those in which the outward and inward are mingled. Such are the æsthetic emotions. The first class, including, as it does, the emotions called animal, needs no discussion here. The second needs to be brought more distinctly before the mind. Love may be of three sorts. It may be that of relationship, such as the parental, &c. It may be of race, which arrives at its highest point in that between the sexes. Or it may extend beyond all such limitations, and become thus freer and higher. No instances need be brought to prove the parental love of animals. This commonly ceases with the dependence of the young upon the parental care, though sometimes it extends much longer. Other forms of love depending upon kindred do not, to our knowledge, exist among the animals. The love of race, or the individuals of it, has its germ in the drawing together of gregarious animals. It extends often to a much higher degree of development. Instances of this sort are not uncommon. Of faithful and affectionate married life among the animals, we have an example in that of the lion and his mate. This affection becomes, however, more striking, when it is extended beyond the limits of race. The attachment of a dog to his master is of this nature. This seems often independent of bodily pleasures and necessities. The dog of the beggar will not forsake his master, in his hunger and poverty, for the sake of the most dainty fare. Within this class, namely, the emotions caused by being, may be cited the general relation which man occupies in regard to the lower orders of the creation. They tremble at his voice and quail before his glance. His presence seems thus to have something of the same effect upon them, which that of a superior being would have upon him. This becomes more striking when it is united with personal affection. Such is the case in the example just referred to, that of the connection between the dog and his master. The being of the animal seems, sometimes, almost lost in that of the man. The will of the master seems to act through the dog, almost without assistance. A good watch-dog will starve rather than forsake a trust that has been confided to him.. Instances are related, where a dog has died upon the grave of his master. These attachments, however, exist often between animals of different races. A cat and a

dog have sometimes an almost romantic attachment for one another. One dog of our acquaintance had been on very ill terms with a cat; at last, her leg was broken, and the dog constituted himself her friend and protector. Some instances of the kind seem to display the greatest caprice. Thus a friend tells us of a hen who became devotedly attached to a lame ox. Wherever the ox went, there went the hen, scratching and pecking, as if she had been with her natural companions. Sometimes the ox would playfully shake his head at her, oxfashion; but whether he reciprocated the attachment is not known. Sometimes these strange friendships lead an animal into situations to which it is disinclined. Of this nature was the attachment of a sheep to a cow. The cow was brought from one island to another, where the sheep resided. The sheep became her inseparable companion. This did not, however, console the cow for her lost home. She undertook to swim back to it; the sheep followed. Some workmen on a mill-dam saw the cow in time to save her from being swept through the floodgate. They did not see the little head of the sheep till it was too late. The blindness of such attachments is illustrated, in this case, by the fact that this cow was not the first object of the sheep's devotion. She replaced another cow on the same island, to which the sheep had first opened its heart. Perhaps it was the memory of its former loss which made the poor sheep so heroic and fearless, when it found that it was likely to sustain a second. A less tragic case is that of a pig, who, in spite of his natural dread of water, was in the habit of swimming with much grunting and squealing after a boat, in which two children were in the habit of going after the cows, taking a cosset lamb with them. The pig did it merely for the sake of good company; he evidently wanted to be cosset too. But we must here close our own floodgates, or we shall deluge our readers with stories of pigs who replaced the natural offspring of cows, in the parental affection as well as in the more outward relation; and of unromantic hens and more unromantic work-horses, who died of grief when separated from their mates, so had their lives become woven into one.

Such incidents as have been referred to are, however, of more importance than they may, at first sight, appear. They

show the animals recognizing the common life under its most diverse forms. We feel that life is everywhere the same; that these different shapes are only outward masks; and that it recognizes itself behind them all, and tends everywhere to rush together and become one. To this class of feelings may be added a dislike, and almost hatred, cherished by some animals to certain persons, and the love of power over others which is sometimes seen. Thus, when cattle are brought together, there occurs often a contest for the superiority. After this is once settled, an etiquette prevails as strict as that at any court.

The æsthetic capacities of the lower animals are very slight. We find the germ of them, however, in the enjoyment of music manifested by some animals. That horses and other animals. can be trained to keep time to music is familiar to all. This is all the decisive evidence, known to us, of the existence of these capacities in the brute creation. An example has occurred within our own knowledge, that may possibly have some bearing in this direction. It is that of a captive eagle, who was fierce and intractable, and would suffer no one to go near it save a bright little girl, whom it suffered to ride on its back, and to tease it at pleasure.

That the animals, in the third place, have wills, must be admitted by every donkey-driver. Whether they are free or not, may be asked, with more hope of a satisfactory answer, when the same great metaphysical problem has been settled in the case of men.

We have thus passed in review, very hastily, the principal capacities and mental powers of the lower orders of animals, under the general heads of the intellect, the emotions, and the will. It has not been our object to make a selection of marvellous stories; but to appeal to those facts which are familiar to all. The question that meets us here is, What is the great difference between man and these animals so far as mental powers are concerned, save in degree? If these qualities have their source, with man, in an immortal principle, why not with the beast also? If they have their source with the beast independently of such a principle, why not in man?

The great fact which we have to oppose to all such mingling, is that of self-consciousness. This is that by which the animal

soul becomes spirit. To this self-consciousness the animal does not arrive. It has emotions, impulses and repulsions, pains and pleasures. But it does not separate itself consciously from the world in which it exists. It has no strictly inner life. Every change of feeling takes at once the form of an outward change, either in place or position. As it has no knowledge of the general law of birth and death, it knows nothing of the world which has existed, and will exist, ages without it. No man, says Hegel, comes to the full consciousness of life, till he has been brought consciously face to face with death; for not till then does he realize the fact that the world stands over against him, independent of him. But while the animal cannot separate itself from the world, far less does it attain to the sense of the unity which exists between the two. It does not separate itself from itself, make itself an object to itself, and of course cannot arrive at the solution of this separation. It does not have its nature divided within itself, by the consciousness of sin, and of course cannot attain, by this dialectic process, to the highest unity of its being. These steps constitute the method by which man arrives at perfect self-consciousness and personality.

Language is the expression, by its very existence, of the beginning of this process, and by its changes gives token of its progress. Every word is a generalization; not a mere unconscious one, which moves the individual by a process, renewed on every occasion, and in which the universal is not consciously separated from the particular; it is a conscious generalization, and the expression of it in a permanent word shows that the subject regards it as something over against his own personality. Thus we have the subject consciously withdrawing himself from the object. In like manner, the fact that we have words for our emotions, implies that a division has taken place within the subject himself. He stands aloof from himself, and contemplates himself as something independent. A cry of rage or pain is, in general, the utterance of the whole being. It is forced directly from the subject of it. The expression of a desire, or of an emotion, in words, implies to a certain degree one's superiority to it. This is certainly the case, until by constant habit words have become the direct ex

pression of the emotion, like the cry of an animal. It is well known, for instance, how sorrow is often lightened by being expressed in words. This does not result merely from sympathy. By this very form of expression, the sorrow has been separated from the being of the speaker; language has given it, to a certain degree, an independent existence. The sufferer can contemplate it, and almost fancy it belongs to another.

It is interesting to notice, in children, the period when this separation first takes place. It is when the child begins to talk, and while it still speaks of itself in the third person. It does not, in general, say, "I want this, or that"; but, "Johnny want this or that." The nurse does not address it, in general, by the pronoun, "You," but by its own name, in the third person.. This implies that the child has a separation within itself. It looks upon its feelings and its wants as something distinct from its personality. The first intelligent use of the pronoun "I," shows that this breach has been overcome. The child has attained to conscious personality.

Still, however, there remains a more profound division to be made, a more terrible conflict to be gone through, before the highest personality can be reached. The individual becomes conscious of a twofold nature within him; of a division not merely of contemplation, but of opposition. There is the ideal, lofty and pure, and the real, debased and imperfect; there is the will, determining for the right, and the life, following the wrong; in a word, the divine and the absolute comes into collision with the individual and the selfish. This breach of sin, this internal warfare, constitutes the most important moment in the development of the personality. The individual finds his actual life and being separate from and in opposition to his true life and being; he consciously forsakes the first, and assumes the second; he gives up his individual life, and consciously surrenders himself to and becomes a part of the absolute life. This conscious assumption of his true being introduces him to the highest and most perfect self-consciousness, so far as his individual nature is concerned, and forms a necessary moment in his development.

We have seen that the first division, which takes place in the development of the personality, is that between the individual