The possession of the organs of sense implies the possession of some portion of intellect, for without intellect those organs would seem incapable of being employed to the greatest advantage. “There is this difference,” says Mr. Spence, “between intellect in man, and the rest of the animal creation. Their intellect teaches them to follow the lead of their senses, and to make such use of the external world as their appetites or instincts incline them to,—and this is their wisdom: while the intellect of man, being associated with an immortal principle, and connected with a world above that which his senses reveal to him, can, by aid derived from heaven, control those senses, and render them obedient to the governing power of his nature; and this is his wisdom.” A distinction has been made, and very properly, between wisdom and knowledge. The former alone can be possessed by the lower animals, man can possess both. The distinction between them has been very accurately marked by Cowper, though in making it he has confined himself to man only.
“Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one,
Have oft times no connection. Knowledge dwells
In heads replete with thoughts of other men,
Wisdom in minds attentive to their own.”
It will, I think, be evident to my readers, from the general tenour of this chapter, that though I make a distinction between the instinct and the reason of bees, I do not confound their reason with the reason of man. But to obviate all possibility of misconception, I will at once define my meaning, when I use the terms insect reason and instinct.
By reason, I mean the power of making deductions from previous experience or observation, and, thereby of adapting means to ends. Instinct I regard as a disposition and power to perform certain actions in the same uniform manner, without reference either to observation or experience. Those who have attended to this subject, will be aware that insect reason as above defined, is more restricted in its functions than the reason of man; to which is superadded the power of distinguishing between the true and the false, and, according to some metaphysicians, between right and wrong. Reason, in man, has a regular growth, and a slow progression; all the arts he practises evince skill and dexterity, proportioned to the pains which have been taken in acquiring them. In the lower links of creation, but little of this gradual improvement is observable; their powers carry them almost directly to their object. They are perfect, as Bacon says, in all their members and organs from the very beginning.
“Far different Man, to higher fates assign’d.
Unfolds with tardier step his Proteus mind,
With numerous Instincts fraught, that lose their force
Like shallow streams, divided in their course;
Long weak, and helpless, on the fostering breast,
In fond dependence leans the infant guest.
Till Reason ripens what young impulse taught.
And builds, on sense, the lofty pile of thought;
From earth, sea, air, the quick perceptions rise,
And swell the mental fabric to the skies.”
Evans.
“Every manufacturing art,” says Dr. Reid, “was invented by some one man, successively improved and perfected by others; and when thus perfected, known only by those to whom it has been taught: while in the arts of animals no individual can claim the invention. Every animal of the species has equal skill from the beginning, without teaching, without experience, or habit.”
“Both Instinct and Reason,” says Dr. Evans, "appear to lose their intensity, in proportion as their rays diverge from their proper focus; and as they are less frequently aroused to action. A domesticated fowl is furnished with the same apparatus as her wild sisters on the waste, for rendering her feathers impenetrable to water: yet, living principally under cover, she secretes much less of the oily fluid, destined for that purpose, and makes, when accidentally wet, a most ridiculous appearance. The force of instinctive propensities, when directed to one object, and uninfluenced by reason, is strongly exemplified in the idiot bee-eater of Selborne, mentioned by Mr. White, in his History of Selborne. The collected powers of reason, when concentred in a single focus, is no less finely instanced in the immortal Newton.”
To those readers who have not seen Mr. White’s account of the bee-eater, the following abstract of it may prove acceptable.
The boy was a resident in Selborne, about the year 1750. He took great notice of bees from his childhood, and at length used to eat them. In summer, his few faculties were devoted to the pursuit of them, through fields and gardens. During winter, his father’s chimney corner was his favourite haunt, where he dozed away his time, in an almost torpid state. Practice made him so expert, that he could seize honey-bees, humble-bees or wasps, with his naked hands, disarm them of their stings, and suck their honey-bags, with perfect impunity. Sometimes he would store the bees in bottles, and even in his shirt bosom. He was the terror of the surrounding bee-keepers, whose gardens he would enter by stealth, and rapping on the outsides of their hives, catch the bees as they came out to see what was the matter. If in this way he could not obtain a sufficient number to supply his wants, so passionately fond was he of honey, that he would sometimes overturn the hives to get at it. He was accustomed to hover about the tubs of the mead-makers, to beg a draught of bee-wine, as he called it. As he ran about the fields he made a humming noise with his lips, resembling that of bees. The lad was lean in his person, and of a cadaverous unhealthy aspect: he died before he reached the age of maturity.