FALSE BEASTS AND TRUE.*

PHILANTHROPISTS have been accused—with what justice we will not now stop to inquire—of indifference to the well-being of any creature save man. Great animal-lovers have, on the other hand, been heard to declare that the sufferings of dumb creatures move them more deeply than those of their own kind. The philanthropy of Miss Cobbe has hitherto been as undoubted as the ardour of her benevolence towards the more helpless portion of the creation, and it was with a feeling almost of dismay that we thought we perceived in the title of this, her latest publica- tion, a failure in just balance of mind, and an unfair partiality for her poorer relatives. Our relief was correspondingly great to find that the " true beasts " are not ourselves, qua men, but 4' matter-of-fact" beasts as distinct from beasts of fiction, and that the playful antithesis of the title-page is wholly devoid of insinuations of an offensive nature. We say this with confidence, in spite of the somewhat alarming opening of the first paper, in which the "fine irony" of our terms "brutal and humane," and their reverse meaning, as it could be explained by the brutes themselves, is amusingly dwelt upon. Miss Cobbe's genuine * False Beasts and True. By Frances Power Cobbe. London : Ward, Lock, and Tyler.

kindliness takes out all bitterness from the assertion of some sufficiently severe home-truths.

This little volume contains reprints from the New Quarterly and Cornhill magazines, together with a longer article from the Quarterhj, upon the " Consciousness of Dogs," and a pleasanter shilling's-worth than this number of the "Country House Library" will seldom reward the investor at any railway bookstall, or one which will furnish him with more profitable food for thought ,_ about that wonderful world of intelligence and affection which we call the irrational creation—a world at once so near us, yet so far off—so little known, yet so familiar,—so like ourselves, and yet so mysteriousrbehind the undefinable and impassable barrier that separates it from us.

The first two essays, on "Animals in Fable and Art" and on the " Fauna of Fancy," need not detain us long. All who are acquainted with Miss Cobbe's writings will know with what play- ful humour she dilates on the quaint fancies of poet and natural- ist; how she takes the part of the fussy, but " sensible " goose; throws cold-water on the heroism of the lion, and defends the cause of the pig. They will look, too, for the touches of pathos that show every here and there,—in such stories as that of the dog of the Roman slave who was last seen, as he floated down the Tiber, supporting above water the head of his slain master ; or of Cuvier's wolf, who, being sent to the Jardin des Plantes, testi- fied his rapturous recognition of his master after two prolonged absences, but at the third parting, broke down as to his moral nature, and after pining for a month till he was nearly dead, revived, to be " no longer the gentle, affectionate creature he had hitherto been, but a wolf wild and savage like the rest of his kind ;" and for touches of fun, in her good-natured ridicule of the French savant's notion that monkeys may possibly be trained for domestic service, and are especially fitted to act as nurses. We pity the condition of the infants confided to the tender mercies of such nursemaids as even Mr. Frank Buckland's highly-educated monkeys " Tiny " or the " Hag."

"Dogs whom 1 have met" introduces us to some canine acquaint- ances of " chequered character," but on that account all the more interesting and delightful. Our hair stands on end at the enormities of ".Lintogs." The very description of this Irish terrier proves him no honest dog. " With my own eyes," says the writer, " 1 saw him bite a poor old labourer who a month before had punished him for stealing his dinner, and against whom, in the interval, the cautious cur had refrained from betraying any unfriendly sentiment. The labourer, with three or four other men, was carrying the heavy trunk of a tree, and bending under its weight ; of course, unable either to defend himself or to pursue an aggressor. At that propitious moment, Lintogs' ran up and fastened his teeth deep into the calf of the poor old fellow's leg, with a snarl of delight which bespoke long-husbanded passion." We do not wonder that " one day his master exclaimed," like Henry II., " ' Who will rid me of this pestilent fellow?'" or that, like that king, his unexpressed commands were promptly carried out. The dog of whom this trait (only one among others of a similar nature) is recorded is brought forward as a dread example of the occasionial wickedness of dogs, for, as Miss Cobbe truly observes, it is exasperating to hear people talk as if all dogs were alike, and one need only get another of the same breed to find one's old favourite completely replaced. Dogs can be of evil nature, she tells us, and it is absurd to expect that "as a matter of course, each individual should display all the virtues set down in books of natural history as distinguishing 'the dog." Their moral natures are as various as their powers of intelligence. On one point Miss Cobbe will inflict a wound in the tenderest part of not a few of her moat appreciating readers. She would have no plu- rality of dogs.

"For ono human being to keep several dogs—real pet house-dogs- not poor slaves of the kennel harem—is a violation of what the Germans would call the root-idea of the relation. When one dog is dead, after a reasonable interval, the widowed owner may, without violation of de- cency, take to himself another canine companion. But- polydoggery is a thing against which all proper feeling revolts, and the human estab- lishments in which it is permitted are necessarily scenes of permanent rivalry and discord?'

We have ourselves, alas ! seen such scenes ; scenes of jealousy and wrath, unsoftened even by the close relations of mother and child, which gave but too much confirmation to Dr. Watts's severe, sweeping, and ungrammatical dictum respecting the normal disposition of dogs. In the paper reprinted from the Quarterly upon the "Consciousness of Dogs," Miss Cobbe drops her lighter tone, and makes a serious effort to grapple with the diffi- cult and much-vexed question of how far animals, especially dogs, share the same mental and moral nature with ourselves, and as to where the line of demarcation should be drawn, if, indeed, any hard-and-fast line can be definitely drawn at all. It is not impossible, she thinks, to construct the moral and mental consciousness of dogs from our own :— " Extreme patience in working out details, caution in refraining from leaping to the conclusion that the possession of any single man- like faculty implies that of another, and above all, the scientific use of the imagination,' warmed by sympathy with our ' poor relations,' appear sufficient to supply the full equipment for our task. Proceeding stop by stop, and carefully distinguishing everything noteworthy which dogs have done from that which experience proves to be beyond their powers. we may map out a line which shall approximately represent the cir- cumference of their nature. Within this circle—since thought is thought, and love is love, in every breast that beats with its emotion— we are justified in assuming that there is a real correspondence and similarity between the mental processes and feelings of the dog and our own. When we endeavour in suoh a manner to realise the con- sciousness of a dog by fancying ourselves circumscribed by his limita- tions, we are using no idle play of imagination, but pursuing our in- quiry by a method almost as exact as that, so favoured by modern mathematicians, of applying one figure to another. How far the special attributes which distinguish us from all the lower animals must modify each perception and feeling, how self-consciousness must bring a now factor into every thought, and moral free agency a now element into every passion, it should be part of our work to endeavour to trace. But, as above remarked, though it would bo impossible for the lower being to add by imagination any such gifts to his consciousness, it is by no means an impossible task, albeit a delicate one, for the higher to imagine himself divested of them."

We cannot follow all the denuding and constructing processes by which the inner dog is developed in Miss Cobbe's philosophy. To our mind, she makes his mind more intelligible, and the whole canine race is to be congratulated on having found so able and careful an interpreter. It is no easy work to " imagine ourselves inhabiting a diminutive and prostrate form, without hands, with- out speech, and destined to die of old age as a boy enters his teens," but even such a task is not beyond the powers of a sym- pathetic imagination. Young children when told stories of animals will sometimes go down on all-fours and act out the part, throwing themselves completely into the personality of the beast which has most fascinated their imagination. Something of the same childlike spirit is needed for any one who wishes to enter into the secrets of the dumb creation, or to see with a clearer vision their relation to humanity.

Amongst the numerous anecdotes illustrative of the different positions of her argument, some are extremely curious, more espe- cially those which show that animals have sympathy and affec- tion for one another. The following is vouched for by the wife of Archdeacon Bland :—

" The dog belonged to us at Whitburn. It was half Danish, and had a great attachment to my pony, which, on one occasion, was severely hurt. When the pony was well enough to be turned into a field, we constantly brought it carrots and other good things, and as constantly saw Traveller rush off into the garden, and return with two or three fallen apples in his mouth, lay them before the pony, and then watch him eating them with the greatest demonstrations of pleasure."

" A still prettier story," says Miss Cobbe, " has been sent to me of a large dog kept at Algiers by Miss Emily Napier; daughter of Sir William Napier :"—

" The dog was sent every morning to fetch bread from the baker's, and regularly brought home twelve rolls in a basket ; but at last it was observed that for several mornings there were only eleven rolls in the basket, and on watching the dog, he was found to stay on his way and bestow one rol on a poor, sick, and starving lady-dog, hidden, with her puppies, in a corner on the road from the shop. The baker was in- structed to put thirteen rolls in the basket, after which the dog delivered the twelve faithfully for a few days, and then left thirteen in the basket, —the token, as it proved, that his sick friend was convalescent, and able to dispense with his charity."

In Mr. Rose's Untrodden Spain there is a painful story of a stray dog, taken in by some charitable Spanish ladies, who, from the animal's fastidiousness about his comforts, were convinced he must have belonged to the " upper ten thousand," perhaps even to a duke, and petted him accordingly, till one unfortunate day, when a passer-by recognised in him the runaway guide of a blind beggar. Whenever his antecedents had been discussed, " Picho" had invariably quitted the room, or if he could not, had been seized with violent sickness till the door was opened for him. He now showed such a consciousness of imposture, that Mr. Rose determined to try to convince the still incredulous ladies by acting the part of a blind man ; directly the poor animal heard the stumping footsteps, felt the foot raised against him, and saw the waving hands, he gave a short scream of fright, rose, and walked, lifting his hind and fore feet wildly, in the vain effort to free them from a wholly imaginary, but well-remembered string. No pity for the poor little impostor, or admiration of his ingenious attempt to become a respectable member of society, seems to have moved his former patrons ; their favour was withdrawn ; the morale of

the animal broke down under the ignominy showered upon him, and (never perfect in his behaviour) he became so intolerable, that shortly afterwards his corpse was seen in the street, with a most suspicious cord tied round the neck. " Picho " had died in a fit? Here all the severity of moral indignation was shown to the innocent deceit of an irresponsible being. Mr. Rose, we should think, can hardly look back with satisfaction on his share in this domestic tragedy :—

" Only half the factors of the moral life are theirs," writes Miss Cobbe ; " they have the passions and desires which form the wasp of our own. But the woof of free choice, determined by love of right for its own sake, they never throw, or if they do so, it is so rarely and obscurely as to elude our ken. And here we find the ethical explanation of the fact that man may justly appropriate to himself the whole existence of an animal, whereas to reduce a fellow-man to similar slavery would be a heinous crime. The dog, having no true moral freedom, is none the worse, nor are the ends of his being defeated by his will becoming absorbed in the will of his master. If he bo made happy, his highest end is attained, and no wrong whatever done him."

To those who are fond of animals, there is no need to recom- mend this little work ; we would rather wish it many readers, from among that larger number who are indifferent to the needs and sufferings of the brute creation far more from the absence of aroused interest, than from any natural want of feeling.