In the following instances instinct is perfectly uniform and consistent. There are three creatures, the squirrel, the field-mouse, and the bird called the nuthatch (Sitta Europæa) which live much on hazel-nuts; and yet they open them each in a different way. The first, after rasping off the small end, splits the shell in two with his long fore-teeth, as a man does with his knife; the second nibbles a hole with his teeth, as regular as if drilled with a wimble, and yet so small that one would wonder how the kernel can be extracted through it: while the last picks an irregular ragged hole with its bill: but as this artist has no paws to hold the nut firm while he pierces it, like an adroit workman, he fixes it, as it were, in a vice, in some cleft of a tree, or in some crevice; when, standing over it, he perforates the stubborn shell. We have often placed nuts in the chink of a gate-post where nuthatches have been known to haunt, and have always found that those birds have readily penetrated them. While at work they make a rapping noise that may be heard at a considerable distance.
It is no doubt exceedingly difficult, and perhaps impossible, to define where instinct ends, and reason begins, in animals. But that some of them are endowed with a faculty which does not come under the usual notion of instinct, by whatever other name we may choose to call it, will, I think, hardly allow of a dispute. This, as it strikes me, appears in the different degrees of intelligence which we are accustomed to recognize as elevating one species of animal above another,—as the half-reasoning elephant for instance, and the friend of man, the dog, above numberless others. Now, instinct of one tribe, one would think, as much as in another, must be full and perfect, and would not admit of our considering the degree of intelligence manifested in one species as higher or lower than that possessed by another. Again: much more must we conceive that the proper instinct of any species will be fully, and therefore equally, possessed by all individuals of that species. How, then, upon the notion of mere instinct, shall we account for that superiority of intelligence, which is found in one individual, to others of the same species, and which is familiar to those who are employed about, or in any way in the habit of conversing with, animals? But the observation which appears to me most decidedly to carry the faculties of animals to something exceeding the measure and character of instinct, is that of the new and ingenious contrivances to which they will often have recourse in situations, and upon occasions, much too accidental and peculiar to admit of our imagining that they could have been contemplated and provided against in the regular instinct of the whole species. This we should naturally be disposed to conceive must have been given to regulate the ordinary habits of the animals, and adapted to those exigencies of their mode of life which are continually occurring, not to such as do rarely, and might, one would be tempted to say, never occur. A few instances will, perhaps, better explain what I mean, and carry more persuasion than my argument.
I was one day feeding the poor elephant (who was so barbarously put to death at Exeter ’Change) with potatoes, which he took out of my hand. One of them, a round one, fell on the floor, just out of the reach of his proboscis. He leaned against his wooden bar, put out his trunk, and could just touch the potato, but could not pick it up. After several ineffectual efforts, he at last blew the potato against the opposite wall with sufficient force to make it rebound, and he then, without difficulty, secured it. Now it is quite clear, I think, that instinct never taught the elephant to procure his food in this manner; and it must, therefore, have been reason, or some intellectual faculty, which enabled him to be so good a judge of cause and effect. Indeed, the reflecting power of some animals is quite extraordinary. I had a dog who was much attached to me, and who, in consequence of his having been tied up on a Sunday morning, to prevent his accompanying me to church, would conceal himself in good time on that day, and I was sure to find him either at the entrance of the church, or, if he could get in, under the place where I usually sat.
A gentleman, a good shot, lent a favourite old pointer to a friend who had not much to accuse himself of in the slaughter of partridges, however much he might have frightened them. After ineffectually firing at some birds which the old pointer had found for him, the dog turned away in apparent disgust, went home, and never could be persuaded to accompany the same person afterwards.
I have been often much delighted with watching the manner in which some of the old bucks in Bushy Park contrive to get the berries from the fine thorn-trees there. They will raise themselves on their hind legs, give a spring, entangle their horns in the lower branches of the tree, give them one or two shakes, which make some of the berries fall, and they will then quietly pick them up.—White’s Selborne—Jesse.
Insular, a. Belonging to an island.
Intermew, s. The change of a hawk’s colour from red to white the second year.
Intestina, s. An order in the Linnæan system of the class Vermes, including earthworms and leeches.—Crabbe.
Intestines, s. The guts, the bowels.
Jockey, s. A person that rides horses in the race; a man that deals in horses.