tain spot, this spot conveys the
sensation to another spot, and so the message goes on from place to
place until the brain receives it and the impression is made. That is
all very well, but how is the impression made?

It is necessarily made, without passion, without will, say these
philosophers. They tell us that the common idea is that an animal is
actuated by emotions which we know as sorrow, joy, love, pleasure, pain,
cruelty, or some other of these states; but that it is not so. Do not
deceive yourself, they say.

"What is it then?" I ask. A watch, indeed! And pray what of ourselves?

Ah, well! that is perhaps another thing altogether. This is the way
Descartes expounds the theory--Descartes, that mortal who, if he had
lived in pagan times, would have been made a god, and who holds a place
between man and the higher spirits, just as some I could name--beasts of
burden with long ears--hold a place between man and the oysters. Thus, I
say, reasons this author: "I have a gift beyond any possessed by others
of God's creatures, and that is the gift of thought. I know of what I
think."

But from positive science we know that although animals may think, they
cannot reflect upon what they think. Descartes goes further and boldly
states that they do not think at all. That is a statement which need not
worry us.

Nevertheless, when in the woods the blast of a horn and the baying of
hounds agitates the fleeing quarry; when he vainly endeavours, with all
his skill, to confuse and muddle the scent which betrays him to his
pursuers; when, an aged beast with full-grown antlers, he puts in his
place a younger stag and forces it to carry on the chase with its
fresher bait of the scent of its younger body, and thus carry off the
hounds and preserve his days--then surely this beast has reasoned. All
the twisting and turning, all the malice, deception, and the hundred
stratagems to save his life are worthy of the greatest chiefs of war;
and worthy of a better fate than death by being torn to pieces; for that
is the supreme honour of the stag.

Again; when the partridge sees its young in danger, before their wings
have strength enough to bear them away from death, she makes a pretence
of being wounded and flutters along with a trailing wing, enticing the
huntsman and his dogs to follow her, and thus by turning away the danger
saves her little ones. And when the huntsman believes that his dog has
seized her, lo! she rises, laug