PAPIER-MACHÉ PALACE OF THE HORNET.
Sentinel Guarding the Entrance to the Palace.
Some few examples must suffice to show the power of gesture-language in the lower animals. I once owned a dog, a variety of hound, which was as companionable as any animal could possibly be. He was never happy unless he was on the go. So fond was he of travel and sight-seeing, that I gave him the name of Rover. My occupation calling me from home every day of the week, except Saturday and Sunday, but giving me a few hours of each day before the shadows began to settle round, Rover was forced to spend his time during my absence as best he could. He was no ordinary dog. Little he cared for the dogs of the neighborhood. His was a superior nature, and rather than associate with his neighbors when my companionship could not be had, he would perform his journeys alone, sometimes being gone nearly the entire day. But he managed to keep a pretty fair record of the time, for he was always on hand to greet me on my return home. His joy at my coming knew no bounds. He would rub up against my side, caper around me, assuming a hundred different attitudes, leap up into my face, which he would caress with his tongue. I shall never forget the barks of delight, nor the smile, as I would call it, for it verily seemed a smile to me, which lit up his intelligent face. Then he would slowly meander his way to the gate. Reaching it, he would place his right front paw upon the latch, spring it, and, taking hold of the top with his mouth, fling it wide open. He was then a very happy fellow. That he appreciated the favor I was about to show him, there could be no question, as he plainly showed it in his look, gesture and speech. Sometimes it was not convenient for me to take a walk with him, or I was not in the physical or mental condition to do so. It was not necessary for me to tell him in so many words that the pleasure would have to be foregone for the present, for his keen, discerning mind could read it in my looks. I never liked to disappoint him, for the grief which he manifested was piteous in the extreme. He would prostrate himself to the ground, place his head between his front paws, and look the very picture of inconsolable distress. The low, sorrowful moan which he would emit, when the disappointment was the keenest, was so heart-rending, that many a time I would reverse my purpose and say, “Come, Rover, master will not deny so good a creature the pleasure of his company for an hour or so in the woods.” Instantly his whole expression would change, and there would be exhibited a joy as intense as the grief which had depressed him to the earth. Rover was no hypocrite. His sorrow was not assumed, but as real and poignant a sorrow as ever possessed a human breast. I have known him to grieve for hours, and even to refuse the daintiest food when he has been disappointed. Were he dissembling, seeing that it availed him not, he would not be likely to have kept it up so long, and to his sore discomfort and detriment. Examples of animals making their language intelligible to man could be multiplied ad infinitum, but we must pass on to say something about their capability of understanding the language of man.
That many of the lower animals understand something of human language is a familiar fact. All the domesticated animals, notably the dog and the horse, can comprehend an order that is given to them, though, perhaps, they may not be able in all instances to understand the precise words which are used. There are many occasions, however, when it is evident that the knowledge of human language does extend to the signification of particular words. Parrots, as is well known, are well acquainted with the meanings of the words which they speak. Examples have been known to the writer of parrots that were able to speak in two languages, and, when addressed, always replied in the language used by their interlocutors, speaking English or Spanish, as the case might be. “Go, bring up the cows,” was an order that was daily given to Lion, a large black dog, with a shaggy head, that belonged to my maternal grandfather, an old-time farmer who lived way back in the fifties. So well did he understand the significance of these words, and the labor, worry and responsibility which they implied, that he did not have to be told a second time, nor have to have their import conveyed to him by sign or by action of the farm lad whose business it was to see that the animals were brought to the barn-yard at milking time. Obedient to orders, he would trot to the pasture-ground, nearly a quarter-mile distant, open the bars between the lane and the field with his mouth, and then start on his business with a full sense of its requirements. His coming was well known to the cattle. While the most of them would take their way in a quiet, orderly manner to the lane, yet there were some unruly ones among them who gave Lion a great deal of trouble, but he always succeeded in overruling their contrary tendencies. When there was a tumult in the hennery, accompanied by loud noises, the command, “Go, see what the trouble is!” was performed to the very letter, and the trouble, if any, was speedily announced by a series of loud, sharp, quick barks, which soon brought some one or more members of the family to the scene of disorder. If nothing unusual was happening, Lion would return to the house in a slow, leisurely way, and by his looks convey, as clearly as man could do it, the utter needlessness of the command.
Not only is the dog capable of understanding many things that are said to him, but is even capable of forestalling one’s wishes. Part of one of the writer’s vacations was spent in a small country town not very remote from Philadelphia. There was in the family with whom he boarded a dog called Prince. He was a very great favorite, and was once noted for his lively, vivacious disposition and jolly manners. But at the time of my introduction to him, he seemed to be suffering from some bodily affliction, which had not only taken away his appetite for food, but the very animus of his being. Upon inquiry I learned that the master of the house, to whom Prince was so deeply attached, had died the year before, and that the dog had taken his death so completely to heart that he had lost all of his former vivacity. He refused all food, often going for days without taking a single mouthful. Life seemed to have lost for him all its charms. Sad and dejected he would lie upon the porch-floor or ground, seemingly unconscious of everything and everybody. That he was slowly dying seemed evident to all. But a change from our first interview appeared to come over the animal. From some cause or other, he had taken quite a fancy to me. He would greet me with considerable friendliness when I would come down in the morning, and always seemed glad to be in my presence. My first business, on coming downstairs, was to go for the newspaper, which was always to be found inside the yard, some thirty steps from the house. I would then sit down upon the porch and read it, but Prince was always close-by, a willing spectator. One morning, however, instead of going to the gate for the paper as was my custom, I stood debating in my mind whether to go or not, when, to my utmost surprise, the dog, after watching me for a while, walked very soberly down to the gate, picked up the paper in his mouth, and brought it to me, not laying it down at my feet, but placing it in my hands. I thanked him for his kindness, gave him a few gentle pats upon the head, and he walked away as pleased as a child would have been who had received a few pennies for a similar service. The dog had evidently read in my looks the debate that was going on in my mind, and knowing that I always read the paper when I came down from my room, anticipated my wishes by bringing it to me.
UNSOLICITED AND UNLOOKED-FOR KINDNESS.
How Prince Forestalled My Wishes by Bringing Me the Morning Newspaper.
There is in the two interesting stories just related a singular aggregation of faculties which are held in man to belong to the immortal, and not to the mortal part of his being. Reason, or the deduction of a conclusion from premises, is strikingly exhibited. Then there is the power of forming ideas and communicating them to man, and the capability of understanding man’s language, and even of anticipating the wishes of human friends. And lastly, there is the intense love for the master, combined with the power of self-sacrifice, which enabled Lion and Prince to act as they did, while instinct was urging them to take their exercise in the open air, or in the enjoyment of luxurious ease.
No faculty of the mind gives greater trouble to materialists than Memory. It is that which survives when every particle of the material brain has been repeatedly changed. It is that which more or less deeply receives impressions and retains them through a long series of years. And even when they are apparently forgotten, hidden as it were behind a temporary veil, a passing odor, a dimly-heard sound or a nodding flower may rend the veil asunder in the twinkling of an eye, and scenes long forgotten are reproduced before the memory as vividly as though time had been annihilated. Nothing is omitted. There comes up to view a minute and instantaneous insight into every detail, and for a moment we break loose from our fleshy tabernacle, and see and hear with our spiritual and not with our material eyes and ears. Man expects that he shall retain his memory and carry it into the next world. He also expects to recognize in the spiritual world those whom he has loved in this temporal sphere. Memory, therefore, must be spiritual and eternal; and wherever it can be found, there exists an immortal spirit. No stronger evidence, apart from Revelation, exists of a future life of man than memory. And if we apply this proof to ourselves, then, in pure justice, we should apply it wherever memory is found.
But some have claimed that memory is a mere emanation from the brain. That an inferior brain is coupled with an inferior intellect, and that if the brain be slightly or seriously injured, the powers of thought will be weakened or utterly held in abeyance, are arguments that have been made to prove that thought is the creation of the brain. The facts in themselves are true, but the conclusion is false. The brain is but the organ or instrument of the thought-power, and stands in the same relation to it that a tool does to a carpenter. However good an artisan a carpenter may be, it is but common-sense to say that he cannot turn out good work with a blunt instrument, or any work at all with a broken one. So it is with the brain. It is but the tool of the spirit, and, if it be damaged in any way, the keenest intellect will not be able to work with it. Memory, moreover, exists in creatures which are devoid of brain. No real brain, but only a succession of nervous ganglia running the entire length of the body, is found in insects, and indeed in many of them the faculty of memory is very strongly developed.