SOPHIE SWETT.

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THE SECOND RANK.

A ZOOLOGICAL STUDY.

It is a suggestive sign of our naturalistic times that so many first-class towns in Europe and America contemplate the establishment of Zoological Gardens.  In the United States alone five cities have successfully executed that project.  Travelling menageries have taken the place of the mediaeval pageants.  Natural histories begin to supersede the ghost-stories of our fathers.  The scientific literature of four different nations has monographs on almost every known species of beasts and birds.

With such data of information it seems rather strange that the problem of precedence in the scale of animal intelligence should still be a mooted question.  The primacy of the animal kingdom remains, of course, undisputed; but the dog, the elephant, the horse, the beaver,—­nay, the parrot, the bee, and the ant,—­have found learned and uncompromising advocates of their claims to the honors of the second rank.

Russel Wallace and Dr. Brehm have agitated the question, but failed to settle it,—­even to their own satisfaction.  The reason, I believe, is that the exponents of the different theories have failed to agree on a definite standard of comparison.  The mathematical principle implied in the construction of a honey-comb, we are told, can challenge comparison with the ripest results of human science.  The acumen of a well-trained elk-hound, a philosophical sportsman assures us, comes nearer to human reason than any other manifestation of animal sagacity.  Elephant-trainers, too, adduce instances that almost pass the line of distinction between intuitive prudence and the results of reflection.  Yet if those distinctions suffice to define the difference between reason and the primitive instincts, they should reduce the scope of the question in so far as to make it clear that, instead of measuring the degree of the development of special faculties of the animal mind, we should ascertain the direction of those faculties.  Instinct tends to promote the interests of the species, and is limited to the more or less skilful, but monotonous, performance of a special task.  Within that limited sphere its competence is perfect.  Reason may be often at fault, but its capacity enlarges with practice, and the scope of its application is unlimited.  It may be exerted in the interest of the species, of the tribe, of the family; it may devote itself to the service of an abstract principle or subserve the purposes of individual caprice.  It differs from instinct as a piano differs from a barrel-organ.  The pianist has to master his art by years of toil, but can apply it to all possible variations or extravaganzas of music.  The organ-grinder can delight his audience as much by his first as by his last performance, but his repertoire is limited.  Reason is indefinite, free, and versatile.  Instinct is exact, but circumscribed.