The Senses and the Mind

by Anonymous

There are, however, bounds beyond which the most intelligent dog cannot pass; and why?—the anatomy of his mind is different from that of man. His senses, that of touch excepted, are as acute as those of man, some far more so, but his reasoning powers are confined within a small circle. For example, education does not really elevate the dog over the wild packs of his own species—it rather rivets the chain which binds him to man as his lord; it enfeebles his instinct, and renders him at once more dependent and more useful; it places him in many different, and in a certain sense, unnatural spheres of action; it renders him a shepherd, a guard, a hunter, but it adds not positively to his information; he has no ideas of the beautiful or the sublime—of truth, of virtue, and vice—of humanity, pity, charity; he reflects not that death is his doom, even though he sees from time to time his companions expiring around him. It is, in fact, first, because the most elevated ideas or reasonings of the dog are merely simple, and those within a narrow compass; and, secondly, because the dog is utterly incapable of forming any abstract idea that education cannot elevate it above itself. It has not man's mental anatomy. The rudest savage can devise the bow, and the spear, and various other implements; he can fashion them because he has hands, but his hands are only the servants of his mind; had not his mind been what it is, his bodily organization would have been otherwise, but still in just harmony. In the savage lie the dormant germs of lofty intellect, and in his line, at some future generation, may a Milton, a Shakspere, a Newton, arise; sage poets, statesmen, and philanthropists, men of whom England boasts—England, whose children are the descendants of a semi-barbaric horde, which spread ruin in its westward progress.

But what the dog was in the earliest ages, what it was in the times of classic history, that it continues to be; on the contrary, man can emerge from a savage to a civilized state; acquire new wants and supply them; improve upon first principles, and take step after step in the pursuit of knowledge; add improvement to improvement; begin by building a frail coracle, and then launch his steam-ship on the water—begin by erecting a low kraal, and then erect the palace of Cæsar, or the temple of Athens.

Reflex operations of the mind are denied to brutes—even to the dog, an animal which the Almighty evidently created for the special service of man: hence, though the avenues to their minds are the same, reason has but a feeble grasp upon the sensations which there enter; and that mysterious power, quality, or impulse, which we term instinct, rises predominant, and leads to operations which in man could only be the result of reflection and experience. Yet, as we have said, the actions of the dog, and we may add of the elephant, the horse, and other animals, are not all instinctive, neither do all the actions of man proceed from a train of reasoning, for some of his, even, are instinctive: the love of offspring on the part of the mother is entirely instinctive in its source.

It is, then, easy to see how it is that even the highest brute, with a mind limited as we have described, and with instincts which guide in the place of mind, can never improve or add to any store of knowledge, can never conceive one abstract idea—such as eternity, infinity, matter, space, etc.—and can never investigate the laws of creation—can, in fact, be only what it is. The utmost extent of something like knowledge which the most intelligent and sagacious dog acquires, dies with it, and its successor has to learn all for itself. As for language, in the true meaning of the word, of what use would it be to brutes? Among the highest, as far as the necessity of communication extends, cries or modulations of tone and certain actions suffice to convey a distinct meaning; among the lowest, there is no necessity even for utterance, and there is no sense of hearing, nor even of vision. Language supposes a mind constructed like that of man, and as he emerges from a rude to a cultivated state, in like proportion will his language increase in copiousness and perspicuity, if not in force.

Let us here, without bewildering our reader in a maze of metaphysics, just glance at a few of the characteristics or faculties of mind, briefly anatomizing them, in order that we may clearly exhibit the mental distinction between man and the higher orders of beasts, by way of showing what the mind in each case derives from the inlets of the senses.

1. A Knowledge of Self-existence, or Personality.—This knowledge appears to us to be rather instinctive than the result of reflection, as some believe; we know intuitively that we exist, because we feel, because we see and hear, because we move, because we hope and fear; nor will all the arguments which Berkeley or his disciples can adduce, convince any person that he exists only in idea.

That animals of the higher grades, at least, have this knowledge is very evident; gregarious habits, mutual recognition, the watch and ward system, characteristic of so many species both among mammalia and birds—a thousand circumstances which our readers may call to mind, prove it. We need not insist upon the subject. It is a feeling rather than a portion of knowledge; it is intuitive, and experienced alike by the ploughman at his work, by the horses who labour in the furrow, and the busy rooks which follow in their track. Where there is fear, or pleasure, or pain, or desire, there must self-consciousness be—a feeling of self-existence. We have no reason to believe that plants possess this feeling.

2. Memory.—Memory is a mental exercise, or faculty, of the greatest importance to man; it is in constant requisition; without it our intellectual improvement would be confined within very narrow limits. Our acquirement of language, and of the rules of sciences and arts, depend upon this faculty, and it is strengthened by habitual exercise. Between memory and recollection, there is a slight shade of difference. A man may say, "I remember the events of the year 1848"—"I recollect such an event, now that you mention it." Events may be recollected after being forgotten, and often are so in illness—nay, forgotten languages have sometimes been fluently spoken. It often happens—why so, we cannot say—that circumstances or events, long passed from the mind, present themselves suddenly to it with extreme vividness, and are thenceforth remembered; but oftener does it happen, that the sight of some object, or that a sound, a note, a tune, a word, recalls to the mind forgotten events, bygone circumstances, hopes passed away, pleasures long fled, feelings long quiescent. This species of recollection has been called by some writers the "power of association." It certainly depends upon an association of ideas, which, on the key-note being struck, pass involuntarily through the mind; a sight or sound will often call to mind, with singular rapidity, a vision of other years, or of scenes far distant, towards which the heart intently yearns. Witness the effects of the air of the Ranz de Vache upon the Swiss soldiers in Napoleon's army. Recollection is often the result of attention. We remember a certain event, but forget the year in which it occurred; we direct our thoughts to the subject, we compare circumstance with circumstance, date with date, until at last—

"It breaks upon the mind, and all is clear."

That brutes possess memory is indisputable; indeed, we might fill pages with instances of the power of memory in animals, some rather startling; but as common every-day observation enforces the fact upon almost every one, we need not insist upon it. However, by way of adding interest to a disquisition some may deem dry, we will introduce the following anecdote, related by Mr. Corse, in his Observations on the Natural History of the Elephant:[6] "In June, 1787, Fâttra Mungul, a male elephant, taken the year before, was travelling in company with other elephants towards Chittagong, laden with a tent and some baggage for our accommodation on the journey. Having come upon a tiger's track, which elephants discover readily by the smell, he took fright and ran off to the woods, in spite of the efforts of his driver. On entering the wood, the driver saved himself by springing from the elephant, and clinging to the branch of a tree under which he was passing. When the elephant had got rid of his driver, he soon contrived to shake off his load. As soon as he ran away, a trained female was dispatched after him, but could not get up in time to prevent his escape. She, however, brought back his driver, and the load he had thrown off, and we proceeded without any hope of ever seeing him again. Eighteen months after this, when a herd of elephants had been taken, and had remained several days in the inclosure, till they were enticed into the outlet, there tied and led out in the usual manner, one of the drivers, viewing a male elephant very attentively, declared he resembled the one which had run away. This excited the curiosity of every one to go and look at him; but when any person came near, the animal struck at him with his trunk, and in every respect appeared as wild and outrageous as any of the other elephants. At length, an old hunter coming up, and examining him narrowly, declared he was the very elephant that had made his escape about eighteen months before. Confident of this, he boldly rode up to him on a tame elephant, ordering him to lie down, and pulling him by the ear at the same time. The animal seemed quite taken by surprise, and instantly obeyed the word of command, with as much quickness as the ropes with which he was tied permitted; uttering at the same time a peculiar shrill squeak through his trunk, as he had formerly been known to do, by which he was immediately recognised by every person who had ever been acquainted with this peculiarity." The same observer informs us, that another elephant, a female, taken in 1765, was turned loose in 1767, and retaken in 1782. She then recollected the customs and words of command learned during her former bondage; she laid herself down at the command of her driver, he fed her from his seat, gave her his stick to hold, which she took with her trunk, put it into her mouth, and returned it as she was directed, and as she had been accustomed to do.