sponges mark it, not by way of criticism of Mr Jones, but as an instance of the almost irrepressible tendency of the imagination to invest animal movements with the psychical properties of man.

"The gemule assumes an ovoid form, and a large portion of its surface becomes covered with innumerable vibrating hairs or cilia, as they are denominated, which are of inconceivable minuteness, yet individually capable of exercising rapid movements which produce currents in the surrounding fluid. Instead, therefore, of falling to the bottom of the water, the ceaseless vibration of the cilia propels it rapidly along until, being removed a considerable distance," (it attaches itself to some object, loses the locomotive cilia, and becomes an ordinary sponge). "The seeds of vegetables, sometimes winged and plumed for the purpose, are blown about by the winds, and transported by various agencies to distant places, but, in the present instance, the still waters in which sponges grow would not have served to transport their progeny elsewhere. In stead, therefore, of being helpless at their birth, the young sponges can by means of their cilia row themselves about at pleasure, and enjoy for a period powers of locomotion denied to their adult state."

Row themselves about at pleasure! Enjoy for a period! Both sensation and volition are supplied to this animal seed, furnished with a plume which the stimulant of the water keeps in its vital movement. These minute cilia the microscope has detected in the tissues of the human body, where certainly there is no consciousness of their automatic movements. Nor would Mr Jones, if the question were seriously put to him, countenance the idea that they were sensitive.

We pass to the well-known polyp, the Hydra-that "animal plant," as some have called it-an organic structure endowed with irritability which is excited by the presence of water, or light, or contact with any solid substance. Mr Jones endows such animals with a fine sense of touch. According to all analogy, such a fine sense of touch must subject them to exquisite pain when rudely struck, and yet no means of escape from danger has been afforded them. But their tentacula move as if they had the sense of touch, and the imagination can hardly help supplying it to

them. Mr Jones cannot describe their movements without inferring certain mental and even moral qualities. The hydra "selects" its position, it is "watching for its prey," it "waits patiently." When "gorged with prey, or when indisposed to take food, although other animals may touch the tentacula again and again, they escape with impunity." And yet all that we have really before us is a creature framed to supply itself with food; at the approach of the appropriate food the tentacula are stimulated, contract or coil themselves up, and draw it into the stomach. Note especially the harmony between wants of the stomach and the susceptibility of these tentacula; when the stomach is in a state of repletion their irritability and movement cease.

Let us proceed to a class of animals where traces of a nervous system become evident, and some slight sensation may be supposed to accompany their movements, but where there is no brain whatever, "Let any of our readers," says Mr Jones, "pick up from the beach one of these animals, the common star-fish of our coast, which, as it lies upon the sand left by the retiring waves, appears so incapable of movement, so utterly helpless and inanimate; let him place it in a large glass jar filled with its native element, and watch the admirable spectacle which it then presents. Slowly he perceives its rays expand to their full stretch, hundreds of feet are gradually protruded through the ambulacral apertures, and each, apparently possessed of independent action, fixes itself to the sides of the vessel as the animal begins its march. The numerous suckers are soon all employed fixing and detaching themselves alternately, some remaining firmly adherent, while others change their position; and thus, by an equable gliding movement, the star-fish climbs the sides of the glass in which it is confined, or the perpendicular surface of the submarine rock."

The nervous apparatus of this animal is extremely simple, consisting of a circular cord round its mouth, from which are given off two delicate filaments to each ray. Some have detected a third filament running to the locomotive suckers. Mr Jones, for

what reason we do not gather, is not disposed to regard these nerves as seats of sensation, but merely "as serving to associate the movements performed by the various parts of the animal." The irritable skin he regards as the principal agent in initiating its movements. In this last opinion he is no doubt perfectly correct, but it does not follow that these nerves may not also be the seats of certain sensations of pleasure or of painchiefly, let us hope, of pleasure. We shall take it for granted that there is some vague sensation in these nerves, knotted as they are by their diminutive ganglion to the circular cord.

But what we wish to bring before the attention of our reader is this: Here is an animal moving its five rays and its hundred feet in perfect harmony, climbing up the rocks and seizing its prey. It has no eye, no ear, no scent; it is described as a mere "walking stomach." Whether it has or has not some sensation of touch felt in those slender nerves, there is no one, at least, who would dream of assigning to it any thought whatever, whether of the instinctive or human kind. There is no cerebral organ of instinct here, and yet we have seen how admirably this creature progresses, and know very well that it gets abundantly fed. Here, at least, what we call instinct must be shared amongst all the limbs of the creature can be described as nothing but a humble instance of that harmony which runs throughout creation. And here let us make a remark which appears by many to be quite overlooked. To the animal who has no thought, sensation is not a means to any further end in the economy of the animal; it is the end itself of its existence. The sensation manifests the presence of that irritability which is the real motor power, but where it does not give rise to thought or memory, the sensation, as sensation, does nothing in directing the animal. "We cannot suppose," says Sir Benjamin Brodie, "the existence of mere sensation without supposing that there is something more. In the stupid carp, which comes to a certain spot at a certain hour, or on a certain signal, to be fed, we recognise at any rate the existence of memory." Cer

tainly the stupid carp, as he is here not very fairly called, does manifest some memory, but probably in many instances his sensations never become thoughts, and in all these cases they exist as final ends-so much pleasure to the animal, nothing more. And take the case of the winged insect, the moth that again and again flies into the flame of your candle till it has destroyed itself-here there is little or no memory manifested. But you would not say that the animal is without sensation. The whole proceedings of such an insect appear to us to be carried on by the mere laws of vital action; what it has of sensation is so much of pleasure; it never becomes guidance or knowledge.

"Every limb," says Unzer, a German physiologist, who wrote some time ago, but who had paid great attention to this subject of instinct"every limb has its own appetite of action,"-which again is in perfect harmony with all other limbs and organs of the body. Whether the phrase be altogether admissible or not, it expresses very vividly what we constantly see in the animal creation. The sight or scent of its destined prey excites the rage of hunger,—claw and beak, talons and the jaw, fulfil their functions; some creature is destroyed and devoured. How utterly idle and misplaced does it appear to us to talk here of " an organ of destructiveness," or an instinct of destructiveness. What is the result of many harmonious impulses and feelings is converted into a pre-existing purpose, an idea which is

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to flow at once from the brain," as it could not possibly enter by the channel of the senses.

There is a beautiful illustration of these vital powers bursting at once into harmonious action, which is not unfrequently quoted. Sir Joseph Banks and his friends, when travelling in some tropical country, observed an alligator's egg lying in the sand, under the burning sun. He broke the egg, and forth sped the young alligator. Its eye caught sight of the river, and every limb hasted towards it. Sir Joseph interposed his stick; the stick was bit at, and all the signs of anger immediately manifested. Now, what is this appetite for the river but some sensation which (as in the

ourselves, are guided by thought, in cases where we are so cultivated, or constituted, as to act from intelligence. But, if we take a wider view of the animal creation, we shall discover that harmonious but involuntary actions form the earlier type of animated existence, and that, instead of wondering that there is so much of design acted, but not thought, we should rather reserve our wonder for that higher stage where this harmonious vital action is put under the control of the thought of the created being.

The nest of the bird is no solitary instance. Almost every animal has imposed upon it the necessity of finding, or framing, some shelter for itself, and some receptacle for its young. Next to food there is no want more urgent. And as the continuation of the species is quite as much the care of nature as the preservation of the individual, we may expect to find ample provision made for the nest, which is intimately connected with both of these objects. Every animal either burrows in the carth, or spins a web, or constructs some shelter for itself or its young. The nature of the progeny to be produced, and the degree of care and warmth they will require, determine in most cases the construction of this receptacle. By what peculiar sensations is the animal in every instance prompted to the execution of its task? Impossible to say; but that there are such peculiar sensations is a far more probable supposition to adopt, than to run to the hypothesis of "innate ideas." How beautifully is the spider's web constructed! That glutinous secretion in its own body of which it is composed, is no doubt accompanied with an irritation which prompts the spinning of it forth, and its long, slight, and agile legs are working evidently in harmony with this self-adjusting spinning apparatus. Very curious is the result; but surely, no one finds it necessary to believe that the spider's web existed in the spider's mind as an idea before it began to spin.

Why does one bird build its nest of clay, and another of leaves or the lichens growing on the bark of trees? Why does one bird choose for its haunt corners and clefts where clay alone would be serviceable, and another the boughs

e tree which affords it the mate

rials of its structure? We can only say that there is a manifest connection between the two; which proves at least that architecture was no separate study or purpose of the creature. Why, again, is one bird contented with a few straws or sticks loosely put together, while the restless busy beak of another constructs the most compact little domicile imaginable? We can only answer that there is an evident dependence between the nature of the nest and the condition in which the young are brought forth, and their earliest wants. Every one remembers the pretty description which Gilbert White gives of the nest of the harvest mouse:-"Most artificially platted, and composed of the blades of wheat; perfectly round, and about the size of a cricket-ball, with the aperture so ingeniously closed, that there was no discovering to what part it belonged. It was so compact and well filled, that it would roll across the table without being discomposed, though it contained eight little mice that were naked and blind." There was no possible room for the mother; she built it only for her young, and suspended it a few inches above the ground on the stalks of the wheat, out of reach of all harm. There the naked and blind brood were as sheltered as in her own womb. It was, in fact, another womb which nature, having no room to grow it in the prolific little creature herself, constructs through the organs of the mother-mouse whom she has already grown.

No one who has truth at heart would wish to slur over any fact which nature presents to us. But let us have fact and not imagination. Now, writers upon this subject of instinct, and especially on the habits of insects, have been so incessantly employed in seeking out for analogies between the animal and the human being-bestow. ing upon insects, wherever the least similarity of action permitted, both the faculties and the passions of man-that they present to us the facts of nature through an entirely false medium. There is, at least, as much of imagination as of fact in their descriptions. They are far more allied to poetry than to science. Of course there are exceptions, and it is from the descriptions of the scientific naturalist that

we are justified in our confident distrust in the majority of those who write on natural history. Some bees are seen at the entrance of the hive; these are immediately transformed into guards or sentinels. What a martial spirit this at once infuses into the commonwealth. There are certain moths, it seems, which choose the honeycomb as a favourite place for depositing their eggs. The larvæ from their eggs devour the honey, destroy the comb, and drive out the bees. Quite right, they should keep guard. These moths, however, "in spite of the guards kept constantly at the entrance of the hives, gain admittance and deposit the eggs in the combs." The sagacious guardsmen, having done efficient duty at their post, never think, it seems, of turning out the eggs. That is left, we presume, to some commissariat or transport department which is sadly defective. However, the wisdom of the commonwealth stops at keeping watch against the mother-moth,-it has not advanced to turning out its mischievous progeny whilst still in the egg.

Even our professor, Mr Rymer Jones, from whom we have already quoted, cannot relate an account of this insect architecture without throw ing over it an air of quite human ingenuity. There is a spider that has obtained celebrity beyond all other spiders for making a trap-door to his hole. He is called on this account the mason spider (the mygale). He burrows in the earth, lines his hole with web, and, further, spins a web over the orifice. This, as he must go in and out, he breaks every time he has spun it, making his way through always on the same side, till, adhering firmly at one end, and becoming, by successive webs mingled with dirt, of tolerable consistency, the result is produced of a trap-door. Mr Jones represents the spider as setting to work with the conception of a trapdoor very complete in his mind.

"A deep pit is first dug by the spider, which, being carefully lined throughout with silken tapestry, affords a warm and ample lodging: the entrance to this excavation is carefully guarded by a lid or door which moves upon a hinge, and accurately closes the mouth of the pit. In order to form the door in question, the my

gale first spins a web which exactly covers the mouth of the hole, but which is attached to the margin of the aperture by one point only ofits circumference, this point of course forming the hinge." (Could the spider spin a web over the aperture on these conditions ?) "The spider then proceeds to lay upon the web a thin layer of the soil collected in the neighbourhood of her dwelling, which she fastens with another layer of silk; layer after layer is thus laid on, till at length the door acquires sufficient strength and thickness."

The professor is so determined that the spider shall work prospective of his hinge, that he represents him spinning under conditions which appear to us mechanically impossible. Let it be borne in mind that we have no controversy against those who maintain that the spider, or any other insect, has its measure of memory and intelligence our debate is with those who would describe instinct as wholly or in part a peculiar mode of thoughtthoughts of things which are not memories. It is a subject which would require a volume rather than a few pages for its development, but we cannot proceed further with it at present.

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Returning now to the human brain, it of course follows, if we are right in our views, that all these phenomena of life which exhibit themselves prior to the development of memory are strictly sensational in their character that whatever we call appetites, primary desires, or instincts, can demand no specific cerebral organ. To use the language of phrenology, such organs as alimentiveness, or desire for taking food, amativeness, destructiveness, constructiveness, and some others of the like description, must be discarded. They represent what are not originally thoughts of any kind, but sensations. Their organ is the whole of the nervous system which they range over together with the brain as central ganglion.

Very much remains to say upon the subject of the passions, but we must draw to a conclusion. We can only repeat our general result. The brain is the special organ of memory: it is the central ganglion, or collection of ganglia, where all the nerves of sensation meet. We would do justice to the whole body, to all its organs of sense and motion, and not raise an imaginary autocracy in the brain. We