a peccary out of a drove, and does not quickly escape
with his prize into a tree, he is instantly attacked
and slain and then consumed, even to the skin and
bones. This is the wolf’s and the peccary’s
instinct; and the devouring of one of their own companions
is an inevitable consequence of the mistake made in
the first place of attacking and killing it.
In no other circumstances, not even when starving,
do they prey on their own species.
If the explanation I have offered should seem a true
or highly probable one, it will, I feel sure, prove
acceptable to many lovers of animals, who, regarding
tins seemingly ruthless instinct, not as an aberration
but as in some vague way advantageous to animals in
their struggle for existence, are yet unable to think
of it without pain and horror; indeed, I know those
who refuse to think of it at all, who would gladly
disbelieve it if they could.
It should be a relief to them to be able to look on
it no longer as something ugly and hateful, a blot
on nature, but as an illusion, a mistake, an unconscious
crime, so to speak, that has for its motive the noblest
passion that animals know—that sublime courage
and daring which they exhibit in defence of a distressed
companion. This fiery spirit in animals, which
makes them forget their own safety, moves our hearts
by its close resemblance to one of the most highly-prized
human virtues; just as we are moved to intellectual
admiration by the wonderful migratory instinct in
birds that simulates some of the highest achievements
of the mind of man. And we know that this beautiful
instinct is also liable to mistakes—that
many travellers leave us annually never to return.
Such a mistake was undoubtedly the cause of the late
visitation of Pallas’ sand-grouse: owing
perhaps to some unusual atmospheric or dynamic condition,
or to some change in the nervous system of the birds,
they deviated widely from their usual route, to scatter
in countless thousands over the whole of Europe and
perish slowly in climates not suited to them; while
others, overpassing the cold strange continent, sped
on over colder, stranger seas, to drop at last like
aerolites, quenching their lives in the waves.
Whether because it is true, as Professor Freeman and
some others will have it, that humanity is a purely
modern virtue; or because the doctrine of Darwin,
by showing that we are related to other forms of life,
that our best feelings have their roots low down in
the temper and instincts of the social species, has
brought us nearer in spirit to the inferior animals,
it is certain that our regard for them has grown, and
is growing, and that new facts and fresh inferences
that make us think more highly of them are increasingly
welcome.
CHAPTER XXIII.
HORSE AND MAN.
Copyrights
The Naturalist in La Plata from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
