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INSTINCT VS REASON — A BLACK CAT.
The line which demarcates the instinct of the brute
creation from the boasted reason of man, is, beyond doubt, of the most
shadowy and unsatisfactory character — a boundary line far more
difficult
to settle than even the North-Eastern or the Oregon. The question
whether
the lower animals do or do not reason, will possibly never be decided —
certainly never in our present condition of knowledge. While the
self-love
and arrogance of man will persist in denying the reflective power to
beasts,
because the granting it seems to derogate from his own vaunted
supremacy,
he yet perpetually finds himself involved in the paradox of decrying
instinct
as an inferior faculty, while he is forced to admit its infinite
superiority,
in a thousand cases, over the very reason which he claims exclusively
as
his own. Instinct, so far from being an inferior reason, is perhaps the
most exacted intellect of all. It will appear to the true philosopher
as
the divine mind itself acting immediately upon its creatures.
The habits of the lion-ant, of many
kinds of spiders,
and of the beaver, have in them a wonderful analogy, or rather
similarity,
to the usual operations of the reason of man — but the instinct of some
other creatures has no such analogy — and is referable only to the
spirit
of the Deity itself, acting directly, and through no corporal
organ,
upon the volition of the animal. Of this lofty species of instinct the
coral-worm affords a remarkable instance. This little creature, the
architect
of continents, is not only capable of building ramparts against the
sea,
with a precision of purpose, and scientific adaptation and arrangement,
from which the most skillful engineer might imbibe his best knowledge —
but is gifted of prophecy. It will foresee, for months in advance, the
pure accidents which are to happen to its dwelling, and aided by
myriads
of its brethren, all acting as if with one mind (and indeed
acting
with only one — with the mind of the Creator) will work diligently to
counteract influences which exist alone in the future. There is also an
immensely wonderful consideration connected with the cell of the bee.
Let
a mathematician be required to solve the problem of the shape best
calculated
in such a cell as the bee wants, for the two requisites of strength and
space — and he will find himself involved in the very highest and most
abstruse questions of analytical research. Let him be required to tell
the number of sides which will give to the cell the greatest space,
with
the greatest solidity, and to define the exact angle at which, with the
same object in view, the roof must incline — and to answer the query,
he must be a Newton or a Laplace. Yet since bees were, they have been
continually
solving the problem. The leading distinction between instinct and
reason
seems to be, that, while the one is infinitely the more exact, the more
certain, and the more far-seeing in its sphere of action — the sphere
of action in the other is of the far wider extent. But we are preaching
a homily, when we merely intended to tell a short story about a cat.
The writer of this article is the
owner of one of
the most remarkable black cats in the word — and this saying much; for
it will be remembered that black cats are all of them witches. The one
in question has not a white hair about her, and is of a demure and
sanctified
demeanor. That portion of the kitchen which she most frequents is
accessible
only by a door, which closes with what is termed a thumb-latch; these
latches
are rude in construction, and some force and dexterity are always
requisite
to force them down. But puss is in the daily habit of opening the door,
which she accomplished in the following way. She first springs from the
ground to the guard of the latch (which resembles the guard over a
gun-trigger,)
and through this she thrusts her left arm to hold on with. She now,
with
her right hand, presses the thumb-latch until it yields, and here
several
attempts are frequently requisite. Having forced it down, however, she
seems to be aware that her task is but half accomplished, since, if the
door is not pushed open before she lets go, the latch will again fall
into
its socket. She, therefore, screws her body round so as to bring her
hind
feet immediately beneath the latch, while she leaps with all her
strength
from the door — the impetus of the spring forcing it open, and her hind
feet sustaining the latch until this impetus is fairly given.
We have witnessed this singular feat
a hundred times
at least, and never without being impressed with the truth of the
remark
with which we commenced this article — that the boundary between
instinct
and reason is of a very shadowy nature. The black cat, in doing what
she
did, must have made use of all the perceptive and reflective faculties
which we are in the habit of supposing the prescriptive qualities of
reason
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