The Indians of North America never refrained from roasting their enemies until they made allies of the horse and dog. Humboldt proves the lively regret held by one of the last surviving chief lieutenants of the war-like Tecumseh whom he asked about a certain American officer who took part in the fight. "Uh!" replied the Indian, "I eat some of him."
"Do you still eat your enemies?" asked Humboldt. "No," replied the Indian. "Big dog catch heap meat for me!"
Surely no animal could be more uncivilised or cannibalistic in its desires than man! Spinoza believed, however, that benevolence in animals consisted only in their kindliness and friendly feeling for each other and that we should expect nothing more of them. A good cow, so he thought, was one that was kind to her calf, however ferocious she might be toward human children. But we do not accept this standard of goodness, nor believe that animals' kindness extends only to their own tribes. Their lowest standard of life is no worse than the cannibalism existing among the lower tribes of uncivilised man, which is one of the highest ideals of tribal life. The greatest hero among our savages is the one that can put the most enemies to death.
Many animals seem to have a social instinct and a moral sentiment toward man. They try to break the old bonds of distrust between their master and themselves. This is especially true of the puma, second to the largest of the big cats of the Americas, which seems to love the society of man, and seeks not only to be near him, but to protect him from the attacks of the much-dreaded jaguar. A civil engineer tells the story of an experience he had while journeying up one of the big South American rivers by boat. At their nightly encampments one of the passengers on board was an old miner who insisted on sleeping in a hammock suspended between two small trees. His weight was sufficient to bring the hammock almost to the ground at its lowest curve. One morning, his friends inquired how he had slept, and he complained that "the frogs and small animals had made so much noise under the hammock that he could not sleep." One of the Indian servants roared with laughter, as he said, "Uh, 'tiger' sleep with old man last night. He watch him!"--tiger being the Indian term for the puma. Careful searching revealed the footprints of an immense puma, and that he had evidently lain directly under the hammock. The noise which had kept the old man from sleeping was the purring of the animal, pleased over the privilege of sleeping so near a man. These Guiana Indians know the ways of the forests, and have a special liking for wild animals. This entire absence of fear in the puma is the same as exhibited by the tame house cat.
Many animals seem fond of human companionship, and are easily tamed. My sister raised a small red deer in Texas, and he became so perfectly tame that he would follow her wherever she went, and would even take food from her hand. In Yellowstone Park the deer are so tame they will come into the yards to get food, while the brown bears approach the hotels like tramps, and many of the smaller animals are perfectly fearless. At the Bronx Zoological Gardens, and the London Zoo, the animals have lost all fear. They seem to realise that they have no power to escape and depend entirely upon man for their daily food. But, of course, their conditions are artificial, hence such conclusions as we may draw as to their normal attitude toward man do not necessarily indicate the innate character of their wild kinsmen. We occasionally find, for instance, that in unsettled regions like parts of Mexico and South America, where animals are plentiful and man's influence largely absent, they are found to be particularly ferocious, yet even then lions and leopards rarely attack men unless disturbed in some unusual way.
Quite a few naturalists and scientists believe that the animals' love for man was acquired and not natural. But if this be true, how did the very early tribes of men escape destruction at the hands of the wild beasts which were far more numerous than at present? The animal kingdom was evidently impressed by the power of man at a very early stage of its development, but in just what manner or what period of time this came to pass is not known.
If we regard the conflict as merely between two great groups of animals, surely the animals should have won, and man would have disappeared from the face of the earth. The fact that he did not, and that he became master of the animals, is presumptive evidence that man exceeded the animals in intelligence.
Primitive man could have lived in no other way than by "his wits." For he was not nearly so well equipped for defence as are the monkeys of to-day. Their greatest power is in the ability to use their arms and hands in swinging rapidly from branch to branch. This gives them an advantage over all tree-climbing cats. They are very proficient in throwing stones and other missiles. This is dumbfounding to other animals. Of course, their intelligent and quick-witted methods of defence, menace, guard-duty, and loyalty to tribe makes them great warriors, and enables them to survive even the onslaughts of their greatest enemy and nightmare of every non-carnivorous animal--the harpy eagle!
Through the necessary adjustments growing out of the close relationships of men to animals, the mental faculties of both have been greatly stimulated and advanced. The least developed races seem to be in such places as Tierra del Fuego, where there are no savage animals, and, therefore, no inducement for man to arm and defend himself. The Pygmies of Central Africa are mighty hunters, otherwise they could not survive.
Even the Esquimaux are masters of the great polar bears and other northern animals.
In the wilds of Africa, where animals have had a terrible struggle for existence, not only against disagreeable climatic conditions, but all kinds of fellow-foes as well, we find the nkengos have attained a civilisation that almost equals that of our savage brothers. And these pale-faced little beings, with their wrinkled, care-worn, parchment-like skins, remind one of ill-treated, white, human-dwarfs. Their name, nkengo, means wild animal-men, and when tamed they actually make excellent family servants for men.
These closest allies of man live in tall bamboo trees, and are so curiously human that when seen walking around hunting berries, nuts, and fruits, talking in guttural, chattering tones, like old fisher-women, no one could doubt even their kinship to man.
Their children assemble in groups to romp and play under the guardianship of either one of their mothers or grandmothers; while the men forage for food, and watch for enemies. It is not uncommon to see an aged, half-decrepit nkengo lying on a bed of sticks in a tall tree.
Here he eats only green leaves and bits of fruit brought him by some kind friend, being far too weak to hunt for food himself, and furthermore, fearing an attack from his mortal enemy, the leopard.
If the colony decides to move to other territory, either because of enemies or the scarcity of food, they all assemble and hold a farewell gathering in which there is much mourning and apparent grief at forever leaving their aged kin to the fate of the wilds. If they are possibly able to walk, they are given patient assistance in travelling along.
Sometimes, when they are deserted, sympathetic friends return for days with berries and koola nuts, until at last the colony has gone so far away that none dare return alone, in which event these helpless superannuated members are left to die in their lone tree-top beds.
Many of these beds are as well made as the tree-beds of human beings, and even better than the beds of the savage Dyaks of Borneo. They are usually located in tall trees, inaccessible to leopards and out of reach of their most dreaded of all enemies, the terrible hordes of war-ants.
From these nothing escapes--not even elephants and tigers.
The arrival of a baby to these nkengos is of far more importance in their tree-top village, than in a human city. Each of the female relatives, and also the aged males, takes special interest in the new-comer, and they chatter around his little grape-vine cradle with much enthusiasm, shaking their heads and delicately handling his tiny hands and toes as though he were the baby of a king.
This baby is much stronger and quicker to learn than human babies; for when he is only two days old he is able to cling to his mother, so that she can carry him with her on her hunting trips. If he becomes too noisy from sheer delight when she is travelling through the forest with him, she slaps him, in an attempt to quiet him, lest the leopards get him.
At night he sleeps snugly by his mother's side in the great tree-bed, and she never allows him to crawl out of her arms for fear that he fall to the depths below. She loves him dearly, and watches with human eagerness for his first tooth. He loves his mother and will stand for hours while she dresses his hair; or lie on her breast as she rubs his little back.
These wild-children are always ill-tempered and self-willed. No human mother has to show more patience and love than does the nkengo mother.
She takes the greatest delight in his first efforts at climbing and hunting, and for hours she and his admiring relatives will watch him attempting to climb a cocoanut tree. Sometimes she will climb just behind him to catch him if he falls or becomes frightened.
His arms soon become very powerful, for he is constantly swinging, climbing, and exercising by hanging from a bough with one hand while he pulls himself up with the great power of his muscles. He is able to gather koola nuts long before his jaws are strong enough to crack them; so his fond mother cracks them for him until his hands and mouth are stronger. Like all babies, his ambition is to be big and strong like his father.
Some of the apes are most intelligent and human, and, as allies to man, are more desirable than certain of the human savages. Dr. Livingstone, in his _Last Journals_, describes one he first discovered. "Their teeth," he says, "are slightly human, but their canines show the beast by their large development. The hands, or rather the fingers, are like those of the natives. They live in communities consisting of about a dozen individuals, and are strictly monogamous in their conjugal relations, and vegetarian, or rather frugivorous, in their diet, their favourite food being bananas." The natives where these apes live are cannibals, and Dr. Livingstone says, "they are the lowest of the low."
One of their number, who had committed a great murder, offered his grandmother "to be killed in expiation of his offence, and this vicarious punishment was accepted as satisfactory."
Thus it is evident that certain of these wild-creatures--like the sokos--have a more correct conception of justice than their human associates, the savages. At least the animals do not make the innocent suffer for the guilty, and give their lives unjustly. Should a soko try to take another's wife he is publicly punished by the tribe. These animals have a great sense of humour and fully enjoy a practical joke.
Strangely enough, they never attack women and children, but if any man approaches them with a spear or gun, they try to rush upon him, often at the expense of their own life, and wrest the weapon from him. Most of them are exceedingly kind and civilised in their actions, and natives always say, "Soko is a man, and nothing bad in him."
Often they kidnap babies and carry them up into trees. But these are never harmed and the apes are ever ready to exchange them for bananas.
The robbery is, no doubt, for the purpose of extortion. If perchance one of their children is stolen, the entire forest sets up a scream and wail until it is returned. Old hunters and travellers say that they would rather steal the child of a native savage than to take one of the sokos. If one of the soko children disappears, and they do not know what became of it, they immediately send out detectives throughout the country to seek for it. And woe be the home where a stolen soko baby is found!
But man has one great power--a far more potent ally than he has in his animal friends--the use of fire. Unquestionably to the minds of animals it is a supernatural power. They cannot create it, understand it, and it is very doubtful if they can yet use it to advantage. How marvellous is this thing--fire! That great blazing pillar of cloud that destroys all, and leaves nothing to show where it has taken its enemies! To animals it springs up wherever man rests his head, and protects him while he sleeps. It is always with him, and its presence for untold ages has brought terror to all of them.
Not a few reports tell us that certain of our animal allies among the monkeyfolk of South Africa use fire. This may not be true; but it is probable that the time is near at hand when the wild baboon-men of the woods will learn to make and use fire just as we have done.
Enough instances could be shown illustrating animals as man's allies to fill an entire book, but a sufficient number have been adduced to show how truly they are our allies, helpers, and protectors just as we are theirs, only their mode of manifesting it is different. We have shown the absolute fallacy of the old belief that animals lack mentality, and that all their acts of kindness are based upon self-love and personal gain, and have seen that in proportion to their opportunities in life, they have quite as much mentality and brotherly love for each other and mankind as is found among our lower savages. We have seen that among animals as among men, individuals will give their lives for their fellows, serve the weak and timid, and demonstrate the highest and holiest feelings of which true souls can be capable, and always share equally with man the burdens that fall upon themselves and their human allies. And the time is already here when man should protect his animal friends more, and teach them through human kindness not to fear him. But this can only be done when he is willing to treat them as fellow beings only a little below him in the scale of existence.
CHAPTER XV
THE FUTURE LIFE OF ANIMALS
_"Ah, poor companion! when thou followedst last Thy master's parting footsteps to the gate Which closed forever on him, thou didst lose Thy best friend, and none was left to plead For the old age of brute fidelity.
But fare thee well. Mine is no narrowed creed; And He who gave thee being did not frame The mystery of Life to be the sport Of merciless man. There is another world For all that live and move--a better one!
Where the proud bipeds, who would fain confine Of their own charity, may envy thee."_
--SOUTHEY (on the death of his dog).
The old belief is still prevalent that the Bible teaches that of all living creatures man alone is immortal. This erroneous belief springs out of man's egotism, however, and is not substantiated by the Scriptures. Among many of the Old Testament writers we find that immortality was assured for neither man nor animals; whereas, with the larger revelation of the New Testament, immortality is no longer questioned for any living creature.
There are, of course, many supposedly intelligent people who deny to animals the power of reason, and attribute all their marvellous powers and abilities to blind instinct. It is, therefore, not the least bit surprising that the vast majority of people believe that when an animal dies, its life principle dies also. The animating power, they believe, is destroyed, and the body returns to the dust.
These mistaken conclusions are largely, if not wholly, due to two passages of Scripture, one of which is in the Psalms and the other in Ecclesiastes. The one most often quoted, from the Psalms, runs in the authorised version: "Nevertheless, man being in honor, abideth not; he is like the beasts that perish." This verse is frequently quoted as decisive of the whole question. The other passage, which is found in Ecclesiastes, reads: "Who knoweth the spirit of man that goeth upward, and the spirit of the beast that goeth downward to the earth?"
It is upon the authority of these two passages that we are supposed to believe that when an animal dies, its life has gone forever, departed, expired. In this new age of thought and discovery, we do not attempt to explain a passage of Scripture, no matter how simple it may appear to be, without referring to the original text, that we may see if the translator has kept the true sense of the words and adequately expressed their significance, remembering that words often change their meaning, and that the original use of a word may have conveyed exactly the opposite meaning to that which we at present attach to it.
But if we accept the passage just as it stands, with the literal meaning of the words as is usually understood, there is but one conclusion--animals have no future life. Death ends all for them. But, on the other hand, if we are to take the literal interpretation of the Bible only, we are forced to believe that man, as well as the animals, has no life after death. Surely the book of Psalms is full of examples to support this literal interpretation. For example, "In death there is no remembrance of thee: in the grave, who shall give thee thanks?"
Again, "The dead praise not the Lord, neither any that go down into silence." Or, "His breath goeth forth, he returneth to his earth; in that very day his thoughts perish." These quotations could be greatly added to, and if taken in their literal sense, we would reach but one conclusion--death ends all for every living creature! Nothing in all the literature of the earth could be more gloomy and discouraging than these quotations with numerous others that contemplate death. Yet, vain man takes one little passage that seemingly denies a future life to animals from the same book that many times over denies a future life to mankind; in fact, there are five times as many Scripture passages claiming for man that all ends in death as there are for animals. Over and over we are told that those who have died have no remembrance of God, and cannot praise Him. The Bible speaks of death as the "land of forgetfulness,"--the place of darkness, where all man's thoughts perish.
Nothing more than this could be said of the "animals that perish!"
Other Biblical writers referred to mankind as those who "dwell in houses of clay," and Job says: "They are destroyed from morning to evening; they perish forever, without any regarding it." In another place he says: "As the cloud is consumed and vanisheth away, so he that goeth down to the grave shall come up no more." Again he speaks of "the land of darkness and the shadow of death," and says: "Man dieth, and wasteth away: yea, man giveth up the ghost, and where is he? As the waters fail from the sea, and the flood decayeth and drieth up: so man lieth down, and riseth not." Job laments the pitiable conditions of his life, and complains that life was ever granted to him, and that even death can bring nothing to him except extinction.
Yet, if we examine Ecclesiastes, the book in which we find the single passage upon which many people base a belief in the non-future existence of animals, there are passages which are really no more positive as to the future of mankind. For example, "I said in my heart concerning the estate of the sons of men, that God might manifest them, and that they might see that they themselves are beasts. For that which befalleth the sons of men befalleth beasts; even one thing befalleth them. As the one dieth, so dieth the other; yea, they have all one breath, so that a man has no pre-eminence over a beast: for all is vanity. All go unto one place; all are of the dust, and all turn to the dust again." Again it is said: "For the living know that they shall die, but the dead know not anything, neither have they any more a reward, for the memory of them is forgotten;" and "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom in the grave whither thou goest."
By interpreting these words literally, there is but one conclusion relative to a future spiritual life, namely, that there is absolutely no distinction between man and his "lower brother" animals, and that when they die they all go to the same place. It is emphatically said that after death man knows nothing, receives no reward, and can do no work. Job has the same gloomy strain running through his writings, and Ecclesiastes gives a most morbid and gloomy view of death.
However, no modern Biblical scholar accepts these passages in this literal light, for it is known that they were written symbolically, or as parables, and were not intended to be literally interpreted. They have a spiritual significance. We are, however, not interested here so much with this spiritual sense as we are with the literal implication of the translation. Therefore, according to this literal meaning of the two texts, if we accept them to prove that animals have no future life, we are forced to believe by at least fourteen passages, of equal if not greater power, that man shares their same fate after death. No man has a right to select certain passages from the same book of the Bible and say that they shall be accepted literally, and that other passages of equal merit shall be interpreted otherwise. They must all be treated the same.
All scholars are familiar with that remarkable eleventh book of Homer's Odyssey, known as the Necromanteia, or Invocation of the Dead, and in it Ulysses descends into the regions of the departed spirits to invoke them and obtain advice as to his future adventures. One commentator says: "He sails to the boundaries of the ocean, and lands in the country of the Cimmerians, who dwell in perpetual cloud and darkness, and in whose country are the gates leading to the regions of the dead." All is darkness, discontent, hunger; nothing is said of virtue, wisdom, beauty, happiness. Only bitter gloom! No wonder this heathen poet considered, with such views of a future life, sensual pleasures as the chief object of this life.
The following dialogue between the inhabitants of the earth and the dweller in the regions of the dead--between Ulysses and Achilles--is remarkable for its horrible depiction of the future life:
"Through the thick gloom his friend Achilles knew, As he speaks the tears dissolve in dew.
'Comest thou alive to view the Stygian bounds, Where the wan spectres walk eternal rounds; Nor fear'st the dark and dismal waste to tread, Thronged with pale ghosts familiar with the dead?'
To whom with sighs, 'I pass these dreadful gates To seek the Theban, and consult the Fates; For still distressed I roam from coast to coast, Lost to my friends and to my country lost.
But sure the eye of Time beholds no name So blessed as thine in all the rolls of fame; Alive we hailed thee with our guardian gods, And, dead thou rulest a king in these abodes.'
'Talk not of ruling in this dolorous gloom, Nor think vain words (he cried) can ease my doom.