a minute or
so; and during this commotion the cow is generally
moved or moves farther back from the water two or
three stations more, where, when all gets quiet, she
usually remains in peace. Her late lord and master,
not having the exposure to such diverting temptation
as had her first, gives her such care that she not
only is unable to leave did she wish, but no other
bull can seize upon her. This is only one instance of
the many different trials and tribulations which both
parties on the rookery subject themselves to before
the harems are filled. Far back, fifteen or twenty
stations deep from the water-line sometimes, but
generally not more than, on an average, ten or
fifteen, the cows crowd in at the close of the season
for arriving, July 10 to 14, and then they are able to
go about pretty much as they please, for the bulls
have become greatly enfeebled by this constant
fighting and excitement during the past two months,
and are quite content with even only one or two
partners.
* * * * *
I have found it difficult to ascertain the average
number of cows to one bull on the rookery, but I think
it will be nearly correct to assign to each male from
twelve to fifteen females occupying the stations
nearest the water, those back in the rear from five to
nine. I have counted forty-five cows all under the
charge of one bull, which had them penned up on a flat
table-rock near Kestaire Point; the bull was enabled
to do this quite easily, as there was but one way to
go to or come from this seraglio, and on this path the
old Turk took his stand and guarded it well. At the
rear of all these rookeries there is always a large
number of able-bodied bulls, who wait patiently, but
in vain, for families, most of them having had to
fight as desperately for the privilege of being there
as any of their more fortunately located neighbours,
who are nearer the water than themselves; but the cows
do not like to be in any outside position, when they
are not in close company lying most quiet and content
in the largest harems; and these large families pack
the surface of the ground so thickly that there is
hardly moving or turning room until the females cease
to come up from the sea; but the inaction on the part
of the bulls in the rear during the rutting season
only serves to qualify them to move into the places
vacated by those males who are obliged to leave from
exhaustion, or to take the position of fearless and
jealous protectors for the young pups in the fall. The
courage with which the fur-seal holds his position as
the head and guardian of a family is of the very
highest order compared with that of other animals. I
have repeatedly tried to drive them when they have
fairly established themselves, and have almost always
failed, using every stone at my command, making all
the noise I could, and finally, to put their courage
to the full test, I walked up to within twenty feet of
a bull at the rear and extreme end of Tolstoi Rookery,
who had four cows in charge, and commenced with my
double-barrelled breech-loading shot-gun to pepper him
all over with mustard-seed or dust-shot. His bearing
in spite of the noise, smell of powder, and pain, did
not change in the least from the usual attitude of
determined defence which nearly all the bulls assume
when attacked with showers of stones and noise; he
would dart out right and left and catch the cows which
timidly attempted to run after each report, fling and
drag them back to their places; then, stretching up to
his full height, look me directly and defiantly in the
face, roaring and spitting most vehemently. The cows,
however, soon got away from him, but he still stood
his ground, making little charges on me of ten or
fifteen feet in a succession of gallops or lunges,
spitting furiously and then retreating to the old
position, back of which he would not go, fully
resolved to hold his own or die in the attempt.
This courage is all the more noteworthy from the fact
that, in regard to man, it is invariably of a
defensive character. The seal, if it makes you turn
when you attack it, never follows you much farther
than the boundary of its station, and no aggravation
will compel it to become offensive, as far as I have
been able to observe.
* * * * *
The apathy with which the young are treated by the old
on the breeding-grounds is somewhat strange. I have
never seen a cow caress or fondle her offspring, and
should it stray but a short distance from the harem,
it can be picked up and killed before the mother's
eyes, without causing her to show the slightest
concern. The same indifference is exhibited by the
bull to all that takes place outside of the boundary
of his seraglio. While the pups are, however, within
the limits of his harem-ground he is a jealous and
fearless protector; but if the little animals pass
beyond this boundary, then they may be carried off
without the slightest attention in their behalf from
their guardian.
* * * * *
Early in August (8th) the pups that are nearest the
water on the rookeries essay swimming, but make slow
and clumsy progress, floundering about, when over head
in depth, in the most awkward manner, thrashing the
water with their fore-flippers, not using the hinder
ones. In a few seconds, or a minute at the most, the
youngest is so wary that he crawls out upon the rocks
or beach, and immediately takes a recuperative nap,
repeating the lesson as quick as he awakes and is
rested. They soon get familiar with the water and
delight in it, swimming in endless evolutions,
twisting, turning, diving; and when exhausted, they
draw up on the beach again, shake themselves as young
dogs do, either going to sleep on the spot, or having
a lazy frolic among themselves.
In this matter of learning to swim, I have not seen
any 'driving' of the young pups into the water by the
old in order to teach them this process, as has been
affirmed by writers on the subject of seal life.
_Otter._--The fact that otters admit of being taught to catch fish and
bring them to their masters, shows no small degree of docility on the
part of these animals. 'I have seen,' says Dr. Goldsmith, 'an otter go
to a gentleman's pond at word of command, drive the fish into a corner,
and, seizing upon the largest of the whole, bring it off in his mouth to
his master.' And several other cases of the same kind are given by
Bingley.[206]
_Weasel._--'Mdlle. de Faister described her tame weasel to Buffon as
playing with her fingers like a kitten, jumping on her head and neck;
and if she presented her hands at the distance of three feet, it jumped
into them without ever missing. It distinguished her voice amidst twenty
people, and sprang over everybody to get at her. She found it impossible
to open a drawer or a box, or even to look at a paper, without his
examining it also. If she took up a paper or book, and looked
attentively at it, the weasel immediately ran upon her hand, and
surveyed with an inquisitive air whatever she happened to hold.'[207]
_Polecat._--Professor Alison, in his article on 'Instinct,' in Todd's
'Cyclopædia of Anatomy,' quotes the following account from the 'Magazine
of Natural History' (vol. iv., p. 206) touching a remarkable instinct
manifested by polecats. 'I dug out five young polecats, comfortably
embedded in dry, withered grass; and in a side-hole, of proper
dimensions for such a larder, I picked out forty large frogs and two
toads, all alive, but merely capable of sprawling a little. On
examination, I found that the whole number, toads and all, had been
purposely and dexterously bitten through the brain.' The analogy of this
instinct to that which has already been mentioned as having been much
more recently observed by M. Fabre in the sphex insect is noteworthy.
_Ferret._--I once kept a ferret as a domestic pet. He was a very large
specimen, and my sister taught him a number of tricks, such as begging
for food (which he did quite as well and patiently as any terrier),
leaping over sticks, &c. He became a very affectionate animal,
delighting much in being petted, and following like a dog when taken out
for walk. He would, however, only follow those persons whom he well
knew. That his memory was exceedingly good was shown by the fact that
after an absence of many months, during which he was never required to
beg, or to perform any of his tricks, he went through all his paces
perfectly the first time that we again tried him.
I strongly suspect that ferrets dream, as I have frequently seen them
when fast asleep moving their noses and twitching their claws as if in
pursuit of rabbits. Another fact I may mention as bearing on the
intelligence of these animals. On one occasion, while ferreting rabbits,
I lost the ferret about a mile away from home. Some days afterwards the
animal returned to his home. Similar cases have been communicated to me
by several sporting friends, but certainly the return of a ferret under
such circumstances is the exception, and not the rule.
_Wolverine._--Amazing tales are told concerning the intelligence of this
animal, which for the most part are certainly exaggerations. Still there
is no doubt that the creature does display a degree of sagacious cunning
unsurpassed, if not unequalled, in the animal kingdom. This may be
shown by the two following quotations from the statements of trustworthy
writers. The first is a letter kindly sent me by Dr. J. Rae, F.R.S., in
reply to my request for information concerning the intelligence of this
animal:--
The narratives of most travellers in America tell
wonderful stories of the glutton or wolverine, but I
do not know that any of my experiences of this
extremely acute animal indicate what I call reasoning
powers. They are very suspicious, and can seldom or
never be taken with poisoned bait, trap, or gun. The
poisoned baits are usually found broken up, but not
eaten by them; traps are destroyed or entered, but not
where the trapper desired; and guns, except when
concealed after the Eskimo fashion by a covering of
snow, are avoided.
In 1853, on the Arctic coast, when about to change our
domicile from a tent to the warmer snow hut, my man
had carried over about 100 lbs. or more of fine
venison steaks to the snow houses about a quarter of a
mile from our tents; and as there were at the time no
traces either of foxes, wolves, or wolverines about,
the meat was placed overnight in one of the huts, and
the door left open. During the night two wolverines
came, but, evidently dreading some trap or danger in
the open door, would not enter that way, but cut a
hole for themselves through the wall of the snow hut,
and carried off all our fine steaks, a considerable
quantity of which was picked up close to our house
when the thaw took place in the spring, it having been
hid in the snow, but completely spoilt for use, by a
well-known filthy habit.
Dr. Rae has also drawn my attention to the following account contained
in the Miscellaneous Publications of the Geological Survey of the United
States.[208] The writer of this account is Captain Elliot Cones:--
To the trapper the wolverines are equally annoying.
When they have discovered a line of marten traps they
will never abandon the road, and must be killed before
the trapping can be successfully carried on. Beginning
at one end, they proceed from trap to trap along the
whole line, pulling them successively to pieces, and
taking out the baits from behind. When they can eat no
more, they continue to steal the baits and câche
them. If hungry they may devour two or three of the
martens they find captured, the remainder being
carried off and hidden in the snow at a considerable
distance. The work of demolition goes on as fast as
the traps can be renewed.
The propensity to steal and hide things is one of the
strongest traits of the wolverine. To such an extent
is it developed that the animal will often secrete
articles of no possible use to itself. Besides the
wanton destruction of marten traps, it will carry off
the sticks and hide them at a distance, apparently in
sheer malice. Mr. Ross, in the article above quoted,
has given an amusing instance of the extreme of this
propensity. The desire for accumulating property seems
so deeply implanted in this animal, that, like tame
ravens, it does not appear to care much what it steals
so that it can exercise its favourite propensity to
commit mischief. An instance occurred within my own
knowledge, in which a hunter and his family having
left their lodge unguarded during their absence, on
their return found it completely gutted--the walls
were there, but nothing else. Blankets, guns, kettles,
axes, cans, knives, and all the other paraphernalia of
a trapper's tent had vanished, and the tracks left by
the beast showed who had been the thief. The family
set to work, and by carefully following up all his
paths recovered, with some trifling exceptions, the
whole of the lost property.
* * * * *
At Peel's River, on one occasion, a very old carcajou
discovered my marten road, on which I had nearly a
hundred and fifty traps. I was in the habit of
visiting the line about once a fortnight, but the
beast fell into the way of coming oftener than I did,
to my great annoyance and vexation. I determined to
put a stop to his thieving and his life together, cost
what it might. So I made six strong traps at as many
different points, and also set three steel traps. For
three weeks I tried my best to catch the beast without
success; and my worst enemy would allow that I am no
green hand in these matters. The animal carefully
avoided the traps set for his own benefit, and seemed
to be taking more delight than ever in demolishing my
marten traps and eating the martens, scattering the
poles in every direction, and câching what baits or
martens he did not devour on the spot. As we had no
poison in those days, I next set a gun on the bank of
a little lake. The gun was concealed in some low
bushes, but the bait was so placed that the carcajou
must see it on his way up the bank. I blockaded my
path to the gun with a small pine tree, which
completely hid it. On my first visit afterwards I
found that the beast had gone up to the bait and
smelled it, but had left it untouched. He had next
pulled up the pine tree that blocked the path, and
gone around the gun and cut the line which connected
the bait with the trigger, just behind the muzzle.
Then he had gone back and pulled the bait away, and
carried it out on the lake, where he lay down and
devoured it at his leisure. There I found my string. I
could scarcely believe that all this had been done
designedly, for it seemed that faculties fully on a
par with human reason would be required for such an
exploit if done intentionally. I therefore rearranged
things, tying the string where it had been bitten. But
the result was exactly the same for three successive
occasions, as I could plainly see by the footprints;
and what is most singular of all, each time the brute
was careful to cut the line a little back of where it
had been tied before, as if actually reasoning with
himself that even the knots might be some new device
of mine, and therefore a source of hidden danger he
would prudently avoid. I came to the conclusion that
that carcajou ought to live, as he must be something
at least human, if not worse. I gave it up, and
abandoned the road for a period.
* * * * *
With so much for the tricks and the manners of the
beast behind our backs, roaming at will in his vast
solitudes, what of his actions in the presence of man?
It is said that if one only stands still, even in full
view of an approaching carcajou, he will come within
fifty or sixty yards, provided he be to windward,
before he takes the alarm. Even then, if he be not
warned by sense of smell, he seems in doubt, and will
gaze earnestly several times before he finally
concludes to take himself off. On these and similar
occasions he has a singular habit--one not shared, so
far as I am aware, by any other beast whatever. He
sits on his haunches and shades his eyes with one of
his fore-paws, just as a human being would do in
scrutinising a dim or distant object. The carcajou,
then, in addition to his other and varied
accomplishments, is a perfect sceptic--to use this
word in its original signification. A sceptic, with
the Greeks, was simply one who would shade his eyes to
see more clearly.
_Bears._--There is no doubt that the intelligence of these animals
stands very high in the psychological scale, although the actual
instances which I have met of the display of their intelligence are few.
The tricks which are taught performing bears do not count for much as
proof of high sagacity, as they for the most part consist in teaching
the animals to assume unnatural positions, or display grotesque
antics--performances which speak indeed for the general docility of the
creatures, but scarcely for their high intelligence. Still even here it
is worth while to remark that all species of bears would probably not
lend themselves to this kind of education, for the emotional temperament
manifested by the different species is unquestionably diverse. Thus,
making all allowances for exaggeration, it seems certain that the
grizzly bear displays a courage and ferocity which are foreign to the
disposition of the brown bear, and indeed to that of most other animals.
The polar bear likewise displays much bravery under the influence of
hunger or maternal feeling, although under other circumstances it
usually deems discretion the better part of valour. The following
incident displays considerable intelligence on the part of this animal.
Scoresby, in his 'Account of the Arctic Regions,' gives the instance to
which I allude:--
The animal with two cubs was being pursued by a party
of sailors over an ice-field. She urged her young to
an increase of speed by running before them, turning
round, and manifesting, by a peculiar action and
voice, her anxiety for their progress; but finding
that her pursuers were gaining upon them, she carried,
or pushed, or pitched them alternately forward, until
she effected their escape. In throwing them before
her, the little creatures placed themselves across her
path to receive the impulse; and when projected some
yards in advance, they ran onwards until she overtook
them, when they alternately adjusted themselves for a
second throw.
As the polar bear is not exposed to any enemies except man, this method
of escaping is not likely to be instinctive, but was probably an
intelligent adaptation to the particular circumstances of the case.
Mr. S. J. Hutchinson writes me as follows with regard to this same
species:--
One Sunday, at the 'Zoo,' some one threw a bun to the
bears, but it fell in the water in that
quadrant-shaped pond you will remember. The bun fell
just at the angle, and the bear seemed disinclined to
enter the water, but stood on the edge of the pond,
and commenced _stirring_ the water with its paw, so
that it established a sort of rotatory current, which
eventually brought the bun within reach. When one leg
got tired it used the other, but in the same
direction. I watched the whole performance with the
greatest interest myself.
In corroboration of this most remarkable observation I quote the
following from Mr. Darwin's 'Descent of Man' (p. 76), which is so
precisely similar, that the fact of bears reaching the high level of
intelligence which the fact implies can scarcely be doubted. 'A
well-known entomologist, Mr. Westropp, informs me that he observed in
Vienna a bear deliberately making with his paw a current in some water
which was close to the bars of his cage, so as to draw a piece of
floating bread within his reach.'
FOOTNOTES:
[190] _Passions of Animals_, p. 154.
[191] See Mr. Darwin's account in _Naturalist's Voyage round the World_,
pp. 151-2.
[192] _Nature_, vol. xx., p. 21.
[193] Thompson, _Passions of Animals_, p. 308.
[194] _Natural History of Ceylon_, p. 54.
[195] _Ibid._, p. 56.
[196] _Missionary Travels_, p. 328.
[197] _Ibid._, p. 280.
[198] _Gleanings_, &c., vol. i., p. 20.
[199] _Ibid._, vol. ii., p. 20.
[200] _Ibid._, pp. 226-7.
[201] Pp. 66 and 97.
[202] Thompson, _Passions of Animals_, p. 308.
[203] _On the Pig_, p. 17.
[204] _Ibid._
[205] _History of the North American Pinnipeds._ The quotations are
taken from pp. 348 to 361.
[206] _Animal Biography_, vol. iii., pp. 301-2.
[207] Thompson, _Passions in Animals_, p. 337.
[208] Vol. viii., Washington, 1877: 'A Monograph of the North American
_Mustelidæ_.'
CHAPTER XII.
RODENTS.
THE rodents, psychologically considered, are, of all orders in the
animal kingdom, most remarkable for the differences presented by
constituent species. For while the group contains many animals, such as
the guinea-pig, whose instincts and intelligence cannot be said to rise
above the lowest level that obtains among mammalian forms, it also
contains other animals with instincts as remarkable as those of the
squirrel, intelligence as considerable as that of the rat, and a
psychological development as unique as that of the beaver. In no other
group of animals do we meet with nearly so striking an exemplification
of the truth that zoological or structural affinity is only related in a
most loose and general way to psychological or mental similarity. Up to
a certain point, however, even here we meet with an exemplification of
what I may call a complementary truth, namely, that similarity of
organisation and environment is in a general way related to similarity
of instincts (though not necessarily of intelligence). This is obviously
the case with the habit from which the order takes its name; for whether
the instinct of gnawing is here the cause or the result of peculiar
organisation, the instinct is unquestionably correlated with the
peculiarity. And similarly, though less obviously, is this the case with
the instinct of storing food for winter consumption, which is more
prevalent among the rodents than in any other order of mammals--rats,
mice, squirrels, harvesters, beavers, &c., all manifesting it with
remarkable vigour and persistency. Here we probably have a case of
similar organisation and environment determining the same instinct; for
the latter is not of sufficiently general occurrence among all species
of rodents to allow us to suppose that the species in which it does
occur have derived it from a common ancestry.
_Rabbit._
Rabbits are somewhat stupid animals, exhibiting but small resources
under novel circumstances, although inheriting several clever instincts,
such as that of rapidly deciding upon the alternative of flight or
crouching, which is usually done with the best judgment. I have,
however, often observed that the animal does not seem to have sense
enough to regard the colour of the surface on which it crouches, so that
if this happens to be inappropriate, the rabbit may become conspicuous,
and so its crouching a source of danger. I have been particularly struck
with the fact that black rabbits inherit the crouching instinct as
strongly as do normally coloured ones, with the effect of rendering
themselves highly conspicuous. This shows that the instinct is not
necessarily correlated with the colour which alone renders the instinct
useful, but that both have developed simultaneously and independently,
and by natural selection. The fact also shows that the crouching of
rabbits is purely instinctive, and not due to any conscious process of
comparing their own colour with that of the surfaces on which they
crouch. No doubt the instinct began and was developed by natural
selection placing a premium upon the better judgment of those
individuals which know when best to seek safety in flight and when by
crouching--protective colouring being added at the same time by the same
agency.
Another fact, which every one who shoots must have observed, goes to
show the stupidity of rabbits, or their inability to learn by
experience. When alarmed they run for their burrows, and when they reach
them, instead of entering they very frequently squat down to watch the
enemy. Now, although they well know the distance at which it is safe to
allow a man with a gun to approach, excess of curiosity, or a mistaken
feeling of security in being so near their homes, induces the animals to
allow a man to approach within easy shooting distance. Yet that in
other respects rabbits can learn much by experience must be evident to
all who are accustomed to shoot with ferrets. From burrows which have
not been much ferreted, rabbits will bolt soon after the ferret is put
in; but this is not the case where rabbits have had previous experience
of the association between ferrets and sportsmen. Rather than bolt under
such circumstances, and so face the known danger of the waiting gun,
rabbits will often allow themselves to be torn with the ferrets' claws
and mutilated by their teeth. This is the case, no matter how silently
the sportsmen may conduct their operations; the mere fact of a ferret
entering their burrows seems to be enough to assure the rabbits that
sportsmen are waiting outside.[209]
In its emotions the rabbit is for the most part a very timid animal,
although the males fight severely with one another--having more strongly
developed than any other animal the strange but effectual instinct of
castrating their rivals. Moreover, even against other animals, rabbits
will, when compelled to do so, stand upon the defensive. To show this I
may quote a letter which several years ago I published in 'Nature:'--
I have occasion just now to keep over thirty Himalayan
rabbits in an outhouse. A short time ago it was
observed that some of these rabbits had been attacked
and slightly bitten by rats. Next day the person who
feeds the rabbits observed, upon entering the
outhouse, that nearly all the inmates were congregated
in one corner; and upon going to ascertain the cause,
found one rat dead, and another so much injured that
it could scarcely run. Both rats were of an unusually
large size, and their bodies were much mangled by the
rabbits' teeth.
I never before knew that domestic rabbits would fight
with any carnivorous antagonist. That wild rabbits
never do so I infer from having several times seen
ferrets turn out from the most crowded burrow in a
warren young stoats and weasels not more than four
inches long.
It is evident that the show-fight instinct cannot have
been developed in Himalayan rabbits by means of
natural selection, but it is no less evident that if
it ever arose in wild rabbits it would be preserved
and intensified by such means.
The following observation of my own on a previously unnoticed instinct
displayed by wild rabbits is, I think, of sufficient interest to render.
Most people are aware that if a rabbit is shot near the mouth of its
burrow, the animal will employ the last remnant of its life in
struggling into it. Having several times observed that wounded rabbits
which had thus escaped appeared again several days afterwards above
ground, lying dead a few feet from the mouth of the burrow, I wished to
ascertain whether the wounded animals had themselves come out before
dying, possibly for air, or had been taken out by their companions. I
therefore shot numerous rabbits while they were sitting near their
burrows, taking care that the distance between the gun and the animal
should be such as to insure a speedy, though not an immediate death.
Having marked the burrows at which I shot rabbits in this manner I
returned to them at intervals for a fortnight or more, and found that
about one-half of the bodies appeared again on the surface in the way
described. That this reappearance above ground is not due to the
victim's own exertions, I am now quite satisfied; for not only did two
or three days generally elapse before the body thus showed itself--a
period much too long for a severely wounded rabbit to survive--but in a
number of cases decomposition had set in. Indeed, on one occasion
scarcely anything of the animal was left save the skin and bones. This
was in a large warren.
It is a curious thing that I have hitherto been unable to get any bodies
returned to the surface, of rabbits which I _inserted_ into their
burrows _after death_. I account for this by supposing that the stench
of the decomposing carcass is not so intolerable to the other occupants
of the burrow when it is near the orifice as it is when further in.
Similarly, I find that there is not so good a chance of bodies being
returned from an extensive warren of intercommunicating holes, as there
is from smaller warrens or blind holes; the reason probably being that
in the one case the living inhabitants are free to vacate the offensive
locality, while in the other case they are not so. Anyhow, there can be
no reasonable doubt that the instinct of removing their dead has arisen
in rabbits from the necessity of keeping their confined domiciles in a
pure state.
_Hare._
The hare is a more intelligent animal than the rabbit. Possibly its much
greater powers of locomotion may be one cause of its mental superiority
to its nearest congener. I have never myself observed a hare commit the
mistake already mentioned in the case of the rabbit, viz., that of
crouching for concealment upon an inappropriately coloured surface. But
the best idea of the comparatively high intelligence of the hare will be
gained by the following quotations. The first of these is taken from
Loudoun's 'Magazine of Natural History' (vol. iv., p. 143):--
It is especially conscious of the scent left by its
feet, and of the danger which threatens it in
consequence; a reflection which implies as much
knowledge of the habits of its enemies as of its own.
When about to enter its seat for the purpose of rest,
it leaps in various directions, and crosses and
recrosses its path with repeated springs; and at last,
by a leap of greater energy than it has yet used, it
effects a lodgment in the selected spot, which is
chosen rather to disarm suspicion than to protect it
from injury. In the 'Manuel du Chasseur' some
instances are quoted from an ancient volume on hunting
by Jaques du Fouillouse. A hare intending to mislead
its pursuers has been seen spontaneously to quit its
seat and to proceed to a pond at the distance of
nearly a mile, and having washed itself, push off
again through a quantity of rushes. It has, too, been
known, when pursued to fatigue by dogs, to thrust
another hare from its seat and squat itself down in
its place. This author has seen hares swim
successively through two or three ponds, of which the
smallest was eighty paces round. He has known it,
after a long chase, to creep under the door of a
sheep-house and rest among the cattle, and when the
hounds were in pursuit, it would get into the middle
of a flock of sheep and accompany them in all their
motions round the field, refusing by any means to quit
the shelter they afforded. The stratagem of its
passing forward on one side of a hedge and returning
by the other, with only the breadth of the hedge
between itself and its enemies, is of frequent
occurrence, and it has even been known to select its
seat close to the walls of a dog-kennel. This latter
circumstance, however, is illustrative of the
principles of reflection and reasoning; for the fox,
weasel, and polecat are to the hare more dangerous
enemies than the hound; and the situations chosen were
such as those ferocious creatures were not likely to
approach. A gentleman was engaged in the amusement of
coursing, when a hare, closely pressed, passed under a
gate, while the dogs followed by leaping over it. The
delay caused to her pursuers by this manoeuvre seems
to have taught a sudden and useful lesson to the
persecuted creature; for as soon as the dogs had
cleared the gate and overtaken her, she doubled and
returned under the gate as before, the dogs again
following and passing over it. And this flirtation
continued backwards and forwards until the dogs were
fairly tired of the amusement; when the hare, taking
advantage of their fatigue, quietly stole away.
The following note, by Mr. Yarrell, is significant of a process of
reasoning derived from observations of the course of nature, such as
would do no discredit to a higher race of creatures:--
A harbour of great extent on our northern coast has an
island near the middle of considerable size, the
nearest point of which is a mile distant from the
mainland at high water, and with which point there is
frequent communication by a ferry. Early one morning
in spring two hares were observed to come down from
the hills of the mainland towards the sea-side; one of
which from time to time left its companion, and
proceeding to the very edge of the water, stopped
there a minute or two, and then returned to its mate.
The tide was rising, and after waiting some time, one
of them, exactly at high water, took to the sea, and
swam rapidly over, in a straight line, to the opposite
projecting point of land. The observer on this
occasion, who was near the spot, but remained
unperceived by the hares, had no doubt they were of
different sexes, and that it was the male (like
another Leander) which swam across the water, as he
had probably done many times before. It was remarkable
that the hares had remained on the shore nearly half
an hour; one of them occasionally examining, as it
would seem, the state of the current, and ultimately
taking to the sea at that precise period of the tide
called slackwater, when the passage across could be
effected without being carried by the force of the
stream either above or below the desired point of
landing. The other hare then cantered back to the
hills. (Loudoun's 'Magazine of Natural History,' vol.
v., p. 99.)
According to Couch ('Illustrations of Instinct,' p. 177)--
When followed by dogs, it will not run through a gate,
though this is obviously the most ready passage; nor
in crossing a hedge will it prefer a smooth and even
part, but the roughest, where thorns and briars
abound; and when it mounts an eminence it proceeds
obliquely, and not straightforward. And whether we
suppose these actions to proceed from a desire to
avoid those places where traps may probably have been
laid, or from knowing that his pursuers will exactly
follow his footsteps, and he has resolved to lead them
through as many obstacles as possible, in either case
an estimation of causes and consequences is to be
discovered.
It is a remarkable thing that both hares and rabbits should allow
themselves to be overtaken in the open field by weasels. I have myself
witnessed the process, and am at a loss to account for it. The hare or
rabbit seems perfectly aware of the dangerous character of the weasel,
and yet does not put forth its powers of escape. It merely toddles along
with the weasel toddling behind, until tamely allowing itself to be
overtaken. This anomalous case may perhaps be akin to the alleged
phenomena of the fascination of birds and small rodents by snakes; but
in any case there seems to have been here a remarkable failure of
natural selection in doing duty to the instincts of these swift-footed
animals.
We must not close this account of the intelligence of the hare genus
without alluding to the classical case of Cowper's hares. The following
abstract is taken from Tegg's edition of 'The Life and Works of William
Cowper,' p. 633:--
Puss was ill three days, during which time I nursed
him, kept him apart from his fellows, . . . and by
constant care, &c., restored him to perfect health. No
creature could be more grateful than my patient after
his recovery, a sentiment which he most significantly
expressed by licking my hand, first the back of it,
then the palm, then every finger separately, then
between all the fingers, as if anxious to leave no
part of it unsaluted; _a ceremony which he never
performed but once again upon a similar occasion_.
Finding him extremely tractable, I made it my custom
to carry him always after breakfast into the garden. . . .
I had not long habituated him to this taste of
liberty before he began to be impatient for the return
of the time when he might enjoy it. He would invite me
to the garden by drumming upon my knee, and by a look
of such expression as it was not possible to
misinterpret. If this rhetoric did not immediately
succeed, _he would take the skirt of my coat between
his teeth and pull it with all his force_. He seemed to
be happier in human society than when shut up with his
natural companions.
_Rats and Mice._
Rats are well known to be highly intelligent animals. Unlike the hare or
rabbit, their shyness seems to proceed from a wise caution rather than
from timidity; for, when circumstances require, their boldness and
courage in combat is surprising. Moreover, they never seem to lose their
presence of mind; for, however great their danger, they seem always
ready to take advantage of any favouring circumstances that may arise.
Thus, when matched with so formidable an opponent as a ferret in a
closed room, they have been known to display wonderful cunning in taking
advantage of the light--keeping close under the window so as to throw
the glare into the eyes of the enemy, darting forwards time after time
to deliver a bite, and then as often retiring to their vantage-ground.[210]
But the emotions of rats do not appear to be of an entirely selfish
character. There are so many accounts in the anecdote books of blind
rats being led about by their seeing companions, that it is difficult to
discredit an observation so frequently confirmed.[211] Moreover, rats
have been frequently known to assist one another in defending themselves
from dangerous enemies. Several observations of this kind are recorded
by the trustworthy writer Mr. Rodwell, in his somewhat elaborate work
upon this animal.
Again, as showing affection for human beings, I may quote the
following:--'The mouse which had been tamed by Baron Trench in his
prison having been taken from him, watched at the door and crept in when
it was opened; being removed again, it refused all food, and died in
three days.'[212]
With regard to general intelligence, every one knows the extraordinary
wariness of rats in relation to traps, which is only equalled in the
animal kingdom by that of the fox and the wolverine. It has frequently
been regarded as a wonderful display of intelligence on the part of rats
that while gnawing through the woodwork of a ship, they always stop
before they completely perforate the side; but, as Mr. Jesse suggests,
this is probably due to their distaste of the salt water. No such
disparaging explanation, however, is possible in some other instances of
the display of rat-intelligence. Thus, the manner in which they
transport eggs to their burrows has been too frequently observed to
admit of doubt. Rodwell gives a case in which a number of eggs were
carried from the top of a house to the bottom by two rats devoting
themselves to each egg, and alternately passing it down to each other at
every step of the staircase.[213] Dr. Carpenter also received from an
eye-witness a similar account of another instance.[214] According to the
article in the _Quarterly Review_, already mentioned, rats will not only
convey eggs from the top of the house to the bottom, but from bottom to
top. 'The male rat places himself on his fore-paws, with his head
downwards, and raising up his hind legs and catching the egg between
them, pushes it up to the female, who stands on the step above, and
secures it with her fore-paws till he jumps up to her; and this process
is repeated from step to step till the top is reached.'
'The captain of a merchantman,' says Mr. Jesse, 'trading to the port of
Boston, in Lincolnshire, had constantly missed eggs from his sea stock.
He suspected that he was robbed by his crew, but not being able to
discover the thief, he was determined to watch his store-room.
Accordingly, having laid in a fresh stock of eggs, he seated himself at
night in a situation that commanded a view of his eggs. To his great
astonishment he saw a number of rats approach; they formed a line from
his egg baskets to their hole, and handed the eggs from one to another
in their fore-paws.'[215]
Another device to which rats resort for the procuring of food is
mentioned in all the anecdote books, and it seemed so interesting that I
tried some direct experiments upon the subject. I shall first state the
alleged facts in the words of Watson:--
As to oil, rats have been known to get oil out of a
narrow-necked bottle in the following way:--One of
them would place himself, on some convenient support,
by the side of the bottle, and then, dipping his tail
into the oil, would give it to another to lick. In
this act there is something more than what we call
instinct; there is reason and understanding.[216]
Jesse also gives the following account:--
A box containing some bottles of Florence oil was
placed in a store-room which was seldom opened; the
box had no lid to it. On going to the room one day for
one of the bottles, the owner found that the pieces of
bladder and cotton at the mouth of each bottle had
disappeared, and that much of the contents of the
bottles had been consumed. The circumstance having
excited suspicion, a few bottles were refilled with
oil, and the mouths of them secured as before. Next
morning the coverings of the bottles had been removed,
and some of the oil was gone. However, upon watching
the room, which was done through a little window, some
rats were seen to get into the box, and insert their
tails into the necks of the bottles, and then
withdrawing them, they licked off the oil which
adhered to them.[217]
Lastly, Rodwell gives another case similar in all essential respects,
save that the rat licked its own tail instead of presenting it to a
companion.
The experiment whereby I tested the truth of these statements was a
very simple one. I recorded it in 'Nature' as follows:--
It is, I believe, pretty generally supposed that rats
and mice use their tails for feeding purposes when the
food to be eaten is contained in vessels too narrow to
admit the entire body of the animal. I am not aware,
however, that the truth of this supposition has ever
been actually tested by any trustworthy person, and so
think the following simple experiments are worth
publishing. Having obtained a couple of tall-shaped
preserve bottles with rather short and narrow necks, I
filled them to within three inches of the top with red
currant jelly which had only half stiffened. I covered
the bottles with bladder in the ordinary way, and then
stood them in a place infested by rats. Next morning
the bladder covering each of the bottles had a small
hole gnawed through it, and the level of the jelly was
reduced in both bottles to the same extent. Now, as
this extent corresponded to about the length of a
rat's tail if inserted at the hole in the bladder, and
as this hole was not much more than just large enough
to admit the root of this organ, I do not see that any
further evidence is required to prove the manner in
which the rats obtained the jelly, viz., by repeatedly
introducing their tails into the viscid matter, and as
repeatedly licking them clean. However, to put the
question beyond doubt, I refilled the bottles to the
extent of half an inch above the jelly level left by
the rats, and having placed a circle of moist paper
upon each of the jelly surfaces, covered the bottles
with bladder as before. I now left the bottles in a
place where there were no rats or mice, until a good
crop of mould had grown upon one of the moistened
pieces of paper. The bottle containing this crop of
mould I then transferred to the place where the rats
were numerous. Next morning the bladder had again been
eaten through at one edge, and upon the mould there
were numerous and distinct tracings of the rats'
tails, resembling marks made with the top of a
pen-holder. These tracings were evidently caused by
the animals sweeping their tails about in a fruitless
endeavour to find a hole in the circle of paper which
covered the jelly.
With regard to mice, the Rev. W. North, rector of Ashdown, in Essex,
placed a pot of honey in a closet, in which a quantity of plaster
rubbish had been left by builders. The mice piled up the plaster in the
form of a heap against the sides of the pot, in order to constitute an
inclined plane whereby to reach the rim. A quantity of the rubbish had
also been thrown into the pot, with the effect of raising the level of
the honey that remained to near the rim of the pot; but, of course, the
latter fact may have been due to accident, and not to design.[218] This is
a case in which mal-observation does not seem to have been likely.
Powelsen, a writer on Iceland, has related an account of the
intelligence displayed by the mice of that country, which has given rise
to a difference of competent opinion, and which perhaps can hardly yet
be said to have been definitely settled. What Powelsen said is that the
mice collect in parties of from six to ten, select a flat piece of dried
cow-dung, pile berries or other food upon it, then with united strength
drag it to the edge of any stream they wish to cross, launch it, embark,
and range themselves round the central heap of provisions with their
heads joined over it, and their tails hanging in the water, perhaps
serving as rudders. Pennant afterwards gave credit to this account,
observing that in a country where berries were scarce, the mice were
compelled to cross streams for distant forages.[219] Dr. Hooker, however,
in his 'Tour in Iceland,' concludes that the account is a pure
fabrication. Dr. Henderson, therefore, determined on trying to arrive at
the truth of the matter, with the following result:--'I made a point of
inquiring of different individuals as to the reality of the account, and
am happy in being able to say that it is now established as an important
fact in natural history by the testimony of two eye-witnesses of
unquestionable veracity, the clergyman of Briamslaek, and Madame
Benedictson of Stickesholm, both of whom assured me that they had seen
the expedition performed repeatedly. Madame Benedictson, in particular,
recollected having spent a whole afternoon, in her younger days, at the
margin of a small lake on which these skilful navigators had embarked,
and amusing herself and her companions by driving them away from the
sides of the lake as they approached them. I was also informed that
they make use of dried mushrooms as sacks, in which they convey their
provisions to the river, and thence to their homes.'[220]
Before leaving the mice and rats I may say a few words upon certain
mouse- and rat-like animals which scarcely require a separate section
for their consideration. Of the harvesting mouse Gilbert White says:--
One of their nests I procured this autumn, most
artificially plaited and composed of blades of wheat,
perfectly round, and about the size of a cricket-ball,
with the aperture so ingeniously closed that there was
no discovering to what part it belonged. It was so
compact and well filled that it would roll across the
table without being discomposed, though it contained
eight little mice that were naked and blind. As the
nest was perfectly full, how could the dam come at her
litter respectively, so as to administer a teat to
each? Perhaps she opens different places for that
purpose, adjusting them again when the business is
over; but she could not possibly be contained herself
in the ball with the young ones, which, moreover,
would be daily increasing in size. This wonderful
procreant cradle, an elegant instance of the efforts
of instinct, was found in a wheat field, suspended on
the head of a thistle.
Pallas has described the provident habits of the so-called 'rat-hare'
(_Lagomys_), which lays up a store of grass, or rather hay, for winter
consumption. These animals, which occur in the Altai Mountains, live in
holes or crevices of rock. About the middle of the month of August they
collect grass, and spread it out to dry into hay. In September they form
heaps or stacks of the hay, which may be as much as six feet high, and
eight feet in diameter. It is stored in their chosen hole or crevice,
protected from the rain.
The following is quoted from Thompson's 'Passions of Animals,' pp.
235-6:--
The life of the harvester rat is divided between
eating and fighting. It seems to have no other passion
than that of rage, which induces it to attack every
animal that comes in its way, without in the least
attending to the superior strength of its enemy.
Ignorant of the art of saving itself by flight,
rather than yield, it will allow itself to be beaten
to pieces with a stick. If it seizes a man's hand, it
must be killed before it will quit its hold. The
magnitude of the horse terrifies it as little as the
address of the dog, which last is fond of hunting it.
When a harvester perceives a dog at a distance, it
begins by emptying its cheek-pouches, if they happen
to be filled with grain; it then blows them up so
prodigiously, that the size of the head and neck
greatly exceeds that of the rest of the body. It rears
itself upon its hind legs, and thus darts upon the
enemy. If it catches hold, it never quits it but with
the loss of its life; but the dog generally seizes it
behind, and strangles it. This ferocious disposition
prevents it from being at peace with any animal
whatever. It even makes war against its own species.
When two harvesters meet, they never fail to attack
each other, and the stronger always devours the
weaker. A combat between a male and a female commonly
lasts longer than between two males. They begin by
pursuing and biting each other, then each of them
retires aside, as if to take breath. After a short
interval they renew the combat, and continue to fight
till one of them falls. The vanquished uniformly
serves as a repast to the conqueror.
If we contrast the fearless disposition of the harvester with the
timidity of the hare or rabbit, we observe that in respect of emotions,
no less than in that of intelligence, the order Rodentia comprises the
utmost extremes.
The so-called 'prairie-dog' is a kind of small rodent, which makes
burrows in the ground, and a slight elevation above it. The animals
being social in their habits, their warrens are called 'dog-towns.'
Prof. Jillson, Ph.D., kept a pair in confinement (see 'American
Naturalist,' vol. v., pp. 24-29), and found them to be intelligent and
highly affectionate animals. These burrows he found to contain a
'granary,' or chambers set apart for the reception of stored food. With
regard to the association said to exist between this animal and the owl
and rattle-snake, Prof. Jillson says, 'I have seen many dog-towns, with
owls and dogs standing on contiguous, and in some cases on the same
mound, but never saw a snake in the vicinity.' The popular notion that
the owl acts the part of sentry to the dog requires, to say the least,
confirmation.
_Beaver._
Most remarkable among rodents for instinct and intelligence
unquestionably stands the beaver. Indeed, there is no animal--not even
excepting the ants and bees--where instinct has risen to a higher level
of far-reaching adaptation to certain constant conditions of
environment, or where faculties, undoubtedly instinctive, are more
puzzlingly wrought up with faculties no less undoubtedly intelligent. So
much is this the case that, as we shall presently see, it is really
impossible by the closest study of the psychology of this animal to
distinguish the web of instinct from the woof of intelligence; the two
principles seem here to have been so intimately woven together, that in
the result, as expressed by certain particular actions, it cannot be
determined how much we are to attribute to mechanical impulse, and how
much to reasoned purpose.
Fortunately, the doubt that for many years shrouded the facts has been
dispelled by the conscientious and laborious observations of the late
Mr. Lewis H. Morgan,[221] whose work throughout displays the judicious
accuracy of a scientific mind. As this is much the most trustworthy, as
well as the most exhaustive essay upon the subject, I shall mainly rely
upon it for my statement of facts, and while presenting these I shall
endeavour to point out the psychological explanation, or difficulty of
explanation, to which they are severally open.
The beaver is a social animal, the male living with his single female
and progeny in a separate burrow or 'lodge.' Several of these lodges,
however, are usually built close together, so as to form a beaver
colony. The young quit the lodge of their parents when they enter upon
the summer of their third year, seek mates, and establish new lodges for
themselves. As each litter numbers three or four, and breeding is
annual, it follows that a beaver lodge never or rarely contains more
than twelve individuals, while the number usually ranges from four to
eight. Every season, and particularly when a district becomes
overstocked, some of the beavers migrate. The Indians say that in their
local migrations the old beavers go up stream, and the young down;
assigning as a reason that in the struggle for existence greater
advantages are afforded near the source than lower down a stream, and
therefore that the old beavers appropriate the former. But although
lodges may thus be vacated by the old beavers, they are not left
tenantless; their lease is, as it were, transferred to another beaver
couple. This process of transference of ownership goes on from
generation to generation, so that the same lodges are continuously
occupied for centuries.
These lodges, which are always constructed in or near water, are of
three kinds--the island, bank, and lake lodge. The first are formed on
small islands which may happen to occur in the ponds made by the
beaver-dams. The floor of the lodge is a few inches above the level of
the water, and into it there open two, or sometimes more entrances:
These are made with great skill, and in the most
artistic manner. One is straight, or as nearly so as
possible, with its floor, which is of course under
water, an inclined plane, rising gradually from the
bottom of the pond into the chamber; while the other
is abrupt in its descent, and often sinuous in its
course. The first we shall call the 'wood entrance,'
from its evident design to facilitate the admission
into the chamber of their wood cuttings, upon which
they subsist during the season of winter. These
cuttings, as will elsewhere be shown, are of such size
and length that such an entrance is absolutely
necessary for their free admission into the lodge. The
other, which we shall call the 'beaver entrance,' is
the ordinary run-way for their exit and return. It is
usually abrupt, and often winding. In the lodge under
consideration, the wood entrance descended from the
outer run of the chamber entrance about ten feet to
the bottom of the pond in a straight line, and upon an
inclined plane; while the other, emerging from the
line of the chamber at the side, descended quite
abruptly to the bottom of the moat or trench, through
which the beavers must pass, in open water, out into
the pond. Both entrances were rudely arched, with a
roof of interlaced sticks filled in with mud
intermixed with vegetable fibre, and were extended to
the bottom of the pond or trench, with the exception
of the opening at their ends. At the places where they
were constructed through the floor they were finished
with neatness and precision; the upper parts and sides
forming an arch more or less regular, while the bottom
and floor edges were formed with firm and compacted
earth, in which small sticks were embedded. It is
difficult to realise the artistic appearance of some
of these entrances without actual inspection.
Upon the floor of the lodge there is constructed a house of sticks,
brushwood, and mud, in the form of a circular or oval chamber, the size
of which varies with the age of the lodge; for by a continuous process
of repair (which consists in removing the decayed sticks, &c., from the
interior and working them up with new material upon the exterior) the
whole lodge progressively increases in size: eventually in this way the
interior chamber may attain a diameter of seven or eight feet.
The 'bank lodges' are of two kinds:--
One is situated upon the bank of the stream or pond, a
few feet back from its edge, and entered by an
underground passage from the bed of the stream,
excavated through the natural earth up into the
chamber. The other is situated upon the edge of the
bank, a portion of it projecting over and resting upon
the bed of the channel, so as to have the floor of the
chamber rest upon the bank as upon solid ground, while
the external wall on the pond side projects beyond it,
and is built up from the bottom of the pond.
Lastly, the 'lake lodges' are constructed on the shores of lakes, which,
being usually shelving and hard, require some further variation in the
structure of the lodges. These, therefore, are of interest 'as
illustrations of the capacity of the beavers to vary the mode of
construction of their lodges in accordance with the changes of
situation.' One-half or two-thirds of the lodge is in this case 'built
out upon the lake for the obvious purpose of covering the entrance, as
well as for its extension into deep water.'
All these forms of lodge are, historically regarded, modified burrows.
The beaver is a burrowing animal. Indulging this
propensity, he excavates chambers underground, and
constructs artificial lodges upon its surface, both of
which are indispensable to his security and happiness.
The lodge is but a burrow above ground, covered with
an artificial roof, and possesses some advantages over
the latter as a place for rearing young.
There are reasons for believing that the burrow is the
normal residence of the beavers, and that the lodge
grew out of it, in the progress of their experience,
by a process of natural suggestion. . . . In addition
to the lodge, the same beavers who inhabit it have
burrows in the banks surrounding the pond. They never
risk their personal safety upon their lodge alone,
which, being conspicuous to their enemies, is liable
to attack. . . . As the entrances are always below the
surface level of the pond, there are no external
indications to mark the site of the burrow,
except occasionally a small pile of beaver-cuttings a foot or more high.
These, the trappers affirm, are purposely left there by the beavers to
keep the snow loose over the ends of their burrows during winter for the
admission of air.
Mr. Morgan adds the very probable suggestion that this habit of piling
up cuttings for purposes of ventilation may have constituted the origin
of lodge-building.
It is but a step from such a surface-pile of sticks to
a lodge, with its chamber above ground, and the
previous burrow as its entrance from the pond. A
burrow accidentally broken through at its upper end,
and repaired with a covering of sticks and earth,
would lead to a lodge above ground, and thus
inaugurate a beaver lodge out of a broken burrow.
It is evidence of an important local variation of instinct, that in the
Cascade Mountains the beavers live chiefly in burrows in the banks of
streams, and rarely construct either lodges or dams. Dr. Newbury, in his
report on the zoology of Oregon and California, says: 'We found the
beavers in numbers, of which, when applied to beavers, I had no
conception,' and yet 'we never saw their houses and seldom a dam.'
Whether this local variation be due to a relapse from dam- and
lodge-building instincts to the primitive burrowing instinct, or to a
failure in the full development of the newer instinct, is immaterial.
Probably, I think, looking to the high antiquity of the building
instinct, and also to its being occasionally manifested by the
Californian beavers, their case is to be regarded as one of relapsing
instinct.
In selecting the site of their lodges beavers display much sagacity and
forethought.
The severity of the climate in these high northern
latitudes lays upon them the necessity of so locating
their lodges as to be assured of water deep enough in
their entrances, and also so protected in other
respects, as not to freeze to the bottom;[222] otherwise
they would perish with hunger, locked up in ice-bound
habitations. To guard against this danger, the dam,
also, must be sufficiently stable through the winter
to maintain the water at a constant level; and this
level, again, must be so adjusted with reference to
the floor of the lodge as to enable them, at all
times, to take in their cuttings from without as they
are needed for food. When they leave their normal mode
of life in the banks of the rivers, and undertake to
live in dependence upon artificial ponds of their own
formation, they are compelled to prevent the
consequences of their acts at the peril of their
lives.
On the upper Missouri, where the banks of the river are for miles
together vertical, and rising from three to eight feet above its
surface, the beavers resort to the device of making what are called
'beaver slides.' These are narrow inclined planes cut into the banks at
intervals, the angle of inclination being 45° to 60°, so as to form a
gradual descent from a point a few feet back from the edge of the bank
to the level of the river. As Mr. Morgan observes, 'they furnish another
conspicuous illustration of the fact that beavers possess a free
intelligence, by means of which they are enabled to adapt themselves to
the circumstances in which they are placed.'
Coming now to the habits of these animals in connection with the
procuring and storing of food, it is first to be observed that 'the
thick bark upon the trunks of large trees, and even upon those of medium
size, is unsuitable for food; but the smaller limbs, the bark of which
is tender and nutritious, afford the aliment which they prefer.' To
obtain this food, the animals, as is well known, fell the trees by
gnawing a ring round their base. Two or three nights' successive work by
a pair of beavers is enough to bring down a half-grown tree, 'each
family being left to the undisturbed enjoyment of the fruits of their
own toil and industry.' 'When the tree begins to crackle they desist
from cutting, which they afterwards continue with caution until it
begins to fall, when they plunge into the pond usually, and wait
concealed for a time, as if fearful that the cracking noise of the
tree-fall might attract some enemy to the place.' It is of much interest
that the beavers when thus felling trees know how to regulate the
direction of the fall; by gnawing chiefly on the side of the trunk
remote from the water, they make the tree fall towards the water, with
the obvious purpose of saving as much as possible the labour of
subsequent transport. For as soon as a tree is down, the next work is to
cut off the branches, or such as are from two to six inches in diameter;
and then, when they have been cleared of their twigs, to divide them
into lengths sufficient to admit of the beavers transporting them to
their lodges. The cutting into lengths is effected by making a number of
semi-sections through the branch at more or less equal distances as it
lies upon the ground, and then turning the branch half round and
continuing the sections from the opposite side. 'To cut it (the branch)
entirely through from the upper side would require an incision of such
width as to involve a loss of labour.' The thicker the branch, the
closer together are the sections made, and consequently the shorter are
the resulting portions--the reason, of course, being that the strength
of the animal would not be sufficient to transport a thick piece of
timber of the same length as a thin piece which it is only just able to
manage.
In moving cuttings of this description they are quite
ingenious. They shove and roll them with their hips,
using also their legs and tails as levers, moving
sideways in the act. In this way they move the larger
pieces from the more or less elevated ground on which
the deciduous trees are found, over the uneven but
generally descending surface to the pond. . . . After
one of these cuttings has been transported to the water,
a beaver, placing one end of it under his throat, pushes
it before him to the place where it is to be sunk.
The sinking is no doubt partly effected by mere soaking; but there is
also some evidence to show that the beavers have a method of anchoring
down their supplies. Thus they have been observed towing pieces of brush
to their lodges, and then, while holding the large end in their mouths,
'going down with it to the bottom, apparently to fix it in the mud
bottom of the pond.' A brush-heap being thus formed, the cuttings from
the felled trees are stuck through the brushwork, without which
'protection they would be liable to be floated off by the strong
currents, and thus be lost to the beavers at the time when their lives
might depend upon their safe custody.'
Lastly, as a method whereby the beavers can save themselves the trouble
of cutting, transporting, and anchoring all at the same time, they are
prone, when circumstances permit, to fell a tree growing near enough to
their pond to admit of its branches being submerged in the water. The
animals then well know that the branches and young shoots will remain
preserved throughout the winter without any further trouble from them.
But of course the supply of trees thus growing conveniently near a
beaver-pond is too limited to last long.
We have next to consider the most wonderful, and I think the most
psychologically puzzling structures that are presented as the works of
any animal; I mean, of course, the dams and canals.
The object of the dam is that of forming an artificial pond, the use of
which is to afford refuge to the animals as well as water connection
with their lodges. Therefore the level of the pond must in all cases be
higher than that of the lodge- and burrow-entrances, and it is usually
maintained two or three feet above them.
As the dam is not an absolute necessity to the beaver
for the maintenance of his life--his normal habitation
being rather natural ponds and rivers, and the burrows
in their banks--it is, in itself considered, a
remarkable fact that he should have voluntarily
transferred himself, by means of dams and ponds of his
own construction, from a natural to an artificial mode
of life.
In external appearance there are two distinct kinds of dams, although
all are constructed on the same principle. One, the more common, is the
'stick dam,' which is composed of interlaced stick and pole work upon
the lower face, with an embankment of earth mixed with the same
materials on the upper face. The other is the 'solid-bank dam,' which
differs from the former in having much more brush and mud worked into
its construction, especially upon its surfaces; the result being that
the whole formation looks like a solid bank of earth. In the first kind
of dam the surplus water percolates through the structure along its
entire length; but in the second kind the discharge takes place through
a single furrow in the crest, which, remarkable though the fact
unquestionably is, the beavers intentionally form for this purpose.
In the construction of the dam, stones are used here and there to give
down-weight and solidity. These stones weigh from one to six pounds, and
are carried by the beavers in the same way as they carry their
mud--namely, by walking on their hind legs while holding their burden
against the chest with their fore-paws. The solid dams are much firmer
in their consistence than the stick dams; for while a horse might walk
across the former, the weight of a man would be too great to be
sustained by the latter. Each kind of dam is adapted to the locality in
which it is built, the difference between the two kinds being due to the
following cause. As a stream gains water and force in its descent, it
develops banks, and also a broader and deeper channel. These banks
assume a vertical form in the level areas where the soil is alluvial.
Thus, an open stick-work dam could not in such places be led off from
either bank; and even if it could, the force and depth of the stream
would carry it away. Therefore in such places the beavers build their
solid-bank dams, while in shallow and comparatively sluggish waters they
content themselves with the smaller amount of labour involved in the
building of a stick dam.
To give some idea of the proportions of a dam, I shall epitomise a
number of measurements given by Mr. Morgan:--
Feet
Height of structure from base line 2 to 6
Difference in depth of water above and below dam 4 to 5
Width of base or section 6 to 18
Length of slope, lower face 6 to 13
Length of slope, upper face 4 to 8
The only other measurement is that of length, and this, of course,
varies with the width of water to be spanned. Where this width is
considerable the length of a dam may be prodigious, as the following
quotation will show:--
Some of the dams in this region are not less
remarkable for their prodigious length, a statement of
which, in fact, would scarcely be credited unless
verified by actual measurement. The largest one yet
mentioned measures 260 feet, but there are dams 400
and even 500 feet long.
There is a dam in two sections, situated upon a
tributary of the main branch of the Esconauba River,
about a mile and a half north-west of the Washington
Main. One section measures 110 and the other 400 feet,
with an interval of natural bank, worked here and
there, of 1,000 feet. A solid-bank dam, 20 feet in
length, was first constructed across the channel of
the stream, from bank to bank, with the usual opening
for the surplus water, five feet wide. As the water
rose and overflowed the bank on the left side, the dam
was extended for 90 feet, until it reached ground high
enough to confine the pond. This natural bank extended
up the stream, and nearly parallel with it, for 1,000
feet, where the ground again subsided, and allowed the
water in the upper part of the pond to flow out and
around into the channel of the stream below the dam.
To meet this emergency a second dam, 420 feet long,
was constructed. For the greater part of its length it
is low, but in some places it is two and a half and
three feet high, and constructed of stick-work on the
land, and with an earth embankment on its outer face.
In effect, therefore, it is one structure 1,530 feet
in length, of which 530 feet in two sections is
artificial, and the remainder natural bank, but worked
here and there where depressions in the ground
required raising by artificial means.
It is truly an astonishing fact that animals should engage in such vast
architectural labours with what appears to be the deliberate purpose of
securing, by such very artificial means, the special benefits that arise
from their high engineering skill. So astonishing, indeed, does this
fact appear, that as sober-minded interpreters of fact we would fain
look for some explanation which would not necessitate the inference that
these actions are due to any intelligent appreciation, either of the
benefits that arise from the labour, or of the hydrostatic principles to
which this labour so clearly refers. Yet the more closely we look into
the subject, the more impossible do we find it to account for the facts
by any such easy method. Thus it seems perfectly certain that the
beavers, properly and strictly speaking, understand the use of their
dams in maintaining a certain level of water. For it is unquestionable
that in the solid-bank dams, as already observed, a regular opening or
trough is cut at one part of its crest to provide for the overflow; and
now it has to be added that this opening is purposely widened or
narrowed with reference to the amount of water in the stream at
different times, so as to ensure the maintenance of a constant level in
the pond. Similarly, though by different means, the same end is secured
in the case of the stick dams. For 'in most of these dams the rapidity
or slowness with which the surplus water is discharged is undoubtedly
regulated by the beavers; otherwise the level of the pond would
continually vary. There must be a constant tendency to enlarge the
orifices through which the water passes,' when the stream is small, and
_vice versâ_; otherwise the lodges would be either inundated or have
their sub-aquatic entrances exposed.[223] Moreover, a very little
consideration is enough to show that in stick dams the tendency to
increased leakage from the effects of percolation, and to a settling
down of the dam as its materials decay from underneath, must demand
unceasing vigilance and care to avert the consequences. And accordingly
it is found that 'in the fall of the year a new supply of materials is
placed upon the lower face of these dams to compensate this waste from
decay.'
Now, it is obvious that we have here presented a continual variation of
conditions, imposed by continual variations in the amount of water
coming down; and it is a matter of observation that these variations are
met by the beavers in the only way that they can be met--namely, by
regulating the amount of flow taking place through the dams. It will
therefore be seen that we have here to consider a totally different case
from that of the operation of pure instinct, however wonderful such
operation may be. For the adaptations of pure instinct only have
reference to conditions that are unchanging; so that if in this case we
suppose pure instinct to account for all the facts, we must greatly
modify our ideas of what pure instinct is taken to mean. Thus we must
suppose that when the beavers find the level of their ponds rising or
falling, the discomfort which they experience acts as a stimulus to
cause them, without intelligent purpose, either to widen or to narrow
the orifices in their dams as the case may be. And not only so, but the
conditions of stimulation and response must be so nicely balanced that
the animals widen or narrow these orifices with a more or less precise
_quantitative_ reference to the degree of discomfort, actual or
prospective, which they experience. Now it seems to me that even thus
far it is an extremely difficult thing to believe that the mechanism of
pure or wholly unintelligent instinct could admit of sufficient
refinement to meet so complex a case of compensating adaptation; and, as
we shall immediately see, this difficulty increases still more as we
contemplate additional facts relating to these structures.
Thus it sometimes happens that in large dams the pressure of the water
which they keep back is so considerable that their stability is
endangered. In such cases it has been observed by Mr. Morgan that, at a
short distance beneath the main dam, another and lower dam is thrown
across the stream, with the result of forming a shallow pond between the
two. This pond is--
Of no apparent use for beaver occupation, but yet
subserving the important purpose of setting back water
to the depth of twelve or fifteen inches; . . . and the
small dam, by maintaining the water a foot deep below
the great dam, diminishes to this extent the
difference in level above and below, and neutralises
to the same extent the pressure of the water in the
pond above against the main structure.
'Whether,' adds Mr. Morgan, with commendable caution, 'the lower dam was
constructed with this motive and for this object, or is explainable on
some other hypothesis, I shall not venture an opinion.' But as, he
further adds, 'I have also found the same precise work repeated below
other large dams,' we are led to conclude that their correlation cannot
at least be accidental; and as it is of so definite a character, there
really seems no 'other hypothesis' open to us than that of its having
reference to the stability of the main dam. Yet, if this is the case, it
becomes in my opinion simply impossible to attribute the fact to the
operation of pure instinct.
Again, Mr. Morgan observed one case in which, higher up stream than the
main dam, there was constructed another dam, ninety-three feet long, and
two and a half feet high at the centre:--
A dam at this point is apparently of no conceivable
use to improve the lake for beaver occupation. It has
one feature, also, in which it differs from other dams
except those upon lake outlets, and that consists in
its elevation, at all points, of about two feet above
the level of the lake at ordinary stages of the water.
In all other dams, except those upon lake outlets, and
in most of the latter, the water stands quite near
their crests, while in the one under consideration it
stood about two feet below it. This fact suggests at
least the inference, although it may have but little
of probability to sustain it, that it was constructed
with special reference to sudden rises of the lake in
times of freshet, and that it was designed to hold
this surplus water until it could be gradually
discharged through the dam into the great space below.
It would at least subserve this purpose very
efficiently, and thus protect the dam below it from
the effects of freshets. To ascribe the origin of this
dam to such motives of intelligence is to invest this
animal with a higher degree of sagacity than we have
probable reason to concede to him, and yet it is
proper to mention the relation in which these dams
stand to each other--whether that relation is regarded
as accidental or intentional.
As before, we have here to commend the caution displayed by the closing
sentence; but, as useless dams are not found in other places, the
inference clearly is that the dam in question, both as regards its
exceptional position and exceptional height, can only be explained by
supposing the structure to have been designed for the use which it
unquestionably served. That is to say, if we do not entertain this
explanation, there is no other to be suggested; and although in any
ordinary or occasional instance of the display of animal intelligence in
such a degree as this I should not hesitate to attribute the facts to
accident, in the case of the beaver there are such a multitude of
constantly recurring facts, all and only referable to a practical though
not less extraordinary appreciation of hydrostatic principles, that the
hypothesis of accident must here, I think, be laid aside. To
substantiate this statement I shall detail the facts concerning the
beaver-canals.
As Mr. Morgan, who first discovered and described these astonishing
structures, observes,--
Remarkable as the dam may still be considered, from
its structure and objects, it scarcely surpasses, if
it may be said to equal, these water-ways, here called
canals, which are excavated through the low lands
bordering their ponds for the purpose of reaching the
hard wood, and for affording a channel for its
transportation to their lodges. To conceive and
execute such a design presupposes a more complicated
and extended process of reasoning than that required
for the construction of a dam, and, although a much
simpler work to perform when the thought was fully
developed, it was far less to have been expected from
a mute animal.
These canals are developed in this way. One of the principal objects
served by a dam thrown across a small stream, is that of flooding the
low ground so as to obtain water connection with the first high ground
upon which hard wood is to be found, such connection being convenient,
or even necessary, for the purposes of transport.
Where the pond fails to accomplish this fully, and
also where the banks are defined and mark the limits
of the pond, the deficiency is supplied by the canals
in question. On descending surfaces, as has elsewhere
been stated, beavers roll and drag their short
cuttings down into the ponds. But where the ground is
low it is generally so uneven and rough as to render
it extremely difficult, if not impossible, for the
beavers to move them for any considerable distance by
physical force. Hence the canal for floating them
across the intervening level ground to the pond. The
necessity for it is so apparent as to diminish our
astonishment at its construction; and yet that the
beaver should devise a canal to surmount this
difficulty is not the less remarkable.
The canals, which are made by excavation, are usually from three to five
feet wide, three feet deep, and perhaps hundreds of feet long--the
length of course depending on the distance between the lodge and the
wood supply. They are cut in the form of trenches, having perpendicular
sides and abrupt ends. All roots of trees, under-brush, &c., are cleared
away in their course, so as to afford an unobstructed passage. These
canals are of such frequent occurrence that it is impossible to
attribute them to accident; they are evidently made, at the cost of much
labour, with the deliberate purpose of putting them to the use for which
they are designed. In executing this purpose there is sometimes
displayed a depth of engineering forethought over details of structure
required by the circumstances of special localities, which is even more
astonishing than the execution of the general idea. Thus it not
unfrequently happens that when a canal has been run for a certain
distance, a rise in the level of the ground renders it impossible to
continue the structure further from the water supply or lodge-pond,
without either incurring a great amount of labour in digging the canal
with progressively deepening sides, or leaving the trench empty of
water, and so useless. In such cases the beavers resort to various
expedients, according to the nature of the ground.
[Illustration]
Mr. Morgan gives an interesting sketch of one such case, where the canal
is excavated through low ground for a distance of 450 feet, when it
reaches the first rise of ground, and throughout this distance, being
level with the pond, it is supplied with water from this source. Where
the rise begins a dam is made, and the canal is then continued for 25
feet at a level of one foot higher than before. This higher level reach
is supplied with water collected from still higher levels by another
dam, extending for 75 feet upon one side of the canal and 25 feet on the
other, in the form of a crescent with its concavity directed towards the
highlands, so as to collect all the drainage water, and concentrate it
into the second reach of the canal. Beyond this larger dam there is
another abrupt rise of a foot, and the canal is there continued for 47
feet more, where a third dam is built resembling the second in
construction, only having a still wider span on either side of the canal
(142 feet), so as to catch a still larger quantity of drainage water to
supply the third or uppermost reach of the canal. We have, therefore,
here presented, not only a perfect application of the principle of
'locks,' which are used in canals of human construction, but also the
principle of collecting water to supply the reaches situated on the
slope by means of elaborately constructed dams of wide extent, and of
the best form for the purpose. There is thus shown much too great a
concurrence of engineering principles to the attainment of one object to
admit of our attributing the facts to accident. On this structure Mr.
Morgan observes:--
The crests of these dams where they cross the canals
are depressed, or worn down, in the centre, by the
constant passage of beavers over them while going to
and fro and dragging their cuttings. This canal with
its adjuncts of dams and its manifest objects is a
remarkable work, transcending very much the ordinary
estimates of the intelligence of the beaver. It served
to bring the occupants of the pond into easy
connection by water with the trees that supplied them
with food, as well as to relieve them from the tedious
and perhaps impossible task of transporting their
cuttings 500 feet over uneven ground unassisted by any
descent.
Again, in another case, also sketched by Mr. Morgan, another device is
resorted to, and one which, having reference to the particular
circumstances of the case, is the best that could have been adopted.
Here the canal, proceeding from the pond to the woodland 150 feet
distant, encounters at the woodland a rising slope covered with hard
wood. Thereupon the canal bifurcates, and the two diverging branches or
prongs are carried in opposite directions along the base of the woodland
rise, one for a distance of 100 and the other for 115 feet. The level
being throughout the same, the water from the pond supplies the two
branch-canals as well as the trunk. Both branches end with abrupt
vertical faces. Now the object of these branches is sufficiently
apparent:--
After the rising ground, and with it the hard wood
trees, were reached at the point where it branches,
there was no very urgent necessity for the branches.
But their construction along the base of the high
ground gave them a frontage upon the canal of 215 feet
of hard-wood lands, thus affording to them, along this
extended line, the great advantages of water
transportation for their cuttings.
One more proof of engineering purpose in the construction of canals will
be sufficient to place beyond all question the fact that beavers form
these canals, as they form their dams, with a far-seeing perception of
the suitability of highly artificial means to the attainment of
particular ends, under a variety of special circumstances. Mr. Morgan
observed one or two instances where the land included in a wind or loop
of a river was cut through by a beaver canal across the narrowest part,
'apparently to shorten the distance in going up and down by water.'
Judging from the figures which he gives, drawn to measurement, there can
be no question that such was the object; and as these structures may be
one or two hundred feet in length, and represent the laborious
excavation of some 1,500 cubic feet of soil, the animals must be
actuated by the most vivid conception of the subsequent saving in labour
that is to be effected by making an artificial communication across the
chord of an arc, instead of always going round the natural curve of a
stream.
Regarding now together all these facts relating to the psychology of the
beaver, it must be confessed, as I said at the outset, that we have
presented to us a problem perhaps the most difficult of any that we have
to encounter in the whole range of animal intelligence. On the one hand,
it seems incredible that the beaver should attain to such a level of
abstract thought as would be implied by his forming his various
structures with the calculated purpose of achieving the ends which they
undoubtedly subserve. On the other hand, as we have seen, it seems
little less than impossible that the formation of these structures can
be due to instinct. Yet one or other hypothesis, either singly or in
combination, must be resorted to. The case, it will be observed, thus
differs from that of the more wonderful performances of instinct
elsewhere, such as that of ants and bees, inasmuch as the performances
here are so complex and varied, as well as having reference to physical
principles of a much more recondite or less observable nature. The case
from its theoretical side being thus one of much difficulty, I think it
will be better to postpone its discussion till in 'Mental Evolution' I
come to treat of the whole subject of instinct in relation to
intelligence.
I must not, however, conclude this epitome of the facts without alluding
to the only other publication on the habits of the beaver which is of
distinctly scientific value. This is a short but interesting paper by
Prof. Alexander Agassiz.[224] He says that the largest dam he has himself
seen measured 650 feet in length, and 3-1/2 feet in height, with a small
number of lodges in the vicinity of the pond. The number of lodges is
always thus very small in proportion to the size of the dam, the
greatest number of lodges that he has observed upon one pond being five.
It is evident from this that beavers are not really gregarious in their
habits, and that their dams and canals 'are the work of a comparatively
small number of animals; but to make up for the numbers the work of
succeeding inhabitants of any one pond must have been carried on for
centuries to accomplish the gigantic results we find in some
localities.'
In one case Prof. Agassiz obtained what may be termed geological
evidence of the truth of an opinion advanced by Mr. Morgan, that
beaver-works may be hundreds if not thousands of years in course of
continuous formation. For the purpose of obtaining a secure foundation
for a mill dam erected above a beaver dam, it was necessary to clear
away the soil from the bottom of the beaver pond. This soil was found to
be a peat bog. A trench was dug into the peat 12 feet wide by 1,200 feet
long, and 9 feet deep; all the way along this trench old stumps of trees
were found at various depths, some still bearing marks of having been
gnawed by beavers' teeth. Agassiz calculated the growth of the bog as
about a foot per century, so that here we have tolerably accurate
evidence of an existing beaver dam being somewhere about a thousand
years old.
The gradual growth of these enormous dams has the effect of greatly
altering the configuration of the country where they occur. By taking
levels from dams towards the sources of streams on which they occur,
Agassiz was able ideally to reconstruct the original landscape before
the growth of the dams, and he found that, 'from the nature of the
surrounding country, the open spaces now joining the beaver ponds--the
beaver meadows where the trees are scanty or small--must at one time
have been all covered with forests.' At first the beavers 'began to
clear the forest just in the immediate vicinity of the dams, extending
in every direction, first up the stream as far as the nature of the
creek would allow, and then laterally by means of their canals, as far
as the level of the ground would allow, thus little by little clearing a
larger area according to the time they have occupied any particular
place,' In this way beavers may change the whole aspect of large tracts
of country, covering with water a great extent of ground which was once
thickly wooded.
FOOTNOTES:
[209] It is particularly remarkable that if under these circumstances a
rabbit bolts and, seeing the sportsman, doubles back into its burrow,
being then certain that the sportsman is waiting, it will usually allow
itself to be slowly and painfully killed by the ferret rather than bolt
a second time. This is remarkable because it proves the strength of an
abiding image or idea in the mind of the animal.
[210] See Watson's _Reasoning Power in Animals_, and _Quarterly Review_,
c. i., p. 135.
[211] See especially Jesse, _Gleanings_, &c., iii., p. 206; and
_Quarterly Review_, c. i., p. 135.
[212] Thompson, _Passions of Animals_, p. 368.
[213] _The Rat, its Natural History_, p. 102.
[214] Mrs. Lee, _Anecdotes of Animals_, p. 264.
[215] Jesse, _Gleanings_, &c., ii., p. 281.
[216] _Reasoning Power in Animals_, p. 293.
[217] _Loc. cit._
[218] Jesse, _Gleanings_, iii., p. 176.
[219] _Introduction to Arctic Zoology_, p 70.
[220] Dr. Henderson, _Journal of a Residence in Iceland in 1814 and
1815_, vol. ii., p. 187.
[221] _The American Beaver and his Works_ (Lippincott & Co. 1868).
[222] To obviate this possibility, they often select as their site a
place where a spring happens to rise in the bottom of the lake or pond.
[223] In times of considerable 'freshet' the former case sometimes
occurs; the beavers not being able to provide for a very considerable
overflow through their dams, the latter become then wholly submerged.
When again exposed, the animals take great pains in repairing the
injuries sustained.
[224] Note on Beaver Dams (_Proc. Boston Soc. Nat. Hist._, 1869, p. 101,
_et seq._).
CHAPTER XIII.
ELEPHANT.
THE intelligence of the elephant is no doubt considerable, although
there is equally little doubt that it is generally exaggerated. Some of
the most notorious instances of the display of remarkable sagacity by
this animal are probably fabulous, or at least are not sufficiently
corroborated to justify belief. Such, for instance, is the celebrated
story told by Pliny with all the assurance of a '_certum est_,'[225] and
repeated by Plutarch,[226] of the elephant, who having been beaten for not
dancing properly, was afterwards found practising his steps alone in the
light of the moon. Although this story cannot, in the absence of
corroboration, be accepted as fact, we ought to remember, in connection
with it, that many talking and piping birds unquestionably practise in
solitude the accomplishments which they desire to learn.
Quitting, however, the enormous multitude of anecdotes, more or less
doubtful, and which may or may not be true, I shall select a few
well-authenticated instances of the display of elephant intelligence.
_Memory._
As regards memory, several cases are on record of tamed elephants having
become wild, and, on again being captured after many years, returning to
all their old habits under domestication. Mr. Corse publishes in the
'Philosophical Transactions'[227] an instance which came under his own
notice. He saw an elephant, which was carrying baggage, take fright at
the smell of a tiger and run off. Eighteen months afterwards this
elephant was recognised by its keepers among a herd of wild companions,
which had been captured and were confined in an enclosure. But when
anyone approached the animal he struck out with his trunk, and seemed as
fierce as any of the wild herd. An old hunter then mounted a tame
elephant, went up to the feral one, seized his ear and ordered him to
lie down. Immediately the force of old associations broke through all
opposition, the word of command was obeyed, and the elephant while lying
down gave a certain peculiar squeak which he had been known to utter in
former days. The same author gives another and more interesting account
of an elephant which, after having been for only two years tamed, ran
wild for fifteen years, and on being then recaptured, remembered in all
details the words of command. This, with several other well-authenticated
facts of the same kind,[228] shows that the elephant certainly has an
exceedingly tenacious memory, rendering credible the statement of Pliny,
that in their more advanced age these animals recognise men who were
their drivers when young.[229]
_Emotions._
Concerning emotions, the elephant seems to be usually actuated by the
most magnanimous of feelings. Even his proverbial vindictiveness appears
only to be excited under a sense of remembered injustice. The
universally known story of the tailor and the elephant doubtless had a
foundation in fact, for there are several authentic cases on record of
elephants resenting injuries in precisely the same way;[230] and Captain
Shipp[231] personally tested the matter by giving to an elephant a
sandwich of bread, butter, and cayenne pepper. He then waited for six
weeks before again visiting the animal, when he went into the stable and
began to fondle the elephant as he had previously been accustomed to do.
For a time no resentment was shown, so that the Captain began to think
that the experiment had failed; but at last, watching for an
opportunity, the elephant filled his trunk with dirty water, and
drenched the Captain from head to foot.
Griffiths says that at the siege of Bhurtpore, in 1805, the British army
had been a long time before the city, and, owing to the hot dry winds,
the ponds and tanks had dried up. There used therefore to be no little
struggle for priority in procuring water at one of the large wells which
still contained water:--
On one occasion two elephant-drivers, each with his
elephant, the one remarkably large and strong, and the
other comparatively small and weak, were at the well
together; the small elephant had been provided by his
master with a bucket for the occasion, which he
carried on the end of his proboscis, but the larger
animal, being destitute of this necessary vessel,
either spontaneously, or by the desire of his keeper,
seized the bucket, and easily wrested it from his less
powerful fellow-servant; the latter was too sensible
of his inferiority openly to resent the insult, though
it is obvious that he felt it; but great squabbling
and abuse ensued between the keepers. At length the
weaker animal, watching the opportunity when the other
was standing with his side to the well, retired
backwards a few paces in a very quiet and unsuspicious
manner, and then, rushing forward with all his might,
drove his head against the side of the other, and
fairly pushed him into the well.
Great trouble was experienced in extricating this elephant from the
well--a task which would, indeed, have been impossible but for the
intelligence of the animal itself. For when a number of fascines, which
had been employed by the army in conducting the siege, were thrown down
the well, the elephant showed sagacity enough to arrange them with his
trunk so as to construct a continuously rising platform, by which he
gradually raised himself to a level with the ground.
Allied to vindictiveness for small injuries is revenge for large ones,
and this is often shown in a terrible manner by wounded elephants. For
instance, Sir E. Tennent writes:--
Some years ago an elephant which had been wounded by a
native, near Hambangtotte, pursued the man into the
town, followed him along the street, trampled him to
death in the bazaar before a crowd of terrified
spectators, and succeeded in making good its retreat
to the jungle.
Many other cases of vindictiveness, more or less well authenticated, may
be found mentioned by Broderip,[232] Bingley,[233] Mrs. Lee,[234]
Swainson,[235] and Watson.[236] This trait of emotional character seems
to be more generally present in the elephant than in any other animal,
except perhaps the monkey.
Another emotion strongly developed in the elephant is sympathy.
Numberless examples on this head might be adduced, but one or two may
suffice. Bishop Huber saw an old elephant fall down from weakness, and
another elephant was brought to assist the fallen one to rise. Huber
says he was much struck with the almost human expression of surprise,
alarm, and sympathy manifested by the second elephant on witnessing the
condition of the first. A chain was fastened round the neck and body of
the sick animal, which the other was directed to pull. For a minute or
two the healthy elephant pulled strongly; but on the first groan given
by its distressed companion it stopped abruptly, 'turned fiercely round
with a loud roar, and with trunk and fore-feet began to loosen the chain
from the neck.'
Again, Sir E. Tennent says:--
The devotion and loyalty which the herd evince to
their leader are very remarkable. This is more readily
seen in the case of a tusker than any other, because
in a herd he is generally the object of the keenest
pursuit by the hunters. On such occasions the others
do their utmost to protect him from danger: when
driven to extremity they place their leader in the
centre and crowd so eagerly in front of him that the
sportsmen have to shoot a number which they might
otherwise have spared. In one instance a tusker, which
was badly wounded by Major Rogers, was promptly
surrounded by his companions, who supported him
between their shoulders, and actually succeeded in
covering his retreat to the forest.
Lastly, allusion may be made to the celebrated observation of M. le
Baron de Lauriston, who was at Laknaor during an epidemic which
stretched a number of natives sick and dying upon the road. The Nabob
riding his elephant over the road was careless whether or not the animal
crushed the men and women to death, but not so the elephant, which took
great pains to pick his steps among the people so as not to injure them.
The following account of emotion and sagacity is quoted from the Rev.
Julius Young's Memoirs of his father, Mr. Charles Young, the actor. The
animal mentioned is the one that subsequently attained such widespread
notoriety at Exeter Change, not only on account of his immense size, but
still more because of his cruel death:--
In July 1810, the largest elephant ever seen in
England was advertised as 'just arrived.' As soon as
Henry Harris, the manager of Covent Garden Theatre,
heard of it, he determined, if possible, to obtain it;
for it struck him that if it were to be introduced
into the new pantomime of 'Harlequin Padmenaba,' which
he was about to produce at great cost, it would add
greatly to its attraction. Under this impression, and
before the proprietor of Exeter Change had seen it, he
purchased it for the sum of 900 guineas. Mrs. Henry
Johnston was to ride it, and Miss Parker, the
columbine, was to play up to it. Young happened to be
one morning at the box-office adjoining Covent Garden
Theatre, when his ears were assailed by a strange and
unusual uproar within the walls. On asking one of the
carpenters the cause of it, he was told 'it was
something going wrong with the elephant; he could not
exactly tell what.' I am not aware what the usage may
be nowadays, but then, whenever a new piece had been
announced for presentation on a given night, and there
was but scant time for its preparation, a rehearsal
would take place after the night's regular performance
was over, and the audience had been dismissed. One
such there had been the night before my father's
curiosity had been roused. As it had been arranged
that Mrs. Henry Johnston, seated in a howdah on the
elephant's back, should pass over a bridge in the
centre of a numerous group of followers, it was
thought expedient that the unwieldy monster's
tractability should be tested. On stepping up to the
bridge, which was slight and temporary, the sagacious
brute drew back his fore-feet and refused to budge. It
is well known as a fact in natural history that the
elephant, aware of his unusual bulk, will never trust
its weight on any object which is unequal to its
support. The stage-manager, seeing how resolutely the
animal resisted every attempt made to compel or induce
it to go over the bridge in question, proposed that
they should stay proceedings till next day, when he
might be in a better mood. It was during the
repetition of the experiment that my father, having
heard the extraordinary sounds, determined to go upon
the stage, and see if he could ascertain the cause of
them. The first sight that met his eyes kindled his
indignation. There stood the high animal, with
downcast eyes and flapping ears, meekly submitting to
blow after blow from a sharp iron goad, which his
keeper was driving ferociously into the fleshy part of
his neck, at the root of the ear. The floor on which
he stood was converted into a pool of blood. One of
the proprietors, impatient at what he regarded as
senseless obstinacy, kept urging the driver to proceed
to still severer extremities, when Charles Young, who
was a great lover of animals, expostulated with him,
went up to the poor patient sufferer, and patted and
caressed him; and when the driver was about to wield
his instrument again, with even still more vigour, he
caught him by the wrist as in a vice, and stayed his
hand from further violence. While an angry altercation
was going on between Young and the man of colour, who
was the driver, Captain Hay, of the _Ashel_, who had
brought over 'Chuny' in his ship, and had petted him
greatly on the voyage, came in and begged to know what
was the matter. Before a word of explanation could be
given, the much-wronged creature spoke for himself;
for, as soon as he perceived the entrance of his
patron, he waddled up to him, and, with a look of
gentle appeal, caught hold of his hand with his
proboscis, plunged it into his bleeding wound, and
then thrust it before his eyes. The gesture seemed to
say, as plainly as if it had been enforced by speech,
'See how these cruel men treat Chuny. Can _you_
approve of it?' The hearts of the hardest present were
sensibly touched by what they saw, and among them that
of the gentleman who had been so energetic in
promoting its harsh treatment. It was under a far
better impulse that he ran out into the street,
purchased a few apples at a stall, and offered them
to him. Chuny eyed him askance, took them, threw them
beneath his feet, and when he had crushed them to
pulp, spurned them from him. Young, who had gone into
Covent Garden on the same errand as the gentleman who
had preceded him, shortly after re-entered, and also
held out to him some fruit, when, to the astonishment
of the bystanders, the elephant ate every morsel, and
after he had done so, twined his trunk with studied
gentleness around Young's waist, marking by his action
that, though he had resented a wrong, he did not
forget a kindness.
It was in the year 1814 that Harris parted with Chuny
to Cross, the proprietor of the menagerie at Exeter
Change. One of the purchaser's first acts was to send
Charles Young a life ticket of admission to his
exhibition; and it was one of his little innocent
vanities, when passing through the Strand with any
friend, to drop in on Chuny, pay him a visit in his
den, and show the intimate relations which existed
between them. Some years after, when the elephant's
theatrical career was run, and he was reduced to play
the part of captive in one of the cages of Exeter
Change, a thoughtless dandy one day amused himself by
teasing him with the repeated offer of lettuces--a
vegetable for which he was known to have an antipathy.
At last he presented him with an apple, but, at the
moment of his taking it, drove a large pin into his
trunk, and then sprang out of big reach. The keeper
seeing that the poor creature was getting angry,
warned the silly fellow off, lest he should become
dangerous. With a contemptuous shrug of the shoulder,
he trudged off to the other end of the gallery, and
there displayed his cruel ingenuity on other humbler
beasts, till, after the absence of half-an-hour, he
once more approached one of the cages opposite the
elephant's. By this time he had forgotten his pranks
with Chuny, but Chuny had not forgotten him; and as he
was standing with his back towards him, he thrust his
proboscis through the bars of his prison, twitched off
the offender's hat, dragged it in to him, tore it to
shreds, then threw it into the face of the offending
gaby, consummating his revenge with a loud guffaw of
exultation. All present proclaimed their approbation
of this act of retributive justice, and the
discomfited coxcomb had to retreat from the scene in
confusion, jump into a hackney coach, and betake
himself to the hatter's in quest of a new tile for his
unroofed skull. The tragic end of poor Chuny must be
within the recollection of many of my readers. From
some cause unknown he went mad, and after poison had
been tried in vain it took 152 shots, discharged by a
detachment of the Guards, to despatch him.[237]
The elephant in many respects displays strange peculiarities of
emotional temperament. Thus Mr. Corse says:--'If a wild elephant happens
to be separated from its young for only two or three days, though giving
suck, she never after recognises or acknowledges it;'[238] yet the young
one knows its dam, and cries plaintively for her assistance.
Again, in the wild state, the spirit of exclusiveness shown by members
of a herd (_i.e._ family) towards elephants of other herds is
remarkable. Sir E. Tennent writes:--
If by any accident an elephant becomes hopelessly
separated from his own herd, he is not permitted to
attach himself to any other. He may browse in the
vicinity, or frequent the same place to drink and to
bathe; but the intercourse is only on a distant and
conventional footing, and no familiarity or intimate
association is under any circumstances permitted. To
such a height is this exclusiveness carried, that even
amidst the terror of an elephant corral, when an
individual, detached from his own party in the _mêlée_
and confusion, has been driven into the enclosure with
an unbroken herd, I have seen him repulsed in every
attempt to take refuge among them, and driven off by
heavy blows with their trunks as often as he attempted
to insinuate himself within the circle which they had
formed for common security. There can be no reasonable
doubt that this jealous and exclusive policy not only
contributes to produce, but mainly serves to
perpetuate, the class of solitary elephants which are
known by the term _goondahs_ in India, and which from
their vicious propensities and predatory habits are
called _Hora_, or _Rogues_, in Ceylon.[239]
The emotional temper, or rather transformation of emotional psychology,
which is exhibited by the Rogues here mentioned, is as extraordinary as
it is notorious. From being a peaceable, sympathetic, and magnanimous
animal, the elephant, when excluded from the society of its kind,
becomes savage, cruel, and morose to a degree unequalled in any other
animal. The repulsive accounts of the bloodthirsty rage and wanton
destructiveness of Rogues show that their actions are not due to sudden
bursts of fury at the sight of man or his works, but rather to a
deliberate and brooding resolve to wage war on everything, so that the
animal patiently lies in wait for travellers, rushing from his ambush
only when he finds that the latter are within his power. As showing the
cold-blooded determination of this murderous desire, I may quote the
following case, as it was communicated to Sir E. Tennent:--
We had, says the writer, calculated to come up with
the brute where it had been seen half an hour before;
but no sooner had one of our men, who was walking
foremost, seen the animal at the distance of some
fifteen or twenty fathoms, than he exclaimed, 'There!
there!' and immediately took to his heels, and we all
followed his example. The elephant did not see us
until we had run some fifteen or twenty paces from the
spot where we turned, when he gave us chase, screaming
frightfully as he came on. The Englishman managed to
climb a tree, and the rest of my companions did the
same; as for myself, I could not, although I made one
or two superhuman efforts. But there was no time to be
lost. The elephant was running at me with his trunk
bent down in a curve towards the ground. At this
critical moment Mr. Lindsay held out his foot to me,
with the help of which and then of the branches of the
tree, which were three or four feet above my head, I
managed to scramble up to a branch. The elephant came
directly to the tree and attempted to force it down,
which he could not. He first coiled his trunk round
the stem, and pulled it with all his might, but with
no effect. He then applied his head to the tree, and
pushed for several minutes, but with no better
success. He then trampled with his feet all the
projecting roots, moving, as he did so, several times
round and round the tree. Lastly, failing in all this,
and seeing a pile of timber, which I had lately cut,
at a short distance from us, he removed it all
(thirty-six pieces) one at a time to the root of the
tree, and piled them up in a regular business-like
manner; then placing his hind feet on this pile, he
raised the fore part of his body, and reached out his
trunk, but still he could not touch us, as we were too
far above him. The Englishman then fired, and the ball
took effect somewhere on the elephant's head, but did
not kill him. It made him only the more furious. The
next shot, however, levelled him to the ground. I
afterwards brought the skull of the animal to Colombo,
and it is still to be seen at the house of Mr.
Armitage.[240]
Another highly curious trait in the emotional psychology of the elephant
is the readiness with which the huge animal expires under the mere
influence of what the natives call a 'broken heart.' The facts on this
head are without a parallel in any other animal, and are the more
remarkable from the fact that, so far as natural length of life is any
token, the elephant may be said to have more vitality, or innate power
of living, than any other terrestrial mammal. Again, to quote from Sir
E. Tennent:--
Amongst the last of the elephants noosed was the
_rogue_. Though far more savage than the others, he
joined in none of their charges and assaults on the
fences, as they uniformly drove him off, and would not
permit him to enter their circle. When dragged past
another of his companions in misfortune, who was lying
exhausted on the ground, he flew upon him and
attempted to fasten his teeth in his head; this was
the only instance of viciousness which occurred during
the progress of the corral. When tied up and
overpowered, he was at first noisy and violent, but
soon lay down peacefully, a sign, according to the
hunters, that his death was at hand. Their
prognostication was correct; he continued for about
twelve hours to cover himself with dust like the
others, and to moisten it with water from his trunk;
but at length he lay exhausted, and died so calmly,
that having been moving but a few moments before, his
death was only perceived by the myriads of black flies
by which his body was almost instantly covered,
although not one was visible a moment before.[241]
But this peculiarity is not confined to rogue elephants. Thus Captain
Yule, in his 'Narrative of an Embassy to Ava in 1855,' records an
illustration of this tendency of the elephant to sudden death. One newly
captured, the process of taming which was exhibited to the British
Envoy, 'made vigorous resistance to the placing of a collar on its neck,
and the people were proceeding to tighten it, when the elephant, which
had lain down as if quite exhausted, reared suddenly on the hind
quarters, and fell on its side--_dead_!'
Mr. Strachan noticed the same liability of the elephants to sudden death
from very slight causes. 'Of the fall,' he says, 'at any time, though
on plain ground, they either die immediately, or languish till they die;
their great weight occasioning them so much hurt by the fall.'[242]
And Sir E. Tennent observes that,--
In the process of taming, the presence of the tame
ones can generally be dispensed with after two months,
and the captive may then be ridden by the driver
alone; and after three or four months he may be
entrusted with labour, so far as regards docility; but
it is undesirable, and even involves the risk of life,
to work an elephant too soon; it has frequently
happened that a valuable animal has lain down and died
the first time it was tried in harness, from what the
natives believed to be 'broken heart,' certainly
without any cause inferable from injury or previous
disease.[243]
Nor is this tendency to die under the influence of mere emotion
restricted to the effect of a 'broken heart;' it seems also to occur
under the power of strong emotional disturbances of other kinds. For
instance, an elephant caught and trained by Mr. Cripps is thus alluded
to by Sir E. Tennent:--
This was the largest elephant that had been tamed in
Ceylon; he measured upwards of nine feet at the
shoulders, and belonged to the caste so highly prized
for the temples. He was gentle after his first
capture, but his removal from the corral to the
stables, though only a distance of six miles, was a
matter of the extremest difficulty; his extraordinary
strength rendering him more than a match for the
attendant decoys. He on one occasion escaped, but was
recaptured in the forest; and he afterwards became so
docile as to perform a variety of tricks. He was at
length ordered to be removed to Colombo; but such was
his terror on approaching the fort, that on coaxing
him to enter the gate he became paralysed in the
extraordinary way elsewhere alluded to, and _died on
the spot_.
_General Intelligence._
The higher mental faculties of the elephant are more advanced in their
development than in any other animal, except the dog and monkey. I
shall, therefore, devote some considerable space to the narration of
instances of its display. The general fact that elephants are habitually
employed in certain parts of India for the purposes of building, storing
timber, &c., in itself shows a level of docile intelligence which only
that of the dog can rival; but I shall here confine myself to stating
special instances of the display of sagacity unusually high, even for
the elephant.
Capt. Shipp, in his 'Memoirs,' gives the following incident, of which he
was an eye-witness. During a march with guns in the mountainous
districts of India, the force of which he was a member came to a steep
ascent. A staircase of logs was prepared to enable the elephants to
ascend the slope. When all was ready the first elephant was led to the
bottom of the staircase:--
He looked up, shook his head, and when forced by his
driver, roared piteously. There can be no question, in
my opinion, but that this sagacious animal was
competent instinctively to judge of the practicability
of the artificial flight of steps thus constructed;
for the moment some little alteration had been made,
he seemed willing to approach. He then commenced his
examination and scrutiny by pressing with his trunk
the trees that had been thrown across; and after this
he put his fore-leg on with great caution. . . . The next
step for him to ascend by was a projecting rock, which
he could not remove. Here the same sagacious
examination took place, the elephant keeping his flat
side close to the side of the trunk, and leaning
against it. The next step was against a tree, but
this, on the first pressure of his trunk, he did not
like. Here the driver made use of the most endearing
epithets, such as 'Wonderful,' 'My life,' 'Well done,
my dear,' 'My dove,' 'My son,' 'My wife;' but all
these endearing appellations, of which elephants are
so fond, would not induce him to try again. Force was
at length resorted to, and the elephant roared
terrifically, but would not move.
Something was then altered, the elephant was satisfied, and at last
succeeded in mounting to the top of the staircase:--
On reaching the top his delight was visible in a most
eminent degree; he caressed his keepers, and threw
dirt about in a most playful manner. Another elephant,
a much younger animal, had now to follow. He had
watched the ascent of the other with the utmost
interest, making motions all the while as though he
was assisting him by shouldering him up the acclivity,
in such gestures as I have seen some men make when
spectators of gymnastic exercises. When he saw his
comrade up, he evinced his pleasure by giving a salute
something like the sound of a trumpet. When called
upon to take his turn, however, he seemed much
alarmed, and would not act at all without force.
After a performance similar to that of the previous elephant, however,
he too neared the top, when 'the other, who had already performed his
task, extended his trunk to the assistance of his brother in distress,
round which the younger animal entwined his, and thus reached the
summit.' There was then a cordial greeting between the two animals, 'as
if they had been long separated from each other, and had just escaped
from some perilous achievement. They mutually embraced each other, and
stood face to face for a considerable time, as if whispering
congratulations.'[244]
Mr. Jesse says: 'I was one day feeding the poor elephant (who was so
barbarously put to death at Exeter Change) with potatoes, which he took
out of my hand. One of them, a round one, fell on the floor, just out of
reach of his proboscis.' After several ineffectual attempts to reach it,
'he at length _blew_ the potato against the opposite wall with
sufficient force to make it rebound, and he then without difficulty
secured it.'[245]
This remarkable observation has fortunately been corroborated by Mr.
Darwin. He writes:--
I have seen, as I dare say have others, that when a
small object is thrown on the ground beyond the reach
of one of the elephants at the Zoological Gardens, he
blows through his trunk on the ground beyond the
object, so that the current reflected on all sides may
drive the object within his reach.[246]
The observation has also been corroborated by other observers.[247]
The following is quoted from Mr. Watson's book:[248]--
Of the elephant's sense and judgment the following
instance is given as a well-known fact in a letter of
Dr. Daniel Wilson, Bishop of Calcutta, to his son in
England, printed in a Life of the bishop, published a
few years ago. An elephant belonging to an Engineer
officer in his diocese had a disease in his eyes, and
had for three days been completely blind. His owner
asked Dr. Webb, a physician intimate with the bishop,
if he could do anything for the relief of the animal.
Dr. Webb replied that he was willing to try, on one of
the eyes, the effect of nitrate of silver, which was a
remedy commonly used for similar diseases in the human
eye. The animal was accordingly made to lie down, and
when the nitrate of silver was applied, uttered a
terrific roar at the acute pain which it occasioned.
But the effect of the application was wonderful, for
the eye was in a great degree restored, and the
elephant could partially see. The doctor was in
consequence ready to operate similarly on the other
eye on the following day; and the animal, when he was
brought out and heard the doctor's voice, lay down of
himself, placed his head quietly on one side, curled
up his trunk, drew in his breath like a human being
about to endure a painful operation, gave a sigh of
relief when it was over, and then, by motions of his
trunk and other gestures, gave evident signs of
wishing to express his gratitude. Here we plainly see
in the elephant memory, understanding, and reasoning
from one thing to another. The animal remembered the
benefit that he had felt from the application to one
eye, and when he was brought to the same place on the
following day and heard the operator's voice, he
concluded that a like service was to be done to his
other eye.
The fact that elephants exhibit this sagacious fortitude under surgical
operations--thus resembling, as we shall afterwards observe, both dogs
and monkeys--is corroborated by another instance given in Bingley's
'Animal Biography,'[249] and serves to render credible the following story
given in the same work:--
In the last war in India a young elephant received a
violent wound in its head, the pain of which rendered
it so frantic and ungovernable that it was found
impossible to persuade the animal to have the part
dressed. Whenever any one approached it ran off with
fury, and would suffer no person to come within
several yards of it. The man who had care of it at
length hit upon a contrivance for securing it. By a
few words and signs he gave the mother of the animal
sufficient intelligence of what was wanted; the
sensible creature immediately seized her young one
with her trunk, and held it firmly down, though
groaning with agony, while the surgeon completely
dressed the wound; and she continued to perform this
service every day till the animal was perfectly
recovered.[250]
Again, as still further corroboration of this point, I may quote the
following from Sir E. Tennent's 'Natural History of Ceylon:'--
Nothing can more strongly exhibit the impulse to
obedience in the elephant than the patience with
which, at the order of his keeper, he swallows the
nauseous medicines of the native elephant-doctors; and
it is impossible to witness the fortitude with which
(without shrinking) he submits to excruciating
surgical operations for the removal of tumours and
ulcers to which he is subject, without conceiving a
vivid impression of his gentleness and intelligence.
Dr. Davy when in Ceylon was consulted about an
elephant in the Government stud, which was suffering
from a deep, burrowing sore in the back, just over the
back-bone, which had long resisted the treatment
ordinarily employed. He recommended the use of the
knife, that issue might be given to the accumulated
matter, but no one of the attendants was competent to
undertake the operation. 'Being assured,' he
continues, 'that the creature would behave well, I
undertook it myself. The elephant was not bound, but
was made to kneel down at his keeper's command; and
with an amputating knife, using all my force, I made
the incision required through the tough integuments.
The elephant did not flinch, but rather inclined
towards me when using the knife; and merely uttered a
low, and as it were suppressed groan. In short, he
behaved as like a human being as possible, as if
conscious (as I believe he was) that the operation was
for his good, and the pain unavoidable.'
Major Skinner witnessed the following display of intelligent action by a
large herd of wild elephants. During the hot season at Nenera Kalama the
elephants have a difficulty in finding water, and are therefore obliged
to congregate in large numbers where water is to be obtained. Being
stationed near a water supply, and knowing that a large herd of
elephants were in the neighbourhood, Major Skinner resolved to watch
their proceedings. On a moonlight night, therefore, he
climbed a tree about four hundred yards from the
water, and waited patiently for two hours before he
heard or saw anything of the elephants. At length he
saw a huge beast issue from the wood, and advance
cautiously across the open ground to within a hundred
yards of the tank, where he stood perfectly
motionless; and the rest of the herd, meanwhile, were
so quiet that not the least sound was to be heard from
them. Gradually, at three successive advances, halting
some minutes after each, he moved up to the water's
edge, in which, however, he did not think proper to
quench his thirst, but remained for several minutes
listening in perfect stillness. He then returned
cautiously and slowly to the point at which he had
issued from the wood, from whence he came back with
five other elephants, with which he proceeded,
somewhat less slowly than before, to within a few
yards of the tank, where he posted them as patrols. He
then re-entered the wood and collected the whole herd,
which must have amounted to between eighty and a
hundred, and led them across the open ground with the
most extraordinary composure and quiet till they came
up to the five sentinels, when he left them for a
moment, and again made a reconnaissance at the edge of
the tank. At last, being apparently satisfied that all
was safe, he turned back, and obviously gave the order
to advance; 'for in a moment,' says Major Skinner,
'the whole herd rushed to the water with a degree of
unreserved confidence so opposite to the caution and
timidity which had marked their previous movements,
that nothing will ever persuade me that there was not
rational and preconcerted co-operation throughout the
whole party, and a degree of responsible authority
exercised by the patriarch-leader.'[251]
Mr. H. L. Jenkins writes to me:--
What I particularly wish to observe is that there are
good reasons for supposing that elephants possess
abstract ideas; for instance, I think it is impossible
to doubt that they acquire through their own
experience notions of hardness and weight, and the
grounds on which I am led to think this are as
follows. A captured elephant after he has been taught
his ordinary duty, say about three months after he is
taken, is taught to pick up things from the ground and
give them to his mahout sitting on his shoulders. Now
for the first few months it is dangerous to require
him to pick up anything but soft articles, such as
clothes, because the things are often handed up with
considerable force. After a time, longer with some
elephants than others, they appear to take in a
knowledge of the nature of the things they are
required to lift, and the bundle of clothes will be
thrown up sharply as before, but heavy things, such as
a crowbar or piece of iron chain, will be handed up in
a gentle manner; a sharp knife will be picked up by
its handle and placed on the elephant's head, so that
the mahout can also take it by the handle. I have
purposely given elephants things to lift which they
could never have seen before, and they were all
handled in such a manner as to convince me that they
recognised such qualities as hardness, sharpness, and
weight. You are quite at liberty to make any use of
these remarks you please if they are of service.
Again, as Dr. Lindley Kemp observes,[252] 'the manner in which tame
elephants assist in capturing wild ones affords us an instance of
reasoning in an animal,' &c.; and similarly, Mr. Darwin observes: 'It
is, I think, impossible to read the account given by Sir E. Tennent of
the behaviour of the female elephants used as decoys, without admitting
that they intentionally practise deceit.'[253]
The following is an extract from the more interesting of the
observations to which Mr. Darwin here alludes, and I think it is
impossible to read them without assenting to his judgment. Several herds
of wild elephants having been driven into a corral, two tame decoys were
ridden into it:--
One was of prodigious age, having been in the service
of the Dutch and English Governments in succession for
upwards of a century. The other, called by her keeper
'Siribeddi,' was about fifty years old, and
distinguished for gentleness and docility. She was a
most accomplished decoy, and evinced the utmost relish
for the sport. Having entered the corral noiselessly,
carrying a mahout on her shoulders with the headman
of the noosers seated behind him, she moved slowly
along with a sly composure and an assumed air of easy
indifference; sauntering leisurely in the direction of
the captives, and halting now and then to pluck a
bunch of grass or a few leaves as she passed. As she
approached the herd they put themselves in motion to
meet her, and the leader, having advanced in front and
passed his trunk gently over her head, turned and
paced slowly back to his dejected companions.
Siribeddi followed with the same listless step, and
drew herself up close behind him, thus affording the
nooser an opportunity to stoop under her and slip the
noose over the hind foot of the wild one. The latter
instantly perceived his danger, shook off the rope,
and turned to attack the man. He would have suffered
for his temerity had not Siribeddi protected him by
raising her trunk and driving the assailant into the
midst of the herd, when the old man, being slightly
wounded, was helped out of the corral, and his son,
Ranghanie, took his place.
The herd again collected in a circle, with their heads
towards the centre. The largest male was singled out,
and two tame ones pushed boldly in, one on either side
of him, till the three stood nearly abreast. He made
no resistance, but betrayed his uneasiness by shifting
restlessly from foot to foot. Ranghanie now crept up,
and holding the rope open with both hands (its other
extremity being made fast to Siribeddi's collar), and
watching the instant when the wild elephant lifted its
hind foot, succeeded in passing the noose over its
leg, drew it close, and fled to the rear. The two tame
elephants instantly fell back, Siribeddi stretched the
rope to its full length, and whilst she dragged out
the captive, her companion placed himself between her
and the herd to prevent any interference.
In order to tie him to a tree he had to be drawn
backwards some twenty or thirty yards, making furious
resistance, bellowing in terror, plunging on all
sides, and crushing the smaller timber, which bent
like reeds beneath his clumsy struggles. Siribeddi
drew him steadily after her, and wound the rope round
the proper tree, holding it all the time at its full
tension, and stepping cautiously across it when, in
order to give it a second turn, it was necessary to
pass between the tree and the elephant. With a coil
round the stem, however, it was beyond her strength to
haul the prisoner close up, which was, nevertheless,
necessary in order to make him perfectly fast; but the
second tame one, perceiving the difficulty, returned
from the herd, confronted the struggling prisoner,
pushed him shoulder to shoulder, and head to head,
forcing him backwards, whilst at every step Siribeddi
hauled in the slackened rope till she brought him
fairly up to the foot of the tree, where he was made
fast by the cooroowe people. A second noose was then
passed over the other hind-leg, and secured like the
first, both legs being afterwards hobbled together by
ropes made from the fibre of the kitool or jaggery
palm, which, being more flexible than that of the
cocoa-nut, occasions less formidable ulcerations. The
two decoys then ranged themselves, as before, abreast
of the prisoner on either side, thus enabling
Ranghanie to stoop under them and noose the two
fore-feet as he had already done the hind; and these
ropes being made fast to the tree in front, the
capture was complete, and the tame elephants and
keepers withdrew to repeat the operation on another of
the herd.
The second victim singled out from the herd was
secured in the same manner as the first. It was a
female. The tame ones forced themselves in on either
side as before, cutting her off from her companions,
whilst Ranghanie stooped under them and attached the
fatal noose, and Siribeddi dragged her out amidst
unavailing struggles, when she was made fast by each
leg to the nearest group of strong trees. When the
noose was placed upon her fore-foot, she seized it
with her trunk, and succeeded in carrying it to her
mouth, where she would speedily have severed it had
not a tame elephant interfered, and placing his foot
on the rope pressed it downwards out of her jaws. . . .
The conduct of the tame ones during all these
proceedings was truly wonderful. They displayed the
most perfect conception of every movement, both of the
object to be attained and of the means to accomplish
it. They manifested the utmost enjoyment in what was
going on. There was no ill-humour, no malignity in the
spirit displayed, in what was otherwise a heartless
proceeding, but they set about it in a way that showed
a thorough relish for it, as an agreeable pastime.
Their caution was as remarkable as their sagacity;
there was no hurrying, no confusion, they never ran
foul of the ropes, were never in the way of the
animals already noosed; and amidst the most violent
struggles, when the tame ones had frequently to step
across the captives, they in no instance trampled on
them, or occasioned the slightest accident or
annoyance. So far from this, they saw intuitively a
difficulty or a danger, and addressed themselves
unbidden to remove it. In tying up one of the larger
elephants, he contrived, before he could be hauled
close up to the tree, to walk once or twice round it,
carrying the rope with him; the decoy, perceiving the
advantage he had thus gained over the nooser, walked
up of her own accord, and pushed him backwards with
her head, till she made him unwind himself again; upon
which the rope was hauled tight and made fast. More
than once, when a wild one was extending his trunk,
and would have intercepted the rope about to be placed
over his leg, Siribeddi, by a sudden motion of her own
trunk, pushed his aside, and prevented him; and on one
occasion, when successive efforts had failed to put
the noose over the fore-leg of an elephant which was
already secured by one foot, but which wisely put the
other to the ground as often as it was attempted to
pass the noose under it, I saw the decoy watch her
opportunity, and when his foot was again raised,
suddenly push in her own leg beneath it, and hold it
up till the noose was attached and drawn tight.
One could almost fancy there was a display of dry
humour in the manner in which the decoys thus played
with the fears of the wild herd, and made light of
their efforts at resistance. When reluctant they
shoved them forward, when violent they drove them
back; when the wild ones threw themselves down, the
tame ones butted them with head and shoulders, and
forced them up again. And when it was necessary to
keep them down, they knelt upon them, and prevented
them from rising, till the ropes were secured.
At every moment of leisure they fanned themselves with
a bunch of leaves, and the graceful ease with which an
elephant uses his trunk on such occasions is very
striking. It is doubtless owing to the combination of
a circular with a horizontal movement in that flexible
limb; but it is impossible to see an elephant fanning
himself without being struck by the singular elegance
of motion which he displays. The tame ones, too,
indulged in the luxury of dusting themselves with
sand, by flinging it from their trunks; but it was a
curious illustration of their delicate sagacity, that
so long as the mahout was on their necks, they
confined themselves to flinging the dust along their
sides and stomach, as if aware that to throw it over
their heads and back would cause annoyance to their
riders.[254]
Sir E. Tennent has also some observations on other uses to which tame
elephants are put, which are well worth quoting. Thus, speaking of the
labour of piling timber, he says that the elephant
manifests an intelligence and dexterity which are
surprising to a stranger, because the sameness of the
operation enables the animal to go on for hours
disposing of log after log, almost without a hint or
direction from his attendant. For example, two
elephants employed in piling ebony and satinwood in
the yards attached to the commissariat stores at
Colombo, were so accustomed to their work, that they
were able to accomplish it with equal precision and
with greater rapidity than if it had been done by
dock-labourers. When the pile attained a certain
height, and they were no longer able by their conjoint
efforts to raise one of the heavy logs of ebony to the
summit, they had been taught to lean two pieces
against the heap, up the inclined plane of which they
gently rolled the remaining logs, and placed them
trimly on the top.
It has been asserted that in their occupations
'elephants are to a surprising extent the creatures of
habit,' that their movements are altogether
mechanical, and that 'they are annoyed by any
deviation from their accustomed practice, and resent
any constrained departure from the regularity of their
course.' So far as my own observation goes, this is
incorrect; and I am assured by officers of experience,
that in regard to changing his treatment, his hours or
his occupation, an elephant evinces no more
consideration than a horse, but exhibits the same
pliancy and facility.
At one point, however, the utility of the elephant
stops short. Such is the intelligence and earnestness
he displays in work, which he seems to conduct almost
without supervision, that it has been assumed that he
would continue his labour, and accomplish his given
task, as well in the absence of his keeper as during
his presence. But here his innate love of ease
displays itself, and if the eye of his attendant be
withdrawn, the moment he has finished the thing
immediately in hand, he will stroll away lazily, to
browse or enjoy the luxury of fanning himself and
blowing dust over his back.
The means of punishing so powerful an animal is a
question of difficulty to his attendants. Force being
almost inapplicable, they try to work on his passions
and feelings, by such expedients as altering the
nature of his food or withholding it altogether for a
time. On such occasions the demeanour of the creature
will sometimes evince a sense of humiliation as well
as of discontent. In some parts of India it is
customary, in dealing with offenders, to stop their
allowance of sugar canes or of jaggery; or to restrain
them from eating their own share of fodder and leaves
till their companions shall have finished; and in
such cases the consciousness of degradation betrayed
by the looks and attitudes of the culprit is quite
sufficient to identify him, and to excite a feeling of
sympathy and pity.
The elephant's obedience to his keeper is the result
of affection, as well as of fear; and although his
attachment becomes so strong that an elephant in
Ceylon has been known to remain out all night, without
food, rather than abandon his mahout, lying
intoxicated in the jungle, yet he manifests little
difficulty in yielding the same submission to a new
driver in the event of a change of attendants.[255]
Lastly, Sir E. Tennent writes:--
One evening, whilst riding in the vicinity of Candy,
towards the scene of the massacre of Major Dabies'
party in 1803, my horse evinced some excitement at a
noise which approached us in the thick jungle, and
which consisted of a repetition of the ejaculation
_urmph! urmph!_ in a hoarse and dissatisfied tone. A
turn in the forest explained the mystery, by bringing
us face to face with a tame elephant, unaccompanied by
any attendant. He was labouring painfully to carry a
heavy beam of timber, which he balanced across his
tusks, but, the pathway being narrow, he was forced to
bend his head to one side to permit it to pass
endways; and the exertion and this inconvenience
combined led him to utter the dissatisfied sounds
which disturbed the composure of my horse. On seeing
us halt, the elephant raised his head, reconnoitred us
for a moment, then flung down the timber, and
voluntarily forced himself backwards among the
brushwood so as to leave a passage, of which he
expected us to avail ourselves. My horse hesitated:
the elephant observed it, and impatiently thrust
himself deeper into the jungle, repeating his cry of
_urmph!_ but in a voice evidently meant to encourage
us to advance. Still the horse trembled; and, anxious
to observe the instinct of the two sagacious animals,
I forebore any interference: again the elephant of his
own accord wedged himself further in amongst the
trees, and manifested some impatience that we did not
pass him. At length the horse moved forward; and when
we were fairly past, I saw the wise creature stoop and
take up its heavy burden, trim and balance it on its
tusks, and resume its route as before, hoarsely
snorting its discontented remonstrance.
Dr. Erasmus Darwin records an observation which was communicated to him
by a 'gentleman of undoubted veracity,' of an elephant in India which
the keeper was in the habit of leaving to play the part of nurse to his
child when he and his wife had occasion to go away from home. The
elephant was chained up, and whenever the child in its creeping about
came to the end of the elephant's tether, he used gently to draw it back
again with his trunk.
In 'Nature,' vol. xix., p. 385, Mr. J. J. Furniss writes:--
In Central Park one very hot day my attention was
drawn to the conduct of an elephant which had been
placed in an enclosure in the open air. On the ground
was a large heap of newly-mown grass, which the
sagacious animal was taking up by the trunkful, and
laying carefully upon his sun-heated back. He
continued the operation until his back was _completely
thatched_, when he remained quiet, apparently enjoying
the result of his ingenuity.
Mr. Furniss in a later communication (vol. xx., p. 21) continues:--
Since the publication of my former letter (as above),
I have received additional data bearing on the subject
from Mr. W. A. Conklin, the superintendent of the
Central Park Menagerie. I am informed by him that he
has frequently observed elephants, when out of doors
in the hot sunshine, thatch their backs with hay or
grass; that they do so to a certain extent when under
cover in the summer time, and when the flies which
then attack the animals, often so fiercely as to draw
blood, are particularly numerous; but that they never
attempt to thatch their backs in winter. This seems to
prove that they act intelligently for the attainment
of a definite end. It would be interesting to learn
whether elephants in their wild state are in the habit
of so thatching their backs. It seems more probable to
suppose that in their native wilds they would avail
themselves of the natural shade afforded by the
jungle, and that the habit is one which has been
developed in consequence of their changed surroundings
in captivity.
Mr. G. E. Peal writes to 'Nature' (vol. xxi., p. 34):--
One evening, soon after my arrival in Eastern Assam,
and while the five elephants were as usual being fed
opposite the bungalow, I observed a young and lately
caught one step up to a bamboo-stake fence, and
quietly pull one of the stakes up. Placing it under
foot, it broke a piece off with the trunk, and after
lifting it to its mouth threw it away. It repeated
this twice or thrice, and then drew another stake and
began again. Seeing that the bamboo was old and dry I
asked the reason of this, and was told to wait and see
what it would do. At last it seemed to get a piece
that suited, and holding it in the trunk firmly, and
stepping the left fore-leg well forward, passed the
piece of bamboo under the armpit, so to speak, and
began to scratch with some force. My surprise reached
its climax when I saw a large elephant leech fall on
the ground, quite six inches long and thick as one's
finger, and which, from its position, could not easily
be detached without this scraper or scratcher which
was deliberately made by the elephant. I subsequently
found that it was a common occurrence. Such scrapers
are used by every elephant daily.
On another occasion, when travelling at a time of the
year when the large flies are so tormenting to an
elephant, I noticed that the one I rode had no fan or
wisp to beat them off with. The mahout, at my order,
slackened pace and allowed her to go to the side of
the road, when for some moments she moved along
rummaging the smaller jungle on the bank; at last she
came to a cluster of young shoots well branched, and
after feeling among them and selecting one, raised her
trunk and neatly stripped down the stem, taking off
all the lower branches and leaving a fine bunch on
top. She deliberately cleaned it down several times,
and then laying hold at the lower end broke off a
beautiful fan or switch about five feet long, handle
included. With this she kept the flies at bay as we
went along, flapping them off on each side.
Say what we may, these are both really _bonâ fide_
implements, each intelligently made for a definite
purpose.
My friend Mrs. A. S. H. Richardson sends me the following. The Rev. Mr.
Townsend, who narrated the episode, is personally known to her:--
An elephant was chained to a tree in the compound
opposite Mr. Townsend's house. Its driver made an oven
at a short distance, in which he put his rice-cakes to
bake, and then covered them with stones and grass and
went away. When he was gone, the elephant with his
trunk unfastened the chain round his foot, went to the
oven and uncovered it, took out and ate the cakes,
re-covered the oven with the stones and grass as
before, and went back to his place. He could not
fasten the chain again round his own foot, so he
twisted it round and round it, in order to look the
same, and when the driver returned the elephant was
standing with his back to the oven. The driver went to
his cakes, discovered the theft, and, looking round,
caught the elephant's eye as he looked back over his
shoulder out of the corner of it. Instantly he
detected the culprit, and condign punishment followed.
The whole occurrence was witnessed from the windows by
the family.
FOOTNOTES:
[225] Plin., _Hist. Nat._, viii. 1-13.
[226] _De Solert. Anim._, c. 12.
[227] _Philosophical Transactions_, 1799, p. 40.
[228] See Bingley, _loc. cit._, vol. i., pp. 148-51.
[229] _Hist. Nat._, viii., 5.
[230] For these and other cases of vindictiveness, see Bingley, _loc.
cit._, vol. i., pp. 156-8.
[231] _Memoirs_, vol. i., p. 448.
[232] _Zoological Recreations_, p. 315.
[233] _Animal Biography_, i., pp. 156-8.
[234] _Anecdotes of Animals_, p. 276.
[235] _Habits and Instincts of Animals_, p. 37.
[236] _Reasoning Power of Animals_, chap. iv.
[237] Quoted in _Animal World_, March 1882.
[238] _Philosophical Transactions_, 1873.
[239] _Natural History of Ceylon_, p. 114.
[240] _Natural History of Ceylon_, p. 140.
[241] _Natural History of Ceylon_, p. 196.
[242] _Phil. Trans._, A.D. 1701, vol. xxiii., p. 1052.
[243] _Loc. cit._, p. 216.
[244] _Memoirs_, vol. ii., p. 64 _et seq._
[245] Jesse, _Gleanings in Natural History_, vol. i, p. 19.
[246] _Descent of Man_, p. 96.
[247] See _Animal Kingdom_, vol. iii., p. 374.
[248] _Reasoning Power of Animals_, pp. 54-5.
[249] Bingley, _Animal Biography_, vol. i., p. 155.
[250] Bingley, _Animal Biography_, vol. i., p. 155.
[251] See his letter to Sir E. Tennent in _Nat. Hist. of Ceylon_, pp.
118-20.
[252] _Indications of Instinct_, p. 129.
[253] _Descent of Man_, p. 69.
[254] _Natural History of Ceylon_, pp. 181-94.
[255] _Natural History of Ceylon_, pp. 181-94.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE CAT.
THE cat is unquestionably a highly intelligent animal, though when
contrasted with its great domestic rival, the dog, its intelligence,
from being cast in quite a different mould, is very frequently
underrated. Comparatively unsocial in temperament, wanderingly
predaceous in habits, and lacking in the affectionate docility of the
canine nature, this animal has never in any considerable degree been
subject to those psychologically transforming influences whereby a
prolonged and intimate association with man has, as we shall
subsequently see, so profoundly modified the psychology of the dog.
Nevertheless, as we shall immediately find, the cat is not only by
nature an animal remarkable for intelligence, but in spite of its
naturally imposed disadvantages of temperament, has not altogether
escaped those privileges of nurture which unnumbered centuries of
domestication could scarcely fail to supply. Thus, as contrasted with
most of the wild species of the genus when tamed from their youngest
days, the domestic cat is conspicuously of less uncertain temper towards
its masters--the uncertainty of temper displayed by nearly all the wild
members of the feline tribe when tamed being, of course, an expression
of the interference of individual with hereditary experience. And, as
contrasted with all the wild species of the genus when tamed, the
domestic cat is conspicuous in alone manifesting any exalted development
of affection towards the human kind; for in many individual cases such
affection, under favouring circumstances, reaches a level fully
comparable to that which it attains in the dog. We do not know the wild
stock from which the domestic cat originally sprang, and therefore
cannot estimate the extent of the psychological results which human
agency has here produced; but it is worth while in this connection to
remember that the nearest ally of the domestic cat is the wild cat, and
that this animal, while so closely resembling its congener in size and
anatomical structure, differs so enormously from it in the branch of
psychological structure which we are considering, that there is no
animal on the face of the earth so obstinately untamable.
As regards the wild species of the tribe in general, it may be said that
they all exhibit the same unsocial, fierce, and rapacious character.
Bold when brought to bay, they do not court battle with dangerous
antagonists, but prefer to seek safety in flight. Even the proverbial
courage of the lion is now known, as a rule, to consist in 'the better
part of valour;' and those exceptional individuals among tigers which
adopt a 'man-eating' propensity, snatch their human victims by stealth.
That the larger feline animals possess high intelligence would be shown,
even in the absence of information concerning their ordinary habits, by
the numerous tricks which they prove themselves capable of learning at
the hands of menagerie-keepers; though in such cases the conflict of
nature with nurture renders even the best-trained specimens highly
uncertain in their behaviour, and therefore always more or less
dangerous to the 'lion-kings.' The only wild species that is employed
for any practical purpose--the cheetah--is so employed by utilising
directly its natural instincts; it is shown the antelope, and runs it
down after the manner of all its ancestors.
Returning now to the domestic cat, it is commonly remarked as a peculiar
and distinctive trait in its emotional character that it shows a
strongly rooted attachment to places as distinguished from persons.
There can be no question that this peculiarity is a marked feature in
the psychology of domestic cats considered as a class, although of
course individual exceptions occur in abundance. Probably this feature
is a survival of an instinctive attachment to dens or lairs bequeathed
to our cats by their wild progenitors.
The only other feature in the emotional life of cats which calls for
special notice is that which leads to their universal and proverbial
treatment of helpless prey. The feelings that prompt a cat to torture a
captured mouse can only, I think, be assigned to the category to which
by common consent they are ascribed--delight in torturing for torture's
sake. Speaking of man, John S. Mill somewhere observes that there is in
some human beings a special faculty or instinct of cruelty, which is not
merely a passive indifference to the sight of physical sufferings, but
an active pleasure in witnessing or causing it. Now, so far as I have
been able to discover, the only animals in which there is any evidence
of a class of feelings in any way similar to these--if, indeed, in the
case even of such animals the feelings which prompt actions of
gratuitous cruelty really are similar to those which prompt it in
man--are cats and monkeys. With regard to monkeys I shall adduce
evidence on this point in the chapter which treats of these animals.
With regard to cats it is needless to dwell further upon facts so
universally known.
_General Intelligence._
Coming now to the higher faculties, it is to be noted as a general
feature of interest that all cats, however domesticated they may be,
when circumstances require it, and often even quite spontaneously, throw
off with the utmost ease the whole mental clothing of their artificial
experience, and return in naked simplicity to the natural habits of
their ancestors. This readiness of cats to become feral is a strong
expression of the shallow psychological influence which prolonged
domestication has here exerted, in comparison with that which it has
produced in the case of the dog. A pet terrier lost in the haunts of his
ancestors is almost as pitiable an object as a babe in the wood; a pet
cat under similar circumstances soon finds itself quite at home. The
reason of this difference is, of course, that the psychology of the cat,
never having lent itself to the practical uses of, and intelligent
dependency on, man, has never, as in the case of the dog, been under
the cumulative influence of human agency in becoming further and further
bent away from its original and naturally imposed position of
self-reliance; so that when now a severance takes place between a cat
and its human protectors, the animal, inheriting unimpaired the
transmitted experience of wild progenitors, knows very well how to take
care of itself.
Having made these general remarks, I shall now pass on to quote a few
instances showing the highest level of intelligence to which cats
attain.
As to observation, Mrs. Hubbard tells me of a cat which she possessed,
and which was in the habit of poaching young rabbits to 'eat privately
in the seclusion of a disused pigsty.' One day this cat caught a small
black rabbit, and instead of eating it, as she always did the brown
ones, brought it into the house unhurt, and laid it at the feet of her
mistress. 'She clearly recognised the black rabbit as an unusual
specimen, and apparently thought it right to show it to her mistress.'
Such was 'not the only instance this cat showed of zoological
discrimination,' for on another occasion, 'having caught another unusual
animal--viz., a stoat--she also brought this alive into the house for
the purpose of exhibiting it.'
Mr. A. Percy Smith informs me of a cat which he possesses, and which, to
test her intelligence, he used to punish whenever her kittens
misbehaved. Very soon this had the effect of causing the cat herself to
train the kittens, for whenever they misbehaved 'she swore at them and
boxed their ears, until she taught the kittens to be clean.'
Mr. Blackman, writing from the London Institution, tells me of a cat
which he has, and which without tuition began to 'beg' for food, in
imitation of a terrier in the same house whose begging gesture it must
have observed to be successful in the obtaining of tit-bits. The cat,
however, would never beg unless it was hungry;--
And no coaxing could persuade it to do so unless it
felt so inclined. The same cat also, whenever it
wanted to go out, would come into the sitting-room,
and make a peculiar noise to attract attention:
failing that mode being successful, it would pull
one's dress with its claw and then having succeeded in
attracting the desired attention, it would walk to the
street door and stop there, making the same cry until
let out.
Coming now to cases indicative of reason in cats, Mr. John Martin,
writing from St. Clement's, Oxford, informs me: 'I have a cat which a
short time ago had kittens, and from some cause or other her milk
failed. My housekeeper saw her carrying a piece of bread to them.' The
process of reasoning here is obvious.
Mr. Bidie, writing from the Government Museum of Madras to 'Nature'
(vol. xx., p. 96), relates this instance of reasoning in a cat:--
In 1877 I was absent from Madras for two months, and
left in my quarters three cats, one of which, an
English tabby, was a very gentle and affectionate
creature. During my absence the quarters were occupied
by two young gentlemen, who delighted in teasing and
frightening the cats. About a week before my return
the English cat had kittens, which she carefully
concealed behind bookshelves in the library. On the
morning of my return I saw the cat, and patted her as
usual, and then left the house for about an hour. On
returning to dress I found that the kittens were
located in a corner of my dressing-room, where
previous broods had been deposited and nursed. On
questioning the servant as to how they came there, he
at once replied, 'Sir, the old cat taking one by one
in her mouth, brought them here.' In other words, the
mother had carried them one by one in her mouth from
the library to the dressing-room, where they lay quite
exposed. I do not think I have heard of a more
remarkable instance of reasoning and affectionate
confidence in an animal, and I need hardly say that
the latter manifestation gave me great pleasure. The
train of reasoning seems to have been as follows: 'Now
that my master has returned there is no risk of the
kittens being injured by the two young savages in the
house, so I will take them out for my protector to see
and admire, and keep them in the corner in which all
my former pets have been nursed in safety.'
Dr. Bannister writes me from Chicago, of a cat belonging to his friend
the late Mr. Meek, the palæontologist, who drew my correspondent's
attention to the fact:--
He had fixed upright on his table a small
looking-glass, from which he used to draw objects
from nature, reversed on wood. The cat seeing her
image in this glass made several attempts to
investigate it, striking at it, &c. Then coming
apparently to the conclusion that there was something
between her and the other animal, she very slily and
cautiously approached it, keeping her eye on it all
the while, and struck her paw around behind the
mirror, becoming seemingly much surprised at finding
nothing there. This was done repeatedly, until she was
at last convinced that it was beyond her
comprehension, or she lost interest in the matter.
Mr. T. B. Groves communicates an almost precisely similar observation to
'Nature' (vol. xx., p. 291), of a cat which, on first seeing his own
reflection in a mirror, tried to fight it. Meeting with resistance from
the glass, the cat next ran behind the mirror. Not finding the object of
his search, he again came to the front, and while keeping his eyes
deliberately fixed on the image, felt round the edge of the glass with
one paw, whilst with his head twisted round to the front he assured
himself of the persistence of the reflection. He never afterwards
condescended to notice a mirror.
The following is communicated to me by a correspondent whose name I
cannot obtain permission to publish. I am sure, however, that it is
communicated in good faith, and the incident can scarcely be supposed to
have been due to accident. After describing the cat and the parrot in
their amiable relationship, my correspondent proceeds:--
One evening there was no one in the kitchen. Cook had
gone upstairs, and left a bowl full of dough to rise
by the fire. Shortly after, the cat rushed up after
her, mewing, and making what signs she could for her
to go down; then she jumped up and seized her apron,
and tried to drag her down. As she was in such a state
of excitement cook went, and found 'Polly' shrieking,
calling out, flapping her wings and struggling
violently, 'up to her knees' in dough, and stuck quite
fast.
No doubt if she had not been rescued she would have
sunk in the morass and been smothered.
I shall here introduce two or three cases to show the ingenious devices
to which clever cats will resort for the purpose of capturing prey.
Mr. James Hutchings writes in 'Nature' (vol. xii., p. 330) an account of
an old tom cat using a young bird, which had fallen out of its nest, as
a decoy for the old birds. The cat touched the young bird with his paw
when it ceased to flutter and cry, in order that, by thus making it
display its terror, the old cock bird, which was all the while flying
about in great consternation, might be induced to approach near enough
to be caught. Many times the cock bird did so, and the cat made numerous
attempts to catch it, but without success. All the while a kitten had to
be kept from killing the young bird. As this scene continued for a long
time--in fact, till terminated by Mr. Hutchings--and as there does not
appear to have been any opportunity for errors of observation, I think
the case worth recording.
The following case is communicated to me by Mr. James G. Stevens, of St.
Stephen, New Brunswick:--
Looking out on the garden in front of my residence, I
observed a robin alight on a small tree: it was
midwinter, the ground covered with about a foot of
_light_ snow. A cat came stealthily along, with
difficulty making her way through the snow until
within about three feet of the tree where the bird
was; the robin was sluggishly resting on a twig
distant three feet from the ground or surface of snow;
the cat could not well, owing to the softness of the
snow, venture to make a spring. She crouched down and
at first gently stirred herself, evidently with the
purpose of causing the bird to move. The first attempt
failed. She again more actively stirred herself by a
shaking motion. She again failed, when she stirred
herself vigorously again and started the bird, which
flew about fifty feet away, and alighted on a small
low bush on the _northern_ side of a _close-boarded_
fence. The cat keenly watched the flight and the
alighting of the bird; as quickly as she could cross
through the snow, she then _took a circuit of about
one hundred feet_, watching the place where the bird
was all the while, and covering her march by making
_available every bush to hide her_. When out of range
of vision of the bird she more actively made for the
fence, leaped over it, came up on the _southern_ side
of it, and jumped on it, calculating her distance so
accurately that she came within a foot of the bush
where the bird was, and at once sprung. She missed her
prey, but I thought she proved herself a cunning
hunter. If this case is worth relating you may use the
name of Judge Stevens, of St. Stephen, New Brunswick,
as a witness to the same.
Again, I quote the following case communicated to 'Nature' by Dr. Frost,
because, although it shows an almost incredible amount of far-sighted
stratagem, I cannot on the one hand see much room for mal-observation,
and on the other hand it is, as I shall show, to some extent
corroborated by an independent observation of my friend Dr. Klein, and
another correspondent:--
Our servants have been accustomed during the late
frost to throw the crumbs remaining from the
breakfast-table to the birds, and I have several times
noticed that our cat used to wait there in ambush in
the expectation of obtaining a hearty meal from one or
two of the assembled birds. Now, so far, this
circumstance in itself is not an 'example of abstract
reasoning.' But to continue. For the last few days
this practice of feeding the birds has been left off.
The cat, however, with an almost incredible amount of
forethought, was observed by myself, together with two
other members of the household, to scatter crumbs on
the grass with the obvious intention of enticing the
birds.[256]
Although this account, as I have said, borders on the incredible, I have
allowed it to pass, because up to a certain point it is, as I have also
said, corroborated by an observation communicated to me by my friend Dr.
Klein, F.R.S.
Dr. Klein satisfied himself that the cat he observed had established a
definite association between crumbs already sprinkled on the garden
walk, and sparrows coming to eat them; for as soon as the crumbs were
sprinkled on the walk, the cat used to conceal himself from the walk in
a neighbouring shrubbery, there to await in ambush the coming of the
birds. The latter, however, showed themselves more wide awake than the
cat, for there was a wall running behind the shrubbery, from the top of
which the birds could see the cat in his supposed concealment, and then
a long line of sparrows used to wait watching the cat and the crumbs at
the same time, but never venturing to fly down to the latter until the
former, wearied with waiting, went away. In this case the reasoning
observation of the cat--'crumbs attract birds, therefore I will wait
for birds when crumbs are scattered'--was as complete as in the case of
Dr. Frost's cat, but the reasoning in the latter case seems to have
proceeded a stage further--'therefore I will scatter crumbs to attract
birds.'
Now, in the face of the definite statement made by Dr. Frost, that his
cat did advance to this further stage of reasoning, I have not felt
justified in suppressing his remarkable observation. And, as lending
still further credence to the account, I may quote the corroborative
observation of another correspondent in 'Nature,' which is of value
because forming an intermediate step between the intelligence displayed
by Dr. Klein's cat and that displayed by Dr. Frost's. This correspondent
says:--
A case somewhat similar to that mentioned by Dr.
Frost, of a cat scattering crumbs, occurred here
within my own knowledge. During the recent severe
winter a friend was in the habit of throwing crumbs
outside his bedroom window. The family have a fine
black cat, which, seeing that the crumbs brought
birds, would occasionally hide herself behind some
shrubs, and when the birds came for their breakfast,
would pounce out upon them with varying success. The
crumbs had been laid out as usual one afternoon, but
left untouched, and during the night a slight fall of
snow occurred. On looking out next morning my friend
observed puss busily engaged scratching away the snow.
Curious to learn what she sought, he waited, and saw
her take the crumbs up from the cleared space and lay
them one by one after another on the snow. After doing
this she retired behind the shrubs to wait further
developments. This was repeated on two other
occasions.[257]
Taking, then, these three cases together, we have an ascending series in
the grades of intelligence from that displayed by Dr. Klein's cat, which
merely observed that crumbs attracted birds, through that of the cat
which exposed the concealed crumbs for the purpose of attracting birds,
to that of Dr. Frost's cat, which actually sprinkled the crumbs.
Therefore, although, if the last-mentioned or most remarkable case had
stood alone, I should not have felt justified in quoting it, as we find
it thus led up to by other and independent observations, I do not feel
that I should be justified in suppressing it. And, after all, regarded
as an act of reason, the sprinkling of crumbs to attract birds does not
involve ideas or inferences very much more abstruse or remote than those
which are concerned in some of the other and better corroborated
instances of the display of feline intelligence, which I shall now
proceed to state.
In the understanding of mechanical appliances, cats attain to a higher
level of intelligence than any other animals, except monkeys, and
perhaps elephants. Doubtless it is not accidental that these three kinds
of animals fall to be associated in this particular. The monkey in its
hands, the elephant in its trunk, and the cat in its agile limbs
provided with mobile claws, all possess instruments adapted to
manipulation, with which no other organs in the brute creation can
properly be compared, except the beak and toes of the parrot, where, as
we have already seen, a similar correlation with intelligence may be
traced. Probably, therefore, the higher aptitude which these animals
display in their understanding of mechanical appliances is due to the
reaction exerted upon their intelligence by these organs of
manipulation. But, be this as it may, I am quite sure that, excepting
only the monkey and elephant, the cat shows a higher intelligence of the
special kind in question than any other animal, not forgetting even the
dog. Thus, for instance, while I have only heard of one solitary case
(communicated to me by a correspondent) of a dog which, without tuition,
divined the use of a thumb-latch, so as to open a closed door by jumping
upon the handle and depressing the thumb-piece, I have received some
half-dozen instances of this display of intelligence on the part of
cats. These instances are all such precise repetitions of one another,
that I conclude the fact to be one of tolerably ordinary occurrence
among cats, while it is certainly very rare among dogs. I may add that
my own coachman once had a cat which, certainly without tuition, learnt
thus to open a door that led into the stables from a yard into which
looked some of the windows of the house. Standing at these windows when
the cat did not see me, I have many times witnessed her _modus
operandi_. Walking up to the door with a most matter-of-course kind of
air, she used to spring at the half-hoop handle just below the
thumb-latch. Holding on to the bottom of this half-hoop with one
fore-paw, she then raised the other to the thumb-piece, and while
depressing the latter, finally with her hind legs scratched and pushed
the doorposts so as to open the door. Precisely similar movements are
described by my correspondents as having been witnessed by them.
Of course in all such cases the cats must have previously observed that
the doors are opened by persons placing their hands upon the handles,
and, having observed this, the animals forthwith act by what may be
strictly termed rational imitation. But it should be observed that the
process as a whole is something more than imitative. For not only would
observation alone be scarcely enough (within any limits of thoughtful
reflection that it would be reasonable to ascribe to an animal) to
enable a cat upon the ground to distinguish that the essential part of
the process as performed by the human hand consists, not in grasping the
handle, but in depressing the latch; but the cat certainly never saw any
one, after having depressed the latch, pushing the doorposts with his
legs; and that this pushing action is due to an originally deliberate
intention of opening the door, and not to having accidentally found this
action to assist the process, is shown by one of the cases communicated
to me (by Mr. Henry A. Gaphaus); for in this case, my correspondent
says, 'the door was not a loose-fitting one by any means, and I was
surprised that by the force of one hind leg she should have been able to
push it open after unlatching it.' Hence we can only conclude that the
cats in such cases have a very definite idea as to the mechanical
properties of a door; they know that to make it open, even when
unlatched, it requires to be _pushed_--a very different thing from
trying to imitate any particular action which they may see to be
performed for the same purpose by man. The whole psychological process,
therefore, implied by the fact of a cat opening a door in this way is
really most complex. First the animal must have observed that the door
is opened by the hand grasping the handle and moving the latch. Next she
must reason, by 'the logic of feelings'--If a hand can do it, why not a
paw? Then, strongly moved by this idea, she makes the first trial. The
steps which follow have not been observed, so we cannot certainly say
whether she learns by a succession of trials that depression of the
thumb-piece constitutes the essential part of the process, or, perhaps
more probably, that her initial observations supplied her with the idea
of clicking the thumb-piece. But, however this may be, it is certain
that the pushing with the hind feet after depressing the latch must be
due to adaptive reasoning unassisted by observation; and only by the
concerted action of all her limbs in the performance of a highly complex
and most unnatural movement is her final purpose attained.
Again, several very similar cases are communicated to me of cats
spontaneously, or without tuition, learning to knock knockers and ring
bells. Of course in both cases the animals must have observed the use to
which knockers and bells are put, and when desiring a door to be opened,
employ these signals for the purpose. It betokens no small amount of
observation and reasoning in a cat to jump at a knocker with the
expectation of thereby summoning a servant to open the door--especially
as in some of the cases the jump is not a random jump at the knocker,
but a deliberate and complex action, having for its purposes the raising
and letting fall of the knocker. For instance, Mr. Belshaw, writing to
'Nature' (vol. xix., p. 659), says:--
I was sitting in one of the rooms, the first evening
there, and hearing a loud knock at the front door was
told not to heed it, as it was only this kitten asking
admittance. Not believing it, I watched for myself,
and very soon saw the kitten jump onto the door, hang
on by one leg, and put the other fore-paw right
through the knocker and rap twice.
In such cases the action closely resembles that of opening
thumb-latches, but clearly is performed with the purpose of summoning
some one else to open the door. Wonderful, however, as these cases of
summoning by knockers undoubtedly are, I think they are surpassed by
other cases in which the instrument used is the bell. For here it is not
merely that cats perfectly well understand the use of bells as calls,[258]
but I have one or two cases of cats jumping at bell-_wires_ passing from
outside into houses the doors of which the cats desired to be
opened.[259] My informants tell me that they do not know how these cats,
from any process of observation, can have surmised that pulling the wire
in an exposed part of its length would have the effect of ringing the
bell; for they can never have observed any one pulling the wires. I can
only suggest that in these cases the animals must have observed that
when the bells were rung the wires moved, and that the doors were
afterwards opened; then a process of inference must have led them to try
whether jumping at the wires would produce the same effects. But even
this, which is the simplest explanation possible, implies powers of
observation scarcely less remarkable than the process of reasoning to
which they gave rise.
As further instances corroborating the fact that both these faculties
are developed in cats to a wonderful degree, I may add the following.
Couch ('Illustrations of Instinct,' p. 196) gives a case within his own
knowledge of a cat which, in order to get at milk kept in a locked
cupboard, used to unlock the door by seating herself on an adjoining
table, and 'repeatedly patting on the bow of the key with her paw, when
with a slight pull on the door' she was able to open it; the lock was
old, and the key turned in it 'on a very slight impulse.'
As a still further instance of the high appreciation of mechanical
appliances to which cats attain, I shall quote an extract from a paper
by Mr. Otto, which will have been read at the Linnean Society before
this work is published. After describing the case of a cat opening a
thumb-latch in the same way as those already mentioned, this writer
proceeds:--
At Parara, the residence of Parker Bowman, Esq., a
full-grown cat was one day accidentally locked up in a
room without any other outlet than a small window,
moving on hinges, and kept shut by means of a swivel.
Not long afterwards the window was found open and the
cat gone. This having happened several times, it was
at last found that the cat jumped upon the
window-sill, placed her fore-paws as high as she could
reach against the side, deliberately reached with one
over to the swivel, moved it from its horizontal to a
perpendicular position, and then, leaning with her
whole weight against the window, swung it open and
escaped.
To give only one other instance of high reasoning power in this animal,
Mr. W. Brown, writing from Greenock to 'Nature' (vol. xxi., p. 397),
gives a remarkable story of a cat, the facts in which do not seem to
have admitted of mal-observation. While a paraffine lamp was being
trimmed, some of the oil fell upon the back of the cat, and was
afterwards ignited by a cinder falling upon it from the fire. The cat
with her back 'in a blaze, in an instant made for the door (which
happened to be open) and sped up the street about 100 yards,' where she
plunged into the village watering-trough, and extinguished the flame.
'The trough had eight or nine inches of water, and puss was in the habit
of seeing the fire put out with water every night.' The latter point is
important, as it shows the data of observation on which the animal
reasoned.
FOOTNOTES:
[256] _Nature_, vol. xix., p. 519.
[257] _Nature_, vol. xx., p. 197.
[258] Some of my correspondents tell me of pet or drawing-room cats
jumping on chairs and looking at bells when they want milk--this being
their sign that they want the bell pulled to call the servant who brings
the milk; and Mr. Lawson Tait tells me that one of his cats--of course
without tuition--has gone a step further, in that she places her paws
upon the bell as a still more emphatic sign that she desires it pulled.
But Dr. Creighton Browne tells me of a cat which he has that goes a step
further than this, and herself rings the bell. This is corroborative of
Archbishop Whately's anecdote. 'This cat lived many years in my mother's
family, and its feats of sagacity were witnessed by her, my sisters, and
myself. It was known, not merely once or twice, but habitually, to ring
the parlour bell whenever it wished the door to be opened. Some alarm
was excited on the first occasion that it turned bell-ringer. The family
had retired to rest, and in the middle of the night the parlour bell was
rung violently; the sleepers were startled from their repose, and
proceeded downstairs with poker and tongs, to intercept, as they
thought, the predatory movements of some burglar; but they were equally
surprised to find that the bell had been rung by pussy, who frequently
repeated the act whenever she wished to get out of the parlour.' The
cases, however, mentioned in the text are more remarkable than any of
these, which, nevertheless, all tend to lead up to them as by a series
of steps. Dogs attain to the level of asking by gesture their masters to
ring bells. One instance will be sufficient to quote. Mr. Rae says in
'Nature' (vol. xix., p. 459): 'A small English terrier belonging to a
friend has been taught to ring for the servant. To test if the dog knew
_why_ it rang the bell he was told to do so while the girl was in the
room. The little fellow looked up in the most intelligent manner at the
person giving the order (his master or mistress, I forget which), then
at the servant, and refused to obey, although the order was repeated
more than once. The servant left the room, and a few minutes afterwards
the dog rang the bell immediately on being told to do so.'
It must also be added that dogs sometimes attain to the level of
knocking knockers--though I should think this must be very rare with
these animals, as I have only met with one case of it. This, however, is
a remarkably good case, not only because it rests upon the authority of
a famous observer, but also because it is so very definite as proving an
act of reason. Dureau de la Malle had a terrier born in his house. It
had never seen a knocker in its native home, and when grown up it was
taken by its master to Paris. Getting fatigued by a walk in the streets,
the animal returned to the house, but found the door shut, and it
endeavoured vainly to attract the attention of those within by barking.
At length a visitor called, knocked at the knocker, and gained
admittance. The dog observed what had been done, and went in together
with the visitor. The same afternoon he went in and out half a dozen
times, gaining admittance on each occasion by springing at the knocker.
Lastly, Dr. W. H. Kesteven writes to 'Nature' (xx., p. 428) of a cat
which used to knock at a knocker to gain admittance, in the way already
described of so many other cats; but as showing how much more readily
cats acquire this practice than dogs, it is interesting to note that Dr.
Kesteven adds that a dog which lived in the same house ascertained that
the cat was able to gain admittance by knocking, and yet did not imitate
the action, but 'was in the habit of searching for her when he wanted to
come in, and either waiting till she was ready to knock at the door, or
inducing her to do it to please him.'
[259] Consul E. L. Layard gives in _Nature_ (xx., p. 339) a precisely
similar case of a cat habitually and without tuition ringing a bell by
pulling at an exposed wire.
CHAPTER XV.
FOXES, WOLVES, JACKALS, ETC.
THE general psychology of these animals is, of course, very much the
same as that of the dog; but, from never having been submitted to the
influences of domestication, their mental qualities present a sufficient
number of differences from those of the dog to require another chapter
for their consideration.
If we could subtract from the domestic dog all the emotions arising from
his prolonged companionship with man, and at the same time intensify the
emotions of self-reliance, rapacity, &c., we should get the emotional
character now presented by the wolves and jackals. It is interesting to
note that this genetic similarity of emotional character extends to what
may be termed idiosyncratic details in cases where it has not been
interfered with by human agency. Thus the peculiar, weird, and
unaccountable class of emotions which cause wolves to bay at the moon
has been propagated unchanged to our domestic dogs.
The intelligence of the fox is proverbial; but as I have not received
many original observations on this head, I shall merely refer to some of
the best authenticated observations already published, and shall begin
with the instance narrated by Mr. St. John in his 'Wild Sports of the
Highlands':--
When living in Ross-shire I went out one morning in
July, before daybreak, to endeavour to shoot a stag,
which had been complained of very much by an adjoining
farmer, as having done great damage to his crops. Just
after it was daylight I saw a large fox coming quietly
along the edge of the plantation in which I was
concealed; he looked with great care over the turf
wall into the field, and seemed to long to get hold of
some hares that were feeding in it, but apparently
knew that he had no chance of catching one by dint of
running; after considering a short time he seemed to
have formed his plans, and having examined the
different gaps in the wall by which the hares might be
supposed to go in and out, he fixed upon the one that
seemed the most frequented, and laid himself down
close to it in an attitude like a cat watching a
mouse. Cunning as he was, he was too intent on his own
hunting to be aware that I was within twenty yards of
him with a loaded rifle, and able to watch every
movement that he made. I was much amazed to see the
fellow so completely outwitted, and kept my rifle
ready to shoot him if he found me out and attempted to
escape. In the meantime I watched all his plans. He
first with great silence and care scraped a small
hollow in the ground, throwing up the sand as a kind
of screen between his hiding-place and the hares'
mews; every now and then, however, he stopped to
listen, and sometimes to take a most cautious look
into the field; when he had done this he laid himself
down in a convenient position for springing upon his
prey, and remained perfectly motionless with the
exception of an occasional reconnoitre of the feeding
hares. When the sun began to rise, they came one by
one from the field to the cover of the plantation;
three had already come in without passing by his
ambush; one of them came within twenty yards of him,
but he made no movement beyond crouching still more
closely to the ground. Presently two came directly
towards him; though he did not venture to look up, I
saw by an involuntary motion of his ears that those
quick organs had already warned him of their approach:
the two hares came through the gap together, and the
fox, springing with the quickness of lightning, caught
one and killed her immediately; he then lifted up his
booty and was carrying it off like a retriever, when
my rifle-ball stopped his course by passing through
his back-bone, and I went up and despatched him.
Numberless instances are on record showing the remarkable cunning of
foxes in procuring bait from traps without allowing themselves to be
caught. These cases are so numerous, and all display so much the same
quality of intelligence, that it is impossible to doubt so great a
concurrence of testimony. I shall only give two or three specific cases,
to show the kind of intelligence that is in question. It will be
observed that it is much the same as that which is displayed under
similar circumstances by rats and wolverines, in which animals we have
already considered it. In all these cases the intelligence displayed
must justly be deemed to be of a very remarkable order. For, inasmuch as
traps are not things to be met with in nature, hereditary experience
cannot be supposed to have played any part in the formation of special
instincts to avoid the dangers arising from traps, and therefore the
astonishing devices by which these dangers are avoided can only be
attributed to observation, coupled with intelligent investigation of a
remarkably high character.
I extract the following from Couch's 'Illustrations of Instinct' (p.
175):--
Whenever a cat is tempted by the bait, and caught in a
fox-trap, Reynard is at hand to devour the bait and
the cat too, and fearlessly approaches an instrument
which the fox must know cannot _then_ do it any harm.
Let us compare with this boldness the incredible
caution with which the animal proceeds when tempted by
the bait in a _set_ trap. Dietrich aus dem Winkell had
once the good fortune of observing, on a winter
evening, a fox which for many preceding days had been
allured with loop baits, and as often as it ate one it
sat comfortably down, wagging its brush. The nearer it
approached the trap, the longer did it hesitate to
take the baits, and the oftener did it make the tour
round the catching-place. When arrived near the trap
it squatted down, and eyed the bait for ten minutes at
least; whereupon it ran three or four times round the
trap, then it stretched out one of its fore-paws after
the bait, but did not touch it; again a pause, during
which the fox stared immovably at the bait. At last,
as if in despair, the animal made a rush and was
caught by the neck. (Mag. Nat. Hist., N. S., vol. i.,
p. 512.)
In 'Nature,' vol. xxi., p. 132, Mr. Crehore, writing from Boston,
says:--
Some years since, while hunting in Northern Michigan,
I tried with the aid of a professional trapper to
entrap a fox who made nightly visits to a spot where
the entrails of a deer had been thrown. Although we
tried every expedient that suggested itself to us we
were unsuccessful, and, what seemed very singular, we
always found the trap sprung. My companion insisted
that the animal dug beneath it, and putting his paw
beneath the jaw, pushed down the pan with safety to
himself; but though the appearance seemed to confirm
it, I could hardly credit his explanation. This year,
in another locality of the same region, an old and
experienced trapper assured me of its correctness, and
said in confirmation that he had several times caught
them, after they had made two or three successful
attempts to spring the trap, by the simple expedient
of setting it upside down, when of course the act of
undermining and touching the pan would bring the paw
within the grasp of the jaws.
In connection with traps, my friend Dr. Rae has communicated to me a
highly remarkable instance of the display of reason on the part of the
Arctic foxes. I have previously published the facts in my lecture before
the British Association in 1879, and therefore shall here quote them
from it:--
Desiring to obtain some Arctic foxes, Dr. Rae set
various kinds of traps; but as the foxes knew these
traps from previous experience, he was unsuccessful.
Accordingly he set a kind of trap with which the foxes
in that part of the country were not acquainted. This
consisted of a loaded gun set upon a stand pointing at
the bait. A string connected the trigger of the gun
with the bait, so that when the fox seized the bait he
discharged the gun, and thus committed suicide. In
this arrangement the gun was separated from the bait
by a distance of about 30 yards, and the string which
connected the trigger with the bait was concealed
throughout nearly its whole distance in the snow. The
gun-trap thus set was successful in killing one fox,
but never in killing a second; for the foxes
afterwards adopted either of two devices whereby to
secure the bait without injuring themselves. One of
these devices was to bite through the string at its
exposed part near the trigger, and the other device
was to burrow up to the bait through the snow at right
angles to the line of fire, so that, although in this
way they discharged the gun, they escaped with perhaps
only a pellet or two in the nose. Now both of these
devices exhibited a wonderful degree of what I think
must fairly be called power of reasoning. I have
carefully interrogated Dr. Rae on all the
circumstances of the case, and he tells me that in
that part of the world traps are never set with
strings; so that there can have been no special
association in the foxes' minds between strings and
traps. Moreover, after the death of fox No. 1, the
track on the snow showed that fox No. 2,
notwithstanding the temptation offered by the bait,
had expended a great deal of scientific observation on
the gun before he undertook to sever the cord. Lastly,
with regard to burrowing at right angles to the line
of fire, Dr. Rae justly deemed this so extraordinary a
circumstance, that he repeated the experiment a number
of times, in order to satisfy himself that the
direction of the burrowing was really to be attributed
to thought, and not to chance.[260]
Dr. Rae also informs me with, regard to wolves, that 'they have been
frequently known to take the bait from a gun without injury to
themselves, by first cutting the line of communication between the
two.'[261] He adds:--
I may also mention what I have been told, although I
have never had an opportunity of seeing it, that
wolves watch the fishermen who set lines in deep water
for trout, through holes in the ice on Lake Superior,
and very soon after the man has left, the wolf goes up
to the place, takes hold of the stick which is placed
across the hole and attached to the line, trots off
with it along the ice until the bait is brought to the
surface, then returns and eats the bait and the fish,
if any happens to be on the hook. The trout of Lake
Superior are very large, and the baits are of a size
in proportion.
Mr. Murray Browne, Inspector of the Local Government Board, writes to me
from Whitehall as follows:--
I once, at the Devil's Glen, Wicklow, found a fox fast
in a trap by the foot. We did not like to touch him,
but got sticks and poked at the trap till we got it
open. The process took ten minutes or a quarter-hour.
When first we came up the fox strained to get free,
and looked frightfully savage; but we had not poked at
the trap more than a very short time before the whole
expression of his face changed, he lay perfectly quiet
(though we must at times have hurt him); and when at
last we had got the trap completely off his foot, he
still lay quiet, and looked calmly at us, as if he
knew we were friends. In fact, we had some little
difficulty in getting him to move away, which he did
readily enough when he chose. Was not this a case of
reason and good sense _overpowering_ natural instinct?
Couch says ('Illustrations of Instinct,' p. 178): 'Derham quotes Olaus
in his account of Norway as having himself witnessed the fact of a fox
dropping his tail among the rocks on the sea-shore to catch the crabs
below, and hauling up and devouring such as laid hold of it.'
Under the present heading I must not omit to refer to an interesting
class of instincts which are manifested by those species of the genus
_Canis_, whose custom it is to hunt in packs. The instincts to which I
refer are those which lead to a combination among different members of
the same pack for the capture of prey by stratagem. These instincts,
which no doubt arose and are now maintained by intelligent adaptation to
the requirements of the chase, I shall call 'collective instincts.' Thus
Sir E. Tennent writes:--
At dusk, and after nightfall, a pack of jackals,
having watched a hare or a small deer take refuge in
one of these retreats, immediately surrounded it on
all sides; and having stationed a few to watch the
path by which the game entered, the leader commences
the attack by raising the cry peculiar to their race,
and which resembles the sound 'okkay' loudly and
rapidly repeated. The whole party then rush into the
jungle and drive out the victim, which generally falls
into the ambush previously laid to entrap it.
A native gentleman, who had favourable opportunities
of observing the movements of these animals, informed
me that when a jackal has brought down his game and
killed it, his first impulse is to hide it in the
nearest jungle, whence he issues with an air of easy
indifference to observe whether anything more powerful
than himself may be at hand, from which he might
encounter the risk of being despoiled of his capture.
If the coast be clear he returns to the concealed
carcass and carries it away, followed by his
companions. But if a man be in sight, or any other
animal to be avoided, my informant has seen the jackal
seize a cocoa-nut husk in his mouth, or any similar
substance, and fly at full speed, as if eager to carry
off his pretended prize, returning for the real booty
at some more convenient season.[262]
Again, Jesse records the following display of the same instinct by the
fox, as having been communicated to him by a friend on whose veracity he
could rely:--
Part of this rocky ground was on the side of a very
high hill, which was not accessible for a sportsman,
and from which both hares and foxes took their way in
the evening to the plain below. There were two
channels or gullies made by the rains, leading from
these rocks to the lower ground. Near one of these
channels, the sportsman in question, and his
attendant, stationed themselves one evening in hopes
of being able to shoot some hares. They had not been
there long, when they observed a fox coming down the
gully, and followed by another. After playing together
for a little time, one of the foxes concealed himself
under a large stone or rock, which was at the bottom
of the channel, and the other returned to the rocks.
He soon, however, came back, chasing a hare before
him. As the hare was passing the stone where the first
fox had concealed himself, he tried to seize her by a
sudden spring, but missed his aim. The chasing fox
then came up, and finding that his expected prey had
escaped, through the want of skill in his associate,
he fell upon him, and they both fought with so much
animosity, that the parties who had been watching
their proceedings came up and destroyed them both.
Similarly, Mr. E. C. Buck records ('Nature,' viii., 303) the following
interesting observation made by his friend Mr. Elliot, B.C.S., Secretary
to Government, N.W.P.:--
He saw two wolves standing together, and shortly after
noticing them was surprised to see one of them lie
down in a ditch, and the other walk away over the open
plain. He watched the latter, which deliberately went
to the far side of a herd of antelopes standing in the
plain, and drove them, as a sheep-dog would a flock of
sheep, to the very spot where his companion lay in
ambush. As the antelopes crossed the ditch, the
concealed wolf jumped up as in the former case, seized
a doe, and was joined by his colleague.
Mr. Buck draws attention to another closely similar display of
collective instinct of wolves in the same district observed by a 'writer
of one of the books on Indian sport.'
With reference to this case I wrote to 'Nature' as follows. The friend
to whom I allude was the late Dr. Brydon, C.B. (the 'last man' of the
Afghan expedition of 1841), whom I knew intimately for several years,
and always found his observations on animals to be trustworthy:--
In response to the appeal which closes Mr. Buck's
interesting letter ('Nature,' vol. viii., p. 302), the
following instance of 'collective instinct' exhibited
by an animal closely allied to the wolf, viz., the
Indian jackal, deserves to be recorded. It was
communicated to me by a gentleman (since deceased) on
whose veracity I can depend. This gentleman was
waiting in a tree to shoot tigers as they came to
drink at a large lake (I forget the district), skirted
by a dense jungle, when about midnight a large axis
deer emerged from the latter and went to the water's
edge. Then it stopped and sniffed the air in the
direction of the jungle, as if suspecting the presence
of an enemy; apparently satisfied, however, it began
to drink, and continued to do so for a most inordinate
length of time. When literally swollen with water it
turned to go into the jungle, but was met on its
extreme margin by a jackal, which, with a sharp yelp,
turned it again into the open. The deer seemed much
startled, and ran along the shore for some distance,
when it again attempted to enter the jungle, but was
again met and driven back in the same manner. The
night being calm, my friend could hear this process
being repeated time after time--the yelps becoming
successively fainter and fainter in the distance,
until they became wholly inaudible. The stratagem thus
employed was sufficiently evident. The lake having a
long narrow shore intervening between it and the
jungle, the jackals formed themselves in line along it
while concealed within the extreme edge of the cover,
and waited until the deer was waterlogged. Their prey,
being thus rendered heavy and short-winded, would fall
an easy victim if induced to run sufficiently far,
_i.e._, if prevented from entering the jungle. It was,
of course, impossible to estimate the number of
jackals engaged in this hunt, for it is not impossible
that as soon as one had done duty at one place, it
outran the deer to await it in another.
A native servant who accompanied my friend told him
that this was a stratagem habitually employed by the
jackals in that place, and that they hunted in
sufficient numbers 'to leave nothing but the bones.'
As it is a stratagem which could only be effectual
under the peculiar local conditions described, it
must appear that this example of collective instinct
is due to 'separate expression,' and not to 'inherited
habit.'
Cases of collective instinct are not of unfrequent
occurrence among dogs. For the accuracy of the two
following I can vouch. A small Skye and a large
mongrel were in the habit of hunting hares and rabbits
upon their own account, the small dog having a good
nose, and the larger one great fleetness. These
qualities they combined in the most advantageous
manner, the terrier driving the cover towards his
fleet-footed companion which was waiting for it
outside.
The second case is remarkable for a display of sly
sagacity. A friend of mine in Ross-shire had a small
terrier and a large Newfoundland. One day a shepherd
called upon him to say that his dogs had been worrying
sheep the night before. The gentleman said there must
be some mistake, as the Newfoundland had not been
unchained. A few days afterwards the shepherd again
called with the same complaint, vehemently asserting
that he was positive as to the identity of the dogs.
Consequently the owner set one watch upon the kennel
and another outside the sheep enclosure, directing
them (in consequence of what the shepherd had told
him) not to interfere with the action of the dogs.
After this had been done several nights in succession,
the small dog was observed to come at daydawn to the
place where the large one was chained; the latter
immediately slipped his collar, and the two animals
made straight for the sheep. Upon arriving at the
enclosure the Newfoundland concealed himself behind a
hedge, while the terrier drove the sheep towards his
ambush, and the fate of one of them was quickly
sealed. When their breakfast was finished the dogs
returned home, and the larger one, thrusting his head
into his collar, lay down again as though nothing had
happened. Why this animal should have chosen to hunt
by stratagem prey which it could easily run down, I
cannot suggest; but there can be little doubt that so
wise a dog must have had some good reason.
A similar instance of the display of collective instinct is thus
narrated by M. Dureau de la Malle:--
I had at one time two sporting dogs, the one an
excellent pointer with a very smooth skin, and of
remarkable beauty and intelligence; the other was a
spaniel with long and thick hair, but which had not
been taught to point, but only coursed in the woods
like a harrier. My _château_ is situated on a level
spot of ground, opposite to copse wood filled with
hares and rabbits. When sitting at my window, I have
observed these two dogs, which were at large in the
yard, approach and make signs to each other, and first
glancing at me, as if to see if I offered any obstacle
to their wishes, step away very gently, then quicken
their pace when they were at a little distance from my
sight, and finally dart off at full speed when they
thought I could neither see them nor order them back.
Surprised at this mysterious manoeuvre, I followed
them, and witnessed a singular sight. The pointer, who
seemed to be the leader of the enterprise, had sent
the spaniel out to beat the bushes, and give tongue at
the opposite extremity of the bushwood. As to himself,
he made with slow steps the circuit of the wood by
following it along the border, and I observed him stop
before a passage much frequented by rabbits, and there
point. I continued at a distance to observe how the
intrigue was going to end. At length I heard the
spaniel, which had started a hare, drive it with much
tongue towards the place where its companion was lying
in ambush, and the moment that the hare came out of
the passage to gain the fields, the latter darted upon
it and brought it to me with an air of triumph. I have
seen these two dogs repeat this same manoeuvre more
than a hundred times; and this conformity has
convinced me that it was not accidental, but the
result of a concerted agreement and combined plan of
operations understood beforehand.
Again, among Mr. Darwin's MSS., I find a letter from Mr. H. Reeks
(1871), which says that the wolves of Newfoundland adopt exactly the
same stratagem for the capture of deer in winter as that which is
adopted by the hunters. That is to say, some of the pack secrete
themselves in one or more of the _leeward_ deer-paths in the forest or
'belting,' while one or two wolves make a circuit round the herd of deer
to windward. The herd invariably retreats by one of its accustomed runs,
and 'it rarely happens . . . that the wolves do not manage by this
stratagem to secure a doe or young stag.' And Leroy, in his book on
Animal Intelligence, narrates closely similar facts of the wolves of
Europe as having fallen within his own observation.
FOOTNOTES:
[260] I have requested Dr. Rae to write out all the particulars of these
remarkable observations, and the following is the response which he has
kindly made:--'When trapping foxes in Hudson's Bay it sometimes happens
that certain of these acute animals, probably from having seen their
companions caught, studiously avoid the ordinary steel and wooden traps,
however carefully set. The trapper then sets one or more guns in a
peculiar manner, having a line 15 or 20 yards long uniting the trigger
with a bait, on taking hold of which the fox sets the gun off, and
commits suicide. The double object of the bait being placed so near the
gun is that the fox may be certainly killed--not wounded only--and that
the head alone should be hit, and the body not riddled all over with
shot, which would spoil the skin. It is also necessary to mention that
four or five inches of slack line must be allowed for contraction of the
line by change from a dry to a moist atmosphere, which otherwise would
cause so great a strain on the trigger that the gun would be discharged
without the bait being touched. So as to conceal as far as possible all
connection between bait and gun, that part of the line next the bait is
carefully hid under the snow.
'When the fox takes the bait, he will have lifted it five inches (the
length of the slack line) from its normal position before the gun goes
off; consequently, instead of pointing the gun at the bait, it is aimed
fully eight or nine inches higher, at the probable position of the brain
of the animal when the gun is discharged.
'For reasons which scarcely require explanation, foxes very generally go
about in pairs (long before the snow disappears), not necessarily always
close together, because they have a better chance of finding food if
separated some distance from each other.
'After one or more foxes have been shot, the trapper on visiting his
guns perhaps finds that a fox has first cut the line connecting the bait
with the gun, and then gone up and eaten the bait; or, if the gun has
been set on a drift bank of snow, he or she has scraped a trench ten or
twelve inches deep up to the bait, taken hold of it whilst lying in the
trench, set the gun off, and then trotted coolly away with the food
(taken, one may say, from the gun's mouth) safe and uninjured, as is
clearly evinced by there being no mark of blood on the tracks.
'In pulling the bait whilst in the trench, the fox would drag it five
inches, or the length of the slack line, _downwards_, and therefore his
_head_ and _nose_ would be completely out of harm's way, both because of
the snow protection, and also these parts of his body being twelve or
thirteen inches below the line of aim.
'In the cases seen by myself, and by a friend of greater experience, the
trench was always scraped at right angles, or nearly so, to the line of
fire of the gun. This at first sight may appear erroneous, but on
reflection it really is not so, for if the trench is to be a shelter
one--thinking, as the fox must have done, that the gun or something
coming from it was the danger to be protected from or guarded
against--it must be made across the line of fire, for if scratched in
the direction of fire it would afford little or no protection or
concealment, and the reasoning power or intelligence of the fox would be
at fault.
'My belief is that one of these knowing foxes had seen his or her
companion shot, or found it dead shortly after it had been killed, and
not unnaturally attributed the cause of the mishap to the only strange
thing it saw near, namely, the gun.
'It was evident that in all cases they had studied the situation
carefully, as was sufficiently shown by their tracks in the snow, which
indicated their extremely cautious approach when either the
string-cutting or trench-making dodge was resorted to, in attempting to
obtain the coveted bait without injury to themselves.'
[261] It will be remembered that, from evidence previously detailed,
both the wolverine or glutton and certain deer have been shown capable
of similarly obviating the danger of gun-traps.
[262] _Nat. Hist. of Ceylon_, p. 35.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE DOG.
THE intelligence of the dog is of special, and indeed of unique interest
from an evolutionary point of view, in that from time out of record this
animal has been domesticated on account of the high level of its natural
intelligence; and by persistent contact with man, coupled with training
and breeding, its natural intelligence has been greatly changed. In the
result we see, not only a general modification in the way of dependent
companionship and docility, so unlike the fierce and self-reliant
disposition of all wild species of the genus; but also a number of
special modifications, peculiar to certain breeds, which all have
obvious reference to the requirements of man. The whole psychological
character of the dog may therefore be said to have been moulded by human
agency with reference to human requirements, so that now it is not more
true that man has in a sense created the structure of the bull-dog and
greyhound, than that he has implanted the instincts of the watch-dog and
pointer. The definite proof which we thus have afforded of the
transforming and creating influence exerted upon the mental character
and instincts of species by long and persistent training, coupled with
artificial selection, furnishes the strongest possible corroboration of
the theory which assigns psychological development in general to the
joint operation of individual experience coupled with natural selection.
For thousands of years man has here been virtually, though
unconsciously, performing what evolutionists may regard as a gigantic
experiment upon the potency of individual experience accumulated by
heredity; and now there stands before us this most wonderful monument
of his labours--the culmination of his experiment in the transformed
psychology of the dog.
In my next work I shall treat of this subject with the fulness that it
deserves--especially in its relation to the origin of instincts and the
development of the moral sense; but to enter upon this topic at present
would demand more space than can be allowed.
To do full justice to the psychology of the dog a separate treatise
would be required. Here I can only trace a sketch.
_Memory._
As regards memory, one or two instances will suffice. Mr. Darwin writes:
'I had a dog who was savage and averse to all strangers, and I purposely
tried his memory after an absence of five years and two days. I went
near the stable where he lived, and shouted to him in my old manner; he
showed no joy, but instantly followed me out walking, and obeyed me, as
if I had parted with him only an hour before.'[263]
It is not only persons or places that dogs remember for long periods. I
had a setter in the country, which one year I took up with me to town
for a few months. While in town he was never allowed to go out without a
collar on which was engraved my address. A ring upon this collar made a
clinking sound, and the setter soon learnt to associate the approach of
this sound with the prospect of a walk. Three years afterwards I again
took this setter up to town. He remembered every nook and corner of my
house in town, and also his way about the streets, and the first time
that I brought his collar, slightly clinking as before, he showed by his
demonstrations of joy that he well remembered the sound with all its old
associations, although he had not heard this sound for three years.
_Emotions._
The emotional life of the dog is highly developed--more highly, indeed,
than that of any other animal. His gregarious instincts, united with
his high intelligence and constant companionship with man, give to this
animal a psychological basis for the construction of emotional
character, having a more massive as well as more complex consistency
than that which is presented even in the case of the monkey, which, as
we shall afterwards see, attains to a remarkably high level in this
respect.
Pride, sense of dignity, and self-respect are very conspicuously
exhibited by well-treated dogs. As with man, so with the friend of man,
it is only those whose lines of fortune have fallen in pleasant places,
and whose feelings may therefore be said to have profited by the
refining influences of culture, that display in any conspicuous measure
the emotions in question. 'Curs of low degree,' and even many dogs of
better social position, have never enjoyed those conditions essential to
moral refinement, which alone can engender a true sense of self-respect
and dignity. A 'low-life' dog may not like to have his tail pulled, any
more than a gutter child may like to have his ears boxed; but here it is
physical pain rather than wounded pride that causes the smart. Among
'high-life' dogs, however, the case is different. Here wounded
sensibilities and loss of esteem are capable of producing much keener
suffering than is mere physical pain; so that among such dogs a whipping
produces quite a different and a much more lasting effect than in the
case of their rougher brethren, who, as soon as it is over, give
themselves a shake and think no more about it. As evidence of the
delicacy of feeling to which dogs of aristocratic estate may attain, I
shall give one or two among many instances that I could render.
A reproachful word or look from any of his friends would make a Skye
terrier that I owned miserable for a whole day. If we had ever ventured
to strike him I do not know what would have happened, for his sentiments
were quite abreast of the age with respect to moral repugnance to the
use of the lash. Thus, for instance, at one time when all his own
friends were out of town, he was taken for a walk every day in the park
by my brother, to whose care he had been entrusted. He enjoyed his walks
very much, and was wholly dependent upon my brother for obtaining them.
Nevertheless, one day while he was amusing himself with another dog in
the park, my brother, in order to persuade him to follow, struck him
with a glove. The terrier looked up at his face with an astonished and
indignant gaze, deliberately turned round, and trotted home. Next day he
went out with my brother as before, but after he had gone a short
distance he looked up at his face significantly, and again trotted home
with a dignified air. After thus making his protest in the strongest way
he could, the dog ever afterwards refused to accompany him.
This terrier habitually exhibited a strong repugnance to corporal
punishment, even when inflicted upon others. Thus, whenever or wherever
he saw a man striking a dog, whether in the house or outside, near at
hand or at a distance, he used to rush in to interfere, snarling and
snapping in a most threatening way. Again, when driving with me in a
dog-cart, he always used to hold the sleeve of my coat every time I
touched the horse with the whip. As bearing upon this sensitiveness of
feeling produced in dogs by habitually kind treatment, I shall here give
an extract from the letter of one of my correspondents (Mrs. E. Picton).
It relates to a Skye terrier which had a strong aversion to being
washed:--
In process of time this aversion increased so much
that all the servants I had refused to perform the
ablutions, being in terror of doing so from the
ferocity the animal evinced on such occasions. I
myself did not choose to undertake the office, for
though the animal was passionately attached to me,
such was his horror of the operation, that even I was
not safe. Threats, beating, and starving were all of
no avail; he still persisted in his obstinacy. At
length I hit upon a new device. Leaving him perfectly
free, and not curtailing his liberty in any way, I let
him know, by taking no notice of him, that he had
offended me. He was usually the companion of my walks,
but now I refused to let him accompany me. When I
returned home I took no notice of his demonstrative
welcome, and when he came looking up at me for
caresses when I was engaged either in reading or
needlework, I deliberately turned my head aside. This
state of things continued for about a week or ten
days, and the poor animal looked wretched and forlorn.
There was evidently a conflict going on within him,
which told visibly on his outward appearance. At
length one morning he crept quietly up to me, and gave
me a look which said as plainly as any spoken words
could have done, 'I can stand it no longer; I submit.'
And submit he did quite quietly and patiently to one
of the roughest ablutions it had ever been his lot to
experience; for by this time he sorely needed it.
After it was over he bounded to me with a joyous bark
and wag of his tail, saying unmistakably, 'I know all
is right now.' He took his place by my side as his
right when I went for my walk, and retained from that
time his usually glad and joyous expression of
countenance. When the period for the next ablution
came round the old spirit of obstinacy resumed its
sway for a while, but a single look at my averted
countenance was sufficient for him, and he again
submitted without a murmur. Must there not have been
something akin to the reasoning faculty in the breast
of an animal who could thus for ten days carry on such
a struggle?
This strong effect of silent coldness shows that the loss of
affectionate regard caused the terrier more suffering than beating,
starving, or even the hated bath; and as many analogous cases might be
quoted, I have no hesitation in adducing this one as typical of the
craving for affectionate regard, which is manifested by sensitive dogs.
In this connection I may point out the remarkable change which has been
produced in the domestic dog as compared with wild dogs, with reference
to the enduring of pain. A wolf or a fox will sustain the severest kinds
of physical suffering without giving utterance to a sound, while a dog
will scream when any one accidentally treads upon its toes. This
contrast is strikingly analogous to that which obtains between savage
and civilised man: the North American Indian, and even the Hindoo, will
endure without a moan an amount of physical pain--or at least bodily
injury--which would produce vehement expressions of suffering from a
European. And doubtless the explanation is in both cases the
same--namely, that refinement of life engenders refinement of nervous
organisation, which renders nervous lesions more intolerable.
As evidence of the idea of caste in a dog, I shall quote only one
instance, although many others might be given: this also may be taken
as typical. I extract it from St. John's 'Wild Sports of the Highlands,'
where, speaking of his retriever, this very good observer states: 'He
struck up an acquaintance with a ratcatcher and his cur, thoroughly
entering into their way of business; but the moment he saw me he
instantly cut his humble friends, and denied all acquaintance with them
in the most comical manner.'[264]
Dogs likewise display in a high degree the feelings of emulation and
jealousy. I once had a terrier which took great pains, and manifested
paternal delight, in teaching his puppy to hunt rabbits. But in time the
puppy outgrew his father in strength and fleetness, so that in the
chase, in spite of straining every nerve, the father used to be
gradually distanced. His whole demeanour then changed, and every time
that he found his son drawing away from him he used in desperation to
seize the receding tail of the youngster. Although the son was now much
stronger than the father, he never used to resent this exercise of
paternal authority, even though the rabbit were close under his nose.
Of jealousy in dogs innumerable instances might be given, but I shall
merely quote one from my bulky correspondence on this head. It is sent
me by Mr. A. Oldham:--
He had grown old, and having some affection in his
legs which made walking difficult to him, he had sunk
into a very stagnant sort of life, when a Scotch
terrier was brought to live with us, and treated with
much favour. All Charlie's old vigour revived upon the
advent of this rival. He exhibited agonies of
jealousy, and has since spent his life in following,
watching, and imitating him. He insists on doing
everything that Jack does. Although he had previously
given up walking, he now makes a point of going out
whenever Jack does so. Several times he has started
with us, but finding that Jack was not of the party,
has turned back and quietly gone home. In the same
way, although before he ate nothing but meat, he now
eats any food that is also given to Jack; and if Jack
is caressed he watches for some time, and then bursts
out whining and barking. I have seen the same rage
manifested by a fine cockatoo at the sight of his
mistress carrying on her wrist and stroking
affectionately a little green parrot. Such jealousy
seems to me a very advanced emotion, as it has passed
beyond the stage when it may be supposed to be caused
by a fear of other animals monopolising _material_
benefits which they desire for themselves; it is
excited solely by seeing _affection_ or _attention_
bestowed by those they love upon other animals. The
actions in which Charlie tries to participate--such as
walking far, plunging into cold water after sticks,
&c.--are in themselves extremely disagreeable to him,
and he performs them only that he may obtain a share
in the companionship and notice bestowed upon Jack.
Akin to jealousy is the sense of justice. If a master is not equal in
his ways towards his dogs, the dogs are very apt to discover the
injustice and to resent it accordingly. The well-known observation of
the great Arago may be taken as a typical one in this connection. Having
been detained by a storm at a country inn, and having ordered a chicken
for his dinner, Arago was warming himself by the kitchen fire, when he
saw the innkeeper put the fowl on the spit and attempt to seize a
turnspit dog lying in the kitchen. The brute, however, refused to enter
the wheel, got under a table, and showed fight. On Arago asking what
could be the meaning of such conduct, the host replied that the dog had
some excuse, that it was not his turn but his comrade's, who did not
happen to be in the kitchen. Accordingly, the other turnspit was sent
for, and he entered the spit very willingly, and turned away. When the
fowl was half roasted Arago took him out, and the other dog, no longer
smarting under the sense of injustice, now took his turn without any
opposition, and completed the roasting of the fowl.
Deceitfulness is another trait in canine character of which numberless
instances might be given; but here, again, it seems unnecessary to quote
more than one or two cases as illustrative of the general fact. Another
of my correspondents, after giving several examples of the display of
hypocrisy of a King Charles spaniel, proceeds:--
He showed the same deliberate design of deceiving on
other occasions. Having hurt his foot he became lame
for a time, during which he received more pity and
attention than usual. For months after he had
recovered, whenever he was harshly spoken to, he
commenced hobbling about the room as if lame and
suffering pain from his foot. He only gave up the
practice when he gradually perceived that it was
unsuccessful.
The following instance, which I observed myself, I regard as more
remarkable. It has already been published in 'Nature' (vol. xii., p.
66), from which I quote it:
The terrier used to be very fond of catching flies
upon the window-panes, and if ridiculed when
unsuccessful was evidently much annoyed. On one
occasion, in order to see what he would do, I
purposely laughed immoderately every time he failed.
It so happened that he did so several times in
succession--partly, I believe, in consequence of my
laughing--and eventually he became so distressed that
he positively _pretended_ to catch the fly, going
through all the appropriate actions with his lips and
tongue, and afterwards rubbing the ground with his
neck as if to kill the victim: he then looked up at me
with a triumphant air of success. So well was the
whole process simulated that I should have been quite
deceived, had I not seen that the fly was still upon
the window. Accordingly I drew his attention to this
fact, as well as to the absence of anything upon the
floor; and when he saw that his hypocrisy had been
detected he slunk away under some furniture, evidently
very much ashamed of himself.
This allusion to the marked effects of ridicule upon a dog leads to a
consideration of the next emotion with which I feel certain that some
dogs are to be accredited. I mean the emotion of the ludicrous. This
same terrier used, when in good humour, to perform several tricks, which
I know to have been self-taught, and which clearly had the object of
exciting laughter. For instance, while lying on his side and violently
grinning, he would hold one leg in his mouth. Under such circumstances,
nothing pleased him so much as having his joke duly appreciated, while
if no notice was taken of him he would become sulky. On the other hand,
nothing displeased him so much as being laughed at when he did not
intend to be ridiculous, as could not be more conclusively proved than
by the fact of his behaviour in pretending to catch the fly. Mr. Darwin
observes: 'Dogs show what may be fairly called a sense of humour, as
distinct from mere play; if a bit of stick or other such object be
thrown to one, he will often carry it away for a short distance; and
then squatting down with it on the ground close before him, will wait
until his master comes close to take it away. The dog will seize it and
rush away in triumph, repeating the same manoeuvre, and evidently
enjoying the practical joke.'[265]
_General Intelligence._
I have very definite evidence of the fact that dogs are able to
communicate to one another simple ideas. The communication is always
effected by gesture or tones of barking, and the ideas are always of
such a simple nature as that of a mere 'follow me.' According to my own
observations, the dogs must be above the average of canine intelligence,
and the gesture they invariably employ is a contact of heads, with a
motion between a rub and a butt. It is quite different from anything
that occurs in play, and is always followed by a definite course of
action. I must add, however, that although the information thus conveyed
is always definite, I have never known a case in which it was
complex--anything like asking or telling the way, which several writers
have said that dogs can do, being, I believe, quite out of the question.
One example will suffice. A Skye terrier (not quite pure) was asleep in
the room where I was, while his son lay upon a wall which separates the
lawn from the high road. The young dog, when alone, would never attack a
strange one, but was a keen fighter when in company with his father.
Upon the present occasion a large mongrel passed along the road, and
shortly afterwards the old dog awoke and went sleepily downstairs. When
he arrived upon the door-step his son ran up to him and made the sign
just described. His whole manner immediately altered to that of high
animation. Clearing the wall together, the two animals ran down the road
as terriers only can when pursuing an enemy. I watched them for a mile
and a half, within which distance their speed never abated, although the
object of their pursuit had not from the first been in sight.
It is almost superfluous to give cases illustrating the well-known fact
that dogs communicate their desires and ideas to man; but as the subject
of the communication by signs will afterwards be found of importance in
connection with the philosophy of communication by words, I shall here
give a few examples of dogs communicating by signs with man, which for
my purpose will be the more valuable the less they are recognised as
unusual.
Lieutenant-Gen. Sir John H. Lefroy, C.B., K.C.M.G., F.R.S., writes me
that he has a terrier which it is the duty of his wife's maid to wash
and feed. 'It was her habit after calling her mistress in the morning to
go out and milk a goat which was tethered near the house, and give
"Button" the milk. One morning, being rather earlier than usual, instead
of going out at once she took up some needlework and began to occupy
herself. The dog endeavoured in every possible way to attract her
attention and draw her forth, and at last pushed aside the curtain of a
closet, and never having been taught to fetch or carry, took between his
teeth the cup she habitually used, and brought it to her feet. I
inquired into every circumstance strictly on the spot, and was shown
where he found the cup.'
Similarly I select the following case from a great number of others that
I might quote, because it is so closely analogous to the above. It is
communicated to me by Mr. A. H. Baines:--
There is a drinking-trough for him in my sitting-room:
if at any time it happens to be without water when he
goes to drink, he scratches the dish with his
fore-paws in order to call attention to his wants, and
this is done in an authoritative way, which generally
has the desired effect. Another Pomeranian--a member
of the same family--when quite young used to soak
hard biscuits in water till soft enough to eat. She
would carry the biscuit in her mouth to the
drinking-trough, drop it in and leave it there for a
few minutes, and then fish it out with her paw.
One more instance of the communication of ideas by gestures will no
doubt be deemed sufficient. It is one of a kind which has many analogies
in the literature of canine intelligence.
Dr. Beattie relates this case of canine sagacity, of which the scene was
a place near Aberdeen. The Dee being frozen, a gentleman named Irvine
was crossing the ice, which gave way with him about the middle of the
river. Having a gun, he was able to keep himself from sinking by placing
it across the opening. 'The dog made many fruitless efforts to save his
master, and then ran to a neighbouring village, where he saw a man, and
with the most significant gestures pulled him by the coat, and prevailed
on him to follow. The man arrived on the spot in time to save the
gentleman's life.'
Numberless other instances of the same kind might be given, and they
display a high degree of intelligence. Even the idea of saving life
implies in itself no small amount of intelligence; but in such cases as
these we have added the idea of going for help, communicating news of a
disaster, and leading the way to its occurrence.
Having thus as briefly as possible considered the emotional and the more
ordinary intellectual faculties of the dog, I shall pass on to the
statement of cases showing the higher and more exceptional developments
of canine sagacity.
Were the purpose of this work that of accumulating anecdotes of animal
intelligence, this would be the place to let loose a flood of facts,
which might all be well attested, relating to the high intelligence of
dogs. But as my aim is rather that of suppressing anecdotes, except in
so far as facts are required to prove the presence in animals of the
sundry psychological faculties which I believe the different classes to
present, I shall here, as elsewhere, follow the method of not
multiplying anecdotes further than seems necessary fully to demonstrate
the highest level of intelligence to which the animal under
consideration can certainly be said to attain. But in order that any who
read these pages for the sake of the anecdotes which they necessarily
present may not be disappointed by meeting with cases already known to
them, I shall draw my material mainly from the facts communicated to me
by private correspondents, alluding to previously published facts only
as supplementary to those now published for the first time. It may be
well to explain to my numerous correspondents that I select the
following cases for quoting, not because they are the most sensational
that I have received, but rather because they either contain nothing
sufficiently exceptional to excite the criticism of incredulity, or
because they happen to have been corroborated by the more or less
similar cases which I quote from other correspondents.
As showing the high general intelligence of the dog, I shall first begin
with the collie. It is certain that many of these dogs can be trusted to
gather and drive sheep without supervision. It is enough on this head to
refer to the well-known anecdotes of the poet Hogg in his 'Shepherd's
Calendar,' concerning his dog 'Sirrah.'
Williams, in his book on 'Dogs and their Ways,' says (p. 124) that a
friend of his had a collie which, whenever his master said the words
'Cast, cast,' would run off to seek any sheep that might be cast, and on
finding it would at once assist it to rise. He also knew of another dog
(p. 102), which would perform the same office even in the absence of his
master, going the round of the fields and pastures by himself to right
all the sheep that he found to be cast.[266]
One of my correspondents (Mr. Laurie Gentles) sends me an account of a
sheep-dog belonging to a friend of his (Mr. Mitchell, of
Inverness-shire) which strayed to a neighbouring farm, and took up his
residence with the farmer. On the second night after the dog arrived at
the farm the farmer 'took the dog down to the meadow to see if the
cattle were all right. To his dismay he found that the fence between
his meadow and his neighbour's had got broken down, and that the whole
of his neighbour's cattle had got mixed up with his. By the help of the
dog the strange cattle were driven back into their proper meadow, and
the fence put into temporary repair. The _next_ night, at the same hour,
the gentleman started off to look after the cattle. The dog, however,
was not to be seen. On arriving at the meadow, what was the gentleman's
astonishment to find that the dog had preceded him! His astonishment
soon changed into delighted approbation when he found the dog sitting on
the broken fence between the two meadows, and daring the cattle from
either side to cross. The cattle had during the interval between the
first and second visits broken down the fence, and had got mixed up with
each other. The dog had quietly gone off on his own account to see if
all was right, and finding a similar accident to the one the previous
evening, had _alone_ and _unaided_ driven back the _strange_ cattle to
their proper meadow, and had mounted guard over the broken fence as I
have already indicated.'
Colonel Hamilton Smith says that the cattle-dogs of Cuba and Terra Firma
are very wise in managing cattle, but require to display different
tactics from the cattle-dogs of Europe:--
When vessels with live stock arrive at any of the West
India harbours, these animals, some of which are
nearly as large as mastiffs, are wonderfully efficient
in assisting to land the cargo. The oxen are hoisted
out with a sling passing round the base of their
horns; and when an ox, thus suspended by the head, is
lowered, and allowed to fall into the water, so that
it may swim to land, men sometimes swim by the side of
it and guide it, but they have often dogs of this
breed which will perform the service equally well;
for, catching the perplexed animal by the ears, one on
each side, they will force it to swim in the direction
of the landing-place, and instantly let go their hold
when they feel it touch the ground, as the ox will
then naturally walk out of the water by itself.[267]
That this sagacity need not be due to special tuition, may be inferred
from a closely similar display spontaneously shown in the following
case. It is communicated to me by a correspondent, Mr. A. H. Browning.
This gentleman was looking at a litter of young pigs in their sty, and
when he went away the door of the sty was inadvertently left unfastened.
The pigs all escaped into his garden. My correspondent then proceeds:--
My attention was called to my dog appearing in a great
state of excitement, _not_ barking (he seldom barks),
but whining and performing all sorts of antics (in a
human subject I should have said 'gesticulating'). The
herdmen and myself returned to the sty; we caught but
one pig, and put him back; no sooner had we done so
than the dog ran after each pig in succession, brought
him back to the sty by the ear, and then went after
another, until the whole number were again housed.
In Lord Brougham's 'Dialogues on Instinct' (iii.) there is narrated the
story told to the author by Lord Truro of a dog that used to worry sheep
at night. The animal quietly submitted to be tied up in the evening, but
when everybody was asleep he used to slip his collar, worry the sheep,
and, returning before dawn, again get into his collar to avoid
suspicion. I allude to this remarkable display of sagacity because I am
myself able fully to corroborate it by precisely similar cases. A friend
of mine (the late Mr. Sutherland Murray) had a dog which was always kept
tied up at night, but nevertheless the neighbouring farmers complained
of having detected him as the culprit when watching to find what dog it
was that committed nightly slaughter among their sheep. My friend,
therefore, set a watch upon his dog, and found that when all was still
be slipped his collar, and after being absent for some hours, returned
and slipped his head in again.
A precisely similar case is given further back, and others are
communicated to me by two correspondents (Mr. Goodbehere, of Birmingham,
and Mr. Richard Williams, of Buffalo). The latter says:--
And here let me ask if you are aware of the cunning
and sagacity of these sheep-killing dogs, that they
never kill sheep on the farm to which they belong, or
in the immediate vicinity, but often go miles away;
that they always return before daylight, and before
doing so wash themselves in some stream to get rid of
the blood.
In Germany I knew a large dog that was very fond of grapes, and at night
used to slip his collar in order to satisfy his propensity; and it was
not for some time that the thief was suspected, owing to his returning
before daylight and appearing innocently chained up in his kennel.
A closely similar case is recorded in Mr. Duncan's book on 'Instinct' of
a dog belonging to the Rev. Mr. Taylor, of Colton. The only difference
is that the delinquent dog slipped and afterwards readjusted a muzzle
instead of a collar.
In connection with sly sagacity I may also give another story contained
in my correspondence, although in this case I am specially requested by
my correspondent not to publish his name. I can, therefore, only say
that he occupies a high position in the Church, and that the dog (a
retriever) was his own property:--
The dog was lying one evening before the kitchen fire
where the cook had prepared a turkey for roasting. She
left the kitchen for a few moments, when the dog
immediately carried away the turkey and placed it in
the cleft of a tree close to the house, but which was
well concealed by the surrounding laurels. So rapid
were his movements that he returned to his post before
the cook had come back, and stretching himself before
the fire, looked 'as innocent as a child unborn.'
Unfortunately for him, however, a man who was in the
habit of taking him to shoot, saw him carrying away
his prize and watched his progress. On coming into the
kitchen the man found the dog in his old place
pretending to be asleep. Diver's conduct was all along
dictated by a desire to conceal his theft, and if he
were a man I should have said that he intended, in
case of inquiry, to prove an alibi.
Mr. W. H. Bodley writes me of a retriever dog that belonged to him:--
Before he came to me he lived where another dog of
similar size was kept, and on one occasion they
fought. Having been chastised for this, on future
occasions when they quarrelled they used to swim over
a river of some breadth, where they could not be
interfered with, and fight out their quarrel on the
other side. What seems to me noteworthy in this
conduct is the _self-restraint_ manifested under the
influence of _passion_, and the mutual understanding
to defer the fight till they could prosecute it
unmolested; like two duellists crossing the Channel to
fight in France.
It is, of course, a well-known thing that dogs may easily be taught the
use of coin for buying buns, &c. In the 'Scottish Naturalist' for April,
1881, Mr. Japp vouches for the fact that a collie which he knew was in
the habit of purchasing cakes with coppers without ever having been
taught the use of coin for such purposes. This fact, however, of a dog
spontaneously divining the use of money requires corroboration, although
it is certain that many dogs have an instinctive idea of giving
peace-offerings, and the step from this to the idea of barter may not be
large. Thus, to give only two illustrations, Mr. Badcock writes to me
that a friend of his had a dog which one day had a quarrel with a
companion dog, so that they parted at variance. 'On the next day the
friend appeared with a biscuit, which he presented as a peace-offering.'
Again, Mr. Thomas D. Smeaton writes to me of his dog that he 'has an
amusing practice when he is restored to favour after some slight
offence, of immediately picking up and carrying anything that is
handiest, stone, stick, paper: it is a deliberate effort to please, a
sort of good-will offering, a shaking hands over the past.'
I am indebted for the following to Mr. Goodbehere, of Birmingham; it may
be taken as typical of many similar cases:--
My friend (Mr. James Canning, of Birmingham) was
acquainted with a small mongrel dog who on being
presented with a penny or a halfpenny would run with
it in his mouth to a baker's, jump on to the top of
the half-door leading into the shop, and ring the bell
behind the door until the baker came forward and gave
him a bun or a biscuit in exchange for the coin. The
dog would accept any small biscuit for a halfpenny,
but nothing less than a bun would satisfy him for a
penny. On one occasion the baker (being annoyed at the
dog's too frequent visits), after receiving the coin,
refused to give the dog anything in exchange, and on
every future occasion the latter (who declined being
_taken in_ a second time) would put the coin on the
floor, and not permit the baker to pick it up until he
had received its equivalent.
Mr. R. O. Backhouse writes to me:--
My dog is a broken-haired rabbit-coursing dog, and is
very intelligent. I took him one day to an exhibition
of pictures and objects of interest, among which were
statues and a bust of Sir Walter Scott. It was a local
exhibition, and as there was jewellery, some one had
to sit up all night with it as guard. I volunteered,
and as we were looking about and sitting on a stand of
flowers, my dog suddenly began to bark, and made as if
he had found some one hiding. On looking round I found
that it was the bust of Sir Walter Scott standing
among the flowers, and in which he evidently
recognised sufficient likeness to a human being to
think the supposed man had no business there at so
late an hour.
I adduce this instance because it serves as a sort of introduction to
the more remarkable faculty which I cannot have the least doubt is
manifested by some dogs--the faculty, namely, of recognising portraits
as representing persons, or possibly of mistaking portraits for persons.
Mr. Crehore, writing to 'Nature' (vol. xxi., p. 132), says:--
A Dandie-Dinmont terrier, after the death of his
mistress, was playing with some children in a room
into which was brought a photograph (large) of her
that he had never previously seen. It was placed upon
the floor leaning against the wall. In the words of my
informant, who witnessed it, the dog, when he suddenly
caught sight of the picture, crouched and trembled all
over, his whole body quivering. Then he crept along
the floor till he reached it, and, seating himself
before it, began to bark loudly, as if he would say,
'Why don't you speak to me?' The picture was moved to
other parts of the room, and he followed, seating
himself before it and repeating his barking.
Mr. Charles W. Peach also gives an account in 'Nature' (vol. xx., p.
196) of a large dog recognising his portrait:--
When it (the portrait) was brought to my house, my old
dog was present with the family at the unveiling;
nothing was said to him, nor invitation given to him
to notice it. We saw that his gaze was steadily fixed
on it, and he soon became excited and whined, and
tried to lick and scratch it, and was so much taken up
with it that we--although so well knowing his
intelligence--were all quite surprised--in fact, could
scarcely believe that he should know it was my
likeness. We, however, had sufficient proof after it
was hung up in our parlour. The room was rather low,
and under the picture stood a chair: the door was left
open, without any thought about the dog; he, however,
soon found it out, when a low whining and scratching
was heard by the family, and on search being made, he
was in the chair trying to get at the picture. After
this I put it up higher, so as to prevent its being
injured by him. This did not prevent him from paying
attention to it, for whenever I was away from home,
whether for a short or a long time--sometimes for
several days--he spent most of his time gazing on it,
and as it appeared to give him comfort the door was
always left open for him. When I was long away he made
a low whining, as if to draw attention to it. This
lasted for years--in fact, as long as he lived.
From this account it appears that when in the first instance the dog's
attention was drawn to the picture it was on the floor in the line of
the dog's sight; the behaviour of the animal then and subsequently was
too marked and peculiar to admit of mistake.
Another correspondent in 'Nature' (vol. xx., p. 220), alluding to the
previous letter, writes:--
Having read Mr. Peach's letter on 'Intellect in
Brutes,' as shown by the sagacity he witnessed in his
dog, I have been asked to send a similar anecdote,
which I have often told to friends. Many years ago my
husband had his portrait taken by J. Phillips, R.A.,
and subsequently went to India, leaving the portrait
in London to be finished and framed. When it was sent
home, about two years after it was taken, it was
placed on the floor against the sofa, preparatory to
being hung on the wall. We had then a very handsome
black-and-tan setter, which was a great pet in the
house. As soon as the dog came into the room he
recognised his master, though he had not seen him for
two years, and went up to the picture and licked the
face. When this anecdote was told to Phillips, he said
it was the highest compliment that had ever been paid
him.
Similarly, in the same periodical (vol. xx., p. 220), Mr. Henry Clark
writes:--
Some years ago a fine arts exhibition was held at
Derby. A portrait of a Derby artist (Wright) was thus
signalised:--'The artist's pet dog distinguished this
from a lot of pictures upon the floor of the studio by
licking the face of the portrait.'
Again, I learn from Dr. Samuel Wilks, F.R.S., that a friend of his, whom
I shall call Mrs. E., has a terrier which recognised her portrait. 'The
portrait is now (1881) hanging in the Royal Academy. When it first
arrived home the dog barked at it, as it did at strangers; but after a
day or two, when Mrs. E. opened the door to show the portrait to some
friends, the dog went straight to the picture and licked the hand. The
picture is a three-quarter length portrait of a lady with the hand at
the bottom of the picture.'
Lastly, my sister, who is a very conscientious and accurate observer,
witnessed a most unmistakable recognition of portraits as representative
of persons on the part of a small but intelligent terrier of her own. At
my request she committed the facts to writing shortly after they
occurred. The following is her statement of them:--
I have a small terrier who attained the age of eight
months without ever having seen a large picture. One
day three nearly life-sized portraits were placed in
my room during his absence. Two were hung up, and one
left standing against the wall on the floor awaiting
the arrival of a picture-rod. When the dog entered the
room he appeared much alarmed by the sight of the
pictures, barking in a terrified manner first at one
and then at another. That is to say, instead of
attacking them in an aggressive way with tail erect,
as he would have done on thus encountering a strange
person, he barked violently and incessantly at some
distance from the paintings, with tail down and body
elongated, sometimes bolting under the chairs and
sofas in the extremity of his fear, and continuing
barking from there. Thinking it might be merely the
presence of strange objects in the room which excited
him, I covered the faces of the portraits with cloths
and turned the face of the one on the floor to the
wall. The dog soon after emerged from his
hiding-place, and having looked intently at the
covered pictures and examined the back of the frame on
the ground, became quite quiet and contented. I then
uncovered one of the pictures, when he immediately
flew at it, barking in the same frightened manner as
before. I then re-covered that one and took the cover
off another. The dog left the covered one and rushed
at the one which was exposed. I then turned the face
of the one on the floor to the room, and he flew at
that with increased fierceness. This I did many times,
covering and uncovering each picture alternately,
always with the same result. It was only when all
three paintings were uncovered at the same time, and
he saw one looking at him in whatever direction he
turned, that he became utterly terrified. He continued
in this state for nearly an hour, at the end of which
time, although evidently very nervous and apt to
start, he ceased to bark. After that day he never took
any more notice of the pictures during the three
months he remained in the house. He was then absent
from the house for seven months. On his return he went
with me into the room where the portraits were hung,
immediately on his arrival. He was evidently again
much startled on first seeing them, for he rushed at
one, barking as he had done on the first occasion, but
he only gave three or four barks when he ran back to
me with the same apologetic manner as he has when he
has barked at a well-known friend by mistake.
It will have been observed that in all these cases the portraits, when
first recognised as bearing resemblance to human beings, were placed on
the floor, or in the ordinary line of the dog's sight. This is probably
an important condition to the success of the recognition. That it
certainly was so in the case of my sister's terrier was strikingly
proved on a subsequent occasion, when she took the animal into a
picture-shop where there were a number of portraits hanging round the
walls, and also one of Carlyle standing on the floor. The terrier did
not heed those upon the walls, but barked excitedly at the one upon the
floor. This case was further interesting from the fact that there were a
number of purchasers in the shop who were, of course, strangers to the
terrier; yet he took no notice of them, although so much excited by the
picture. This shows that the pictorial illusion was not so complete as
to make the animal suppose the portrait to be a real person; it was only
sufficiently so to make it feel a sense of bewildered uncertainty at the
kind of life-in-death appearance of the motionless representation.
If, notwithstanding all this body of mutually corroborative cases, it is
still thought incredible that dogs should be able to recognise pictorial
representations,[268] we should do well to remember that this grade of
mental evolution is reached very early in the psychical development of
the human child. In my next work I shall adduce evidence to show that
children of one year, or even less, are able to distinguish pictures as
representations of particular objects, and will point at the proper
pictures when asked to show these objects.
Coming now to cases more distinctly indicative of reason in the strict
sense of the word, numberless ordinary acts performed by dogs
indisputably show that they possess this faculty. Thus, for instance,
Livingstone gives the following observation.[269] A dog tracking his
master along a road came to a place where three roads diverged. Scenting
along two of the roads and not finding the trail, he ran off on the
third without waiting to smell. Here, therefore, is a true act of
inference. If the track is not on A or B, it must be on C, there being
no other alternative.
Again, it is not an unusual thing for intelligent dogs, who know that
their masters do not wish to take them out, to leave the house and run a
long distance in the direction in which they suppose their masters are
about to go, in order that when they are there found the distance may be
too great for their masters to return home for the purpose of shutting
them up. I have myself known several terriers that would do this, and
one of the instances I shall give _in extenso_ (quoted from an account
which I published at the time in 'Nature'); for I think it displays
remarkably complex processes of far-seeing calculation:--
The terrier in question followed a conveyance from the
house in which I resided in the country, to a town ten
miles distant. _He only did this on one occasion_, and
about five months afterwards was taken _by train_ to
the same town as a present to some friends there.
Shortly afterwards I called upon these friends in a
different conveyance from the one which the dog had
previously followed; but the latter may have known
that the two conveyances belonged to the same house.
Anyhow, after I had put up the horses at an inn, I
spent the morning with the terrier and his new
masters, and in the afternoon was accompanied by them
to the inn. I should have mentioned that the inn was
the same as that at which the conveyance had been put
up on the previous occasion, five months before. Now,
the dog evidently remembered this, and, reasoning from
analogy, inferred that I was about to return. This is
shown by the fact that he stole away from our
party--although at what precise moment he did so I
cannot say, but it was certainly _after_ we had
arrived at the inn, for subsequently we all remembered
his having entered the coffee-room with us. Now, not
only did he infer from a single precedent that I was
going home, and make up his mind to go with me, but he
also further reasoned thus:--'As my previous master
lately sent me to town, it is probable that he does
not want me to return to the country; therefore, if I
am to seize this opportunity of resuming my poaching
life, I must now steal a march upon the conveyance.
But not only so, my former master may possibly pick me
up and return with me to my proper owners; therefore I
must take care only to intercept the conveyance at a
point sufficiently far without the town to make sure
that he will not think it worth his while to go back
with me.'
Complicated as this train of reasoning is, it is the simplest one I can
devise to account for the fact that slightly beyond the _third_
milestone the terrier was awaiting me, lying right in the middle of the
road with his face towards the town. I should add that the second two
miles of the road were quite straight, so that I could easily have seen
the dog if he had been merely running a comparatively short distance in
front of the horses. Why this animal should never have returned to his
former home on his own account I cannot suggest, but I think it was
merely due to an excessive caution which he also manifested in other
things. However, be the explanation of this what it may, as a fact he
never did venture to come back upon his own account, although there
never was a subsequent occasion upon which any of his former friends
went to the town but the terrier was seen to return with them, having
always found some way of escape from his intended imprisonment.
The Rev. J. C. Atkinson gives an account ('Zoologist,' vol. vii., p.
2338) of his terrier, which, on starting a water-rat out of reeds into
the running stream, would not plunge directly after it, knowing that the
rat would beat him at swimming. But the moment the rat plunged, the dog
ran four or five yards down the bank, and there waited till the
water-rat, being carried down stream, appeared upon the surface, when he
pounced upon it successfully.
Cases of this kind might be multiplied indefinitely, and they appear to
show a true faculty of reason or inferring.
Professor W. W. Bailey, writing from Brown University to 'Nature'
(xxii., p. 607), says:--
A friend of mine, a naturalist, and a very
conscientious man, whose word can be implicitly
trusted, gives the following, to which he was an
eye-witness. His grandfather, then a very old but hale
and hearty man, had a splendid Newfoundland. There was
a narrow and precipitous road leading from the fields
to the house. It was regarded as a very dangerous
place. One day when the old gentleman was doing some
work about the farm his horse became alarmed, and
started off with the waggon along this causeway. The
chances were that he would dash himself and the empty
waggon to pieces. At once the dog seemed to take in
the situation, although until that time he had been
impassive. He started after the horse at full speed,
overtook him, caught the bridle, and by his strength
arrested the frightened creature until help could
reach him. My friend gives many other stories of this
fine dog, and thinks he had a decided sense of humour.
I will repeat that both of these tales come to me well
authenticated, and I could, by seeking permission,
give names and places.
Couch gives the following, which is worth quoting, as showing the
intelligence of dogs in attacking unusual prey:--
On the first discovery of the prey (crabs) a terrier
runs in to seize it, and is immediately and severely
bitten in the nose. But a sedate Newfoundland dog of
my acquaintance proceeds more soberly in his work. He
lays his paw on it to arrest it in its escape; then
tumbling it over he bares his teeth, and, seizing it
with the mouth, throws the crab aloft. It falls upon
the stones; the shell is cracked beyond redemption,
and then the dainty dish is devoured at his
leisure.[270]
I myself know a large dog in Germany which used to kill snakes by
dexterously tossing them in the air a great number of times, too quickly
to admit of the snake biting. When the snake was thus quite confused,
the dog would tear it in pieces. This dog can never have been poisoned
by the bite of a snake; but he seems to have had an instinctive idea
that the snake might be more harmful in its bite than other animals; for
while he was bold in fighting with dogs, and did not then object to
receiving his fair share of laceration, he was extremely careful never
to begin to tear a snake till he had thoroughly bewildered it by tossing
it as described.
The reasoning displayed by dogs may not always be of a high order, but
little incidents, from being of constant occurrence among all dogs, are
the more important as showing the reasoning faculty to be general to
these animals. I shall therefore give a few cases to show the kind of
reasoning that is of constant occurrence.
Mr. Stone writes to me from Norbury Park concerning two of his dogs, one
large and the other small. Both being in a room at the same time,
one of them, the larger, had a bone, and when he had
left it the smaller dog went to take it, the larger
one growled, and the other retired to a corner.
Shortly afterwards the larger dog went out, but the
other did not appear to notice this, and at any rate
did not move. A few minutes later the large dog was
heard to bark out of doors; the little dog then,
without a moment's hesitation, went straight to the
bone and took it. It thus appears quite evident that
she reasoned--'That dog is barking out of doors,
therefore he is not in this room, therefore it is safe
for me to take the bone.' The action was so rapid as
to be clearly a consequence of the other dog's
barking.
Again, Mr. John Le Conte, writing from the University of California,
tells me of a dog which used to hunt rabbits in an extensive
pasture-ground where there was a hollow tree, which frequently served as
a place of refuge for the rabbits when they were pressed:--
On one occasion a rabbit was 'started,' and all of the
dogs, with the exception of 'Bonus,' dashed off in
full pursuit. We were astonished to observe that the
sedate 'Bonus,' foregoing the intense excitement of
the chase, deliberately trotted by a short cut to a
hollow oak trunk, and crouching at its base calmly
awaited the advent of the fleeing rabbit. And he was
not disappointed (they frequently escaped without
being reduced to this extremity), for the pursuing
dogs pressed the rabbit so hard that, after making a
long detour, it made for the place of refuge. As it
was about entering the hollow trunk, the crouching
'Bonus' captured the astonished rodent.
Similarly, Dr. Andrew Wilson, F.R.S.E., writes me as follows:--
There is a shrubbery near the house, about 200 or 300
yards long, and running in the shape of a horseshoe. A
small terrier used to start a rabbit nearly every
morning, at the end of the shrubbery next the house,
and hunt him through the whole length of it to the
other end, where the rabbit escaped into an old drain.
The dog then appears to have come to the conclusion
that the chord of a circle is shorter than its arc,
for he raised the rabbit again, and instead of
following him through the shrubbery as usual, he took
the short cut to the drain, and was ready and in
waiting on the rabbit when he arrived, and caught him.
A somewhat similar instance is communicated to me by Mr. William Cairns,
of Argyll House, N.B.:--
I was watching the operations of a little Skye terrier
on a wheatstack which was in the course of being
thrashed, when suddenly a very large rat bounced off,
just from under Fan's nose. It darted into a pit of
water about a dozen yards from the stack, and tried to
escape. Fan, however, plunged after, and swam for some
distance, but found she was being left behind. So she
turned to the shore again _and ran round to the other
side of the pit, and was ready and caught it just on
landing_.
I never saw anything more remarkable. If it was not
reason, I do not know how it is possible that it could
come much more closely to the exercise of that
faculty.
Dr. Bannister, editor of the 'Journal of Nervous and Mental Diseases,'
writes me from Chicago, that having spent a winter in Alaska, he 'had a
good opportunity to study animal intelligence in the Eskimo dogs,' and
he reports it as 'a fact of common occurrence,' when the dogs are
drawing sledges on the ice near the coast, that on coming to
sinuosities in the coast-line, they spontaneously leave the beaten track
and strike out so as to 'cut across the windings by going straight from
point to point' of land. This is frequently done even when the leading
dog 'could not see the whole winding of the beaten track; he seemed to
reason that the route must lead around the headlands, and that he could
economise travel by cutting across.'
It will be remembered in connection with these dogs, that Mr. Darwin in
the 'Descent of Man' (p. 75) quotes Dr. Hayes, who, in his work on 'The
Open Polar Sea,' 'repeatedly remarks that his dogs, instead of
continuing to draw the sledges in a compact body, diverged and separated
when they came to thin ice, so that their weight might be more evenly
[and widely] distributed. This was often the first warning which the
travellers received that the ice was becoming thin and dangerous.' Mr.
Darwin remarks, 'This instinct may possibly have arisen since the time,
long ago, when dogs were first employed by the natives in drawing their
sledges; or the Arctic wolves, the parent stock of the Esquimaux dog,
may have acquired an instinct, impelling them not to attack their prey
in a close pack when on thin ice.'
Mrs. Horn writes me:--
One morning, soon after his usual time for starting, I
saw the dog looking anxiously about, evidently afraid
that my brother had gone without him. He looked into
the room where we had breakfasted, but my brother was
not there. He went up two or three stairs, and
listened attentively. Then, to my astonishment, he
came down, and going to the hat-stand in the hall,
stood on his hind legs and sniffed at the great-coats
hanging there, undoubtedly trying to ascertain whether
my brother's coat was there or not.
Another correspondent (Mr. Westlecombe) writes:--
My cat had kittens, of which two were preserved, the
rest being drowned. The dog tolerated the two kittens,
but did not care about them with any friendship. When
the kittens were a few weeks old, I--finding that I
could get but one of them off my hands--determined to
kill the other, and, as the quickest mode of death, to
shoot it by a pistol close behind its head. The dog
saw me do this in my garden, and in a few minutes
afterwards she appeared with the other kitten dead in
her mouth; she had killed it. If that was not
reasoning I do not know what is.
Mr. W. F. Hooper writes me of a Newfoundland dog that was in the habit
of accompanying the nursemaid and baby belonging to its mistress. On one
occasion a keen wind began to blow, and the nursemaid drew her shawl
over the child:--
The nursemaid had not taken many steps towards home
before her progress was barred by the dog, who placed
himself in the centre of the path and growled whenever
she advanced. She was much alarmed, and tried to coax
the dog to move, but Leo would not, and abated nothing
of the hostile display. Half an hour passed, and the
girl became nearly distracted. What could be the
matter with the dog? Was she to be a prisoner all day?
Would the animal fly at her throat? Was Leo suffering
from hydrophobia? These and similar questions crossed
the girl's mind. At length a suggestion of despair--it
was nothing more--occurred to her. She thought it
might win the dog round to good humour if she showed
it the baby; so she removed the folds of her shawl and
presented it at arm's length to the dog. The result
was magical, and far in excess of all expectation, for
not only did the dog cease to growl, but he began to
gambol and caress, and removed himself from the path
altogether, so that there was now a free course, and
home was soon reached. The explanation of the whole
affair is, when the nursemaid turned on her path
thinking she had gone sufficiently far, the dog missed
sight of the baby, and believed it was gone. Under
this impression the dog converted himself into a
sentinel, with the resolve that not one step should be
taken towards home without the baby; and faithfully
did the animal keep watch and ward until the
demonstration was given that the child had not been
left behind, but was still in the nurse's arms alive
and well. I think this is an exhibition of
intelligence worthy of being known to you.
I extract the following instance from Col. Hutchinson's 'Dog-breaking.'
It is briefly alluded to in the 'Descent of Man.' The observer and
narrator is Mr. Colquhoun:--
I may mention a proof of his sagacity. Having a couple
of long shots across a pretty broad stream, I stopped
a mallard with each barrel, but both were only
wounded. I sent him across for the birds. He first
attempted to bring them both, but one always struggled
out of his mouth: he then laid down one intending to
bring the other; but whenever he attempted to cross to
me, the bird left fluttered into the water; he
immediately returned again, laid down the first on the
shore and recovered the other. The first now fluttered
away, but he instantly secured it, and, standing over
them both, seemed to cogitate for a moment; then,
although on any other occasion he never ruffles a
feather, deliberately killed one, brought over the
other, and then returned for the dead bird.
The following, communicated to me by Mr. Blood, is a closely analogous,
and therefore confirmatory case. He was out shooting with a companion,
and three wild ducks were simultaneously dropped into a lake--one
falling dead and the other two winged. Mr. Blood sent in his spaniel to
retrieve,
and of course when the wounded birds saw her coming
they swam out, so that she first reached the dead
duck. She swam up to it, paused for a moment, and
passing it went after the nearest wounded bird. Having
caught this, she again hesitated, and apparently after
consideration she gave it a chop and let it go,
quieted for the present. She then caught and brought
to land the other wounded duck, and going back she
again reached the dead bird; but looking at the other
and seeing that it was again moving, she went out and
brought it in, and last of all brought the dead bird.
The dog was a first-rate retriever and never injured
game, so that it was an entirely new thing for her to
kill a bird.
Again, Mr. Arthur Nicols, in 'Nature,' vol. xix., page 496, says:--
Can we conceive any human being reasoning more
correctly than a dog did in the following instance?
Towards the evening of a long day's snipe-shooting on
Dartmoor, the party was walking down the bank of the
Dart, when my retriever flushed a widgeon which fell
to my gun in the river, and of course instantly dived.
I said no word to the dog. He did not plunge into the
river _then_, but galloped _down_ stream some fifty or
sixty yards, and then entered and dashed from side to
side--it was about twenty or thirty feet wide--working
up stream, and making a great commotion in the water
until he came to the place where we stood. Then he
landed and shook himself, and carefully hunted the
near bank a considerable distance down, crossed to
the opposite side, and diligently explored that bank.
Two or three minutes elapsed, and the party was for
moving on, when I called their attention to a sudden
change in the dog's demeanour. His 'flag' was now up
and going from side to side in that energetic manner
which, as every sportsman knows, betokens a hot scent.
I then knew that the bird was as safe as if it was
already in my bag. Away through the heather went the
waving tail, until twenty or thirty yards from the
bank opposite to that on which we were standing there
was a momentary scuffle; the bird just rose from the
ground above the heather, the dog sprang into the air,
caught it, came away at full gallop, dashed across the
stream, and delivered it into my hands. Need I
interpret all this for the experienced sportsman? The
dog had learned from long experience in Australia and
the narrow cañadas in the La Plata that a wounded duck
goes down stream; if winged, his maimed wing sticks
out and renders it impossible for him to go up, so he
will invariably land and try to hide away from the
bank. But if the dog enters at the place where the
bird fell, the latter will go on with the stream for
an indefinite distance, rising now and then for
breath, and give infinite trouble. My dog had found
out all this long since, and had proved the
correctness of his knowledge times out of number, and
by his actions had _taught me_ the whole art and
mystery of retrieving duck. His object, I say without
a doubt, because I had numberless opportunities of
observing it, was to fling the bird and force it to
land by cutting it off lower down the stream. Then
assuming, as his experience justified him, that the
bird had landed, he hunted each bank in succession for
the trail, which he knew must betray the fugitive.
As showing in a higher, and therefore rarer degree, the ratiocinative
faculty in dogs, I may quote a brief extract from my British Association
lecture:--
My friend Dr. Rae, the well-known traveller and
naturalist, knew a dog in Orkney which used to
accompany his master to church on alternate Sundays.
To do so he had to swim a channel about a mile wide;
and before taking to the water he used to run about a
mile to the north when the tide was flowing, and a
nearly equal distance to the south when the tide was
ebbing, 'almost invariably calculating his distance so
well that he landed at the nearest point to the
church.' In his letter to me Dr. Rae continues: 'How
the dog managed to calculate the strength of the
spring and neap tides at their various rates of
speed, and always to swim at the proper angle, is most
surprising.'
As a confirmatory case, I may also quote an extract from a letter sent
me by Mr. Percival Fothergill. Writing of a retriever which he has, he
says:--
I have seen her spring overboard from our gangway 16
feet from the water-line. The tides ran more than 5
knots, and she invariably came down to a little wharf
abreast the ship, and gazed intently for small pieces
of stick or straw, and having thus ascertained the
drift of the tide (did as you mention of another dog),
ran up tide and swam off. The sentry on the forecastle
always kept a look-out for the dog, and threw over a
line with a bowling knot, and she was hauled on board.
But one day she was observed to wait an unusual time
on the wharf; no wood or straw gave her the required
information. After waiting some time, she lay down on
the planks, and dropped one paw into the water, and
found by the feel which way the tide ran, got up, and
ran up stream as usual.
Mr. George Cook writes me that he recently had a pointer, which one
morning, when the grass was covered with frost, dragged a mat out of his
kennel, from which he had got loose, to the lawn beneath the house
windows, where he was found lying upon the mat, which thus served to
protect him from the frost. The distance over which he had dragged the
mat for this purpose was about 100 yards. Mr. Cook adds: 'I have since
frequently seen him bring this mat out of his kennel and lay it in the
sunshine, shifting it if a shadow came upon the place where he had laid
it.'
The following is sent me by the Rev. F. J. Penky. He gives me the name
of his friend the canon, but does not give me express permission to
publish it. In quoting his account, therefore, I leave this name blank.
He says:--
The following is an instance of sagacity--indeed,
amounting to reason--in a dog, a French poodle that
belonged to Colonel Pearson (not the lately
beleaguered colonel at Ekowe, but a Colonel Pearson
living some years ago at Lichfield). The circumstance
happened to a friend of mine, Canon ----, rector of
----. I have the story from his own lips, but I have
no permission for his name to be used in any
publication, should the story be thought worthy of
it. My friend the canon, I may say, has no leanings.
Being a guest at luncheon with the dog's master, my
friend fed the dog with pieces of beef. After luncheon
the beef was taken into the larder. The dog did not
think he had his fair share. What did he do? Now he
had been taught to stand on his hind legs, put his paw
on a lady's wrist, and hand her into the dining-room.
He adopted the same tactics with my friend the canon,
stood on his hind legs, put his paw on his arm, and
made for the door. To see what would follow, Canon
---- suffered himself to be led; but the sagacious
dog, instead of steering for the dining-room, led him
in the direction of the larder, along a passage, down
steps, &c., and did not halt till he brought him to
the larder, and close to the shelf where the beef had
been put. The dog had a small bit given him for his
sagacity, and Canon ---- returned to the drawing-room.
But the dog was still not satisfied. He tried the same
trick again, but this time fruitlessly. The canon was
not going again with him to the larder. What was Mori
to do? And here comes the instance of reason in the
poodle. Finding he could not prevail on the visitor to
make a second excursion to the larder, he went out
into the hall, took in his teeth Canon ----'s hat from
off the hall table, and carried it under the shelf in
the larder, where the coveted beef lay out of his
reach. There he was found with the hat, waiting for
the owner of the hat, and expecting another savoury
bit when he should come for his hat.
Many anecdotes might be adduced of the cleverness which some dogs show
in finding their way by train; but I shall give only three, and I select
these, not only because they all mutually corroborate one another, but
likewise because they all display such high intelligence on the part of
the dogs.
Mr. Horsfall, in 'Nature,' vol. xx., p. 505, says:--
Last year we spent our holidays at Llan Bedr,
Merionethshire. Our host has a house in the above
village, and another at Harlech, a town three miles
distant. His favourite dog, Nero, is of Norwegian
birth, and a highly intelligent animal. He is at
liberty to pass his time at either of the houses owned
by his master, and he occasionally walks from one to
the other. More frequently, however, he goes to the
railway station at Llan Bedr, gets into the train, and
jumps out at Harlech. Being most probably unable to
get out of the carriage, he was on one occasion taken
to Salsernau, the station beyond Harlech, when he
left the carriage and waited on the platform for the
return train to Harlech. If Nero did not make use of
'abstract reasoning' we may as well give up the use of
the term.
Miss M. C. Young writes to me:--
You may perhaps think the following worthy of notice,
as illustrating the comparative failure of _instinct_
in an animal which has begun to _reason_. A friend of
mine has a mongrel fox-terrier of remarkable
intelligence, though undeveloped by any training. This
dog has always shown a great fondness for accompanying
any of the family on a railway journey, often having
to be taken out of the train by force. One morning in
the summer of 1877 the groom came, in great distress,
to say that Spot had followed him to the station, and
jumped into the train after a visitor's maid who was
going to see her friends, and he (the groom) felt sure
the dog would be stolen. The railway is a short single
line, with three trains down and up each day, and my
friend is well known to all the officials, so she sent
to meet the next train, when the guard said the dog
(apparently finding no _friend_ in the train) had
jumped out at a little roadside station about five
miles distant. Most dogs would have found their way
home easily, though the place itself was strange, but
Spot did not appear till late in the evening, after
ten hours' absence, and _dead tired_. On inquiry we
found that the guard had seen nothing of her at 9
A.M., at 12 A.M., at 1 P.M., nor at 4 P.M.; but when
he reached the little station on his return at 5.30,
'she was walking up and down the platform like a
Christian,' jumped into his box, and jumped out again
of her own accord at the right station for her home.
She had evidently spent the interval in trying to find
her way home on foot, and not succeeding, had resolved
on returning the way she came.
Lastly, for the following very remarkable case I am indebted to my
friend Mrs. A. S. H. Richardson:--
The Rev. Mr. Townsend, incumbent of Lucan, was
formerly an engineer on the Dundalk line of railway.
He had a very intelligent Scotch retriever dog, which
used to have a habit of jumping into any carriage in
which Mr. Townsend travelled; but this had been
discontinued for a year when the following incident
happened. Mr. Townsend and the dog were on the
platform at Dundalk station; Mr. Townsend went to get
a ticket for a lady, and during his absence the dog
jumped into a carriage, and when the train started,
was carried down to Clones. There he found himself
alone when he jumped out; he went into the
station-master's office and looked about, then into
the ticket-collector's and searched there, and then
ran off to the town of Clones, a mile distant. There
he searched the resident engineer's office, and not
finding his master, returned to the station and went
to the _up_ platform. When the up train arrived, he
jumped in, but was driven out by the guard. A ballast
train then drew up, going on to a branch line which
was being constructed to Caran, but which was not
finished yet. The dog travelled on the engine as far
as the line went, and then ran the remaining five
miles to Caran, where Mr. Townsend's sister lived. He
visited her house, and not finding his master, ran
back to the station, and took a return train to
Clones, where he slept, and was fed by the
station-master. At four in the morning he took a goods
train down to Dundalk, where he found Mr. Townsend.
[Illustration]
It would be easy to continue multiplying anecdotes of canine
intelligence; but I think a sufficient number of instances have now been
given for the only purpose that I have in view--namely, that of
exhibiting in a connected manner the various psychological faculties
which are presented by dogs, and the level of development to which they
severally attain. I may again remark that I have selected these
instances for publication from among many others that I could have
given, only because they conform to one or other of the general
principles to which I everywhere adhere in the quoting of facts. That is
to say, these facts are either matters of ordinary observation, and so
intrinsically credible; or they stand upon the authority of observers
well known to me as competent; or they are of a kind which do not admit
of mal-observation; or, lastly, they are well corroborated by similar
accounts received from independent observers. I think, therefore, that
this sketch of the psychology of the dog is as accurate as the nature of
the materials admits of my drawing it. If it is fairly open to criticism
on any one side, I believe it is from the side of the dog-lovers, who
may perhaps with justice complain that I have ignored a number of
published facts, standing on more or less good authority, and appearing
more wonderful than any of the facts that I have rendered. To this
criticism I have only to answer that it is better to err on the safe
side, and that if the facts which I have rendered are sufficient to
prove the existence of all the psychological faculties which the dog can
fairly be said to possess, it is of less moment that partly doubtful
cases should be suppressed, where the only object of introducing them
would be to show that some particular faculties were in some particular
instances more highly developed than was the case in the instances here
recorded.
FOOTNOTES:
[263] _Descent of Man_, p. 74.
[264] So many cases are on record of large dogs (especially of the
Newfoundland breed) throwing troublesome curs into the water, and again
rescuing them if they show danger of drowning, that we can scarcely fail
to accept them as true. Such cases exhibit a wonderful play of
human-like emotions.
[265] _Descent of Man_, p. 71.
[266] For many other instances of sheep-dog sagacity, see Watson,
_Reasoning Power of Animals_, under 'Shepherd's Dog.'
[267] _Naturalist's Library_, vol. x., p. 154 (quoted by Watson).
[268] Since my MS. went to press I have myself met with a striking
display of the recognition of a portrait by a dog. The portrait was one
of myself, and the dog a half-bred setter and retriever of my own.
[269] _Missionary Travels_, chap. i.
[270] _Illustrations of Instinct_, p. 179.
CHAPTER XVII.
MONKEYS, APES AND BABOONS.
WE now come to the last group of animals which we shall have occasion to
consider, and these, from an evolutionary point of view, are the most
interesting. Unfortunately, however, the intelligence of apes, monkeys,
and baboons has not presented material for nearly so many observations
as that of other intelligent mammals. Useless for all purposes of labour
or art, mischievous as domestic pets, and in all cases troublesome to
keep, these animals have never enjoyed the improving influences of
hereditary domestication, while for the same reasons observation of the
intelligence of captured individuals has been comparatively scant. Still
more unfortunately, these remarks apply most of all to the most man-like
of the group, and the nearest existing prototypes of the human race: our
knowledge of the psychology of the anthropoid apes is less than our
knowledge of the psychology of any other animal. But notwithstanding the
scarcity of the material which I have to present, I think there is
enough to show that the mental life of the _Simiadæ_ is of a distinctly
different type from any that we have hitherto considered, and that in
their psychology, as in their anatomy, these animals approach most
nearly to _Homo sapiens_.
_Emotions._
Affection and sympathy are strongly marked--the latter indeed more so
than in any other animal, not even excepting the dog. A few instances
from many that might be quoted will be sufficient to show this.
Mr. Darwin writes:--
Rengger observed an American monkey (a Cebus)
carefully driving away the flies which plagued her
infant; and Duvancel saw a Hylobates washing the faces
of her young ones in a stream. So intense is the grief
of female monkeys for the loss of their young, that it
invariably caused the death of certain kinds kept
under confinement by Brehm in North Africa. Orphan
monkeys were always adopted and carefully guarded by
the other monkeys, both male and female.[271]
Again, Jobson says that whenever his party shot an orang-outang from
their boat, the body was carried off by others before the men could
reach the shore.
So, again, James Forbes, F.R.S., in his 'Oriental Memoirs,' narrates the
following remarkable instance of the display of solicitude and care for
a dead companion exhibited by a monkey:--
One of a shooting-party under a banian tree killed a
female monkey, and carried it to his tent, which was
soon surrounded by forty or fifty of the tribe, who
made a great noise and seemed disposed to attack their
aggressor. They retreated when he presented his
fowling-piece, the dreadful effect of which they had
witnessed and appeared perfectly to understand. The
head of the troop, however, stood his ground,
chattering furiously; the sportsman, who perhaps felt
some little degree of compunction for having killed
one of the family, did not like to fire at the
creature, and nothing short of firing would suffice to
drive him off. At length he came to the door of the
tent, and, finding threats of no avail, began a
lamentable moaning, and by the most expressive gesture
seemed to beg for the dead body. It was given him; he
took it sorrowfully in his arms and bore it away to
his expecting companions. They who were witnesses of
this extraordinary scene resolved never again to fire
at one of the monkey race.
Of course it is not to be supposed from this instance that all, or even
most monkeys display any care for their dead. A writer in 'Nature' (vol.
ix., p. 243), for instance, says expressly that such is not the case
with Gibbons (_Hylobates agilis_), which he has observed to be highly
sympathetic to injured companions, but 'take no notice whatever' of dead
ones.
Regarding their sympathy for injured companions this writer says:--
I keep in my garden a number of Gibbon apes
(_Hylobates agilis_); they live quite free from all
restraint in the trees, merely coming when called to
be fed. One of them, a young male, on one occasion
fell from a tree and dislocated his wrist; it received
the greatest attention from the others, especially
from an old female, who, however, was no relation; she
used before eating her own plantains to take up the
first that were offered to her every day, and give
them to the cripple, who was living in the eaves of a
wooden house; and I have frequently noticed that a cry
of fright, pain, or distress from one would bring all
the others at once to the complainer, and they would
then condole with him and fold him in their arms.
Captain Hugh Crow, in his 'Narrative of my Life,' relates an interesting
tale of the conduct of some monkeys on board his ship. He says:--
We had several monkeys on board; they were of
different species and sizes, and amongst them was a
beautiful little creature, the body of which was about
ten inches or a foot in length, and about the
circumference of a common drinking glass. This
interesting little animal, which, when I received it
from the Governor of the Island of St. Thomas,
diverted me by its innocent gambols, became afflicted
by the malady which unfortunately prevailed in the
ship. It had always been a favourite with the other
monkeys, who seemed to regard it as the last born and
the pet of the family; and they granted it many
indulgences which they seldom conceded to one another.
It was very tractable and gentle in its temper, and
never took advantage of the partiality shown to it.
From the moment it was taken ill their attention and
care of it redoubled; and it was truly affecting and
interesting to see with what anxiety and tenderness
they tended and nursed the little creature. A struggle
often ensued among them for priority in those offices
of affection; and some would steal one thing and some
another, which they would carry to it untasted,
however tempting it might be to their own palates.
Then they would take it up gently in their fore-paws,
hug it to their breasts, and cry over it as a fond
mother would over her suffering child. The little
creature seemed sensible of their assiduities, but it
was wofully overpowered by sickness. It would
sometimes come to me and look me pitifully in the
face, and moan and cry like an infant, as if it
besought me to give it relief; and we did everything
we could think of to restore it to health: but, in
spite of the united attention of its kindred tribes
and ourselves, the interesting little creature did not
survive long.
Here is a case which I myself witnessed at the Zoological Gardens, and
published in the 'Quarterly Journal of Science,' from which I now
quote:--
A year or two ago there was an Arabian baboon and an
Anubis baboon confined in one cage, adjoining that
which contained a dog-headed baboon. The Anubis baboon
passed its hand through the wires of the partition, in
order to purloin a nut which the large dog-headed
baboon had left within reach--expressly, I believe,
that it might act as a bait. The Anubis baboon very
well knew the danger he ran, for he waited until his
bulky neighbour had turned his back upon the nut with
the appearance of having forgotten all about it. The
dog-headed baboon, however, was all the time slyly
looking round with the corner of his eye, and no
sooner was the arm of his victim well within his cage
than he sprang with astonishing rapidity and caught
the retreating hand in his mouth. The cries of the
Anubis baboon quickly brought the keeper to the
rescue, when, by dint of a good deal of physical
persuasion, the dog-headed baboon was induced to leave
go his hold. The Anubis baboon then retired to the
middle of his cage, moaning piteously, and holding the
injured hand against his chest while he rubbed it with
the other one. The Arabian baboon now approached him
from the top part of the cage, and, while making a
soothing sound very expressive of sympathy, folded the
sufferer in its arms--exactly as a mother would her
child under similar circumstances. It must be stated,
also, that this expression of sympathy had a decidedly
quieting effect upon the sufferer, his moans becoming
less piteous so soon as he was enfolded in the arms of
his comforter; and the manner in which he laid his
cheek upon the bosom of his friend was as expressive
as anything could be of sympathy appreciated. This
really affecting spectacle lasted a considerable time,
and while watching it I felt that, even had it stood
alone, it would in itself have been sufficient to
prove the essential identity of some of the noblest
among human emotions with those of the lower animals.
As a beautiful instance of the display of sympathy, I may narrate an
occurrence which was witnessed by my friend Sir James Malcolm--a
gentleman on the accuracy of whose observation I can rely. He was on
board a steamer where there were two common East India monkeys, one of
which was older and larger than the other, though they were not mother
and child. The smaller monkey one day fell overboard amidships. The
larger one became frantically excited, and running over the bulwarks
down to a part of the ship which is called 'the bend,' it held on to the
side of the vessel with one hand, while with the other it extended to
her drowning companion a cord with which she had been tied up, and one
end of which was fastened round her waist. The incident astonished
everyone on board, but unfortunately for the romance of the story the
little monkey was not near enough to grasp the floating end of the cord.
The animal, however, was eventually saved by a sailor throwing out a
longer rope to the little swimmer, who had sense enough to grasp it, and
so to be hauled on board.
The following account of the behaviour of a wounded monkey seems to
suggest the presence of a class of emotions similar to those which we
know as feelings of reproach. The observer was Capt. Johnson:--
I was one of a party of Jeekary in the Bahar district;
our tents were pitched in a large mango garden, and
our horses were picquetted in the same garden a little
distance off. When we were at dinner a Syer came to
us, complaining that some of the horses had broken
loose in consequence of being frightened by monkeys
(i.e. Macacus Orhesus) on the trees. As soon as dinner
was over I went out with my gun to drive them off, and
I fired with small shot at one of them, which
instantly ran down to the lowest branch of the tree,
as if he were going to fly at me, stopped suddenly,
and coolly put his paw to the part wounded, covered
with blood, and held it out for me to see. I was so
much hurt at the time that it has left an impression
never to be effaced, and I have never since fired a
gun at any of the tribe. Almost immediately on my
return to the party, before I had fully described what
had passed, a Syer came to inform us that the monkey
was dead. We ordered the Syer to bring it to us, but
by the time he returned the other monkeys had carried
the dead one off, and none of them could anywhere be
seen.
This case is strikingly corroborated by the following allusion to Sir
W. Hoste's Memoirs, given by Jesse as follows:--
One of his officers, coming home after a long day's
shooting, saw a female monkey running along the rocks,
with her young one in her arms. He immediately fired,
and the animal fell. On his coming up, she grasped her
little one close to her breast, and with her other
hand pointed to the wound which the ball had made, and
which had entered above her breast. Dipping her finger
in the blood, and then holding it up, she seemed to
reproach him with being the cause of her death, and
consequently that of the young one, to which she
frequently pointed. 'I never,' says Sir William, 'felt
so much as when I heard the story, and I determined
never to shoot one of these animals as long as I
lived.'[272]
Mr. Darwin says that most persons who have observed monkeys have seen
them show a sense of the ludicrous. Here is an instance which I have
myself observed, and now quote from my article in the 'Quarterly Journal
of Science:'--
Several years ago I used to watch carefully the young
orang-outang in the Zoological Gardens, and I am quite
sure that she manifested a sense of the ludicrous. One
example will suffice. Her feeding tin was of a
somewhat peculiar shape, and when it was empty she
used sometimes to invert it upon her head. The tin
then presented a comical resemblance to a bonnet, and
as its wearer would generally favour the spectators
with a broad grin at the time of putting it on, she
never failed to raise a laugh from them. Her success
in this respect was evidently attended with no small
gratification on her part.
But perhaps the strongest evidence of monkeys having an appreciation of
the ludicrous is the same as that which we have seen to be presented in
the case of certain dogs--namely, in the animals disliking ridicule.
Abundant evidence on this head in the case of monkeys will be given
further on.
That monkeys enjoy play no one can question who spends an hour or two in
the monkey-house at the Zoological Gardens. According to Savage,
chimpanzees congregate together for the sole purpose of play, when they
beat or drum with pieces of stick on sonorous pieces of wood.[273]
Curiosity is more strongly pronounced in monkeys than in any other
animals. We all know the interesting illustration on this head furnished
by the experiment of Mr. Darwin, who, in order to test the statement of
Brehm that monkeys have an instinctive dread of snakes, and yet cannot
'desist from occasionally satiating their curiosity in a most human
fashion, by lifting up the lid of the box in which the snakes were
kept,' took a stuffed snake to the monkey-house at the Zoological
Gardens. Mr. Darwin says:--
The excitement thus caused was one of the most curious
spectacles I ever beheld. . . . I then placed a live
snake in a paper bag, with the mouth loosely closed,
in one of the larger compartments. One of the monkeys
immediately approached, cautiously opened the bag,
peeped in, and instantly dashed away. Then I witnessed
what Brehm has described, for monkey after monkey,
with head raised high and turned on one side, could
not resist taking a momentary peep into the upright
bag, at the dreadful object lying quietly at the
bottom.[274]
Allied, perhaps, to curiosity, and so connected with the emotions, is
what Mr. Darwin calls 'the principle of imitation.' It is proverbial
that monkeys carry this principle to ludicrous lengths, and they are the
only animals which imitate for the mere sake of imitating, as has been
observed by Desor, though an exception ought to be made in favour of
talking birds. The psychology of imitation is difficult of analysis, but
it is remarkable as well as suggestive that it should be confined in its
manifestations to monkeys and certain birds among animals, and to the
lower mental levels among men. As Mr. Darwin says:--
The principle of imitation is strong in man, and
especially, as I have myself observed, with savages.
In certain morbid states of the brain, this tendency
is exaggerated to an extraordinary degree; some
hemiplegic patients and others, at the commencement
of inflammatory softening of the brain, unconsciously
imitate every word that is uttered, whether in their
own or in a foreign language, and every gesture or
action which is performed near them.
The same sort of tendency is often observable in young children, so that
it seems to be frequently distinctive of a certain stage or grade of
mental evolution, and particularly in the branch _Primates_. Other
animals, however, certainly imitate each other's actions to a certain
extent, as I shall have occasion fully to notice in my next work.
As for the sterner emotions, rage may be so pronounced as to make a
monkey exhaust itself with beating about its cage, or a baboon bite its
own limbs till the blood flows.[275] Jealousy occurs in a correspondingly
high degree, while retaliation and revenge are shown by all the higher
monkeys when injury has been done to them, as any one may find by
offering an insult to a baboon. The following is a good case of this, as
it shows what may be called brooding resentment deliberately preparing a
satisfactory revenge. Mr. Darwin writes:--
Sir Andrew Smith, a zoologist whose scrupulous
accuracy was known to many persons, told me the
following story of which he was himself an
eye-witness. At the Cape of Good Hope, an officer had
often plagued a certain baboon, and the animal, seeing
him approaching one Sunday for parade, poured water
into a hole and hastily made some thick mud, which he
skilfully dashed over the officer as he passed by, to
the amusement of many bystanders. For long afterwards
the baboon rejoiced and triumphed whenever he saw his
victim.[276]
_General Intelligence._
Coming now to the higher powers, I shall give a few cases to show that
monkeys certainly surpass all other animals in the scope of their
rational faculty. Professor Croora Robertson writes me:--
I witnessed the following incident in the Jardin des
Plantes, now many years ago; but it struck me greatly
at the time, and I have narrated it repeatedly in the
interval. A large ape--I believe anthropoid, but
cannot tell the species--was in the great iron cage
with a number of smaller monkeys, and was lording it
over them with many wild gambols, to the amusement of
a crowd of spectators. Many things--fruits and the
like--had been thrown between the bars into the cage,
which the ape was always forward to seize. At last
some one threw in a small hand looking-glass, with a
strongly made frame of wood. This the ape at once laid
hold of, and began to brandish like a hammer. Suddenly
he was arrested by the reflection of himself in the
glass, and looked puzzled for a moment; then he darted
his head behind the glass to find the other of his
kind that he evidently supposed to be there.
Astonished to find nothing, he apparently bethought
himself that he had not been quick enough with his
movement. He now proceeded to raise and draw the glass
nearer to him with great caution, and then with a
swifter dart looked behind. Again finding nothing, he
repeated the attempt once more. He now passed from
astonishment to anger, and began to beat with the
frame violently on the floor of the cage. Soon the
glass was shattered, and pieces fell out. Continuing
to beat, he was in the course of one blow again
arrested by his image in the piece of glass still
remaining in the frame. Then, as it seemed, he
determined to make one trial more. More circumspectly
than ever the whole first part of the process was gone
through with; more violently than ever the final dart
made. His fury over this last failure knew no bounds.
He crunched the frame and glass together with his
teeth, he beat on the floor, he crunched again, till
nothing but splinters was left.
Mr. Darwin writes: 'Rengger, a most careful observer, states that when
first he gave eggs to his monkeys in Paraguay, they smashed them, and
thus lost much of their contents; afterwards they generally hit one end
against some hard body, and picked off the bits with their fingers.
After cutting themselves only _once_ with any sharp tool, they would not
touch it again, or would handle it with the greatest caution. Lumps of
sugar were often given them wrapped up in paper; and Rengger sometimes
put a live wasp in the paper, so that in hastily unfolding it they got
stung; after this had _once_ happened, they always first held the packet
to their ears to detect any movement within.'[277]
The powers of observation and readiness to establish new associations
thus rendered apparent, display a high level of general intelligence.
Mr. Darwin further observes that Mr. Belt 'likewise describes various
actions of a tamed cebus, which, I think, clearly show that this animal
possessed some reasoning power.' The following is the account to which
Mr. Darwin here refers, and I quote it _in extenso_, because, as I shall
presently show, I have myself been able to confirm most of the
observations on another monkey of the same genus:--
It would sometimes entangle itself round a pole to
which it was fastened, and then unwind the coils again
with the greatest discernment. Its chain allowed it to
swing down below the verandah, but it could not reach
to the ground. Sometimes, when there were broods of
young ducks about, it would hold out a piece of bread
in one hand, and when it had tempted a duckling within
reach, seize it by the other, and kill it with a bite
in the breast. There was such an uproar amongst the
fowls on these occasions, that we soon knew what was
the matter, and would rush out and punish Mickey (as
we called him) with a switch; so that he was
ultimately cured of his poultry-killing propensities.
One day, when whipping him, I held up the dead
duckling in front of him, and at each blow of the
light switch told him to take hold of it, and at last,
much to my surprise, he did so, taking it and holding
it tremblingly in one hand. He would draw things
towards him with a stick, and even used a swing for
the same purpose. It had been put up for the children,
and could be reached by Mickey, who now and then
indulged himself in a swing on it. One day I had put
down some bird-skins on a chair to dry, far beyond, as
I thought, Mickey's reach; but, fertile in expedients,
he took the swing and launched it towards the chair,
and actually managed to knock the skins off in the
return of the swing, so as to bring them within his
reach. He also procured some jelly that was set out to
cool in the same way. Mickey's actions were very
human-like. When any one came near to fondle him, he
never neglected the opportunity of pocket-picking. He
would pull out letters, and quickly take them from
their envelopes.[278]
I shall now proceed to state some further facts, showing the high level
of intelligence to which monkeys of various kinds attain.
The orang which Cuvier had used to draw a chair from one end to the
other of a room, in order to stand upon it so as to reach a latch which
it desired to open; and in this we have a display of rationally adaptive
action which no dog has equalled, although, as in the case before given
of the dog dragging the mat, it has been closely approached. Again,
Rengger describes a monkey employing a stick wherewith to prise up the
lid of a chest, which was too heavy for the animal to raise otherwise.
This use of a lever as a mechanical instrument is an action to which no
animal other than a monkey has ever been known to attain; and, as we
shall subsequently see, my own observation has fully corroborated that
of Rengger in this respect. More remarkable still, as we shall also
subsequently see, the monkey to which I allude as having myself
observed, succeeded also by methodical investigation, and without any
assistance, in discovering for himself the mechanical principle of the
screw; and that monkeys well understand how to use stones as hammers is
a matter of common observation since Dampier and Wafer first described
this action as practised by these animals in the breaking open of
oyster-shells. The additional observation of Gernelli Carreri of monkeys
thrusting stones into the open valves of oysters so as to save
themselves the trouble of smashing the shells, though not incredible,
requires confirmation. But Mr. Haden, of Dundee, has communicated to me
the following very remarkable appreciation of mechanical principles
which he himself observed in a monkey (species not noted), and which
would certainly be beyond the mental powers of any other animal:--
'A large monkey, confined alone in a large cage, had its sleeping-place
in the form of a kind of hut in the centre of the cage. Springing near
the hut was a tree, or imitation tree, the main branch of which ascended
over the top of the hut, and then came forwards away from it. Whether
the roof of the hut enabled this animal to gain any part of this branch,
I did not observe, but only remarked its method at the time of gaining
the part of the branch which led frontwards, and away from the hut.
This could be done by means of the hut door, which, when opened, swung
beneath this part of the branch. The door, either by accident or by the
design of its construction, _swung_ to each time the animal opened it to
mount upon its top edge. After one or two efforts to mount by it in
spite of its immediate swinging to, the creature procured a thick
blanket which lay in the cage, and threw it over the door, having opened
the same, so that its complete swinging to was prevented sufficiently
for the creature to mount upon its free edge, and so gain that part of
the branch which ran above it.'
The following, which I quote from 'Nature' (vol. xxiii., p. 533), also
displays high intelligence:--
One of the large monkeys at the Alexandra Palace had
been for some time suffering from the decay of the
right lower canine, and an abscess, forming a large
protuberance on the jaw, had resulted. The pain seemed
so great, it was decided to consult a dentist as to
what should be done; and, as the poor creature was at
times very savage, it was thought that if the tooth
had to be extracted, gas should be used for the safety
of the operation. Preparations were made accordingly,
but the behaviour of the monkey was quite a surprise
to all who were concerned. He showed great fight on
being taken out of the cage, and not only struggled
against being put into a sack prepared with a hole cut
for his head, but forced one of his hands out, and
snapped and screamed, and gave promise of being very
troublesome. Directly, however, Mr. Lewen Moseley, who
had undertaken the operation, managed to get his hand
on the abscess and gave relief, the monkey's demeanour
changed entirely. He laid his head down quietly for
examination, and, without the use of the gas,
submitted to the removal of a stump of a tooth as
quietly as possible.
According to D'Osbonville, certain monkeys that he observed in the wild
state were in the habit of administering corporal chastisement to their
young. After suckling and cleansing them, the mothers used to sit down
and watch the youngsters play. These would wrestle, throw and chase each
other, &c.; but if any of them grew malicious, the dams would spring up,
and, seizing their offspring by the tail with one hand, correct them
severely with the other.
We have already seen that dogs and cats display the idea of maintaining
discipline among their progeny.
According to Houzeau the sacred monkey of India (_Semnopithecus
entellus_) is very clever in catching snakes, and in the case of
poisonous species destroy the fangs by breaking them against stones.[279]
Of the fact that monkeys act in co-operation, many proofs might be
given, but one will suffice.
Lieutenant Schipp, in his Memoirs, says:--
A Cape baboon having taken off some clothes from the
barracks, I formed a party to recover them. With
twenty men I made a circuit to cut them off from the
caverns, to which they always fled for shelter. They
observed my movements, and detaching about fifty to
guard the entrance, the others kept their post. We
could see them collecting large stones and other
missiles. One old grey-headed one, who had often paid
us a visit at the barracks, was seen distributing his
orders, as if a general. We rushed on to the attack,
when, at a scream from him, they rolled down enormous
stones on us, so that we were forced to give up the
contest.
I shall here bring to a close my selections from the literature of
monkey psychology, because I wish to devote a good deal of space to
detailing a number of observations which have not yet been published.
Thinking it desirable for the purposes of this work that an intelligent
monkey should be subjected to close observation for some length of time,
I applied to Mr. Sclater for the loan of one from the collection of the
Zoological Society. He kindly consented to my proposal, and I selected a
specimen of _Cebus fatuellus_, which appeared to me to be the most
intelligent monkey in the collection. Not having facilities for keeping
the animal in my own house, I consigned him to the charge of my sister
(who lives close by), with the request that she should carefully note
all points of interest connected with his intelligence. Therefore, from
the day of his arrival till that of his departure she kept a diary, or
note-book, in which all the observations that she made when I was absent
were entered. It was originally my intention to make an abstract of this
note-book; but on afterwards reading it through for this purpose, it
seemed to me that I should rather spoil matters by attempting a
condensation. There is a certain graphic effect incidental to the diary
form and spontaneous style of diction--the notes, of course, not having
been written with a view to verbatim publication; and besides, as the
psychology of monkeys has been so little studied, I think it is well to
give all the details of a continuous series of observations. It is
desirable to add that on occasions subsequent to the taking of this or
that particular note, I generally had the opportunity of verifying the
observation myself; but I may state that I attach no more importance to
this circumstance than I should to verifying an observation of my own;
for as a careful observer of animals I have quite as much confidence in
my sister as in myself. It only remains to explain that my mother, being
an invalid, is confined most of the time to her bedroom; and that the
monkey was kept there for the first six weeks of his stay at her house,
partly in order that he might be under constant observation, and partly
also to furnish her with an entertaining pet. The following are my
sister's notes _in extenso_ and without alteration:--
_Brown Capuchin_ (_Cebus fatuellus_--Linn.), _Brazil_.
DIARY, 1880.
_December_ 18th. Arrived in box with keeper. Seemed
rather frightened and screamed a good deal on being
transferred from small box to a larger one.
19th. Took him out of the box he had been in all night
and fastened chain on to collar. Was meek and subdued,
hiding his face in my lap.
20th. Has become much more lively and somewhat
aggressive, especially towards the servants. He has
taken a fancy to my mother, and (she holding his
chain) he plays with her in a gentle and affectionate
manner in her bed, but flies angrily at any of the
servants who come near the bed. I observed to-day that
he breaks walnuts (which are too hard for him to crack
with his teeth) by striking them with the flat bottom
of a dish he has for drinking out of. He is
ceaselessly active all day, and at night covers
himself very neatly with warm shawls, and sleeps
soundly till about eight o'clock.
21st. I notice that the love of mischief is very
strong in him. To-day he got hold of a wine-glass and
an egg-cup. The glass he dashed on the floor with all
his might, and of course broke it. Finding, however,
that the egg-cup would not break for being thrown
down, he looked round for some hard substance against
which to dash it. The post of the brass bedstead
appearing to be suitable for the purpose, he raised
the egg-cup high over his head and gave it several
hard blows. When it was completely smashed he was
quite satisfied. He breaks a stick by passing it down
between a heavy object and the wall, and then hanging
on to the end, thus breaking it across the heavy
object. He frequently destroys an article of dress by
carefully pulling out the threads (thus unripping it)
before he begins to tear it with his teeth in a more
violent manner. If he gets hold of anything that he
sees we do not care about, he soon leaves it again;
but if it is an article of value (even if it be only a
scrap of paper) which he sees we are anxious about,
nothing will induce him to give it up. No food,
however inviting, will distract his attention:
scolding only makes him more angry, and he keeps the
article until it is quite destroyed. To-day I gave him
a hammer to break his walnuts with, and he uses it in
a proper manner for that purpose.
22nd. To-day a strange person (a dressmaker) came into
the room where he is tied up, and I gave him a walnut
that she might see him break it with his hammer. The
nut was a bad one, and the woman laughed at his
disappointed face. He then became very angry, and
threw at her everything he could lay hands on; first
the nut, then the hammer, then a coffee-pot which he
seized out of the grate, and, lastly, all his own
shawls. He throws things with great force and
precision by holding them in both hands, and extending
his long arms well back over his head before
projecting the missile, standing erect the while.
23rd. There is continual war between him and Sharp [a
small terrier], but they both seem to have a certain
mutual respect for each other. The dog makes snatches
at nuts, &c., and runs away with them beyond the reach
of his chain, and the monkey catches at the dog, but
seems afraid to hold him or hurt him. He however pelts
him with nuts or bits of carrot, and chatters at him.
At other times he holds out his hand as if to make
friends, but the dog is too suspicious to go near him.
His hostility towards the servants (one especially)
increases, so that he will not even take a nut from
her without catching fiercely at her hand; he also
frequently throws things at her. On the other hand, he
allows my mother to do anything with him.
24th. He bit me in several places to-day when I was
taking him away from my mother's bed after his
morning's game there. I took no notice, but he seemed
ashamed of himself afterwards, hiding his face in his
arms and sitting quiet for a time.[280] In accordance
with his desire for mischief, he is of course very
fond of upsetting things, but he always takes great
care they do not fall on himself. Thus he will pull a
chair towards him till it is almost over-balanced,
then he intently fixes his eyes on the top bar of the
back, and when he sees it coming over his way, darts
from underneath and watches the fall with great
delight; and similarly with heavier things. There is a
washhand-stand, for example, with a heavy marble top,
which he has with great labour upset several times,
and always without hurting himself.[281]
25th. I observed to-day that if a nut or any object he
wishes to get hold of is beyond the reach of his
chain, he puts out a stick to draw it towards him, or,
if that does not succeed, he stands upright and throws
a shawl back over his head, holding it by the two
corners so that it falls down his back; he then throws
it forward with all his strength, still holding on by
the corners; thus it goes out far in front of him and
covers the nut, which he then draws towards him by
pulling in the shawl. When his chain becomes twisted
round the bars of a 'clothes-horse' (which is given
him to run about upon), and thus too short for his
comfort, he looks at it intently and pulls it with his
fingers this way and that, and when he sees how the
turns are taken, he deliberately goes round and round
the bars, first this way, then that, until the chain
is quite disentangled. He often carries his chain
grasped in his tail and held high over his back to
keep it from getting into the way of his feet. He is
always rather excited in the morning when I loosen his
chain preparatory to taking him to my mother's bed;
jumps about and tugs at the chain. Sometimes, however,
if the chain is entangled, and I am rather long in
getting it unfastened, he sits quietly down beside me,
and begins picking at the chain with his fingers as
if to help me to untie it. I cannot say, however, that
he succeeds in helping me at all.
26th. He seems very fond of spinning things round. If
he gets a whole apple or orange he generally sits
spinning it on one end, before beginning to eat it. He
eats an orange by biting off a tiny piece of the peel,
and putting his long, thin finger deep into the fruit;
he then lays the whole orange under a piece of wire
netting he has near him, and, putting his mouth to the
hole he has made, presses the wire netting down upon
the fruit, thus squeezing the juice up into his mouth.
When a good deal of juice begins to run out, he holds
the orange up over his head and lets the juice run
into his mouth.
27th. To-day he obtained possession of a rather
valuable document, and, as usual, nothing I could do
would persuade him to give it up. He neglected any
kind of food I offered him, and only chattered when I
coaxed him. When at last I tried threatening him with
a cane, he only became savage and flew at me,
chattering. My mother now came and sat down in a chair
beside him. He immediately jumped into her lap, and
remained quite still while she took the paper out of
his hands. When, however, she handed it to me and I
laughed at her success, he showed his teeth and
screamed and chattered at me angrily. I find laughing
generally irritates him. Thus, when he is playing with
my mother in the bed in the best of humour, as long as
I sit quietly on the bed all is well, but if I laugh,
for example at any of his affectionate glances, he
makes a dart at me to send me off, and then returns
with renewed demonstrations of affection to my mother,
tumbling head over heels and lying on his back,
grinning in a most comical manner, and making a sound
very like slight laughter.
28th. His chain is fastened to the marble slab of a
washhand-stand, placed on the floor against the wall.
It is too heavy for him to pull along by his chain
without hurting himself, so when he desires to do any
mischief which is beyond the reach of his chain, he
deliberately goes to the marble and pushes an arm down
between an upright part of it and the wall, until he
has moved the whole slab sufficiently far from the
wall to admit of his slipping down behind the upright
part himself. He then places his back against the wall
and his four hands against the upright part of the
marble, and pushes the slab as far as he can stretch
his long legs. He only does this, however, when he is
bent on mischief, as the fact of food being beyond the
reach of his chain does not furnish a strong enough
inducement to lead him to take so much exertion. Thus
to-day he began to pull the glazed leather cover off
a trunk which was near him. I pulled the trunk away,
and when he found it was out of his reach he ran and
pushed the marble towards the trunk in the manner I
have described, and when he knew his chain was then
sufficiently long to reach the trunk, he ran to the
latter and hastily resumed his destructive process.
29th. I notice that nothing the person does who has
hold of his chain offends him. I mean, although he is
furiously angry at having anything taken away from
him, he is not at all angry if he is pulled away by
his chain. If he is trying to bite a person, and
another person takes hold of his chain behind him and
so prevents his spring forward, he does not turn to
bite the person who has taken hold of his chain, as a
dog would do under similar circumstances, but quietly
submits to be thus held. He seems to look upon his
confinement and management by a chain as a natural law
against which it is useless to struggle. On the other
hand, he seems to be quite aware of the place where
his chain is fastened, and to know that if he were
clever enough to undo it he would be free. After we
found he could move about the marble slab of the
washhand-stand in the way described, we had a ring
sunk in the floor to tie him to. The moment the chain
was fastened to that[282] he began to investigate its
new connection, and continued to do so for hours,
passing the chain rapidly backward and forwards
through the ring. When he found this did not loosen
it, he began to hammer it and the ring also with all
his strength, and this he continued to do for the rest
of the day.
30th. He still continues to work at the chain where it
is fastened to the ring. He passed the whole of the
chain through the ring so many times with his fingers
that it became quite blocked up in the ring, which
made it very short, and it took me a quarter of an
hour to disentangle it. He was very much interested in
this process, sitting quietly beside me and watching
my fingers intently, sometimes gently pulling my
fingers on one side in order to see better, and
sometimes casting a quick intelligent glance into my
face as if asking how I did it. After I had
disentangled and lengthened the chain he worked at it
again for hours, but took care not to twist it into
the ring a second time.
31st. To-day he hurt himself by getting one of his
toes caught in a hinge of the clothes-horse. He did
not make any fuss, although the accident must have
been somewhat a painful one, nor did he try to pull
the toe out, which would have been useless and only
hurt him more; but he sat almost motionless, making
slight complaining noises until I discovered that
there was something wrong with him. When I began to
extricate his foot, he remained perfectly
passive--although I dare say I hurt him a good
deal--and only looked at me gratefully.
_January_ 1, 1881. He has now quite given up trying to
loosen his chain himself; having tried every way and
failed, he has evidently become hopeless about it. He
now resents being tied up. When I loosen him he is
quite pleased, and when I tie him he waits until he is
quite sure he is being tied, and not loosened, and
then he flies at me and bites me.
10th. As he is always tied up in the same place he has
no new opportunities given him of showing his
intelligence. His attachment to my mother has
increased. When she goes out he immediately gives up
all play and mischief, and does nothing but run round
and round in a restless manner, making a peculiar
sweet calling noise, such as he never makes when she
is in the room, listening intently between times. As
long as she remains away he takes no rest or
amusement, nor does he ever, or hardly ever, become
angry; but the moment she returns he begins all his
old ways again, usually becoming more savage at other
people than before.
My mother frequently takes things away from him, and
he never resents it to her as he would do to any other
person. He generally, however, chatters angrily at
some one else when my mother removes anything he
wishes to keep. At first I thought he was deceived in
the matter--that he could not believe it possible that
his best friend could deprive him of what he valued,
and so thought someone else must have done it. But the
same thing has now happened so frequently that I can
hardly think he is not really aware of who takes the
things away. He seems rather to think it politic to
keep on good terms with one person, and that although
he does see her remove the things, and feels angry in
consequence, he thinks it more prudent to vent his
anger upon someone with whom he has already
quarrelled. He always shows more irritation when my
mother gives anything to me after having taken it away
from him, than when she keeps it herself (as mentioned
on December 26), and this may be the reason partly why
he resents these matters to me; he thinks when I
obtain possession of anything he wants that it is a
sort of triumph to me. In the same way my mother may
laugh as much as she likes whether he is with her or
not, but if I laugh at all at anything it generally
results in something being thrown at me. If my mother
calls out to the servants--if, for instance, a servant
has left the room and my mother calls her back--he
becomes very angry at the servant, and salutes her on
her return with a shower of missiles. Sometimes my
mother pretends to scold or beat the servants, and
then he joins with great energy, by way of supporting
his friend. If I scold or beat the servants he does
not mind so much. When my mother comes back after
being out he does not show any great demonstrations of
joy. He screams out with pleasure when he hears her
voice approaching on the stairs, but does not make
much ado when she enters the room. While my mother is
out I can do anything I like with him, just as she can
when she is at home. Perhaps being in low spirits he
does not feel angry, or perhaps he thinks it prudent
to be amiable when his best friend is away. When my
mother comes back, all his ill-temper returns at once
and even in an increased degree towards other people,
and he immediately resumes playing with all his toys.
11th. When he throws things at people now he first
runs up the bars of the clothes-horse; he seems to
have found out that people do not much care for having
things thrown at their feet, and he is not strong
enough to throw such heavy objects as a poker or a
hammer at people's heads; he therefore mounts to a
level with his enemy's head, and thus succeeds in
sending his missile to a greater height and also to a
greater distance.
14th. To-day he obtained possession of a hearth-brush,
one of the kind which has the handle screwed into the
brush. He soon found the way to unscrew the handle,
and having done that he immediately began to try to
find out the way to screw it in again. This he in time
accomplished. At first he put the wrong end of the
handle into the hole, but turned it round and round
the _right way for screwing_. Finding it did not hold,
he turned the other end of the handle and carefully
stuck it into the hole, and began again to turn it the
right way. It was of course a very difficult feat for
him to perform, for he required both his hands to hold
the handle in the proper position and to turn it
between his hands in order to screw it in, and the
long bristles of the brush prevented it from remaining
steady or with the right side up. He held the brush
with his hind hand, but even so it was very difficult
for him to get the first turn of the screw to fit into
the thread; he worked at it, however, with the most
unwearying perseverance until he got the first turn of
the screw to catch, and he then quickly turned it
round and round until it was screwed up to the end.
The most remarkable thing was that, however often he
was disappointed in the beginning, he never was
induced to try turning the handle the wrong way; he
always screwed it from right to left. As soon as he
had accomplished his wish, he unscrewed it again, and
then screwed it in again the second time rather more
easily than the first, and so on many times. When he
had become by practice tolerably perfect in screwing
and unscrewing, he gave it up and took to some other
amusement. One remarkable thing is that he should take
so much trouble to do that which is no material
benefit to him. The desire to accomplish a chosen task
seems a sufficient inducement to lead him to take any
amount of trouble. This seems a very human feeling,
such as is not shown, I believe, by any other animal.
It is not the desire of praise, as he never notices
people looking on; it is simply the desire to achieve
an object for the sake of achieving an object, and he
never rests nor allows his attention to be distracted
until it is done.
16th. When he is angry, and has at hand only those
things which he wishes to keep, he makes a great show
of throwing them at people, but always retains a hold.
Thus if he has had a plaything a long time and is
tired of it, he throws it right at a person without
the least hesitation; but if he has a new thing which
he values, he goes through all the appropriate motions
for throwing, but only brings the object down with a
noise upon the ground, taking care not to let go his
hold. He beats people with a long cane he has, and
when he cannot reach people he strikes it with all his
strength upon the ground to show what he would do if
he had the chance. There is no more comical sight than
to see him hurriedly climbing his screen in fierce
anger, taking (not without great difficulty) his long
and awkward stick up with him in order to be high
enough to give a good blow to a person. The dog is
quite afraid of the stick in the monkey's hands,
although he is too petted to be afraid of it in a
person's. The monkey is jealous of the dog lying in
the arm-chair in which he sometimes seats himself with
my mother, so he pokes the stick at the dog (as the
chair is beyond the reach of his chain) and makes him
get off.
18th. He was very angry to-day at a servant girl
sweeping out his place with a long brush, and he
seized the brush every time the servant attempted to
sweep. My mother then took it, and he at once became
not only quite good-tempered, but assisted her in
sweeping, by gathering the rubbish in the corners of
his place into little heaps with his hands, and
putting the heaps into the way of the brush.
20th. To-day he broke his chain, and flew at a
servant savagely, but seeing my mother he immediately
jumped into her lap. While another chain was being
prepared he got to the trunk where his nuts are kept.
I have long noticed that he looks upon that trunk as
in some special sense his own property. There are
other things kept in the trunk as well as the nuts,
and if any person goes to the trunk for anything he
becomes furiously angry. Indeed nothing makes him so
angry as people opening the trunk, and this is not
because he wants nuts out of it, for he always has
more than he can eat beside him, and generally refuses
to take any that are offered to him. Well, to-day, as
soon as the breaking of his chain enabled him to get
to the trunk, he began picking at the lock with his
fingers. I then gave him the key, and he tried for two
full hours without ceasing to unlock the trunk with
this key. It was a very difficult lock to open, being
slightly out of order, and requires the lid of the
trunk to be pressed down before it would work, so I
believe it was absolutely impossible for him to open
it, but he found in time the right way to put the key
in, and to turn it backwards and forwards, and after
every attempt he pulled the lid upwards to see if it
were unlocked. That this was the result of observing
people is obvious, from the fact that after every time
he put the key into the lock and failed to open the
trunk, he passed the key round and round the outside
of the lock several times. The explanation of this is
that, my mother's sight being bad, she often misses
the lock when putting in the key, and then feels round
and round the lock with the key; the monkey therefore
evidently seems to think that this feeling round and
round the lock with the key is in some way necessary
to the success of unlocking the lock, so that,
although he could see perfectly well how to put the
key in straight himself, he went through this useless
operation first.
21st. To-day I gave him a wooden box with the lid
nailed on, and an iron spoon, to see if he would use
the latter as a lever wherewith to raise the lid. The
experiment was somewhat spoiled by my mother putting
the handle of the spoon into the crack between the lid
and the box to show him how to do it. Therefore I
cannot tell whether or not he would have taken this
first step himself, if he had had time to do so.
However, when the handle of the spoon was in he
certainly used it in the proper manner, pulling it
down with all his strength at the extreme end, thus
drawing the nails out of the box and raising the lid.
22nd. He was sitting on my mother's knee, and she
washing his hands with a little sponge, a process of
which he is very fond; she tried to wash his face,
and that he disliked very much. Every time she began,
the expression of his face became more angry; at last
he suddenly jumped off her knee, and made a violent
attack on one of the servants who is usually his
favourite, although she was doing nothing at all to
anger him. This is a good instance of his habit of
venting his anger at my mother on other people. He
always eats vigorously when he is angry, or after a
fit of passion. After a prolonged fit of passion he
always lies down on his side as if dead, probably from
exhaustion.
30th. He quite understands the meaning of shaking
hands. He always holds out his own hand when he wishes
to be friendly, especially when a friend is entering
or leaving the room. To-day he had been a long time
playing with his toys, taking no notice of any one.
Suddenly my mother remembered that to-day was my
birthday, and (for the first time since he came to the
house) shook hands with me in congratulation. He
immediately became very angry with me, screamed and
chattered and threw things at me, being evidently
jealous of the attention my mother was paying me.
_February_ 1st. He has now been moved down to the
dining-room, where he is chained between the fireplace
and the window. He seems quite miserable on account of
the change, as he does not see so much of my mother.
4th. His low spirits continue, and threaten to make
him ill. He will not play with anything, but sits
moping and shivering in a corner. To-day I found him
very cold and unhappy, and warmed his hands for him.
He is very meek and gentle, and seems to be getting
fond of me.
8th. He has quite recovered his spirits since he took
a fancy to me. He likes me now apparently as well as
he used to do my mother; that is to say, he allows me
to nurse him, and walk about in his place, and even
take things away from him. When, however, my mother
comes to see him, he does not care for me, although he
shows none of his old hostility. To the servants,
however, he continues to do so when my mother is
present.
10th. We gave him a bundle of sticks this morning, and
he amused himself all day by poking them into the fire
and pulling them out again to smell the smoking end.
He likewise pulls out hot cinders from the grate and
passes them over his head and chest, evidently
enjoying the warmth, but never burning himself. He
also puts hot ashes on his head. I gave him some
paper, and, as he cannot, from the length of his
chain, quite reach the fire, he rolled the paper up
into the form of a stick, and then put it into the
fire, pulling it out as soon as it caught light, and
watching the blaze in the fender with great
satisfaction. I gave him a whole newspaper, and he
tore it in pieces, rolled up each piece as I have
described, to make it long enough to reach the fire,
and so burnt it all piece by piece. He never once
burnt his own fingers during the operation.
13th. He can open and shut the folding shutters with
ease, and this seems to be an amusement to him. He
also unscrewed all the knobs that belong to the
fender. The bell-handle beside the mantelpiece he
likewise took to bits, which involves the unscrewing
of three screws.
15th. He is so amiable to me now that he constantly
gives me bits of things that he himself is eating,
evidently expecting me to share his repast with him.
Sometimes this attention on his part is not altogether
agreeable. For instance, to-day he thrust into my
hand, when I was not looking, a quantity of sopped
bread and milk out of his pan, no doubt thinking
himself very kind-hearted thus to supply me with food.
17th. He offered the dog a bit of toast which he
himself was eating, and the dog took a part of it. I
think, however, that he had at the same time a sly
design of catching the dog with the other hand, but he
did not do so--perhaps because I was looking on, and
he knows the dog is a friend of mine; but he had a
wicked look in his eye while feeding the dog, which he
has not when he extends his bounty to me.
19th. When I was brushing him to-day he took the brush
away from me. Playthings are especially valuable to
him now, as he is not allowed to have any lest he
should break the windows with them. For this reason I
was afraid to leave the brush with him, but found he
was not at all disposed to give it up. I threw other
things within his reach, but he carried the brush in
his hind hand while going after the other things. At
last I sat down and called him gently, when he mildly
came up to my lap and put the brush into my two hands,
evidently resolving that he would not now quarrel with
his only friend.
22nd. His manner of showing his humours is
interesting, as illustrating the principle of
antithesis. Thus when he is angry he springs forward
on all four hands with tail very erect and hair
raised, so making himself look much bigger. When
affectionate he advances slowly _backwards_ with his
body in the form of a hoop, so that the crown of his
head rests on the ground, face inwards. He walks on
three hands (hair very smooth), and puts the fourth
fore-hand out at his back in advance of his body. He
expects this hand to be taken kindly, and he then
assumes his natural attitude. In that manner of
advancing it is obviously impossible that he could
bite, as his mouth is towards his own chest, so it is
the best way of showing how far he is from thinking of
hostility.
February 28, 1881.
The above account may be taken as fully trustworthy. Most of the
observations recorded I have myself subsequently verified numberless
times. From the account, however, several observations which I happened
to make myself in the first instance are designedly omitted, and these I
shall therefore now supply.
I bought at a toy-shop a very good imitation of a monkey, and brought it
into the room with the real monkey, stroking and speaking to it as if it
were alive. The monkey evidently mistook the figure for a real animal,
manifesting intense curiosity, mixed with much alarm if I made the
figure approach him. Even when I placed the figure upon a table, and
left it standing motionless, the monkey was afraid to approach it. From
this it would appear that the animal trusted much more to his sense of
sight than to that of smell in recognising one of his own kind.
I placed a mirror upon the floor, and the monkey at once mistook his
reflection in it for a real animal. At first he was a little afraid of
it; but in a short time he gained courage enough to approach and try to
touch it. Finding he could not do so, he went round behind the mirror
and then again before it a great number of times; but he did not become
angry, as the monkey of which Prof. Brown Robertson wrote me. Strange to
say, he appeared to mistake the sex of the image, and began in the most
indescribably ludicrous manner to pay to it the addresses of courtship.
First placing his lips against the glass he rose to his full height on
his hind legs, retired slowly, and while doing so turned his back to the
mirror, looking over his shoulder at the image, and, with a preposterous
amount of 'pinch' in his back, strutted up and down before the glass
with all the appearance of the most laughable foppery. This display was
always gone through when at any subsequent time the mirror was placed
upon the floor.
From the first time that he saw me, this monkey took as violently
passionate an attachment to me as that which he took to my mother. His
mode of greeting, however, was different. When she entered the room
after an absence, his welcome was of a quiet and contented character;
but when I came in, his demonstrations were positively painful to
witness. Standing erect on his hind legs at the full length of his
tether, and extending both hands as far as he could reach, he screamed
with all his strength, in a tone and with an intensity which he never
adopted on any other occasion. So loud, indeed, were his rapidly and
continuously reiterated screams, that it was impossible for any one to
hold even a shouting conversation till I took the animal in my arms,
when he became placid, with many signs of intense affection. Even the
sound of my voice down two flights of stairs used to set him screaming
in this manner, so that whenever I called at my mother's house I had to
keep silent while on the staircase, unless I intended first of all to
pay a visit to the monkey.
It has frequently been noticed that monkeys are very capricious in
forming their attachments and aversions; but I never knew before that
this peculiarity could be so strongly marked as it was in this case. His
demonstrations of affection to my mother and myself were piteous; while
towards every one else, male or female, he was either passively
indifferent or actively hostile. Yet no shadow of a reason could be
assigned for the difference. My sister, to whom animals are usually much
more attached than they are to me, used always to be forbearingly kind
to this one--taking all his bites, &c., with the utmost good humour.
Moreover, she supplied him with all his food, and most of his
playthings, so that she was really in every way his best friend. Yet his
antipathy to her was only less remarkable than his passionate fondness
of my mother and myself.
Another trait in the psychology of this animal which is worth observing
was his quietness of manner towards my mother. With me, and indeed with
every one else, his movements were unrestrained, and generally
monkey-like; but with her he was always as gentle as a kitten: he
appeared to know that her age and infirmities rendered boisterousness on
his part unacceptable.
I returned the monkey to the Zoological Gardens at the end of February,
and up to the time of his death in October 1881, he remembered me as
well as the first day that he was sent back. I visited the monkey-house
about once a month, and whenever I approached his cage he saw me with
astonishing quickness--indeed, generally before I saw him--and ran to
the bars, through which he thrust both hands with every expression of
joy. He did not, however, scream aloud; his mind seemed too much
occupied by the cares of monkey-society to admit of a vacancy large
enough for such very intense emotion as he used to experience in the
calmer life that he lived before. Being much struck with the extreme
rapidity of his discernment whenever I approached the cage, however many
other persons might be standing round, I purposely visited the
monkey-house on Easter Monday, in order to see whether he would pick me
out of the solid mass of people who fill the place on that day. Although
I could only obtain a place three or four rows back from the cage, and
although I made no sound wherewith to attract his attention, he saw me
almost immediately, and with a sudden intelligent look of recognition
ran across the cage to greet me. When I went away he followed me, as he
always did, to the extreme end of his cage, and stood there watching my
departure as long as I remained in sight.
In conclusion, I should say that much the most striking feature in the
psychology of this animal, and the one which is least like anything met
with in other animals, was the tireless spirit of investigation. The
hours and hours of patient industry which this poor monkey has spent in
ascertaining all that his monkey-intelligence could of the sundry
unfamiliar objects that fell into his hands, might well read a lesson in
carefulness to many a hasty observer. And the keen satisfaction which he
displayed when he had succeeded in making any little discovery, such as
that of the mechanical principle of the screw, repeating the results of
his newly earned knowledge over and over again, till one could not but
marvel at the intent abstraction of the 'dumb brute'--this was so
different from anything to be met with in any other animal, that I
confess I should not have believed what I saw unless I had repeatedly
seen it with my own eyes. As my sister once observed, while we were
watching him conducting some of his researches, in oblivion to his food
and all his other surroundings--'when a monkey behaves like this, it is
no wonder that man is a scientific animal!' And in my next work I shall
hope to show how, from so high a starting-point, the psychology of the
monkey has passed into that of the man.
FOOTNOTES:
[271] _Descent of Man_, p. 70.
[272] _Gleanings_, vol. iii. pp. 86-7.
[273] _Boston Journal of Nat. Hist._, iv. p. 324.
[274] _Descent of Man_, p. 72.
[275] _Descent of Man_, 71.
[276] _Ibid._, p. 69.
[277] _Descent of Man_, pp. 77-8.
[278] _Naturalist in Nicaragua_, p. 119.
[279] _Loc. cit._, vol. i., p. 305.
[280] On subsequent observation (January 14, 1881), I find this
quietness was not due to shame at having bitten me, for whether he
succeeds in biting any person or not he always sits quiet and
dull-looking after a fit of passion, being, I think, fatigued. He has
bitten me often since December 24, and seems to enjoy the fun on the
whole.
[281] These heavy objects he overturns with exceeding caution, balancing
them several times carefully, and studying them before finally throwing
or pulling them over.
[282] January 14, 1881. The marble slab was left with him after the
chain had been fastened to the ring; but since that time he has never
attempted to move the marble.
INDEX.
ACCOUCHEUR, fish, 246;
toad, 254
_Acerina cernua_, 246
_Acinia prehensa_, 233
_Actinia_, 233, 234
_Actinophrys_, apparent intelligence of, 20
_Adamsia_, 234
Adaptive movement, as evidence of mind, 2, 3
Addison, his definition of instinct, 11
Addison, Mrs. K., on gesticulating signs made by a jackdaw, 316
Ælian, on division of labour in harvesting ants, 98
Æsthetic emotions of birds, 279-82
Affection, sexual, parental, and social, of snails, 27;
of ants, 45-9 and 58, 59;
of bees, 155, 156, and 162;
of earwig, 229;
of fish, 242-6;
of reptiles, 256, 258, 259;
of birds, 270-6;
of kangaroo, 326, 327;
of whale, 327;
of horse, 329;
of deer, 334;
of bat, 341;
of seal, 341-6;
of hare, 338-40;
of rats, 340;
of mice, 341;
of beaver, 367;
of elephant, 387-92;
of cat, 411, 412;
of dog, 437, 440, 441;
of monkeys, 471-5 and 484-98
Agassiz, Professor A., on instinct of hermit-crab, 232;
nest of fish, 242-3;
on beaver-dams, 384, 385
Agassiz, Professor L., on intelligence of snails, 26
Alison, Professor, on curious instinct of polecat, 347
Allen, J. A., on breeding habits of pinniped seals, 341-6
Alligators, 256-8 and 263
_Alopecias vulpes_, 252
_Amoeba_, apparent intelligence of, 21
Anemones, sea, 233, 234
Anger, of ants and bees, _see_ under;
of fish, 246, 247;
of monkeys, 478, 479 and 484-96
Angler-fish, 247, 248
_Annelida_, apparent intelligence of, 24
Antennæ, effects of removal in ants, 142;
in bees, 197
Antithesis, principle of, in expression of emotions by
monkeys, 494, 495
Ant-lion, 234, 235
Ants, powers of special sense, 31-37;
of sight, 31-33;
of hearing, 33;
of smell, 33-37;
sense of direction, 37, 38;
memory, 39-45;
recognition of companions and nest-mates, 41-45;
emotions, 45-49;
affection, 45-48;
sympathy, 48, 49;
communication, 49-57;
habits general in sundry species, 57-93;
swarming, 57, 58;
nursing, 58, 59;
education, 59, 60;
keeping aphides, 60-64;
making slaves, 64-68;
wars, 68-83;
keeping domestic pets, 83, 84;
sleep and cleanliness, 84-7;
play and leisure, 87-89;
funeral habits, 89-93;
habits peculiar to certain species, 93-122;
leaf-cutting, 93-96;
harvesting, 96-110;
African, 110, 111;
tree, 110, 111;
honey making, 111-114 and 142;
ecitons, or military, 114-122;
general intelligence, 122-142;
Sir John Lubbock's experiments on intelligence, 123-128;
intelligence displayed in architecture, 128-130;
in using burrows made by elater larvæ, 130;
in artificial hives, 130;
in removing nest from shadow of tree, 131;
in cutting leaves off overshadowing tree, 131, 132;
in bending blades of grass while cutting them, 132, 133;
in co-operating to glue leaves together, 133, 134;
in getting at food in difficult places, 134, 135;
in making bridges, &c., 135-139;
in tunnelling under rails, 140;
anatomy and physiology of nerve-centres and sense organs, 140-2
Apes, _see_ Monkeys
_Arachnidæ_, 204-225, _see_ Spiders and Scorpions
Arago, his observation regarding sense of justice in dog, 443
Arderon, on taming a dace, 246
_Argyroneta aquatica_, 212
Arn, Capt., on sword- and thresher-fish, 252, 253
_Articulata_, _see_ under divisions of
Ass, general intelligence of, 328 and 333
Association of ideas, _see_ under various animals
_Ateuchus pilularius_, 226
_Athealium_, apparent intelligence of, 19-20
Atkinson, the Rev. J. C., on reasoning power of a dog, 458, 459
Audubon, on ants making beasts of burden of bugs, 68;
plundering instincts of white-headed eagle, 284;
variations in instinct of incubation, 299, 300
Auk, nidification of, 292
Automatism, hypothesis of animal, 6
BABOON, sympathy shown by Arabian, 474;
rage of, 478;
revenge of, 478
Badcock, on dog making peace-offerings, 452
Baer, Van, on organisation of bee, 241
Backhouse, R. O., on dog being alarmed at a statue, 453
Bailey, Professor W. W., on dog stopping a runaway horse, 459
Baines, A. H., on dog communicating wants by signs, 446, 447
Baker, on sticklebacks, 245
Baldamus, Dr., on cuckoo laying eggs coloured in imitation of
those of the birds in whose nests they lay them, 307
Ball, Dr. Robert, on commensalism of crab and anemone, 234
Banks, Sir Joseph, on intelligence of tree-ants, 133;
fish coming to sound of bell, 250
Bannister, Dr., on cat trying to catch image behind mirror, 415, 416;
on intelligence of the Eskimo dogs, 461, 462
Barrett, W. F., on instincts of young alligator, 256
Barton, Dr., on alleged fascination by snakes, 264
Bastian, on termites, 198
Bates, on ants' habit of keeping pets, 84;
cleaning one another, 87;
play and leisure, 88, 89;
leaf-cutting, 93-95;
tunnelling, 99;
ecitons, 114-21;
on sand-wasp taking bearings to remember precise locality, 150;
mygale eating humming-birds, 208;
on nidification of small crustacean, 232, 233;
habits of turtles, and alligators, 257, 258;
intelligence of vultures, 314;
bats sucking blood, 341
Batrachians, 254, 255
Bats, 341
Baya-bird, nidification of, 294
Bears, 350-352
Beattie, Dr., on dog communicating desires by signs, 447
Beaver, 367-85;
breeding habits, 367, 368;
lodges, 368-73;
dams, 373-79;
canals, 379-83;
general remarks upon, 368, 377, 379, 383;
age of their buildings, 384;
effects of their buildings on the configuration of
landscapes, 384, 385
Bechstein, on birds dreaming, 312
Bee, mason, 178, 179;
tapestry, 179;
carpenter, 179;
rose, 179;
carding, 179, 180
Bees, sense of sight, 143, 144;
of smell and hearing, 144;
of direction, 144-51;
remembering exact locality of absent hive, 148-49;
following floating hives, 149;
memory, 151-55;
sympathy, 155, 156;
distances over which they forage, 150;
powers of communication, 156-60;
economy of hive, 160-8;
food and rearing, 160-163;
swarming and battles of queens, 163, 164;
drone-killing, 164-68;
plunder and wars, 168-170;
architecture, 170-8;
way-finding, 181, 182;
instinct of neuters, 181;
recognising companions, 183, 184;
barricading doors against moths, 184, 185;
strengthening combs in danger of falling, 185, 186;
mode of dealing with surfaces of glass, 186;
with strange hives, 186, 187;
evacuating fallen hive, 187;
ceasing to store honey in Barbadoes and California, 187, 188;
recognising persons, 188, 189;
biting holes in corollas, 189;
ventilating hives, 191, 192;
covering slugs, &c., with propolis, 190, 191;
effects of removing antennæ, 197
Beetles, _see_ _Coleoptera_
Belshaw, on cat knocking knockers, 422
Belt, on ants, duration of memory in, 39, 40;
sympathy, 48;
division of labour, 99;
ecitons, 114-19 and 138;
tunnelling under rails, 140;
on sand-wasp taking precise bearings to remember
locality, 150, 151;
struggle between wasps and ants for secretion of
frog-hoppers, 194, 195;
intelligence of spiders in protecting themselves
from ecitons, 219, 220;
beetles undermining stick supporting a dead toad, 228;
intelligence of monkeys, 480
Benedictson, on navigating habits of Iceland mice, 364, 365
Bennet, on birds dreaming, 312
Bennett, on conjugal fidelity of duck, 270, 271
Berkeley, G., on beetle storing its food, 228, 229
Bettziech-Beta, on termites, 199
Bidie, on suicide of scorpion, 222, 223;
on reasoning power of cat, 415
Bingley, on intelligence of ants, 133;
carpenter-bees, 179;
account of alleged training of bees, 189;
co-operation of beetles, 226, 227;
ant-lion, 230, 235;
domestication of toad, 255;
fascination by snakes, 264;
sympathy in birds, 272;
eccentricity of nest building instinct, 295;
education of birds, 312;
pigs pointing game, 339, 340;
intelligence of otter, 346;
memory of elephant, 387;
vindictiveness of elephant, 387, 389;
elephants enduring surgical operations, 399, 400
Bird, Miss, on combined action of crows in obtaining food
from dogs, 320
Birds, 266-325;
memory of, 266-70;
emotions, 270-82;
special habits of procuring food, 283-6;
of incubation and taking care of offspring, 287-310;
general intelligence, 310-25;
dreaming and imagination, 311-12;
learning to avoid telegraph wires, 313;
recognising painting of birds, 311;
submitting to surgical operation, 313-14;
honey-guide, 315-16;
appreciation of mechanical appliances, 315-16;
concerted action, 318-322
_Birgus latro_, 233
Bison, 334-5
Blackbirds, breaking shells against stones, 283;
removing eggs, 289;
mobbing cat, 291
Blackburn, Professor H., on distances over which bees forage, 150
Blackman, on cats learning to beg for food, 414-15
Blackwall, on early display of instincts by spiders, 216
Blanchard, on mason-bee, 178
Blood, on reasoning power of a dog, 464
Boa-constrictor, really a Python, which _see_
Bodley, W. H., on dogs crossing a river to fight undisturbed, 451-2
Bold, on canary singing against own image in mirror, 276
Bombyx moth, larva of, 238-40
Bonnet, on spider following her eggs into pit of ant-lion, 205;
his experiments on instincts of caterpillars, 236;
observations on ditto, 238
Boobies, plundered by frigate pelicans, 284
Bosc, on migrating fish, 248
Bower-bird, instincts of, 279-81, 325
Bowman, Parker, his cat opening swivel of window, 425
Boys, C. V., his experiments with a tuning-fork on spiders, 206, 207
Brehm, on wasps recognising persons, 188;
intelligence of lapwing, 315, 316;
curiosity of monkeys, 477
Broderip, on vindictiveness of elephant, 389
Brodie, Sir B., his definition of instinct, 15;
on bees strengthening their combs, 185, 186
Brofft, Herr L., on powers of communication in bees, 160
Brougham, Lord, on hexagonal form of bees' cells, 172;
on intelligence of a dog, 450
Brown, Capt., on vindictiveness of a stork, 277-8
Brown, W., on a cat extinguishing fire by water, 425
Browne, Dr. Crichton, on cat ringing bell, 423
Browne, Murray, on fox allowing itself to be extricated from
trap, 431
Browning, A. H., on intelligence of a dog, 450
Brydon, Dr., on collective instinct of jackals, 434
Buchanan, Dr., on climbing perch, 249;
on nidification of baya-bird, 294
Büchner, Professor,
on ants:
nursing habits, 59;
stocking trees with aphides, 63;
warfare, 71-9;
play, 87-88;
leaf cutting, 95-96;
intelligence in making a bridge of aphides over tar, 136;
of themselves over a space, 136-37;
and of a straw over water, 137;
ecitons, 139;
anatomy and physiology of brain, 141-42.
On bees and wasps:
powers of communication, 158-60;
swarming habits, 168;
wars and plunder, 169;
cell-building, 177-78;
evacuating dangerous hive, 187;
keeping hives clean, 190;
carrying dead from hive and burying them, 191;
ventilating hives, 191-92;
hornet and wasp dismembering heavy prey, and carrying it to
an eminence in order to fly away with it, 196.
On termites, 198-202.
On spiders:
web-building, 211-12;
wolf spider, 213;
trap-door spiders, 217-18;
intelligence of a spider habitually fed by Dr. Moschkau, 218-19;
spiders weighting their webs, 221.
On beetles:
co-operation of, 227-28
Buck, E. C., on intelligence of crocodiles, 263;
on collective instinct of wolves, 433;
on combined action of pelicans, 319
Buckland, F., on pigeon remembering voice of mistress, 266;
crows breaking shells by dropping them on stones, 283;
birds avoiding telegraph wires, 313
Buckley, on harvesting ants, 103
Buckton, G. B., on caterpillars, 236
Buffalo, 335-37
Buffon, on hexagonal form of bees' cells, 171-72;
association of ideas in parrot, 269;
sympathy in ditto, 275;
goat sucker removing eggs, 289
_Bufo obstetricans_, 254
Bull, intelligence of, 338
Burmeister, on powers of communication in ants, 49
Byron, Lord, lines on alleged tendency to scorpion to commit
suicide, 222
CADDIS-WORMS, 240
Cairns, Mr. W., on reasoning power of a dog, 461
Campbell, Mrs. G. M. F., on intelligence of goose, 316
Canary, jealousy of, 276;
modification of incubating instinct in cage, 287;
flying against mirror, 311;
trained, 312
Canning, J., his dog knowing value of different coins, 452-3
_Carassius auratus_, 246
Carbonnier, M., on telescope-fish, 246
Carlisle, Bishop of, on congregation or court held by jackdaws, 324
Carpenter, Dr., on intelligence of rats, 361
Carreri, Gernelli, on monkeys thrusting stones between
oyster-shells to keep them from closing, 481
Carter, H. J., on apparent intelligence of _athealium_, 19;
of _actinophrys_ and _amoeba_, 20-1
Carus, Professor, on spiders weighting their webs, 221
Cat, the, 411-25;
general remarks upon, 411-14;
emotions of, 412-13;
general intelligence of, 413-25;
showing zoological discrimination, 414;
punishing kittens for misbehaviour, 414;
begging for food, 414-15;
feeding kittens on bread when milk fails, 415;
carrying kittens to be protected by master, 415;
trying to catch image behind mirror, 416;
communicating by signs, 419;
devices for catching prey, 417-20;
appreciation of mechanical appliances, 420-25;
extinguishing fire by water, 425
Caterpillars, instinct of assisted by intelligence, 236-8;
migrating, 238-40
Catesby, on co-operation of beetles, 226, 227;
on frigate-pelican plundering boobies, 284
Cattle, fear exhibited by in slaughterhouses, 334;
pride of, 334
_Cebus fatuellus_, observations on intelligence of, 484-98
Cecil, H., on tactics displayed by hunting wasps, 194
_Cephalopoda_, intelligence of, 29-30
_Cetacea_, 327-28
Challenge, mode of, in gulls, 291
Charming of snakes, 264
_Cheiroptera_, 341
_Chelmon rostratus_, 248
Chimpanzee, play of, 476-77
Chinese swallow, nidification of, 292
_Chironectes_, 243
Choice, as evidence of mind, 2
Clark, G., on intelligence of a bat, 341
Clark, Rev. H., on harvesting ants, 99;
on dog recognising portrait, 454-5
Clarville, on co-operation of beetles, 228
Clavigero, on sympathy of pelicans for wounded companions, 275
Claypole, on intelligence of horse, 331-2
_Cnethocampii pitzocampa_, 244
Cobra, sexual affection of, 256;
charming, 265;
intelligence of, 262
Cock, domestic, killing hen upon hatching out eggs of other
birds, 278
_Coelenterata_, movements of, and question concerning their
intelligence, 22
_Coleoptera_, 226-9;
co-operation of, 226-8;
other instances of intelligence, 228-9
Colquhoun, on reasoning power of a dog, 463-4
Commensalism, between crab and anemone, and between mollusk
and anemone, 233
Communication, _see_ Co-operation
Concerted action, _see_ Co-operation
Cones, Captain Elliot, on intelligence of wolverine, 348-50
_Conilurus constructor_, 326
Conklin, W. A., on elephants thatching their backs, 409
Consciousness, as evidence of mind, 2;
gradual dawn of, 13
Conte, John Le, on reasoning power of a dog, 460-1
Cook, Capt., on tree ants, 111;
intelligence of tree-ants, 133
Cook, George, on dog dragging mat about to lie upon, 466
Co-operation,
of ants, 48-49, 51-59, 64 _et seq._
(in making slaves and waging war), 85-96;
(in sundry occupations), 96-100;
(in harvesting), 108-10, 111-14;
(of apparently different species), 114-122;
(of military ants), 127-30, 132-4, 136-40;
of bees, 159-74;
(in general work, wars, and architecture), 177, 178, 184-6,
190-2;
of termites, 198-203;
of beetles, 226-8; of birds, 318-22;
of horses and asses, 333;
of bison and buffalo, 335;
of pigs, 339;
of rats, 361, 362;
of mice, 364;
of beavers, 367-83;
of elephants, 401;
of foxes, 433;
of wolves, 433 and 436;
of jackals, 432-5;
of baboons, 483
Corse, on memory of elephant, 386, 387;
emotions of elephant, 393
Couch, on maternal instinct of hen, 272;
mode in which guillemots catch fish, 285;
mode of escape practised by swan, 290;
birds removing dung from neighbourhood of their nests, 290;
blackbirds mobbing cat, 291;
nidification of swan, 296-8;
crows punishing offenders, 323-4;
intelligence of hare, 359;
cat unlocking door, 424;
fox avoiding trap, 428;
catching crabs with tail, 432;
mode by which a dog killed crabs, 459
_Corvus cornice_, punishing offenders, 323, 324
Cowper, on intelligence of hare, 359, 360
Cox, C., playhouses of bower-birds presented by him to Sydney
Museum, 280
Crabs, 231-4
Craven, on intelligence of a sow, 340
Crehore, on foxes avoiding traps, 428, 429;
on dog recognising portrait, 453
Cripps, his elephant dying under emotional disturbance, 396
Criterion of mind, 4-8
Crocodiles, 263
Crow, Capt. Hugh, on sympathy shown by monkeys for sick
companion, 473, 474
Crows, memory of, 266;
breaking shells by dropping them on the stones, 283;
punishing offenders, 323-5
Cruelty, of cat, 413
Crustacea, 231-34
Cuckoo, parasitic instincts of, 301-7;
eggs of coloured like those of the bird in whose nest they
are laid, 307-9;
American, 305, 306
Curiosity, of fish, 247;
of birds, 278, 279;
of ruminants and swine, 335;
of monkeys, 477
Curlew, nidification of, 292
Cuvier, his orang drawing chair to stand upon to reach a latch, 481;
on birds dreaming, 312
DACE, tamed, 246
Daldorff, on climbing perch, 248, 249
Dampier, on frigate-pelicans plundering boobies, 284;
on monkeys hammering oyster shells with stones, 481
_Daphnia pulex_, seeking light, especially yellow ray, 23
Darwin, Charles, on apparent intelligence of worms, 24;
of oyster, 25;
of snail, 27;
Mr. Hague's letter to, on powers of communication in ants, 54-7;
observations on ants keeping aphides, 60, 61;
on ants making slaves, 64, 66, 67;
communications of Lincecum to, on harvesting ants, 103, 107;
on proportional size of ants' brain, 140;
communication of Müller on powers of communication in bees, 157;
origin and development of cell-making instinct, 173-7;
instincts of neuters, 181;
quotation in MS. from Sir B. Brodie on bees supporting their
combs, 185-6;
his 'law of battle' in relation to spiders, 205;
intelligence of crab, 233;
his theory of sexual selection, 279-82;
sense of smell in vultures, 286;
on Wallace's theory of correlation between colour of sitting
birds and form of their nests, 299;
instincts of cuckoo, 304-6;
birds dreaming, 312;
Gauchos taming wild horses, 329;
memory of horse, 330;
intelligence of bear, 352;
of elephant, 398, 402;
collective instinct of wolves, 436;
duration of memory in dogs, 438;
intelligence of Eskimo dogs, 462;
reasoning of retriever, 463-4;
maternal care and grief of monkey, 472;
sense of ludicrous in monkeys, 476;
curiosity and imitativeness of monkeys, 477;
imitativeness of man, 477-8;
intelligent observation displayed by monkeys, 479, 480
Darwin, Erasmus, on bees ceasing to store honey in Barbadoes, 187;
wasp dismembering fly to facilitate carriage, 195;
unmoulted crab guarding moulted, 233;
crows breaking shells by dropping them on stones, 283;
bird shaking seed out of poppy, 286;
elephant acting nurse to young child, 408
Darwin, F., on bees biting holes through corollas, 189
Davis, on instincts of larvæ of bombyx moth, 239
Davy, Dr., on instincts of alligators, 256, 257;
taming cobra, 265;
performing operation on elephants, 400
Davy, Sir H., on eagles teaching young to fly, 290
Day, F., on intelligence of fish, 244-52
Deceitfulness, of elephant 410;
of dog, 443, 444, 450-52, 457, 458;
of monkey, 494
Deer, intelligence of, 336, 338, 339
De Fravière, on powers of communication in bees, 158;
their scouts, 168
Descartes, his hypothesis of animal automatism, 6
Dicquemase, on intelligence of oyster, 25
Dipterous insects, intelligence in finding way out of
a bell-jar, 153, 154;
gad-fly, 230;
house-fly, 230, 231
Division of labour, _see_ Co-operation
Dog, ringing bell, 423;
knocking knocker, 423;
collective instinct of, 435, 436;
general remarks on psychology of, as influenced by
domestication, 437, 438;
memory of, 438;
emotions of, 438-45;
pride and sensitiveness, 439-42;
intolerance of pain, 441;
emulation and jealousy, 442, 443;
sense of justice, 443;
deceitfulness, 443, 444;
sense of ludicrous and dislike of ridicule, 444, 445;
general intelligence of, 445-70;
communicating ideas, 445-7;
instances of reason, 447-69
_Dolomedes fimbriata_, 213
_Doras_, 248
D'Osbonville, on monkeys administering corporal chastisement
to their young, 482, 483
Dreaming, of birds, 269, 312;
of ferrets, 347
Duchemin, M., on toads killing carp, 254
Duck, conjugal fidelity of, 270, 271;
conveying young on back, 289
Dugardin, on communication among ants, 49;
in bees, 156
Duncan, on cunning of a dog, 451
Dzierzon, on cause determining sex of bees' eggs, 162;
bees repairing injuries to their cells, 186
EAGLE, plundering instinct of white-headed, 284;
teaching young to fly, 290;
variations in nest-building, 299;
submitting to surgical operations, 313, 314
Earwig, 229, 230
Ebrard, on co-operation of ants, 132
_Echinodermata_, movements of, 23
Edmonson, Dr., on crows punishing offenders, 323, 324
Edward, on intelligence of frogs, 255;
sympathy of terns for wounded companion, 274, 275;
crows breaking shells by dropping them on stones, 283;
co-operation of turnstones, 321
Edward, H., on honey-making ants, 111-14
Eimer, Dr., on voluntary and involuntary movements of
_Medusæ_, 22, 23
Elephant, general remarks upon, 386;
memory of, 386, 387;
emotions of, 387-96;
vindictiveness, 387-9;
sympathy, 389-90;
rogue, 393, 394;
dying under effects of emotion, 395, 396;
general intelligence of, 396-410;
enduring surgical operations, 399-400;
vigilance, 401;
formation of abstract ideas, 401, 402;
intelligence of tame decoys, 402-6;
of tame workers, 306-8;
thatching their backs, 308, 309;
removing leeches, and fanning away flies, 309, 310;
concealing theft, 410
Ellendorf, Dr. F., on leaf-cutting ants, 95, 96;
on ants making a bridge, 137
Elliot, on collective instinct of wolves, 433
Emery, J., on powers of communication in bees, 157
Emulation, of birds, 277;
of dogs, 442
Encyclopædia Britannica, on bees following floating
hives, 149;
battles of queen-bees, 163, 164;
parasitic instincts in birds, 306
Endurance, of pain by wild dogs, 441;
of surgical operations by eagle, 313, 314;
by elephants, 399, 400;
by monkey, 482
Engelmann, on _Daphnia pulex_ seeking yellow light, 23
_Epeira aurelia_, Mr. F. Pollock on perfection of web built
by young, 217
Erb, G. S., on intelligence of deer, 338, 339
_Esox lucius_, 246
Espinas, on co-operation of ants, 130
FABRE, on instincts of sphex-wasp, 180, 181
Faister, Mdlle de, her tame weasel, 346
Falcon, variations in nest-building, 299
Faraday, J., on intelligence of skate, 251
Fascination, alleged, by snakes, 263, 264
Fayrer, Sir J., on fascination by and charming of snakes, 264
Fear, in horses, 329;
in ruminants, 334;
in rabbits, 355;
in rats, 360
excited in dogs by portraits, 455-7;
in monkey by snakes, 477,
and by imitation monkey, 495
Ferret, 347
Fire-flies, stuck on nests by baya-birds, 294
Fish, 241-53;
comparison of brain with that of invertebrata, 241;
emotions, 242-7;
nidification, courtship, and care of young, 242-6;
pugnacity, and social feelings, 242;
anger, 246, 247;
play, jealousy, curiosity, 247;
angler, 247, 248;
jaculator, 248;
travelling over land, 248;
climbing trees, 248, 249;
migrations, 249, 250;
general intelligence, 250-53
Fisher, J. F., on hen removing eggs with her neck, 288
Fleeson, Captain B., on honey-making ants, 111-14
Fleming, W. J., on intelligence of horse, 330
Fleury, Cardinal, on intelligence of ants in making bridges, 135
Forbes, on nidification of tailor-bird, 293
Forbes, James, on monkey begging for dead body of companion, 472
Forel, on ants;
recognising slaves, 43;
and fellow-citizens, 44;
swarming habits, 58;
experiment in rearing together hostile species, 59, 60;
tunnelling to obtain aphides, 61;
warfare, 68-77;
play, 88;
intelligence shown in architecture, 129
Forsteal, on termites, 198
Forster, W., on intelligence of a bull, 338
Fothergill, Percival, on reasoning power of a dog, 466
Fouillouse, J. de, on intelligence of hares, 357, 358
Fox, 426-33;
lying in wait for hares, 426, 427;
avoiding traps, 427-30;
allowing itself to be extricated from trap, 431;
catching crabs with tail, 432;
collective instinct in hunting, 433
Fox, C., on intelligence of porpoises, 328
Frankland, Mrs., on cock bullfinch recognising portrait of hen, 311
Franklin, on powers of communication in ants, 49
Franklin, Dr., on sympathy in parrots, 276
Frogs, 254, 255
Frost, Dr., on cat sprinkling crumbs to attract birds, 418, 419
Furniss, J. J., on elephants thatching their backs, 408, 409
GAD-FLY, instinct of, 230
Gander, _see_ Goose
Gaphaus, H. A., on cat opening thumb-latch, 421
Gardener, on intelligence of crab, 233
Garraway, Dr., on beetle concealing its store of food, 229
_Gasteropoda_, intelligence of, 26-29
_Gasterosteus pungitius_, 243;
_G. spinachia_, 243
Geer, M., on earwig incubating young, 229
_Gelasimus_, 233
Gentles, W. Laurie, on intelligence of a sheep-dog, 448, 449
Geoffrey, on pilot fish, 252
Gibbons, their sympathy for suffering companions, 472, 473
Gleditsch, on beetles undermining stick supporting a dead toad, 228;
on spiders weighting their webs, 221
Glutton, 347-50
Goat, intelligence of, 337, 338
Goat-sucker, removing eggs, 289;
nidification of, 292
Goldfinch, trained, 312
Goldsmith on habits of rooks, 322, 323
Goldsmith, Dr., on intelligence of otter, 346
Gollitz, Herr, on co-operation of beetles, 227
Goodbehere, S., on intelligence of a pony and ass, 332, 333;
on cunning of sheep-killing dogs, 450;
on dog knowing value of different coins, 452, 453
Goose, affection and sympathy of, 272, 273;
removing eggs from rats, 288;
noting time, 314;
opening latch of gate, 316
Gosse, on commensalism of crab and anemone, 234
Gould, on bower-bird, 279-81;
on humming-birds, 281;
on talegallus, 294, 295
Graber, Titus, on proportional size of ant's brain, 141
_Grapsus stringosus_, 231
Gray, Sir George, on nidification of talegallus, 295
Gredler, Vincent, on division of labour among leaf-cutting
ants, 99, 100
Green, on intelligence of pigs, 339
Green, Seth, on tactics displayed by hunting wasps, 193
Griffiths, on intelligence of elephant, 388, 389
Grosbeak, nidification of, 295, 296
Grouse, learning to avoid telegraph wires, 312, 313
Groves, J. B., on cat trying to catch image behind mirror, 416
Guana, _see_ Reptiles
Guerinzius, on wasps recognising persons, 188
Guillemots, plundering of by gulls, 283, 284;
mode of catching fish, 285
Gulls, plundering guillemots, 283, 284;
mode of challenge, 291;
nidification, 292
Guring, Thomas, on intelligence of geese, 314, 315
HAGEN, on termites, 202
Hague, on powers of communication in ants, 54-7
Hamilton, R., on fear exhibited by cattle in slaughterhouses, 334
Hancock, Dr., on fish quitting water, 248;
crows breaking shells by dropping them on stones, 283
Harding, S., on intelligence of a pig, 340
Hare, 357-60
Hartmann, Von, his definition of instinct, 15;
on fondness of spiders for music, 206
Harvesting-ants, 96-110;
mice, 365, 366
Hawkshaw, J. Clarke, on limpet remembering locality, 28-9
Hayden, on monkey keeping door open with blanket, 481
Hayes, Dr., on intelligence of Eskimo dogs, 462
_Helix pomatia_, intelligence of, 26, 27
_Hemerobius chrysops_, 240
Hen, maternal instinct of, 272;
removing eggs with neck, 288;
and young chicken on back, 288, 289
Henderson, on navigating habits of Iceland mice, 364, 365
Heron, variations in nest-building, 299
Hogg, on intelligence of his sheep-dog, 448
Holden, on starlings learning to avoid telegraph wires, 312, 313
Hollmann, on intelligence of _octopus_, 30
_Homarus marinus_, 233
Hooker, Sir Joseph, on navigating habits of Iceland mice, 364
Hooper, W. F., on intelligence of a dog, 463
Horn, Mrs., on reasoning powers of a dog, 462
Hornet, carrying heavy prey up an elevation in order to fly away
with it, 196
Horse, emotions of, 328-30;
memory, 330;
general intelligence, 328, 330-3
Horse-fly, tamed, 230, 231
Horsfall, on dog finding his way about by train, 467, 468
Hoste, Sir W., on wounded monkey showing its blood to the
sportsman, 476
Houzeau, on hen transporting young chicken on her back, 288, 289;
parrots not being deceived by mirrors, 310, 311;
birds dreaming, 312;
mules counting their journeys, 332;
monkeys destroying poison-fangs of snakes, 483
Hubbard, Mrs., on intelligence of a cat, 414
Huber, Bishop, on sympathy of elephant, 389
Huber, F. and P., on instinct, 16.
On ants:
sense of smell in, 33;
recognising companions, 41;
powers of communication, 49, 50;
observations on slave-making instinct, 65;
on warfare, 76;
play, 87, 88;
harvesting, 97;
carrying one another, 109;
intelligence shown in architecture, 128, 129.
On bees:
sense of hearing in, 144;
duration of memory, 155;
powers of communication, 156, 159;
manipulation and uses of propolis, 161;
battles of queen-bees, 164, 165;
form of cells, 173;
building cells, 177, 178;
barricading doors against moths, 184;
strengthening combs, 185;
biting holes in corollas, 189;
ventilating hives, 191, 192;
effects of removing antennæ of bees, 197
Hudson, on habits of _Melothrus_, 309, 310
Hugen, on termites, 198
Humboldt, on instincts of young turtles, 257
Humming-birds, æsthetic instincts of, 281
Hutchings, J., on intelligence of a cat, 417
Hutchinson, on alleged tendency of scorpion to commit suicide, 225
Hutchinson, Col., on reasoning power of a dog, 463, 464
Hutchinson, Dr. H. F., on wolf-spider stalking own image in
mirror, 213
Hutchinson, S. J., on intelligence of polar bear, 351, 352
Hutton, Mrs., on ants burying their dead, 91, 92
_Hydrargrza_, 248
_Hymenoptera_, _see_ Ants and Bees
IBEX, does assisting wounded buck to escape, 334
Idealism, cannot be refuted by argument, 6
Ideas, _see_ Association
Imitation, shown by talking birds, monkeys, and idiots, 477, 478
Instinct, defined and distinguished from reason and reflex
action, 10-17;
of medusæ, 23;
of worms, 24;
of mollusca, 25;
of ants with reference to colour, 32, 33;
to smell, 33-7;
to sense of direction, 37-9;
to recognising friends, 41-5;
to swarming, 57, 58;
to nursing, 58;
to education, 59, 60;
to keeping aphides, 60-4;
to making slaves, 64-8;
to wars, 68-83;
to keeping pets, 83, 84;
to sleep and cleanliness, 84-7;
to play and leisure, 87-9;
to treatment of dead, 89-93;
of leaf-cutting species, 93-6;
of harvesting species, 97-110;
of tree-inhabiting species, 110, 111;
of honey-making species, 111-14;
of ecitons, 114-22;
of driver and marching species, 121-2;
of bees and wasps, with reference to colour, 143-4;
to sense of direction, 144-51;
to food-collecting and wax-making, 160-2;
to propagation, 162-8;
of queens, 162-5;
of killing drones, 165-8;
with reference to wars, 169, 170;
to architecture, 170-80;
of sphex-wasp, 180, 181;
of termites, 198-203;
of spiders, 204-18;
of scorpion, 222-5;
of beetles, 226-9;
of earwig, 229, 230;
of flies, 230, 231;
of crustacea, 231, 232;
of larvæ, 234-40;
of fish, 242-53;
of batrachians, 254;
of reptiles, 256-9;
of birds, with reference to procuring food, 283-7;
to incubation, 287-91;
to nidification, 291-301;
of cuckoo, 301-10;
of marsupials, 320;
of whale, 327;
of ruminants, 335;
of swine, 339;
of bats, 341;
of seals, 341-8;
of wolverine, 348-50;
of rodents, 353, 354;
of rabbit, 354-7;
of hare, 354-9;
of rats, 360;
of mice, 364-5;
of rat-hare, 365, 366;
of beaver, mixed with intelligence, 367;
with reference to propagation and lodges, 367-71;
to procuring food, 371-3;
to dams, 373-80;
to canals, 380-4;
of cat, 411-12;
of dog, 437, 438;
of monkey, 471
JACKAL, 426;
collective instinct in hunting, 432-35
Jackdaw, gesticulating signs made by, 316;
congregation for court held by, 324
Jacob, Sir G. Le Grand, on crows punishing offender, 324-5;
ibexes assisting wounded mate to escape, 334
Japp, on dog spontaneously learning use of coin, 452
Jealousy, of fish, 242;
of birds, 276-7;
of horse, 329, 330;
of dogs, 442, 443;
of monkey, 493
Jenkins, H. L., on formation of abstract ideas by elephants, 401, 402
Jenner, on instinct of young cuckoo, 301-4
Jerdon, Dr., on harvesting-ants, 97;
on birds dreaming, 312
Jervoise, Sir J. C., on bee biting hole in a corolla, 189;
on combined action of rooks in obtaining food from pheasants, 321
Jesse, on intelligence of bees in adapting their combs to smooth
surface, 186;
spider protecting eggs from cold, 219;
tame house-fly, 230, 231;
affection of male for female pike, 246;
attachment between alligator and cat, 258, 259;
conjugal fidelity of swan, and pigeon, 271;
sympathy of rooks, 273, 274;
lapwing stamping on ground to make worms rise, 285;
goose removing eggs from rats, 288;
birds removing dung from neighbourhood of their nests, 290;
swallows killing and imprisoning hostile sparrows, 318, 319;
kangaroo throwing young from pouch when pursued, 326, 327;
stag shaking berries from trees, and manifesting intelligence
in escaping from dogs, 336;
intelligence of buffalo, 336, 337;
intelligence of rats, 360-2;
of elephants, 398;
collective instinct of foxes, 433;
wounded monkey showing its blood to the sportsman, 476
Jillson, Professor, on habits of the 'prairie-dog,' 366
John, St., on intelligence of fox, 426, 427;
idea of caste in dog, 442
Johnson, on termites, 198;
on orang-outangs removing their dead companions, 472
Johnson, Capt., on wounded monkey showing its blood to the
sportsman, 475
Johnson, Dr., his definition of reason, 14
KANGAROO, throwing young from pouch when pursued, 326, 327
Kaup, on fish, 246
Kemp, Dr. L., on battles of queen-bees, 164;
robber bees, 170;
on intelligence of decoy elephants, 402
Kent, Saville, on intelligence of porpoises, 327, 328
Kesteven, Dr. W. H., on cat knocking knocker, 424
Kingfisher, nidification of, 292
Kirby, on water-spider, 212;
shore crabs, 232;
migration of salmon, 249, 250;
intelligence of carp, 250
Kirby and Spence, on powers of communication in ants, 49;
sense of direction in bees, 148;
hexagonal form of bees' cells, 172;
ceasing to store honey in tropics, 188;
co-operation of beetles, 226;
caterpillars, 236, and 238, 239
Klein, Dr., on intelligence of a cat, 418, 419
Kleine, Herr, on behaviour of bees when finding empty combs
substituted for full ones, 186, 187
Klingelhöffer, Herr, on co-operation of beetles, 227-8
König, on termites, 198
Kreplin, Herr H., on ecitons, 139
_LABRUS_, 247
Lacepède, on fish coming to sound of bell, &c., 250
_Lacerta iguana_, 255
_Lagomys_, provident habits of, 365
Landois, on powers of communication in bees, 158
Langshaft, on bees recognising hive companions, 183;
on robber bees, 183-4
Lapwing, stamping on ground to make worms rise, 285;
intelligence of, 315, 316
Larvæ, of insects, intelligence of, 234-40
Latreille, on ants, sympathy of, 47
Lauriston, Baron, on sympathy of elephant, 390
Layard, Consul, on intelligence of cobra, 262;
on nidification of baya-bird, 294;
on cat pulling bell-wire, 424
Lee, Mrs., on intelligence of robin, 314;
of goats, 337;
of rats, 361;
on vindictiveness of elephant, 389
Leeches, apparent intelligence of, 24
Lefroy, Lieut-Gen, Sir John, on terrier communicating wants
by signs, 446
Lehr, Herr H., on bees draining their hive, 190
Leroy, C. G.,
on nidification of birds, 300;
on migration, 301;
on collective instinct of wolves, 436
Lespès,
on ants:
slave-making instinct, 65, 66;
warfare, 68, 69;
division of labour, 98, 99;
on termites, 198
Leuckart, Prof., on intelligence of ants in surmounting
obstacles, 135
Lever, Sir Ashton, his experiment on eccentricity of
nest-building instinct, 295
Limpet, remembering locality, 28, 29
Lincecum, Dr., on harvesting ants, 97 and 103-7;
carrying one another, 109
Lindsay, Dr. L., on birds dreaming, 312
Linnæus, on swallows imprisoning sparrows, 318
Linnet, intelligence of in not flying against mirror, 311;
trained, 312
_Liparis chrysorrhaca_, 238
Livingstone, Dr., on certain ants of Africa, 110;
honey-guide, 315;
intelligence of buffalo, 335, 336;
reasoning power of dog, 457
Lobster, 233
Lockman, J., on fondness of pigeon for a particular air of
music, 282
Lonsdale, on intelligence of snails, 27
_Lophius piscator_, 247-8
Lophobranchiate fish, incubating eggs in mouth, 245-6
Loudoun's 'Magazine of Natural History,' quotations from, 357
Love-bird, conjugal affection of, 270
Löwenfels, Herr H., on a wasp dismembering a fly to facilitate
carriage, 196.
Lubbock, Sir John,
on ants:
sense of sight in, 32;
of hearing, 33;
of smell, 33-7;
of direction, 37-8;
recognising companions and nest-mates, 41-3 and 44-5;
deficiency of affection and sympathy, 45-7;
powers of communication, 50-3;
collecting hatching eggs of aphides, 61-2;
keeping pets, 84;
general intelligence, 123-8.
On bees and wasps:
sense of sight in, 143;
of smell and hearing, 144;
of direction, 144-8;
memory, 151-4;
taming wasps, 153;
experiment on comparative intelligence of wasp and fly in
finding way out of a bell-jar, 153-4;
experiments to test sympathy, 155-6;
way-finding, 181-3;
recognising one another, 183-4.
On co-operation of beetles, 226.
Ludicrous, sense of,
in dogs, 444-5;
in monkeys, 476, 485, 487, and 490
Lukis, F. C., on limpet remembering locality, 29
MACLACHLAN, on caddis-worms, 244
Maclaurin, on mathematical principles observed by bees in
constructing their cells, 171
_Macropodus_, 244
Malcolm, Sir James, on sympathy shown by monkey, 474-5
Malle, Dureau de la, on dog knocking knocker, 423-4;
collective instinct of dogs, 435-6
Mammals, 326-498
Mann, Mr. and Mrs., their tame snakes, 256, 260-2
Mansfield, nest of fish, 242-43
Marsupials, 326-7
Martin, nidification of house, 292;
of land, 292
Martin, John, on reasoning power of cat, 415
MacCook, the Rev. Dr.,
on ants: recognising fellow-citizens, 44;
feeding comrades with aphides-secretion, 63-4;
keeping cocci and caterpillars, 64;
warfare, 78, 81-3;
sleep and cleanliness, 84-87;
play, 88;
funeral habits, 89-91;
agricultural, 97, 103-10;
modes of mining, 108;
swarming habits of agriculturals, 108-9;
carrying one another, 109-10;
removing nest from shade of tree, 131;
cutting leaves from shading tree, 131-2;
co-operation in cutting grass, 132
M'Crady, on larva of _Medusæ_ sucking nutriment from parent, 34
Meek, his cat trying to catch image behind mirror, 415-16
Meenan, on a wasp carrying heavy prey up an elevation in order
to fly away with it, 197
_Melanerpes formicivorus_, 285
_Melia tessellata_, 233-4
_Melipona domestica_, form of its cells, 173-6
_Melothrus_, 309-10
Memory,
of mollusca, 25-9;
of ants, 39-45;
of bees, 151-5;
of beetles and earwig, 226-30;
of batrachians, 255;
of reptiles, 259 _et seq._;
of birds, 266-70;
of horse, 330;
of elephant, 386-7;
of dog, 438;
of monkey, 497
Menault,
on eagle submitting to surgical operation, 313-14;
on mason bee, 178-9
Merian, Madame, on ants of visitation, 130;
mygale spider eating humming-birds, 208
Merrell, Dr., on instinct of American cuckoo, 305-6
Mice, 360-4
Migration,
of caterpillars, 238;
of crabs, 232;
of fish, 248-50;
of reptiles, 257-8;
of birds, 266;
of mammals, 341-50, and 368
Mildmay, Sir Henry, on pigs learning to point game, 339-40
Mill, John S., on instinct of cruelty in man, 413
Miller, Prof., calculations regarding form of bee's cell, 173
Mind, subjective and objective analysis of, 1;
evidence of, 2;
criterion of, 4-8
Mischievousness, fondness of, shown by monkeys, 485 _et seq._
Mitchell, on fish removing eggs from disturbed nest, 251
Mitchell, Major, on habits of _Conilurus constructor_, 326
Mivart, on instincts of sphex-wasps, 181
Mobbing instinct in birds, 291
Möbius, Prof., on commensalism between crab and anemone, 233
Moggridge,
on ants:
sympathy of, 48;
suggestion to Mr. Hague, 56;
warfare of, 79-81;
keeping pets, 83;
harvesting, 97-8 and 100-2;
division of labour, 98;
harvesters using burrows made by elater, 130;
intelligent adaptation to artificial conditions, 130;
co-operation in cutting grass, &c., 133.
On trap-door spiders covering trap-doors with moss, &c., 214-15;
making trap-door at exposed end of accidentally inverted
tube, 215-216;
perfection of dwellings built by young spiders, 216-17;
manner in which instinct of making trap-doors probably
arose, 217-18
Mollusca, intelligence of, 25-30
Monboddo, Lord, on snake finding way home, 262
Monkeys, 471-98;
general remarks on psychology of, 471 and 497-98;
emotions of, 471-8;
affection and sympathy, 471-5;
reproach, 475-6;
ludicrous, 476, 485, 487, 490;
play, 476-77;
curiosity, 477;
imitation, 477;
rage, jealousy, and revenge, 478;
memory of, 497;
general intelligence of, 478;
behaviour with mirror, 478-9 and 495-6;
picking shells off eggs, and taking care not to be stung
by wasps in paper, 479;
intelligence of Mr. Belt's, 480;
disentangling chains, 480 and 486-8;
raking in objects with sticks or cloths, 480 and 486;
drawing chair to stand upon, 481;
using levers, 481 and 492;
using hammers, 481 and 485;
divining principle of screw, 490-91;
keeping door open with blanket, 481-2;
allowing tooth to be drawn, 482;
punishing young, 482-3;
destroying snake's fangs, 483;
concerted action, 483;
love of mischief, 485 _et seq._;
throwing things in rage, 485 _et seq._;
pushing slab to which tied, 484-7;
capricious attachments and dislikes, 484 _et seq._;
trying to unlock a box, 492;
playing with fire, 493-4;
expression of emotions, 494-5;
dread of imitation monkey, 495
Morgan, L. A., on spider conveying insect to larder, 220
Morgan, L. H., on the beaver, 367-83
Moschkau, Dr., on intelligence shown by a spider which he
habitually fed, 218-19
Moseley, Lewin, performing operation on a monkey, 482
Moseley, Prof., on intelligence of crabs, 231-2
Mossman, Rev. J. W., on wasps coming out of small aperture
backwards, 192-3
Mule, alleged counting by, 332;
intelligence of, 333-4
Müller, Adolph, on instinct of cuckoo, 306-7
Müller, F.,
on powers of communication in bees, 157;
on termites, 198 and 201
Murray, S., intelligence of his dog, 450
Music, fondness of spiders for, 205-7;
of parrots and pigeon, 282
Mygale spider eating humming-birds, 208
_Myriophyllum spicatum_, 243
_Myrmeleon formicarium_, 234-5
NADAULT, Madame, the association of ideas shown by her
parrot, 269
Napier, Commander, on pigeon making a horse shake oats
from nose-bag, 317
Napier, Lady, recollection in parrot, 269, 270;
emulation in parrot, 276, 277
Nest, _see_ Nidification
Newall, R. S., on wasp dividing caterpillar to facilitate
carriage, 195, 196
Newbury, on absence of beaver dams in California, 370, 371
Newton, Professor A., on instincts of cuckoo, 306-9
Nichols, W. W., on intelligence of pigeons, 317
Nicols, A., on reasoning power of a retriever, 464, 465
_Nicrophorus_, 228
Nidification,
of crustacean, 232, 233;
of fish, 242-5;
of birds, 291-301;
petrels and puffins, 291, 292;
auks, curlew, goatsucker, ostrich, gulls, sandpipers, plovers,
kingfisher, Chinese swallow, house-martin, 292;
tomtit, woodpecker, starling, weaver, 293;
baya, talegallus, 294;
grosbeak, 295, 296;
swan, 296-8;
Wallace's theories concerning, 298, 299;
variability of 299-301;
of harvesting mice, 365
Nightingales, removing nest, 289
Niphon, Professor, on intelligence of a mule, 333, 334
_Noctua Ewingii_, 238
_Noctura verbasci_, 236
North, the Rev. W., on intelligence of mice, 361, 362
Nottebohm, Herr, on ants stocking trees with aphides, 63
OBSTETRIC-FISH, 246;
toad, 254
_Octopus_, intelligence of, 29, 30
_[OE]cypoda ippeus_, 231
Oldham, A., on jealousy in dog, 442, 443
Orang-outang, removing dead companions, 472;
sense of humour in, 476;
drawing chair to stand upon to reach high places, 481
_Orthotomus_, 293
Ostrich, conjugal affection of, 270;
nidification, 292
Otter, 346
Oyster, intelligence of, 25
PALLAS, on provident habits of Lagomys, 365
Parrot, memory of, 267-9;
recollection, 269, 270;
talking, &c., 267-70;
sympathy, 275, 276;
exultation on baffling imitative powers of master, 277;
vindictiveness, 277;
fondness of music, 282;
difficult to deceive by mirrors, 310, 311
Parry, Captain, on instincts of wild swan, 297
Partridge, removing eggs, 289
Peach, C. W., on dog recognising portrait, 453, 454
Peal, G. E., on elephants removing leeches and fanning away
flies, 409, 410
Pearson, Colonel, the reasoning power of his dog, 466, 467
Peeweet, _see_ Lapwing.
Pelicans, sympathy of for wounded companions, 275;
frigate, 284;
combined action of in fishing, 319
Penky, the Rev. Mr., on reasoning power of a dog, 466, 467
Pennant, on navigating habits of Iceland mice, 364
Pennent,
on domestication of toad, 255;
on fascination by rattle-snake, 263
_Perca scandens_, 248, 249
Perception, 9
Perch, climbing, 248, 249
Percival, Dr., on cock killing hen when she hatched out eggs
of partridge, 278
Petrels, nidification of, 291, 292
Phillips, J., his portrait-painting recognised by a dog, 454
Picton, Mrs. E., on sensitiveness of a terrier, 440, 441
_Pieris rapæ_, 236
Pigeon, memory of, 266;
conjugal affection and fidelity, 270, 271;
fondness for a particular air of music, 282;
intelligence in avoiding turtles, 317;
in making horse shake oats from nose-bag, 317
Pigs, 339-41
Pike, affection of male for female, 246
Pilot-fish, 251, 252
Pinnipeds, breeding habits of, 342, 346
Pipe-fish, 246
Piracy, instinct of, in birds, 283, 284, 301-7
_Pisces_, _see_ Fish
Play,
of ants, 87, 89;
of fish, 242;
of birds, 279;
of porpoise, 327, 328;
of dogs, 445;
of monkeys, 476, 477
Pliny, on ants burying their dead, 91;
sexual affection of snakes, 256;
on intelligence of elephant, 386;
on memory of elephant, 387
_Ploceus textor_, 293
Plover, _see_ Lapwing;
nidification of, 292
Plutarch, on intelligence of elephant, 386
_Podocerus capillatus_, 232
Polar bear, 352, 353
Polecat, curious instinct of, 347
_Polistes carnifex_, taking precise bearings to remember
locality, 150, 151
_Polistes Gallica_, tamed by Sir John Lubbock, 153;
robber, 169
Pollock, F., on perfection of webs built by young spiders, 217
Pollock, W., on association of ideas in parrot, 269
_Polydectes cupulifer_, 233
Pope, on instinct and reason, 15
Porpoise, intelligence of, 327, 328
Portraits, recognised by birds, 311;
by dogs, 453-7
Pouchet, on improvement in nidification of swallows, 300, 301
Powelsen, on navigating habits of Iceland mice, 364
Prairie dog, 366
Pride,
of birds, 279;
of horse, 330;
of ruminants, 334;
of dog, 439-42
_Prinia_, 293
_Protozoa_, movements of, 18;
apparent intelligence of, 19-21
Provident instincts,
of ants, 97-110;
of bees, 160-162;
of a bird, 285;
of rodents, 353, 354, and 365, 366;
of beaver, 368-70
Puffins, nidification of, 291, 292
Pugnacity,
of ants, 45;
of bees, 165-70;
of spiders, 204-5;
of fish, 242;
of seal, 341-6;
of rabbits, 355;
of rat-hare, 365, 366;
of canine animals, 426
Python, tame, affection of, &c., 256 and 260-2
QUARTERLY REVIEW, on intelligence of rats, 360, 361
Quatrefages, on termites, 198
RABBIT, 354-7
Rabigot, on fondness of spiders for music, 206
Rae, Dr. John, on intelligence of horse, 331;
of wolverine, 348;
of wolves and foxes, 429, 430;
of dog, 465, 466
Rae, on dog ringing bell, 423
Ransom, Dr., on sticklebacks, 245
Rarey, his method of taming horses, 328, 329
Rats, 360-3
Rattlesnake, alleged fascination by, 263
Ravens, breaking shells by dropping them on stones, 283
Razor-fish, intelligence of, 25
Reason, definition of, and distinguished from instinct, 13-17;
exhibitions of, by various animals, _see_ under sections
headed 'general intelligence'
Réaumur, on intelligence of ants, 128;
sympathy of bees, 156;
carpenter-bee, 179;
encasing snail with propolis, 190;
conveying carrion out of hive, 191;
experiments on instincts of caterpillars, 237;
on larvæ chasing aphides, 240
Reclain, Professor C., on spider descending to
violin-player, 205, 206
Recognition of persons,
by bees, 188;
by snakes and tortoises, 259-61;
of places, by mollusca, 27-9;
by ants, 33 _et seq._;
by bees, 144 _et seq._;
of offspring, by earwig, 229;
of portraits, _see_ Birds and Dogs;
of other members of a hive by ants and bees, _see_ Ants and Bees
Reeks, H., on collective instinct of wolves, 436
Reflex action, 2-4
Reid, Dr., on mathematical principles observed by bees in
constructing their cells, 171
Rengger, on maternal care and grief of a cebus, 472;
monkeys displaying intelligent observation, 479;
using levers, 481
Reproach, shown by gestures of monkeys 475-478
Reptiles, 255-265;
emotions of, 255, 256, and 260-2;
incubating eggs, sexual and parental affection of, 256;
general intelligence of, 256-263;
fascination by, 263, 264;
charming of, 264, 265
Reyne, his observations on snake-charming, 264, 265
_Rhizopoda_, apparent intelligence of, 19-21
Richards, Captain, on pilot-fish, 252
Richardson, Mrs. A. S. H.,
on elephant concealing theft, 410;
on dog finding its way home by train, 468, 469
Ridicule, dislike of, by dogs and monkeys, _see_ Ludicrous
Risso, M., on habits of pipe-fish, 246
Robertson, Professor G. Croora, on behaviour of an ape with
a mirror, 478, 479
Robin, intelligence of, 314
Rodents, 353
Rodwell, on intelligence of rats, 360-2
Rogue-elephants, _see_ Elephant
Romanes, Miss C.,
on dog recognising portrait, 455, 456;
on intelligence of cebus, 484-95
Romanes, G. J., on movements of rotifer, 18, 19;
of medusæ, 22;
of echinodermata, 23;
emotions of stickleback, 246, 247;
piracy of terns and gulls, 283-4;
mode of challenge practised by gulls, 291;
birds deceived by mirrors, 311;
grouse learning to avoid telegraph wires, 313;
intelligence of horse, 330;
intelligence of ferrets, 347;
instincts of rabbits, 354;
intelligence of rabbits, 354, 355;
rabbits fighting rats, 355;
drawing dead companions out of holes, 356, 357;
intelligence of hare, 357;
hares and rabbits allowing themselves to be caught by weasels, 359;
rats using their tails for feeding purposes, 363;
cat opening thumb-latch, 420, 421;
collective instinct of jackals, 434, 435;
of dogs, 435;
duration of memory in dog, 438;
pride and sensitiveness in dog, 439, 440;
intolerance of dog towards pain, 441;
emulation and jealousy in dog, 442;
deceitfulness and dislike of ridicule in dog, 444;
sense of ludicrous in dog, 444, 445;
dogs communicating ideas, 445, 446;
dogs slipping into their collars to conceal their sheep-killing,
&c., 435 and 450, 451;
dog recognising portrait, 456, 457;
reasoning of dog, 457, 458;
caution of a dog in killing snakes, 460;
sympathy of an Arabian baboon, 474;
sense of ludicrous and dislike of ridicule in monkey, 476;
intelligence of _Cebus fatuellus_, 484-98
Rooks, sympathy of, for wounded companions, 273, 274;
concerted action of, in obtaining food from dogs, 319, 320;
from pheasants, 321;
nesting habits and punishment of culprits, 322-5
_Rotifera_, movements of, 18
Ruminants, 334
Russell, Lord Arthur, witnessing tameness of snakes, 261
_SAGARTIA parasitica_, 234
Salmon, migration of, 249, 250
_Salticus scenicus_, 213
Sandpipers, nidification of, 292
_Sarsia_, seeking light, 23
Saunders, S. S., on trap-door spiders, 215
Savage, on play of chimpanzees, 476, 477
Schiller, on pride of bell-wether steers, 334
Schipp, Lieut., on combined action of baboons, 483
Schlosser, on jaculator-fish, 248
Schlüter, Herr A., on a hornet carrying heavy prey up an elevation
in order to fly away with it, 196
Schneider, on intelligence of _octopus_, 29, 30;
on fish guarding eggs, 242;
jealousy of fish, 247
Sclater, Dr., on instincts of cuckoo, 325;
lending a cebus for observation, 483
Scoresby, on maternal affection of whale, 327;
on intelligence of polar bear, 351
Scorpion, alleged suicide of, when surrounded by fire or heat, 222-25
Sea-anemones, 233, 234
Seals, intelligence of, and breeding-habits of pinnipeds, 341-6
Seebohm, on instincts of cuckoo, 325
_Semnopithecus entellus_, destroying poison fangs of snakes, 483
Sensation, 8
Severn, H. A., on nidification of baya-bird, 294
Severn, W., on snakes, 260, 261
Sheep, pride of leaders, 334
Shelley, lines on curiosity of fish, 247
Shipp, Capt.,
on vindictiveness of elephant, 387, 388;
on intelligence of elephant, 397, 398
Siebold, on robber-wasps, 169
Sieur, Roman, his trained birds, 312
Signs, made by ants, 49 _et seq._;
by bees, 157 _et seq._;
by termites, 200;
by birds, 315, 316;
by elephants, 391 and 401;
by cat, 416;
by dog, 445-7;
by monkey, 472, 475, 476
_Simiadæ_, _see_ Monkeys
Simonius, on fondness of spiders for music, 206
Sinclair, W., on intelligence of horse, 33
Skate, supposed intelligence of, 251
Skinner, Major,
on intelligent vigilance of elephants, 400, 401;
on training of cobra, 265
Slingsby, his experiment in training a house-fly, 230, 231
Smeathman, on termites, 198-203
Smeaton, Th. D., on dog making peace-offerings, 452
Smiles, Dr. S.,
on observation of Stephenson, 247;
on observations of Edward, 255, 275, 283, 321
Smith, A. P., on intelligence of a cat, 414
Smith, Colonel, on pilot-fish, 252
Smith, Colonel Hamilton, on intelligence of cattle-dogs, 449
Smith, Sir Andrew, on revenge of a baboon, 478
Snails, intelligence of, 26-28
Snakes, incubating eggs, sexual and parental affection of, 256;
tamed, 256, 260-3, 265;
finding way home, 262;
intelligence of, 262-3;
fascination by, 263-4;
charming of, 264-5
Social feelings, _see_ Sympathy and Affection;
habits common to Hymenoptera and termites, 202
Sow, pointing game, 339, 340
Sparman, on termites, 198
Spencer, Herbert,
on migration of salmon, 249;
on play as allied to artistic feeling, 279
Sphex, _see_ under Wasp
Spiders, emotions of, 204-7;
courtship, 204, 205;
strength of maternal instinct, 205;
fondness of music, 205-7;
web-building, 207-12;
geometric, 209;
water, 212;
wolf or vagrant, 213;
trap-door, 213-18;
admit of being tamed and distinguish persons, 218-19;
protecting eggs from cold, 219;
protecting themselves from ecitons, 219;
conveying prey to larder, 220;
suspending weights to steady web, 220-2;
wide geographical range of trap-door spiders, 216
Stag, intelligence of, 336
Starlings, nidification of, 293;
learning to avoid telegraph-wires, 312-13
Stephenson, on curiosity of fish, 247
Stevens, J. G., on intelligence of a cat, 417-18
Sticklebacks, 243-5, 246-7
Stickney, on bees remembering in successive years the position
of a disused hive, 154
Stodmann, on wasps recognising persons, 188
Stone, on reasoning power of a dog, 460
Stork, vindictiveness of, 277-8
Strachan, on elephants dying under emotional disturbance, 395-6
Strange, F., on habits of bower-bird, 281
Strauss, on co-operation of beetles, 228
Street, J., on blackbirds removing their young, 289
Strickland, on intelligence of a mare, 332
Swainson, on vindictiveness of elephant, 389
Swallows, memory of, 266;
improvement in their nidification and adopting new modes of, 300;
migration, 301;
making tunnels, 318;
killing imprisoned hostile sparrows, 318-19
Swan, conjugal fidelity of, 271;
mode of escaping with young, 290;
nidification, 496-8
Swine, 339-41
Sword-fish, 252-3
Sykes, Colonel,
on harvesting ants, 97;
on tree ants, 110-11;
intelligence of ants in getting at food in difficult
situations, 134, 135;
on nidification of tailor-bird, 293
_Sylvia_, 293
Sympathy,
of ants, 46-9;
of bees, 155-6;
of fish, 242;
of birds, 270-6;
of horse, 331-2;
of ruminants, 334;
of elephants, 387-92, and 397, 398;
of cat, 416;
of monkeys, 471-5
TAIT, LAWSON, on cat signing to have bell pulled, 423
_Talegallus_, nidification of, 294
Taylor, the Rev. Mr., cunning of his dog, 451
Tegetmeier, on amount of sugar required by bees to make honey, 176
Telescope-fish, 246
Tennent, Sir E., on apparent intelligence of land-leeches, 24;
intelligence of tree-ants, 134;
mygale eating humming birds, 208;
climbing-perch, 249;
sexual affection of cobra, 246;
snake-charming, 264, 265;
taming of cobra, 265;
nidification of baya-bird, 294;
combined action of crows, 319, 320;
of buffaloes, 335;
use of tame buffalo, 335;
on emotions and intelligence of elephant, 389, 390, 393-6, 400-8;
collective instinct of jackals, 432, 433
Tepper, Mr. Otto, on intelligence of a cat, 424
Termites, 198-203;
architecture, 198, 199, and 201, 202;
workers and soldiers, 200, 201;
swarming, breeding, &c., 202;
remarkable similarity of instincts to those of Hymenoptera, 202;
instincts detrimental to individual but beneficial to
species, 202, 203
Terns, sympathy of, for wounded companions, 274, 275;
robber, 284;
mobbing robber-terns, 291
_Theda isocrates_, 238
Theuerkauf, Herr G., on intelligence of ants in making a bridge
of aphides over tar, 136
Thompson, E. P.,
on bees remembering exact position of absent hive, 149;
on garden-spider's mode of web-building, 210, 211;
ant-lion, 234, 235;
emotions of guana, 255, 256;
fascination by snakes, 264;
nidification of sociable grosbeak, 295, 296;
birds dreaming, 312;
maternal affection of whale, 327;
bisons defending themselves from wolves, 334, 335;
pigs defending themselves from wolves, 339;
cleanliness of pig, 340, 341;
intelligence of weasel, 346;
of mouse, 361;
harvesting-mice, 365, 366
Thomson, Dr. Allen, on scorpions committing suicide, 223-5
Thornton, Colonel, his sow trained to point game, 340
Thresher-fish, 252, 253
Thrushes, breaking shells against stones, 283
_Tinea_, 237
Toads, 254, 255
Tomtit, nidification of, 293
Topham, Dr. J., on spiders weighting their webs, 222
Topham, Mr. J., on bees remembering exact position of absent
hive, 149
Tortoises, knowing persons, 259
Townsend, the Rev. W.,
on elephant concealing theft, 410;
on dog finding its way about by train, 468-9
Truro, Lord, on intelligence of a dog, 450
Turner, George, on bees remembering exact position of absent
hive, 149
Turnstones, intelligence of, 321
Turtles, 257, 258, and 262
VAILLANT, Le, on fascination by tree-snake, 263, 264
Valiant, L., on nidification of sociable grosbeak, 296
Venn, on association of ideas in parrot, 267, 268
Vigot, Dr., on snake finding way home, 262
Villiers, De, on instincts of larvæ of bombyx moth, 240
Vindictiveness,
of birds, 277, 278, and 318-25;
of horse, 330, 331;
of elephant, 387-9;
of monkeys, 478, and 484-96
Virchow, on difficulty of distinguishing between instinct an
reason, 12
Vogt, Karl, on duration of memory in ants, 41;
bridge-making, 136
Vultures, finding carrion by sight and not by smell, 286, 287;
intelligence, 314
WAFER, on monkeys hammering oyster-shells with stones, 481
Wakefield, P., on intelligence of goats, 337, 338
Wallace, A. R., on philosophy of birds'-nests, 298-300
Warden, on frogs going straight to nearest water, 254
Wasp-mason, 180;
butcher, 180, 181;
sphex, 181;
hunting, 193, 194;
common, tamed by Sir John Lubbock, 153
Wasps, sense of direction in, 147;
teaching themselves, 154;
killing larvæ, 167, 168;
making cells, 180;
instincts of neuters, 181;
recognising persons, 188;
coming out of small aperture backwards, 192, 193;
struggles with ants for secretion of frog-hoppers, 194, 195;
dismembering heavy prey for convenience of carriage, and
mounting eminences for same purpose, 195, 197
Wasser, on nidification of puffins, 291
Waterhouse, on hexagonal form of bee's cell, 173
Water-rail, its mode of escape, 289
Waterton, on nidification of swan, 295, 296
Watson, on spiders weighting their webs, 221;
cock killing hen on her hatching out eggs of other birds, 278;
intelligence of rats, 360-62;
vindictiveness of elephant, 389;
elephant enduring surgical operation, 399;
intelligence of sheep-dogs, 448;
of cattle-dogs, 449
Weasel, 346, 347
Weaver, nidification of, 293
Web, _see_ Spider
Web-building, _see_ Spiders
Webb, Dr., performing operation on elephant, 399
Weber, Professor E. H., on spiders weighting their webs, 221
Wedgwood, the Rev. R. H., on memory of horse, 330
Westlecombe, on reasoning power of a dog, 462, 463
Westropp, on intelligence of bear, 352
Westwood, on instinct of caterpillars, 288
Weygandt, on robber-bees, 170
Whale, maternal affection of, 327;
attacks on, by sword- and thresher-fish, 252, 253
Whately, Archbishop, on cat ringing bell, 423
White ants, _see_ Termites
White, the Rev. Gilbert, on nests of harvesting-mice, 365;
on nidification of house-martin, 292, 293
White, W., on intelligence of snails, 26
White, the Rev. W. W. F., on sympathy of ants, 49;
keeping pets, 84;
burying dead, 92, 93
White-headed eagle, _see_ Eagle
Wildman, his alleged training of bees, 189
Wilks, Dr. S., observations on talking of parrot, 267, 268;
on dog recognising a portrait, 455
Williams, on intelligence of sheep-dogs, 448
Williams, B., on cunning of sheep-killing dogs, 450, 451
Wilson, on memory of crow, 266
Wilson, Dr. Andrew, on reasoning power of a dog, 460
Wilson, Charles, on intelligence of swallows, 318
Wilson, Dr. D., on elephant enduring surgical operation, 399
Winkell, Dietrich aus dem, on intelligence of fox, 428
Wolf, 426-36; avoiding gun-traps, 431;
drawing up fish-lines to take fish, 431;
collective instinct in hunting, 433, 436
Wolverine, 347-50
Wood, Rev. G. J., on spiders weighting their webs, 221
Woodcock, conveying young on back, 289
Woodpecker, ant-eating, its instinct of storing food, 285;
nidification, 293
Words, understanding of,
by bees, 189;
by talking birds, 267-9
Worms, apparent intelligence of, 24
Wright, his portrait-painting recognised by a dog, 454-5
YARRELL,
on fish, 246;
on intelligence of hare, 358-9
Youatt, on pigs learning to point game, 340
Young, the Rev. Charles, on emotions and intelligence of
elephant, 390-92
Young, Miss E., on dog finding his way about by train, 468
Yule, Captain, on elephants dying under emotional disturbance, 395
THE END.
FOOTNOTES:
[282] January 14, 1881. The marble slab was left with him after the
chain had been fastened to the ring; but since that time he has never
attempted to move the marble.
ANIMAL INTELLIGENCE.
By GEORGE J. ROMANES, F.R.S.,
Zoölogical Secretary of the Linnæan Society, etc.
12MO. CLOTH, $1.75.
"My object in the work as a whole is twofold: First, I have thought it
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New York: D. APPLETON & CO., 1, 3, and 5 Bond Street.
ANTS, BEES, AND WASPS.
_A Record of Observations on the Habits of the Social Hymenoptera._
By Sir JOHN LUBBOCK, Bart., M. P., F. R. S., etc.,
Author of "Origin of Civilization, and the Primitive Condition of Man,"
etc., etc.
WITH COLORED PLATES. 12MO. Cloth, $2.00.
"This volume contains the record of various experiments made with ants,
bees, and wasps during the last ten years, with a view to test their
mental condition and powers of sense. The principal point in which Sir
John's mode of experiment differs from those of Huber, Forel, McCook,
and others, is that he has carefully watched and marked particular
insects, and has had their nests under observation for long periods--one
of his ants' nests having been under constant inspection ever since
1874. His observations are made principally upon ants because they show
more power and flexibility of mind; and the value of his studies is that
they belong to the department of original research."
"We have no hesitation in saying that the author has presented us with
the most valuable series of observations on a special subject that has
ever been produced, charmingly written, full of logical deductions, and,
when we consider his multitudinous engagements, a remarkable
illustration of economy of time. As a contribution to insect psychology,
it will be long before this book finds a parallel."--_London Athenæum._
"These studies, when handled by such a master as Sir John Lubbock, rise
far above the ordinary dry treatment of such topics. The work is an
effort made to discover what are the general, not the special, laws
which govern communities of insects composed of inhabitants as numerous
as the human beings living in London and Peking, and who labor together
in the utmost harmony for the common good. That there are remarkable
analogies between societies of ants and human beings no one can doubt.
If, according to Mr. Grote, 'positive morality under some form or other
has existed in every society of which the world has ever had
experience,' the present volume is an effort to show whether this
passage be correct or not."--_New York Times._
"In this work the reader will find the record of a series of experiments
and observations more thorough and ingenious than those instituted by
any of the accomplished author's predecessors. . . . Sir John has been a
close observer of the habits of ants for many years, generally having
from thirty to forty communities under his notice, and not only watching
each of these in its carefully isolated glass house, but, by the use of
paint-marks, following the fortunes of individuals. . . . One notable
result of this system has been the correcting of previous theories as to
the age to which ants attain: instead of living merely a year, as the
popular belief has been, some of Sir John's queens and workers are
thriving after being under observation since 1874 and 1875."--_New York
World._
"Sir John Lubbock's book on 'Ants, Bees, and Wasps' is mainly devoted to
the crawlers, and not the fliers, though he has some observations upon
honey-bees and more interesting ones upon the unpopular wasp, which he
fondly deems to be capable of gratitude. Darwin made a strong case for
the monkeys, but Lubbock may yet make us out to be, as Irishmen say,
'The sons of our ants.' For he begins his entertaining book thus: 'The
anthropoid apes no doubt approach nearer to man in bodily structure than
do any other animals, but, when we consider the habits of ants, their
large communities and elaborate habitations, their roadways, their
possession of domestic animals, and, even in some cases, of slaves, it
must be admitted that they have a fair claim to rank next to man in the
scale of intelligence.'"--_Springfield Republican._
_For sale by all booksellers; or sent by mail, post-paid, on receipt of
price._
New York: D. APPLETON & CO., 1, 3, & 5 Bond Street.
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Sometimes the footnote number did
not appear with the footnote at the bottom of the page. (Page 27, 154)
In these cases it was replaced.
Page 76, "every" changed to "ever" (scarcely ever return)
Page 95, "1" changed to "I" (I now walked)
Page 119, "trucks" changed to "trunks" (under fallen trunks)
Page 177, "circumstancces" changed to "circumstances" (themselves to
circumstances)
Page 178, section header "Special Habits" was small-capped instead of
italic in the original. This was changed to italic to match the rest of
the text's usage.
Page 181, "betweeen" changed to "between" (saucer between them)
Page 213, this page had two footnote references but only one footnote
anchor. This footnote has been renamed "[A] _Loc. cit._, p. 323." It is
right after footnote [83].
Page 218, "tamd" changed to "tamed" (who has 'tamed' spiders)
Page 246, "Uunder" changed to "Under" (Under such circumstances)
Page 285, the footnote number was missing at the bottom of the page and
was inserted in the text.
Page 316, "shuuters" changed to "shutters" (these said shutters)
Page 322, "tri l" changed to "trial" (the work another trial)
Page 324, "appa ently" changed to "apparently" (apparently being tried)
Page 367, "pyschology" changed to "psychology" (of the psychology of
this)
Page 375, "eth" changed to "the" (the building of a stick)
Page 384, "once" changed to "one" (In one case Prof. Aggaziz)
Page 420, "intelgence" changed to "intelligence" (exerted upon their
intelligence)
Page 457, footnote originally at bottom of page (now on page 470),
"retreiver" changed to "retriever" (and retriever of my own)
Page 459, "Broun" changed to "Brown" (writing from Brown university)
Page 476, "on" changed to "an" (spends an hour or two)
Page 483, footnote missing number was added.
Index: when an entry was changed so that its correct spelling placed it
out of alphabetical order from its original location, it was relocated.
Page 500, "Atenchus" changed to "Ateuchus" (_Atenchus pilularius_, 226)
Page 501, "Blackhouse" changed to "Backhouse" to match usage in text
(Backhouse, R. O., on dog)
Page 502, under entry: "Büchner, Professor," "On termites" was
originally printed "on termites." As this was a subheading, the "On" was
capitalized to match the form of the rest of the index.
Page 503, under entry: "Cat, the", "42" changed to "25" (general
intelligence of, 413-25)
Page 504, entry: "_Corvus cornice_" was originally above "Couch". This
was adjusted.
Page 505, "Doldorff" changed to "Daldorff" (Daldorff, on climbing perch)
Pgae 507, "Gelasinnus" changed to "Gelasimus" (_Gelasimus_, 233)
Page 508, "Heber" changed to "Huber"; "289" changed to "389" (Huber,
Bishop, on sympathy of elephant, 389)
Page 509, "Hydrargyra" changed to "Hydrargzra" (_Hydrargrza_, 248)
Page 510, "Jilson" changed to "Jillson" (Jillson, Professor, on habits)
Page 511, "Lespes" changed to "Lespès."
Page 511, "MacLaurin" changed to "Maclaurin" (Maclaurin, on mathematical
principles)
Page 511, "Macropodos" changed to "Macropodus" (_Macropodus_, 244)
Page 511, "M'Cook" changed to "MacCook" (MacCook, the Rev. Dr.)
Page 512, "M'Cready" changed to "M'Crady" (M'Crady, on larva of
_Medusæ_)
Page 513, "Myrionphyllum" changed to "Myriophyllum" (_Myriophyllum
spicatum_, 243)
Page 513, "Ervingii" changed to "Ewingii" (_Noctua Ewingii_, 238)
Page 514, "capillata" changed to "capillatus"; "332" changed to "232"
(_Podocerus capillatus_, 232)
Page 515, entry under "Recognition," "by snakes and tortoises," "269"
changed to "259." (tortoises, 259-61)
Page 515, "Croom" changed to "Croora" (Robertson, Professor G. Croora)
Page 517, entry: "Strauss, on co-operation of beetles" was missing its
page reference. "228" added to text. (co-operation of beetles, 228)
Page 518, "Timea" changed to "Tinea" (_Tinea_, 237)
Page 519, "Wedgewood" changed to "Wedgwood" (Wedgwood, the Rev. R. H.,
on memory)
Ad for "Ants, Bees and Wasps," "communties" changed to "communities"
(govern communities of insects)
End of Project Gutenberg's Animal Intelligence, by George J. Romanes
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