Popular Science Monthly/Volume 5/October 1874/Are Animals Automatons?
I SHALL go no further back than the seventeenth century, and the observations which I shall have to offer you will be confined almost entirely to the biological science of the time between the middle of the seventeenth and middle of the eighteenth centuries. I propose to show what great ideas in biological science took their origin at that time, in what manner the speculations then originated have been developed, and in what relation they stand to what is now understood to be the body of scientific biological truth. The middle of the seventeenth century is one of the great epochs of biological science. It was at that time that an idea arose that vital phenomena, like all other phenomena of the physical world, are capable of mechanical explanation, that they are reducible to law and order, and that the study of biology is an application of the great science of physics and chemistry. Harvey was the first clearly to explain the mechanism of the circulation of the blood, and by that remarkable discovery of his he laid the foundation of a scientific theory of the larger part of the processes of living beings—those processes, in fact, which we now call processes of sustentation—and by his studies of development he first laid the foundation of a scientific knowledge of reproduction. But, besides these great powers of living beings, there remains another class of functions—those of the nervous system—with which Harvey did not grapple. It was, indeed, left for a contemporary of his, Descartes, to play a part in relation to the phenomena of the nervous system which is precisely equal in value to that Harvey played in regard to the circulation. You must recollect that this man Descartes was not merely, as some had been, a happy speculator. He was a working anatomist and physiologist, conversant with all the anatomical and physiological law of his time. A most characteristic anecdote of him, and one which should ever put to silence those shallow talkers who speak of Descartes as an hypothetical and speculative philosopher, is, that a friend once calling upon him in Holland begged to be shown his library. Descartes led him into a sort of shed, and, drawing aside a curtain, displayed a dissecting-room full of the bodies of animals in course of dissection, and said, "There is my library."
The matters of which we shall treat are such as to require no extensive knowledge of anatomy. I need only premise that what we call the nervous system in one of the higher animals consists of a central apparatus, composed of the brain, which is lodged in the skull, and of a cord proceeding from it, which is termed the spinal marrow, and which is lodged in the vertebral column or spine, and that then from these soft white masses—for such they are—there proceed cords which are termed nerves, some of which nerves end in the muscle, while others end in the organs of sensation. The first proposition that you find definitely and clearly stated by Descartes is the view that the brain is the organ of sensation, of thought, and of emotion—using the word "organ" in this sense, that certain changes which take place in the matter of the brain are the essential antecedents of those states of consciousness which we term sensation, thought, and emotion. If your friend disagrees with your opinion, runs amuck against any of your pet prejudices, you say, "Ah! poor fellow, he is a little touched here," by which you mean that his brain is not doing its business properly—that he is not thinking properly—thereby implying that his brain is some way affected. It remained down to the time of Bichat a question whether the passions were or were not located in the abdominal viscera. In the second place, Descartes lays down the proposition that all the movements of the animal bodies are effected by the change of form of a certain part of the matter of their bodies, to which he applies the general term of muscle. That is a proposition which is now placed beyond all doubt whatever. If I move my arm, that movement is due to the change of this mass in front called the biceps muscle; it is shortened till it becomes thicker. If I move any of my limbs, the reason is the same. As I now speak to you, the different tones of my voice are due to the exquisitely accurate adjustments and adjusted contractions of a multitude of such particles of flesh; and there is no considerable and visible movement of the animal body which is not, as Descartes says, resolvable into these changes in the form of matter termed muscle. But Descartes went further, and he stated that in the normal and ordinary condition of things these changes in the form of muscle in the living body only occur under certain conditions; and the essential condition of the change was, says Descartes, the motion of the matter contained within the nerves, which go from the central apparatus to the muscle. Descartes gave this moving material a particular name—he animal spirits. Nowadays we should not say that the animal spirits existed, but we should say that a molecular change takes place in the nerve, and that that molecular change is propagated at a certain velocity which has been measured from the central apparatus to the muscle. Modern physiology has measured the rate of the change to which I have referred.
Next, Descartes says that, under ordinary circumstances, this change in the contents of a nerve, which gives rise to the contraction of a muscle, is produced by a change in the central nervous apparatus, as, for example, the brain. We say at the present time exactly the same thing. Descartes said that the animal spirits were stored up in the brain, and flowed out from the motor nerve. We say that a molecular change takes place in the brain that is propagated along the motor nerve. Further, Descartes stated that the sensory organs which give rise to our feelings gave rise to a change in the sensory nerves, to a flow of animal spirits along those nerves, which flow was propagated to the brain. If I look at this candle before us, the light falling on the retina of my eye gives rise to an affection of the optic nerve, which affection Descartes described as a flow of the animal spirits to the brain; but the fundamental idea is the same. In all our notions of the operations of nerve we are building upon Descartes's foundation. He says that, when a body which is competent to produce a sensation touches the sensory organs, what happens is the production of a mode of motion of the sensory nerves. That mode of motion is propagated to the brain. That which takes place in the brain is still nothing but a mode of motion. But, in addition to this mode of motion, there is, as everybody can find by experiment for himself, something else which can in no way be compared to motion, which is utterly unlike it, and which is that state of consciousness which we call a sensation. Descartes insists over and over again upon this total disparity between the agent which excites the state of consciousness and the state of consciousness itself. He tells us that our sensations are not pictures of external things, but that they are symbols or signs of them; and in doing that he made one of the greatest possible revolutions, not only in physiology but in philosophy. Till his time it was the notion that visible bodies, for example, gave from themselves a kind of film which entered the eye and so went to the brain, species intellectuales as they were called, and thus the mind received an actual copy or picture of things which were given off from it. In laying down that proposition upon what I imagine to be a perfectly irrefragable basis, Descartes laid the foundation of that form of philosophy which is termed idealism, which was subsequently expanded to its uttermost by Berkeley, and has taken all sorts of shapes since.
But Descartes noticed not only that under certain conditions an impulse made by the sensory organ may give rise to a sensation, but that under certain other conditions it may give rise to motion, and that this motion may be effected without sensation, and not only without volition, but even contrary to it. I know in no modern treatise of a more clear and precise statement than this of what we understand by the automatic action of the brain. And what is very remarkable is, that, in speaking of these movements which arise by a sensation being as it were reflected from the central apparatus into a limb—as, for example, when one's finger is pricked and the arm is suddenly drawn up, the motion of the sensory nerve travels to the spine and is again reflected down to the muscles of the arm—Descartes uses the very phrase that, we at this present time employ. And the last great service to the physiology of the nervous system which I have to mention as rendered by Descartes was this, that he first, so far as I know, sketched out the physical theory of memory. What he tells you in substance is this, that when a sensation takes place, the animal spirits travel up the sensory nerve, pass to the appropriate part of the brain, and there, as it were, find their way through the pores of the substance of the brain. And he says that, when the particles of the brain have themselves been shoved aside a little by the single passage of the animal spirits, the passage is made easier in the same direction for any subsequent flow of animal spirits, and that the repetition of this action makes it easier still, until at length it becomes very easy for the animal spirits to move these particular particles of the brain, the motion of which gives rise to the appropriate sensation, until at length the passage is so easy that almost any thing, especially an associated flow which may be set going, allows the animal spirits to flow into these already open pores more easily than they would flow in any other direction; and in this way a flow of the animal spirits recalls the image—the impression made by a former sensory act. That, again, is essentially in substance at one with all our present physical theories of memory. In one respect Descartes proceeded further than any of his contemporaries, and has been followed by very few of his successors in later days. Descartes reasoned thus: "I can account for many such actions, many reflex actions taking place without the intervention of consciousness, and even in opposition to the will." So far these occur, as, for example, when a man in falling mechanically puts out his hands to save himself. "In these cases," Descartes said, "I have clear evidence that the nervous system acts mechanically without the intervention of consciousness, and without the intervention of the will, it may be in opposition to it." Why, then, may I not extend this idea further? As actions of a certain amount of complexity are brought about in this way, why may not actions of still greater complexity be so produced? Why, in fact, may it not be that the whole of man's physical actions are mechanical, his mind living apart, like one of the gods of Epicurus, but unlike them occasionally, interfering by means of his volition?
And it so happened that Descartes was led by some of his speculations to believe that beasts had no soul, and consequently, according to his notion, could have no true mental operations, and no consciousness; and thus, his two ideas harmonizing together, he developed that famous hypothesis of the automatism of brutes, which is the main subject of my present discourse. What Descartes meant by this was that animals are absolutely machines, as if they were mills or barrel-organs; that they have no feelings; that a dog does not hear, and does not smell, but that the impression which thus gave rise to those states of consciousness in the dog gave rise by a mechanical reflex process, to actions which correspond to those which we perform when we do smell, and do taste, and do see. Suppose an experiment. Suppose that all that is taken away of the brain of a frog is what we call the hemisphere, the most anterior part of the brain. If that operation is properly performed, very quickly and very skillfully, the frog may be kept in a state of full bodily vigor for months, or it may be for years; but it will sit forever in the same spot. It sees nothing; it hears nothing. It will starve sooner than feed itself, although, if food is put into its mouth, it swallows it. On irritation, it jumps or walks; if thrown into the water, it swims. But the most remarkable thing that it does is this—you put it in the flat of your hand, it sits there, crouched, perfectly quiet, and would sit there forever. Then if you incline your hand, doing it very gently and slowly, so that the frog would naturally tend to slip off, you feel the creature's fore-paws getting a little slowly on to the edge of your hand until he can just hold himself there, so that he does not fall; then, if you turn your hand, he mounts up with great care and deliberation, putting one leg in front and then another, until he balances himself with perfect precision upon the edge of your hand; then, if you turn your hand over, he goes through the opposite set of operations until he comes to sit in perfect security upon the back of your hand. The doing of all this requires a delicacy of coördination and an adjustment of the muscular apparatus of the body which are only comparable to those of a rope-dancer among ourselves; in truth, a frog is an animal very poorly constructed for rope-dancing, and on the whole we may give him rather more credit than we should to a human dancer. These movements are performed with the utmost steadiness and precision, and you may vary the position of your hand, and the frog, so long as you are reasonably slow in your movements, will work backward and forward like a clock. And what is still more remarkable is this, that, if you put him on a table, and put a book between him and the light, and give him a little jog behind, he will jump—take a long jump, very possibly—but he won't jump against the book; he will jump to the right or to the left, but he will get out of the way, showing that, although he is absolutely insensible to ordinary impressions of light, there is still a something which passes through the sensory nerve, acts upon the machinery of his nervous system, and causes it to adapt itself to the proper action.
I need not say that since those days of commencing anatomical science when criminals were handed over to the doctors, we cannot make experiments on human beings, but sometimes they are made for us, and made in a very remarkable manner. That operation called war is a great series of physiological experiments, and sometimes it happens that these physiological experiments bear very remarkable fruit. A French soldier, a sergeant, was wounded at the battle of Bareilles. The man was shot in what we call the left parietal bone. The bullet, I presume, glanced off, but it fractured the bone. He had enough vigor left to send his bayonet through the Prussian that shot him. Then he wandered a few hundred yards out of the village, where he was picked up and taken to the hospital, where he remained some time. When he came to himself, as usual in such cases of injury, he was paralyzed on the opposite side of the body, that is to say, the right arm and the right leg were completely paralyzed. That state of things lasted, I think, the better part of two years, but sooner or later he recovered from it, and now he is able to walk about with activity, and only by careful measurement can any difference between the two sides of his body be ascertained. At present this man lives two lives, a normal life and an abnormal life. In his normal life he is perfectly well, cheerful, and a capital hospital attendant, does all his work well, and is a respectable, well-conducted man. That normal life lasts for about seven-and-twenty days, or thereabouts, out of every month; but for a day or two in each month—generally at intervals of about that time—he passes into another life, suddenly, and without warning or intimation. In this life he is still active, goes about just as usual, and is to all appearance just the same man as before; goes to bed and undresses himself, gets up, makes his cigarette and smokes it, and eats and drinks. But in this condition he neither sees, nor hears, nor tastes, nor smells, nor is he conscious of any thing whatever, and has only one sense-organ in a state of activity—viz., that of touch, which is exceedingly delicate. If you put an obstacle in his way he knocks against it, feels it, and goes to the one side. If you push him in any direction he goes straight on, illustrating, as well as he can, the first law of motion. You see I have said he makes his cigarettes, but you may make his tobacco of shavings or of any thing else you like, and still he will go on making his cigarettes as usual. His action is purely mechanical. As I said, he feeds voraciously, but whether you give him aloes or asafœtida, or the nicest thing possible, it is all the same to him.
The man is in a condition absolutely parallel to that of the frog, and no doubt, when he is in this condition, the functions of his cerebral hemispheres are at any rate largely annihilated. He is very nearly—I don't say wholly, but very nearly—in the condition of an animal in which the cerebral hemispheres are not entirely extirpated, but very largely damaged. And his state is wonderfully interesting to me, for it bears on the phenomena of mesmerism, of which I saw a good deal when I was a young man. In this state he is capable of performing all sorts of actions on mere suggestion—as, for example, he dropped his cane, and a person near him put it into his hand, and the feeling of the end of the cane evidently produced in him those molecular changes of the brain which, had he possessed consciousness, would have given rise to the idea of his rifle; for he threw himself on his face, began feeling about for his cartouche, went through the motions of touching his gun, and shouted out to an imaginary comrade, "Here they are, a score of them; but we will give a good account of them." This paper to which I refer is full of the most remarkable examples of this kind, and what is the most remarkable fact of all is, the modifications which this injury has made in the. man's moral nature. In his normal life he is one of the most upright and honest of men. In his abnormal state, however, he is an inveterate thief. He will steal every thing he can lay his hands upon, and, if he cannot steal any thing else, he will steal his own things and hide them away. Now, if Descartes had had this fact before him, need I tell you that his theory of animal automatism would have been enormously strengthened? He would have said: "Here, I show you a case of a man performing actions evidently more complicated and mostly more rational than any of the ordinary operations of animals; and yet you have positive proof that these actions are merely mechanical. What, then, have you to urge against my doctrine that the whole animal world is in that condition, and that—to use the very correct words of Father Malebranche—'Thus in dogs, cats, and other animals, there is neither intelligence nor spiritual soul as we understand the matter commonly; they eat without pleasure—they cry without pain—they grow without knowing it—they desire nothing, they know nothing; and, if they act with dexterity and in a manner which indicates intelligence, it is because God, having made them with the intention of preserving them, has constructed their bodies in such a manner that they escape organically, without knowing it, every thing which could injure them, and which they seemed to fear.'"
But I must say for myself—looking at the matter on the ground of analogy—taking into account that great doctrine of continuity which forbids one to suppose that any natural phenomenon can come into existence suddenly and without some precedent, gradual modification tending toward it—taking that great doctrine into account (and every thing we know of science tends to confirm it), and taking into account on the other hand the incontrovertible fact that the lower animals which possess brains at all possess, at any rate, in rudiments a part of the brain, which we have every reason to believe is the organ of consciousness in ourselves, then it seems vastly more probable that the lower animals, although they may not possess that sort of consciousness which we have ourselves, yet have it in a form proportional to the comparative development of the organ of that consciousness, and foreshadow more or less dimly those feelings which we possess ourselves. I think that is, probably, the most rational conclusion that can be come to. It has this advantage, that it relieves us of the very terrible consequences of making any mistake on this subject. I must confess that, looking at that terrible struggle for existence which is everywhere going on in the animal world, and considering the frightful quantity of pain which must be given and received in every part of the animal world, I say that is a consideration which would induce me wholly to adopt the view of Descartes. Yet I think it on the whole much better to err on the right side, and not to concur with Descartes on this point. But let me point out to you that, although we may come to the conclusion that Descartes was wrong in supposing that animals are insensible machines, it does not in the slightest degree follow that they are not sensitive and conscious automata; in fact, that is the view which is more or less clearly in the minds of every one of us. When we talk of the lower animals being provided with instinct, and not with reason, what we really mean is that, although they are sensitive, and, although they are conscious, yet they do act mechanically, and that their different states of consciousness, their sensations, their thoughts (if they have them), their volitions (if they have them), are the products and consequences of the mechanical arrangements. I must confess that this popular view is to my mind the only one which can be scientifically adopted. We are bound by every thing we know of the operations of the nervous system to believe that, when a certain molecular change is brought about in the central part of the nervous system, that change, in some way utterly unknown to us, causes that state of consciousness that we term a sensation. It is not to be doubted that the impression excited by those motions which give rise to sensation leaves in the brain molecular changes which answer to what Haller called "vestigia rerum," and which that great thinker David Hartley termed "vibratiuncles," which we might term sensigenous molecular, and which constitute the physical foundation of memory. Those same changes gave rise naturally to conditions of pleasure and pain, and to those emotions which in ourselves we call volition. I have no doubt that is the relation between the physical processes of the animal and his mental processes. In each case it follows inevitably that these states of consciousness can have no sort of relation of causation to the motions of the muscles of the body. The volition of animals will be simply states of emotion which precede their actions. The only conclusion, then, at which there seems any good ground for arriving is, that animals are machines, but that they are conscious machines.
I might, with propriety, consider what I have now said, as the conclusion of the observations which I have to offer concerning animal automatism. So far as I know, the problem which we have hitherto been discussing is an entirely open one. I do not know that there is any reason on the part of any person, whatever his opinions may be, that can prevent him, if he be so inclined, from accepting the doctrine which I have just now put before you. So far as we know, animals are conscious automata. That doctrine is perfectly consistent with any view we may choose to take on a very curious subject of speculation—whether animals possess souls or not, and whether, if they possess souls, those souls are immortal or not. The doctrine to which I have referred is not inconsistent with the perfectly strict and literal adherence to the Scripture text concerning the beast that perisheth, nor, on the other hand, so far as I know, does it prevent any one from entertaining the amiable convictions ascribed by Pope to his untutored savage, that, when he passed to the realms of the blessed, his faithful dog should bear him company. In fact, all these accessory questions to which I have referred involve problems which cannot be discussed by physical science as such, as they lie, not within the scope of physical science, but come within the scope of that great mother of all science, Philosophy. Before any direct answer can be given upon any of these questions, we must hear what Philosophy has to say for and against the views that may be held. I have now laid these facts before you. I do not doubt that that fate will befall me which has befallen better men, and I shall have to bear in patience the reiterated assertion that doctrines such as I have put before you have very evil tendencies. I should not wonder if you were told that my intention in bringing this subject before you is to lead you to apply the doctrine I have stated to man as well as brutes, and it will then certainly be further stated that the logical tendency of such a doctrine is Fatalism, Materialism, and Atheism.
Now, let me ask you to listen to another product of that long experience to which I have referred. The logical consequences are very important; but in the course of my experience I have found that they were the scarecrows of fools and the beacons of wise men. Logical consequences can take care of themselves. The only question for any man to ask is this: "Is this true or is it false?" No other question can possibly be taken into consideration until that one is settled. Undoubtedly I do hold that the view I have taken of the relations between the physical and mental faculties of brutes applies in its fullness and entirety to man; and, if it was true that the logical consequences of that belief must land me in all these terrible things, I do not hesitate in allowing myself to be so landed. I should conceive that, if I refused, I should have done the greatest and most abominable violence to every thing which is deepest in my moral nature. But now I beg leave to say that, in my conviction, there is no such logical connection as is pretended between the doctrine I accept and the consequences which people profess to draw from it. Many years ago I had occasion, in dealing with the philosophy of Descartes, and some other matters, to state my conviction pretty fully on those subjects, and, although I know by experience how futile it is to endeavor to escape from those nicknames which many people mistake for argument, yet, if those who care to investigate these matters in a spirit of candor and justice will look into those writings of mine; they will see my reasons for not imagining that such conclusions can be drawn from such premises. To those who do not look into these matters with candor and with a desire to know the truth I have nothing whatever to say, except to warn them on their own behalf what they do; for assuredly, if, for preaching such doctrine as I have preached to you to-night, I am cited before the bar of public opinion, I shall not stand there alone. On my one hand I shall have, among theologians, St. Augustine, John Calvin, and a man whose name should be well known to the Presbyterians of Ulster—Jonathan Edwards—unless, indeed, it be the fashion to neglect the study of the great masters of divinity, as many other great studies are neglected nowadays. I should have upon my other hand, among the philosophers, Leibnitz; I should have Père Malebranche, who saw all things in God; I should have David Hartley, the theologian as well as philosopher; I should have Charles Bonnet, the eminent naturalist, and one of the most zealous defenders Christianity has ever had. I think I should have, within easy reach at any rate, John Locke. Certainly the school of Descartes would be there, if not their master; and I am inclined to think, in due justice, a citation would have to be served upon Emmanuel Kant himself. In such society it may be better to be a prisoner than a judge; but I would ask those who are likely to be influenced by the din and clamor which are raised about these questions whether they are more likely to be right in assuming that those great men I have mentioned—the fathers of the Church and the fathers of philosophy—knew what they were about, or that the pigmies who raise this din know better than they did what they meant. It is not necessary for any man to occupy himself with problems of this kind unless he so choose. Life is full enough, filled amply to the brim, by the performance of its ordinary duties; but let me warn you, let me beg you to believe that if a man elect to give a judgment upon these great questions; still more, if he assume to himself the responsibility of attaching praise or blame to his fellow-men for the judgments which they may venture to express, I say that, unless he would commit a sin more grievous than most of the breaches of the Decalogue, let him avoid a lazy reliance upon the information that is gathered by prejudice and filtered through passion. Let him go to these great sources that are open to him as to every one, and to no man more open than to an Englishman; let him go back to the facts of Nature, and to the thoughts of those wise men who for generations past have been the interpreters of Nature.
- An address delivered before the British Association at Belfast, August 25th.