I FULLY subscribe
to the judgment of those writers*
who maintain
that of all the differences between
man and the lower animals, the
moral sense or conscience is
by far the most important. This
sense, as
Mackintosh*(2) remarks, "has a rightful supremacy over every other principle
of human action"; it is summed up in that short but imperious word ought, so
full of high significance. It is the most noble of all the attributes of man,
leading him without a moment's hesitation to risk his life for that of a fellow-creature;
or after due deliberation, impelled simply by the deep feeling of right or duty,
to sacrifice it in some great cause. Immanuel Kant exclaims, "Duty! Wondrous
thought, that workest neither by fond insinuation, flattery, nor by any threat,
but merely by holding up thy naked law in the soul, and so extorting for thyself
always reverence, if not always obedience; before whom all appetites are dumb,
however secretly they
rebel; whence thy original?"*(3)
* See, for instance,
on this subject, Quatrefages,
Unite de
l'Espece Humaine, 1861, p. 21, &c.
*(2) Dissertation
an Ethical Philosophy, 1837,
p. 231, &c.
*(3) Metaphysics of Ethics translated
by J. W. Semple, Edinburgh, 1836,
p. 136.
This great question has been
discussed by many writers* of
consummate ability; and my sole
excuse for touching on it, is
the impossibility of here passing
it over; and because, as far
as I know, no one has approached
it exclusively from the side
of natural history. The investigation
possesses, also, some independent
interest, as an attempt to see
how far the study of the lower
animals throws light on one of
the highest psychical faculties
of man.
* Mr. Bain gives a list (Mental
and Moral Science, 1868, pp.
543-725) of twenty-six British
authors who have written on this
subject, and whose names are
familiar to every reader; to
these, Mr. Bain's own name, and
those of Mr. Lecky, Mr. Shadworth
Hodgson, Sir J. Lubbock, and
others, might be added.
The following proposition seems
to me in a high degree probable-
namely, that any animal whatever,
endowed with well-marked social
instincts,* the parental and
filial affections being here
included, would inevitably acquire
a moral sense or conscience,
as soon as its intellectual powers
had become as well, or nearly
as well developed, as in man.
For, firstly, the social instincts
lead an animal to take pleasure
in the society of its fellows,
to feel a certain amount of sympathy
with them, and to perform various
services for them. The services
may be of a definite and evidently
instinctive nature; or there
may be only a wish and readiness,
as with most of the higher social
animals, to aid their fellows
in certain general ways. But
these feelings and services are
by no means extended to all the
individuals of the same species,
only to those of the same association.
Secondly, as soon as the mental
faculties had become highly developed,
images of all past actions and
motives would be incessantly
passing through the brain of
each individual: and that feeling
of dissatisfaction, or even misery,
which invariably results, as
we shall hereafter see, from
any unsatisfied instinct, would
arise, as often as it was perceived
that the enduring and always
present social instinct had yielded
to some other instinct, at the
time stronger, but neither enduring
in its nature, nor leaving behind
it a very vivid impression. It
is clear that many instinctive
desires, such as that of hunger,
are in their nature of short
duration; and after being satisfied,
are not readily or vividly recalled.
Thirdly, after the power of language
had been acquired, and the wishes
of the community could be expressed,
the common opinion how each member
ought to act for the public good,
would naturally become in a paramount
degree the guide to action. But
it should be borne in mind that
however great weight we may attribute
to public opinion, our regard
for the approbation and disapprobation
of our fellows depends on sympathy,
which, as we shall see, forms
an essential part of the social
instinct, and is indeed its foundation-stone.
Lastly, habit in the individual
would ultimately play a very
important part in guiding the
conduct of each member; for the
social instinct, together with
sympathy, is, like any other
instinct, greatly strengthened
by habit, and so consequently
would be obedience to the wishes
and judgment of the community.
These several subordinate propositions
must now be discussed, and some
of them at considerable length.
* Sir B. Brodie,
after observing that man is
a social animal (Psychological
Enquiries, 1854, p. 192), asks
the pregnant question, "Ought
not this to settle the disputed
question as to the existence
of a moral sense?" Similar ideas
have probably occurred to many
persons, as they did long ago
to Marcus Aurelius. Mr. J. S.
Mill speaks, in his celebrated
work, Utilitarianism, pp. 459,
460, of the social feelings as
a "powerful natural sentiment," and
as "the natural basis of sentiment
for utilitarian morality." Again
he says, "Like the other acquired
capacities above referred to,
the moral faculty, if not a part
of our nature, is a natural out-growth
from it; capable, like them,
in a certain small degree of
springing up spontaneously." But
in opposition to all this, he
also remarks, "If, as in my own
belief, the moral feelings are
not innate, but acquired, they
are not for that reason less
natural." It is with hesitation
that I venture to differ at all
from so profound a thinker, but
it can hardly be disputed that
the social feelings are instinctive
or innate in the lower animals;
and why should they not be so
in man? Mr. Bain (see, for instance,
The Emotions and the Will, 1865,
p. 481) and others believe that
the moral sense is acquired by
each individual during his lifetime.
On the general theory of evolution
this is at least extremely improbable.
The ignoring of all transmitted
mental qualities will, as it
seems to me, be hereafter judged
as a most serious blemish in
the works of Mr. Mill.
It may be well first to premise
that I do not wish to maintain
that any strictly social animal,
if its intellectual faculties
were to become as active and
as highly developed as in man,
would acquire exactly the same
moral sense as ours. In the same
manner as various animals have
some sense of beauty, though
they admire widely-different
objects, so they might have a
sense of right and wrong, though
led by it to follow widely different
lines of conduct. If, for instance,
to take an extreme case, men
were reared under precisely the
same conditions as hive-bees,
there can hardly be a doubt that
our unmarried females would,
like the worker-bees, think it
a sacred duty to kill their brothers,
and mothers would strive to kill
their fertile daughters; and
no one would think of interfering.*
Nevertheless, the bee, or any
other social animal, would gain
in our supposed case, as it appears
to me, some feeling of right
or wrong, or a conscience. For
each individual would have an
inward sense of possessing certain
stronger or more enduring instincts,
and others less strong or enduring;
so that there would often be
a struggle as to which impulse
should be followed; and satisfaction,
dissatisfaction, or even misery
would be felt, as past impressions
were compared during their incessant
passage through the mind. In
this case an inward monitor would
tell the animal that it would
have been better to have followed
the one impulse rather than the
other. The one course ought to
have been followed, and the other
ought not; the one would have
been right and the other wrong;
but to these terms I shall recur.
Mr. H. Sidgwick
remarks, in an able discussion
on this subject
(the Academy, June 15, 1872,
p. 231), "A superior bee, we
may feel sure, would aspire to
a milder solution of the popular
question." Judging, however,
from the habits of many or most
savages, man solves the problem
by female infanticide, polyandry
and promiscuous intercourse;
therefore it may well be doubted
whether it would be by a milder
method. Miss Cobbe, in commenting
("Darwinism in Morals," Theological
Review, April, 1872, pp. 188-191)
on the same illustration, says,
the principles of social duty
would be thus reversed; and by
this, I presume, she means that
the fulfillment of a social duty
would tend to the injury of individuals;
but she overlooks the fact, which
she would doubtless admit, that
the instincts of the bee have
been acquired for the good of
the community. She goes so far
as to say that if the theory
of ethics advocated in this chapter
were ever generally accepted, "I
cannot but believe that in the
hour of their triumph would be
sounded the knell of the virtue
of mankind!" It is to be hoped
that the belief in the permanence
of virtue on this earth is not
held by many persons on so weak
a tenure.
Sociability.-
Animals of many kinds are social;
we find even
distinct species living together;
for example, some American monkeys;
and united flocks of rooks, jackdaws,
and starlings. Man shews the
same feeling in his strong love
for the dog, which the dog returns
with interest. Every one must
have noticed how miserable horses,
dogs, sheep, &c., are when separated
from their companions, and what
strong mutual affection the two
former kinds, at least, shew
on their reunion. It is curious
to speculate on the feelings
of a dog, who will rest peacefully
for hours in a room with his
master or any of the family,
without the least notice being
taken of him; but if left for
a short time by himself, barks
or howls dismally. We will confine
our attention to the higher social
animals; and pass over insects,
although some of these are social,
and aid one another in many important
ways. The most common mutual
service in the higher animals
is to warn one another of danger
by means of the united senses
of all. Every sportsman knows,
as Dr. Jaeger remarks,* how difficult
it is to approach animals in
a herd or troop. Wild horses
and cattle do not, I believe,
make any danger-signal; but the
attitude of any one of them who
first discovers an enemy, warns
the others. Rabbits stamp loudly
on the ground with their hindfeet
as a signal: sheep and chamois
do the same with their forefeet,
uttering likewise a whistle.
Many birds, and some mammals,
post sentinels, which in the
case of seals are said*(2) generally
to be the females. The leader
of a troop of monkeys acts as
the sentinel, and utters cries
expressive both of danger and
of safety.*(3) Social animals
perform many little services
for each other: horses nibble,
and cows lick each other, on
any spot which itches: monkeys
search each other for external
parasites; and Brehm states that
after a troop of the Cercopithecus
griseoviridis has rushed through
a thorny brake, each monkey stretches
itself on a branch, and another
monkey sitting by, "conscientiously" examines
its fur, and extracts every thorn
or burr.
* Die Darwin'sche Theorie, s.
101.
*(2) Mr. R. Brown in Proc. Zoolog.
Soc., 1868, p. 409.
*(3) Brehm, Illustriertes Thierleben,
B. i., 1864, ss. 52, 79. For
the case of the monkeys extracting
thorns from each other, see s.
54. With respect to the Hamadryas
turning over stones, the fact
is given (s. 76), on the evidence
of Alvarez, whose observations
Brehm thinks quite trustworthy.
For the cases of the old male
baboons attacking the dogs, see
s. 79; and with respect to the
eagle, s. 56.
Animals also
render more important services
to one another: thus
wolves and some other beasts
of prey hunt in packs, and aid
one another in attacking their
victims. Pelicans fish in concert.
The Hamadryas baboons turn over
stones to find insects, &c.;
and when they come to a large
one, as many as can stand round,
turn it over together and share
the booty. Social animals mutually
defend each other. Bull bisons
in N. America, when there is
danger, drive the cows and calves
into the middle of the herd,
whilst they defend the outside.
I shall also in a future chapter
give an account of two young
wild bulls at Chillingham attacking
an old one in concert, and of
two stallions together trying
to drive away a third stallion
from a troop of mares. In Abyssinia,
Brehm encountered a great troop
of baboons who were crossing
a valley; some had already ascended
the opposite mountain, and some
were still in the valley; the
latter were attacked by the dogs,
but the old males immediately
hurried down from the rocks,
and with mouths widely opened,
roared so fearfully, that the
dogs quickly drew back. They
were again encouraged to the
attack; but by this time all
the baboons had reascended the
heights, excepting a young one,
about six months old, who, loudly
calling for aid, climbed on a
block of rock, and was surrounded.
Now one of the largest males,
a true hero, came down again
from the mountain, slowly went
to the young one, coaxed him,
and triumphantly led him away-
the dogs being too much astonished
to make an attack. I cannot resist
giving another scene which was
witnessed by this same naturalist;
an eagle seized a young Cercopithecus,
which, by clinging to a branch,
was not at once carried off;
it cried loudly for assistance,
upon which the other members
of the troop, with much uproar,
rushed to the rescue, surrounded
the eagle, and pulled out so
many feathers, that he no longer
thought of his prey, but only
how to escape. This eagle, as
Brehm remarks, assuredly would
never again attack a single monkey
of a troop.*
* Mr. Belt gives the case of
a spider-monkey (Ateles) in Nicaragua,
which was heard screaming for
nearly two hours in the forest,
and was found with an eagle perched
close by it. The bird apparently
feared to attack as long as it
remained face to face; and Mr.
Belt believes, from what he has
seen of the habits of these monkeys,
that they protect themselves
from eagles by keeping two or
three together. The Naturalist
in Nicaragua, 1874, p. 118.
It is certain
that associated animals have
a feeling of love
for each other, which is not
felt by non-social adult animals.
How far in most cases they actually
sympathise in the pains and pleasures
of others, is more doubtful,
especially with respect to pleasures.
Mr. Buxton, however, who had
excellent means of observation,*
states that his macaws, which
lived free in Norfolk, took "an
extravagant interest" in a pair
with a nest; and whenever the
female left it, she was surrounded
by a troop "screaming horrible
acclamations in her honour." It
is often difficult to judge whether
animals have any feeling for
the sufferings of others of their
kind. Who can say what cows feel,
when they surround and stare
intently on a dying or dead companion;
apparently, however, as Houzeau
remarks, they feel no pity. That
animals sometimes are far from
feeling any sympathy is too certain;
for they will expel a wounded
animal from the herd, or gore
or worry it to death. This is
almost the blackest fact in natural
history, unless, indeed, the
explanation which has been suggested
is true, that their instinct
or reason leads them to expel
an injured companion, lest beasts
of prey, including man, should
be tempted to follow the troop.
In this case their conduct is
not much worse than that of the
North American Indians, who leave
their feeble comrades to perish
on the plains; or the Fijians,
who, when their parents get old,
or fall ill, bury them alive.*(2)
* Annals and Magazine of Natural
History, November, 1868, p. 382.
*(2) Sir J. Lubbock, Prehistoric
Times, 2nd ed., p. 446.
Many animals, however, certainly
sympathise with each other's
distress or danger. This is the
case even with birds. Captain
Stansbury* found on a salt lake
in Utah an old and completely
blind pelican, which was very
fat, and must have been well
fed for a long time by his companions.
Mr. Blyth, as he informs me,
saw Indian crows feeding two
or three of their companions
which were blind; and I have
heard of an analogous case with
the domestic cock. We may, if
we choose, call these actions
instinctive; but such cases are
much too rare for the development
of any special instinct.*(2)
I have myself seen a dog, who
never passed a cat who lay sick
in a basket, and was a great
friend of his, without giving
her a few licks with his tongue,
the surest sign of kind feeling
in a dog.
* As quoted by Mr. L. H. Morgan,
The American Beaver, 1868, p.
272. Capt. Stansbury also gives
an interesting account of the
manner in which a very young
pelican, carried away by a strong
stream, was guided and encouraged
in its attempts to reach the
shore by half a dozen old birds.
*(2) As Mr.
Bain states, "Effective
aid to a sufferer springs from
sympathy proper": Mental and
Moral Science, 1868, p. 245.
It must be called sympathy that
leads a courageous dog to fly
at any one who strikes his master,
as he certainly will. I saw a
person pretending to beat a lady,
who had a very timid little dog
on her lap, and the trial had
never been made before; the little
creature instantly jumped away,
but after the pretended beating
was over, it was really pathetic
to see how perseveringly he tried
to lick his mistress's face,
and comfort her. Brehm* states
that when a baboon in confinement
was pursued to be punished, the
others tried to protect him.
It must have been sympathy in
the cases above given which led
the baboons and Cercopitheci
to defend their young comrades
from the dogs and the eagle.
I will give only one other instance
of sympathetic and heroic conduct,
in the case of a little American
monkey. Several years ago a keeper
at the Zoological Gardens showed
me some deep and scarcely healed
wounds on the nape of his own
neck, inflicted on him, whilst
kneeling on the floor, by a fierce
baboon. The little American monkey,
who was a warm friend of this
keeper, lived in the same compartment,
and was dreadfully afraid of
the great baboon. Nevertheless,
as soon as he saw his friend
in peril, he rushed to the rescue,
and by screams and bites so distracted
the baboon that the man was able
to escape, after, as the surgeon
thought, running great risk of
his life.
* Illustriertes Thierleben,
B. i., s. 85.
Besides love and sympathy, animals
exhibit other qualities connected
with the social instincts, which
in us would be called moral;
and I agree with Agassiz* that
dogs possess something very like
a conscience.
* De l'Espece et de la Classe,
1869, p. 97.
Dogs possess some power of self-command,
and this does not appear to be
wholly the result of fear. As
Braubach* remarks, they will
refrain from stealing food in
the absence of their master.
They have long been accepted
as the very type of fidelity
and obedience. But the elephant
is likewise very faithful to
his driver or keeper, and probably
considers him as the leader of
the herd. Dr. Hooker informs
me that an elephant, which he
was riding in India, became so
deeply bogged that he remained
stuck fast until the next day,
when he was extricated by men
with ropes. Under such circumstances
elephants will seize with their
trunks any object, dead or alive,
to place under their knees, to
prevent their sinking deeper
in the mud; and the driver was
dreadfully afraid lest the animal
should have seized Dr. Hooker
and crushed him to death. But
the driver himself, as Dr. Hooker
was assured, ran no risk. This
forbearance under an emergency
so dreadful for a heavy animal,
is a wonderful proof of noble
fidelity.*(2)
* Die Darwin'sche Art-Lehre,
1869, s. 54.
*(2) See also Hooker's Himalayan
Journals, vol. ii., 1854, p.
333.
All animals living in a body,
which defend themselves or attack
their enemies in concert, must
indeed be in some degree faithful
to one another; and those that
follow a leader must be in some
degree obedient. When the baboons
in Abyssinia* plunder a garden,
they silently follow their leader;
and if an imprudent young animal
makes a noise, he receives a
slap from the others to teach
him silence and obedience. Mr.
Galton, who has had excellent
opportunities for observing the
half-wild cattle in S. Africa,
says,*(2) that they cannot endure
even a momentary separation from
the herd. They are essentially
slavish, and accept the common
determination, seeking no better
lot than to be led by any one
ox who has enough self-reliance
to accept the position. The men
who break in these animals for
harness, watch assiduously for
those who, by grazing apart,
shew a self-reliant disposition,
and these they train as fore-oxen.
Mr. Galton adds that such animals
are rare and valuable; and if
many were born they would soon
be eliminated, as lions are always
on the look-out for the individuals
which wander from the herd.
* Brehm, Illustriertes Thierleben,
B. i., s. 76
*(2) See his
extremely interesting paper
on "Gregariousness in Cattle,
and in Man," Macmillan's Magazine,
Feb., 1871, p. 353.
With respect to the impulse
which leads certain animals to
associate together, and to aid
one another in many ways, we
may infer that in most cases
they are impelled by the same
sense of satisfaction or pleasure
which they experience in performing
other instinctive actions; or
by the same sense of dissatisfaction
as when other instinctive actions
are checked. We see this in innumerable
instances, and it is illustrated
in a striking manner by the acquired
instincts of our domesticated
animals; thus a young shepherd-dog
delights in driving and running
round a flock of sheep, but not
in worrying them; a young fox-hound
delights in hunting a fox, whilst
some other kinds of dogs, as
I have witnessed, utterly disregard
foxes. What a strong feeling
of inward satisfaction must impel
a bird, so full of activity,
to brood day after day over her
eggs. Migratory birds are quite
miserable if stopped from migrating;
perhaps they enjoy starting on
their long flight; but it is
hard to believe that the poor
pinioned goose, described by
Audubon, which started on foot
at the proper time for its journey
of probably more than a thousand
miles, could have felt any joy
in doing so. Some instincts are
determined solely by painful
feelings, as by fear, which leads
to self-preservation, and is
in some cases directed towards
special enemies. No one, I presume,
can analyse the sensations of
pleasure or pain. In many instances,
however, it is probable that
instincts are persistently followed
from the mere force of inheritance,
without the stimulus of either
pleasure or pain. A young pointer,
when it first scents game, apparently
cannot help pointing. A squirrel
in a cage who pats the nuts which
it cannot eat, as if to bury
them in the ground, can hardly
be thought to act thus, either
from pleasure or pain. Hence
the common assumption that men
must be impelled to every action
by experiencing some pleasure
or pain may be erroneous. Although
a habit may be blindly and implicitly
followed, independently of any
pleasure or pain felt at the
moment, yet if it be forcibly
and abruptly checked, a vague
sense of dissatisfaction is generally
experienced.
It has often been assumed that
animals were in the first place
rendered social, and that they
feel as a consequence uncomfortable
when separated from each other,
and comfortable whilst together;
but it is a more probable view
that these sensations were first
developed, in order that those
animals which would profit by
living in society, should be
induced to live together, in
the same manner as the sense
of hunger and the pleasure of
eating were, no doubt, first
acquired in order to induce animals
to eat. The feeling of pleasure
from society is probably an extension
of the parental or filial affections,
since the social instinct seems
to be developed by the young
remaining for a long time with
their parents; and this extension
may be attributed in part to
habit, but chiefly to natural
selection. With those animals
which were benefited by living
in close association, the individuals
which took the greatest pleasure
in society would best escape
various dangers, whilst those
that cared least for their comrades,
and lived solitary, would perish
in greater numbers. With respect
to the origin of the parental
and filial affections, which
apparently lie at the base of
the social instincts, we know
not the steps by which they have
been gained; but we may infer
that it has been to a large extent
through natural selection. So
it has almost certainly been
with the unusual and opposite
feeling of hatred between the
nearest relations, as with the
worker-bees which kill their
brother drones, and with the
queen-bees which kill their daughter-queens;
the desire to destroy their nearest
relations having been in this
case of service to the community.
Parental affection, or some feeling
which replaces it, has been developed
in certain animals extremely
low in the scale, for example,
in star-fishes and spiders. It
is also occasionally present
in a few members alone in a whole
group of animals, as in the genus
Forficula, or earwigs.
The all-important
emotion of sympathy is distinct
from that
of love. A mother may passionately
love her sleeping and passive
infant, but she can hardly at
such times be said to feel sympathy
for it. The love of a man for
his dog is distinct from sympathy,
and so is that of a dog for his
master. Adam Smith formerly argued,
as has Mr. Bain recently, that
the basis of sympathy lies in
our strong retentiveness of former
states of pain or pleasure. Hence, "the
sight of another person enduring
hunger, cold, fatigue, revives
in us some recollection of these
states, which are painful even
in idea." We are thus impelled
to relieve the sufferings of
another, in order that our own
painful feelings may be at the
same time relieved. In like manner
we are led to participate in
the pleasures of others.* But
I cannot see how this view explains
the fact that sympathy is excited,
in an immeasurably stronger degree,
by a beloved, than by an indifferent
person. The mere sight of suffering,
independently of love, would
suffice to call up in us vivid
recollections and associations.
The explanation may lie in the
fact that, with all animals,
sympathy is directed solely towards
the members of the same community,
and therefore towards known,
and more or less beloved members,
but not to all the individuals
of the same species. This fact
is not more surprising than that
the fears of many animals should
be directed against special enemies.
Species which are not social,
such as lions and tigers, no
doubt feel sympathy for the suffering
of their own young, but not for
that of any other animal. With
mankind, selfishness, experience,
and imitation, probably add,
as Mr. Bain has shown, to the
power of sympathy; for we are
led by the hope of receiving
good in return to perform acts
of sympathetic kindness to others;
and sympathy is much strengthened
by habit. In however complex
a manner this feeling may have
originated, as it is one of high
importance to all those animals
which aid and defend one another,
it will have been increased through
natural selection; for those
communities, which included the
greatest number of the most sympathetic
members, would flourish best,
and rear the greatest number
of offspring.
* See the first
and striking chapter in Adam
Smith's Theory
of Moral Sentiments. Also Mr.
Bain's Mental and Moral Science,
1868, pp. 244, and 275-282. Mr.
Bain states, that, "Sympathy
is, indirectly, a source of pleasure
to the sympathiser"; and he accounts
for this through reciprocity.
He remarks that "The person benefited,
or others in his stead, may make
up, by sympathy and good offices
returned, for all the sacrifice." But
if, as appears to be the case,
sympathy is strictly an instinct,
its exercise would give direct
pleasure, in the same manner
as the exercise, as before remarked,
of almost every other instinct.
It is, however, impossible to
decide in many cases whether
certain social instincts have
been acquired through natural
selection, or are the indirect
result of other instincts and
faculties, such as sympathy,
reason, experience, and a tendency
to imitation; or again, whether
they are simply the result of
long-continued habit. So remarkable
an instinct as the placing sentinels
to warn the community of danger,
can hardly have been the indirect
result of any of these faculties;
it must, therefore, have been
directly acquired. On the other
hand, the habit followed by the
males of some social animals
of defending the community, and
of attacking their enemies or
their prey in concert, may perhaps
have originated from mutual sympathy;
but courage, and in most cases
strength, must have been previously
acquired, probably through natural
selection.
Of the various instincts and
habits, some are much stronger
than others; that is, some either
give more pleasure in their performance,
and more distress in their prevention,
than others; or, which is probably
quite as important, they are,
through inheritance, more persistently
followed, without exciting any
special feeling of pleasure or
pain. We are ourselves conscious
that some habits are much more
difficult to cure or change than
others. Hence a struggle may
often be observed in animals
between different instincts,
or between an instinct and some
habitual disposition; as when
a dog rushes after a hare, is
rebuked, pauses, hesitates, pursues
again, or returns ashamed to
his master; or as between the
love of a female dog for her
young puppies and for her master,-for
she may be seen to slink away
to them, as if half ashamed of
not accompanying her master.
But the most curious instance
known to me of one instinct getting
the better of another, is the
migratory instinct conquering
the maternal instinct. The former
is wonderfully strong; a confined
bird will at the proper season
beat her breast against the wires
of her cage, until it is bare
and bloody. It causes young salmon
to leap out of the fresh water,
in which they could continue
to exist, and thus unintentionally
to commit suicide. Every one
knows how strong the maternal
instinct is, leading even timid
birds to face great danger, though
with hesitation, and in opposition
to the instinct of self-preservation.
Nevertheless, the migratory instinct
is so powerful, that late in
the autumn swallows, house-martins,
and swifts frequently desert
their tender young, leaving them
to perish miserably in their
nests.*
* This fact, the Rev. L. Jenyns
states (see his edition of White's
Nat. Hist. of Selborne, 1853,
p. 204), was first recorded by
the illustrious Jenner, in Phil.
Transact., 1824, and has since
been confirmed by several observers,
especially by Mr. Blackwall.
This latter careful observer
examined, late in the autumn,
during two years, thirty-six
nests; he found that twelve contained
young dead birds, five contained
eggs on the point of being hatched,
and three, eggs not nearly hatched.
Many birds, not yet old enough
for a prolonged flight, are likewise
deserted and left behind. See
Blackwall, Researches in Zoology,
1834, pp. 108, 118. For some
additional evidence, although
this is not wanted, see Leroy,
Lettres Phil., 1802, p. 217.
For swifts, Gould's Introduction
to the Birds of Great Britain,
1823, p. 5. Similar cases have
been observed in Canada by Mr.
Adams; Pop. Science Review, July,
1873, p. 283.
We can perceive that an instinctive
impulse, if it be in any way
more beneficial to a species
than some other or opposed instinct,
would be rendered the more potent
of the two through natural selection;
for the individuals which had
it most strongly developed would
survive in larger numbers. Whether
this is the case with the migratory
in comparison with the maternal
instinct, may be doubted. The
great persistence, or steady
action of the former at certain
seasons of the year during the
whole day, may give it for a
time paramount force.
Man a social animal.- Every
one will admit that man is a
social being. We see this in
his dislike of solitude, and
in his wish for society beyond
that of his own family. Solitary
confinement is one of the severest
punishments which can be inflicted.
Some authors suppose that man
primevally lived in single families;
but at the present day, though
single families, or only two
or three together, roam the solitudes
of some savage lands, they always,
as far as I can discover, hold
friendly relations with other
families inhabiting the same
district. Such families occasionally
meet in council, and unite for
their common defence. It is no
argument against savage man being
a social animal, that the tribes
inhabiting adjacent districts
are almost always at war with
each other; for the social instincts
never extend to all the individuals
of the same species. Judging
from the analogy of the majority
of the Quadrumana, it is probable
that the early ape-like progenitors
of man were likewise social;
but this is not of much importance
for us. Although man, as he now
exists, has few special instincts,
having lost any which his early
progenitors may have possessed,
this is no reason why he should
not have retained from an extremely
remote period some degree of
instinctive love and sympathy
for his fellows. We are indeed
all conscious that we do possess
such sympathetic feelings;* but
our consciousness does not tell
us whether they are instinctive,
having originated long ago in
the same manner as with the lower
animals, or whether they have
been acquired by each of us during
our early years. As man is a
social animal, it is almost certain
that he would inherit a tendency
to be faithful to his comrades,
and obedient to the leader of
his tribe; for these qualities
are common to most social animals.
He would consequently possess
some capacity for self-command.
He would from an inherited tendency
be willing to defend, in concert
with others, his fellow-men;
and would be ready to aid them
in any way, which did not too
greatly interfere with his own
welfare or his own strong desires.
* Hume remarks
(An Enquiry Concerning the
Principles of Morals, ed.
of 1751, p. 132), "There seems
a necessity for confessing that
the happiness and misery of others
are not spectacles altogether
indifferent to us, but that the
view of the former... communicates
a secret joy; the appearance
of the latter... throws a melancholy
damp over the imagination."
The social animals
which stand at the bottom of
the scale are
guided almost exclusively, and
those which stand higher in the
scale are largely guided, by
special instincts in the aid
which they give to the members
of the same community; but they
are likewise in part impelled
by mutual love and sympathy,
assisted apparently by some amount
of reason. Although man, as just
remarked, has no special instincts
to tell him how to aid his fellow-men,
he still has the impulse, and
with his improved intellectual
faculties would naturally be
much guided in this respect by
reason and experience. Instinctive
sympathy would also cause him
to value highly the approbation
of his fellows; for, as Mr. Bain
has clearly shewn,* the love
of praise and the strong feeling
of glory, and the still stronger
horror of scorn and infamy, "are
due to the workings of sympathy." Consequently
man would be influenced in the
highest degree by the wishes,
approbation, and blame of his
fellow-men, as expressed by their
gestures and language. Thus the
social instincts, which must
have been acquired by man in
a very rude state, and probably
even by his early ape-like progenitors,
still give the impulse to some
of his best actions; but his
actions are in a higher degree
determined by the expressed wishes
and judgment of his fellow-men,
and unfortunately very often
by his own strong selfish desires.
But as love, sympathy and self-command
become strengthened by habit,
and as the power of reasoning
becomes clearer, so that man
can value justly the judgments
of his fellows, he will feel
himself impelled, apart from
any transitory pleasure or pain,
to certain lines of conduct.
He might then declare- not that
any barbarian or uncultivated
man could thus think- I am the
supreme judge of my own conduct,
and in the words of Kant, I will
not in my own person violate
the dignity of humanity.
* Mental and Moral Science,
1868, p. 254.
The more enduring Social Instincts
conquer the less persistent Instincts.-
We have not, however, as yet
considered the main point, on
which, from our present point
of view, the whole question of
the moral sense turns. Why should
a man feel that he ought to obey
one instinctive desire rather
than another? Why is he bitterly
regretful, if he has yielded
to a strong sense of self-preservation,
and has not risked his life to
save that of a fellow-creature?
Or why does he regret having
stolen food from hunger?
It is evident in the first place,
that with mankind the instinctive
impulses have different degrees
of strength; a savage will risk
his own life to save that of
a member of the same community,
but will be wholly indifferent
about a stranger: a young and
timid mother urged by the maternal
instinct will, without a moment's
hesitation, run the greatest
danger for her own infant, but
not for a mere fellow-creature.
Nevertheless many a civilized
man, or even boy, who never before
risked his life for another,
but full of courage and sympathy,
has disregarded the instinct
of self-preservation, and plunged
at once into a torrent to save
a drowning man, though a stranger.
In this case man is impelled
by the same instinctive motive,
which made the heroic little
American monkey, formerly described,
save his keeper, by attacking
the great and dreaded baboon.
Such actions as the above appear
to be the simple result of the
greater strength of the social
or maternal instincts rather
than that of any other instinct
or motive; for they are performed
too instantaneously for reflection,
or for pleasure or pain to be
felt at the time; though, if
prevented by any cause, distress
or even misery might be felt.
In a timid man, on the other
hand, the instinct of self-preservation,
might be so strong, that he would
be unable to force himself to
run any such risk, perhaps not
even for his own child.
I am aware that some persons
maintain that actions performed
impulsively, as in the above
cases, do not come under the
dominion of the moral sense,
and cannot be called moral. They
confine this term to actions
done deliberately, after a victory
over opposing desires, or when
prompted by some exalted motive.
But it appears scarcely possible
to draw any clear line of distinction
of this kind.* As far as exalted
motives are concerned, many instances
have been recorded of savages,
destitute of any feeling of general
benevolence towards mankind,
and not guided by any religious
motive, who have deliberately
sacrificed their lives as prisoners,*(2)
rather than betray their comrades;
and surely their conduct ought
to be considered as moral. As
far as deliberation, and the
victory over opposing motives
are concerned, animals may be
seen doubting between opposed
instincts, in rescuing their
offspring or comrades from danger;
yet their actions, though done
for the good of others, are not
called moral. Moreover, anything
performed very often by us, will
at last be done without deliberation
or hesitation, and can then hardly
be distinguished from an instinct;
yet surely no one will pretend
that such an action ceases to
be moral. On the contrary, we
all feel that an act cannot be
considered as perfect, or as
performed in the most noble manner,
unless it be done impulsively,
without deliberation or effort,
in the same manner as by a man
in whom the requisite qualities
are innate. He who is forced
to overcome his fear or want
of sympathy before he acts, deserves,
however, in one way higher credit
than the man whose innate disposition
leads him to a good act without
effort. As we cannot distinguish
between motives, we rank all
actions of a certain class as
moral, if performed by a moral
being. A moral being is one who
is capable of comparing his past
and future actions or motives,
and of approving or disapproving
of them. We have no reason to
suppose that any of the lower
animals have this capacity; therefore,
when a Newfoundland dog drags
a child out of the water, or
a monkey faces danger to rescue
its comrade, or takes charge
of an orphan monkey, we do not
call its conduct moral. But in
the case of man, who alone can
with certainty be ranked as a
moral being, actions of a certain
class are called moral, whether
performed deliberately, after
a struggle with opposing motives,
or impulsively through instinct,
or from the effects of slowly-gained
habit.
* I refer here
to the distinction between
what has been called
material and formal morality.
I am glad to find that Professor
Huxley (Critiques and Addresses,
1873, p. 287) takes the same
view on this subject as I do.
Mr. Leslie Stephen remarks (Essays
on Free Thinking and Plain Speaking,
1873, p. 83), "The metaphysical
distinction between material
and formal morality is as irrelevant
as other such distinctions."
*(2) I have given one such case,
namely of three Patagonian Indians
who preferred being shot, one
after the other, to betraying
the plans of their companions
in war (Journal of Researches,
1845, p. 103).
But to return
to our more immediate subject.
Although some instincts
are more powerful than others,
and thus lead to corresponding
actions, yet it is untenable,
that in man the social instincts
(including the love of praise
and fear of blame) possess greater
strength, or have, through long
habit, acquired greater strength
than the instincts of self-preservation,
hunger, lust, vengeance, &c.
Why then does man regret, even
though trying to banish such
regret, that he has followed
the one natural impulse rather
than the other; and why does
he further feel that he ought
to regret his conduct? Man in
this respect differs profoundly
from the lower animals. Nevertheless
we can, I think, see with some
degree of clearness the reason
of this difference.
Man, from the activity of his
mental faculties, cannot avoid
reflection: past impressions
and images are incessantly and
clearly passing through his mind.
Now with those animals which
live permanently in a body, the
social instincts are ever present
and persistent. Such animals
are always ready to utter the
danger-signal, to defend the
community, and to give aid to
their fellows in accordance with
their habits; they feel at all
times, without the stimulus of
any special passion or desire,
some degree of love and sympathy
for them; they are unhappy if
long separated from them, and
always happy to be again in their
company. So it is with ourselves.
Even when we are quite alone,
how often do we think with pleasure
or pain of what others think
of us,- of their imagined approbation
or disapprobation; and this all
follows from sympathy, a fundamental
element of the social instincts.
A man who possessed no trace
of such instincts would be an
unnatural monster. On the other
hand, the desire to satisfy hunger,
or any passion such as vengeance,
is in its nature temporary, and
can for a time be fully satisfied.
Nor is it easy, perhaps hardly
possible, to call up with complete
vividness the feeling, for instance,
of hunger; nor indeed, as has
often been remarked, of any suffering.
The instinct of self-preservation
is not felt except in the presence
of danger; and many a coward
has thought himself brave until
he has met his enemy face to
face. The wish for another man's
property is perhaps as persistent
a desire as any that can be named;
but even in this case the satisfaction
of actual possession is generally
a weaker feeling than the desire:
many a thief, if not an habitual
one, after success has wondered
why he stole some article.*
* Enmity or
hatred seems also to be a highly
persistent feeling,
perhaps more so than any other
that can be named. Envy is defined
as hatred of another for some
excellence or success; and Bacon
insists (Essay ix.), "Of all
other affections envy is the
most importune and continual." Dogs
are very apt to hate both strange
men and strange dogs, especially
if they live near at hand, but
do not belong to the same family,
tribe, or clan; this feeling
would thus seem to be innate,
and is certainly a most persistent
one. It seems to be the complement
and converse of the true social
instinct. From what we hear of
savages, it would appear that
something of the same kind holds
good with them. If this be so,
it would be a small step in any
one to transfer such feelings
to any member of the same tribe
if he had done him an injury
and had become his enemy. Nor
is it probable that the primitive
conscience would reproach a man
for injuring his enemy; rather
it would reproach him, if he
had not revenged himself. To
do good in return for evil, to
love your enemy, is a height
of morality to which it may be
doubted whether the social instincts
would, by themselves, have ever
led us. It is necessary that
these instincts, together with
sympathy, should have been highly
cultivated and extended by the
aid of reason, instruction, and
the love or fear of God, before
any such golden rule would ever
be thought of and obeyed.
A man cannot prevent past impressions
often repassing through his mind;
he will thus be driven to make
a comparison between the impressions
of past hunger, vengeance satisfied,
or danger shunned at other men's
cost, with the almost ever-present
instinct of sympathy, and with
his early knowledge of what others
consider as praiseworthy or blameable.
This knowledge cannot be banished
from his mind, and from instinctive
sympathy is esteemed of great
moment. He will then feel as
if he had been baulked in following
a present instinct or habit,
and this with all animals causes
dissatisfaction, or even misery.
The above case of the swallow
affords an illustration, though
of a reversed nature, of a temporary
though for the time strongly
persistent instinct conquering
another instinct, which is usually
dominant over all others. At
the proper season these birds
seem all day long to be impressed
with the desire to migrate; their
habits change; they become restless,
are noisy and congregate in flocks.
Whilst the mother-bird is feeding,
or brooding over her nestlings,
the maternal instinct is probably
stronger than the migratory;
but the instinct which is the
more persistent gains the victory,
and at last, at a moment when
her young ones are not in sight,
she takes flight and deserts
them. When arrived at the end
of her long journey, and the
migratory instinct has ceased
to act, what an agony of remorse
the bird would feel, if, from
being endowed with great mental
activity, she could not prevent
the image constantly passing
through her mind, of her young
ones perishing in the bleak north
from cold and hunger.
At the moment of action, man
will no doubt be apt to follow
the stronger impulse; and though
this may occasionally prompt
him to the noblest deeds, it
will more commonly lead him to
gratify his own desires at the
expense of other men. But after
their gratification when past
and weaker impressions are judged
by the ever-enduring social instinct,
and by his deep regard for the
good opinion of his fellows,
retribution will surely come.
He will then feel remorse, repentance,
regret, or shame; this latter
feeling, however, relates almost
exclusively to the judgment of
others. He will consequently
resolve more or less firmly to
act differently for the future;
and this is conscience; for conscience
looks backwards, and serves as
a guide for the future.
The nature and
strength of the feelings which
we call regret,
shame, repentance or remorse,
depend apparently not only on
the strength of the violated
instinct, but partly on the strength
of the temptation, and often
still more on the judgment of
our fellows. How far each man
values the appreciation of others,
depends on the strength of his
innate or acquired feeling of
sympathy; and on his own capacity
for reasoning out the remote
consequences of his acts. Another
element is most important, although
not necessary, the reverence
or fear of the Gods, or Spirits
believed in by each man: and
this applies especially in cases
of remorse. Several critics have
objected that though some slight
regret or repentance may be explained
by the view advocated in this
chapter, it is impossible thus
to account for the soul-shaking
feeling of remorse. But I can
see little force in this objection.
My critics do not define what
they mean by remorse, and I can
find no definition implying more
than an overwhelming sense of
repentance. Remorse seems to
bear the same relation to repentance,
as rage does to anger, or agony
to pain. It is far from strange
that an instinct so strong and
so generally admired, as maternal
love, should, if disobeyed, lead
to the deepest misery, as soon
as the impression of the past
cause of disobedience is weakened.
Even when an action is opposed
to no special instinct, merely
to know that our friends and
equals despise us for it is enough
to cause great misery. Who can
doubt that the refusal to fight
a duel through fear has caused
many men an agony of shame? Many
a Hindoo, it is said, has been
stirred to the bottom of his
soul by having partaken of unclean
food. Here is another case of
what must, I think, be called
remorse. Dr. Landor acted as
a magistrate in West Australia,
and relates* that a native on
his farm, after losing one of
his wives from disease, came
and said that, "He was going
to a distant tribe to spear a
woman, to satisfy his sense of
duty to his wife. I told him
that if he did so, I would send
him to prison for life. He remained
about the farm for some months,
but got exceedingly thin, and
complained that he could not
rest or eat, that his wife's
spirit was haunting him, because
he had not taken a life for hers.
I was inexorable, and assured
him that nothing should save
him if he did." Nevertheless
the man disappeared for more
than a year, and then returned
in high condition; and his other
wife told Dr. Landor that her
husband had taken the life of
a woman belonging to a distant
tribe; but it was impossible
to obtain legal evidence of the
act. The breach of a rule held
sacred by the tribe, will thus,
as it seems, give rise to the
deepest feelings,- and this quite
apart from the social instincts,
excepting in so far as the rule
is grounded on the judgment of
the community. How so many strange
superstitions have arisen throughout
the world we know not; nor can
we tell how some real and great
crimes, such as incest, have
come to be held in an abhorrence
(which is not however quite universal)
by the lowest savages. It is
even doubtful whether in some
tribes incest would be looked
on with greater horror, than
would the marriage of a man with
a woman bearing the same name,
though not a relation. "To violate
this law is a crime which the
Australians hold in the greatest
abhorrence, in this agreeing
exactly with certain tribes of
North America. When the question
is put in either district, is
it worse to kill a girl of a
foreign tribe, or to marry a
girl of one's own, an answer
just opposite to ours would be
given without hesitation."*(2)
We may, therefore, reject the
belief, lately insisted on by
some writers, that the abhorrence
of incest is due to our possessing
a special God-implanted conscience.
On the whole it is intelligible,
that a man urged by so powerful
a sentiment as remorse, though
arising as above explained, should
be led to act in a manner, which
he has been taught to believe
serves as an expiation, such
as delivering himself up to justice.
* Insanity in Relation to Law,
Ontario, United States, 1871,
p. 1.
*(2) E. B. Tylor, in Contemporary
Review, April, 1873, p. 707.
Man prompted by his conscience,
will through long habit acquire
such perfect self-command, that
his desires and passions will
at last yield instantly and without
a struggle to his social sympathies
and instincts, including his
feeling for the judgment of his
fellows. The still hungry, or
the still revengeful man will
not think of stealing food, or
of wreaking his vengeance. It
is possible, or as we shall hereafter
see, even probable, that the
habit of self-command may, like
other habits, be inherited. Thus
at last man comes to feel, through
aequired and perhaps inherited
habit, that it is best for him
to obey his more persistent impulses.
The imperious word ought seems
merely to imply the consciousness
of the existence of a rule of
conduct, however it may have
originated. Formerly it must
have been often vehemently urged
that an insulted gentleman ought
to fight a duel. We even say
that a pointer ought to point,
and a retriever to retrieve game.
If they fail to do so, they fail
in their duty and act wrongly.
If any desire or instinct leading
to an action opposed to the good
of others still appears, when
recalled to mind, as strong as,
or stronger than, the social
instinct, a man will feel no
keen regret at having followed
it; but he will be conscious
that if his conduct were known
to his fellows, it would meet
with their disapprobation; and
few are so destitute of sympathy
as not to feel discomfort when
this is realised. If he has no
such sympathy, and if his desires
leading to bad actions are at
the time strong, and when recalled
are not over-mastered by the
persistent social instincts,
and the judgment of others, then
he is essentially a bad man;*
and the sole restraining motive
left is the fear of punishment,
and the conviction that in the
long run it would be best for
his own selfish interests to
regard the good of others rather
than his own.
* Dr. Prosper Despine, in his
Psychologie Naturelle, 1868 (tom.
i., p. 243; tom. ii., p. 169)
gives many curious cases of the
worst criminals who apparently
have been entirely destitute
of conscience.
It is obvious that every one
may with an easy conscience gratify
his own desires, if they do not
interfere with his social instincts,
that is with the good of others;
but in order to be quite free
from self-reproach, or at least
of anxiety, it is almost necessary
for him to avoid the disapprobation,
whether reasonable or not, of
his fellow-men. Nor must he break
through the fixed habits of his
life, especially if these are
supported by reason; for if he
does, he will assuredly feel
dissatisfaction. He must likewise
avoid the reprobation of the
one God or gods in whom. according
to his knowledge or superstition,
he may believe; but in this case
the additional fear of divine
punishment often supervenes.
The strictly
Social Virtues at first alone
regarded.- The
above view of the origin and
nature of the moral sense, which
tells us what we ought to do,
and of the conscience which reproves
us if we disobey it, accords
well with what we see of the
early and undeveloped condition
of this faculty in mankind. The
virtues which must be practised,
at least generally, by rude men,
so that they may associate in
a body, are those which are still
recognised as the most important.
But they are practised almost
exclusively in relation to the
men of the same tribe; and their
opposites are not regarded as
crimes in relation to the men
of other tribes. No tribe could
hold together if murder, robbery,
treachery, &c., were common;
consequently such crimes within
the limits of the same tribe "are
branded with everlasting infamy";*
but excite no such sentiment
beyond these limits. A North-American
Indian is well pleased with himself,
and is honoured by others, when
he scalps a man of another tribe;
and a Dyak cuts off the head
of an unoffending person, and
dries it as a trophy. The murder
of infants has prevailed on the
largest scale throughout the
world,*(2) and has met with no
reproach; but infanticide, especially
of females, has been thought
to be good for the tribe, or
at least not injurious. Suicide
during former times was not generally
considered as a crime,*(3) but
rather, from the courage displayed,
as an honourable act; and it
is still practised by some semi-civilised
and savage nations without reproach,
for it does not obviously concern
others of the tribe. It has been
recorded that an Indian Thug
conscientiously regretted that
he had not robbed and strangled
as many travellers as did his
father before him. In a rude
state of civilisation the robbery
of strangers is, indeed, generally
considered as honourable.
* See an able
article in the North British
Review, 1867, p.
395. See also Mr. W. Bagehot's
articles on the "Importance of
Obedience and Coherence to Primitive
Man, " in the Fortnightly Review,
1867, p. 529, and 1868, p. 457, &c.
*(2) The fullest account which
I have met with is by Dr. Gerland,
in his Ober den Aussterben der
Naturvolker, 1868: but I shall
have to recur to the subject
of infanticide in a future chapter.
*(3) See the
very interesting discussion
on suicide in Lecky's
History of European Morals, vol.
i., 1869, p. 223. With respect
to savages, Mr. Winwood Reade
informs me that the negroes of
west Africa often commit suicide.
It is well known how common it
was amongst the miserable aborigines
of South America after the Spanish
conquest. For New Zealand, see
The Voyage of the Novara, and
for the Aleutian Islands, Muller,
as quoted by Houzeau, Les Facultes
Mentales, &c., tom. ii., p. 136.
Slavery, although
in some ways beneficial during
ancient times,*
is a great crime; yet it was
not so regarded until quite recently,
even by the most civilised nations.
And this was especially the case,
because the slaves belonged in
general to a race different from
that of their masters. As barbarians
do not regard the opinion of
their women, wives are commonly
treated like slaves. Most savages
are utterly indifferent to the
sufferings of strangers, or even
delight in witnessing them. It
is well known that the women
and children of the North American
Indians aided in torturing their
enemies. Some savages take a
horrid pleasure in cruelty to
animals,*(2) and humanity is
an unknown virtue. Nevertheless,
besides the family affections,
kindness is common, especially
during sickness, between the
members of the same tribe, and
is sometimes extended beyond
these limits. Mungo Park's touching
account of the kindness of the
negro women of the interior to
him is well known. Many instances
could be given of the noble fidelity
of savages towards each other,
but not to strangers; common
experience justifies the maxim
of the Spaniard, "Never, never
trust an Indian." There cannot
be fidelity without truth; and
this fundamental virtue is not
rare between the members of the
same tribe: thus Mungo Park heard
the negro women teaching their
young children to love the truth.
This, again, is one of the virtues
which becomes so deeply rooted
in the mind, that it is sometimes
practised by savages, even at
a high cost, towards strangers;
but to lie to your enemy has
rarely been thought a sin, as
the history of modern diplomacy
too plainly shews. As soon as
a tribe has a recognised leader,
disobedience becomes a crime,
and even abject submission is
looked at as a sacred virtue.
* See Mr. Bagehot, Physics and
Politics, 1872, p. 72.
*(2) See, for instance, Mr.
Hamilton's account of the Kaffirs,
Anthropological Review, 1870,
p. xv.
As during rude times no man
can be useful or faithful to
his tribe without courage, this
quality has universally been
placed in the highest rank; and
although in civilised countries
a good yet timid man may be far
more useful to the community
than a brave one, we cannot help
instinctively honouring the latter
above a coward, however benevolent.
Prudence, on the other hand,
which does not concern the welfare
of others, though a very useful
virtue, has never been highly
esteemed. As no man can practise
the virtues necessary for the
welfare of his tribe without
self-sacrifice, self-command,
and the power of endurance, these
qualities have been at all times
highly and most justly valued.
The American savage voluntarily
submits to the most horrid tortures
without a groan, to prove and
strengthen his fortitude and
courage; and we cannot help admiring
him, or even an Indian Fakir,
who, from a foolish religious
motive, swings suspended by a
hook buried in his flesh.
The other so-called self-regarding
virtues, which do not obviously,
though they may really, affect
the welfare of the tribe, have
never been esteemed by savages,
though now highly appreciated
by civilised nations. The greatest
intemperance is no reproach with
savages. Utter licentiousness,
and unnatural crimes, prevail
to an astounding extent.* As
soon, however, as marriage, whether
polygamous, or monogamous, becomes
common, jealousy will lead to
the inculcation of female virtue;
and this, being honoured, will
tend to spread to the unmarried
females. How slowly it spreads
to the male sex, we see at the
present day. Chastity eminently
requires self-command; therefore,
it has been honoured from a very
early period in the moral history
of civilised man. As a consequence
of this, the senseless practice
of celibacy has been ranked from
a remote period as a virtue.*(2)
The hatred of indecency, which
appears to us so natural as to
be thought innate, and which
is so valuable an aid to chastity,
is a modern virtue, appertaining
exclusively, as Sir G. Staunton
remarks,*(3) to civilised life.
This is shewn by the ancient
religious rites of various nations,
by the drawings on the walls
of Pompeii, and by the practices
of many savages.
* Mr. M'Lennan has given (Primitive
Marriage, 1865, p. 176) a good
collection of facts on this head.
*(2) Lecky, History of European
Morals, vol. i., 1869, p. 109.
*(3) Embassy to China, vol.
ii., p. 348.
We have now seen that actions
are regarded by savages, and
were probably so regarded by
primeval man, as good or bad,
solely as they obviously affect
the welfare of the tribe,- not
that of the species, nor that
of an individual member of the
tribe. This conclusion agrees
well with the belief that the
so-called moral sense is aboriginally
derived from the social instincts,
for both relate at first exclusively
to the community.
The chief causes
of the low morality of savages,
as judged
by our standard, are, firstly,
the confinement of sympathy to
the same tribe. Secondly, powers
of reasoning insufficient to
recognise the bearing of many
virtues, especially of the self-regarding
virtues, on the general welfare
of the tribe. Savages, for instance,
fail to trace the multiplied
evils consequent on a want of
temperance, chastity, &c. And,
thirdly, weak power of self-command;
for this power has not been strengthened
through long-continued, perhaps
inherited, habit, instruction
and religion.
I have entered into the above
details on the immorality of
savages,* because some authors
have recently taken a high view
of their moral nature, or have
attributed most of their crimes
to mistaken benevolence.*(2)
These authors appear to rest
their conclusion on savages possessing
those virtues which are serviceable,
or even necessary, for the existence
of the family and of the tribe,-
qualities which they undoubtedly
do possess, and often in a high
degree.
* See on this subject copious
evidence in chap. vii. of Sir
J. Lubbock, Origin of Civilisation,
1870.
*(2) For instance Lecky, History
of European Morals, vol. i.,
p. 124.
Concluding Remarks.-
It was assumed formerly by
philosophers
of the derivative* school of
morals that the foundation of
morality lay in a form of Selfishness;
but more recently the "Greatest
happiness principle" has been
brought prominently forward.
It is, however, more correct
to speak of the latter principle
as the standard, and not as the
motive of conduct. Nevertheless,
all the authors whose works I
have consulted, with a few exceptions,*(2)
write as if there must be a distinct
motive for every action, and
that this must be associated
with some pleasure or displeasure.
But man seems often to act impulsively,
that is from instinct or long
habit, without any consciousness
of pleasure, in the same manner
as does probably a bee or ant,
when it blindly follows its instincts.
Under circumstances of extreme
peril, as during a fire, when
a man endeavours to save a fellow-creature
without a moment's hesitation,
he can hardly feel pleasure;
and still less has he time to
reflect on the dissatisfaction
which he might subsequently experience
if he did not make the attempt.
Should he afterwards reflect
over his own conduct, he would
feel that there lies within him
an impulsive power widely different
from a search after pleasure
or happiness; and this seems
to be the deeply planted social
instinct.
* This term
is used in an able article
in the Westminster Review,
Oct., 1869, p. 498; For the "Greatest
happiness principle," see J.
S. Mill, Utilitarianism, p. 448.
*(2) Mill recognises
(System of Logic, vol. ii.,
p. 422) in
the clearest manner, that actions
may be performed through habit
without the anticipation of pleasure.
Mr. H. Sidgwick also, in his "Essay
on Pleasure and Desire" (The
Contemporary Review, April, 1872,
p. 671), remarks: "To sum up,
in contravention of the doctrine
that our conscious active impulses
are always directed towards the
production of agreeable sensations
in ourselves, I would maintain
that we find everywhere in consciousness
extra-regarding impulse, directed
towards something that is not
pleasure; that in many case the
impulse is so far incompatible
with the self-regarding that
the two do not easily co-exist
in the same moment of consciousness." A
dim feeling that our impulses
do not by any means always arise
from any contemporaneous or anticipated
pleasure, has, I cannot but think,
been one chief cause of the acceptance
of the intuitive theory of morality,
and of the rejection of the utilitarian
or "Greatest happiness" theory.
With respect to the latter theory
the standard and the motive of
conduct have no doubt often been
confused, but they are really
in some degree blended.
In the case of the lower animals
it seems much more appropriate
to speak of their social instincts,
as having been developed for
the general good rather than
for the general happiness of
the species. The term, general
good, may be defined as the rearing
of the greatest number of individuals
in full vigour and health, with
all their faculties perfect,
under the conditions to which
they are subjected. As the social
instincts both of man and the
lower animals have no doubt been
developed by nearly the same
steps, it would be advisable,
if found practicable, to use
the same definition in both cases,
and to take as the standard of
morality, the general good or
welfare of the community, rather
than the general happiness; but
this definition would perhaps
require some limitation on account
of political ethics.
When a man risks
his life to save that of a
fellow-creature,
it seems also more correct to
say that he acts for the general
good, rather than for the general
happiness of mankind. No doubt
the welfare and the happiness
of the individual usually coincide;
and a contented, happy tribe
will flourish better than one
that is discontented and unhappy.
We have seen that even at an
early period in the history of
man, the expressed wishes of
the community will have naturally
influenced to a large extent
the conduct of each member; and
as all wish for happiness, the "greatest
happiness principle" will have
become a most important secondary
guide and object; the social
instinct, however, together with
sympathy (which leads to our
regarding the approbation and
disapprobation of others), having
served as the primary impulse
and guide. Thus the reproach
is removed of laying the foundation
of the noblest part of our nature
in the base principle of selfishness;
unless, indeed, the satisfaction
which every animal feels, when
it follows its proper instincts,
and the dissatisfaction felt
when prevented, be called selfish.
The wishes and opinions of the
members of the same community,
expressed at first orally, but
later by writing also, either
form the sole guides of our conduct,
or greatly reinforce the social
instincts; such opinions, however,
have sometimes a tendency directly
opposed to these instincts. This
latter fact is well exemplified
by the Law of Honour, that is,
the law of the opinion of our
equals, and not of all our countrymen.
The breach of this law, even
when the breach is known to be
strictly accordant with true
morality, has caused many a man
more agony than a real crime.
We recognise the same influence
in the burning sense of shame
which most of us have felt, even
after the interval of years,
when calling to mind some accidental
breach of a trifling, though
fixed, rule of etiquette. The
judgment of the community will
generally be guided by some rude
experience of what is best in
the long run for all the members;
but this judgment will not rarely
err from ignorance and weak powers
of reasoning. Hence the strangest
customs and superstitions, in
complete opposition to the true
welfare and happiness of mankind,
have become all-powerful throughout
the world. We see this in the
horror felt by a Hindoo who breaks
his caste, and in many other
such cases. It would be difficult
to distinguish between the remorse
felt by a Hindoo who has yielded
to the temptation of eating unclean
food, from that felt after committing
a theft; but the former would
probably be the more severe.
How so many absurd rules of
conduct, as well as so many absurd
religious beliefs, have originated,
we do not know; nor how it is
that they have become, in all
quarters of the world, so deeply
impressed on the mind of men;
but it is worthy of remark that
a belief constantly inculcated
during the early years of life,
whilst the brain is impressible,
appears to acquire almost the
nature of an instinct; and the
very essence of an instinct is
that it is followed independently
of reason. Neither can we say
why certain admirable virtues,
such as the love of truth, are
much more highly appreciated
by some savage tribes than by
others;* nor, again, why similar
differences prevail even amongst
highly civilised nations. Knowing
how firmly fixed many strange
customs and superstitions have
become, we need feel no surprise
that the self-regarding virtues,
supported as they are by reason,
should now appear to us so natural
as to be thought innate, although
they were not valued by man in
his early condition.
* Good instances are given by
Mr. Wallace in Scientific Opinion,
Sept. 15, 1869; and more fully
in his Contributions to the Theory
of Natural Selection, 1870, p.
353.
Not withstanding many sources
of doubt, man can generally and
readily distinguish between the
higher and lower moral rules.
The higher are founded on the
social instincts, and relate
to the welfare of others. They
are supported by the approbation
of our fellow-men and by reason.
The lower rules, though some
of them when implying self-sacrifice
hardly deserve to be called lower,
relate chiefly to self, and arise
from public opinion, matured
by experience and cultivation;
for they are not practised by
rude tribes.
As man advances in civilisation,
and small tribes are united into
larger communities, the simplest
reason would tell each individual
that he ought to extend his social
instincts and sympathies to all
the members of the same nation,
though personally unknown to
him. This point being once reached,
there is only an artificial barrier
to prevent his sympathies extending
to the men of all nations and
races. If, indeed, such men are
separated from him by great differences
in appearance or habits, experience
unfortunately shews us how long
it is, before we look at them
as our fellow-creatures. Sympathy
beyond the confines of man, that
is, humanity to the lower animals,
seems to be one of the latest
moral acquisitions. It is apparently
unfelt by savages, except towards
their pets. How little the old
Romans knew of it is shewn by
their abhorrent gladiatorial
exhibitions. The very idea of
humanity, as far as I could observe,
was new to most of the Gauchos
of the Pampas. This virtue, one
of the noblest with which man
is endowed, seems to arise incidentally
from our sympathies becoming
more tender and more widely diffused,
until they are extended to all
sentient beings. As soon as this
virtue is honoured and practised
by some few men, it spreads through
instruction and example to the
young, and eventually becomes
incorporated in public opinion.
The highest
possible stage in moral culture
is when we recognise
that we ought to control our
thoughts, and "not even in inmost
thought to think again the sins
that made the past so pleasant
to us."* Whatever makes any bad
action familiar to the mind,
renders its performance by so
much the easier. As Marcus Aurelius
long ago said, "Such as are thy
habitual thoughts, such also
will be the character of thy
mind; for the soul is dyed by
the thoughts."*(2)
* Tennyson, Idylls of the King,
p. 244.
*(2) Marcus Aurelius, Meditations,
Bk. V, sect. 16.
Our great philosopher,
Herbert Spencer, has recently
explained
his views on the moral sense.
He says, "I believe that the
experiences of utility organised
and consolidated through all
past generations of the human
race, have been producing corresponding
modifications, which, by continued
transmission and accumulation,
have become in us certain faculties
of moral intuition- certain emotions
responding to right and wrong
conduct, which have no apparent
basis in the individual experiences
of utility."* There is not the
least inherent improbability,
as it seems to me, in virtuous
tendencies being more or less
strongly inherited; for, not
to mention the various dispositions
and habits transmitted by many
of our domestic animals to their
offspring, I have heard of authentic
cases in which a desire to steal
and a tendency to lie appeared
to run in families of the upper
ranks; and as stealing is a rare
crime in the wealthy classes,
we can hardly account by accidental
coincidence for the tendency
occurring in two or three members
of the same family. If bad tendencies
are transmitted, it is probable
that good ones are likewise transmitted.
That the state of the body by
affecting the brain, has great
influence on the moral tendencies
is known to most of those who
have suffered from chronic derangements
of the digestion or liver. The
same fact is likewise shewn by
the "perversion or destruction
of the moral sense being often
one of the earliest symptoms
of mental derangement";*(2) and
insanity is notoriously often
inherited. Except through the
principle of the transmission
of moral tendencies, we cannot
understand the differences believed
to exist in this respect between
the various races of mankind.
* Letter to Mr. Mill in Bain's
Mental and Moral Science, 1868,
p. 722.
*(2) Maudsley, Body and Mind,
1870, p. 60.
Even the partial
transmission of virtuous tendencies
would
be an immense assistance to the
primary impulse derived directly
and indirectly from the social
instincts. Admitting for a moment
that virtuous tendencies are
inherited, it appears probable,
at least in such cases as chastity,
temperance, humanity to animals, &c.,
that they become first impressed
on the mental organization through
habit, instruction and example,
continued during several generations
in the same family, and in a
quite subordinate degree, or
not at all, by the individuals
possessing such virtues having
succeeded best in the struggle
for life. My chief source of
doubt with respect to any such
inheritance, is that senseless
customs, superstitions, and tastes,
such as the horror of a Hindoo
for unclean food, ought on the
same principle to be transmitted.
I have not met with any evidence
in support of the transmission
of superstitious customs or senseless
habits, although in itself it
is perhaps not less probable
than that animals should acquire
inherited tastes for certain
kinds of food or fear of certain
foes.
Finally the social instincts,
which no doubt were acquired
by man as by the lower animals
for the good of the community,
will from the first have given
to him some wish to aid his fellows,
some feeling of sympathy, and
have compelled him to regard
their approbation and disapprobation.
Such impulses will have served
him at a very early period as
a rude rule of right and wrong.
But as man gradually advanced
in intellectual power, and was
enabled to trace the more remote
consequences of his actions;
as he aequired sufficient knowledge
to reject baneful customs and
superstitions; as he regarded
more and more, not only the welfare,
but the happiness of his fellow-men;
as from habit, following on beneficial
experience, instruction and example,
his sympathies became more tender
and widely diffused, extending
to men of all races, to the imbecile,
maimed, and other useless members
of society, and finally to the
lower animals,- so would the
standard of his morality rise
higher and higher. And it is
admitted by moralists of the
derivative school and by some
intuitionists, that the standard
of morality has risen since an
early period in the history of
man.*
* A writer in the North British
Review (July, 1869, p. 531),
well capable of forming a sound
judgment, expresses himself strongly
in favour of this conclusion.
Mr. Lecky (History of Morals,
vol. i., p. 143) seems to a certain
extent to coincide therein.
As a struggle may sometimes
be seen going on between the
various instincts of the lower
animals, it is not surprising
that there should be a struggle
in man between his social instincts,
with their derived virtues, and
his lower, though momentarily
stronger impulses or desires.
This, as Mr. Galton* has remarked,
is all the less surprising, as
man has emerged from a state
of barbarism within a comparatively
recent period. After having yielded
to some temptation we feel a
sense of dissatisfaction, shame,
repentance, or remorse, analogous
to the feelings caused by other
powerful instincts or desires,
when left unsatisfied or baulked.
We compare the weakened impression
of a past temptation with the
ever present social instincts,
or with habits, gained in early
youth and strengthened during
our whole lives, until they have
become almost as strong as instincts.
If with the temptation still
before us we do not yield, it
is because either the social
instinct or some custom is at
the moment predominant, or because
we have learnt that it will appear
to us hereafter the stronger,
when compared with the weakened
impression of the temptation,
and we realise that its violation
would cause us suffering. Looking
to future generations, there
is no cause to fear that the
social instincts will grow weaker,
and we may expect that virtuous
habits will grow stronger, becoming
perhaps fixed by inheritance.
In this case the struggle between
our higher and lower impulses
will be less severe, and virtue
will be triumphant.
* See his remarkable work on
Hereditary Genius, 1869, p. 349.
The Duke of Argyll (Primeval
Man, 1869, p. 188) has some good
remarks on the contest in man's
nature between right and wrong.
Summary of the last two Chapters.-
There can be no doubt that the
difference between the mind of
the lowest man and that of the
highest animal is immense. An
anthropomorphous ape, if he could
take a dispassionate view of
his own case, would admit that
though he could form an artful
plan to plunder a garden- though
he could use stones for fighting
or for breaking open nuts, yet
that the thought of fashioning
a stone into a tool was quite
beyond his scope. Still less,
as he would admit, could he follow
out a train of metaphysical reasoning,
or solve a mathematical problem,
or reflect on God, or admire
a grand natural scene. Some apes,
however, would probably declare
that they could and did admire
the beauty of the coloured skin
and fur of their partners in
marriage. They would admit, that
though they could make other
apes understand by cries some
of their perceptions and simpler
wants, the notion of expressing
definite ideas by definite sounds
had never crossed their minds.
They might insist that they were
ready to aid their fellow-apes
of the same troop in many ways,
to risk their lives for them,
and to take charge of their orphans;
but they would be forced to acknowledge
that disinterested love for all
living creatures, the most noble
attribute of man, was quite beyond
their comprehension.
Nevertheless
the difference in mind between
man and the higher
animals, great as it is, certainly
is one of degree and not of kind.
We have seen that the senses
and intuitions, the various emotions
and faculties, such as love,
memory, attention, curiosity,
imitation, reason, &c., of which
man boasts, may be found in an
incipient, or even sometimes
in a well-developed condition,
in the lower animals. They are
also capable of some inherited
improvement, as we see in the
domestic dog compared with the
wolf or jackal. If it could be
proved that certain high mental
powers, such as the formation
of general concepts, self-consciousness, &c.,
were absolutely peculiar to man,
which seems extremely doubtful,
it is not improbable that these
qualities are merely the incidental
results of other highly-advanced
intellectual faculties; and these
again mainly the result of the
continued use of a perfect language.
At what age does the new-born
infant possess the power of abstraction,
or become self-conscious, and
reflect on its own existence?
We cannot answer; nor can we
answer in regard to the ascending
organic scale. The half-art,
half-instinct of language still
bears the stamp of its gradual
evolution. The ennobling belief
in God is not universal with
man; and the belief in spiritual
agencies naturally follows from
other mental powers. The moral
sense perhaps affords the best
and highest distinction between
man and the lower animals; but
I need say nothing on this head,
as I have so lately endeavoured
to shew that the social instincts,-
the prime principle of man's
moral constitution* - with the
aid of active intellectual powers
and the effects of habit, naturally
lead to the golden rule, "As
ye would that men should do to
you, do ye to them likewise";
and this lies at the foundation
of morality.
* Marcus Aurelius, Meditations,
Bk. V, sect. 55.
In the next chapter I shall
make some few remarks on the
probable steps and means by which
the several mental and moral
faculties of man have been gradually
evolved. That such evolution
is at least possible, ought not
to be denied, for we daily see
these faculties developing in
every infant; and we may trace
a perfect gradation from the
mind of an utter idiot, lower
than that of an animal low in
the scale, to the mind of a Newton. |