sui generis, a phenomenon so mysterious, so strange, that usually no other explanation of it is offered but that of attributing it to the direct act of the Deity. This whole mistake is the result of a defective psychology, which makes no account of the unconscious activity of the soul.

But we are so accustomed to contrast the characters of instinct with those of intelligence-to say that instinct is innate, invariable, automatic, while intelligence is something acquired, variable, spontaneous—that it looks, at first, paradoxical to assert that instinct and intelligence are identical.

It is said that instinct is innate. But if, on the one hand, we bear in mind that many instincts are acquired, and that, according to a theory to be afterwards explained, all instincts are only hereditary habits; if, on the other hand, we observe that intelligence is in some sense held to be innate by all modern schools of philosophy-which agree to reject the hypothesis of the tabula rasa, and to accept either latent ideas or à priori forms of thought, or preordinations of the nervous system and of the organism—it will be seen that this character of innateness does not constitute an absolute distinction between instinct and intelligence.

It is true that intelligence is variable; but so also is instinct, as we have seen. In winter, the Rhine beaver plasters his wall to windward: once he was a builder, now a burrower; once he lived in society, now he is solitary.1 Intelligence can scarcely be more variable. Of this we have elsewhere given other instances. Instinct may be modified, lost, and re-awakened.

Although intelligence is, as a rule, conscious, it may also become unconscious and automatic, without losing its identity. Neither is instinct always so blind, so mechanical, as is supposed, for at times it is at fault. The wasp that has faultily trimmed a leaf of its paper begins again. The bee only gives the hexagonal form to its cell after many attempts and alterations. It is difficult to

believe that the loftier instincts of the higher animals are not accompanied by at least a confused consciousness. There is, therefore, no absolute distinction between instinct and intelligence; there is not a single characteristic which, seriously

1 Bulletin de la Société d'Anthropologie, 2° Série, tome 1, p. 307.

considered, remains the exclusive property of either. The contrast established between instinctive acts and intellectual acts is, nevertheless, perfectly true, but only when we compare the extremes. As instinct rises, it approaches intelligence: as intelligence descends, it approaches instinct. This must not be forgotten; and while differences are borne in mind, the resemblances also must be noted.

Intelligence is a mirror which reflects the universe. It is a wonderful instrument, and is in some sense infinite as the world itself, which it encompasses and measures. By the accumulated progress of generations it tends to correspond more perfectly with its object. In its development through time and space, and through the infinite variety of living creatures, it ever pursues its ideal, that is, to comprehend all things, from common phenomena up to the eternal and sovereign laws of the Cosmos. Instinct is much more humble: it reflects the world only at a small angle; its relations are limited; it is adapted to a restricted medium; it is fitted only to a small number of circumstances. Instead of being an immense palace, whence a boundless horizon may be seen, it is a lowly cottage, with only one window. But if we look at both instinct and intelligence from without, their processes are the same.

Nor is it surprising that instinct should be always restricted to the same order of phenomena, since, being unconscious, it cannot compare, deliberate, select, or improve.

We have still to inquire whence comes the infinite variety of instincts; why each species views the world at one particular angle, and at no other. These differences are, no doubt, owing to the organization; to enter on such inquiries here would carry us too far from our subject, to which we must return.

IV.

A far more difficult question than that of the nature of instincts is the question of their origin. Till now it has not been asked, and is only now logically proposed by the great scientific controversy on the origin and variations of species. It is clear that we cannot pretend to decide an open, perhaps unanswerable question, warmly disputed by great authorities. We only suggest

an hypothesis; but as it is founded on heredity, and assigns to it a very prominent part, it is impossible not to state it.

The reader is aware that a theory sketched by De Maillet, Robinet, and especially Lamarck, accepted and modified by Darwin and Wallace in our own days, has gained the assent of many eminent men in England, Germany, and France. According to this theory, species are variable, and are formed by the accumulation of slight differences, which have been fixed by heredity. The genera and species now extant, however numerous they may be, are derived from three or four primitive types, perhaps from one only. It was only necessary that some variations should occur spontaneously. If these variations were adapted to new conditions of existence; if they gave to the individual one more weapon to fight the battle of life, and if they have been transmitted by heredity, then a new species has been formed, which, under the continued action of the same causes, has departed more and more from the primordial type. Spontaneous variations, the struggle for life, selection, time, and heredity-these are the factors by the aid of which can be explained the evolution of living creatures, the formation and disappearance of species.

This bold hypothesis has thrown an entirely new light on instinct. Since in all animals the physical and the mental constitution are, as we have seen, correlated, if there were originally none but rudimentary organisms, instincts must then have been very rude. And again, since instinct, like the organism, presents spontaneous variations, and like it is subject to the laws of the struggle for life and heredity, we must conclude that if these causes explain the formation of species, they will also explain the formation of instincts. If a physical modification, by adapting an animal to new conditions, produces a deviation that may become fixed, because it constitutes a progress from antecedent states, the same will be true of mental modifications. Every variation of instinct that puts the animal in a better position to defend itself against new enemies, or to capture some new prey, will make it likely to survive under more complicated conditions.

So long as species were regarded as fixed, the question of the origin of instincts could not be even raised. The matter appeared very simple: the species was sent into the world ready-made, with

all its physical and moral characteristics. The Evolutionists, on the other hand, hold that instincts, as they now exist, are very complex, formed by the gradual accumulations of time and heredity. They must be subjected to a careful analytical process, each stratum must be taken apart; by comparison, induction, and analogy we must determine which are of more recent formation, and must descend from these, step by step, to the more ancient strata. Proceeding thus from the complex to the simple, we arrive at certain very lowly mental manifestations, which we may regard as the source from which the entire series is derived.

Thus we have, at the outset, a minimum of intelligence, a something which plays in mental life the part of the cell in physiological life; then come actions and reflex actions, which by constant repetition are changed into habits and fixed by heredity; next we have variations, also passing into habits, and similarly fixed by heredity—in short, we have a sum of hereditary habits. Such, according to the Evolutionist school, is the genesis of instincts.

Darwin has developed this theory with consummate science and ability. He has boldly addressed himself to the most complicated, the most wonderful, and the most inexplicable instincts; those, for instance, of the ant and the bee—has striven to show how these singular phenomena may have arisen, by selection and heredity, out of a few very simple instincts.

If we take the honey-bee as it now exists, without comparing it to any other animal; if we assume that from the first it constructed cells, as it does now, we are filled with astonishment, but cannot explain the fact. But if we recur to the principle of gradual transitions, and seek to establish a series of transitional steps, Nature will perhaps herself reveal to us her method of creation.' Let us, then, compare the bee with the melipona and the humble-bee.

The humble-bee exhibits only very rude instincts. It deposits its honey in old cocoons, with the occasional addition of short tubes of wax. Sometimes also it constructs isolated cells of an irregular globose shape.

Between the perfect cells of the honey-bee and the rude simplicity of those of the humble-bee stand the cells of the domesticated melipona of Mexico, as an intermediate degree. The melipona

itself is, by its structure, intermediate between the honey and the humble-bee, though more closely allied to the latter. It constructs a comb of wax, almost regular, consisting of cylindrical cells, in which the larvæ are hatched, and a certain number of large cells to hold its store of honey. The latter cells are nearly spherical, and situated at a considerable distance from each other. Now, it has been calculated that if the melipona were to construct these cells at equal distances, and all of one size, if she were to arrange them symmetrically in two layers, the result would be a structure as perfect as the hive of the honey-bee. Hence we may safely conclude,' says Darwin, 'that if we could slightly modify the instincts already possessed by the melipona, and in themselves not very wonderful, this bee would make a structure as wonderfully perfect as that of the hive-bee.'

Since natural selection acts only by accumulating slight variations of organization or of instinct, which may be advantageous to the individual, the question arises, How comes it that the successive and gradual variations of the constructive instinct, rather than of any other instinct, should have by degrees formed the architectural talent of the honey-bee? Darwin's answer is 'The bee must consume a great amount of honey in order to secrete a small quantity of wax; and during the winter it lives on its honey. Whatever tends to make a saving of wax will also tend to save honey, and so will be of service to the future of the hive.' If, now, we suppose that the humble-bee hibernates, it will need a great quantity of honey; consequently every modification of instinct, which would lead them to construct cells so near each other as to have a parti-wall, would save some little wax, and so be of advantage to them. Hence it would continually be more and more advantageous to the humble-bees if they were to make their cells more and more regular, nearer together, and aggregated into a mass, like the cells of the melipona. So, too, it would be advantageous to the melipona if she were to make her cells closer together, thus approaching the perfect comb of the honey-bee. Thus the most wonderful of all known instincts, that of the hivebee, can be explained by natural selection having taken advantage of numerous successive slight modifications of simpler instincts.' 1

1 Origin of Species, ch. vii.