Intelligence in Plants and Animals / Being a New Edition of the Author's Privately Issued "Soul and Immortality."

by Thomas G. Gentry

Then there is the moner, a mere speck of formless protoplasm, that has not the slightest trace of a specialized nervous system, yet it has the power of throwing out arms and of retracting them into the general body-mass, of opening out mouths where a particle of food strikes it, of digesting its food, and of circulating its fluid without the necessity of canals. But how are these movements effected? Certainly a nervous influence is the prime mover of all its actions. Nerve-matter, mayhap, constitutes its entire body-mass, or it may be all brain as well as all muscle. Though the lowest and simplest of all animal life, yet it possesses an innate consciousness and intelligence. Memory is not wanting as a faculty of the mind of this all-brain animal, which I have thought fit to characterize it, as some actions of it already described under the head of “Slime Animals” seem very clearly to indicate.

Some fifteen years ago I mentioned in an article, entitled “Insect Pets,” a pair of flies, the common Musca domestica of our houses, which had been closely observed by Mr. Forestel, the gentleman who at that time had charge of the distributing department of the Philadelphia Record. This position necessitates nocturnal employment. While taking his midnight lunch, Mr. Forestel’s attention was directed to a pair of these insects that had located themselves upon his plate. Had it been in the summer when flies were plentiful, the event would hardly have been noticed; but being in the winter, a season notable for their great scarcity, they could not but impress his mind with something out of the ordinary. Night after night these self-invited and curious guests presented themselves at the same place, and it was a long time before he observed the regularity of their visits. At first he was disposed to view the alighting of two flies upon his plate as a mere coincidence, but he at length became so deeply interested in the affair, that he resolved to watch their actions very closely. It was not long before he became convinced that they always waited for the commencement of the meal, when they would deliberately fly down for their regular lunch. So closely did he watch them, that he was soon able to discriminate between the two, and to discover beyond a doubt that it was not a series of two flies, but always the same pair. As time progressed, Mr. Forestel and the flies grew to be famous friends. They in time became so friendly, that they would permit themselves to be handled. Although at first they would only appear when Mr. Forestel was alone, yet they soon became accustomed to strangers. On the nights when their friend was not on duty, others have spread their lunches on the table used by him, but the flies were not slow in making the discovery, and, instead of alighting, would quickly hasten away without their accustomed meal. Who can deny the possession of memory to these two flies? Had the discovery of the food been an accidental occurrence the first time, could it have been so the second and all the succeeding times? Then, again, the flies always came at the right time, showing that they had some idea of the passing moments. Even admitting that this latter thought is out of the range of probability, there can be no doubt that they were not observant creatures, else how would they know when to come, or whether or not the man that sat at the table was the same that had shown them so much kindness on their previous visits. That they did know these things, there cannot be the slightest doubt. But how did they know them? There is only one answer to the query. They knew them through the exercise of memory, these creatures impressing on their minds the appearance of the objects near the table, the form and color of the table itself, the look, manner and dress of the man who sat by it, and acting on the result of these impressions. Human beings act in just the same way in traversing for the first time a locality through which they will have to return. And yet, as has already been stated, these insects have no true brains.

Considerably removed from insects are the vermes, or worms. Man, in his overweening opinion of self, would hardly credit the earth-worm with the possession of any mental qualities; yet it has been shown that it can reason, and can communicate after its fashion with its fellows. It is now my intention to prove that it has the power of memory. Has the reader ever seen an earth-worm trying to carry into its burrow a pair of pine-needles joined at their bases? It knows just where to seize the pair. This it determines by feeling, or moving its head along the needles, the sense of touch being very acute in this portion of its body. Hardly ever is a mistake made by seizing the free or apical extremities. Once it has discovered where to act, this position is fixed in memory, and the animal exercises the latter power in dealing with objects of the kind in all subsequent operations.

Almost any living being can by means of the faculty of memory be taught by man. But were it absent, no teaching would be of the slightest avail. In most cases where an animal is ferocious, I firmly believe that fear, and not ill-temper, is the real cause of its conduct. Let a little kindness be shown, and the animal will never forget it. Such acts, repeatedly performed, assure it that your intentions are well-meant, and it soon learns to recognize in you a friend. The memory of your goodness will often be recollected after long years of separation, and the most joyous feelings be manifested at the sight of your presence upon returning home. Everyone who has had personal experience of domesticated animals must have remarked the great strength and endurance of their powers of memory. The dog, the cat, the horse and the ass afford so many familiar anecdotes in point, that I shall be obliged to pass them over and restrict my illustrations to a few animals about which little has been said.

For obstinacy of opinion no animal can excel the pig. He is a creature whom few, on account of his uncleanly person and disgusting habits, would care to caress. Yet there is no animal under man’s care that enjoys such treatment better than he does. He will stand for hours while you rub his head and back, the very impersonation of contentment, never failing to express his thanks and appreciation by occasional monosyllabic grunts. A friend of ours, living in Northern Indiana, had a fine fellow, whom he had raised from infancy. When he was quite young, he began to show him considerable attention, picking him up in his arms, and fondling him in the most affectionate manner. The choicest food was always reserved for him, and the cosiest bed of straw provided for his nightly rest. In process of time the animal grew to great size, but he never forgot these early attentions. He expected them all the same. When denied what he deemed were his lawful rights, he would set up an unearthly squealing, enough to split the ears of the groundlings, and refuse to be comforted until his demands were satisfied. Never was the master, when out of the house, safe from his intrusions. He would besiege him in the presence of company, command his attention, and cry in his own peculiar fashion if he thought himself ignored. Many a rough-and-tumble game, which reminded me of boys in my childhood days, would they have together, and it was really amusing to see them. They enjoyed these tussles, which were always of the most friendly character.

Stupid as the life of a cow may seem to be, yet there has been known to the writer some cows which were far from being dull and prosaic. Our same Hoosier friend had such an animal, whom he called Daisy. She was very docile and affectionate, and would come, even when grazing in the most delightful pasture of clover, whenever her name happened to be mentioned. Daisy was a pretty creature, and very exemplary in her conduct. When her companions would break into a field of corn, where they had no right to be, she would not follow their wicked example, but remained where her master had placed her and the rest of the herd, showing them, as it were, that she did not approve of such wilful waywardness. No member of the bovine family of animals ever showed a greater fondness for love than Daisy. The master could put his arms around her neck, and lay his face against the side of her own. That she approved of such familiarity was evident, for she would show that she did by placing her lips against his in true lover-like fashion. But there came a time when this attachment to the master became dissolved. On account of the bad behavior of the herd in general, and to make it a law-abiding community, it was resolved that each member should have its horns sawn off close up to the skull. This, it was thought, would improve the temper of the herd, and make it less troublesome to manage. No fear was entertained, however, for Daisy, who was already as good as she could be, but Daisy must undergo the same cruel punishment for the sake of uniformity in this particular in the herd. It had, however, the opposite effect upon Daisy from what it had upon the rest of the herd, for it made her sullen and morose, and from that time she resented all familiarity upon the part of the master. She seemed to view him as her worst enemy. All attempts to settle her grievances were viewed in a suspicious manner, and the matter of reconciliation had at length to be abandoned.

Beasts, there is no doubt, were intended to be the servants of man, and there is nothing in his hands half so powerful in the accomplishment of this end as thoughtful kindness. Inflexible decision, combined with gentleness and sympathy, are irresistible weapons in his power, and no animal exists, I firmly believe, which cannot be subdued if the right man undertakes the task. By this mixture of firmness and kindness many a wild beast of a horse has been in a half-hour rendered gentle and subservient by Rarey, obeying the least sign of his conqueror, and permitting himself to be freely handled without displaying the slightest resentment.

That there is something more in memory than a mere production of a material brain must seem probable from the examples given. In several cases the animals were without any brains at all, but in others, where a brain did exist, its material particles must have been repeatedly changed, while the ideas impressed upon the memory still remained in full force.

Perhaps no attribute of the mind is better fitted to follow that which has just been treated than Generosity. But whether we accept it in the sense of liberality or magnanimity, it is certainly a very lofty quality, and one which infinitely ennobles the character of those who possess it. Taken in the former sense, it is an attribute of Deity, who gives us freely all that we have, and so sets us an example of generosity to our fellow-creatures. Now, if it be admitted that the possession of generosity ennobles man’s character, while the lack of that quality debases it, then the inference is undeniable that when we find a beast possessing generosity, and a man devoid of it, the beast is in that particular the superior of the man. And that generosity, being a divine attribute, belongs to the spirit and not to the body, no believer in Christianity is likely to deny. Therefore, wherever we find this characteristic developed, we must admit the presence of an immortal spirit.

That the lower animals do possess generosity in the sense of Liberality will now be proved from circumstances that have occurred within my own observation. My first proof is a very interesting one, and is drawn from the life of a dog that was the companion of my school-boy days. Sport was the name of the animal. He was not a greedy, selfish creature, but a generous, noble fellow. Many an act of self-sacrifice had he been known to perform, and he was never happier than when he was doing some good to his fellows. It was not unlike him, when he would meet a poor, strange and hungry animal of his own kind by the roadway, to bring him to his master’s house, and at the meal-hour divide with the unfortunate his noon-day allowance. Between him and a certain cat, called Blackey, which was also a member of the same household, there existed a very strong friendship. Any injury done the cat was most summarily resented by Sport. He would share his meals with her, and never seemed satisfied unless she would consent to take the choicest bits. But the generosity was not all on his side, for the cat certainly rivalled him in the exercise of this noble trait, which all acknowledge to be one of the noblest characteristics of the human mind. When Blackey was sick, and unable to be around, much of the time of the dog would be spent in her presence. He would caress her with his paw, smooth her silken, jet-black fur with his tongue, and seek by every means in his power to raise her drooping spirits and alleviate her miseries. No animal, not even man himself, could show more real sympathy for a fellow in distress than Sport did for Blackey.