Animal Behaviour

It must not be supposed that, in adducing flight as an example of instinctive behaviour in birds, we are contending that it is this and nothing more throughout life. The inference to be drawn from the facts of observation is rather that instinct provides a general ground plan of behaviour which intelligent acquisition, by enforcing here and checking there, perfects and guides to finer issues. Few would contend that the consummate skill evinced in fully developed flight at its best, the hurtling swoop of the falcon, the hovering of the kestrel, the wheeling of swifts in the summer air, the rapid dart and sudden poise of the humming bird, the easy sweep of the sea-gull, the downward glide of the stork—that these are, in all their exquisite perfection, instinctive. A rough but sufficient outline of action is hereditary; but the manifold graces and delicacies of perfected flight are due to intelligent skill begotten of practice and experience.

There are many little idiosyncracies and special traits of flight which are probably instinctive—such as enable an ornithologist or a sportsman to recognize a flying bird from a distance. And the same is true of other modes of behaviour. The observer of young birds cannot fail to note and to be impressed by many of these. The way in which a little moor-hen uses its wings in scrambling up any rough surface is very characteristic; so, too, is the manner in which a guinea-chick runs backwards and then sideways at a right angle when one attempts to catch him. If suddenly startled, moor-hens and chicks scatter and hide; plovers drop and crouch with their chins on the ground; pheasants stand motionless and silent. Knowledge of the ways of birds enables one to predict with tolerable accuracy how each kind will behave under given circumstances. That the actions are always precisely alike cannot be said with truth; but that the behaviour is so relatively definite as to be readily recognizable can be confidently asserted. That a moor-hen will flick its tail, that a chick will dust itself in the sand, that pheasants and partridges will scratch the ground, that a jay will go through certain actions in the bath, that the preening of the down will be carried out in particular ways—moor-hens, for example, wringing out the water in a peculiar manner,—and that all these, and many other modes of behaviour, will be presented in relatively definite ways: all these are, to borrow a phrase of Dr. Peckham’s, so characteristic of the several groups of birds, that they would be an important part of any definition based upon behaviour. And there can be no question that they are instinctive. They may indeed seem trivial and commonplace, scarcely worthy of special note; but they serve to show in how many details organic heredity lays the foundation for future behaviour, and affords groups of data for effective consciousness to utilize.

To show the instinctive nature of such behaviour, the following examples will suffice. One of a batch of moor-hen chicks showed once, and once only, when a week old, an incipient tendency to bathe in the shallow tin of water which was placed in their run, but soon desisted; nor was the action repeated, though he and the others enjoyed standing in the water. Five weeks later one of the batch was taken to a beck. He walked quietly through the comparatively still water near the edge; but when he reached the part of the stream where it ran swiftly and broke over the pebbles, he stopped, ducked, and took an elaborate bath, dipping his head well under, flicking the water over his back, ruffling his feathers, and behaving in a most characteristic manner. Each day thereafter he did the same, with a vigour that increased up to the third morning, and then remained constant. The same bird some weeks later was swimming in a narrow part of the stream, with steep banks on either side, when he was frightened by a rough-haired pup. Down he dived, for the first time in his life; and after a few seconds his head was seen to appear, just peeping above the water beneath the bank.

Ten days after receiving two nestling jays I placed in their cage a shallow tin of water. They took no notice of it, having never seen water before; for they were fed chiefly on sopped food. Presently one of them hopped into it, whether attracted by the water or by accident it is difficult to say, squatted in it bending his legs, and at once fluttered his feathers, as such birds do when they bathe, though his breast scarcely touched the water. The other seized the tin in his bill, and then pecked at the water, thus wetting his beak. He, too, fluttered his feathers in a similar fashion, though he was outside the tin and not in the water at all. A little later the first again entered the tin, and dipped his breast well into the water; this was followed by much fluttering and splashing. The bird took a good bath, as did the other shortly afterwards, and then spent half an hour in a thorough grooming, with much fluttering of the wings, the crest feathers being constantly raised and lowered, expressive of an emotional state.

Now, in these cases it would be impossible to say whether the behaviour was carried out in the manner characteristic of the species, prior to experience and independent of imitation, on the basis of mere casual and chance observation. But in these cases the whole life-history of the individuals concerned was known; and it can be asserted with confidence that the behaviour was hereditary, and not acquired by any gradual process of learning. Moreover, in each case there seemed to be such evidence as observation can afford, that internal emotional factors co-operated with the direct external stimuli in determining the nature of the behaviour. Whether such actions so far contribute to the well-being of the individual as to be of decisive advantage it is difficult to say. Some would contend that bathing is practised by birds merely for the pleasure it seemingly affords; others would urge that it is a means of getting rid of troublesome and presumably hurtful parasites, to the attacks of which birds are peculiarly subject.

One of the most remarkable instincts of young birds is that of the cuckoo, which ejects eggs and nestlings from the home of its foster-parent. Mrs. Hugh Blackburn found a nest which contained two meadow-pipits’ eggs, besides that of a cuckoo. On a later visit “the pipits were found to be hatched, but not the cuckoo. At the next visit, which was after an interval of forty-eight hours, we found the young cuckoo alone in the nest, and both the young pipits lying down the bank, about ten inches from the margin of the nest, but quite lively after being warmed in the hand. They were replaced in the nest beside the cuckoo, which struggled about until it got its back under one of them, when it climbed backwards directly up the open side of the nest, and hitched the pipit from its back on to the edge. It then stood quite upright on its legs, which were straddled wide apart, with the claws firmly fixed halfway down the inside of the nest, among the interlacing fibres of which the nest was woven, and, stretching its wings apart and backwards, it elbowed the pipit fairly over the margin, so far that its struggles took it down the bank instead of back into the nest. As it was getting late, and the cuckoo did not immediately set to work on the other nestling, I replaced the ejected one and went home. On returning next day, both nestlings were found dead and cold, out of the nest.”[36] Here we have a definite account by an eye-witness, who sketched the young cuckoo, which was naked, blind, and could scarcely hold up its head. And her account, itself confirmatory of that given by Jenner in 1778, is confirmed by that of Dr. John Hancock,[37] who witnessed the ejection of a fledgling hedge-sparrow, which “was put over the edge of the nest exactly as illustrated by Mrs. Blackburn.” The procedure is unquestionably instinctive.

The sounds uttered by young birds are sufficiently definite to be readily recognized and are susceptible of classification. In domestic chicks at least six notes may be distinguished. First the gentle “peeping” note, expressive of contentment. A further low note, a double sound, seems to indicate extreme satisfaction and pleasure. Very characteristic and distinct is the danger-note—a sound difficult to describe, but readily recognized. If a humble-bee, a black-beetle, a big worm, a lump of sugar—anything strange and largish—be thrown to the chicks, this danger-note is at once heard; and it serves to place others on the alert, though this is perhaps the outcome of experience. Then there is the cheeping sound, expressive apparently of a state of mild dissatisfaction with the present state of affairs. It generally ceases when one throws some grain, or even stands near them. Extreme dissatisfaction is marked by a sharper, shriller squeak, when one seizes them against their inclination. Lastly, there is the shrill cry of greater distress, when, for example, their swimming powers are subjected to critical examination. With pheasants a gentle, “peeping” note of contentment, a shriller cry of distress, and a danger-note, generically like, but specifically distinct from, that of the chick, are early differentiated. The complaining note of the partridge is uttered six or seven times in quick succession, followed by a pause. The note of the plover is high-pitched, and much like the familiar cry of the adult bird, to which it owes its popular name of “peewit.” So, too, the guinea-fowl in down utters from the first notes quite characteristic of its kind, while its danger-note is not unlike that of the chick or pheasant. The piping of ducklings is comparatively monotonous, and there does not seem to be a definite danger-note. With moor-hen chicks, even on the first day, two notes are well-marked—a call-note, lower in pitch than that of the chick, and rather harsh and raucous, and a “tweet, tweet” of pleasure, something like the contented note of a canary. Later, five or six notes are differentiated, the most characteristic of which is the harsh “crek, crek,” when the little bird is from any cause excited. It is uttered in a crouching attitude, with head thrown back and wings held outwards and forwards, waving to and fro in a very characteristic manner. That this has suggestive value for other moor-hen chicks is shown by its distinctly infectious effect; if one bird has cause to utter the note and strike the attitude others follow suit. While clearly instinctive in their mode of occurrence, while they seem to show well the co-operation of an internal emotional factor, their biological value seems to lie in their suggestive effect on other members of the brood. They form an elementary but sufficient social bond.

If these notes afford evidence of an incipient social factor, the instinct of pecking is distinctively individualistic. Chicks peck with considerable but not complete accuracy of aim at practically anything of suitable size at suitable distance; but it is through experience that they learn what to select for food and what to reject or leave untouched. Moving objects, however, are more readily pecked at than those which are still; and the instinctive response seems to be stimulated if one tap on the ground near the object, or move it with a pencil, thus simulating the action of the hen. And this is even more marked with pheasants and partridges. Plovers seize small worms with an avidity which looks like an inherited response to the sight of natural food. Pheasants and partridges also appear to be specially affected by worms, and when one of them seizes a worm for the first time, he shakes it and dashes it against the ground. Chicks, a week or ten days old, also seize a largish fly or bee with a dash, and maul it on the ground, throwing it on one side before again approaching it. And such birds seem to show an instinctive tendency to bolt with such treasures as caterpillars or small worms. Moor-hens cannot at first be induced to take food from the ground. It has to be held above them, whereupon they crouch down, with head and neck held back, opening their beaks more like the callow young of nursling birds; but they also strike upwards at the object—these modes of behaviour being, no doubt, correlated with the manner in which the mother moor-hen normally feeds her young from her beak during the early days of life. Callow fledglings, such as young jays, simply open their mouths, gaping widely to be fed. And many will respond in this way to such a note as a low whistle, as may readily be seen with swallows. But at a later age such birds show instinctive modes of reaction of a more complex type. A jay, for example, was offered a summer chafer or June bug, seized it at once in his bill, and tried to place his foot on it. Then he hopped down on to the floor of his cage, dropped the beetle, seized it again as it crawled off, and after two or three attempts swallowed it, tossing it back from the point of his bill into the throat. This was the first time he took food from the ground or swallowed it in this manner.

On the whole, there seems to be much inherited definiteness of co-ordination, and some tendency to respond in a definite manner to specific stimuli. That there should not be more differentiation in this respect than observation discloses is probably due to the fact that the parent birds afford, under natural conditions, much guidance in the selection of food. Since the solitary wasp unerringly seizes its appropriate food, since it responds instinctively to specific stimuli, there would seem no reason why birds should not show similar instinctive differentiation. But one must remember that in the case of the wasp there is no parental guidance; the insect is more completely dependent on instinct than is the bird to whose needs the hen assiduously ministers.

It is at first sight surprising that such birds as chicks and pheasants do not peck instinctively at still water. When a shallow vessel containing water was placed among some little chicks, several of them ran repeatedly through the water, but took no heed of it. Then, after about an hour, one of them standing in the vessel pecked at his toes, and at once lifted his head and drank freely with characteristic action. Another subsequently pecked at a bubble near the edge, and then he too drank. In fact, the best way of inducing them to drink is to scatter some grains of food in the tin; they peck at the grains, which catch their eye, and incidentally find the water, and the touch of water in the bill at once leads to the characteristic response and congenitally definite behaviour. That the sight of a still surface does not itself suffice to evoke this behaviour is probably again due to the fact that under nature the hen guides them and pecks at the water, when they follow her lead.

One fact which must be constantly borne in mind is that what is inherited is instinctive co-ordination, often related to a definite stimulus, not instinctive knowledge. A chick pecks at a grain when it is at a suitable distance, not because instinct provides him with the knowledge that this is something to be seized and tested, but because he cannot help doing so. He is so organized that this stimulus produces that result through an organic co-ordination that is independent of conscious knowledge or experience. How definite is the inherited co-ordination is shown by many observations. A young pheasant, only a few hours old, was taken from the incubator drawer, and held snugly while a piece of egg-yolk was moved before his eyes with the aid of fine forceps. He did not peck at it, but followed with movements of his head every motion of the object in a narrow circle. Simple as this action seems, it presents a striking example of co-ordinated movements accurately related to movements in the visual field, the whole performed without any opportunity for learning or practice, and less than half an hour after the bird was taken from the drawer of the incubator and first saw daylight. Psychologists sometimes puzzle their heads over the question how and by what steps the field of vision and the field of movement are brought into relation with each other; but in such a case as this, the problem ceases to be primarily psychological. The relation is purely organic; the conscious data are grouped from the outset. With young jays there was no such co-ordination at first; and when they began after a few days (about twelve or fourteen) to follow an object with the head and eye, the movements were at first jerky. But a week later, when I swept the food through a circle a foot in diameter in front of their cage, it was followed smoothly and evenly. Here a certain amount of learning and practice, absent in the case of the pheasant, was required. And it is difficult to say what proportion of the final result was acquired, what proportion hereditary; but probably the behaviour is in the main instinctive, though somewhat deferred.

One more example, perhaps even more trivial in the eyes of some people, may be given. A duckling a few hours old will scratch the side of his head. It is true he may topple over in the process, through insufficient powers of balance, for the simultaneous performance of poising on one leg and having a good scratch with the other is no easy matter. But let not either our familiarity with such behaviour, nor some observed and laughable failure on the part of the duckling, blind us to the fact that this is a congenital activity, and one of no little complexity, indicating a definite organic nexus. A local irritation sets agoing movements of the hind limb of that side through which just that particular spot is scratched in the absence of any previous practice, any learning to localize the spot. There can be no question that such inherited co-ordinations, whether perfect from the first, or with deferred perfection and some aid from acquisition, afford ready-made data to consciousness, which are of the utmost service in the guidance of subsequent behaviour. The two-days-old chick, with the aid of this instinctive co-ordination, performs well a number of actions, which, had she to consciously learn them all, would probably be still but half mastered when she was a skinny old hen.

Our whole treatment of instinctive behaviour has been based on the assumption, already to some extent justified, that experience is not inherited. If it be hereditary, how comes it that chicks show no recognition of still water, which must have been familiar to the experience of generation after generation of birds? How comes it that they do not even seem to recognize their natural parent and protector, the hen? Two chicks ten days old were taken to the yard whence were derived the eggs from which they were hatched, and were placed about two yards from a hen which was clucking to her brood. They were not in a frightened condition, for they stood on my hand and ate grain from it, scratching at the palm. But of the clucking of the hen they took no notice whatever. The same results were obtained with other chicks thirteen days old. Was this due, as Spalding suggested, to loss of the instinctive response which was perhaps present at an earlier age? Seemingly not. For a chick was taken at the age of two and a half days to its own mother, which had three chicks. These followed her about, and ran at once to her when she clucked and pecked on the ground. The little stranger, however, took no notice, nor did he show any tendency either to go to the hen or to follow the three chicks, having been purposely brought up alone. When the hen took her little brood under her wing, the stranger was placed close to her. She clucked, and seemed anxious to entice and welcome the little fellow, seizing an oat-husk and dropping it before him; but he remained indifferent, walking away and standing in the sunshine. After about forty minutes he seemed more inclined to go with the other chicks, but still ignored the existence of the hen. The natural instinctive tendency seems to be from the first to nestle under anything; and there is the hen provided by nature for the purpose. By experience the chicks grow accustomed to her fussy ways, as they grow accustomed to the ways of such a foster-parent as the writer of these pages. Still, though there is, apparently, no instinctive knowledge of the hen as their natural protector, and though I have seen no observable response to the clucking sound, this must not be taken as necessarily implying that there is no instinctive response to any of her modes of behaviour. There is such a response to her pecking on the ground; there is probably such a response to her danger-note; and there may be many other such instinctive modes of behaviour related to her actions. How far they extend can only be ascertained by patient observation; and such responsive behaviour need not imply any instinctive knowledge begotten of inherited experience.

We may now summarize some of the general conclusions which may be drawn from observations of instinctive behaviour in young birds.

1. That which is inherited is essentially a motor response or train of such responses. Mr. Herbert Spencer’s description of instinct as compound reflex action is thus justified.

2. These often show very accurate and nicely-adjusted hereditary co-ordinations.

3. They are evoked by stimuli, the general type of which is fairly definite, and may in some cases be in response to particular objects.

4. They are also generally shown under conditions which lead us to infer the presence of an internal factor, emotional or other.

5. There does not seem to be any evidence of inherited knowledge or experience.

IV.—The Conscious Aspect of Instinctive Behaviour

In our definition of instinctive behaviour all positive reference to the presence of conscious states was omitted. By some writers, however, the fact that it is accompanied by consciousness is regarded as a distinguishing feature of instinct. Romanes introduced his definition with the words:[38] “Instinct is reflex action into which there is imported the element of consciousness.” And he emphasized the conscious aspect when he said: “The term comprises all those faculties of mind which are concerned with conscious and adaptive action, antecedent to individual experience.” Professor Wundt also lays some stress on the conscious accompaniments of instinctive activities which, he says,[39] “differ from the reflexes proper in this, that they are accompanied by emotions in the mind, and that their performance is regulated by these emotions.” The definitions of other writers express or imply the presence of consciousness in differing modes and degrees, culminating in the hypothesis of inherited knowledge. Douglas Spalding, for example, said[40] that “animals can forget the instinctive knowledge which they never learned!”

Now, the exclusion from our definition of direct reference to the conscious aspect must not be taken to imply that instinctive behaviour is a mere matter of unconscious automatism; nor even that it is unprofitable to discuss how much consciousness there may be, of what sort, and how distributed. All that it does imply is, that the amount, nature, and distribution of consciousness cannot well be introduced into a definition the object of which is to help us to distinguish certain observable types of behaviour from others. In a word, the definition given is biological and objective, and is to be accepted or rejected without prejudice to such psychological considerations as those upon which we have now briefly to enter.

The first thing we have to decide is how much we are to include, from the psychological standpoint, under instinct. For we may take either a broader or a narrower view of the matter; and which of these we adopt will make much difference in our conclusions. Let us first deal with the narrower. We have said above that what is hereditary in instinctive behaviour is the co-ordination. Now, such co-ordination of movements into a finished and appropriate act is due to a nicely graded distribution of efferent nerve-waves to the several muscles concerned, so that these muscles may be caused to contract in due order, and each to just the right extent. But efferent nerve-waves as such, and their mode of distribution by the nerve-centres, are in all probability unconscious, while the contraction of the muscles is a purely organic matter. If, therefore, we narrow our conception of instinct so as to include only the co-ordinated act by itself, excluding all reference both to the stimuli which are its antecedents, and to the effects in consciousness which its performance may produce; and if the data for consciousness are in all cases supplied through afferent channels; then there seems to be no escape from the conclusion that instinctive behaviour as such may be, and probably is, altogether outside the individual consciousness. It should be noted, however, that on this view only the instinctive co-ordination in itself can be fairly regarded as independent of the stream of experience.

Now, in the first place it is convenient so far to broaden our conception as to include under the head of instinctive behaviour, in its conscious aspect, not only the co-ordinated act but the data which its performance affords to consciousness. It may indeed seem that we are here trying to draw a distinction where no real difference exists. The physiological distinction is, however, not only clear and undeniable, but quite easily understood. For the sake of illustration let us take the case of an intentional action, such as glancing up from the words we are reading to the clock. Efferent waves course along several motor nerves to the six muscles by which each eye is moved, and to the muscles of accommodation within the eye. These muscles are called into duly co-ordinated activity, by which our vision is focussed upon the clock-face. This is one part of the physiological procedure—that by which the intended result is attained. But there is a second part readily distinguishable from the former. As the eyes move, afferent messages course inwards from the muscles or the eye-sockets and their neighbourhood; and it is these incoming waves which afford data to consciousness, telling us that the movements are in progress or have been effected. The nerves involved in the latter part are quite different from those concerned in the former part, and they proceed to areas of the brain differently situated from those whence the efferent waves issued. Thus it is in all cases of movement; the efferent nerves call the muscles into play; the afferent nerves bring information that the movements are carried out. It is through the latter that data are unquestionably afforded to consciousness.

But in the case of any complex action—and, as we have seen, instinctive behaviour is often remarkably complex—the information that the action has begun comes in before the behaviour is completed. Practically we may say that any given stage of performance and the consciousness it evokes are simultaneous; for though in strictness the one lags just a little behind the other, yet they are so nearly coincident in time that we may disregard the interval between them. Such being the case, therefore, we may fairly regard the felt performance of the instinctive act as capable of introducing important elements into the conscious situation.

But not only does instinctive behaviour thus introduce important elements into the conscious situation, it is also called forth by stimuli which themselves afford not less important elements. To exclude these from any consideration of instinct, in its conscious aspect, would render the treatment of the problem so incomplete as to be wholly unsatisfactory from a psychological point of view. Can we believe that when the moor-hen dived, as it never had dived before, at the sight of the rough-haired pup, the vivid experience of that strange and disquieting intruder did not enter into, and form a prominent feature in, the conscious situation? If we are to consider the conscious aspect at all, we must try and grasp the situation as a whole. And on these grounds we may yet further broaden our conception so as to include, from the psychological point of view, not only the behaviour itself, and its effects in consciousness, but also the stimulating conditions under which it is called into play. If, then, we accept this position, and agree to use the term “instinct” for our present purpose in a comprehensive sense, we may now proceed to consider very briefly the nature of the elements which enter into the instinctive situation.

First, there are the external stimuli affecting one or more of the sense organs, and thus evoking consciousness; and secondly, there are internal factors, having their source in the condition of the body, or its parts and organs. It is convenient to take these two together, so that we may see what relationship they bear to each other. Both seem to be present, and to co-operate in a great number of instinctive acts. In the behaviour connected with feeding, for example, an internal element of hunger co-operates with the external presentation of the appropriate food or prey. So, too, with the instincts concerned in the propagation of the race. Looking at the matter generally, we may regard the internal factors of the kind with which we are now dealing, as giving rise to a want or need, passing in some cases into a state of craving. In themselves such conscious states are in their inception exceedingly indefinite; for a want can only be rendered definite in experience by its appropriate satisfaction. In many cases of instinctive behaviour the indefinite want and the particular and duly related stimulus seem to lead, without prevision and by a blind impulse, to the performance of those acts which will afford the unforeseen satisfaction. And when once this satisfaction has been attained, subsequent wants or needs of like character will no longer be indefinite; nor will future behaviour of the same kind be thereafter wholly instinctive, for it can never again be prior to, or independent of, experience.

Granted, however, that a felt need of some kind, indefinite at first but none the less real, is present in many cases as a spur to instinctive behaviour; is it in all cases a necessary factor? May we say that this distinguishes instinctive from merely reflex action? The question is, from the nature of the case, exceedingly difficult to answer. But without going so far as to say that reflex action may be unerringly distinguished from instinctive behaviour by the absence of any such internal factors, we may perhaps, at any rate, go so far as to give provisional acceptance to the view that in instinct these wants and felt needs enter into the conscious situation in a manner and to a degree that are so far distinctive—which seems to be the position adopted by Professor Wundt.

There is, however, a further relation between the external stimulus and these internal factors which is presumably of no little importance. The stimulus intensifies the want, or may in some cases call it into existence. Just as a whiff from the kitchen may lead us to realize that we need the satisfaction that will erelong be presented at table, so may the sight of his mate in the spring evoke in the breast of the yearling sparrow a need, having its source in morphological and physiological changes, that spurs him on to the courtship that shall lead to its due satisfaction. Popular attention has, indeed, been so naturally drawn to the internal needs or wants with which we are now dealing, as to give them an almost exclusive monopoly of the term “instinct,” which thus often comes to be regarded as a connecting link between the stimulus and the act. The sight of a mouse, for example, is said to call forth the instinct of the cat, which is satisfied by her pouncing upon it. And so it comes about that, while the biologist fixes upon the instinctive act as the essential feature, the psychologist is apt to regard the impulse[41] which prompts to action as the more central and characteristic element. We are here endeavouring to combine both these points of view.

To come to closer quarters with the relationship which holds good between the external and internal elements, it appears that, when the stimulus evokes or intensifies the want or need, this is probably effected by efferent waves which call the organs or parts into tonic action, of which the animal becomes conscious through the afferent messages which come in from them to the sensory centres; in much the same way as the whiff from the kitchen takes effect on the salivary and other glands, and throws the organs of digestion into a felt preparedness for the fulfilment of their functions. But it may have other and more indirect consequences. When the moor-hen dived to escape from the obtrusive puppy, his heart-beat was probably affected; he had, perhaps, an uncomfortable sinking in his gizzard; his breathing was short and laboured; and he experienced creepy sensations in the skin and around the feather-roots. Such we may suppose were the accompaniments or sources of the emotional state of fear or alarm. And they presumably entered with no little vividness into the conscious situation at the moment of instinctive action. In all those cases in which the behaviour is associated with such an emotional state as anger or fear, the external stimulus seems to produce widely-spread effects on the glands, respiratory organs, heart and blood-vessels, skin and other parts, as well as the more direct response in productive action. And all this must enter into the conscious situation, contributing largely, as we shall hereafter see, to the emotions in their instinctive origin.

Enough has now been said to indicate with sufficient clearness the kind of co-operation and mutual relationship which subsists between the external and the internal factors in the conscious situation which leads to instinctive behaviour. We have seen that, not improbably, some organic prompting is always present in greater or less degree. But the question still remains whether anything like a definite and particular external stimulus is in all cases a necessary factor.

When the predaceous larva of the water-beetle, Dytiscus, ceases to feed, and, creeping into the moist earth near the pond’s edge, makes a hollow cell in which to enter upon its pupal sleep, there does not seem to be any well-defined stimulus from the outer world which can be said to initiate the behaviour of whose purport the larva can have no idea. Some inner need seems to impel the creature to this necessary but as yet unknown course of action; and this appears to constitute, if not the sole, at least the preponderant element in the conscious situation. In healthy young birds and other animals there is after the rest of sleep a certain exhilaration and exuberance of spirits which seemingly leads to characteristic action; dancing, flapping of the wings, running hither and thither in short quick spurts, and so forth. No doubt in such cases external stimuli are present, and contribute in some degree to the effects produced; but they do not seem to be particularized so that one can say that just this or that well-defined stimulus is necessary to give rise to the observed behaviour. In the case of migration, too, an internal factor—the nature of which we do not know—is probably as strong as if not stronger than any influence from without. While, therefore, we may say that some external factors are frequently, not improbably always, contributory, we must add that observation does not enable us in all cases to define them with any approach to accuracy; and, further, that promptings from within seem in some instinctive acts to be the most important elements in the conscious situation.

It now only remains to draw attention to the fact that the effects of the behaviour, as the animal becomes conscious of the performance of the acts concerned, serve to complete and render definite the conscious situation. Consciousness, however, probably receives information of the net results of the progress of behaviour, and not of the minute and separate details of muscular contraction. These net results, having thus entered presentatively into the situation, are subsequently susceptible of re-presentative recall, when the recurrence of certain salient elements serve to reproduce the essential features of the situation of which experience has been gained on a former occasion. Hence, as has already been noted, it is only the first performance of an instinctive action which can be described as prior to experience. The second time the deed is done it is done by an animal which has had opportunity of gaining experience on the foregoing occasion. And then it may be done with a difference, with some acquired modification of performance. By the repetition of the slightly modified behaviour the effects of habit are introduced, and thus acquired peculiarities of action are established as individual traits. We must not forget that, in a large number of cases, so-called instinctive behaviour, as presented to observation, has lost through modified repetition its original purity of type. The acts we see are often the joint products of heredity and individual acquisition, the inherited co-ordination having been supplemented or otherwise altered through experience.

Even in the case of the very first exhibition of such a deferred instinct as the moor-hen’s dive, although that organized sequence of acts which constituted the behaviour as a whole had never before occurred, although there was no gradual learning how to dip beneath the surface, and to swim under water, still many of the constituent acts had been often repeated; experience had already been gained of much of the detail then for the first time combined in an instinctive sequence. So that if we distinguish between instinct as congenital and habit as acquired, we must not lose sight of the fact that there is continual interaction, in a great number of cases, between instinct and habit, and that the first performance of a deferred instinct may be carried out in close and inextricable association with the habits which, at the period of life in question, have already been acquired. Instinct supplies an outline sketch of behaviour, to which experience adds colour and shading. Which predominates in the finished picture depends on the status of the animal. In the lower and less intelligent types the outline stands out clearly, there being but little shading to divert our attention from the clear firm lines inscribed by heredity; but in the higher and more intelligent animals, the deft pencil of experience has added so much detail and has interwoven with the fainter outline so many new and skilfully introduced touches, that the original sketch is scarcely distinguishable unless we have carefully watched from the beginning the gradual development of the picture.

V.—The Evolution of Instinctive Behaviour

It may be assumed that the fact of evolution is generally admitted. The question of its method is, however, still open to discussion. It is possible that, as some biologists contend, there is an inherent tendency in organic beings to evolve in certain definite directions independently of their relation to the environment. But it is scarcely probable that instinctive behaviour is mainly due to any such inherent tendency—of the nature of which in any case we know but little. Setting this on one side, therefore, we have two hypotheses: first, that instincts are the result of natural selection; secondly, that they are due to the inheritance of acquired habits. These two views we will now proceed to consider.

We have seen that Professor Wundt distinguishes two classes of instinctive acts: first, those which are acquired or have become wholly or partly mechanized in the course of individual life; secondly, those which are connate or have been mechanized in the course of generic evolution. “The laws of practice,” he says,[42] “suffice for the explanation of the acquired instincts. The occurrence of connate instincts renders a subsidiary hypothesis necessary. We must suppose that the physical changes which the nervous elements undergo can be transmitted from father to son.... The assumption of the inheritance of acquired dispositions or tendencies is inevitable if there is to be any continuity of evolution at all. We may be in doubt as to the extent of this inheritance; we cannot question the fact itself.”

Now, the application of the term “instinct,” both to acquired and to connate behaviour, seems to prejudge the question of their genetic connection. And since we have the well-recognized term habits for actions the performance of which becomes automatic through frequency of repetition, we may substitute this term, or the phrase habitual acts, for the “acquired instincts” of Professor Wundt. Modifying, therefore, his statement in accordance with this usage, the fact which, he says, we cannot question is that acquired habits are inherited as congenital instincts. This opinion has long been held: G. H. Lewes regarded instinctive actions as transmitted habits from which the intelligence, through which they were originally acquired, had lapsed. Darwin believed that such inheritance was a factor in the evolution of instinctive behaviour. Romanes distinguished instincts due to this mode of origin as “secondary;” reserving the term “primary” for those attributable to natural selection, and describing those in which both factors co-operate as “instincts of blended origin.” The late Professor Eimer, of Tübingen, going further than either Darwin or Romanes, reverted almost entirely to what we may term the Lamarckian interpretation. “I describe as automatic actions,” he says,[43] “those which, originally performed consciously and voluntarily, in consequence of frequent practice come to be performed unconsciously and involuntarily.... Such acquired automatic actions can be inherited. Instinct is inherited faculty, especially is inherited habit.” In his discussion of the subject Eimer makes no express allusion to primary instincts; but he attributes to lapsed intelligence some of those which were classed by Romanes as primary, and his tendency is to refer all instincts to the same source. “Every bird,” he says, “must, from the first time it hatches its eggs, draw the conclusion that young will also be produced from the eggs which it lays afterwards, and this experience must have been inherited as instinct.” Why, in the first instance, it must draw the conclusion from observation if it inherit instinctive knowledge, is not made clear. But our present purpose is to indicate, not to criticize, Eimer’s position. He claims that “the original progenitors of the cuckoo, when they began to lay their eggs in other nests, acted by reflection and design.” Of the behaviour of mason wasps and their allies, which provide their young with paralyzed but living prey, he exclaims, “What a wonderful contrivance! What calculation on the part of the animal must have been necessary to discover it!” Of the instincts of neuter bees he remarks, “Selection cannot here have had much influence, since the workers do not reproduce. In order to make these favourable conditions constant, insight and reflection on the part of the animals, and the inheritance of these faculties were necessary.” And he concludes, “Thus, according to the preceding considerations, automatic action may be described as habitual voluntary action; instinct, as inherited habitual voluntary action, or the capacity for such action.”

Turning now to the opposite end of the scale of opinion, we find that Professor Weismann, commenting on the supposed inheritance of acquired habit, says,[44] “I believe that this is an entirely erroneous view, and I hold that all instinct is entirely due to the operation of natural selection, and has its foundation, not upon inherited experiences, but upon variation of the germ.” Ziegler and Groos in Germany, Whitman and Baldwin in America, Poulton and Wallace in England, either deny the existence of secondary instincts, due to the inheritance of acquired habits, or question the sufficiency of the evidence adduced in support of such transmission. In their explanation of the manner in which that inherited co-ordination, which is biologically the central fact in instinctive behaviour, has been evolved they rely mainly or entirely on the principle of natural selection.

What, then, were the facts which appeared to Romanes sufficient to justify a belief in the existence of a class of instincts dependent on inherited habit for their origin? He tells us that he only gives a few examples “amongst almost any number” that he could quote. It is certainly unfortunate that, out of more than one hundred and fifty pages devoted to instinct in his work on “Mental Evolution in Animals,” only three[45] are assigned to secondary instincts; or six, if we include one dealing with inherited peculiarities of hand-writing in man, and two showing the force of heredity in the domain of instinct, “whether of the primary or secondary class.” It is true that many pages are devoted to instincts of blended origin, but the co-operation of the Lamarckian factor is here rather assumed than proved. We must, however, be content to take the few examples that are actually given. They are four in number. First, that ponies in Norway are used without bridles, and are trained to obey the voice; and that, as a consequence, a race-peculiarity has been established, for Andrew Knight says that it is impossible to give them what is called “a mouth.” No details are given, and Romanes does not further discuss the evidence. Secondly, Mr. Lawson Tait had a cat which was taught to beg for food like a terrier. All her kittens adopted the same habit under circumstances which precluded the possibility of imitation. Supposing the facts to be correctly reported, and granting that the owners of the kittens, presumably aware of the maternal propensity, did not take some pains to teach the offspring of such a parent to beg (and this does not present much difficulty), one can hardly found a scientific conclusion on so slight an anecdotal basis. Thirdly, instinctive fear is said to be an inherited acquisition; which, fourthly, is lost by disuse. But, as we have already seen, modern investigation has placed this matter of so-called hereditary fear of natural enemies on a different footing. Pheasants, partridges, moor-hens, and wild duck show no fear of a quiet dog. If approached gently, in the absence of their parents, callow wild birds in their nest exhibit little alarm at the slow and gentle approach of man. Mr. Hudson’s opinion has already been quoted, but will bear repetition; it is, “that fear of particular enemies is in nearly all cases the result of experience.” And there is no evidence to show that, in those cases in which it is truly instinctive and not the result of experience, the instinctive behaviour is necessarily due to inherited habit and not to natural selection.

It cannot be said that the evidence for the supposed mode of origin of secondary instincts is sufficiently varied and cogent to carry conviction. On the other hand, there does seem some evidence which points to a different conclusion. When instinctive behaviour follows on a sensory impression, not only is the co-ordination hereditary, but there is an inherited linkage of stimulus and response. Thus in the solitary wasps the sight of the natural prey is followed by the appropriate modes of attack. The Meloë larva springs upon anything hairy. In chicks the sight of a small object at a certain distance initiates the act of pecking. In moor-hens and ducklings the stimulus of water produces the movements concerned in swimming. And so, too, in many other examples of instinctive behaviour, we infer from the observed facts that stimulus and response have an organic connection founded on hereditary links in the nervous system. Now, if such connection were due to inherited habit, we should expect them to be established wherever the experience to which they are related has been constant through many generations. How comes it, then, that the chick does not instinctively respond by appropriate behaviour to the sight of water? How comes it that young birds do not instinctively avoid bees, and wasps, and nauseous caterpillars? If the effects of ancestral experience be hereditary, one would surely expect that in these cases the connection between stimulus and response—a connection which passes into acquired habit—would have become congenital; that the habitual behaviour would have long ago become instinctive. But this does not appear to be the case. And with regard to disuse causing the loss of instinct, how comes it that young chicks swim with well-ordered leg-movements, though swimming is not an act that is habitually performed by the members of their race?

What, then, has the alternative hypothesis of natural selection to advance in explanation of these facts? On this hypothesis instinctive acts have biological value in such degree that they have become congenital through the preservation of adaptive variations. But if this be so, why does not the chick respond instinctively to the sight of that which is so essential to its existence as water to drink? In reply to this question it may be suggested that, under natural conditions, the hen teaches all her chickens to peck at the water, and thus shields them from the eliminating influence which gives rise to natural selection, in the absence of which the habit of drinking in response to the sight of water, though acquired by each succeeding generation of birds, has not become instinctive and congenital. Or, to put the matter from a slightly different point of view, the maternal instincts of the hen protect her chicks from any elimination in this respect; and in the absence of such elimination the habit has not been inherited as instinct. But though the hen can lead her young to peck at the water, she cannot teach them how to perform the complex movements of the mouth, throat, and head in actual drinking. In this matter, therefore, her own instinctive procedure does not shield them from the incidence of that elimination which leads to survival under natural selection. Those chicks would be eliminated which, on pecking the water, failed to respond to the stimulus by the complex behaviour involved in drinking, leaving those to survive in which the response had been congenitally established. Thus it would seem that, when natural selection is excluded, the habit has not become congenitally linked with a visual stimulus; but when natural selection is in operation, the response has been thus linked with the stimulus of water in the bill. Whence we may infer that the co-operation of natural selection is an essential factor in the evolution of instinctive behaviour.

There are, however, cases of instinctive behaviour which may seem too trivial and unimportant to be subject to the sway of natural selection. There are numberless little idiosyncracies of behaviour which seem to be truly instinctive, which are readily recognizable as distinctive traits, but which can hardly be regarded as of sufficient biological value to determine whether the creatures in which they are developed should survive or be eliminated in the struggle for existence. In many cases, however, these serve rather to distinguish the detailed manner of behaviour than its biological end or purpose. In different species natural selection may determine the survival of those whose instinctive behaviour meets a biological need. The relatively unimportant details, differing slightly in each species, are mere adjuncts; and since natural selection deals with each species or inter-generating group separately, the essential behaviour may in each case carry with it the associated differences of manner. We must remember, too, that, as in the matter of structure so in that of behaviour, it is the animal as a whole that is selected for survival; and so long as the whole is adapted to the circumstances of life, the associated differences of form or manner may share in, without doing much to determine, survival. In any case these little instinctive traits, if they are so trivial as to seem of small value from the biological point of view, appear to be too unimportant to have been intelligently acquired as habits.

Let us now consider one or two cases of instinctive behaviour which would fall under Romanes’s category of instincts of blended origin partly due to natural selection, partly to the inheritance of acquired habit. It is the custom of the house martin to build beneath the eaves. Forsaking the ancestral rocky haunts, it has been led to utilize the houses that man has built. This has all the appearance of being due to an intelligent modification of the ancestral instinct; but how far the modification has become through heredity a congenital variation, we do not know. The intelligence which is said to have enabled the martin of the past to adopt this method of nidification is still operative. The nestlings brought up under the eaves would have opportunities for acquiring experience which might lead them to build under similar circumstances. Nest and eaves would be associated in the conscious situation. Nor would the effects of natural selection be necessarily excluded. One may suppose that in the open country, far from rock-shelters, those martins in which there was a congenital tendency to build in house-shelters would bring up their broods and transmit this tendency; while those in which it was absent would either go elsewhere or fail to bring up broods at all. In the absence of fuller knowledge as to the truly instinctive nature of the behaviour, and as to its mode of genesis, we are in large degree at the mercy of conjecture. But in any case the incidence of elimination is not necessarily excluded, and there are, therefore, no grounds for denying that natural selection has been a co-operating factor in the evolution of the instinctive behaviour, if such it be.

It is well known that the lapwing will apparently simulate the actions of a wounded bird, with the object, as it seems, of drawing intruders away from her nest. And such tactics are not restricted to this bird, nor even to one or two species. They are common, no doubt with diversities of detail, to such different birds as grouse, pigeons, plovers, rails, avocets, ducks, pipits, buntings, and warblers. Granting that the behaviour is truly instinctive, it forms a very pretty subject for transmissionists and their critics to quarrel over. “If we seek, as an example,” the transmissionist may exclaim, “an instinct which bears the marks of its intelligent, and therefore acquired origin, this of feigning wounded provides all that we can possibly demand.” “What mode of instinctive behaviour,” the selectionist may ask, “can be adduced which is more obviously useful to the species? Is not this just the kind of procedure which natural selection, if it be a factor at all, must fix upon and perpetuate through the elimination of failures? Those birds which, through congenital variation of behaviour, acted in this way would certainly enable their offspring to escape destruction by enemies, and these would survive to perpetuate the instinct.”

Let us expand the transmissionist position a little further. An extremist, of the type presented by Eimer, would perhaps urge that the lapwing reasons thus: “If I pretend to be wounded, trail my wing, and flutter along the ground, instead of flying off, I shall draw upon myself the intruder’s attention, and lead him to suppose that I shall be easily caught; and if I thus entice him away, my little ones will be saved, and my end gained.” Thus, it may be said, might the bird argue, and then give practical effect to its reasoning. But are we not here attributing to the lapwing powers of ratiocination beyond the capacity of the most intelligent of birds? Are we not assuming a histrionic power, and a realization of the effects on others of its display, which many a human actor might well covet?

“But may not the bird,” it may be urged in reply, “have found by experience, without any elaborate process of abstract reasoning, that the trick is effectual?” In any case it would be experience perilously acquired. Granting that the bird has the wit to try the trick, a little over-acting, a little too much lameness of wing, and she is herself seized and killed; a little under-acting, and the trick fails—her brood is found and destroyed. Does it not seem probable that such experience would be dearly bought, that failure would mean either death to the parent or death to the offspring? And is it not clear that natural selection is thus introduced in any case? And may not the selectionist pertinently ask: “If natural selection is thus introduced as a factor, why halt midway between two hypotheses? Why not take the further step—one by which all the difficulties attending the intelligent acquisition and the biological transmission are alike avoided—of allowing that natural selection exercises, throughout, its influence on congenital variations, and not on acquired modifications of behaviour?”

There is, however, a way in which, when natural selection is operative, intelligence may serve to foster congenital variations of the required nature and direction. We must remember that acquired habits on the one hand, and congenital variations of instinctive behaviour on the other hand, are both working, in their different spheres, towards the same end, that of adjustment to the conditions of life. If, then, acquired accommodation and congenital adaptation reach this end by different methods, survival may be best secured by their co-operation. And the more thorough-going the co-operation the better the chance of survival. There would be a distinct advantage in the struggle for existence when inherited tendencies of independent origin coincided in direction with acquired modifications of behaviour; a distinct disadvantage when such inherited tendencies were of such a character as to thwart or divert the action of intelligence. Thus any hereditary variations which coincide in direction with modifications of behaviour due to acquired habit would be favoured and fostered; while such variations as occurred on other and divergent lines would tend to be weeded out. Professor Mark Baldwin,[46] who has independently suggested such relation between modification and variation, has applied to the process the term “Organic Selection;” but it may also be described as the natural selection of coincident variations.

It may be urged, therefore, that if natural selection be accepted as a potent factor in organic evolution, and unless good cases can be adduced in which natural selection can play no part and yet habit has become instinctive, we may adopt some such view as the foregoing. While still believing that there is some connection between habit and instinct, we may regard the connection as indirect and permissive rather than direct and transmissive. We may look upon some habits as the acquired modifications which foster those variations which are coincident in direction, and which go to the making of instinct.

The net result of a study of instinctive behaviour is to lead us to the conclusion that its evolution runs parallel with the evolution of animal structure. This is perhaps best seen in the case of those insects in which typical instinctive acts are performed by larvæ of wholly different form and structure, though they are stages in the development of the same species. This is exemplified in the cases of Sitaris, Argyromœba, and Leucopsis which have been briefly described. It is probable that in all cases of instinctive action natural selection has been a co-operating factor. Without going so far as to assert with Professor Weismann the “all-sufficiency of natural selection,” we may echo the words of Professor Groos,[47] and say: “Nevertheless, we know no principle except that of selection, and we must go as far as that will take us. Absolute knowledge of such phenomena is unattainable.” And in this conclusion we have the support of Dr. Peckham, who says,[48] “We have found them [the instinctive acts of solitary wasps] in all stages of their development, and are convinced that they have passed through many degrees from the simple to the complex, by the action of natural selection. Indeed, we find in them beautiful examples of the survival of the fittest.”