The spider does not construct its web better the last day of its life, than it did the first. It spins it well at once; it never does it any better; it never does it wrong.

The beaver, again, possesses the wonderful art of building itself a hut; but this amazing skill only enables it to construct a habitation; in every other respect, in all those qualities having any relation to those possessed by us, it is much inferior to the horse or the dog. The dog, again, which exhibits so much intelligence, has no skill approaching to the complicated arts of the bee and ant. Hence, there may be said to be no general instinct, but a number of special instincts; and it is by its existence as a special fact only, that it is peculiarly distinguished from intelligence, which is always a general fact, as will presently be fully shown.

It has been said by Locke, that reason is a universal instrument, whereas instincts can only be looked upon as instruments destined for special purposes. Some have said, that instinct is only a word, a kind of abstract idea. In reply to such, it may be asked, Are there things which the brute does, without having learned how to do them? Such is doubtless the case, and several instances have already been given; namely, the web of the spider, the silk-worm's cocoon, and the hut of the beaver. There are, then, acts of instinct, or actions performed without previous tuition; for the latter proposition implies the former. Instinct is not, therefore, a mere word, but a fact.

Some philosophers have attempted to explain instinct by intelligence; others, again, have referred it to mere mechanism. A little consideration is sufficient to show how futile are all such explanations.

Thus, it has been said, that the action of sucking is an art, which is learned by reasoning, by method; by a number of trials, followed by just inductions: and so we have the new-born infant already reasoning and making experiments. Others have supposed that the migration of birds is the result of an instruction which is transmitted from race to race: according to such theorists, we have birds transmitting to their offspring instructions, and, indeed, a body of doctrine.

If we are to believe the celebrated Buffon, on the other hand, instinct is to be resolved into mere mechanism. Because peas, being boiled in a tightly closed vessel, become (being compressed against each other) small six-sided columns; he concludes, that the hexagonal cells of bees are also nothing more than the result of reciprocal compression. It is truly surprising how such a genius as Buffon could rest satisfied with so vague a comparison! How many other arts do we witness in the animal creation, and not less admirable than that of the bee, in which reciprocal compression can exert no influence! Has reciprocal compression anything to do with the construction of the cocoon of the silk-worm, the nest of the bird, or the cabin of the beaver? Is the beautiful web of the spider the result of reciprocal compression? These instances are, I think, abundantly sufficient to prove that instinct can neither be accounted for by intelligence nor by mechanism it must, therefore, be looked upon as a distinct and special property.

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I shall now proceed to consider the intelligence of brutes, as distinguished, on the one hand, from pure instinct, and, on the other, from the intelligence of man or reason.

Intelligence in brutes has also its peculiar characters, and they are all opposed to those of instinct. This acts without instruction, without experience; the former acts only from instruction, from experience. Instinct

makes no advancement, whereas the very law of intelligence is progress. Again, instinct is always particular, whilst intelligence is as constantly general. These characters of intelligence I shall now consider more fully.

the first place, I have said that intelligence always acts from instruction and experience. I train my dog to do what I wish, and very often this is quite contrary to what instinct would prompt him to do: his instinct would induce him to devour the game which is shot; but I teach him to bring it to me without touching it. We train our horses as we train our dogs, by associating one impression, sensation, or emotion with another; and, as we have these associations under our control, the animal submits and yields to them. Its intelligence may, therefore, be considered as having some relation to our own. In general, the crack of the whip drives the dog away, because it recalls to him the impression of pain. But if, in place of a blow, we were to associate with the sound of the whip a caress, or a piece of meat, the crack would then draw the dog to us, instead of driving him away. Indeed it is on the principle of the association of sensations and emotions, that the education of the whole of our domestic animals depends. And who can say what advantage might be derived from it, in the early education of man himself, if only we knew how to apply it? This, which in one sense might be called sensitive and emotive training, although of immense importance in relation to the future well-being of the individual, has been hitherto greatly neglected in the training of youth.

I have stated, as the second characteristic of intelligence, that it always makes progress. Do we not, every day, see in our circuses, dogs, horses, and other animals, perform things, which assuredly they would not have done, if left to themselves? They are taught, instructed, prepared to do these things. They cannot do them at first: they commence by doing them ill, then they do them better, and at length they become perfect in performing their respective parts. Who has not remarked the progressive advances of the dog trained to sporting, or of the horse to the manége? And what proves still more to what extent this education of animals is analogous to our own, is the fact, that we proceed with it in a similar way: we excite them, we correct them: we caress them when they do well, and punish them when they do wrong.

The last distinguishing mark of animal intelligence is, that it is always general. There are many instincts, but only one intelligence. It is by one and the same intelligence that the dog learns to bring the sportsman the shot partridge, instead of devouring it; to come when he is called, and to run off when threatened.

Instinct may, then, be considered as being in every way opposed to intelligence. On what ground can they, therefore, be considered as depending on the same principle? They ought, on the contrary, to be viewed as distinct powers.

We now come to consider the intelligence or reason of man. From what has already been said, there can be no doubt that brutes, in addition to pure instinct, possess also intelligence; like as they have senses, sensations, perceptions, memory: they compare their recollections and perceptions; they judge, and have the power of willing. But it must be remarked that, in animals, all these facts are connected with, if not dependent on, physical impressions. We act upon them; but it is by blows, cries, modifications of the voice, gestures, caresses, &c. The intellectual training of the brute never advances beyond this. It has sensations, but not ideas; intelligence,

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but not reflection.* Man alone is capable of reflection; and here it may be asked, What is meant by reflection? It may be defined, the study of mind by means of mind; or, the knowledge of thought by means of thought and the faculty of reason, with which man alone is endowed, may be considered as the study of thought by thought. The intelligence of the brute does not lead it to know or comprehend its own nature. Man alone comprehends his intelligence and judges his actions: hence it is, that he is a moral being; and he is such, because he is conscious of his thoughts, and judges them.

I have thus shown that, in what is vaguely termed intelligence, there are three essentially distinct facts: instinct, unknowing; intelligence of brutes, knowing and associating sensations; and the intelligence or reason of man, knowing, reflecting on, and judging his actions.

The observations of Frederick Cuvier, on the habits of the beaver and of the orang-outang, well illustrate the difference between the pure instinct of the former, and the intelligence of the latter.

The beaver, the results of whose instinct Cuvier studied, was taken when quite young, on the banks of the Rhone; it was suckled by a woman, and could consequently have learned nothing even from its parents. Cuvier placed it in a grated cage, and there it spontaneously exhibited the first marks of its instinct. It was habitually fed with willow-branches, the bark of which it ate. After stripping off and eating the bark, it cut the branches into pieces and piled them up in a corner of the cage. The idea, therefore, came to it, of providing itself with materials wherewith it might build itself a hut. These materials consisted of earth, straw, and branches of trees. The beaver was soon observed forming small balls of earth with its fore-feet; then thrusting them forward, or carrying them in its mouth, placing them one upon another, and pressing them together with its snout till it had formed a solid and common mass. It then thrust sticks into this mass: in a word, as far as its means enabled it to do, it built or constructed. Now, Buffon says, that beavers, when solitary, have no idea of building, or even of accumulating materials for this purpose. The above-mentioned facts prove the incorrectness of his statements. The same celebrated writer affirms, that the beaver derives all its skill from associating with its kind. Now, Cuvier's beaver had never seen one of its kind, and could therefore owe nothing to this cause. In a word, this animal worked instinctively, and without having ever learned to do so it worked, moreover, uselessly, and without an object; for it was in a cage, and consequently required no other house. Its labour must, therefore, be referred to pure instinct. Such is the result of Cuvier's observations on the beaver: his observations on the orang-outang are not less interesting and instructive.

This animal delighted in climbing trees. An individual once pretended to climb the tree as if to capture him, but the orang immediately began shaking the tree with all his might, in order to deter the person from approaching him. The man left the tree, and the monkey ceased shaking it: he again approached the tree, when the orang-outang immediately recommenced shaking it. In order to open the door of the room in which

"Perhaps the most correct expression of the difference between an act prompted by instinct, and one prompted by reason is, that in the first case the will acts in obedience to an impulse, which is directly consequent on certain sensations or emotions felt, or remembered." Whereas, in the last, it acts in obedience to an impulse resulting from reflection and imagination.

he was kept, he was obliged, from his small size, to get upon a chair placed near the door. On the chair being removed, he went for another, which he put in the place of the former, and got upon it in the same way, in order to open the door. Finally, when refused any thing, as he dared not take vengeance on the person who withheld it, he avenged himself on his own person, striking his head against the wall: he injured himself, in fact, as we sometimes see children do, in order to inspire more interest and compassion.

Buffon states, that he knew an orang-outang, which used to offer his hand to people who went to visit him, and walk gravely with them, as if in company. "I have seen him," adds Buffon, "set himself at table, spread his napkin, wipe his lips with it, use a spoon and fork to convey food to his mouth, pour out a glass of wine and touch glasses, when asked to do so. At other times, he would take a cup and saucer, place them on the table, put in sugar, and pour out coffee: after allowing it to cool, he would drink it off; and all this without any other instigation than a sign from his owner, and very often spontaneously."

Another orang-outang was known to take the key of the room in which it was kept, put it into the key-hole, and unlock the door. Sometimes this key was put on the chimney-piece: on these occasions he would climb up to it, by means of a rope suspended from the ceiling, and which the orang usually made use of for swinging himself in. A large knot was made in the rope, in order to shorten it; but he immediately untied the knot. "I went one day," says the observer of the above facts, "to see this orang-outang with an illustrious old philosopher, a keen and profound observer. The somewhat singular dress, the slow and feeble step, and bent body of the aged man, attracted the attention of the young orang, on our first arrival. It complacently performed what we desired, but kept its eyes constantly fixed upon the object of its curiosity. We were about to withdraw, when he gently but roguishly came up to his new visiter, took his cane from him, and feigned to rest upon it, bending its back, and walking round the room. It continued to imitate in this way the attitude and gait of my old friend, for some time. It afterwards brought back the cane of its own accord, and we took our leave, convinced that it also knew how to observe."

If, now, we compare the beaver with the orang-outang, we shall see in the former an instinct, special, exclusive, fixed, and limited; whereas, in the latter, we remark an intelligence, varied, flexible, and full of resources; and by this comparison we may form a just idea of the great difference between instinct and intelligence.

I shall now proceed briefly to advert to some circumstances closely connected with instinct, although not usually referred to in relation to this subject.

So very distinct and different are the two faculties, instinct and intelligence, that their development in the animal series may be considered as being in an inverse ratio to each other. In fact, if instinct and intelligence were one and the same thing, we should never see them disjoined and separated from each other in animals: when one increased, the other should increase also; and when one decreased, the other should decrease in like degree.

Now, we observe precisely the opposite of this to take place; for animals which possess most intelligence are those which exhibit the least instinct; and, on the other hand, those animals which present the most varied and complicated instincts are those which have the least intelligence. Hence the horse, the elephant, the dog, and the orang-outang, which possess so 4 L

VOL. IV.-FOURTH SERIES.

highly-developed an intelligence, have but few instincts; whereas insects, (spiders, bees, ants, for instance,) which have scarcely any intelligence, astonish us by their marvellous instincts. In quadrupeds, or rather in mammiferous animals, intelligence decreases from monkeys to carnivorous animals; from carnivora to the pachydermata; from the thick-skinned animals to those which chew the cud; (ruminantia ;) and from the latter to the rodent animals. And it is to the class rodentia, that which exhibits the least intelligence, that the beaver belongs; this, again, being the mammal which exhibits the most remarkable instincts.

With regard to the organic seat of instinct and intelligence, some interesting facts have lately been brought to light by the labours of physiologists. It may be shown by experiment, that the brain consists of four essentially distinct parts; namely, the medulla oblongata, which is the seat of the principle presiding over the breathing movements; the tubercles, in which the faculty of sight resides; the cerebellum, or little brain, which is the seat of the power which regulates the movements of locomotion; and, lastly, the brain proper, or the cerebrum, which is the seat, and the exclusive seat, of intelligence. It has been proved that instincts have the same residence as the intelligence. When the brain is removed from an animal, it loses immediately all its intelligence, and at the same time all its instincts. The mole, on losing its intelligence, loses also the instinct of burrowing ; under the same circumstances, the dog loses the instinct of biting; and, in short, all animals, when similarly mutilated, become deprived of the instinct of eating, that of shunning danger, that of reproduction, &c.

There is, then, a connexion, a secret bond, which unites instinct with intelligence; and, although we are able to distinguish these two powers by their effects, we are, at least at present, unable to distinguish them by their seat. Great as the influence of the senses over the intelligence unquestionably is, still it has been unwarrantably exaggerated by many physiologists, especially during the last century. Helvetius went so far as to assert, that it was to his hands alone that man was indebted for his superiority over brutes. Now, were this true, the monkey ought to be superior to man; for, whilst the latter has but two hands, the monkey has four. The senses can only be looked upon as the external instruments of the mind; and their organs are far from being in direct proportion to the intelligence. The senses of taste and of smell are far more developed in quadrupeds than in man; and sight and hearing are both more acute and more precise in the bird than they are in the quadruped, &c.

The loss of one of the senses does not occasion the loss of mind. Hence the inteiligence survives the loss of sight and that of hearing: it might even continue after the destruction of all these inlets to knowledge. The loss of any sense invariably follows the interruption of the communication between its organ and the brain; and the mere compression of the latter invariably puts a stop to all manifestation of intelligence, and suspends the exercise of the senses.

Far, then, from being organs of the mind, the senses are only rendered organs of sensation by the intervention of the mind.

Mental manifestations depend on the brain alone; I mean, on the part of the contents of the skull called by anatomists cerebrum, or brain proper. This is consequently said to be the seat of the mind, and it alone becomes developed in proportion to the acuteness of the mental powers; the lesser brain, again, is developed in a ratio with the powers of locomotion ; and the tubercles in proportion to the perfection of sight.