Moreover, when certain emotions reach a high pitch of intensity, they may defeat their own object, and give rise, not to definite well-executed motor-activities, but to helpless contradictory actions, affections of glandular and other organs, and a general condition of collapse. The emotion of fear, for example, will lead to motor-activities tending to remove a man from the source of danger; but when it reaches the degree of dread, or its culmination terror, the effects are markedly different. The countenance pales, the lips tremble, the pupils of the eyes become dilated, and there is an uncomfortable sensation about the roots of the hair. The bowels are often strongly affected, the heart palpitates, respiration labours, the secretions of the glands are deranged, the mouth becomes dry, and a cold sweat bursts from the skin. The muscles cease to obey the will, and the limbs will scarcely support the weight of the body. Here we have all the effects of a prolonged struggle to escape. Just as such a prolonged struggle will at length produce these motor and other effects accompanied by the emotion of terror; so, if the emotion of terror be produced directly, these motor and other effects are seen to accompany it.
Mr. Charles Richardson, the well-known engineer of the Severn Tunnel, has recorded several instances of railway servants and others being so affected by the approach of a train or engine that they have been unable to save themselves by getting out of the way, though there was ample time to do so. This may have been through the effect of terror. But one man, who was nearly killed in this way, only just saving himself in time, informed me that he experienced no feeling of terror; he was unable to explain why, but he couldn't help watching the train as it darted towards him. In this case it seems to have been a sort of hypertrophy of attention. His attention was so rivetted that he was unable to make, or rather he felt no desire to make, the appropriate movements. He said, "I had to shake myself, and only did so just in time. For in another moment the express would have been on me. When it had passed, I came over all a cold sweat, and felt as helpless as a baby. I was frightened enough then." Cases of so-called fascination in animals may be due in some cases to terror, but more often, perhaps, to a hypertrophy of attention, such as is seen in the hypnotic state. Speaking of the effects of artificial light on fish, Mr. Bateson says,[HK] "Bass, pollack, mullet, and bream generally get quickly away at first, but if they can be induced to look steadily at the light with both eyes, they generally sink to the bottom of the tank, and on touching the bottom commonly swim away.... In the case of mullet, effects apparently of a mesmeric character sometimes occur, for a mullet which has sunk to the bottom as described will sometimes lie there quite still for a considerable time. At other times it will slowly rise in the water until it floats with its dorsal fin out of the water, as though paralyzed.... When the light is first shown, turbot generally take no notice of it, but after about a quarter of an hour I have three times seen a turbot swim up, and lie looking into the lamp steadily. It seemed to be seized with an irresistible impulse like that of a moth to a candle, and throws itself open-mouthed at the lamp." As a boy I used frequently to "mesmerize" chickens by making them look at a chalk mark. They would then lie for some time perfectly motionless. Some such effect has, perhaps, led to the instinct displayed by some animals of "shamming dead."
Returning now to the emotions as displayed in man, we may take one more example in anger. This is an emotion that arises from the idea of evil having been inflicted or threatened. "Under moderate anger," says Darwin, "the action of the heart is a little increased, the colour heightened, and the eyes become bright. The respiration is likewise a little hurried; and as all the muscles serving for this purpose act in association, the wings of the nostrils are sometimes raised to allow of a free draught of air; and this is a highly characteristic sign of indignation. The mouth is commonly compressed, and there is almost always a frown on the brow. Instead of the frantic gestures of extreme rage, an indignant man unconsciously throws himself into an attitude ready for attacking or striking his enemy, whom he will, perhaps, scan from head to foot in defiance. He carries his head erect, with his chest well expanded, and the feet planted firmly on the ground. With Europeans the fists are generally clenched." "Under rage the action of the heart is much accelerated, or, it may be, much disturbed. The face reddens, or it becomes purple from the impeded return of the blood, or may turn deadly pale. The respiration is laboured, the chest heaves, and the dilated nostrils quiver. The whole body often trembles. The voice is affected. The teeth are clenched or ground together, and the muscular system is commonly stimulated to violent, almost frantic, action. But the gestures of a man in this state usually differ from the purposeless writhings and struggles of one suffering from an agony of pain; for they represent more or less plainly the act of striking or fighting with an enemy."
These examples will serve to remind the reader of the nature of those complex aggregates of organized feelings which we call emotions, and will also show the close connection of these emotions with the associated bodily movements and activities which constitute their normal fulfilment. So close is this connection, that the assumption of the appropriate attitude will conjure up a faint revival of the associated emotion. Let any one stand with squared shoulders, clenched fists, and set muscles, and he will find the respiration affected, and perhaps also the heart-beat, and will experience a faint revival of the emotion of anger. Very different will be his feelings as he reseats himself, abandons his limbs to a posture of leisurely repose, and allows a pleasant smile to steal over his features.
The next point to notice about these emotions is that they are to a large extent instinctive, and are evidenced in the infant at so early a period that individual acquisition is out of the question. In any case, the basis of sensibility is innate. As Mr. Sully says,[HL] "There are instinctive capacities of emotion of different kinds, answering to such well-marked classes of feeling as fear, anger, and love. These emotions arise uniformly when the appropriate circumstances occur, and for the most part very early in life. Thus there is an instinctive disposition in the child to feel in the particular way known as anger or resentment when he is annoyed or injured."
In this, as in other cases of instinctive action, of which we shall have more to say in the next chapter, it is, of course, impossible to say for certain how far the activities observed are associated with psychological states. The activities are undoubtedly instinctive. And their performance by an adult would be accompanied by an emotional state. It is, therefore, probable that in the very young child they have their emotional concomitants. Still, we must remember that oft-repeated actions tend to become automatic, that the accompanying consciousness sinks into evanescence, and that it is, therefore, possible that the emotional state may not have that vividness which the activities seem to bespeak.
There only remains, before passing on to consider the feelings and emotions of animals, to indicate what Mr. Sully terms[HM] "the three orders of emotion." The first order comprises the individual and personal emotions—those which are self-interested and have sole reference to the individual who feels, enjoys, or suffers. They take origin in percepts, either in presentations of sense or representations in memory. The second order introduces the sympathetic emotions. They are evoked on sight of the sufferings or emotional states of others. If we see a woman insulted, we are filled with indignation; and this emotion has a sympathetic origin. The third order comprises the complex feelings known as sentiments. They have reference to certain qualities of objects or activities of individuals which inspire admiration or disapprobation. They are abstract in their nature, and belong to the conceptual sphere. Such are love of truth, beauty, virtue, liberty, justice. To become operative on conduct, however, they need, at any rate in the case of most people, to be particularized and individualized, or brought within the perceptual sphere, ere they arouse anything that is emotional in much more than in name. As Dr. McCosh has well said, "No man ever had his heart kindled by the abstract idea of loveliness, or sublimity, or moral excellence, or any other abstraction. That which calls forth our admiration is a lovely scene; that which raises wonder or awe is a grand scene; that which calls forth love is not loveliness in the abstract, but a lovely and loving person; that which evokes moral approbation is not virtue in the abstract, but a virtuous agent performing a virtuous act. The contemplation of the beautiful and the good cannot evoke deep or lively emotion. He who would create admiration for goodness must exhibit a good being performing a good action."
Turning now to the lower animals, the first question that suggests itself is—What are their capacities for pleasure and pain? A very difficult question to answer. We cannot, I think, hope to know how much or how little the invertebrates feel—to what degree they are psychologically sensitive. Even among the higher vertebrates we are very apt, I imagine, to over-estimate the intensity of their feelings. Among human-folk it is not he who halloas loudest that is necessarily most hurt. And it is only through the expression of their feelings in cries and gestures that we can conjecture the feelings of animals. There are grounds for supposing that savages are far less keenly sensitive than civilized people. And we have some reason for believing and hoping that our dumb companions are less sensitive to pain than we are. Mr. G. A. Rowell, for example, in his "Essay on the Beneficent Distribution of the Sense of Pain," tells us that "a post-horse came down on the road with such violence that the skin and sinews of both the fore fetlock joints were so cut that, on his getting up again, the bones came through the skin, and the two feet turned up at the back of the legs, the horse walking upon the ends of its leg-bones. The horse was put into a field close by, and the next morning it was found quietly feeding about the field, with the feet and skin forced some distance up the leg-bones, and, where it had been walking about, the holes made in the ground by the leg-bones were three or four inches deep." Mr. Lamont gives a somewhat similar observation in the case of the reindeer. "On one occasion," he says, "we broke one of the fore feet of an old fat stag from an unseen ambush; his companions ran away, and the wounded deer, after making some attempts to follow them, which the softness of the ground and his own corpulence prevented him doing, looked about him a little, and then, seeing nothing, actually began to graze on his three remaining legs, as if nothing had happened of sufficient consequence to keep him from his dinner." Colonel Sir Charles W. Wilson, in his work "From Korti to Khartoum," gives similar instances with regard to camels. "The most curious thing," he says,[HN] "was that they showed no alarm, and did not seem to mind being hit. One heard a heavy thud, and, looking round, saw a stream of blood oozing out of the wound, but the camel went on chewing his cud as if nothing at all had happened, not even giving a slight wince to show he was in pain." And, again,[HO] "I heard the rush of the shot through the air, and then a heavy thud behind me. I thought at first it had gone into the field-hospital; but, on looking round, found it had carried away the lower jaw of one of the artillery camels, and then buried itself in the ground. The poor brute walked on as if nothing had happened, and carried its load to the end of the day."
With regard to this question, then, of the susceptibility of animals to pleasure and pain, no definite answer can be given. That they feel more or less acutely we may be sure; how keenly they feel we cannot tell; but it is better to over-estimate than to under-estimate their sensitiveness. In any case, whether their pain be acute or dull, whether their pleasures be intense or the reverse, we should do all in our power to increase the pleasures and diminish the pains of the dumb creatures who so meekly and willingly minister to our wants.