far as is possible, the degree of analysis to which the different orders of creation attain. An insect, a fly for instance, we may conceive to look upon the world as made up of three great divisions. These are members of its own race, which it distinguishes at least to a certain extent; bodies at rest; and bodies in motion. By the second, it can remain without fear. In them it distinguishes bodies of a sapid nature, which may serve it for food, and those which may serve it for shelter, from those to which it stands in no relation. From objects of the third class it flees. Such is, so far as we have any evidence, the world of the fly. We need not suppose, however, that the distinctions are made by it thus generally. We may suppose that each moving object excites, independently, its instinct of flight; that wherever its constantly experimenting proboscis finds what it can appropriate, it partakes of it. Thus the plant absorbs what is fitting for itself, and neglects everything beside; its radicles are sent out wherever nourishment is to be obtained, its roots travelling often a long distance to reach moisture; but all this without any consciously directing will. When we ascend to the dog, for instance, we find that his world is already quite extensively classified, and individualized. He distinguishes between different species of animals. The cat, the cow, the horse, and the man are treated in a very different way by him. He distinguishes also between strangers and friends. Other objects also are separated by him into classes and individuals. We do not assert that these divisions are made with the full consciousness with which they are made by us. It may be that certain feelings, natural or acquired, are excited by the presence of the different individuals as they present themselves. The association of feeling with objects leads us, however, to the second division of our inquiry, namely, that which includes the connection of the individual with the universal. One form of the universal in its relation with the particular and individual is seen in that of the cause to the effect. It is in this relation that the reasoning powers of the lower animals are most obvious. This reasoning consists of two sorts. The first is that from the effect backward to the cause; the second is from the cause forward to the effect. Examples of the first kind are seen in the manner in which an animal comes to the knowledge of the existence or presence of any object by some external mark. Thus, from a scratching on the wall, a cat assumes the presence of a mouse. It may sometimes be deceived, for the sound may be counterfeited. More infallible are the results to which animals arrive by the scent. Thus the hound traces out his master or game. Examples of the other kind of reasoning are more common and obvious. A dog always expects similar results from similar causes. If he be burnt, he shuns afterwards the fire. If he have been whipped once or twice for an action, he will expect the whipping to result ever afterwards from a like act, and will slink away from his master with drooping tail and ears. He seems thus to have the knowledge of the uniformity of nature, the great law of sameness which governs all things, by which cause and effect are bound together in unbroken succession. We would not certainly assert a conscious process of reasoning in these cases. It is perhaps merely by a principle of association, that the approach to the fire recalls the memory of past pain,- that a certain sound or scent excites the image of his master. All that is asserted is, that we have here the germ of reasoning. What a process must be gone through, for instance, before any facility can be attained of determining the position of any object in space by sound or color. This is not altogether innate in the animal, as it is not in man. Thus a dog settles pretty well the locality of objects which he can reach by running or leaping. But of that of objects beyond his reach he has no definite conception. He will bay the moon by the hour together, as if it were within hearing, and almost within reach. Still more striking is that process of reasoning by which the animal calculates effects from causes which are to be set in motion by itself. Were it our intention to make a collection of anecdotes, instead of a mere discussion of principles, we might bring together almost innumerable instances of this sort. But they would serve little to our present purpose. The least striking among them all would be sufficient, since we are seeking only for the germs of faculties. If more are wanted, almost every one has some favorite dog or cat, or horse even, whose biography can supply them. The common feat in which so many cats are skilled, that of springing up and opening a door through which they would pass, contains all we wish. This is an exploit which lies outside of the original cat life. It shows a knowledge that the room which it would enter is in its neighborhood; that the door is the medium of entering it; that the latch is the medium for opening the door; that a pressure is the medium for moving the latch; that a spring is the medium by which the pressure is to be effected. Still more humanly precocious and striking are some animals of the same class, who have a way of knocking at the door by which they would enter, and of walking in, after it is opened, with an air as demure "as if they were folks." La Fontaine discusses all this very prettily in his letter to Madame de la Sabliere. After one and another pretty anecdote, such as that of the rat who makes himself a carriage in which the other rat shall drag the stolen egg, he says: "Qu'on m'aille soutenir, après un tel récit, Que les bêtes n'ont point d'esprit ! Pour moi, si j'en étais le maître Je leur en donnerais aussi bien qu'aux enfants. J'attribuerais à l'animal, Non point une raison selon notre manière, Mais beaucoup plus aussi qu'un aveugle ressort." The faculty of the imagination is the one which we are in the habit of opposing to the reasoning powers, and is that which we should be, perhaps, the least disposed to attribute to the lower creation. Imagination is of three sorts. The first consists in the recalling of what has been already seen; the second, in combining this in new forms; the third, in the creation of new forms more or less distinct, which in part involve what is already known to us, and in part are shadowy and vague, outside of our experience, which we believe in, rather than discern. These may become elevated, when the imagination yields to the reason, or when it forms its creations after an ideal suggested by itself. In these three forms are involved, however, the germs of the loftiest imagination. We think that an examination will show us all these forms existing and active in some forms of the brute creation. Of the first we have an example in the cat, who sits before a door waiting for an opportunity to pass. It knows what lies behind it. Its imagination presents to it a picture of the room, of the blazing fire, of the warm rug. We see it also in the dreams of animals, if they do dream. The sleeping dog moves his feet sometimes, as if running; it starts up and barks, as if it had its game in full career before it; awakened by its own noise, it looks round an instant strangely upon the world, so different from that in which it thought itself, assumes something of the mortified air which we show after making like displays, and then settles down to sleep again. We will not deny, however, that these starts may perhaps be the effects of merely nervous excitation. Of the second class we have an example in the animal's adaptation of itself to changing scenes and circumstances. It is, however, so much involved in the third class, that we need not give it a special consideration. This third species of imagination is that which we should least of all expect to find even in germ in the brute creation. It is that by which we surround ourselves with a supernatural world. We create by it shadows that haunt us, spectres that chase us from our rest. It is the source of the tribes of goblins, of ghosts, of fairies. It is that by which Ossian conjured from the clouds and the mountains the gigantic forms that loom up through his misty songs. We shall have to admit, however, that at least the horse shares with us this faculty, if he does not even surpass us in it. Tradition has long ascribed to the horse a greater quickness and facility in the perception of supernatural appearances than that which is possessed by man. We read of horses that start and draw back wildly, while their riders perceive as yet nothing to excite terror. Much of the superstitious fear that is, or has been, in the world, has its source in the fancies suggested by some outward object, that is seen indistinctly. The mind creates from it an image of something wild and unearthly. The very fact of such a creation shows that the imagination has power to outrun the limitations of sense by which it is surrounded, and create for itself a world, of which it has in these only the germ or the suggestion. It is in this faculty VOL. LXVII. 5TH S. VOL. V. NO. II. 15 that the horse surpasses his rider in quickness of impression, though not perhaps in the perfection and detail of the creation. How a horse will start, and seem filled with terror, at the sight of some unaccustomed or shadowy form by the road-side! It may be a stump, somewhat fantastically shaped. If the horse knew it were a stump, he would pass it quietly, as he would any other stump. If he took it for any other object with which he is familiar, as a man or an ordinary beast, it would affect him no more than any other man or beast. It stands before him as something unknown. That he gives to it any definite form, or ascribes to it any definite power, is not pretended. The fact, however, that it startles him, as something new and not understood, proves that he recognizes, however dimly, the world of the unknown; that his imagination has power to extend beyond the familiar and the commonplace, and to suggest, if not to create, a vague world lying about him, terrible in its vagueness, by wanderers from which he is continually haunted. Something of this sort is the rage and horror expressed, for instance, by cows at the sight or the smell of blood. They toss the earth into the air, and trample it under their feet? What can be the cause of this but the mystery of life and death dimly suggested to them by the imagination? This is very plainly manifested in a method sometimes resorted to for the taming of horses. The animal is grasped by the throat, till life is almost extinct. It is held over the abyss of death and then drawn back. It comes back trembling and subdued. Its will is broken forever. It has somehow been brought into contact with the dark and terrible mystery of its being. It does not understand it, but its free elasticity and fire are lost. The world is disenchanted. We here verge, however, upon what would be more appropriately considered under the second division of the subject, namely, the sensibilities and emotions of the animal. A study of these will show us that the germs of nearly all those possessed by men are to be found in the animal. We may divide, generally, the emotions into three classes. The first contains those which relate to mere outward objects. Such are terror, desire, and the like. The second contains those which relate to being, as love and hate. The third contains |