p. 99 | DO BEASTS HAVE IMMORTAL SOULS?

Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Mar 30, 1876

DO BEASTS HAVE IMMORTAL SOULS?

By Dudley Marvin Canright

(Concluded.)

CONSCIENCE.

“To those who have never studied the ways of the lower animals, it may seem strange to assert that they, as well as ourselves, possess conscience, i. e., a sense of moral responsibility, and a capability of distinguishing between right and wrong. It is necessarily developed strongest in those animals which are placed under the rule of man, and especially in those which, like the dog, belong to his household, and are made his companions. Conscience, in their dealings with man, is their religion, and they often exercise it in a way which would put many a human being to shame.

“It is this feeling which induces the dog to make itself the guardian of its master’s property, and often to defend that property at the risk of its life. For example, if a dog be placed in charge of its master’s dinner, the faithful animal will never touch a morsel of food, however hungry he may be. Nay, a dog would rather, as an ordinary rule, die of starvation than eat the food which belonged to his master. We often see field-laborers working at one end of a large field, while their spare clothes and their dinner are at the other end, guarded by a dog. They are quite easy about the safety of their property, knowing well that the dog will not allow any one to touch either the clothes or the provisions.”

“A very common form of conscience among the lower animals is that which may be defined as a recognition of having done wrong, and an acknowledgment that punishment is deserved. It is exactly the same feeling which induced Adam to hide himself after he had fallen into sin. Animals have in their way very decided ideas as to right and wrong; and when they have committed an act which they know will offend their master, they display as keen a conscience as could be exhibited by any human being self-convicted of a sin; and, in many cases, the offense is acknowledged, and the creature remains miserable until pardon has been granted. This we call in ourselves penitence.”

“Whenever our dog while young did wrong we found the greatest punishment was to take no notice of him, and refuse his offered paw. On one occasion, I remember, he ran off, and was missing all day. When he came back, he was shut up in his sleeping-place, after we had shaken our heads at him and turned away. Although he must have been very hungry, he would not touch his food, but sat close to the door, whining and crying, till we made it up with him by telling him he was forgiven, and taking his offered paw, when he ate his supper and went quietly to bed. His love for us is unbounded, and he almost overwhelms us sometimes by his affectionate embraces, especially if we have been away, when he almost talks in his joy at seeing us again.”

“A Newfoundland dog of great age, but still the gentle, good-tempered friend of his master’s children, lay one morning sound asleep. One of his playmates, wishing that he should accompany their walk, gave him a kick. The poor dog, suddenly awakened, seized sharply the little girl’s leg, but without really hurting her. The nurse thereupon scolded him, pretended to beat him with a pocket-handkerchief, and, when he wanted to go with them, shut the door in his face.

“One of the men soon afterward found him lying with his head in a ditch, dragged him out, and brought him to the stables, where he lay, refusing to eat or drink. Ere long he was again found at the same ditch, dead. Whether, in remorse and despair of forgiveness, he had successfully repeated an attempt at suicide, or whether he had lain down there to die of a broken heart, I do not know.”

SYMPATHY AND FRIENDSHIP.

As illustrative of this trait of character, read the following:—

“In a little village in Wiltshire there lived a small black terrier, called “Mungo,” and a large yard-dog, the two being on the most amicable terms. One night the terrier paid a neighboring farm-house a visit, in order to offer his respects to another little terrier, whom he much admired. But alas for his gallant intentions! A large rough watch-dog, not tolerating rivals, set on him savagely, and poor Mungo returned home in a sorry plight—bleeding, torn, limping, and scarcely able to crawl.

“He lay down by his faithful friend, and told of his piteous wooing. Fondly and gently the big dog listened, and licked his friend’s wounds, who for many a day lay sorely bruised, and never attempted to leave home. Sometime afterward, on a fine moonlight night, some laborers, who were returning home across some fields, met the two friends trotting gayly along. Next morning the farmer found his savage watch-dog stretched stiff and stark on the straw in his yard.”

“What a combination of qualities do we not find in the conduct of these two dogs. They must have possessed a language sufficiently definite for the one to tell the other what had befallen him, and to designate the offender. They then must have arranged that the big dog was to avenge the injuries inflicted on his little friend as soon as the latter was well enough to show him the way. There was memory in both dogs, enabling them to postpone the execution of their design until the injured dog had recovered; and there was sympathy for suffering in the large dog, and desire for revenge in the little one. The two dogs in question belonged to a clergyman, who told the story to my correspondent.”

“The following little history is taken from Hardwicke’s Science Gossip, for September, 1871: ““A little redbreast has come to our door all through the winter for his meals, and a most friendly, welcome guest he has been. One spring morning we saw robin do a deed of charity that more than ever endeared the little bird to our hearts. It had been a bitterly cold night, and on our servant’s going down stairs to fetch some coal to light the fires, she found a poor little starling, shivering and frightened, in the cellar. She called me to see the bird; it had only just left the nest, and it was so weak that it could not fly. I tried to coax it to eat, took it near the fire, offered it bread-crumbs, seeds, water; but no—the starling would not be tempted.

““Breakfast-time came, and with it the little robin. We thought that if we put the wee birdie out of doors its mother might come to look for her lost child; then came the fear of the robin—he was so very pugnacious. Well, we risked it, keeping a very strict watch over the starling’s safety. Robin eyed it for a moment, and flew away; still the little baby bird stood on one leg shivering, and no mother arrived. The moments seemed hours. Presently robin came flying back, and with something in his beak, too. Hop, hop, he came to where the wee baby starling was shivering, and popped a worm in its beak, which it opened, just as if robin had said, “Open your mouth—here is some breakfast;” and away he flew, and again returned with some food to the young bird, and then they both flew away. We never saw the starling again, but good little robin’s deed made him more loved than ever in the house.”

“I am rather glad to have the opportunity of making known these examples of sympathy between animals, because I have received communications from persons who really appreciate the moral capacities of the lower animals, but who cannot bring themselves to believe that they feel any sympathy with each other, though they do so for man.”

CONJUGAL LOVE.

This is well illustrated in the following anecdote:—

“The traveler in question was a guest for a while in a house at Granada. In this house about twenty chocollitos were kept; and, as they were all brought to the house when very young, they did not form their matrimonial attachments until after their arrival. Perhaps among them the sexes were not equally divided, so as to insure each bird a mate; but the sad fact was that, after one pair had entered the marriage state, another male made love to the wife. The lady was weak, and yielded to the solicitations of the too fascinating lover.

“The result was, according to Froebel’s own words, as follows: ‘When the husband understood the whole extent of his misfortune, and after he had made the last unsuccessful attempt to bring his faithless companion back to the path of duty, the unhappy creature, heart-broken by his wrong, took his lonely seat on the perch on which he had passed happier nights, closely pressed to the side of his partner, refused to eat or drink, and one morning was found dead on the floor below.’”

“The reader may compare this narrative with that of the Mandarin duck [given in last week’s REVIEW]. In both cases there was strong conjugal love; but in the former the lady was faithful, and her husband avenged himself on the disturber of his domestic peace; while in the latter the lady was frail, and the husband died of a broken heart. Both narratives are wonderfully human, and each could furnish the plots of a sensational drama.”

Now, all these facts conclusively show that beasts are possessed of mind, reason, conscience, affection, &c., as well as man. Are they all immortal therefore? Have they an undying spirit which continues to live when the body dies? Few of our readers will be willing to believe so absurd a doctrine. If, then, God can organize even the beasts so as to think, reason, and love, he certainly can do the same in organizing man; and this we believe is just what he did do. The fact, then, that man can reason is no argument for the immortality of his soul. D. M. CANRIGHT.