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have, no doubt, been deceived in their investigation of instinct by an efficient cause stimulating a final cause, and the defect in their reasoning has arisen in consequence of observing in the instinctive operations of animals the adaptation of means to a relative end, from the assumption of a deliberate purpose. To this freedom or choice in action and purpose, instinct, in any appropriate sense of the word, cannot apply; and to justify and explain its introduction, we must have recourse to other and higher faculties than any manifested in the operations of instinct. It is evident, namely, in turning our attention to the distinguishing character of human actions, that there is, as in the inferior animals, a selection and appropriation of means to ends, but it is (not only according to circumstances, not only according to varying circumstances, but it is) according to varying purposes. But this is an attribute of the intelligent will, and no longer even mere, understanding.

And here let me observe that the difficulty and delicacy of this investigation are greatly increased by our not considering the understanding (even our own) in itself, and as it would be were it not accompanied with and modified by the co-operation of the will, the moral feeling, and that faculty, perhaps best distinguished by the name of reason, of determining that which is universal and necessary, of fixing laws and principles, whether speculative or practical, and of contemplating a final purpose or end. This intelligent will—having a selfconscious purpose, under the guidance and light of the reason, by which its acts are made to bear as a whole upon some end in and for itself, and to which the understanding is subservient as an organ or the faculty of selecting and appropriating the means-seems best to account for that progressiveness of the human race which so evidently marks an insurmountable distinction and impassable barrier between man and the inferior animals; but which would be inexplicable, were there no other difference than in the degree of their intellectual faculties.

Man, doubtless, has his instincts, even in common with the inferior animals, and many of these are the germs of some of the best feelings of his nature. What, amongst many, might I present as a better illustration, or more beautiful instance, than the storge or maternal instinct. But man's instincts are elevated and ennobled by the moral ends and purposes of his being. He is not destined to be the slave of

blind impulses, a vessel purposeless, unmeant. He is constituted by his moral and intelligent will to be the first freed being, the masterwork and the end of nature; but this freedom and high office can only co-exist with fealty and devotion to the service of truth and virtue. And though we may even be permitted to use the term instinct, in order to designate those high impulses which, in the minority of man's rational being, shape his acts unconsciously to ultimate ends, and which in constituting the very character and impress of the humanity reveal the guidance of providence ; yet the convenience of the phrase, and the want of any other distinctive appellation for an influence de supra, working unconsciously in and on the whole human race, should not induce us to forget that the term instinct is only strictly applicable to the adaptive power, as the faculty, even in its highest proper form, of selecting and adapting appropriate means to proximate ends according to varying circumstances,-a faculty which, however, only differs from human understanding in consequence of the latter being enlightened by reason, and that the principles which actuatė man as ultimate ends, and are designed for his conscious possession and guidance, are best and most properly named ideas.


PRAED. [WINTHROP MackWORTH PRAED,—whose poetical works will, we trust, soon be collected and published in this country, as they have been imperfectly done in the United States,—was the son of Mr. Sergeant Praed. In 1820, while at Eton College, he prepared and brought out, with the aid of other young men, a periodical work entitled “The Etonjan,' which went through four editions. He was subsequently, while at Trinity College, Cambridge, one of the principal contributors to · Knight's Quarterly Magazine.” Mr. Praed's university career was one of almost unequalled brilliancy. In 1831, having previously been called to the bar, he was returned to Parliament for a Cornish borough. His health was always somewhat feeble; and the promises of his youth were closed by his early death in 1840.]

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The Abbot arose, and closed his book,

And donned his sandal shoon,
And wandered forth alone to look

Upon the summer moon :

A starlight sky was o'er his head,

A quiet breeze around;
And the flowers a thrilling fragrance shed,

And the waves a soothing sound :
It was not an hour, nor a scene, for aught

But love and calm delight;
Yet the holy man had a cloud of thought

On his wrinkled brow that night.
He gazed on the river that gurgled by,

But he thought not of the reeds ;
He clasped his gilded rosary,

But he did not tell the beads :
If he looked to the Heaven, 't was not to invoke

The Spirit that dwelleth there ;
If he opened his lips, the words they spoke

Had never the tone of prayer.
A pious Priest might the Abbot seem,

He had swayed the crosier well;
But what was the theme of the Abbot's dream,

The Abbot were loth to tell.

Companionless, for a mile or more,
He traced the windings of the shore.
Oh, beauteous is that river still,
As it winds by many a sloping hill,
And many a dim o'er-arching grove,
And many a flat and sunny cove,
And terraced lawns whose bright arcades
The honey-suckle sweetly shades,
And rocks whose very crags seem bowers,
So gay they are with grass and flowers.
But the Abbot was thinking of scenery,

About as much, in sooth,
As a lover thinks of constancy,

Or an advocate of truth.
He did not mark how the skies in wrath

Grew dark above his head ;
He did not mark how the mossy path

Grew damp beneath his tread;

And nearer he came, and still more near,

To a pool, in whose recess
The water had slept for many a year,

Unchanged, and motionless;
From the river stream it spread away,

The space of half a rood;
The surface had the hue of clay,

And the scent of human blood;
The trees and the herbs that round it grew

Were venomous and foul ;
And the birds that through the bushes flew

Were the vulture and the owl ;
The water was as dark and rank

As ever a company pumped;
And the perch that was netted and laid on the bank,

Grew rotten while it jumped :
And bold was he who thither came

At midnight, man or boy ;
For the place was cursed with an evil name,

And that name was 'The Devil's Decoy!'

The Abbot was weary as Abbot could be,
And he sat down to rest on the stump of a tree:
When suddenly rose a dismal tone-
Was it a song, or was it a moan?

Oh, ho! Oh, ho !

Above,-below !-
Lightly and brightly they glide and go :
The hungry and keen to the top are leaping,
The lazy and fat in the depths are sleeping;
Fishing is fine when the pool is muddy,
Broiling is rich when the coals are ruddy!'
In a monstrous fright, by the murky light,
He looked to the left, and he looked to the right.
And what was the vision close before him,
That flung such a sudden stupor o'er him?
'T was a sight to make the hair uprise,

And the life-blood colder run:


The startled Priest struck both his thighs,

And the Abbey clock struck one! All alone, by the side of the pool, A tall man sate on a three-legged stool, Kicking his heels on the dewy sod, And putting in order his reel and rod. Red were the rags his shoulders wore, And a high red cap on his head he bore; His arms and his legs were long and bare ; And two or three locks of long red hair Were tossing about his scraggy neck, Like a tattered flag o'er a splitting wreck. It might be time, or it might be trouble, Had bent that stout back nearly double ; Sunk in their deep and hollow sockets That blazing couple of Congreve rockets; And shrunk and shrivelled that tawny skin, Till it hardly covered the bones within. The line the Abbot saw him throw Had been fashioned and formed long ages ago : And the hands that worked his foreign vest, Long ages ago had gone to their rest: You would have sworn, as you looked on them, He had fished in the flood with Ham and Shem! There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks, As he took forth a bait from his iron box. Minnow or gentle, worm or flyIt seemed not such to the Abbot's eye: Gaily it glittered with jewel and gem, And its shape was the shape of a diadem. It was fastened a gleaming hook about, By a chain within, and a chain without; The Fisherman gave it a kick and a spin, And the water fizzed as it tumbled in!

From the bowels of the earth,
Strange and varied sounds had birth;

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