Contributions to the Theory of Natural Selection

Do Men build by Reason or by Imitation?

Let us first consider the theory of reason, as alone determining the domestic architecture of the human race. Man, as a reasonable animal, it is said, continually alters and improves his dwelling. This I entirely deny. As a rule, he neither alters nor improves, any more than the birds do. What have the houses of most savage tribes improved from, each as invariable as the nest of a species of bird? The tents of the Arab are the same now as they were two or three thousand years ago, and the mud villages of Egypt can scarcely have improved since the time of the Pharaohs. The palm-leaf huts and hovels of the various tribes of South America and the Malay Archipelago, what have they improved from since those regions were first inhabited? The Patagonian’s rude shelter of leaves, the hollowed bank of the South African Earthmen, we cannot even conceive to have been ever inferior to what they now are. Even nearer home, the Irish turf cabin and the Highland stone shelty can hardly have advanced much during the last two thousand years. Now, no one imputes this stationary condition of domestic architecture among these savage tribes to instinct, but to simple imitation from one generation to another, and the absence of any sufficiently powerful stimulus to change or improvement. No one imagines that if an infant Arab could be transferred to Patagonia, or to the Highlands, it would, when it grew up, astonish its foster-parents by constructing a tent of skins. On the other hand, it is quite clear that physical conditions, combined with the degree of civilization arrived at, almost necessitate certain types of structure. The turf, or stones, or snow—the palm-leaves, bamboo, or branches, which are the materials of houses in various countries, are used because nothing else is so readily to be obtained. The Egyptian peasant has none of these, not even wood. What, then, can he use but mud? In tropical forest-countries, the bamboo and the broad palm-leaves are the natural material for houses, and the form and mode of structure will be decided in part by the nature of the country, whether hot or cool, whether swampy or dry, whether rocky or plain, whether frequented by wild beasts, or whether subject to the attacks of enemies. When once a particular mode of building has been adopted, and has become confirmed by habit and by hereditary custom, it will be long retained, even when its utility has been lost through changed conditions, or through migration into a very different region. As a general rule, throughout the whole continent of America, native houses are built directly upon the ground—strength and security being given by thickening the low walls and the roof. In almost the whole of the Malay Islands, on the contrary, the houses are raised on posts, often to a great height, with an open bamboo floor; and the whole structure is exceedingly slight and thin. Now, what can be the reason of this remarkable difference between countries, many parts of which are strikingly similar in physical conditions, natural productions, and the state of civilization of their inhabitants? We appear to have some clue to it in the supposed origin and migrations of their respective populations. The indigenes of tropical America are believed to have immigrated from the north—from a country where the winters are severe, and raised houses with open floors would be hardly habitable. They moved southwards by land along the mountain ranges and uplands, and in an altered climate continued the mode of construction of their forefathers, modified only by the new materials they met with. By minute observations of the Indians of the Amazon Valley, Mr. Bates arrived at the conclusion that they were comparatively recent immigrants from a colder climate. He says:—“No one could live long among the Indians of the Upper Amazon without being struck with their constitutional dislike to the heat … Their skin is hot to the touch, and they perspire little … They are restless and discontented in hot, dry weather, but cheerful on cool days, when the rain is pouring down their naked backs.” And, after giving many other details, he concludes, “How different all this is with the Negro, the true child of tropical climes! The impression gradually forced itself on my mind that the Red Indian lives as an immigrant or stranger in these hot regions, and that his constitution was not originally adapted, and has not since become perfectly adapted, to the climate.”

The Malay races, on the other hand, are no doubt very ancient inhabitants of the hottest regions, and are particularly addicted to forming their first settlements at the mouths of rivers or creeks, or in land-locked bays and inlets. They are a pre-eminently maritime or semi-aquatic people, to whom a canoe is a necessary of life, and who will never travel by land if they can do so by water. In accordance with these tastes, they have built their houses on posts in the water, after the manner of the lake-dwellers of ancient Europe; and this mode of construction has become so confirmed, that even those tribes who have spread far into the interior, on dry plains and rocky mountains, continue to build in exactly the same manner, and find safety in the height to which they elevate their dwellings above the ground.

Why does each Bird build a peculiar kind of Nest?

These general characteristics of the abode of savage man will be found to be exactly paralleled by the nests of birds. Each species uses the materials it can most readily obtain, and builds in situations most congenial to its habits. The wren, for example, frequenting hedgerows and low thickets, builds its nest generally of moss, a material always found where it lives, and among which it probably obtains much of its insect food; but it varies sometimes, using hay or feathers when these are at hand. Rooks dig in pastures and ploughed fields for grubs, and in doing so must continually encounter roots and fibres. These are used to line its nest. What more natural! The crow feeding on carrion, dead rabbits, and lambs, and frequenting sheep-walks and warrens, chooses fur and wool to line its nest. The lark frequents cultivated fields, and makes its nest, on the ground, of grass lined with horsehair—materials the most easy to meet with, and the best adapted to its needs. The kingfisher makes its nest of the bones of the fish which it has eaten. Swallows use clay and mud from the margins of the ponds and rivers over which they find their insect food. The materials of birds’ nests, like those used by savage man for his house, are, then, those which come first to hand; and it certainly requires no more special instinct to select them in one case than in the other.

But, it will be said, it is not so much the materials as the form and structure of nests, that vary so much, and are so wonderfully adapted to the wants and habits of each species; how are these to be accounted for except by instinct? I reply, they may be in a great measure explained by the general habits of the species, the nature of the tools they have to work with, and the materials they can most easily obtain, with the very simplest adaptations of means to an end, quite within the mental capacities of birds. The delicacy and perfection of the nest will bear a direct relation to the size of the bird, its structure and habits. That of the wren or the humming-bird is perhaps not finer or more beautiful in proportion than that of the blackbird, the magpie, or the crow. The wren, having a slender beak, long legs, and great activity, is able with great ease to form a well-woven nest of the finest materials, and places it in thickets and hedgerows which it frequents in its search for food. The titmouse, haunting fruit-trees and walls, and searching in cracks and crannies for insects, is naturally led to build in holes where it has shelter and security; while its great activity, and the perfection of its tools (bill and feet), enable it readily to form a beautiful receptacle for its eggs and young. Pigeons having heavy bodies and weak feet and bills (imperfect tools for forming a delicate structure) build rude, flat nests of sticks, laid across strong branches which will bear their weight and that of their bulky young. They can do no better. The Caprimulgidæ have the most imperfect tools of all, feet that will not support them except on a flat surface (for they cannot truly perch) and a bill excessively broad, short, and weak, and almost hidden by feathers and bristles. They cannot build a nest of twigs or fibres, hair or moss, like other birds, and they therefore generally dispense with one altogether, laying their eggs on the bare ground, or on the stump or flat limb of a tree. The clumsy hooked bills, short necks and feet, and heavy bodies of Parrots, render them quite incapable of building a nest like most other birds. They cannot climb up a branch without using both bill and feet; they cannot even turn round on a perch without holding on with their bill. How, then, could they inlay, or weave, or twist the materials of a nest? Consequently, they all lay in holes of trees, the tops of rotten stumps, or in deserted ants’ nests, the soft materials of which they can easily hollow out.

Many terns and sandpipers lay their eggs on the bare sand of the sea-shore, and no doubt the Duke of Argyll is correct when he says, that the cause of this habit is not that they are unable to form a nest, but that, in such situations, any nest would be conspicuous and lead to the discovery of the eggs. The choice of place is, however, evidently determined by the habits of the birds, who, in their daily search for food, are continually roaming over extensive tide-washed flats. Gulls vary considerably in their mode of nesting, but it is always in accordance with their structure and habits. The situation is either on a bare rock or on ledges of sea-cliffs, in marshes or on weedy shores. The materials are sea-weed, tufts of grass or rushes, or the débris of the shore, heaped together with as little order and constructive art as might be expected from the webbed feet and clumsy bill of these birds, the latter better adapted for seizing fish than for forming a delicate nest. The long-legged, broad-billed flamingo, who is continually stalking over muddy flats in search of food, heaps up the mud into a conical stool, on the top of which it lays its eggs. The bird can thus sit upon them conveniently, and they are kept dry, out of reach of the tides.

Now I believe that throughout the whole class of birds the same general principles will be found to hold good, sometimes distinctly, sometimes more obscurely apparent, according as the habits of the species are more marked, or their structure more peculiar. It is true that, among birds differing but little in structure or habits, we see considerable diversity in the mode of nesting, but we are now so well assured that important changes of climate and of surface have occurred within the period of existing species, that it is by no means difficult to see how such differences have arisen. Simple habits are known to be hereditary, and as the area now occupied by each species is different from that of every other, we may be sure that such changes would act differently upon each, and would often bring together species which had acquired their peculiar habits in distinct regions and under different conditions.

How do Young Birds learn to Build their First Nest?

But it is objected, birds do not learn to make their nest as man does to build, for all birds will make exactly the same nest as the rest of their species, even if they have never seen one, and it is instinct alone that can enable them to do this. No doubt this would be instinct if it were true, and I simply ask for proof of the fact. This point, although so important to the question at issue, is always assumed without proof, and even against proof, for what facts there are, are opposed to it. Birds brought up from the egg in cages do not make the characteristic nest of their species, even though the proper materials are supplied them, and often make no nest at all, but rudely heap together a quantity of materials; and the experiment has never been fairly tried, of turning out a pair of birds so brought up, into an enclosure covered with netting, and watching the result of their untaught attempts at nest-making. With regard to the songs of birds, however, which is thought to be equally instinctive, the experiment has been tried, and it is found that young birds never have the song peculiar to their species if they have not heard it, whereas they acquire very easily the song of almost any other bird with which they are associated.

Do Birds sing by Instinct or by Imitation?

The Hon. Daines Barrington was of opinion that “notes in birds are no more innate than language is in man, and depend entirely on the master under which they are bred, as far as their organs will enable them to imitate the sounds which they have frequent opportunities of hearing.” He has given an account of his experiments in the “Philosophical Transactions” for 1773 (Vol. 63); he says: “I have educated nestling linnets under the three best singing larks—the skylark, woodlark, and titlark, every one of which, instead of the linnet’s song, adhered entirely to that of their respective instructors. When the note of the titlark linnet was thoroughly fixed, I hung the bird in a room with two common linnets for a quarter of a year, which were full in song; the titlark linnet, however, did not borrow any passage from the linnet’s song, but adhered stedfastly to that of the titlark.” He then goes on to say that birds taken from the nest at two or three weeks old have already learnt the call-note of their species. To prevent this the birds must be taken from the nest when a day or two old, and he gives an account of a goldfinch which he saw at Knighton in Radnorshire, and which sang exactly like a wren, without any portion of the proper note of its species. This bird had been taken from the nest at two or three days old, and had been hung at a window opposite a small garden, where it had undoubtedly acquired the notes of the wren without having any opportunity of learning even the call of the goldfinch.

He also saw a linnet, which had been taken from the nest when only two or three days old, and which, not having any other sounds to imitate, had learnt almost to articulate, and could repeat the words “Pretty Boy,” and some other short sentences.

Another linnet was educated by himself under a vengolina (a small African finch, which he says sings better than any foreign bird but the American mocking bird), and it imitated its African master so exactly that it was impossible to distinguish the one from the other.

Still more extraordinary was the case of a common house sparrow, which only chirps in a wild state, but which learnt the song of the linnet and goldfinch by being brought up near those birds.

The Rev. W. H. Herbert made similar observations, and states that the young whinchat and wheatear, which have naturally little variety of song, are ready in confinement to learn from other species, and become much better songsters. The bullfinch, whose natural notes are weak, harsh, and insignificant, has nevertheless a wonderful musical faculty, since it can be taught to whistle complete tunes. The nightingale, on the other hand, whose natural song is so beautiful, is exceedingly apt in confinement to learn that of other birds instead. Bechstein gives an account of a redstart which had built under the eaves of his house, which imitated the song of a caged chaffinch in a window underneath, while another in his neighbour’s garden repeated some of the notes of a blackcap, which had a nest close by.

These facts, and many others which might be quoted, render it certain that the peculiar notes of birds are acquired by imitation, as surely as a child learns English or French, not by instinct, but by hearing the language spoken by its parents.

It is especially worthy of remark that, for young birds to acquire a new song correctly, they must be taken out of hearing of their parents very soon, for in the first three or four days they have already acquired some knowledge of the parent notes, which they will afterwards imitate. This shows that very young birds can both hear and remember, and it would be very extraordinary if, after they could see, they could neither observe nor recollect, and could live for days and weeks in a nest and know nothing of its materials and the manner of its construction. During the time they are learning to fly and return often to the nest, they must be able to examine it inside and out in every detail, and as we have seen that their daily search for food invariably leads them among the materials of which it is constructed, and among places similar to that in which it is placed, is it so very wonderful that when they want one themselves they should make one like it? How else, in fact, should they make it? Would it not be much more remarkable if they went out of their way to get materials quite different from those used in the parent nest, if they arranged them in a way they had seen no example of, and formed the whole structure differently from that in which they themselves were reared, and which we may fairly presume is that which their whole organization is best adapted to put together with celerity and ease? It has, however, been objected that observation, imitation, or memory, can have nothing to do with a bird’s architectural powers, because the young birds, which in England are born in May or June, will proceed in the following April or May to build a nest as perfect and as beautiful as that in which it was hatched, although it could never have seen one built. But surely the young birds before they left the nest had ample opportunities of observing its form, its size, its position, the materials of which it was constructed, and the manner in which those materials were arranged. Memory would retain these observations till the following spring, when the materials would come in their way during their daily search for food, and it seems highly probable that the older birds would begin building first, and that those born the preceding summer would follow their example, learning from them how the foundations of the nest are laid and the materials put together.8

Again, we have no right to assume that young birds generally pair together. It seems probable that in each pair there is most frequently only one bird born the preceding summer, who would be guided, to some extent, by its partner.

My friend, Mr. Richard Spruce, the well-known traveller and botanist, thinks this is the case, and has kindly allowed me to publish the following observations, which he sent me after reading my book.

How young Birds may learn to build Nests

“Among the Indians of Peru and Ecuador, many of whose customs are relics of the semi-civilisation that prevailed before the Spanish conquest, it is usual for the young men to marry old women, and the young women old men. A young man, they say, accustomed to be tended by his mother, would fare ill if he had only an ignorant young girl to take care of him; and the girl herself would be better off with a man of mature years, capable of supplying the place of a father to her.

“Something like this custom prevails among many animals. A stout old buck can generally fight his way to the doe of his choice, and indeed of as many does as he can manage; but a young buck ‘of his first horns,’ must either content himself with celibacy, or with some dame well-stricken in years.

“Compare the nearly parallel case of the domestic cock and of many other birds. Then consider the consequences amongst birds that pair, if an old cock sorts with a young hen and an old hen with a young cock, as I think is certainly the case with blackbirds and others that are known to fight for the youngest and handsomest females. One of each pair being already an ‘old bird,’ will be competent to instruct its younger partner (not only in the futility of ‘chaff,’ but) in the selection of a site for a nest and how to build it; then, how eggs are hatched and young birds reared.

“Such, in brief, is my idea of how a bird on its first espousals may be taught the Whole Duty of the married state.”

On this difficult point I have sought for information from some of our best field ornithologists, but without success, as it is in most cases impossible to distinguish old from young birds after the first year. I am informed, however, that the males of blackbirds, sparrows, and many other kinds fight furiously, and the conqueror of course has the choice of a mate. Mr. Spruce’s view is at least as probable as the contrary one (that young birds, as a rule, pair together), and it is to some extent supported by the celebrated American observer, Wilson, who strongly insists on the variety in the nests of birds of the same species, some being so much better finished than others; and he believes that the less perfect nests are built by the younger, the more perfect by the older, birds.

At all events, till the crucial experiment is made, and a pair of birds raised from the egg without ever seeing a nest are shown to be capable of making one exactly of the parental type, I do not think we are justified in calling in the aid of an unknown and mysterious faculty to do that which is so strictly analogous to the house-building of savage man.

Again, we always assume that because a nest appears to us delicately and artfully built, that it therefore requires much special knowledge and acquired skill (or their substitute, instinct) in the bird who builds it. We forget that it is formed twig by twig and fibre by fibre, rudely enough at first, but crevices and irregularities, which must seem huge gaps and chasms in the eyes of the little builders, are filled up by twigs and stalks pushed in by slender beak and active foot, and that the wool, feathers, or horsehair are laid thread by thread, so that the result seems a marvel of ingenuity to us, just as would the rudest Iinand hut to a native of Brobdignag. Levaillant has given an account of the process of nest-building by a little African warbler, which sufficiently shows that a very beautiful structure may be produced with very little art. The foundation was laid of moss and flax interwoven with grass and tufts of cotton, and presented a rude mass, five or six inches in diameter, and four inches thick. This was pressed and trampled down repeatedly, so as at last to make it into a kind of felt. The birds pressed it with their bodies, turning round upon them in every direction, so as to get it quite firm and smooth before raising the sides. These were added bit by bit, trimmed and beaten with the wings and feet, so as to felt the whole together, projecting fibres being now and then worked in with the bill. By these simple and apparently inefficient means, the inner surface of the nest was rendered almost as smooth and compact as a piece of cloth.

Man’s Works mainly Imitative

But look at civilised man! it is said; look at Grecian, and Egyptian, and Roman, and Gothic, and modern Architecture! What advance! what improvement! what refinements! This is what reason leads to, whereas birds remain for ever stationary. If, however, such advances as these are required, to prove the effects of reason as contrasted with instinct, then all savage and many half-civilized tribes have no reason, but build instinctively quite as much as birds do.

Man ranges over the whole earth, and exists under the most varied conditions, leading necessarily to equally varied habits. He migrates—he makes wars and conquests—one race mingles with another—different customs are brought into contact—the habits of a migrating or conquering race are modified by the different circumstances of a new country. The civilized race which conquered Egypt must have developed its mode of building in a forest country where timber was abundant, for it is not probable, that the idea of cylindrical columns originated in a country destitute of trees. The pyramids might have been built by an indigenous race, but not the temples of El Uksor and Karnak. In Grecian architecture, almost every characteristic feature can be traced to an origin in wooden buildings. The columns, the architrave, the frieze, the fillets, the cantelevers, the form of the roof, all point to an origin in some southern forest-clad country, and strikingly corroborate the view derived from philology, that Greece was colonised from north-western India. But to erect columns and span them with huge blocks of stone, or marble, is not an act of reason, but one of pure unreasoning imitation. The arch is the only true and reasonable mode of covering over wide spaces with stone, and therefore, Grecian architecture, however exquisitely beautiful, is false in principle, and is by no means a good example of the application of reason to the art of building. And what do most of us do at the present day but imitate the buildings of those that have gone before us? We have not even been able to discover or develope any definite style of building best suited for us. We have no characteristic national style of architecture, and to that extent are even below the birds, who have each their characteristic form of nest, exactly adapted to their wants and habits.