The old distinction between intelligence and instinct, although false and superficial, may be adapted to the views just abbreviated. We will attribute to instinct the series of acts which tend to conserve the present condition of a specie; and to intelligence, those which tend to modify that condition. Instinct will be slavery, subjection to custom; intelligence will represent liberty, that is to say, choice, acts which while being necessary, since they occur, have yet been determined by an ensemble of causes anterior to those which govern instinct. Intelligence will be the deep, the reserve, the spring which after long digging emerges between the rocks. In everything that intelligence suggests, the consciousness of the species makes a departure; what is useful is incorporated in instinct, enlarging and diversifying it; what is useless perishes--or perhaps flowers in extravagances, as it does in man, in dancing and gardening birds, or the magpies attracted by a jewel, larks by a mirror! One will then call instinct, the series of useful aptitudes; intelligence, the series of aptitudes de luxe: but what is useful, what useless? Who will dare brand a series of bird notes or a feminine smile as lacking utility? There is neither utility nor inutility unless there be also finality. But finality can not be considered as an aim; it is nothing but a fact, and one which might be other. This utilization of old terms, if it were possible, could never be the pretext for a new radical differentiation between instinct and intelligence; one could only use it to define by contrast two states whose manifestations present appreciable nuances. The great objection to the essential identification of instinct and intelligence comes from a habit of mind which spiritistic philosophy has for long imposed upon us: instinct should be unconscious, intelligence, conscious. But psychological analysis does not permit us rigorously to tie intellectual activity to consciousness. Without consciousness, every thing might happen, even in the most thoughtful man, exactly as it does under the paternal eye of this consciousness. In M. Ribot's interesting analogic comparison, consciousness is an interned candle lighting a clock-face; it has the same influence on the movement of the intelligence that this candle has on the clock. It is difficult to know whether animals have consciousness, and it is perhaps useless, unless at least, one admit that this candle, by its luminous or calorific rays, does, as M. Fouillée teaches, affect the march of the mechanism. In sum, consciousness also is a fact, and no fact dies without consequences; there are neither first causes nor last causes. In any case one will, since it is evident, cling to one statement that even if consciousness is a possible reactive, intelligence can act without it: the most conscious of men have phases of unconscious intellectuality; long series of reasonable acts may be committed without their