also dead; that Nicholas was freed from an elder brother whose wild fury was incompatible with his own discreeter crimes; whilst the Czar feared his ascendancy over the Russian troops as much as he scorned his character.
We must stop here. We cannot follow the Revolution through its varying phases of heroism, treachery, devotion, and disaster. France was saved by it from a terrible war; but “La paix tout prix” was the maxim of Louis Philippe’s government; and England, though she highly sympathised with the Poles, of course could not interfere in the home affairs of a friendly power. Then came long lists of proscription and systematised robbery. Ukases promising mercy, whilst they beggared its recipients—death by torture and wholesale massacre. Constantine was dead, and finally Nicholas died, but the system has survived—made, perhaps, still more odious by the hypocrisy of liberality, and the cheap trickery which has won for the new Imperial practitioner the epithet of the “well meaning.” He also has signalised his reign by the cold-blooded massacre and the exile of hundreds whose only crime was the probability of future disaffection. The epitome of his policy—so admirable an appendix to that of his uncle Constantine and his father Nicholas—is best given in his own words as King of Poland to the nobles of Poland?—“What my father did was well done, and I maintain it.”
E. S.
(Concluded.)
ON INSTINCTS.
And reasonThey also know,
And reason, not contemptibly.
And reason, not contemMilton.
The instincts of animals are so extraordinary, and some of them are so nearly allied to reason, that a few instances of these faculties may not be thought uninteresting. It is, however, difficult to define where instinct ends and reason begins in animals, and therefore I will state some facts which may enable readers to judge for themselves.
There are different sorts of instincts. One is the migratory instinct, which leads birds, animals, and even insects to leave one locality for a far distant one. For instance, the whole tribe of swallows, and about forty other sorts of little tender birds, which have amused us with their songs during the summer months, leave this country in the autumn for more genial climates. In the vast prairies of North America, large herds of buffaloes quit one locality, impelled by a strong migratory instinct, for one, perhaps, many hundred miles distant, and neither rivers nor swamps stop them in their progress. Even the butterflies in South America have been known to quit the woods and prairies of that country, in myriads, and to fly over vast seas in search of fresh flowers and plants, having exhausted those in the country they have left.
Then there is the extraordinary instinct which leads one animal to benefit itself by the operations of another. For instance, there is the well-known fact of a colony of ants making slaves of other ants to assist them in their work, thus holding them in subjection. Then the cuckoo lays her eggs in the nests of other birds, in order that her young may be brought up by them. The man-of-war’s bird feeds upon fish; but he is so formed that he is unable to catch them himself, and therefore he lives on the prey caught by other fishing birds, and from which he takes his name.
I must also mention the instinct of commisseration in some animals. It is a well-known fact, that when a sheep has produced two lambs, and has died in bringing them forth, other ewes of the flock have suckled and brought up the helpless young ones. I have seen sparrows feed young canary birds, which have been placed for the first time outside of a window, when they have cried for the food their parents had been in the habit of supplying them with. Sparrows, also, have been known to feed one of their companions, who was caught by the leg by a long piece of worsted which she was conveying to her nest in the thatched roof of a building, and was so fixed among the straws, that she could not extricate herself. She was thus fed for many days, until the worsted gave way, when the whole of her companions appeared to rejoice at her escape, by making clamorous noises. But what shall we call the instinct of the elephant, which, when a child, unable to walk, has been placed under its care, has allowed it to crawl as far as the extent of the animal’s chain, and then gently lifted it up with its trunk, and replaced it in safety? It is evidently an extraordinary effect both of care and intelligence, and is also a proof of that noble animal’s gentle nature. Again, there is the powerful instinct of self-preservation. A hunted and hard-pressed fox has been known to plunge into a weedy pond, cover itself, with weeds, and only leave its nose out of the water, so that it was just able to breathe. Another fox was frequently hunted from a certain cover, and after a good run was always lost at a particular close-clipped hedge. Casts were made with the hounds in every direction, but the scent could never be taken up. At last one of the sportsmen one day looked up at a rook’s nest, on the top of a high tree which grew in the hedge, and saw the end of a fox’s tail projecting from it. The cunning animal, on the day in question, had omitted to curl his tail sufficiently round him; this led to the discovery of his retreat, from which he was speedily driven, and after a short run, I am sorry to add, he was killed. Some animals, and even some insects, will put on the semblance of death when their lives are in danger. The common snake, I happen to know, will do this on some occasions. At others he will emit so horrible a stench, that no one will feel inclined to molest him. The hedgehog rolls himself up and remains perfectly still when molested. When he thinks the danger is over, he unrolls himself by degrees and looks about, and if all appears safe, he runs to a secure retreat. The common wood-louse will do the same. But what shall I call that instinct which leads a young wasp, within an hour after it has left its cell, to sally forth and collect that curious paper, for it is nothing else, with which they either form their cells, or make that shell-like covering for their nest, which must add so much to the warmth so