bending. Thus a horse can stand while sleeping. In the case of bipeds, nature has taken pains to make up for the deficiency in the quantity of supporters by the most ingenious contrivance. The knee-joint of many birds, particularly of the long-legged kind, comes together, when the leg is straitened, with a snap, and remains fixed by a sort of spring, something like an open bowie-knife. They can thus stand on them as long as they please, without weariness. Those fond of standing on one foot have a similar arrangement in the joint of the ankle. The birds that perch are equally well provided for. When they light upon a twig, the weight of the body bends the knee. This pulls upon a tendon,* which runs the length of the leg, and is connected with the flexors of the toes. These last thus close themselves over the twig, and the bird is supported by this simple mechanism. It still, however, requires some little muscular exertion to preserve the centre of gravity. When the bird wishes to sleep, it does away with the need of this, by putting its head under its wing. This brings the centre of gravity over the feet, or very nearly so.

When man stands, on the contrary, it is by an effort of will. The muscles in all parts of his body are occupied in preserving the equilibrium. Left to the laws of mere gravitation and mechanism, he would fall at once.

In all forms of life, vitality and mechanism exist side by side. Neither moment can be entirely done away with. In the standing man the moment of mechanism is at the minimum, that of vitality at the maximum. No further progress can be made therefore in this direction.

The manifestation of vitality may be considered under another aspect. In the animal, the hair, or fur, forms a secondary and parasitic outgrowth. The life of each hair is independent of the general life of the animal. Consequently, unity of life is wanting. But unity forms the essence of life. Moreover, this covering conceals the play of life, and prevents it from coming to a perfect manifestation of itself. Thus, however perfect the vitality of the animal might be, it is veiled. In man, however, this covering and concealment is done away;

*Of the gracilis muscle.

It is

this parasitical outgrowth in a great measure ceases. reduced to its minimum, and only retained where it has some useful purpose to subserve. The head, for instance, without it, would be too much exposed to the severities of sun or tempest. Thus man seems to have been masquerading in the lower forms of being. He has concealed his stature, and crawled upon the earth. He has covered himself with shaggy skin. But at length he casts these aside, and springs to his feet, and stands erect and godlike. No more complete manifestation of life could be made, therefore, than is made in man, unless the type of creation were changed. A further examination would show us how the different elements of this life have, in the perfect man, become subjected to spirit, so that this reveals itself in the face, in attitude, and in motion. Thus man is the only animal that smiles.

The examination that has been made might be carried out more minutely. We might see how the different structures of animal life find their complete solution in the human type. Thus the various degrees of formation of the hand might be considered. It might be thought, at first sight, that there might be a higher race, who should have the power of motion through the atmosphere. To this it could be replied, that there are no germs of a structure for this purpose. The human hand and arm are already developed from the wing of the bird. It might be thought that perhaps another race of greater power might succeed. But no greater power could be gained, on the present plan, without loss of symmetry. The fact, also, that man stands at the top of the pyramid, may be illustrated by the power which he has to stretch above and around him, and help out his own strength by that of nature; thus superseding the necessity, or even possibility, of improvement in that direction. We cannot conceive that a being could follow, who should have greater force than the steam-engine, or greater swiftness than the lightning.

We turn, however, from the structure of the body to that of the spirit. We find that we have left the realm of perfection, and have entered into that of germs and elements. The study of the human spirit suggests the thought of a perfected spirit, that rises above man, somewhat as man does above the lower

organizations, rather than exhibits itself in and through his present spiritual structure, as the type of the outward form does through his bodily structure. Such, for instance, are his longings for perfect knowledge, perfect goodness, and perfect beauty. Such are the glimpses of a higher life which he catches among the objects of sense that surround him. Such are the instincts which prompt him to do homage to that which his senses cannot discern, and to surround himself in thought with races of invisible beings. Such are the discontent and the longings which the happiness of the world cannot satisfy. Many of these may be considered, at least in part, as regulative principles, which control the growth of the race, and which at least in part are to be fulfilled by this growth. If we select, however, the most perfect specimens of the completed human spirit, towards which the race is ever approaching, but which it has never yet surpassed, we find these same germs still incomplete. Such, for instance, are Plato and Paul. To Plato the world was beautiful, as containing the types of a higher beauty, and life was noble, as the type of a higher life. Paul lived, looking not at the things that are seen, but at things that are not seen, waiting for the glory that shall be revealed, desiring not to be unclothed, but to be clothed upon. Either here or elsewhere, then, either produced by the development of the present race or by the creation of a new, we feel that this spiritual type must become realized. The question that remains for us is, Are we to pass away, and to be succeeded and superseded by this higher type, or are we to become partakers of its perfection, our conscious individual being having been preserved? At first sight, the analogies of nature seem to fall in with the first view. One race rises above another, with which, so far as its individuals are concerned, it seems to have no connection. The uncouth inhabitants of the Preadamite world are forgotten by the more gracefully proportioned dwellers of the new world. They are indeed unknown, until we penetrate the dark depths of the earth's surface, or untrodden wastes, and start and tremble at the huge proportions of the races that preceded us. So also is it with the present inhabitants of the world. Each draws out its own life, and moves in its own circle, without regard to the others, without memory

--

of life in a lower, or longing for one in a higher sphere. It becomes necessary to examine more precisely the relation between the mental structure, the souls, of the lower animals, and that of man, to see if we find a reason for supposing man to have with the stage of being above him a connection different from that in which these lower orders stand to himself.

On a careful examination of the mental phenomena displayed in what we call the irrational world, we should find the germs of nearly all, if not all, the faculties possessed by man. Whether animals reason or not, is a question that has often been discussed. Unless it becomes a mere question of terms,-unless we insist that the term instinct should be applied to the acts of animals, the question must be decided in the affirmative. Instances of what can be called nothing else than reason are familiar to all. To develop the subject fully would require an investigation into the nature of reasoning which a work on logic would alone be sufficient to introduce. The idea most naturally suggested by the word instinct is that of invariability. An example of this will be found in the manner in which a dog lays himself to rest. When he was in a wild state, and would lie down among the grass, it was very useful to turn himself around several times, by which he made a circular nest in the grass. This habit was implanted in him by instinct; and even now, when his circumstances have entirely changed, if he would lie down even upon a smooth rug, he commonly goes through the same process. Such are the blindness and invariability which are commonly ascribed to instinct. But even in beings considered less exalted in the scale of existence, we find this instinct adapting itself to changing circumstances. Such is the case, for instance, with the instinct of the bee.

*

Huber relates, that he put a piece of honeycomb, together with some wild or bumble bees, under a glass, on a table. The comb was of such a shape, that, as soon as the bees lighted upon it, in order to brood over their young, it tipped from its place. At first they were at a loss what to do; but soon two or three of them braced themselves against it, their heads and fore feet resting upon the table, and their bodies inclined upward, their

*See Kirby and Spence's Entomology, p. 214; also, p. 558.

hind feet clinging to the comb. These were in turn relieved by their companions, and the process continued until sufficient wax had been formed to fasten it in its place. Now this was a condition of things that is not liable to occur once in a century, if indeed it ever did occur previously. Are we to suppose that all this was done mechanically? that Nature had implanted within them a particular impulse, designed to meet this precise crisis, so that the act produced was like the sound given when a key is touched which had never before been discovered? If so, what a vast number of such instincts and impulses must be bound up in the nature of these little animals, which have never yet been called into exercise! That the lower animals possess memory, there is no doubt. This in itself implies an identity in the principle of life, in the midst of the changes which the bodily system is constantly undergoing. A classic example of this would be the dog of Ulysses, in which we see this identity retained during all the years of the Trojan war. Granting that this incident cannot, as the veracious history of a dog named Argus, still be relied upon, similar ones, though less exaggerated, are familiar to all.

We must acknowledge a certain degree of permanence in the mental structure of animals, whatever this may be. It may be asserted, indeed, that this permanence is merely the reconstruction of the brain, upon the old type, by which all the impressions made upon the old are retained; just as the features, or even scars upon the body, are retained through all its changes of absorption and reproduction. As the same argument, however, might be used in reasoning in regard to the human memory, and all that is connected with it, we need not consider it here, where our object is merely a comparison between men and brutes. Granting this permanence then, of this intellectual nature, we have next to study its extent. We shall find in it, in the first place, the analytic and synthetic elements of reasoning, and the creative power of the imagination.

Reasoning consists in the discovery of the relations between the universal, the particular, and the individual. This implies, of course, the separation of the particular from the universal, and then the reconnection of them in the same or in new combinations. It might be interesting, had we space, to study, so