Nothing of this. Had he said something like the fol second branch; here, too, he was disappointed. What did he do? Return to the main road? possessed speech, he would have lowing: "My master has gone on neither the first nor second of these roads, therefore he has taken the third; but here I am, at a distance from that unlucky angle, the commencement of my trouble, but away across those fields, I see the third fork winding over the hill; I can save a trifle in time by striking across, so here I go" Is there any thing fanciful in attributing a process like this to a brute, and as Mrs. Hemans wrote, a "lordly" one? Investigation acquaints us that this is not a solitary instance of brute logic, which Whateley himself cannot excel. There, too, is Ulysses' dog, old Argus! He asks not a line from me to perpetuate his memory, for the incident was long ago embalmed by the poet, singing, how on the return of the Grecian prince, after a long absence of twenty years, and in a beggar's garb, his faithful dog recognized him, though forgotten by his own son; but let the poet tell it: "He knew his lord; he knew and strove to meet; In vain he strove to crawl and lick his feet; Yet--all he could--his tail, his ears, his eycs, Salute his master, then, of joy, HE DIES!" What child has not heard of the life boat of the gnat, or how the sprightly red squirrel, land lubber as he is, turns sailor, and committing his little life to a broad chip or a bit of bark, hoists his bushy sail to the wind, and glides obliquely across the wide stream? Instinct may impel the little mariner to change his location, but intelligence fits out the bark and trims the tiny sail. CHAPTER IV. The church-going dog-The philosophical fox-The memory of horses-Poetical extract-The elephant-His intelligenceHis gratitude-The migration of birds-Bryant's lines. I recollect of hearing, from a credible source, of a dog that displayed an extraordinary church-going propensity, which in his bipedal companions, would have been truly commendable. Rain or shine, cloudy or clear, it mattered not, the dog might be scen closely following at his master's heels, and pacing with becoming gravity up to the well-remembered seat, beneath which he retired to meditate and muse. This at length became a source of annoyance to the master, for the mischievous children in the adjacent pew, would sometimes give Towser a pinch, or some careless man, inadvertently set foot upon his tail, at which, though rather amiable, the canine propensities of the animal would be manifested in an incipient growl from his lurking place. Then sundry juvenile tunes would be pitched; as many mothers eye the hapless owner of our hero with no doubtful glance, and the worthy clergyman look disconcerted. This state of things waxing worse and worse, became intolerable, and one sabbath morning, the master with an insidious whistle, lured Towser within his reach, and tied him securely in the barn. He fawned, whined, yelped, growled and even snarled, but it would not do, and he remained at home. Another week passed, and Sunday came again. The man went to the door-"Towser, Towser!" but no Towser appeared; he went to the shed, the barn, the stable, but no dog was visible. Puzzled at the circumstance, he wended his way to meeting, and there, by the door, sat the dog, with all the dignity of a sexton in the early days of Connecticut, eyeing his belated master, as much as to say, "rather behind the time, this morning, sir," and in he walked to the accustomed pew. The next sabbath, and the next, the performarce was reacted, until the master, amused at the intelligence of the dog, in anticipating his designs, suf. fered his companionship unmolested. What truant boy ever acted wiser in a course of rebellion; evading what he did not dare to meet, in remembering the day, and in fact, in adopting the only course by which he could accomplish his object; viz: to attend church? How much of memory, of judgment and of shrewdness such an act necessarily implies, I will not attempt to determine, but if this is only one of a multitude of instincts, I am willing that my conduct, in writing this book, in laying plans for the future and in all the varied business of life, should be attributed to one or another of the thousand and one instincts with which a man who entertains such notions, would, in the generosity of his heart, unhesitatingly bestow upon me. Dr. Fish of Boston, tells us, that once when frozen pond, he observed a fox crossing the ice. riding by a With char acteristic caution, his foxship stopped ever and anon, as if to calculate the chances for a ducking. At length he came to a spot of thin ice, more suspicious than any he had passed; here he hesitated again, put out, first his right foot, then his left, and bore gently upon the dangerous territory, being particularly careful to suffer the principal responsibility of his precious self, to rest upon the three remaining pedals, but no, the ice was superlatively thin, and would not do; any body else might venture; not he. What was to be done? Some favorite scheme of petty burglary must be sacrificed, some day-dream of plump fowls and gabbling geese must vanish into thin air, if a passageconld not be effected. After thinking a while, (for who denies that foxes think sometimes?) Reynard extended himself upon the ice at full length; and rolling over and over, actually trundled himself out of danger into comparative security, and jumping upon his feet, tripped daintily on, doubtless well pleased with the exploit. Was this instinct? Could it be the prompting of anything less than intelligence? 1 Who does not know that some horses, amid storm and darkness, and in the deep forest, will bear their bewildered riders safely on, without wandering from the path, provided they ever passed it before? Any intelligent horse will do this, for there is as wide a difference among horses in this particular, as among men, showing conclusively, that it is not the result of instinct. I never like to drive a physician's horse, within the circumference of his professional ride; for, unless you are watchful, he will make for this pair of bars, that gate, or the other shed, expressing his "how d'ye do?" to the premises, in a kind of whispered neighing; sometimes, indeed, he will refuse to move a step, and bracing himself with mulish stubbornness, turn his head over his shoulder, as if to take a retrospect of your proceedings. The poet has happily illustrated the possession of memory by the horse, the carrier-pigeon, the dog, and even by the little bee, in the following lines: When o'er the blasted heath the day declin'd, And on the scath'd oak warr'd the wintry wind; And win each wavering purpose to relent, That his charm'd hand the careless rein resign'd, Has borne the buffet of the mountain-storm; Led by what chart, transports the timid dove, The wreaths of conquest, or the vows of love? Say, thro' the clouds what compass points her flight? Monarchs have gaz'd, and nations bless'd the sight. Pile rock on rock, bid woods and mountains rise, Eclipse her native shades, her native skies; "Tis vain! through ether's pathless wilds she goes, "And lights at last where all her cares repose. Hark! the bee winds her small but mellow horn, Who guides the patient pilgrim to her cell? |