The mollusks, clams, and snails took an easier, down-hill road. They formed a shell, and it developed large enough to cover them. It hampered and almost destroyed locomotion and reduced nerve to a minimum. But nerves are nothing but a nuisance anyhow. And why should they move? Food was plenty down in the mud, and if danger threatened, they withdrew into the shell. They stayed down in the mud and let the world go its way. If grievously afflicted by a parasite they produced a pearl—to save themselves from further discomfort. They developed just enough muscle and nervous system to close the shell or drag it a little way; that was all. Digestion and reproduction retained the supremacy. They were fruitful and multiplied, and produced hosts of other clams and snails. The present was enough for them and they had that.

For if the winner in the struggle for existence is the one who gains the most food, the most entire protection against discomfort, danger from enemies or unfavorable surroundings, and the most fruitful and rapid reproduction—and these are all good—then the clam is the highest product of evolution. It never has been surpassed—I venture to say it never can be—except possibly by the tape-worms. I can never help thinking with what contempt these primitive oysters, if they had had brains enough, would have looked down upon the toiling, struggling, discontented, fighting, aspiring primitive vertebrates. How they would have wondered why God allowed such disagreeable, disturbing, unconventional creatures to exist, and thanked him that he had made the world for them, and heaven too, if there be such a place for mollusks. Their road led to the Slough of Contentment.

But even in molluscan history there was a tragic chapter. The squids and cuttle-fishes regained the swimming life, and in their latest forms gave up the protective shell. But its former presence had so modified their structure that any great advance was impossible. It was too late. The sins of the fathers were visited upon the children in the thousandth generation.

The vertebrate developed an internal skeleton. This was necessarily a slow growth, and the type came late to supremacy. The longitudinal muscles are arranged in heavy bands on each side of the back, and the animal swims rapidly. The sense-organs are keen. The brain contains the ganglia of several or many segments and is highly differentiated. It has a special centre of perception, thought, and will; it is an organ of mind. The vertebrate has the physical and mental advantages of large size.

First the definite form and mode of developing a vertebra is attained. Then the vertebral column is perfected. The fins are modified into legs. The lungs increase in size and the heart becomes double. The animal emerges on land; and, with a better supply of oxygen and less loss of heat, all the functions are performed with the highest possible efficiency. First, apparently, amphibia, then reptiles, and finally mammals of enormous size and strength appeared. It looked as if the earth were to be an arena where gigantic beasts fought a never-ending battle of brute force. But these great brutes reproduced slowly, had therefore little power of adaptation, were fitted to special conditions, and when the conditions changed they disappeared. The bird tried once more the experiment of developing the locomotive powers to the highest possible extent. It became a flying machine, and every organ was moulded to suit this life. Every ounce of spare weight was thrown aside, the muscles were wonderfully arranged and of the highest possible efficiency. The body temperature is higher than that of mammals. The whole organization is a physiological high-pressure engine. The sense-organs are perhaps the finest and keenest in the whole animal kingdom. The brain is inferior only to that of mammals. The experiment could not have been tried under more favorable conditions; it was not a failure, it certainly was not a success when compared with that of mammals.

The possibilities of every system except one had been practically exhausted. Only brain development remained as the last hope of success. Here was an untried line, and the mammals followed it. During the short tertiary period the brain in many of their genera seems to have increased tenfold. By the arboreal life of the highest forms the hand is developed as the instrument of the thinking brain. The battle is beginning to become one of wits, and the crown will soon pass from the strongest to the shrewdest. Mind, not muscle, much less digestion or reproduction, is the goal of the animal kingdom. And we shall see later that the mammalian mode of reproduction and of care of the young led to an almost purely mental and moral advance. For these could have but one logical outcome, family life. And the family is the foundation of society. And family and social life have been the school in which man has been compelled to learn the moral lessons, the application of which has made him what he is.

You must all, I think, have noticed that the different systems of organs succeed one another in a certain definite order; and that each stage from the lowest to the highest is characterized by the predominance of a certain function or group of functions. This sequence of functions is not a deduction but a fact. Place side by side all possible genealogical trees of the animal kingdom, whether founded on comparative anatomy, embryology, palæontology, or all combined. They will all disclose this sequence of functions arranged in the same order. Let me call your attention to the fact that this order is not due to chance, but rests upon a physiological basis. We might almost claim that if the evolution of man from the single cell be granted, no other order of their occurrence is possible.

The protozoa are mostly, though not purely, nutritive and reproductive. These functions are essential to the existence of the species. Naturally in the early protozoan colonies, and in forms like hydra, these functions predominated. But mere digestive tissue is not enough for digestion. Muscles are needed to draw the food to the mouth, to keep the digestive sack in contact with it, and for other purposes. A little higher they are used to enable the animal to go in search of its food. They are still, however, more or less entirely subservient to digestion. But in the highest worms we are beginning to see signs that muscles are predominating in the body; and we feel that, while mutually helpful, the digestive system exists for the muscles, and these latter are becoming the aim of development. From worms upward there is a marked advance in physical activity and strength. The muscles thicken and are arranged in heavier bands. Skeleton and locomotive appendages and jaws follow in insects and vertebrates. The direct battle of animal against animal, and of strength opposed to strength or activity, becomes ever sharper. The strongest and most active are selected and survive.

And yet this is not the whole truth. Some power of perception is possessed by every animal. But until muscles had developed the nervous system could be of but little practical value. Knowledge of even a great emergency is of little use, if I can do nothing about it. But when the muscles appeared, nerves and ganglion cells were necessary to stimulate and control them. And this highest system holds for a long time a position subordinate to that of the lower muscular organ. Its development seems at first sight extraordinarily slow. Only in insects and vertebrates has it become a centre of instinct and thought. Through the sense-organs it is gaining an ever clearer, deeper, and wider knowledge of its environment. First it is affected only by the lower stimuli of touch, taste, and smell. Then with the development of ear and eye it takes cognizance of ever subtler forces and movements. Memory comes into activity very early. The animal begins to learn by experience. The brain is becoming not merely a steering but a thinking organ. More and more nervous material is crowded into it and detailed for its work. Wits and shrewdness are beginning to count for something in the battle. Not only the animal with the strongest muscles, but the one with the best brain survives. And thus at last the brain began to develop with a rapidity as remarkable as its long delay. Thus each higher function is called into activity by the next lower, serves this at first, and only later attains its supremacy.

And yet the advance of the different functions is not altogether successive. Muscle and nerve do not wait for digestion and reproduction to show signs of halting before they begin to advance. They all advance at once. But the progress of reproduction and digestion is most rapid at first, and it appears as if they would outrun the others. But in the ascending series the others follow after, and soon overtake and pass by them. And these lower functions, when out-marched, do not lag behind, but keep in touch with the others, forming the rear-guard and supply-train of the army. And notice that each organ holds the predominance about as long as it shows the power of rapid improvement. The length of its reign is pretty closely proportional to its capacity of development. The digestive system reaches that limit early, the muscular system is capable of indefinitely higher complexity, as we see in our hand. But the muscular system has nearly or quite reached its limit. The body had seen its day of dominance before man arrived on the globe.

But where is the limit to man's mental or moral powers? Every upward step in knowledge, wisdom, and righteousness only opens our eyes to greater heights, before unperceived and still to be attained. These capacities, even to our dim vision, are evidently capable of an indefinite, perhaps infinite, development. What, as yet only partially developed, faculty remains to supersede them? As being capable of an endless development and without a rival, may we not, must we not, consider them as ends in themselves? They are evidently what we are here for. Everything points to a spiritual end in animal evolution. The line of development is from the predominantly material to the predominance of the non-material. Not that the material is to be crowded out. It is to reach its highest development in the service of the mind. The body must be sustained and perfected, but it is not the end. The goal is mind, the body is of subordinate importance.

But if this is true, we must study carefully the development of mind in the animal. The question presses upon us; if there is a sequence of physical functions in animal development, is there not perhaps also a sequence in the development of the mental faculties? What is the crowning faculty of the human mind and how is its fuller development to be attained? Let us pass therefore to the question of mind in the animal kingdom.

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CHAPTER V

We have sketched hastily the development of the human body. This portion of our history is marked by the successive dominance of higher and higher functions. It is a history treating of successive eras. There is first the period of the dominance of reproduction and digestion, purely vegetative functions, characteristics of the plant just as truly as of the animal. This period extends from the beginning of life up to the time when the annelid was the highest living form yet developed. But in insects and lower vertebrates another system has risen to dominance. This is muscle. The vertebrate no longer devotes all, or the larger part, of its income to digestion and reproduction. If it did, it would degenerate or disappear. The stomach and intestine are improved, but only that they may furnish more abundant nutriment for building and supporting more powerful muscles better arranged. The history of vertebrates is a record of the struggle for supremacy between successive groups of continually greater and better applied muscular power. Here strength and activity seem to be the goal of animal development, and the prize falls to the strongest or most agile. The earth is peopled by huge reptiles, or mammals of enormous strength, and by birds of exceeding swiftness. This portion of our history covers the era of muscular activity.

But these huge brutes are mostly doomed to extinction, and the bird fails of supremacy in the animal kingdom. "The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong." All the time another system has been slowly developing. The complicated nervous system has required ages for its construction and arrangement. Only in the highest mammals does the brain assert its right to supremacy. But once established on its throne the brain reigns supreme; its right is challenged by no other organ. The possibilities of all the other organs, as supreme rulers, have been exhausted. Each one has been thoroughly tested, and its inadequacy proven beyond doubt by actual experiment. These formerly supreme lower organs must serve the higher. The age of man's existence on the globe is, and must remain, the era of mind. For the mind alone has an inexhaustible store of possibilities.

The development of all these systems is simultaneous. From the very beginning all the functions have been represented, all the systems have been gradually advancing. Hydra has a nervous system just as really as man. It has no brain, but it has the potentiality and promise of one, and is taking the necessary steps toward its attainment. But while the development of all is simultaneous, their culmination and supremacy is successive, first stomach and muscle, then brain and mind. That was not first which is spiritual, but that which is natural; and afterward that which is spiritual. But now that the mind has once become supreme, man must live and work chiefly for its higher development. Thus alone is progress possible.

But the word mind calls up before us a long list of powers. And the questions arise, Is one mode and line of mental action just as much the goal of man's development as another? Is man to cultivate the appetite for food and sense gratification just as much as the hunger for righteousness? Or is appetite in the mind like digestion in the body, a function, necessary indeed and once dominant, but no longer fitted for supreme control? Is there in the development of the mental powers or functions just as really a sequence of dominance as in that of the bodily functions? Are there older and lower powers and modes of action, which, though once supreme, must now be rigidly kept down in their proper lower place? Are there lower motives, for which the very laws of evolution forbid us to live, just as truly as they forbid a man's living for stomach or brute strength instead of brain and mind? Are these lower powers merely the foundation on which the higher motives and powers are to rise in their transcendent glory? This is the question which we now must face, and it is of vital importance.

We have come to one of the most important and difficult subjects of zoölogy. Let us distinctly recognize that it is not our task to explain the origin of mind, or even of a single mental faculty. I shall take for granted what many of you will not admit, that the germs of all man's highest mental powers are present undeveloped in the mind, if you will call it so, of the amœba. The limits of this course of lectures have required us to choose between alternatives, either to attempt to prove the truth of the theory of evolution, or taking this for granted, to attempt to find its bearings on our moral and religious beliefs. I have chosen the latter course, and here, as elsewhere, will abide by it. I should not have followed such a course if I did not thoroughly believe that man also, in mind as well as body, is the product of evolution. But this is no reason for your accepting these views. You are asked only to judge impartially of the tendencies of the theory. We take for granted, I repeat, that all man's mental faculties are germinally, potentially, present in protoplasm; we seek the history of their development.

We must remember, further, that the science of animal or comparative psychology is yet in its infancy. Even reliable facts are only slowly being sifted and recorded in sufficient numbers to make deductions at all safe. And even of these facts different writers give very different explanations. As Mr. Romanes has well said, "All our knowledge of mental faculties, other than our own, really consists of an inferential interpretation of bodily activities—this interpretation being founded on our subjective knowledge of our own mental activities. By inference we project, as it were, the human pattern of our own mental chromograph on what is to us the otherwise blank screen of another mind." The value and clearness of our inferences will be proportional to the similarity of the animal to ourselves. Thus we can educate many of our higher mammals by a system of rewards and punishments, and we seem therefore to have good reason to believe that fear and joy, anger and desire, certain powers of perception and inference, are in their minds similar to our own. But fear in a fish is certainly a much dimmer apprehension of danger than in us, even if it deserves the name of apprehension. And the mental state which we call "alarm" in a fly or any lower animal is very difficult to clearly imagine or at all express in terms of our own mind.

Some investigators have made the mistake of projecting into the animal mind all our emotions and complicated trains of thought. Thus Schwammerdam apparently credits the snail with remorse for the commission of excesses. Others go to the other extreme and make animals hardly more than mindless automata. We are warned, therefore, by our very mode of study, to be cautious, not too absolutely sure of our results, nor indignant at others who may take a very different view. And yet by moving cautiously and accepting only what seems fairly clear and evident we may arrive at very valuable and tolerably sure results.

The human mind, and the animal mind apparently, manifests itself in three states or functions. These are intelligence, the realm of knowledge; susceptibility, the realm or state of feelings or emotions; will, the power or state of choice. Let us trace first the development of intelligence or the intellect in the animal. Let us try to discover what kinds of knowledge are successively attained and the mode and sequence of their attainment. Hydra appears to be conscious of its food. It recognizes it partially by touch, perhaps also by feeling the waves caused by its approach. It seems also to recognize food at a little distance by a power comparable to our sense of smell. Stronger impacts cause it to contract. It neither sees nor hears; it probably does little or no thinking. Its knowledge is therefore limited to the recognition of objects either in contact with, or but slightly removed from, itself. And its recognition of the objects is very dim and incomplete, obtained through the sense of touch and smell.

A little higher in the animal world a rude ear has developed, first as a very delicate organ for feeling the waves caused by approaching food or enemies; only later as an organ of hearing. Meanwhile the eye has been developing, to perceive the subtle ether vibrations. The eye of the turbellaria distinguishes only light from darkness, that of the annelid is a true visual organ. Now the brain can begin to perceive the shape of objects at a little distance. Touch and smell, hearing, sight; such is sequence of sense perceptions. The sense-organs respond to continually more delicate and subtle impacts, and cover an ever-widening range of more and more distant objects. Up to this point intelligence has hardly included more than sense-perceptions.

But these sense-perceptions have been all the time spurring the mind to begin a higher work. At first it is conscious merely of objects, and its main effort is to gain a clearer and clearer perception of these.

Now it is led to undertake, so to speak, the work of a sense-organ of a higher grade. It begins to directly see invisible relations just as truly as through the eye it has perceived light. First perhaps it perceives that certain perceptions and experiences, agreeable or disagreeable, occur in a certain sequence. It begins to associate these. It learns thus to recognize the premonitory symptoms of nature's favor or disfavor, and thus gains food or avoids dangers. The bee learns to associate accessible nectar with a certain spot on the flower marked by bright dots or lines, "honey-guides," and the chimpanzee that when a hen cackles there is an egg in the nest. But association is only the first lesson; inference and understanding follow.

The child at kindergarten receives a few blocks. It admires and plays with them. Then it is taught to notice their form. After a time it arranges them in groups and learns the first elements of number. But when it has advanced to higher mathematics, the blocks, or figures on the blackboard, become only symbols or means of illustrating the great theorems and propositions of that science. Thus the animal has begun in the kindergarten way to dimly perceive that there are real, though intangible and invisible, relations between objects. But what is all human science but the clearer vision, and farther search into, and tracing of these same relations? And what is all advance of knowledge but a perception of ever subtler relations? What is even the knowledge of right but the perception of the subtlest and deepest and widest relations of man to his environment? The animal seems to be steadily advancing along the path toward the perception of abstract truth, though man alone really attains it.

And the higher power of association and inference which we call understanding, aided by memory, results in the power of learning by experience, so characteristic of higher vertebrates. The hunted bird or mammal very quickly becomes wary. A new trap catches more than a better old one until the animals have learned to understand it, and young animals are trapped more easily than old. Cases showing the limitations of mammalian intelligence are interesting in this connection. A cat which wished to look out and find the cause of a noise outside, when all the windows were closed by wooden blinds, jumped upon a stand and looked into a mirror. Her inference as to the general use of glass was correct; all its uses had not yet come within the range of her experience. A monkey used to stop a hole in the side of a cage with straw. The keeper, to tease him, used to pull this out. But one day the monkey tugged at a nail in the side of his cage until he had pulled it out, and thrust it into the hole. But when it was pushed back he fell into a rage. His inference that the nail-head could not be pulled through was entirely correct; he had failed to foresee that it could be pushed back. Many such instances have probably come within the range of your observation, if you have noticed them. But many of the facts which Mr. Romanes gives us concerning the intelligence of monkeys, apes, and baboons would not disgrace the intelligence of children or men.

Mr. Romanes relates the following account of a little capuchin monkey from Brazil:

In the highest mammals we find also different degrees of attention and concentration of thought and observation. This difference can easily be noticed in young hunting dogs. A trainer of monkeys said that he could easily select those which could most easily be taught, by noticing in the first lesson whether he could easily gain and hold their attention. This was easy with some, while others were diverted by every passing fly; and the latter, like heedless students, made but slow progress.

It is interesting to notice that one of the perceptions which we class among the highest is apparently developed comparatively early. I refer to the æsthetic perception of the beautiful. Now, the perception of beauty is generally considered as not very far below or removed from the perception of truth and right. But some insects and birds apparently possess this perception and the corresponding emotion in no low degree. The colors of flowers seem to exist mainly for the attraction of insects to insure cross-fertilization, and certain insects seem to prefer certain colors. But you may say that these afford merely sense gratification like that which green affords to our eyes or sugar to our tastes.

But does not the grouping of colors in the flower appeal to some æsthetic standard in the mind of the insect? What of the tail of the peacock? Its iridescent rings and eyes evidently appeal to something in the mind of the female. Do form and grouping minister to pure sense gratification? What of the song of the thrush? Does not the orderly and harmonious arrangement of notes and cadences appeal to some standard of order of arrangement, and hence idea of harmony, in the mind of the bird's mate?

Now, I grant you readily that the A B C of this training is mere sense gratification at the sight of bright colors. Most insects and birds have probably not advanced much beyond this first lesson. Savages have generally stopped there or reverted to it. But any appreciation of form and harmonious arrangement of cadence and colors seems to me at least to demand some perception which we must call æsthetic, or dangerously near it. But here you must judge carefully for yourselves lest you be misled. For remember, please, that those schemes of psychology farthest removed from, and least readily reconcilable to, the theory of evolution maintain that perception of beauty is the work of the rational faculty, which also perceives truth and right in much the same way that it perceives and recognizes beauty. If the animal has the æsthetic perception, it has the faculty which, at the next higher stage of development, will perceive, and recognize as such, both truth and right. We are considering no unimportant question; for on our answer to this depends our answer to questions of far greater importance.

Does it look as if the animal had begun to learn the first rudiments of the great science of rights, of his own rights and those of others? This is an exceedingly difficult question, though often answered unhesitatingly in the negative. But what of the division of territory by the dogs in oriental cities, a division evidently depending upon something outside of mere brute strength and power to maintain, and their respect of boundaries? The female is allowed, I am told by an eye-witness long resident in Constantinople, to distribute her puppies in unoccupied spots through the city without interference. But when she has once located them, she is not allowed to return and visit them, or pass that way again. So the account by Dr. Washburn of platoons of dogs coming in turn, and peaceably, to feed on a dead donkey in the streets of Constantinople, would seem to be most naturally explained by some dim recognition of rights. Rook communities have not received the attention and investigation which they deserve, but their actions are certainly worthy of attention. Concerning the sense of ownership in dogs and other mammals opinions differ, and yet many facts are most naturally explained on such a supposition.

Just one more question in this connection, for we are in the borderland or twilightland where it is much safer to ask questions than to attempt to answer them. How do you explain the "instinctive" fear of man on the part of wild and fierce animals? They certainly do not quail before his brute strength, for a blow at such a time breaks the charm and insures an attack. They quail before his eye and look. Is not this the answering of a personality in the animal to the personality in man; a recognition of something deeper than bone and muscle? And may not, as Mr. Darwin has urged, this fear in the presence of a higher personality be the dim foreshadowing of an awe which promises indefinitely better things? Is, after all, the attachment of a dog to his master something far deeper than an appetite for bones or pats, or a fear of kicks?

A host of other and similar questions throng upon us here, to no one of which we can give a definite answer. We need more investigation, more light. We must not rest contented with old prejudices or accept with too great certainty new explanations. The questions are worthy of careful and patient investigation. The study of comparative anatomy has thrown a flood of light on the structure and working of the human body in health and disease. We shall never fully understand the mind of man until we know more of the working of the mind of the animal.

It would seem to be clear that there is a sequence of dominance in the faculties of the intellect. First, the only means of acquiring knowledge is through sense-perception. But memory dawns far down in the animal kingdom. And thus the animal begins to associate past experience with present objects. The bee remembers the gaining of honey in the past, associated with the color of the flower which she now sees, and knows that honey is to be attained again. Thus in time association leads to inference, and understanding has dawned. But the highest faculty of the intellect is the rational intelligence, which perceives beauty, truth, and goodness. This is the last to develop. Traces of its working may be perhaps discovered below man, but only in man does it become dominant. Through it I perceive my rights and duties, and come to the consciousness of my own personality as a moral agent. This tells me of the relation of my own personality to other persons and things. And these are evidently the most important objects of human study. The attainment of this knowledge and the development of this faculty are evidently the goal of human intellectual development. This it is which has insured progress and raised man ever higher above the brutes.

Before we can proceed to the study of the will we must clearly recognize and define certain modes of mental and nervous action, which sooner or later manifest themselves in muscular activity. For, while certain of our bodily activities are clearly voluntary, others take place wholly, or in part independently, of the individual will. Between these different modes of bodily action we must distinguish as clearly as may be possible.

1. Reflex Action. I touch something cold or hot in the dark, suddenly and unexpectedly. I draw back my hand involuntarily and before I have perceived the sensation of cold or heat. You tell me to keep my eyes open while you make a sudden pass at them with your hand. I try hard to do so, but my eyes shut for all that. I shut them unconsciously and against my own will. I say, "They shut of themselves." Now, this is not true, but the explanation is not difficult. These and similar actions are entirely possible, although the continuity between spinal marrow and brain may have been so interrupted by some accident that sensation in the reflexly active part fails altogether. A bird flaps its wings after its head is cut off, and yet the seat of consciousness and will is certainly in the brain. A patient with a "broken back," and paralyzed in his legs, will draw up his feet if they are tickled, although he is entirely unable to move them by any effort of his will and has no consciousness of the irritation.

The physiological action is in this case clear. The vibration of the nerve caused by the tickling travels from the foot to the appropriate centre in the spinal marrow, and here gives rise to, or is switched off as, a motor impulse travelling back to the muscles of the leg, causing them to contract. In the injured patient the nervous impulse cannot reach the brain, the seat of consciousness, and hence this is not awakened. Normally consciousness does result in a majority of such cases, but only after the beginning or completion of the appropriate action. Yet the movements of our internal organs, intestine and heart, go on continually, and in health we remain entirely unconscious of their action.

But reflex actions may be anything but simple. We walk and talk, and write or play the piano without ever thinking of a single muscle or organ. Yet we had once to learn with much effort to take each step or frame each letter. Thus actions, originally conscious and intended, easily become reflex; often repeated the brain leaves their control to the lower centres. We often say, "I did not intend to do that; I could not help it." We forget that this excuse is our worst condemnation. It is a confession that we have allowed or encouraged a habit to wear a groove from which the wheels of our life cannot escape. The essential characteristic of reflex action is therefore that from beginning to completion it goes on independently of consciousness.

2. Instinct. This is a much-abused word. It is frequently applied to all the mental actions of animals without much thought or care as to its meaning. Let us gain a definition from the study of a typical case lest we use the word as a cloak for ignorance or negligent thoughtlessness. Watch a spider building its wonderful geometrical web. The web is a work of art, and every motion of the spider beautifully adapted to its purpose. But the spider is not therefore necessarily an artist. Let us see of how much the spider is probably conscious, remembering that our best judgment is but an inference. We have good reason to believe that she is conscious of the stimulus to action, hunger. She may be, probably is, conscious of the end to be attained—to catch a fly for her dinner. She seems conscious of what she is doing. In all these respects this differs from reflex action. But she is probably unconscious of the exact fitness of the means to the end. We do not believe that she has adopted the geometrical pattern, because she has discovered or calculated that this will make the closest and largest net for the smallest outlay of labor and material. Furthermore the young spider builds practically as good a web as the old one. She has inherited the power, not developed or gained it by experience or observation. And all the members of the species have inherited it in much the same degree of perfection.

Concerning the origin of instincts there are several theories. Some instincts would seem to be the result of non-intelligent, perhaps unconscious, habits becoming fixed by heredity and improved by natural selection; others would appear to be modifications of actions originally due to intelligence. Instinct is therefore characterized by consciousness of the stimulus to act, of the means and end, without the knowledge of the exact adaptation of means to end. It is hereditary and characterizes species or large groups.

3. Intelligent Action. You come in cold and sit down before an open fire. You push the brands together to make the fire burn. Applying once more the criterion of consciousness to this action we notice that you are conscious of the stimulus to act, of the steps of the action, and of the end to be attained, exactly as in instinctive action. But finally, and this is the essential characteristic of intelligent action, you are aware to a certain extent of the fitness of the means to the attainment of the end. This piece of knowledge you had to acquire for yourself. Erasmus Darwin defined a fool as a man who had never tried an experiment. Experience and observation, not heredity, are the sources of intelligence. Intelligence is power to think, and a man may be very learned—for do we not have learned pigs?—and yet have very little real intelligence. Hence this is possessed by different individuals in very varying degrees.

We may now briefly compare these three kinds of nervous action.

Reflex action is involuntary and unconscious. The actor may, and usually does, become conscious of the action after it has been commenced or completed, but this is not at all necessary or universal.

Instinctive action is to a certain extent voluntary and conscious. The actor is conscious of the stimulus, the means and mode, and the end or purpose of the action. Of the exact fitness or adaptation of the means to the end the actor is unconscious.

Intelligent action is conscious and voluntary. The actor is conscious of the stimulus to act, of the means and mode, and to a certain extent of the adaptation of the means to the end. This last item of knowledge, lacking in instinctive action, is acquired by experience or observation.

Reflex action may be regarded as a comparatively mechanical, though often very complex, process; the reflex ganglia appear to be hardly more than switch-boards. There is stimulus of the sense-organs, and thus what Mr. Romanes has called "unfelt sensation," unfelt as far as the completion of the action is concerned. But in instinct the sensation no longer remains unfelt; perception is necessary, consciousness plays a part. And this consciousness is a vastly more subtle element, differing as much apparently from the vibration of brain, or nervous, molecules as the Geni from the rubbing of Aladdin's lamp, to borrow an illustration.

But this element of consciousness is one which it is exceedingly difficult to detect in our analysis, and yet upon it our classification and the psychic position of an animal must to a great extent depend. The amœba contracts when pricked, jelly-fishes swim toward the light, the earthworm, "alarmed" by the tread of your foot, withdraws into its hole. Are these and similar actions reflex or instinctive? A grain of consciousness preceding an action which before has been reflex changes it into instinct. Mr. Romanes, probably correctly, regards them as purely reflex. We must, I think, believe that these actions result in consciousness even in the lowest forms. The selection and attainment of food certainly looks like conscious action. Probably all nerve-cells or nervous material were originally, even in the lowest forms, dimly conscious; then by division of labor some became purely conductive, others more highly perceptive. The important thing for us to remember in our present ignorance is not to be dogmatic.

Furthermore, the gain of a grain of consciousness of the adaptation of certain means to special ends changes instinctive action into intelligent, and its loss may reverse the process. Fortunately we have found that in so far as actions, even instinctive, are modified by experience, they are becoming to that extent intelligent. This criterion of intelligence seems easily applied. But this profiting by experience must manifest itself within the lifetime of the individual, or in lines outside of circumstances to which its ordinary instincts are adapted, or we may give to individual intelligence the credit due really to natural selection. We must be cautious in our judgments.

These reflex actions are performed independently of consciousness or will. Consciousness may, probably does, attend the selection and grasping of food; but most of the actions of the body will go on better without its interference. It is not yet sufficiently developed, or, so to speak, wise enough to be intrusted with much control of the animal.

Among higher worms cases of instinct seem proven. Traces of it will almost certainly be yet found much lower down. Fresh-water mussels migrate into deeper water at the approach of cold weather. And if the clam has instincts, there is no reason why the turbellaria should not also possess them. But all higher powers develop gradually, and their beginnings usually elude our search. Along the line leading from annelids to insects instinct is becoming dominant. A supraœsophageal ganglion has developed, and has been relieved of most of the direct control of the muscles. Very good sense-organs are also present. From this time on consciousness becomes clearer, and the brain is beginning to assert its right to at least know what is going on in the body, and to have something to say about it. Still, as long as the actions remain purely instinctive the brain, while conscious, is governed by heredity. The animal does as its ancestors always have. It does not occur to it to ask why it should do thus or otherwise, or whether other means would be better fitted to the end in view. It acts exactly like most of the members of our great political and theological parties. And until the animal has a better brain this is its best course and is favored by natural selection.

But the hand of even the best dead ancestors cannot always be allowed to hold the helm. The brain is still enlarging, the sense-organs bring in fuller and more definite reports of a wider environment. Greater freedom of action by means of a stronger locomotive system is bringing continually new and varied experiences. And if, as in vertebrates, longer life be added, frequent repetition of the experience deepens the impression. Slowly, as if tentatively, the animal begins to modify some of its instincts, at first only in slight details, or to adopt new lines of action not included in its old instincts, but suited to the new emergencies. This is the dawn of intelligence. Its beginnings still remain undiscovered. Mr. Darwin believes that traces of it can be found in earthworms and other annelids. He also tells us that oysters taken from a depth never uncovered by the sea, and transported inland, open their shells, lose the contained water, and die; but that left in reservoirs, where they are occasionally left uncovered for a short time, they learn to keep their shells shut, and live for a much longer time when removed from the water. If oysters can learn by experience, lower worms probably can do the same.

Certain experiments made on sea-anemones, actinæ animals a little more highly organized than hydra, demand repetition under careful observation.[5] The observer placed on one of the tentacles of a sea-anemone a bit of paper which had been dipped in beef-juice. It was seized and carried to the mouth and here discarded. This tentacle after one or two experiments refused to have anything more to do with it. But other tentacles could be successively cheated. The nerve-cells governing each tentacle appear to have been able to learn by experience, but each group in the diffuse nervous system had to learn separately. The dawn of this much of intelligence far down in the animal kingdom would not be surprising, for the selection and grasping of food has always involved higher mental power than most of the actions of these lowest animals. Memory goes far down in the animal kingdom. Perhaps, as Professor Haeckel has urged, it is an ultimate mental property of protoplasm. And the memory of past experience would continually tend to modify habit or instinct.

It is unsafe, therefore, to say just where intelligence begins. At a certain point we find dim traces of it; below that we have failed to find them. But that they will not be found, we dare not affirm. In the highest insects instinct predominates, but marks of intelligence are fairly abundant. Ants and wasps modify their habits to suit emergencies which instinct alone could hardly cope with. Bees learn to use grafting wax instead of propolis to stop the chinks in their hives, and soon cease to store up honey in a warm climate.

Our knowledge of vertebrate psychology is not yet sufficient to give a history of the struggle for supremacy between instinct and intelligence, between inherited tendency and the consciousness of the individual. But the outcome is evident; intelligence prevails, instinct wanes. The actions of the young may be purely instinctive; it is better that they should be. But instinct in the adult is more and more modified by intelligence gained by experience. There is perhaps no more characteristic instinct than the habit of nest-building in birds. And yet there are numerous instances where the structure and position of nests have been completely changed to suit new circumstances. And the view that this habit is a pure instinct, unmodified by intelligence, has been disproved by Mr. Wallace. But while size of brain, keenness of sense-organs, and length of life may be rightly emphasized as the most important elements in the development of vertebrate intelligence, the importance of the appendages should never be forgotten. Cats seem to have acquired certain accomplishments—opening doors, ringing door-bells, etc.—never attained by the more intelligent dog, mainly because of the greater mobility and better powers of grasping of the forepaws. The elephant has its trunk and the ape its hand. The power of handling and the increased size of the brain aided each other in a common advance.

The teachableness of mammals is also a sign of high intelligence. The young are often taught by the parent, a dim foreshadowing of the human family relation. And we notice this capacity in domestic animals because of its practical value to man. And here, too, we notice the difference between individuals, which fails in instinct. All spiders of the same species build and hunt alike, although differences caused by the moulding influence of intelligence will probably be here discovered. But among individual dogs and horses we find all degrees of intelligence from absolute stupidity to high intelligence. And many mammals are slandered grievously by man. The pig is not stupid, far from it.

Still only in man does intelligence reign supreme and clearly show its innate powers. But even in man certain realms, like those of the internal organs, are rarely invaded by consciousness, but are normally left to the control of reflex action. These actions go on better without the interference of consciousness.

But other lines of action are relegated as rapidly as possible to the same control. We learn to walk by a conscious effort to take each step; afterward we take each step automatically, and think only whither we wish to go. We learn by conscious effort to talk and write, to sing, or play the piano. Afterward we frame each letter or note automatically, and think only of the idea and its expression.

So also in our moral and spiritual nature.[6]

There has been therefore in the successive forms and stages of animal life a clear sequence of dominant nervous actions. The actions of all animals below the annelid are mainly reflex or automatic, unconscious and involuntary. But in insects and lower vertebrates the highest actions at least are instinctive. Consciousness plays a continually more important part. Still the actions are controlled by hereditary tendency far more than by the will of the individual. But in man instinct has been almost entirely replaced by conscious, voluntary, intelligent action. And yet in man, as rapidly as possible, actions which at first require conscious effort become, through repetition and habit, reflex and automatic. All our conscious effort and the energy of the will, being no longer required for these oft-repeated actions, are set free for higher attainments. The territory which had to be conquered by hard battles has become an integral part of the realm. It now hardly requires even a garrison, but has become a source of supplies for a new advance and march of conquest.

But all this time we have been talking about action and have not given a thought to the will. And we have spoken as if conscious perception and intelligence directly controlled will and action. But this is of course incorrect. Will is practically power of choice. You ask me whether I prefer this or that, and I answer perhaps that I do not care. Until I "care" I shall never choose. The perception must arouse some feeling, if it is to result in choice. I see a diamond in the road and think it is merely a piece of glass. I do not stop. But as I am passing on; I remember that there was a remarkable brilliancy in its flash. It must have been, after all, a gem. My feelings are aroused. How proud I shall feel to wear it. Or how much money I can get for it. Or how glad the owner will be when it is returned to her. I turn back and search eagerly. Perception is necessary, but it is only the first step. The perception must excite some feeling, if choice or exertion of the will is to follow. This is a truism.

Now reflex action takes place independently of consciousness or will. Instinctive action may be voluntary, but it is, after all, not so much the result of individual purpose as of hereditary tendency. Is there then no will in the animal until it has become intelligent? I think there has been a sort of voluntary action all the time. Even the amœba selects or chooses, if I may use the word, its food among the sand grains. And the will is stimulated to act by the appetite. Hunger is the first teacher. And how did appetite develop? Why does the animal hunger for just the food suited to its digestion and needs? We do not know. And the reproductive appetite soon follows. One of these results from the condition of the digestive, the other from that of the reproductive, cells or protoplasm. These appetites are due to some condition in a part of the organism and can be felt. They are in a sense not of the mind but of the body. And the response to them on the part of the mind is in some respects almost comparable to reflex action. But the mode of the response is, to a certain extent at least, within the control of consciousness. They train and spur the will as pure reflex action never could. But the will is as yet hardly more than the expression of these appetites. It expresses not so much its own decision as that of the stomach. It is the body's slave and mouthpiece. And once again it is best and safest for the animal that it should be so.

And these appetites are at first comparatively feeble. There is but little muscle or nerve and but little food is required. But these continually strengthen and spur the will harder and more frequently. And the will stirs up the weary and flagging muscles. The will may be a poor slave and the appetites hard taskmasters. But under their stern discipline it is growing stronger and more completely subjugating the body. Better slavery to hard taskmasters than rottenness from inertia. The first requirement is power, activity, and then this power can be directed to ever higher ends. You cannot steer the vessel until she has sails or an engine; with no "way on" she will not mind the helm, she only drifts. But the condition of the animal at this stage certainly looks very unpromising. Can the will emancipate itself from appetite and control it? Or is it to remain the slave of the body?

In time an emotion appears which marks the influence not directly of the body but of the individual consciousness. This is fear; it is for the body, but not, like hunger, directly of it. It arises in the mind. It results from experience and memory. The first animal which feared took a long step upward. But when and where was the dawn of fear? I touch a sea-anemone and it contracts. Has it felt fear? I think not. The action certainly may be purely reflex. Natural selection, not mind, deserves the credit of that action. But I am sure that the cat fears the dog, or the dog the cat, as the case may be. I have little or no doubt that the bird fears the cat. I am inclined to believe that the insect fears the bird and the spider the wasp. But does the highest worm fear? I do not know. I do not see how there can have been any fear until there was a nerve-centre highly enough developed to remember past experiences of danger and fair sense-organs to report the present risk.

Other emotions soon follow. Anger appears early. The order of appearance of these emotions or motives I shall not attempt to give to you. Indeed this is to us of relatively slight importance. The important point to notice is that a host of these have appeared in mammals and birds, and that each one of these is a new spur to the will. And the will of a horse or dog, to say nothing of a pig, is by no means feeble. And these are slowly emancipating the animal from the tyranny of appetite. But how slow the progress is! Has the emancipation yet become complete in man? I need not answer.

The will has in part, at least, escaped from abject slavery to appetite; it sometimes rises superior to fear. But it is evidently self-centred. The animal may have forgotten the claims of his dead ancestors, he is certainly fully alive to his own interests. Can he even partially rise superior to prudential considerations, as he has to some extent to the claims of appetite? Is it possible to develop the unselfish out of the purely selfish? And if so, how is this to be accomplished? It is not accomplished in the animal; it is but very incompletely accomplished in man. It will be accomplished one day.

In action, at least, the animal is not purely selfish. As Mr. Drummond has shown, reproduction, that old function and first to gain an organ, is not primarily for the benefit of self, but for the species. And not only the storing up of material in the egg, but care for the young after birth, is found in some fish and insects, and increases from fish upward. I readily grant you that this in its beginnings may be purely instinctive, and that not a particle of genuine affection for the young may as yet be present in the mind of the parent. But beneficial habits may, under the fostering care of selection, develop into instincts. The animal may at first be unconscious of these, and yet they may grow continually stronger. But one day the animal awakens to its actions, and from that time on what had been done blindly and unconsciously is continued consciously, intelligently, and from set purpose. This story is repeated over and over again in the history of the animal-kingdom. The care for the young once started as an instinct, affection will follow from the very association of parent with young. Certainly in birds and mammals there seems to be a very genuine love of the parents for their young. This is at first short lived, and the young are and have to be driven away, often by harsh treatment, to shift for themselves. But while it lasts it certainly seems entirely real and genuine. And how strong it is. "A bear robbed of her whelps" is no meaningless expression. And even the weak and timid bird or mammal becomes strong and fierce in defence of her young. In the presence of this emotion appetite and fear are alike forgotten.

But this affection or love once started does not remain limited to parent and offspring. Mammals, especially the higher forms, are social. They frequently go in herds and troops, and appear to have a genuine affection for each other. You all know how in herds of cattle or wild horses the males form a circle around the females and young at the approach of wolves. A troop of orangs were surprised by dogs at a little distance from their shelter. The old male orangs formed a ring and beat off the dogs until the females and young could escape, and then retreated. But as they were now in comparative safety a cry came from one young one, who had been unable to keep up in the scramble over the rocks, and was left on a bowlder surrounded by the dogs. Then one old orang turned back, fought his way through the dogs, tucked the little fellow under one arm, fought his way out with the other, and brought the young one to safety. I call that old orang a hero, but I am prejudiced and may easily be mistaken.

In a cage in a European zoölogical garden there were kept together a little American monkey and a large baboon of which the former was greatly afraid. The keeper, to whom the little monkey was strongly attached, was one day attacked and thrown down by the baboon and in danger of being killed. Then the little monkey ran to his help, and bit and beat his tyrant companion until he allowed the keeper to escape. We are all proud that the little monkey was an American.

Instances of disinterested actions are so common among dogs and horses that farther illustrations are entirely unnecessary. And disinterested action is limited to fewer cases because the environment is rarely suited to its development in the animal world. But do you answer that the affection of the dog is never really disinterested, but a very refined form of selfishness. Possibly. But it were to be greatly desired that selfishness would more frequently take that same refined form among men. But I cannot see how selfishness can ever become so refined as to lead an animal to die of grief over its master's grave.

And if refined selfishness were all, I for one cannot help believing that the dog would long ago have been asleep on a full stomach before the kitchen fire. Has no attempt been made to prove that all human actions are due to selfishness more or less refined? It is very unwise to apply tests and use arguments concerning animals which, if applied with equal strictness to human conduct, would prove human society irrational and purely selfish.

Mammals may be self-centred. But the highest forms have set their faces away from self and toward the non-self; some have at least started on the road which leads to unselfishness.

And man is governed to a certain extent by prudential considerations. If he entirely disregarded these he would not be wise. But the development of the rational faculty has brought before his mind a series of motives higher than these, which are slowly but surely superseding them. Truth, right, and duty are motives of a different order. With regard to these there can be no question of profit or loss. Here the mind cannot stop to ask, Will it pay? Self must be left out of account.